Friday, August 17, 2007

Holiday

So Tim has already blogged rather beautifully about our holiday but I want offer my opinion. However, I doubt I shall be as eloquent as Timmy.

Syria was amazing, it is obviously a country rich in heritage and culture, but it is also more than that. Everywhere you go someone is trying to make some money, it is real working country with lots of beautiful things to see on the side. On a trip to Palmyra, a stunningly well preserved roman town we ended up playing cards with some children who were about 10 or 11. They spoke basic English, a requirement because they work in the tourist industry. Mahmood, who played alongside me introduced himself as the owner of the bar we were playing. When questioned a little further he is in fact manager, his uncle spends most of his time in his other bar in Homs Syria's third largest city. This wasn't unusual, everywhere we looked male children were learning a trade of their fathers or uncles. The card game was wonderful, it was great to talk to these children about everything and nothing and I felt privileged to spend time with them just relaxing and enjoying the game. They do play by rather unorthodox rules tho, shuffling the cards mid-play, it's just not cricket!

We were lucky enough to meet friends of mine in Damascus, and they took us up the road where Bashir lives, one journey I will never forget. We could not stop and we had to drive with a purpose, no slowing down. Our friend showed us a guy in a suit and dark glasses just stood by a tree. They are the private guard. All along the avenue were dozens of these men in suits and shades standing behind trees. A real combination of James Bond and Men in Black, and a truly bizarre experience.

We ate and drank some amazing things while on holiday. The dark red juice Tim was describing is made from Tamarind and absolutely wonderful, a bit like burdock for those who are old school enough to remember what that tastes like. Unfortunately we could never find any Jalab, a date drink even our friends couldn't find any for us. Lots of meat, always grilled and enough bread to feed and army. By the end of the second week we decided that we needed some variation in our diet so we traveled 150K to grab a burger. The burger was made with kofta meet and tasted the same as everything else.

By the time we reached Aleppo we were exhausted and very pleased to be staying in a lovely (no cockroaches) 'hotel' It was run by two wonderful young men with a lot of drive and ambition. They grew up in Kuwait but had moved to Syria in their early teens. They youngest was working in the hotel to pay for medical school in England. They offered us free tea when we got their (much needed) and lent us towels and toilet roll. They were some of the nicest people we met. Aleppo was more business orientated than Damascus. In many ways it was more welcoming than Damascus, this is probably because it is used to foreign people. There are more Iraqis, Lebanese and Armenians living in Aleppo than anywhere else in the country. Personally I think it has benefited from the diaspora and feels like a truly modern city. We decided that we needed some air conditioning and modern comfort, so stopped in the Sheraton for drink and my god, it felt great! After that, we went on to a restaurant in an old merchant's house. This was our most expensive meal on holiday and cost a grand total of 15 pounds, including a bottle of local wine! The food was amazing and there was a live oud player. Worth every single piastre.

We then caught a night train. Tim and I were like little children in our excitement. We had secreted away a bottle of Syrian wine in order to have on the train and just couldn't wait to get on. We had a sleeper and the beds were definitely necessary or we would have got no sleep at all. I had a real leather harness to stop me falling off the top bunk. Timmy obviously got a bit over excited by all this...

A quick rest in Damascus before it was off to Jordan.

It was much easier leaving Syria than getting in and we didn't have to pay any exit tax! Jordan is much more western than Syria and in some ways it was a relief being able to speak English again. I learnt more Arabic in two weeks in Syria than I have in a year in Bahrain. We stayed in a great place in Amman called The Cairo hotel. The owner was a wonderful man who gave us presents when we left. Our trip would have been a lot more difficult without him as we had no guide book.He was so friendly and so helpful and possibly one of the calmest men I have ever met. He also spoke excellent English, which helped!

Jordan is a fantastic place I don't feel like I have seen half of it. It has a climate and seasons, which mean that things grow there. They grow in Syria too. Jordan is also full of wildlife which is very cool. After one night in Amman we headed of to Petra. I cannot do justice to Petra except to say that it is very big, my feat hurt A LOT and I was tired by the end of it. We walked for hours up mountain and back down them and everywhere you turn there is something stunning to see. Even if you have no interest in the history, which is fascinating, it is a great place to walk. We took one donkey ride, which in hindsight I regret. There is a lot of satisfaction in just walk. The donkey ride was up 865 stairs and would have taken us easily and hour plus to walk, we had done another trek the day before. It was easily the most terrifying 30 minutes of my life. Massive vertical drops either side, and I am riding a donkey with a mind of its own. Not fun. I thin Tim enjoyed being able to scrabble around the site most, pretending that he was a mountain goat. It is great fun just being able to wander up hills, and in someways feels more like a theme park than an ancient city. In the photos you will see that Tim and I covered from head to toe, with hats, this is because of the heat, they were the sort of days that no matter how much sunblock you put on, you would still burn. Petra is well worth a trip, and you need at least two days to explore it in any detail

Cons of Arabia was next. A night camping in Wadi Rum desert, where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed. Beautiful coloured sand and rocks everywhere you look. We took a one hour camel ride up a mountain to see the sun set and it was well worth it. The camping was a bit nerve wracking as we were the only people staying overnight. Neither of us got a good nights sleep. When the tourists had gone home, the Bedouins decided that it was time to put on some Arabic dance music and show us an example of repressed homosexuality. A wonderful experience. Men dressed up as girls, dancing the female steps, kissing and flirting with one another in a more overt way than at any teenage disco. Wonderful.

Finally the Dead Sea. Painful, surreal and painful some more. It tastes horrible, it hurts when it goes in your eyes and any cut you have is just unbearable. Worth it though. The mud found on the sea floor is also great for your skin, and Tim and I covered ourselves in it. It is quite fun to think that I could have floated across to the West Bank, and to think that it is 330M deep at its lowest point.

We nearly missed our flight on the way home as the bus stop was moved to another garage and we got stuck in traffic. We went straight from check-in to our seats on the plane. In fact, if we were in the UK we would have missed our flights, it is only because the Arabs are so relaxed about everything...


Thursday, August 16, 2007

where we live

hello again

apologies, i should have done this ages ago, but hey, its just one of those things that you never get round to.

anyway, click here to see where we live. If it doesn't automatically go to the satellite image, just click the tab to make it so - then you can see our pool.

our building is just to the right of the top of the football pitch - you can see our pool.

XxX

on holiday

hey ya'll

some more pics from our hols can be found here:

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/timlyddiatt/MoreSyriaAndJordan

or see below - if i have got this right...

XxX

stuck for ideas???

http://www.tdbspecialprojects.com/

click the link and make a million bucks

XxX

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

the Syria and the Jordan Ones

Morning all,

So - how goes it? What has been happening in the world since we went on holiday? I realised, nearly 3 weeks in, that I had not a clue what was happening in the world. Not just in the UK, but anywhere in the world. That’s what happens, I guess, when you travel around an alien country where the language has absolutely nothing - not the alphabet, not the phonetic nor written form - in common with your native tongue. World war three could have broken out and I’m guessing that we wouldn’t have known.

So then, starved of news as we were, we gathered news of our own. From distant desert lands, I present to you the news of Syria and Jordan.

There are regular power cuts all over Syria. This is a new thing apparently, having only begun this year. Syria and Jordan are not like the Gulf countries where AC is ubiquitous; if it were, and the people had got used to it, I fear there would be riots on the streets of Damascus and Bashir would not hold is power without the use of tanks and the illusion of democracy would be finished. There were elections held recently with Bashir the runaway victor. But then, to stand against him was illegal and no one did. Bashir is everywhere; every shop has his likeness on posters, every car emblazons him on bumper stickers and in silver silhouette that casts his face in shadows across the seats. In a grand square of marble amidst tall, proud trees a brass band played beneath a mural depicting Bashir’s victory at the ballot box: doves denoted the peace that democracy brings. It is said, though not out loud, not in conversation, that under his father, there were more secret police than there were ordinary people. Bashir’s rule is different I think, he uses not the inward looking violence of the old regime where 8000 troops destroyed the city of Hama to flush out a few hundred members of the Islamic brotherhood. Instead he uses his image in diametric opposition to the alleged freedoms of the West. Look, he says, through a million eyes looking down upon the city, this is me, you know me, can trust me. Many more times than once we asked whether we had freedom in Britain like they did in Syria. Bashir knows that he cannot control what the world thinks of him and chooses instead to control what his people understand of the world outside their borders. This is me, he says, look; those others cannot be trusted. We saw his palace, high up on a high hill in green forest kept lush with daily waterings, and it looks like a leisure centre or an office park.

But the power goes off for a few hours every day, often two or three times a day. The alley-ed streets go dark. The sounds of commerce become muffled under the groan of the hundreds of generators used to keep the meat cool and the ovens hot. The sounds of the sale in the souk are drowned, no longer pulsing in the cooling wind. At the entrance of the souk, the XXXX sellers pour refreshing glasses of the blood red liquid. He hands out glasses filled and accepts payment only when the glass is empty. Beyond him the hawkers and the scouts home in on the tourists. They see our pale faces but do not single us out. The old town is filled with Arabic tourists from all over the Gulf, from Egypt and the Lebanon. It seems that everyone is on holiday here and the pickings are good on everyday but Friday.

We arrived on a Friday from Amman. The journey was swift but traumatic. The border crossing frenetic with a thousand people all trying to get processed through the same 6 windows. Money changed hands twice: Wasta is rife, we are told later. Nothing costs extra, except for time. That costs money, to save it and make life easier. Damascus is quiet on a Friday; quieter even than a Juffair Friday when compared to the night before, or with the night to come. Damascus is a dead city on Friday. We drink coffee and let the sense of anti-climax pass. But you cannot play cards in the street level coffee houses - they fear the passing policemen and the bribes they must pay to allay accusations of permitting gambling - and the time passes slowly.

Damascus lives of its belly. And its belly is filled on the pavements, even on a Friday. The juice bars will slice and crush and squeeze and squash 24 hours a day, seven days a week. We ate a myriad versions of fresh baked flat bread and different herbs or sauces from the streets side bakers that are too hot to walk past let alone work in and spend ones day in. Zatar is green and slightly crispy, like dried basil or oregano. Tomato paste with chilli and cumin is also popular and the falafel is cooked in rings in giant pots like donuts on Brighton pier. Meat lovers can buy whole chickens and wolf them down with just bread and Labneh; its salty skin crispy and brown and deserving of being eaten last. Sharma is cheap and double wrapped in bread like wearing a wetsuit in a sleeping bag. The sweets are mounded in shop windows on every corner of every street. Outside, pastries and cakes are nut leaden and drowning in syrup, orange blossom water or sticky date molasses.

You can buy kilos of nuts and coffee. The smell of cardamom is everywhere and is only challenged by the aroma of grilled meat - once night has fallen and the new Damascus comes, like removing the hijab, with every even tide - as the official olfactory memory of this mountainous and windswept land.

That night, sated with chicken, with cakes and coffee, we slept the sleep of the travel damned. Too hot and too tired to really sleep, we dozed with imaginings of tomorrows wanderings always too close to the front of our minds.

The next day brought Maloula and prayers offered in the language of Jesus. The hill people there still cling on to Aramaic: the language of Christ, still spoken in a country of Islam. Later, we would come to understand that the very pillars of Islam were built upon the acceptance of Jesus, that one prophet could make no sense without the acceptance of all others. Hearing this would later make us feel odd and question exactly what all the fighting was actually about; was it really just about land like they said it was?

The small church was garish inside, the frescos much brighter than in a European church. The light was peachy too, and vivid, like the artificial light in an operating room: it made things more and less real. The priest, old and wizened and bearded - a cartoon priest really - waved his incense and did his chanting leading children around the church. One girl, a soon to be hysterical girl of about nine or ten, stood too close to the candles lit in individual and personal prayer, and set fire to her hair. The adults around her bashed and smothered her to extinguish the smouldering locks and the room was filled with a different smoke. Different prayers were offered then and the priest did not miss a beat.

We walked the mile or so through the river gorge, its steep sides smooth to the touch. We saw lizards on the rocks, rushing to hide from the noise of our steps and tadpoles scuttling, trying to exercise their not yet formed legs, desperate to grow them before the water dries.....

I could go on like this for ages, but I won’t. I keep thinking that I will get the chance to finish it at work, but I keep not having the time. So, I’ll stop now - hope you are all ok.

Some of the photo’s we took are up on flickr here:

http://www.flickr.com/groups/bahrainandlondon/

But the vast majority are still lying about on memory sticks at home

Take it easy ya’ll

XxxX

O yes, the XXXX in the text refers to the name of a drink I can’t remember and keep forgetting to ask Heidi about.

XxX