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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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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Lost In The City

You probably don't recall the short lived 1960's British sci fi cult show "The Prisoner". One premise of the show was that the as soon as the dude tried to walk out of the town he would find himself on the road back into town.

I thought about that show for the first time as I walked through the market in Aleppo for twenty minutes thinking I was shrewdly finding my way out with my cat like sense of direction, only to find myself dumbfounded to arrive back at square one.

And now I'm in Damascus, and its happening again, only on a larger scale encompassing blocks and hours of walking. I swear, if they ever do hold The World Hide And Seek Championships, the finals should be held in the Old City of Damascus.

I try to leave mental breadcrumbs behind, I really do.

Ok, I went left, then I went right, and then I went right, and then I got pinned up against the wall as that truck went by the impossibly narrow and ancient street, and then I went right where that blue car was parked by that house with the orange roof by that computer place and then I walked down that long alleyway because everyone else was and I finally find a place to get a beer (or two....) and I find myself heading back through the same shortcut, back up the rabbithole.

However, early in my journey home I misplaced a breadcrumb, zigging at some point that would have been  more wisely zagged, and now I'm completely lost in this hypnotic labyrinth  that is the oldest continually occupied city on the planet..

In desperation, I zig and zag mindlessly, hoping that I will stumble upon a familiar chord. The last call to prayer sounds as dusk falls, and I follow the loudest one, thinking it will lead me back to the Umayyad Mosque.

And travel lesson #462 is that their is little correlation between the size of a mosque and the loudness of the call to prayer.

I have followed the wrong siren song to the wrong mosque and taken another wrong turn that leads me to a highway and its dark and I really have to pee and I regret having that beer (or two....) and then I wonder what the penalty would be for public urination in Syria and how getting me out of a Syrian prison would decimate all the resources of my family as I wander along a road that looks like any hopeless road to a bad suburban existence, lined only with the bleak hope of an occasional gas station.

At this point, I'm ready to admit failure and hail a cab, but I do not spy with my little eye, and there is nothing to do but keep walking.

Did I mention I have to pee?

I take one last zag back towards the older looking buildings, now reduced to using vague notions of architecture as my guide, when I see a familiar building off in the distance, and I realize that I am in the Christian quarter, in the exact opposite of where I was trying to go.

But at least from here, I can follow my breadcrumbs through the Old City, past the mosque, through the souk, to the left and then up that big road to my hotel.

But by now I really really have to pee. I walk across a valley into the old quarter, when I see a restaurant open off in the distance. I walk another block, then down a road, through a gate and into the restaurant. A very nice restaurant.

The kind of restaurant where a dust ridden, ballcap wearing,back pack toting,  half lost tourist who really needs to pee doth not often wonder.

I remove my cap upon entry and hope for the best.

 My instincts say that this is not the kind of place where one would storm in asking "where the hell is the can?"
I ask for a table and order a drink, which also includes a non complimentary bottle of water.I say to my bladder "hang in there little buddy, it won't be long now".

After being served, I make a casual inquiry as to the whereabouts of the washroom and whilst inside I have one of the most satisfying and expensive pisses of my entire life.

I go back to my table with the glow of a man who just had great sex, and it is only now that I can fully appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. I am in a great hall with a ceiling many stories high, a venue of spectacular detail and proportion, but I am privy to something more.

I see Syrian families gathered in multiple generations for a family feast, young friends enjoying a coffee and old friends enjoying a niqab pipe while discussing their passions, and it all seems so normal, somehow resonating through my own experience.

I pay my tab and head out into the night, this time confident of the path ahead.

And like the dude in The Prisoner, I'm back on the road to town, although I'm much happier about it than he was, and as I make my way back to my hotel it occurs to me that a refusal to seek directions is not always a flaw, sometimes its an attribute.

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Sacred Stop

It has been my privilege to visit a few sacred places in my travels. Places where long ago kings built monuments for all time and places where the very lowest instincts in the darkness of the human heart flourished, places that impact the definition of our humanity, patches on our collective quilt.

And today, I am grateful to visit one such place. The Umayyad Mosque . I am not a man of any personal God, but I have a deep respect for all belief, which makes this site a must see. After Mecca, The Umayyad Mosque is considered by many to be the most significant place in Islamic culture.

At the end of the main thoroughfare of the souk I enter a square teeming with activity, and before lay the gates to the mosque. I light a smoke and take it all in. I see a gate before me through which people are entering freely.

I look around the square and see boys feeding pigeons. I see another group of boys of about nine or ten taunting and chasing an older gentleman. I'm kind of stunned, because even in my own dilapidated culture, such behaviour would not be tolerated.

The man even appeals to local authorities, and they do nothing. Later, inside the mosque, I find him preaching, and I begin to understand that the guy is nuts (probably), is here everyday (probably), and is held in little regard by the locals.

Given that all this is in Arabic, my eyes can only surmise, as my ears are useless. I stamp out my smoke and attempt to enter the gate. I say attempt, because I am rebuked with utter politeness. Tourists need a ticket. I am directed to a ticket booth, where I happily pay a paltry fee.

If tourists pay a fee it helps keep it all going for the next soul on the road, and I have no problem with that. Ditto for the idea that locals in poor countries should have access to their own sacred sites for free. As a traveler, I have no problem subsidizing the locals, and supporting the tremendous cost of maintaining these places for the benefit of all of us.

And I also give a lot of respect to the principle of access at the Umayyad Mosque. Not all mosques allow almost unfettered access, and I feel deeply humbled to be permitted entry to this historic place.

As I enter the square I am overwhelmed.

The mosaics are sublime, even to my uneducated eye.

I enter the great hall and a sense of sacredness shoots through  as souls worship all around me.

I see people weeping at ancient exhibits, and I begin to understand the depth of where I am, at once stunned and in awe.

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Cruising In Damascus

I've worked in bars for decades, I've lived in the west end of Vancouver and in the heart of gay culture in Toronto. I supported the idea of gay marriage from the git-go Hell, I even went to theatre school, and how gay is that?

Me? Gay? No.

I like innies, not outies, but looking back at my past and directly into my present, it his hard to ignore the fact that my life experience has been influenced and enhanced by the presence of many fine people who happen to not have the same preferences

However, as I left my hotel in Damascus this morning, the role of the gay community in my life was not exactly top of mind. In fact, I was wandering around with dual purposes. I needed an internet cafe and I needed to find a coffee, not that shit I had at breakfast for the 17th day in a row.. A real coffee, not the powdered substitute called Nescafe, that elixired equivalent of a brown crayon dropped in warm water.

In an instant I am at the intersection of a vector, and I hesitate. Option one, I go to the internet cafe so I can email people to let them know that I have not been taken hostage by "Islamic Extremists", and in fact Syria is very beautiful and the people here are as decent and welcoming as any of the souls that I have met in my travels, or I can go have a coffee.

I opt for the internet cafe now and coffee later, the task and reward concept appealing to my Scottish DNA.

As I begin to proceed, I hear a voice in my ear as a man passes by. He says, "I love you, habibi", as he passes me, and dang if it doesn't sound like its right in my ear. But as he passes me, I see that he is talking on a cell phone, probably to his girlfriend, or his mom. Perhaps a beloved grandmother.

And this is why I recommend that no one should ever leave their abode without an RDA level of caffeine.

A millisecond later I elect to go to the net cafe. I take a few steps in the same direction as cell phone guy, when suddenly he turns around and says to me, "I love you, habibi, where are you from?"

I tell him, as it is a common question to my ear.

But then things take an unexpected turn in the Damascus morning.

Stranger: I want sex with you

Me: What?

Stranger: You know sex?

Me: Yes.

Stranger: You want sex with me?

Me: Ahhhhhhhh.....No...........Thank you. (Mom taught me to refuse offers politely)

The dude is gone in a heartbeat, and I am so utterly stunned that I consider summoning a redcap to get my jaw off the ground. I look around and their are police everywhere, which is not unusual in Syria. I opt out of the net cafe and head for the coffee shop. I need to wake up and regroup.

I order a coffee and mull over in my head the possibilities behind what just happened. I come up with three scenarios

-The least likely scenario is that the guy wanted to rob me. I say that this is the least likeliest because if the perpetrator was to be caught, the punishment would be severe.

-Only slightly more likely, is that the police (and make no mistake, this county is 40% police, uniformed and secret) wanted to see if I was engaging in illegal acts.

-The most likely scenario is that he was a gay man who wanted to have sex with me.

And it was this scenario that made me the most sad, the realization that many people around the world are forced to live clandestine lives.

As I sip my coffee, a stranger joins me at my table, despite the fact that their is ample seating. We sit in silence, as my mind wanders back to my life in Toronto and all the gay friends that I have, and how it was not so long ago that their community were forced to live under the same level of repression in Canada that I am witnessing in Syria.

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