Mightymouth Meets Minibus

Believe it or not, I like traveling by bus and where possible, minibus.

One of my priorities while traveling is seeking out the simple realities of day to day life. The tiny microscopic moments that go unnoticed by locals the world over fascinate me and a bus can be a treasure trove of insight, and a minibus is like having a zoom lens.

As I board the van, a simple nugget of my travel research comes to mind. In many Muslim countries, a gentleman does not sit beside a lady on a bus, mini or otherwise, unless he is a relative.

Knowing this, I bypass the seat with a lady and her child and sit directly behind, in a row of three, next to the window. The minibus fills up, until the last of the 20 or so seats is the one next to mother and child. Just as we are about to depart, a local man climbs aboard and takes the last seat next to the young mother.

Even I know that this dog don't hunt, and we are temporarily delayed while a married lady is asked to vacate the seat next to her husband, so that she may fill the last seat next to the mother,so that the late arriving passenger can sit next to another man, so that the transgression of a man sitting next to a lady need not occur.

As the van pulls away from this remote locale I stare out the window at the daily bustle around me. I think to myself that while the cultural context may change, everywhere I go humans are doing essentially the same thing.

Caring for loved ones, meeting responsibilities, and chasing dreams.

After a time, the guy in the seat next to me and I begin chatting.

It turns out he is a doctor who is heading home after doing a volunteer stint to provide medical services to the Bedouin people who live near Palmyra, and suddenly I feel very small and inferior.

As we chat, he asks me if I am on Facebook. I notice the head across the row turn sharply towards us as we speak, and my paranoia meter goes up. Facebook is illegal in Syria, though I have seen people using it through proxy servers.

I give him an email and my web address, while explaining that I have no active Facebook account. I foolishly make an offhand remark regarding web censorship in the midst of a sermon about how being allowed in to any foreign country is a great privilege, and that when in Rome..........

As the jam packed minibus moves through the desert towards Hama,  I realise where I am, and that I should shut my mouth as I grasp the concept that zoom lenses can work in both directions.

I've been in some pretty undemocratic countries, but this is my first police state minibus ride.

Lesson learned.

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Turning Point

Leaving Palmyra and Tadmur is that moment when one stops heading out, and starts heading back. By now I am familiar with this sensation.

Hanoi, Larabanga, and now Palmyra.

The places may change, but the feeling remains.

The tide has crested and the change of direction is relentless. I need to go there, so I can get back to there, so I can cross the border there so I can go to that place where I can find a bus to there and then figure out a plane ride back to Istanbul, where I will figure out a place to stay and then figure out a way to the airport.

Suddenly I feel like a kitten that thought venturing out was a good idea, while failing to consider the complexities of venturing back, and I briefly consider running up a tree and whining plaintively.



I hate this moment. It feels like my bungee cord has fallen as far as it will go and the rest of this trip is just the road home.

I think to myself that if you're going to think of Palmyra, Syria as the peak of a trip, then that is a pretty good trip.

And then I think that perhaps my fit of melancholy is more  attributable the fact that I have witnessed one of the greatest sites on the planet. I recall the tears I shed as I gazed upon Palmyra from the hill that I climbed,  I consider the reality that I will never gaze upon this most profound place again, and I am at once mourning and celebrating.

Either way, it doesen't matter.

What is clear is that the blessings of my fortunate life continue to rain upon me.


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A Tale Of Tadmur,Syria

Adjacent to the ruins of Palmyra lay the town of Tadmur, itself a very old settlement. The main street nearest the ruin seems to be the "tourist area" , a scant three block walk.

But beyond that is a small town in rural Syria and my inquisitive nature forces my legs off the beaten path, and I find myself wandering through the bustling neighbourhoods of this enclave.

 I am careful about using my camera in town. I get the feeling that I am being watched. Most of the people who travel to this place do so in tour groups, and I feel like I am sticking out like a sore thumb.

As I turn a corner into a residential area, and from a block away, I see an opporutunity. I thank myself for buying a camera with a decent zoom, and I snap this shot.

The young lady is probably three or four, and she is clearing away water from the entryway to her home, and in this instant I see the beautiful and generous exuberance of a small child trying to help the family by doing a chore.

Much to my horror, a split second after the picture was taken her mother came storming out, hit the child sharply more than once, and violently dragged her into the house.

I put the camera away and continue up the street towards the house, slowly engulfed by the wailing of a child.

As I head back to the "tourist area", I wonder about that child, and what her life will be like and how a picture may contain a thousand words, but sometimes every word is a lie.

And then it occurs  to me that maybe someone saw me taking my camera out, made a quick phone call to a neighbour and the fact of my picture from a block away is the reason this child was beaten.

I consider the remote possibility, and it is not a pleasant scenario, albeit an unlikely one.

Perhaps I'm paranoid, but this is Syria, and suddenly, I'm unsure of everything.

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Palmyra, Syria: A Call To Prayer

Sorry about the bad focus and the camera noise, but it is the evening call to prayer echoing through the ruins of Palmyra, Syria. And as far as I'm concerned, one of the most memorable moments of my journey.

The Bedouin gentleman that you see at the end is the caretaker of this precious place.




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Gasp!

I have had the great privilege of visiting sacred places, and  have experienced moments in my travels that touched the depth of my soul, some expected and some unexpected; some joyful, some painful.

When I planned this trip, Palmyra was a place that I was drawn to, and it is one of the primary reasons that I visited Syria. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was compelled to this place.

We all have moments in our lives that define our story, and my first glance at the ruins of Palmyra is one such moment. My jaw drops, my knees buckle, and my eyes well up. It is difficult for me to quantify what I'm seeing, and I have no words that can properly convey the timeless homage to the human experience that I'm gazing upon.

Words fail me, which is why I took a lot of pictures.


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You can see more pics of this unforgettable place here.

The Fork In The Road, The Knife In The Plan

 For me, Damascus became a crossroads of sorts. I could either head west into Lebanon and Beiruit, or east to Palmyra. My Syrian visa did not allow for re-entry, and the chance of getting another Syrian visa was nil.

Long story short, once I depart Syria, there is no way back in.

I'd had a great time in Syria, but I began to get a whiff of hipster pretentiousness in Damascus that I felt would only become worse in Beirut.

Now don't get me wrong, my research indicated that Lebanon is an amazing country, and a place I would love to visit, but at this point my only opportunity to visit Lebanon is constrained by time and limited to Beirut.

One of the heartbreaking aspects of travel for most of us is the limitation, the editing of an itinerary due to any number of restraints. Time, money, visa restrictions all play a part and it is best to accept the fact some great potential experiences must remain on the cutting room floor, and that one must move forward with nary a glance behind, nor a twinge of regret.

Farewell Damascus, hello Palmyra, and I send my regrets to Lebanon. In hindsight, it is the best travel decision I have ever made.

I disembark the bus on the outskirts of Tadmor, the town adjacent to Palmyra. As usual, I adopt my "too cool for school" stance. I smoke and I wait, as if I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm in no hurry to do it, which of course is utterly untrue.

I check out the humble bus station, watch relatives pick up my fellow passengers and keenly observe the actions of other tourists as they negotiate fares to Tadmor, while taking in the wider landscape around me, which is both stunning and desolate.

I give myself a mental pat on the back for having made it this far as I tell myself to breathe.

I see a minibus one passenger short of a quorum. I negotiate a cheap fare and I take the last seat and off we go.

I arrive at my internet reserved hotel, but they have no idea about my booking, and I have no proof that I actually made a booking.

And here is travel tip #9842 - Always print out confirmation of an online reservation!

No matter, I'm famished and I kill some time dining in the restaurant while the gracious staff prepare a room for me, and I eventually print out a receipt and present it upon check out and they honour the price.

But I digress, this post is not about the mundane details of my check in, nor about the thought process that led me here. It is about Palmyra.

I check in to my room, power nap, and awake to the realisation that one of the finest historic sites on the planet is 150 yards away. I get my boney ass out of bed and head out.

When I first glimpse the unspeakable magnificence that awaits, I give myself another pat on the back.

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Out There Now

 As the bus pulls out of the station on the outskirts of Damascus, I gaze out the window into dense early morning traffic in what appears to be an industrial district. There is garbage everywhere, and I am horrified by the sight of drainage ditches that contain a slurry that is black as oil.

It takes forever to get out of the terminal and onto a side street, and once we do, it becomes clear that the driver has made a wrong turn, and we crawl back from whence we came as one outraged passenger loudly berates the driver in the otherwise silent bus.

While that one passenger openly expresses his anger, I am quietly delighted. From my perspective, a bus caught in traffic is an opportunity to witness day to day life in regular motion, and a gift to a traveler. While I may be in motion, I am in no hurry, and a delay in a fascinating locale is little more than an opportunity for increased education.

As we finally get going, the backdrop changes quickly. I regret that I didn't have a chance to take a picture or video, but in yet another one of those, "you're out there now, kid" moments the highway signs begin showing distances to Iraq and Baghdad.

The last sign I see reads Iraq 52km and Baghdad 124km, and I'm more than a little taken aback by my proximity. I honestly did not expect to get this close to a place of such instability and violence, and I am briefly nervous.

At the interchange we turn west on this beautifully ancient and desolate road, and as the bus hurtles away from Iraq and towards Palmyra, I breathe a little more easily as the timeless beauty of the landscape envelopes me, and suddenly an epicentre of  human hatred is a world away as my bus drops me off at the precipice of one of the most magnificent places I have ever seen.

Palmyra awaits.

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Off To Palmyra

It is my last night in Damascus, and I figure that it is a good time to make an inquiry at my hotel about my prospects regarding getting to Palmyra, my next destination, and one of the "must see" sites on the  itinerary. So I ask about this at the front desk of my hotel.

The staff at the hotel tell me that I should just go to the bus station and it will be fine.

Given that I was hoping that they would help me book a ticket to Palmyra, I'm a little disappointed by the vagueness of their advice, but I have nothing else to go on.

So I go on a wing and a prayer, and as I check out, the hotel staff get me a cab. I am dropped off at the outskirts of the bus station.

I grab my bags and lug them to the bus station, and it turns out that the folks at the hotel were absolutely correct.

As I enter the station I begin to understand that unlike Canada, in this part of the world a bus station is a competitive market. A tout guides me to the office of the agent offering the next bus to Palmyra, which leaves in about fifteen minutes. I purchase a ticket.

However, it is at this moment, that I become aware that I am not in Canada.

I will not be permitted access to the bus until I get a stamp of approval from the police.

Given that the bus is leaving shortly, I run towards the police office.

Inside I find a uniformed fat man of about my age trying to hit on a young lady of about half my age.

I apologize for interrupting, and humbly ask for approval while presenting my ticket and my passport.

The policeman kindly stamps my passport.

I head back across the courtyard, and show my stamped ticket to the agent, but these guys don't care one bit. I am directed to the place where the buses depart. I ask someone on the platform where to go, all the while holding out my ticket like a crazed maniac.

I am directed to the correct bus, and as I climb on board, I think about the fact that I am about to enter a whole new phase of my travel in Syria.

Make no mistake, I'm scared and I'm heading into the unknown, but I have deep faith in myself and the people around me, and either way it doesen't matter.

I'm off to Palmyra, and nothing can stop me now.

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The Dude

My last goal in Damascus is to visit The Citadel, a world heritage site. It is easily discovered, next to the souk. I see a sign directing me to the main entrance.

Closed for renovations.

Frack!

I head back from  whence I came towards what I think is the main part of the souk, (I won't bore you with yet another tale of how I lost an hour in the plumbing district) when I spy a side entrance to the citadel. My curious nature gets the better of me and I take a peek.

I see a little fire burning, so I take a picture, thinking that this will be my only glimpse of the citadel.

Suddenly a very large man bursts out of a construction trailer and begins heading straight for me. In that instant I become convinced that I am about to be detained for taking unauthorized pictures of a closed Syrian government site.

You....Stupid.....Freaking.......Idiot.....

The guy is huge, and he is charging towards me shouting, and there is nothing I can do but hope that a deep apology for my trespass and a pledge of ignorance will be sufficient to keep me from being detained without charge.

As he gets closer he veers towards the fire, and insists that I take a picture of him. He is brewing tea and he is proud of his fire, and so I take a befuddled picture.

After I take the picture he approaches me, and to my astonishment gives me a big man hug. While I'm still befuddled, I no longer feel threatened.

As usual, his English is much better than my Arabic, and I'm pretty sure that he knows that I can't understand a word he is saying, but he pulls me over to a sign showing a model of what the citadel will look like, and like a great condo salesman he shows me how fantastic it is all going to be when it is all done.

At least, that  is what I think he said. I stand bemused and charmed throughout the unintelligible presentation, but his enthusiasm alone is enough to make me excited about this renovation.

And then The Dude offers me a rare treat. Unfettered access to one of the worlds great historic sites, with nary a fellow traveler as far as the eye can see.

He points the way, and I'm on my own.

Incredible.

I slip him a few bucks on the way out, and this time it is me initiating the man hug.

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Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

I thought a long time before I decided to blog about this picture. I am reticent to post negative travel tales, feeling that one idiot, or one bad travel moment should not reflect on an entire citizenry, and most certainly if any people are worthy of such consideration, it is the people I met in Syria.

As I strolled upon the maze that is the the Old Quarter of Damascus, I saw something on the path ahead, and in that instant I had a millisecond of blind, ignorant naivety.

As I researched Syria, I discovered that not only is it a religiously tolerant country, there is actually a small Jewish community in this country.

Syria may be a police state, and I would in no way defend the regime, but it does have a significant Christian population and the constitution mandates that their voice be included in government. In addition, women hold powerful places in society.

Compared to the worst of Middle East regimes, Syria is slightly progressive.

So when I came upon this sight, I thought that maybe there was a Jewish store, and then I thought that I can't step on it, its a flag. A metal flag of Israel laying in the road, like a giant licence plate.

Instictively, I step over it, and in that instant, I understand, and suddenly I am pulled into an illuminating moment.

Middle East politics are suddenly being thrust upon me for the first and only time in my travels through this region.

As I take another step a voice calls from behind.

"No, no no, you're supposed to step ON it!" , he yells at me. His tone is playful. I turn and then he stomps on the sign/flag.

I smile back, and politely refuse, and as I keep walking through the Old City two things occur.

I would never stomp on any flag but my own, and only then under extreme circumstances.

Secondly, how is it possible that in a reality that is dominated by peaceful souls, that we find such intractable hatreds?

If you figure that one out, let me know.

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The Street Called Straight

 When I began exploring the idea of visititng Syria, one of the things I dreamed about was visiting Straight Street in Damascus one of the oldest streets on the planet.

I imagined an ancient arabic market and a dirt lined street, a chaotic cacaphony, echoing  through the ages, an homage to timeless ways.

Instead I find a chic hipster dufus neighbourhood. This is prime real estate, and a place of modern retail commerce, encased in magnificent architecture. And again I am taken by how similar it all is, the deep familiarity with my own experience, despite the spectacular backdrop.

By all means, one should visit Straight Street, if only to see the arches and pillars, and to feel those Antediluvian cobblestones underfoot,  but the rest of it is pure dog 'n pony for tourists and the wealthy.

 

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