It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Indeed, one of the most unpleasant nights of my life. Great fun, if you’re into incessant, painful bowel spasms leading to the passing of only blood and mucus as your intestinal walls begin to disintegrate, with nothing left inside you to digest! By 2.30 I decided to go and see a doctor. I got the night porter (seems a more appropriate name than "duty manager") and explained to him. He said no, too late doctor, can’t call. So I asked for the hospital. No, cannot leave hotel, no taxi, no go hospital. In morning, yes, 6 o’clock. So I went back to bed, and managed to sleep through to 5.45. I survived to 7.30 before deciding that the doctor’s presence was a matter of urgency to me. I struggled downstairs and explained. They called a doctor and told me he’d be there on 5 minutes.
About 40 minutes later he was there. Not bad, by local standards. His name was Dr Ahmed, and he spoke good English (all doctors in Syria do, as they are trained abroad). He had a good prod and look, and confirmed that it was dysentery. He gave me some kind of injection, left a prescription for 4 different things, took $30 off me and left. Not bad, all things considered. He took my prescriptions to the porter, who ran off to fetch them. I couldn’t stay in Palmyra, as I had resolved to do, as a tour party was arriving that day. Therefore I had to go against the advice of the doctor, and left after breakfast of dry bread and tea. I was beginning to get used to the standard Syrian hotel breakfast of bread, fetta cheese, sickly-sweet apricot jam, boiled egg and tea, of which I tended only to consume the first and the last.
So I headed off without another look at the ruins, which was a pity, as I estimate myself to have seen only about 40% of what there is to see at Palmyra, if that. The desert highway to Deir ez Zawr was straight and fast, so the journey was not going to take long. About 50km out of Deir ez Zawr I picked up a hitchhiker called Ahmed, who spoke no English, apparently. I decided to pick up the first hitchhiker I saw after one I passed just outside Palmyra waved his fists at me because I whizzed past him in an empty car. Ahmed was the beneficiary of this resolution. As we reached Deir ez Zawr, a lorry pulled out in front of us, then stopped diagonally across the road. As I skidded to a halt, Ahmed glared at the driver of the lorry and said "donkey". So he did speak some English, after all! I dropped him off, and went in search of the hotel Raghdan.
Deir ez Zawr was the greatest dump of a town I had ever seen. And I saw a lot of it as I searched for the hotel. The hotel looked OK, rather than nice, and not quite up to the $16 per night they were charging (inclusive of breakfast - the usual, no doubt), but what could I do? To be honest, it was not as good as the Orient in touristy Palmyra, which charged only $14. And it lacked the shower curtain with the penguin motifs, which the Orient had. Unfortunately, I could only have the place for 1 night, as a tour party (probably the one staying in the Orient that night) was booked in the following night. I went to my room, lay down - and stayed there. I toyed with, and abandoned, the idea of visiting Zalibiye, a Byzantine frontier fortress about 50km away, which had a twin across the river from it, at Halibiye. After a few hours’ sleep, I decided to go in search of food. What an adventure.
I asked the receptionist where you could get some good food (with hindsight, I should have gone to the Cham Palace hotel). The guy sent me down to the river. The place he had described to me looked OK rather than inspiring. The service was - interesting. Does no-one in this blasted town speak English/French/German/Italian/Latin/Dutch? Apparently not. I tried to explain that I wanted yoghurt and boiled potatoes, as recommended by the doctor and the Lonely Planet guide. The waiter took me to the kitchen. Big mistake. I took one look and lost my appetite. No meat, I told him. I reiterated my request for yoghurt and potatoes. One young boy, the proprietor’s son, perhaps, seemed to be the only one capable of understanding me. I went back to my table overlooking the mighty Euphrates. I was told that the yoghurt is "finish". In Syria, at the best of times, "finish" means "we may have had it a few years ago, but don’t be so preposterous as to expect us to have got round to replacing it". In general, it means "we don’t have any".
So, what food did arrive? First of all, chips. So much for the boiled potatoes. Then, three small, manky cucumbers. So much for the boiled veg. Bread and hommos (my stomach was in no way up to the latter). I tucked into the bread and the chips, and the tea which arrived - the young boy was very good, the brightest Arab I had encountered thus far (the only bright one, perhaps?). The water on the table was in an old Arak bottle, and was therefore of dubious origin, probably the Euphrates itself. Later, a bowl of rice appeared. Where the hell did that come from? Then, three large boiled potatoes. Excellent, I thought, until I stuck a fork into one. They were soft for the outer 5mm, and the remainder was rock hard. Now they were taking the piss. I nibbled around the outside of the three potatoes - after all, it was better than nothing. Then the waiter came over, dumped a load of salt on them, and said "kwayyis" (good). Perhaps, I thought, but not to excess, as you have just done (typical Arab) - why don’t you just bugger off and leave me to it? In the end, I gave up, paid and left - a whopping 270 Syrian this feast set me back, and I had only ordered half of the things I got!
After dinner I went for a walk across the Euphrates on the French-built Friendship Bridge, a pedestrianised suspension bridge. I went back to my hotel, and pondered the day, and what I had seen thus far. I reached a new theory about the Syrians, which is borne out in every sphere of Syrian life - in the driving, the roads, the hotels, the restaurants, the cooking, the help they offer, in everything: They will have a go at anything, but they seem (genetically?) incapable of doing anything right.
Last Updated on 09 November, 1999