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