November 26th - December 6th
...It is evening and we are sitting in Cafe Roche on Souq Saroujah. We never really learn: we have been here three times previously. Each time we come here we vow never to return. It's not that it isn't a nice cafe, because it is. The place has a very chilled ambiance. The food is nice also, when it arrives. The owner is really friendly, and it is always busy. It is a tiny little place. It is freezing cold and we are all wearing fleeces. We are smoking a Nargile and waiting for our friend, Rachel to arrive. Everything is just so slow. Everything you order is prepared right in front of you as the kitchen is by the door. The chef moves with the speed of a tortoise. The only person I have ever seen cook slower than him is his assistant chef. This guy has his hand bandaged up. The last time we were in here he was on his own - the food took over an hour.
Marcus, Merryl, and myself are playing cards. Black-jack is the name of the game. We are lazing languidly on cushions and chatting with four Syrian guys. They are all asking us where we have been in Syria, and are very impressed that we travelled east to Dier-Ez-Zor. They are extolling onto us the virtues of camel meat. One guy, called Faoud, is explaining that 48 hours after eating camel meat, you start to feel movements. I mistakenly assume he is talking about bowel movements. He is a bit embarrassed to say in front of Merryl - but he emphasises that the movements are of the male kind. The penny finally drops. The owner comes bounding over and tells us he can order real camel meat. He can also arrange tours for us. Given his track record, we are a little suspect of this. Rachel comes in with her friend Natalie. We sit and chat and drink milky curries; giant, curry flavoured, piping hot-milk drinks. We are arranging to go to a contemporary dance performance by two of Natalie's Iraqii friends...
Marcus, Merryl, and myself are playing cards. Black-jack is the name of the game. We are lazing languidly on cushions and chatting with four Syrian guys. They are all asking us where we have been in Syria, and are very impressed that we travelled east to Dier-Ez-Zor. They are extolling onto us the virtues of camel meat. One guy, called Faoud, is explaining that 48 hours after eating camel meat, you start to feel movements. I mistakenly assume he is talking about bowel movements. He is a bit embarrassed to say in front of Merryl - but he emphasises that the movements are of the male kind. The penny finally drops. The owner comes bounding over and tells us he can order real camel meat. He can also arrange tours for us. Given his track record, we are a little suspect of this. Rachel comes in with her friend Natalie. We sit and chat and drink milky curries; giant, curry flavoured, piping hot-milk drinks. We are arranging to go to a contemporary dance performance by two of Natalie's Iraqii friends...
November 27th
We checked out of the El Arabi and into El-Haramein. We then headed off to the Indian Embassy. We had already located it the day before but it was closed. So we headed off early this morning to begin our visa application process. It required us to fill in a huge form outside a cold consular window. This we dutifully did. We were then told our handwriting was not neat enough and were asked to go and get it typed. Typed? We asked them could we fill it out in our bestest handwriting and promise not to make any mistakes; I made three. They seemed to be happy with this and we agreed to return in 14 days to get have our passports processed.
After this we were free to explore for the day. I was meeting Merryl from her flight into Damascus airport at 4:30pm our time. So we strolled around, down into the old city, past the Great Ummayad Mosque and through the into Straight Street, and Damascus's Souqs.
The old city was a massive walled Medina that enclosed nearly a square kilometre. The walls still stand, along with the eight extant gates; or remnants thereof. We wandered passed the Citadel through the Souq Al-Hammidiya, down into Via Recta; Straight Street, known in Arabic as Shia Medhat Pasha through to Shia BabSharqi. The whole street has recently been upturned in order to lay new water pipes and sewage pipes. It is a mess. Nearly three feet of road is missing. Many of the shops have closed or are inaccessible. Had they gone down eight feet they would probably have began to uncover the city beneath the city. The remains of previous occupations.
... We meander through the backstreets of the Old City. Up towards the Ummayad Mosque. Buildings from the Ottoman period adorn either side of the alleys. Their balconies and windows extending onto, and over, the street, casting a unexpected umbra in the middle of the afternoon. We make our way around the mosque and sojourn in a small tea house. Everyone is smoking nargile and drinking chai or turkish coffee - a sweet, thick, viscous, liquid - the chatter of conversation drifts through the sweet smell of apple tobacco. Next to us a woman sits and sketches the scene. Marcus and I smoke a nargile together and take tea, black, with
mint and lots of sugar. Damascenes wander passed and we sit amicably and people-watch. Lazing the afternoon away. I suddenly check my watch and realise I have to go. I have a car booked for 3:30pm and I have to get back to the hotel and get ready. I hasten back along the Great Mosque through square, with pigeons flying in unison around the lancing minarets, and into the Souq Al-Hammidiya between the Roman arches into a sea of people, traders, shoppers, and street vendors. High above, bullet holes pepper the corrugated roof of the souq. Sunbeams stream through a myriad of holes, falling down on the moving crowds in a kaleidoscope of light...
mint and lots of sugar. Damascenes wander passed and we sit amicably and people-watch. Lazing the afternoon away. I suddenly check my watch and realise I have to go. I have a car booked for 3:30pm and I have to get back to the hotel and get ready. I hasten back along the Great Mosque through square, with pigeons flying in unison around the lancing minarets, and into the Souq Al-Hammidiya between the Roman arches into a sea of people, traders, shoppers, and street vendors. High above, bullet holes pepper the corrugated roof of the souq. Sunbeams stream through a myriad of holes, falling down on the moving crowds in a kaleidoscope of light...Merryl's flight was delayed for two hours. I sat waiting in the airport. It lies some 30km north-east of the city. Luckily the driver was booked through the hotel so he acknowledged the delay and waited. I was buried in John Peel's biography for much of the time and sipping Black Label whiskey in the airport bar also helped pass the time. The airport was very busy and and quite cool as airports go. I had had a little problem trying to confirm the flight was delayed at first, but once I had got confirmation. I was happy to chill-out. Merryl and I had met on the cusp of my exiting the UK. Literally. She decided to come and meet myself and Marcus for a couple of weeks - in Jordan originally, but she couldn't resist the opportunity to visit Syria also. Not that she was kicking her heels in the UK. She has recently just come back from tracking wildlife in the Masai region in Kenya. She is a Zoologist.
Her flight finally got in around 7pm. Given she had left around 6am that morning, she was pretty exhausted. Plus she was carrying a load of goodies for Marcus and myself. We got straight into the car and headed back to Damascus. As much as I wanted to hit the town. We decided on a quiet night in. Tomorrow we are going to explore Damascus together.
Her flight finally got in around 7pm. Given she had left around 6am that morning, she was pretty exhausted. Plus she was carrying a load of goodies for Marcus and myself. We got straight into the car and headed back to Damascus. As much as I wanted to hit the town. We decided on a quiet night in. Tomorrow we are going to explore Damascus together.
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