Damascus. At last. I woke up early, thanks to the orchestral traffic in the square below. martyr's Square is chaotic, but it has a certain charm about it. As I peered out of the window the first thing I noticed was a hill - a big hill. I had not realised how close to the Anti-Lebanon mountains Damascus is. In the cold light of day I also realised what a dump the hotel was - the shabbiest, crummiest place I had ever stayed in. Furthermore, we were told to be out by 9am, having arrived at 3am. That’s what I call service. I refused to tip any of the staff - even their silly money was too good for them. The two of us decided to seek out more pleasant pastures - the Sultan Hotel, perhaps. The other two decided to brave that place for one more night.
We set about changing money, as at this time we only had dollars. Except Ronnie, who had not brought any dollars. It turned out you couldn’t buy US dollars in Syria. As most places would only exchange Syrian pounds for dollars, and he had no dollars and no prospect of getting any either, it looked like he was in for a good time! Then we went off to find a new hotel, and found the Sultan, close to the railway station (for what that was worth - Syrian rail is not exactly what one would call "much used". It’s downright abysmal, to be precise). The hotel looked OK, so we settled into our separate rooms, at $20 per night, compared with $25 in the Ramsis. Next stop: breakfast.
The four of us stumbled into the first place that appeared to serve food of the edible kind, and I decided to risk the hommos and bread, but I passed on the salad. I had read it was to be avoided - if it is washed, it is washed in local water, so beware. The hommos was unlike any I had ever had before - very salty, with a lake of oil drifting about in the centre, in the middle of which floated a couple of chick peas. All in all, not terribly nice, but better than the bland bread. The tea was incredibly sweet. Still, better get used to this.
After breakfast, the Portuguese chap headed off to seek out a friend of his who lived in Damascus. The remaining three of us resolved to go to Maalula, 55km away, a village where they allegedly still speak Aramaic. The taxi ride to the bus station was one of the most frightening things I had ever experienced, but we seemed to get to the bus station (the correct one, as well - not bad, considering there are several in Damascus) in one piece. Then we had to try to find the service taxi to go to Maalula. As this was an absolute impossibility without fluency in Arabic, we ended up in one which offered to take us - just the three of us - there for 500 Syrian. We ummed and ahd for a while, but in the end we conceded that it was our only hope of getting there. This journey, too, was novel, but rather less eventful. It got especially strange at one point, where the motorway was not yet finished, so the route went cross country. Just as well we took this trip, as I had to go the same way by myself in my car two days later. I would never have found it.
Maalula is a pretty village in the foothills of the Anti-Lebanon mountains, though it is a little run down. There are two monasteries in Maalula - the village is approximately 90% orthodox Christian. Both monasteries were very pretty, and well worth the trip to Maalula. Both had wonderful little chapels, and one of them had some sort of shrine nearby. Both Christians and Moslems worshipped in these places alongside each other, which was fascinating - images of Christ with commentary in Arabic script. There were also interesting chambers cut into the hillside, which served either as homes or as stores. The wadi (dried up river channel) leading up to the upper monastery was a mess, though - covered with litter and graffiti in both Arabic and Latin script.
While we were in Maalula we came across a British family, who had come up by car. They were so obviously Foreign Office people, it was almost stencilled onto their foreheads. They came up to Maalula to buy beer (Heineken, brewed in Jordan), as it was cheaper to do that than to buy it in Damascus. I decided to ask them for some handy hints, both on what to see and on driving in Syria. The driving tips were quite simple: Give the Syrians plenty of space on the road, and you’ll be OK. It’s fine to travel alone. Remember to fill up whenever possible, as petrol stations can be few and far between. But, whatever you do, never, ever drive at night. OK, I thought, I’ll hire a car after all.
The next problem was getting back to Damascus. The guy who had driven us to Maalula had been trailing us the whole time we were there. He offered to take us to another place for a further 500, and then back for a further 500. Wherever we went, his red minivan was never far behind. We hadn’t seen him for a while, until we decided to go back. There he was again. We tried to haggle, but got nowhere. We were about to surrender when a bus turned up. We hopped on, while the minivan driver got desperate (400. 300...). The bus was just setting off when Rob realised he had left behind the crate of beer he had just bought. We stopped the bus, he leapt off, grabbed the crate and hopped back on. Off we went. I paid for the tickets - it cost 35 Syrian for the three of us. Don’t ask how - I don’t think the conductor’s maths was very good. The bus took us back to Damascus, and dropped us off somewhere in town - God knows where!
Our next task was to get us back to the centre. We failed to hail any normal taxis, only microbuses. These stopped, but no-one could understand where we wanted to go, nor could they make any sense of our map. People would stop and try to help us, but none were successful. I reached the conclusion that either Syrians have never seen a map before, or no-one has bothered to explain to them what to do with one. They would hold it upside down, etc. The only thing they couldn’t do was to actually read it. In the end we did find a taxi to take us to the Ramsis on Martyrs’ Square. I joined Rob and Ronnie for a beer or three, and the porter kept on barging in and interrupting. We never did work out what he wanted (apart from money), but in the end, Rob lost his temper with him, and he left. We tried to find the Portuguese bloke in my hotel, but he was nowhere to be found, so we went for dinner.
We found an excellent, cheap place near Martyrs’ Square, which served up huge portions. None of us felt like fetta with lamb’s brain, or lamb’s kidney, liver, testicles. I had leg of kid, which, unfortunately, was boiled. The chicken looked excellent, though, and was huge. After the meal we went for a stroll around the old town, where we found a large Statue. I asked someone "Salah ed-Din?" Apparently, yes. Then we went to the rather grand station to find out about trains to Aleppo. This was an adventure in itself. While Rob got on with this task, Ronnie and I befriended a policeman called Mustapha, who spoke no English, but who cares? We never did find out about these trains, though - it didn’t look as though we would be able to take a train. Inside the station we found a wonderful inscription: "Al Hedjaz Station building has been established in 1917. it was performed by one of the foreign companies ordered by Ottoman State. The area of the station is 625m2. However this building contains inside architectural and ornamental elements which are very accurate and fascinating." And indeed it did.
We ended up going to the cinema, where we watched some puerile American rubbish, which was subtitled in French and Arabic. At times, the sound quality was so bad, I had to read the subtitles to find out what was going on. The cinema itself was amazing. It stank of the toilets, and there were nutshells covering the floor, while people smoked all over the place - talk about a fire hazard! Rob couldn’t understand the guy in the ticket office, and kept on laying down more notes. I think he ended up with seven or eight tickets, so I guess they must have cost about 15 each.
After the cinema I left the other two - they were off to Bosra the following day, but I would see them at the end of the trip, as we were flying back on the same plane. As I headed back to my hotel I came across a tedious Algerian bloke called Ibrahim, who trapped me in conversation for about an hour. The problem was that the conversation just went on and on, without going anywhere. He had lived in Italy and France, and he wanted to go back, but it was very difficult for him, or England, but that was even more difficult (thankfully). He kept on going on about how difficult it is for him, being in a foreign land, etc. He also asked me if we could meet up the following day. I declined politely, and eventually got away and went back to my hotel. I was beginning to feel unwell.
Last Updated on 13 November, 1999