It is our second afternoon in Damascus, and we have decided, on an all-too-full stomach from yet another scrumptious lunch, to launch into our favourite Damascene activity for the third time since arrival: letting yourself lost in the maze-like narrow streets in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City, south of The Straight Street. While seeking out the Beits and Pashas with the aid of the trustworthy guidebook, we already realised that with the best maps available, it is still a major challange to navigate through the streets of the Old City even for those armed with a better-than-average sense of direction. Forgoing the book and not worrying about whether Sight No. 46 really is indeed in the surreptitious-looking lane on the third right, therefore, at once becomes an attractive alternative, especially after you've ticked off most of the 'must see' items on the list already. The myriad of narrow streets with unexpected turns and ends in various quarters, lined with deceptively crumbly-looking, centuries-old houses, reveal and conceal at the same time the palimpsests of histories that Damascus has witnessed as the Oldest City in the World. And, best of all, here in the warm afternoon sun in the Jewish quarter, there are no other tourists in sight.
Her handsome companion, not to be outdone, effortlessly strikes the movie-star pose, with what we have already recognised as the typical Damascene look in so many of their elders' eyes: an innate combination of charm, friendliness and confidence. He's going be a heartbreaker one day, I say to myself.
[Day Three, Palmyra]
Petrol station attendants in Syria, even in this more remote corner of the country, turn out to be a lot more blase about foreign tourists who drive rental cars around the country than we expected them to be (our fellow travellers from the West, in comparison, usually think we're barking mad when they hear our planned itinerary). Here on the early morning of our fourth day, we have left a Palmyra that's still recovering from previous evening's sandstorm, and are heading off east. The first thing we need, though, is a thorough wash of the car before we can really get anywhere, as the sandstorm has graced all surfaces of the vehicle with its indelible mark. The bearded guy squatting on the ground smoking next to the pump - the manager?! - waves to the boys, looking about 10 years old, whom we have presumed was just a neighbour hanging about, signalling for him to take the job. He handles the big power-faucet dexterously enough to convince me that this is indeed his day job, and goes through the whole job with such ease and skill, that I start to think that he's doing it not out of financial necessity, but really because he's a lot better than any of the half-dozen older guys squatting idly. When he's done, I ask if I could take a photo of him with his 'territory'. He looks at the camera uncertainly, looks at the other guys and shrugs, then, looking in yet another direction, gives me the perfect smile.
[Day Four, later, near Halabiyya]
Syrians really are incredibly beautiful. It's a bountiful beauty with many origins, thanks to their diverse ancestral lineages. It's effectively the genetic melting pot of Middle-East - their version of New York, as M puts it. We've seen people in Damascus whose racial resemblance to ourselves was striking, and their best friends from down the street would have the angular central Asian face topped with a waterfall of blond hair. This young sheperdess has the deepest dark brown eyes as she turns to gaze at us, and I can swear the stunning redhead has nothing to do with any commerical colouring brand whatsoever.
[Day Five, Mari, down the Euphrates]
'The ruins of Mari, an important Mesopotamian city dating back some 500 years, are about 10km north of Abu Kamal (on the Syrian/Iraqi border).' Lonely Planet thus tells us. Unless you're a specialist archaeologist, it probably holds less interest than the nearby ruins of Doura Europos, which are at once more sprawling and imposing, with the perfect backdrop of the ancient river. We are glad we did come to Mari though, not least because the caretaker's family, a gaggle of female spanning several generations (no wonder the man had a deeply furrowed face, despite having young children), constitute a group-sitting portrait in their tent - effectively the living room - connect to the ticket office/souvenir shop that would surely have captured many a painter. Darting away from this silently inqiusitive group, almost as the perfect counterpoint, is the caretaker's youngest daughter, bouncing around the place and happily posing for/with a group of French tourists in her striking kaftan. After they're gone, she's ever so slightly withdrawn, and smiles shily for us. Is it simply because she's much more accustomed to the hordes of Caucasians who arrive in big buses than two badly-tanned Orientals who drive to this remote corner in their own car?[Day Seven, Aleppo]
Of all our unusual encounters throughout years of travelling, this will go down the memory lane a long way. We're in Aleppo, the second largest city in Syria, home to the most enchanting souq in the entire Middle East (and therefore probably the world), some truly amazing cuisine, and hand-made aged olive oil soap. It is in the pursuit of a famed soap factory - which turns out to be closed - that we run into an army of schoolboys, all rushing home for their lunch hour. This lot, unlike all the others we've met so far, aren't just willing to have their photos taken by you. They want you to take photos of them, they actually follow you around and hound you until they've seen an image in the viewing screen on your camera that they relish. And as with all human groups, you immediately discern the various types, even with these little ones: the philosophical, the fraternal, the mischievous, the audacious.
[Day Ten, Krak des Chevaliers]
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