The Road To Damascus Experience

Damascus

Miles - 6,274

I blame Hama. It was Hama that clinched it. It Hama'd the nail in the coffin. Every time we enter a new country, alongside the thrill and expectation of new peoples and lands to be discovered, we have the added excitement of pondering where in that country we should busk. It was, after all, our mission to busk The Beatles in every country we travelled through around the world. A tall order, sure, but it's good to have a goal. Ever since entering Syria, though, the mood in the band had not been good. I was sensing a simmering reticence to performing on the street.

"There's no way we're busking here. Forget it." Jill had said in Aleppo.

"No way!" echoed Ella and Beth.

"Just because we haven't seen anyone doing anything like that, and just because we saw several police officers run after a man trying to sell towels doesn't make it illegal." I argued weakly.

"They held a couple for questioning a few weeks ago for using a laptop in a campsite!"

"Yes, but..."

"For 8 hours! The military police were called and they had to get a translator and everything! Read their account on this blog! They were only trying to download their digital camera photos!"

"Welllll, they say they were, Jill. Who's to say they weren't involved in illegal international trafficking? Of towels, for example. They're clearly pretty hot on that here."

But it was Hama that lost me the battle. Our journey from Aleppo to Damascus was broken by a stop. Hama time. (80s pop reference, baggy trousered rap fans). 

Hama is a town famous for its large water wheels and not much else. I thought they were very cool, and I think the girls would have done too, had they not been constantly distracted by hoards of locals wanting to touch them. Apparently, the engineering marvel of using waterwheels of a massive diameter, not to generate power as is usually the case, but simply to transfer gallons of water in buckets from a river up to an aquaduct some 20 metres higher up, thus allowing gravity to then supply fresh water to the town, is a wonder that wears thin after a few hundred years. A family of westerners, therefore, is like the circus coming to town.

We braved the town, all 4 girls wrapped in headscarves and behind shades, for about an hour before their patience deserted them. I had to remove them from the scene for the safety of the locals. Back in the sanctuary of a rather dingy hostel room, I reluctantly agreed; preaching All You Need Is Love through the power of a haphazardly played ukulele would at best, get us arrested, at worst, be the overture to a sacrificial slaughter. The very idea that we would make any money was laughable, and we'd already been advised that mentioning a connection with a charity was to be avoided as it always leads to angry questions about 'converting people'. Brow beaten and ever so slightly depressed, we resolved to keep our heads down and press on south, or, as Jill put it "Get the hell out of this God forsaken country as fast as humanly possible." She was still on the fence, then.

We all felt sorry for Jill, as it was her birthday in 2 days and she'd been very excited about spending it in Damascus. Now, however, her birthday treat of 2 nights in a luxury 2 star hotel was slashed to 1 night at her insistence as she just wanted to get to Jordan asap.

So we took the road to Damascus. If you've ever read the Biblical story of Saul's blinding vision and his 'road to Damascus' experience that saw him change his name to Paul and convert to follow Christ, you may have wondered what the road that has become synonymous with anyone having a dawning realisation, an utter life changing experience or a complete U turn in thinking actually looks like.

Here it is.

Obviously it's not all like that. Some of it looks like this.

Domestic rubbish doesn't get collected in Syria. It's expected that people will burn it. But lighting a fire in your dustbin every week must be a total bind, so lots of people just throw it out of the window when driving down a busy dual carriage way. Job done. Thus, the entire 2 hour drive from Hama to The Oldest City In The World was taken through a corridor of trash. The trees growing at that impossible angle is due to the prevailing wind, not an atomic bomb that's just detonated slightly out of camera shot. (Although a nuclear explosion might in fact be the quickest way of sprucing this area up.)

Our mood lifted in Damascus as we camped on the outskirts and shared the tiny site with our South African travelling buddies Neil & Silvie, who'd been there 2 days and were moving on tomorrow. It's amazing how good we all felt, them included, just being able to talk to other people who were having similar experiences. It wasn't just us! What a nice feeling! Silvie had had a row with a dishonest fruit seller too! Hooray! She had been groped by a nasty old man. Brilliant! Neil had nearly had a fight with a lecherous slimeball. Terrific! When everyone realises that everyone else is miserable too, somehow morale increases. (I've worked at companies who embrace this management method).

The next day was Jill's birthday. We had all made cards and they all made us laugh. I'd done the usual Have I Got News For You caption schtick with a picture of the Syrian President I'd bought in a petrol station, but it was Edie's that had tears rolling down Jill's cheeks: "Who'd have thought it? 42! Well, you know the famous saying - 42 is the new 22!" It was so upbeat and chipper we somehow found it hysterical.

And things went from good to better. We got into Damascus, dumped our bags at the Orient Gate (2 stars awarded when it was in fact a different hotel several years ago - but they keep 'em up for old time's sake) and headed out looking every inch the lost tourists holding a map upside down. A woman who spoke good English approached us.

"Can I help? You are looking for somewhere?"

I confess, the girls and I rolled our eyes at each other. That's all we need - another pestering local who'll want paying. Jill told her we were going to the old city. The woman looked at the map, but couldn't really get her bearings from it.

"I'll walk with you. It's not far."

Ker-ching

And so she strode ahead, leading the way and chatting with Jill all the time. The girls and I trailed behind exchanging worried whispers about where this might be leading, both literally and metaphorically. By the time we'd reached the walls of the old city Jill and the mystery tour guide were getting on like a house on fire.

"This is Ennas" she said introducing us properly. "She's a student at the university, studying English."

We all said hello politely and started to doubt our earlier snap judgement. She insisted she take us to the best entrance to the souk, weaving us through busy streets, deftly palming off street traders and expertly taking Edie by the hand when she wanted to stop traffic. My word - she's a pro. I'd taken weeks to discover The Power Of Edie, this girl knew it instinctively. When we mentioned that we still hadn't eaten or drunk anything that day, she led us not to any old cafe, but a good 10 minutes weaving through the old Christian quarter of the city to find a cafe she knew was very good. She spoke to them in Arabic, they knew her, and when we asked that she stay to have a drink with us she said no, she had to get to work. She swapped email addresses with Jill and left. We all sat at a table, stunned. A bit sheepish, too, but also relieved. Syria was redeeming herself. Ennas told Jill that she'd been studying English for 4 years, but that she'd never met a foreign family. Never! Can you imagine that? Suddenly I could understand why she was so keen to give up an hour of her time to chat and learn and ask questions, but she hadn't ever come across as needy or suffocating like the overzealous goons who leapt in our faces in previous towns. She was gracious, polite and genuinely generous with her time.

The day had got off to a cracking start and Jill called the shots from then on. Whatever she wanted, went. A museum on the history of Arabic calligraphy? "Yippee!" shouted the kids.

"Would you lot mind if we went inside the Great Mosque?" she'd ask.

"Just try and stop us!" we would yell.

We even found a shop selling the ultimate birthday food - jelly.

We window shopped in the souk which even I loved because its history is groovy: It used to be a Roman avenue leading to the Jupiter Temple, which then became a Christian cathedral, and then the Muslim mosque it is today, and the corrugated black arched roof still lets pin shafts of sunlight through hundreds of bullet holes from an uprising against the French in 1925. Coool! (You can see this and other pics in our Syria photo album now online at www.beatnikbeatles.com - the 'Here, There & Everywhere' page.)

Also, because Damascus is huge and well used to international visitors, no one stared, pointed, spat (oh, yeah, we really have been spat at) or even batted an eye at us. Even the souk sellers weren't pushy. It was a joy. We went back into the old city that evening for some food and knew its twisty wiggly back streets like natives, and as we wearily navigated our way through its ancient labyrinth back to bed we all admitted we loved this ancient city and would definitely come back. 

Ennas and Damascus had redeemed Syria in our eyes. We had experienced a complete U turn in our thinking. Perhaps that litter strewn highway had worked its magic after all.