Sydney
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Lara
Dunston from the Damascus Travel Guide, Lonely Planet World Guide
writes. A Top Day In Damascus:
Jean
Hureau writes The Hearts of Arab People in the novel SYRIA TODAY …
The Syrian Arab Republic and our fragile Planet.
A family holiday to Syria? You
cannot be serious Our decision to take a family holiday in a country which is part of George Bush's supposed Axis of Evil had been prompted by a number of neatly colliding interests. We'd read about the ancient ruins of the cradle of western civilization and birthplace of the Old Testament and we were keen to practice our painfully-acquired evening class Arabic on some real, live locals. But what Fergus, seven, and Edie really wanted was a journey on a 'sleepy train'. While browsing a trainspotters' website one evening, I came across the Toros Express, a weekly rail service from Istanbul to Syria (and formerly the eastern extension of the Orient Express which ran all the way to Baghdad). The 'sleepy train' located, there was no holding us back. The Toros Express runs every Thursday morning from Haydarpasa station in Istanbul to Aleppo, northern Syria's capital. We bought cheap air tickets to the Turkish capital and thought we'd work out the rest of our two-and-a-half week journey when we got there but, almost immediately, our plans hit a snag. There had been two train crashes in Turkey in the previous few weeks and now the very existence of the Toros Express, let alone its departure station, remained enigmatic. No one could tell us where to board the train. An optimistic railway employee eventually sent us on a four-hour bus ride to a small town called Eskisehir. There were two stations in this rather grim town, and no one spoke English; but, at last, a taxi driver sped us to a bare concrete platform in the middle of a field and, miraculously, there we saw five clapped-out carriages coupled to a geriatric red engine. Two men sat in shorts, drinking tea. 'Toros Express?' we inquired. ‘Guichet?' Forget tickets, these railwaymen were simply amazed to see potential passengers. They ushered us towards the back of the train where a smiling man beckoned us on. This was Mr Ali, our Syrian guard, and, for the next 31 hours, we were to be not merely the most honoured but the sole occupants of his travelling Syrian hotel while Turkish marble was loaded on and off the rest of the train at various obscure locations. At every conceivable consumption opportunity, Mr Ali and his large, string-vested assistant brought us salted cheese, olives, pitta bread and watermelon. The kids ran up and down the deserted corridor, climbing over the wood-panelled couchettes and acting like imperial progeny. As the train crossed from the north-western tip of Turkey to the far south-east through a barren and fearsomely hot landscape, Mr Ali's vegetable bounty knew no bounds. This proved to be merely our first experience of Syrian hospitality which constantly stretched the rules of generosity to embarrassing levels. On arrival at Aleppo, only seven hours late, we explained to a devastated Mr Ali that we would not be spending the weekend as his house guests. We wanted to visit the citadel of the oldest continuously inhabited city on the planet and he took the news bravely. The 10th-century citadel's entrance bridge leads over a precipitous moat and, as we crossed into the fortified interior, we wondered who could ever have wanted to storm a city with an average summer temperature of 40C? Constructed mainly by the son of the legendary 12th-century Sunni leader, Saladin, the views of the rooftops, souks, hovels and hills of Aleppo from the top of the citadel were blindingly bright. An ugly concrete stage had been clumsily constructed for civic events in the middle of the ruins and a group of Syrian schoolchildren watched as our two pranced around pretending to be pop stars on the spot where Abraham, allegedly, milked his cow - Aleppo deriving from the Arabic for milk. In the 13th-century souk below, we tried to buy bread from a stall but the baker would not take our money. 'Take my bread,' he said. 'You are welcome in my country.' A few shops along, we attempted to pay for pistachio halva but were again thwarted. We were very welcome in this country. Back in the city centre at the Hotel Kamal (£4 a night), the other guests were all engineering students and had never met an English-speaking child. They sat in their underpants, watching a Steve Martin film on satellite TV. They asked us about Tony Blair but really wanted to know whether Celine Dion would release a new record this year. Someone ran out to buy our kids some Mecca Cola - a treat which almost made up for the ubiquitous squat toilets. We crossed town to visit the Dream Park - Aleppo's first bowling alley and indoor playground, built three years ago. 'Everyone gets along here,' said the manager, who was half-Christian, half-Muslim. 'You can't tell anything from what they're wearing.' Ladies in jellabas smoked nargile water-pipes alongside women in revealing, glittery tops and mini-skirts and, at this extraordinarily eclectic mothers' meeting, everyone helped everyone else's children climb onto the Mr Men rides. We were the only non-Syrians but, aside from a minor sharing incident in the ball pool, there was global peace at Dream Park. Three hours, three buses, £3, and half a desert away, we arrived at Palmyra - the ruined city of the legendary Queen Zenobia, the Middle East's answer to Boudicca. Here, too, the hotel owners were intrigued to meet real English-speaking children. We all watched a disco dancing competition on TV. 'Twenty years ago,' said the hotel owner's son, 'potential brides used to ask how many cattle you had. Now they only ask if you have satellite TV.' We climbed the citadel and watched the sun set over the bleakest of deserts. When the Romans conquered Palmyra in AD271, they didn't leave much standing but the Palmyran tomb towers still pierced the darkness and Disney couldn't have drawn a more elegant silhouette. It's so hot outside that the guardian of these tombs only opens them up between 8.30 and 9.00 each morning. Just after dawn, Fergus and Edie scrambled around the patrician tomb towers before diving underground to the middle-class graves. The kids thought that the Temple of Bel (AD32) was even better than Dream Park until they collapsed in a heap, sweating. The one official guide told us that he and his parents had lived in the temple until the French had 'relocated' them in the 1930s. He now makes his living from showing French tourists around the ruins. Syria's other main tourist attraction, the Krak des Chevaliers, is two hours away. The best preserved crusader castle in the world sits atop a hill and TE Lawrence visited 49 times, inspired by its imposing presence, the magic of the location and, no doubt, its gorgeous and noble inhabitants. Here, the Hospitallers, Christianity's crack brigade, held off Saladin during the Second Crusade in 1188. We climbed in through a breach in the walls and wandered around the stables, a Gothic church and a network of cellars capable of storing five years' worth of food. There were no foreigners, no guides and no lights, and the kids ran squealing along dark corridors, delighted at the chance to play Famous Five. Outside, we found the nearest cafe and asked the owner if he could recommend a hotel. 'Don't waste your money,' he said simply, 'come to my house. You are welcome in my country.' Without stopping to ask our names, he drove us to a small cement house a few minutes away. A woman in a pink nightie appeared and led us inside. Seconds later, she brought a metal tray laden with bowls of rice and a mysterious yoghurty mixture. It would have been rude not to tuck in. For the next four hours, we talked, in broken Arabic, about children, Syria and Iraq. 'Syrians and English have always been friends,' said Abdul Rahman and his wife, Sanaa. 'Why does Tony Blair do this? Why is he Baby Bush?' We couldn't reply. Our kids tried to present their kids with a Beano comic but the children wouldn't accept. 'Welcome in our country,' they explained. As on all regular family holidays, we finished with a dip in the Med. At the Blue Beach outside Lattakia, Syria's leading beach resort, we rented a bike for four people, ate water melon and swam at a pristine beach that cost £3 to visit. Here, secularity is aggressively enforced and a large, red sign informs all sunbathers that anyone who attempts to cover up will have their clothes forcibly removed so as not to embarrass other less modestly dressed guests. A team of security guards stands at either end of the beach ready to whip the clothes off anyone who dares to cover up and we watched as a man whose shoulders had gone rather too red for comfort attempted to put a T-shirt on only to have it zealously removed by the clothes police. Next door, at the free beach, however, women in head-to-toe jellaahs ran into the water fully clothed. They weren't so much swimming as standing in the sea, absorbing water. Back in our hotel in central Lattakia,
Fergus watched the semi-final of the Asia Cup with the residents of our
hotel. Disappointingly for the Syrians, Japan beat Bahrain and we
commiserated with our new friends. 'Better luck next time. Inshallah,'
they said, refilling our plastic beakers with non-alcoholic
refreshments. 'You are welcome in our country.'
A Top Day in Damascus Next stop is the impressive National Museum for its rich collections of archaeological finds and a stroll around the leafy ancient sculpture garden, a respite on a sweltering summer's day. I'll have a light lunch at Downtown Café on Sharia Al-Amer iz Eddin (which does the best fresh juices in Damascus) before kicking about the nearby streets to admire the architecture - pretty French-style buildings with wrought-iron balconies and elegant Art Deco apartment blocks (many undergoing restoration). If Atassi Gallery has installed a new exhibition, I'll head there for a look, otherwise, late afternoon is when I love to spend time in the courtyard of Umayyad Mosque - the fairy-tale mosaics are best appreciated in the golden light. Next, I'll wander along Al-Qaimariyeh lane, dropping into Al Nafoorah cafe for a coffee and dramatic performance by Abu Shadi, the last of the Hakawati (storytellers), and the tiny atelier of Palestinian artist Mahmoud Shahin, to listen to him philosophise and watch him paint. Al-Qaimariyeh is at its liveliest in the early evening, when Damascus' youth are out browsing the tiny shops for CDs, t-shirts and jewellery. If I've walked the length and breadth of the city, then a sauna at Hammam Bakri is in order. For dinner we'll head to Al Dar for delicious Syrian food and live jazz, followed by a drinks at Ninar Art Café or Marmar pub for a DJ or live band. Source; Dunston, A Top Day in Damascus. Retrieved January 31, 2008 from http://www.lonelyplanet.com/worldguide/syria/damascus
The Heart of The Arab People
The Worlds Oldest City
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