The Young Jeremiah Chronicles - Istanbul to Cairo Part 3

Date: Sat, 14 Aug 2004 18:14:01 +0000
Subject: Beyond the gates

Hi everybody! (Hi doctor Jerry)
I`m currently eating a Hama speciality, its called halawat al jibna, basically its creamed cheese wrapped in uncooked dough with nuts and caramelised sugar on top.  The guy selling it to me made me use what little Arabic I have, which basically led to the three of us laughing back and forth at each other for about 10 minutes. Its nice, although after 2 pieces I'm beginning to feel a little full....in a queasy sort of way.

Our friend in the Krak

Hama, a town in Syria, we thought it was gonna be pretty small, it isn't. Actually everything we assumed about Syria turned out to be wrong.  Banish all images you ever had of Syria and let me paint you a picture of a country with religious tolerance, almost European amenities, a beautiful landscape going from reds to blacks, to deepest greens. And to top it off a people so amazingly friendly its almost too much.  So far in Syria, we've met some Kurds who tried to get Eoin to marry their daughter (And yes she was beautiful, and yes the only reason he didn't ask me is because I was lost at the border and wasn't there but I'll elaborate later, in other words he saw Eoin first.  Oh, and if you say you deal in 'Property, land and houses' it sounds very good, and no I'm not a bit jealous) Some guy in Krak des Chevaliers who offered us water and a water pipe and started kissing us profusely on the cheeks (and yes we got pictures) then there was the guy today in the mini bus on the way to Apamea who invited us to his house, the guys who gave us food and tea on the road to Apamea, just cos we were passing by, and the dancing singing bus driver on the road back, all in all its pretty overwhelming.

What I fail to mention here was another funny, typically middle Eastern incident, as we waited on the dusty pavement of Antakya's bus station, in front of our soon to depart bus, we realised that a portly man smoking a cigarette was busy at the back end of the bus removing its engine.  We tried to ascertain what was going on, but the wonderfully moustachioed station inspector, in high waisted grey trousers , brown tie and white shirt just smiled and shrugged.  So we settled in, to watch the disassembly line, for quite some time.  

Waiting for our bus to be disassembled 

The station, as I recall, was a dusty, bright square of low buildings, with the buses in the middle.  This piazza was filled with families when our bus finally departed.  Racing after the bus, banging on the windows, wailing and shouting.  Would they never see them again?  Was the border between Syria and Turkey like the Atlantic Ocean of the 1840s?  It certainly seemed like it.

The facts of Syrian border were less beautiful though, after the long queue to stamp out of Turkey, we arrived at the Syrian station and more choas, rivaling what we saw in Ankara.  If everyone had calmed down, it would've taken minutes, but they didn't and it took about an hour. Eoin forced his way to the top of what could loosely be called a 'queue' albeit a queue full of panicking shouting people.  Behind the counter were clean cut Syrian military geezers, takin it easy, smoking fags, chatting with their mates, while beyond the glass chaos reigned supreme. Eoin got his stuff back earlier then me, as somehow they misplaced my exit card, luckily I bumped into some people who spoke French and they hammered the glass in the right place, and hey presto! 

When I got out though I was faced by about twenty buses and couldn't for the life of me remember which one was mine.  I ran about frantically, trying to find my ride, until at last I realised that it was at the other side of the border, beyond the baggage checking toll and out of sight at the top of a hill. Took five minutes to run to the bus where Eoin was getting friendly with the locals. (I might add she was making eyes at the both of us, ahem) 

Anyway, after declining the offer of a visit to the friendly Kurd's house we went to the crazy crazy bus station, this was in Aleppo (they call it 'Halep).  We got our tickets, were told to go to the No. 3 stop but there was nothing there.  Eoin started getting antsy, we tried No. 23, nothing, wrong bus, asked someone, found the bus to Hama, but we were not allowed on board. We were getting pretty frantic, running about in a heat induced panic, then we were told to go to some guys office, we did and he calmly wrote something in Arabic on the back of the ticket and stared at us, dead pan. We stared back. Someone else ran in, told us to go back to the first bus stop, and thank Allah it was the right stop. We fell into our seats.

Hama
The second we got off the bus someone came over to guide us to the taxi rank, the taxi driver was full of good humour, like everyone in Syria, and soon we arrived at the Cairo Hotel. Lovely hotel, from what we can see the 'Riad' next door is identical.  First morning in Hama we took a tour in the most fantastic taxi I've ever seen, a gleaming white 1940s power house of a car, with a figure head of amber striking forth from the front. 

Our Touring Vehicle

 The driver didn't say much, but he didn't need to, Syria streamed by in all its glory. Plains of green quickly gave way to red and orange, up a mountain we went to our first stop, the citadel of Masayf, we wandered in and stumbled upon the ticket office in one of towers, and paid.  We also stumbled upon a school tour, like celebrities we felt, as they crowed around us, their brown eyes giddy, shouting hello! Hello! Trying to shake our hands, then as we left they burst into song. Crazy.

Any Assassins Creed fans in the audience? Masayf is of course the Assassin's citadel in the first of Ubisoft's games.

We travelled over the mountain from the craggy red citidel to the mountain crusader fortress of Crac de Chevaliers, T.E. Lawrence described it as the greatest castle in the world, don't doubt the man. If ever there was a castle which truly embodied everything you've ever imagined about chivalry, jousting and striking knights is embodied in this magnificent krak.  

Crac des Chevaliers

The Krak and our vehicle

On top of a  mountain, with a space just large enough for the castle, the place is a maze of walls, moats, corridors and towers. From the top one could see forever if ones imagination was good enough, and below we explored the dark places of nightmares, stairs into darkness, with lizards skittering away, dark dank holes with endless drops to water.  One could get lost for hours, or days, it is endless, labyrinthine, and romantic, the coolest castle I've ever seen anyway. 

Inside the castle

On top of the castle

Eating that day, we were brought into the kitchen of a cafe to choose our food, most shops out here have the animal hung up in the window, you'd hate it Julie, well some parts of it, saw a goats spine in the windows today, with bits attached, lovely.

Apemea

Today we went to Apemea, what would be the biggest tourist attraction if it were in any other country, yet here its number three.  After the crazy friendly helpful microbus we walked for what seemed like ages up to the top of a plateau past a walled village, (going in for tea and fruit on the way with the friendly locals and their friends who quickly arrived on motorbikes to sell us stuff that belongs in a museum, then on to Apemea. More ludicrously well preserved columns then I've ever seen, a main street, with almost a complete colonnade about a kilometre long, amazing, have to show ye the pictures. Very hot though, very very hot. We're drinking a hell of a lot of water. 

In the heat of the highlands

Eoin in the old cistern

Got back to Hama via the crazy dancing singing microbus driver, Eoin got a new watch: ITS 'FANTASTIC' , in other words its something that was cool in 1982, yeah yeah yeah.  Now back here working up my internet bill. Man thats a long Email. Syria's great, really cheap, but since moneys going very well as it is that don't matter. See you in two to three days I guess. Off to Palmyra next, which is amazingly supposed to be bigger then Apemea, then Damascus, and into Jordan, and finally Egypt. A month left. Suddenly starting to realise how long 6 weeks is.
See ye soon, any questions to the usual address
Asalam
Jerry  


Date: Tue, 17 Aug 2004 19:15:33 +0000
Subject: Another fine yarn

Hey everyone
Jerry here again, with another long winded account of his adventures on the Orient.
In Damascus, capital of Syria, a city whose name usually brings spices and exoticism to mind, and well, I can't say such a prescribed image disappoints   Its a melting pot here, but before I go into it, let me fill ye all in with what happened since last I left ye spinning from a literary overload.

I was in Hama wasn't I, gee my memory is not great these days. Well anyway, Eoin and I spent our last day in Hama not being in Hama at all.  We set off further east into the desert for the ancient Roman town of Palmyra, which also goes by the name Tadmor.  

Me in Palmyra

Ancient Tadmor is in a masochistic spot, desert heat sears the skin and eyes, the only reason it exists at all is due to the dark green Oasis that sits by the town like a zit on the great face of the desert.  It was very much like Apemea, except instead of Granite columns we found reddish orange sandstone, parts of it sagging in the heavy sunlight.  The main colonnade that makes up the main street changes direction half way along, which of course would be unthinkable in a purely Roman city thereby heralding its origins as a Hellanistic bazaar.  

The old citadel

Anyhow, at one end lies the temple of Bel and at the other end of the exquisite colonnade lies the camp of the Emperor Diocletian.  Now while I have no idea why the camp of Diocletian was such a heavily built structure, and no idea as to why there is a camp there in the first place, I still have retained my skill for making things more difficult for myself (I mean just look at that last sentence) I quickly spotted a hole in the wall, about 10ft above where the perimeter wall juts out at a right angle from Diocletian's tower, so naturally I stuck my hands in holes in the rock and free climbed my way up. Just as naturally, to anyone who really knows me, is that only once I had scaled the height did I found a staircase. 

Anyway, at the top of the tower we looked out on Palmyra (Eoin joined me via the stairs) and just as we were getting used to the amazing view, a small kid appeared behind us trying to sell us head scarves. I ended up buying one, but not until after the kid showed me to a tomb cave beyond the camp, opening up wide beyond the mouth, the cave floor was covered in incised pits for the bodies of the dead. The kid then picked up some sand, sifted through it, pointed out some darker bits, then pointed at the roof. I nodded sagely. I then accepted the bag of sand he proffered, no idea yet as to what he was talking about though.

After this we wandered down to a valley beyond the main city, coming upon catacombs demarked by small holes in the hillside, I of course explored, terrified lest anything I was not familiar with jumped out. We also climbed the Persian funeral towers, about 100ft high, they used to hold stacked coffins, bones still lie inside. We climbed to the roof via a staircase 90ft up crumbling from the side of the tower, great fun, great view. The wind wasn't a bit unnerving.  Ahem.

Atop the funerary tower

Me atop the tower

After a hike back through the desert we headed back towards the bus station and back to Hama in a microbus. We had gotten an ordinary bus to the location, passing through the endless vastness of the desert, dotted with the occasional sand twister and sign for Baghdad. The microbus is basically a Japanese van with a door in the side, one we were in earlier was hit from behind by another bus, however any damage to the other vehicle was masked by the fact that it had obviously been in about 15 similar crashes before. Didn't stop them shouting about it though.

When we returned to the Hotel, I noticed I had aged considerably in the interim, while I'm back to normal now, that evening after the desert, my eyes were drawn, and my skin took on the consistency of parchment. Very intriguing, (as if I needed more excuses to look in the mirror)

Next day we headed here Damascus, what a name, the way it rolls, the way you just have to pronounce it a little oddly about the 'c'.  Anyway, the taxi guy tried to rip us off, but I deftly bartered him down, knocking 150 Syrian dollars off his price.  Arrived near martyrs square across from a horrible cement structure that looks to be a car park under construction, except at the back their appears to be what looks like a mosque rendered in molded cement, complete with minaret, attached to the thing. How bizarre. 

We took to wandering about Damascus pretty quickly, stopping for a bite to eat. Eoin's meal was ready in about 5 minutes, mine took 15, and since I didn't have any idea what the picture on the menu was, I was quite surprised to find the thing that looked like a turkish pizza, turned out to be pittas filled with a meat patte. I couldn't eat the whole thing, and feeling nauseous  gave up. It turned out to be chicken liver. You live and learn I guess.  

After that lovely culinary experience we headed toward the old city.  First we entered the souq, or marketplace, from outside it looks like a cross between a snake and a vacumn cleaner hose, snaking its way through Damascus, from within however it achieves a magical quality, quite unintentional in iys design.  Like a train station platform without end, and with the tracks replaced with a mass of people as thick as Jam (now that's a disappointing metaphor) the shop fronts that lined both sides replete with everything you'd never want, but above, in the high impossible reaches of the ceiling lies its true unintentional majesty, the roof is so tattered, so ripped, that the whole surface is covered in holes minuscule and large, the black of the roof and the holes revealing star scape, make the place look like a vast planetarium with the constellations in fathomable above (man I'm using big words today). It was pretty darned dashedly cool in other words.

The Pretty Darn Dashedly Cool Souq

Old City

After that we entered the old city streets, a maze so vast even I got lost in it, houses of indeterminable age lean out from either side almost touching, the streets wind and turn in materials ranging from the most modern to old mud brick. Cars and motorbikes doggedly try to negotiate this old world. And with great faith in pedestrians, the drivers never assume that you won't get out of the way.

 After the mystique and spices of the old cities souqs and streets we headed up to the Hejaz train station, which was the nexus of T.E. Lawrence's main target in Arabia.  Except instead of orderly platforms and trains waiting to depart, we found, beyond the Ottaman era portal, a large reddish hole stretching some distance. 

That night we succumbed to westerndom and saw Troy, English with Arabic subtitles and all the naughtyish bits cut out very obviously.

  Afterwards Eoin and me were in skits at the sight of ourselves using the urinals, as the cinema decorators decided it would be a swell idea to put mirrors 2mm in front of your nose as you pee. One tries desperately to give your reflected self room, while trying vainly to avoid contact with very familiar eyes. The crazy drunk Lebanese guy next to us didn't make it any easier.

The portico of the Hejaz railway station

We slept on the roof of the hostel (more a balcony) And I for one slept well.

Today, Eoin wasn't feeling too well, so we took it easyish.  We took off for the old city once more, visiting the disappointing tomb of Saladin (with green neon lighting) and the spectacular Umayyad Mosque, a huge courtyard greets you, with vast decorative panelling  and onion domes masked somewhat by the haze of heat and flurry of birds that continually surround the place. 

The Umayyad Mosque

We relaxed here for a while, but soon attracted attention, a group a about 7 kids, ages ranging from about 4 to 10 appeared in front of us.  The ringleader, a brown haired girl with huge brown eyes, and about 10, questioned us daringly.  In Arabic she shouted questions and commands, I understood enough to realise she wanted to hear us speak Arabic  and that she was from Iraq, 'al-arrabiah' 'al-arrabiah' she would shout, sticking her head in our faces and slapping our knees.  Her followers looked on, amazed and full of good spirits, suddenly they would tear off across the plaza, the smaller ones trailing behind, their little legs pumping, and 10 seconds later, they would be back, breathlessly asking the same things over and over again, Once I understood, I used what little Arabic I have (about 30 words) at one time she indicated a smile, moving her finger in a bow across her face, I smiled exaggeratedly  she uttered more retorts, eventually an old man said something to them in Arabic, and they tore off again, we made good our escape. Never saw such unreasonably cute kids in all my days.

Another mosque we visited today, was one decorated in the Persian style. In other words Cher at the height of the shoulder pads eighties would have found the style glaring. Mirrors and green crystals adorn  every surface, almost surpassing some Thai wats in their muchness of muchness. Golden doors and crystal ceilings were the order of the day here, and I was enthralled by the sheer audacity of it all.

A typical Iranian Mosque roof

Earlier in the day we had tried to change Euros into dollars for the ferry into Egypt, however the currency exchange guy at the Commercial bank of Syria said he would only take Syrian pounds, fair enough I said, so change my euros into Syrians, and then change that into dollars.  The former part he completed, and now, with my overdose of Syrian currency I asked him to convert that sum into dollars. He stubbornly refused, losing my cool for once , I blustered "The how the Hell am I supposed to get dollars then?" The bluster was lost on him I think.  Anyway, lucky for us, another man in the queue heard our plight and agreed an impromptu exchange of currency.  As we later discovered, this was to be our first illegal act in the middle east.  Turns out its illegal to change Syrian pounds into any other currency. Crazy, also don't know how those old women in the queue with us had managed to get the huge wads of fifty Euro notes they were holding, still, expect the unexpected.

Anyway, I'm sure the computer screens beginning to sting ye're eyes as much as its stinging mine, so I'll leave ye be until the next thrilling instalment. For tommorrow we leave Damascus for Bosra, and then onto Jordan, and finally Egypt where this tale will end at the foot of the Pyramids. And if that isn't melodramatic enough for you then I've been at this whole 'normal drama' thing too much of late.
P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM sorry I missed it. 
Anyway,
Asallam from Damascus
Jerry

And so ends the main block of Syrian emails.  They improve a bit towards the end I think, its interesting looking back at them to see my writing style (such as it is) emerge.