Halva great time

The old houses in Damascus were amazing. During both our stints in the capital, we stayed in a converted hostel called Al-Haramain, which had a traditional, tiled fountain in the atrium. It was noisy and had the world’s smallest toilet (you had to lift your knees to close the door – do not try to imagine it) but they served delicious halva for breakfast so all was forgiven.

The streets of Damascus were hectic but interesting - you could buy all manner of things (including kids, see below). The national museum was wonderful and the covered souq was most impressive. In the heart of the market was Beit Jabri, a house built in 1737 that featured an enclosed courtyard with balconies, orange trees, musicians and lots of locals smoking water pipes. This place, in our opinion, was the gem of Damascus.




We shared a wonderful evening with Peggy, Pár and Colette (apologies for any misspellings). We ate a banquet and watched a Whirling Dervish, who was so focussed and disciplined that he hardly faulted when he stopped to take his seat. We later swapped travellers anecdotes well past midnight over tea at Beit Jabri, but none of our stories could compare with the harrowing and inspiring tales of Pár in South America! We cannot wait to see all three of our new friends again soon.




After our second stay in Damascus (we visited Lebanon in the interim) we had an hour to fill before our bus departed for Palmyra. We returned quickly to the souq to bid for a lovely inlaid box that I had my eye on. We were prepared to haggle, but in spite of our preparations, we were surprised by what transpired. We engaged in our first “anti-haggle”, if that is what you call it. The shop owner was eating his lunch and was utterly disinterested in us (to his peril!):

Ben: “How much is this?”
Arab merchant: “£300 Syrian pounds.”
Weisie: “We’ll give £200.”
Merchant: “No.” Shovels kofta into his mouth. “£300. Last price.”
Weisie: “Okay, £280.”
Merchant: “No. £300.” Turns attention to his hummus.
Ben: “All right... £300 it is then.”
Merchant: “No! £250”.
Weisie: “It’s a deal!”.

There was virtually nothing to see en route to Palmyra from the bus to the hills on the horizon, apart from sandy orange desert and the occasional Bedouin tent settlement. We were later told by an Arab date farmer that the local Bedouin were particularly prosperous, due to their modest herds of sheep and camels (what their stock ate, or drank, I have no idea), but I am not sure whether this was ethnic jealously or an honest description of a traditional, hospitable people who have largely handled the distractions of the modern world.

We spent a couple of days in the oasis town of Palmyra, shuffling for hours amongst dusty ruins, sighting all sorts of artefacts such as flints, ancient Roman glass, bones and potsherds. The nights were very cold but the grand, old ruins were beautifully illuminated. From a vantage point high on a nearby hill during the day, you could survey the ruins and oasis in one direction (pictured below), and a line of watch-towers stretching into the distance in the other.




A microbus is a normal bus cut in half. You cannot fit many people in such a vehicle - unless of course you fill the aisles with plastic stack chairs and fit three people into seats designed for two. So it was that we travelled to the city of Homs, cheek by jowl with smoky locals (literally oozing campfire-cologne). It was a rare opportunity to be so close to the usually private Bedouin women, who had henna stained nails and wonderfully weather skin. Their babies were patient bundles of coloured rags, with looped string for earrings.

We passed quickly through Homs and on to the more agreeable Hama; a charming town with aged, squeaky waterwheels (known locally as norias). We had a highly politicised discussion with the manager of our hotel, before Weisie was nearly mugged by five youths on the way to the restaurant for dinner (they patted her down for valuables but she was on to them before they could get their grubby little hands on anything).

From Hama we visited the Orontes Valley and two fabulous Crusader castles, one of which is considered to be the finest in existence (Crac des Chevaliers).




Recently visited by a famous Knight of the Realm, Sir Sean Connery - according to a restaurant guest book - the Crac was quite a spectacle from afar and impressive from within. It had vaulted ceilings, a Gothic knights hall, 100-metre long stables, soaring watch-towers and (not so) secret passageways.




We had dinner with a retired classical, Arabic-language professor in his favourite chicken restaurant before meeting up with our good friend, José, from Chile, who we first met in Beirut. We spent many hours covering our favourite topic whilst referring to a giant wall-map of the world.

Our next stop was Aleppo, which featured a very old citadel and a sprawling souq. From there we day-tripped to some early Christian ruins, many of which were now home to Kurdish villagers. The highlight was undoubtedly St Simon’s Cathedral, surrounded by aromatic pines and the odd eucalyptus tree.




After a very full day, we took our chances with an Indian restaurant to celebrate Valentines Day. The food was fine but the evening ended sadly with the news of the bomb blast in Beirut (see earlier posting).

We were coming to the end of our trip, so as usual, we began planning our next one (our maxim: one must formulate a new itinerary before completing the present one). By the time we arrived in Turkey the following day, we had finalised our plans for Africa in January 2006.