Sunday, May 5, Amman
The taxi I was sharing with three Jordanians abruptly stopped as we were passing through Amman's concrete suburbs. Without a word the driver disappeared into a nondescript shop and quickly returned with a still-warm flat bread, which he then passed around. It was delicious - and a good start for my trip north. I was heading to Syria to visit the Great Mosque in Damascus, the Crusader castle, Carc Des Chevaliers and the ancient desert city of Palmyra. I had been told it would be easy to get from Amman to Damascus: it's only six or seven hours away, depending on how long it took at the border.
I was traveling by service (shared taxi) and had purchased a ticket (5.5 JD) the night before from one of the offices that surround the Abdali Bus Station in central Amman. When I arrived in the morning, I discovered that we were one passenger short - and a service doesn't leave until it's full. Five is considered the optimal load for the aging Chevy Impala, and we only had four. Would I consider paying an extra 1.5 JD so we could leave immediately? Now, we are not talking about big money here, so I quickly agreed.
Amman behind us, the distance between settlements increased and soon Bedouin encampments were the only signs of life on the dry, rocky soil. The day was hot and bright with snow covered mountains in the hazy distance. My traveling companions and I introduced ourselves - I was an American visiting Jordan, Syria and Israel and they were headed to Damascus to catch a plane. "It's cheaper there," they said.
A couple of hours later, close to the border, we started to see lines of buses parked along the road. They were full of pilgrims, I was told, returning from the Hajj - the annual trip to Mecca devout Muslims make at least once in their life. The closer we got to the border, the more buses. My companions became agitated. There might be delays and they might miss their plane. When we finally reached the Jordanian border the buses were parked bumper to bumper along the road, hundreds of them.
The Jordanians lead me through the border formalities: in the first building we purchased an exit permit (4 JD), and in the second we turned in our passports and the permits. Then we waited for the exit stamp. The building was packed and it seemed to be mass confusion. My companions knew exactly who to talk to speed things up. A handshake, a few pleasant words and we were quickly on our way. I looked in wonder at these guys. "We have special passports," was all they said.
The next stop was the Syrian post some three miles away. Now the buses were parked two rows wide filling the road. At my companions insistence, the driver drove on the shoulder - right and sometimes left - around the waiting buses. In the field just off the road sat the pilgrims, waiting in whatever scant shade they could find. Honking furiously at anything that got in our way, we crawled past them.
At the Syrian post more handshakes and quiet conversations. I already had my visa (I had been warned that you cannot get one at the border) so again we went to the head of the line. Back in the car there was just one more hurdle: customs. Here the traffic was too dense to go around or through. But this too proved to be no problem. One of the Jordanians got out and disappeared into the crowd. Then, surprisingly, the inbound traffic stopped and we were waved through using the lane for vehicles leaving, not entering, Syria.
Once through we picked up the guy who had accomplished this magic. As he was getting in he smiled at me and asked, "Pretty good, eh?" What could I say? As it turned out they were Jordanian military on their way to a UN mission in Georgia, in the former Soviet Union.
From here the road was straight and wide with little traffic. Their work done, my companions fell asleep. I stayed awake to watch the scenery and in a little over an hour we were in Damascus.
After saying our good-byes, I set off to find my hotel. There weren't any taxis available so I decided to walk. I had a letter from the hotel that had the address written in both English and Arabic. This was lucky, as few Syrians speak English and even less read it. I showed this letter to merchants and passers-by - and block by block I made my way to the Oyamad Hotel. It's a large modern place centrally located ($80).
I dropped off my bags and went looking for a taxi. I wanted to visit Damascus' famous souq (market). Make sure you have your hotel, or someone, write place names in Arabic - English addresses are useless. When I finally found a taxi the driver, of course, didn't understand me. So he did the only reasonable thing, he pulled over and located someone who could translate. That accomplished, we were on our way.
Syrian taxis are incredibly cheap as long as they use their meters - a crosstown ride cost only 50 SP. If they don't, get out or you will surely be overcharged, as I was more than once.
The souq, located in the old walled city, is actually made up of many smaller souqs - narrow dusty lanes, sometimes covered, lined with small shops selling everything from carpets to tombstones. Over the next three days I walked the miles of small alleys and was politely accosted by many merchants. "Welcome, come have a look," they would say gesturing toward their shops.
When I tired, I would find a quiet café or corner to sit in. One of my favorite spots was the square in front of the Azem Palace, a popular tourist site. On my first visit there I was approached by four rambunctious Syrian youths. They saw me taking pictures and wanted theirs taken too. When they finished their visit to the Palace, I was still there, sitting and writing. They came over and three sat close by me and the fourth took our pictures. They, and the other Syrians sitting in the square, thought this turn-about was great fun.
Later, when I finally visited the Palace - a site I would highly recommend - I made a potentially serious blunder. The Palace is a series of rooms, decorated in the 18th century Arabic style, located around a flower filled courtyard. I was walking slowly behind a group of Syrian women - just following along - in one room, out the next. Suddenly, I noticed that the women ahead of me looked shocked. They started hissing and waving their fingers at me. They were shooing me out of the ladies room - oops!! When I saw them later I covered my eyes to show my embarrassment and they shyly smiled and looked away - no harm done.
My favorite spot in Damascus was the Great Mosque, at the end of the main souq. It's a huge enclosed area, almost as big as a football field. In the middle is a fountain where the faithful wash before prayers. Along three sides are colonnaded walkways and on the fourth an enclosed rug-covered prayer hall. It's an island of beauty and tranquillity in the midst of the chaos in the souq.
Walking the streets of Damascus I noticed that Syrian men favor dark clothes, mostly long sleeves, even in the intense heat. The women were more attractive than I expected. They dressed in everything from Paris fashion to shedoras - that black shapeless garment that sometimes even covers their eyes. Cars seem to operate with a kind of sonar - honking incessantly to tell others where they are, it seems. To cross the street, even with the light, was to put your life at risk. Damascus drivers are very aggressive.
Food was never a problem. I usually had breakfast and often dinner at the hotel - not very exciting, but convenient. There were also many good restaurants serving local dishes, mostly some variation on meat and rice. I shied away from street food, figuring if the cars did not kill me the food certainly would. Maybe that's unfair, but better safe than sorry.
Syria has a two-tiered pricing system for hotels: one price is in Syrian pounds for residents and a second, higher one, for tourists in U.S. dollars. Also, the entrance prices for museums and tourist sites is 200 SP, 10 times what residents pay. All designed to get more hard currency, I guess.
Finally I tired of the heat, dust, and noise and decided to move on - so I went looking for a bus. Intercity travel presents its own set of problems. Even small towns have more than one bus station and then there are the different kinds of buses: large, new A/C ones; large, old windy ones; and small, hot crowded ones. Company name and schedules are never written in English but by being persistent I always found someone who would kindly direct me to the correct one.
Tuesday, May 7, Damascus
The bus - a large, new A/C variety - climbed north out of Damascus with Arabic music wailing from the speakers over my head. I was off to the industrial town of Homs in central Syria to visit Crac Des Chevaliers - arguably the most beautiful Crusader castle in the world. It's about a two-hour ride on a wide, four lane highway through the shrubby desert. When I arrived, I checked into the Al-Mimas, a budget hotel ($30) about 10 minutes from the center. I then walked back into town to make arrangements for my visit to Crac the next day and for a quick look around. That accomplished, I called it a day.
In the morning, Mamdouh, who I had met at the tourist office the night before, was waiting for me. He had agreed to take me to Crac for $30. We drove slowly westward out of Homs. Mamdouh, also a Russian translator, was a very cautious driver. He, like all Syrians, honked at other vehicles, but he also honked at pedestrians, shepherds with theirs flocks, at every curve, and even at bumps in the road. We left the main road and started to climb past fields yellow with wild flowers. The day was hot and clear. Crac, which sets prominently on a hill, was immediately visible.
When we arrived Mamdouh parked and we walked up the winding inner passage. For the next two hours we walked through cavernous rooms made of limestone and by buildings decorated with pointed Gothic arches. At the top, with a grand view of the surrounding lush green country side, swallows swooped and cried. To the west we could even see the Mediterranean Sea, about 15 miles away. It was one of the loveliest and most inspiring sites I have ever seen - it alone was worth the trip to Syria.
Also at the top was a café where Mamdouh knew the owner. We were invited to sit and were offered drinks and polite conversation - Syrians place great importance on hospitality. When we returned to the parking lot, Mamdouh wanted to stop at the café there too, so I went for a walk around Crac. When I returned I was quickly offered a beer. Our host - another friend of Mamdouh's - told me a brief history of Crac and also said his parents were actually born in the castle before the French started restoring it in the 1930's.
Back in the car, Mamdouh suggested we visit the nearby Greek Orthodox Monastery of St. George. We arrived in the middle of the investment of a new Priest and we were immediately invited to view the ceremony. While a choir of six men chanted, the congregation of perhaps 50 welcomed their new priest. After a quick tour we were ushered into a sitting room and introduced with great ceremony. We were then offered small pieces of bread and tiny cups of bitter coffee. There were only three cups for the eight of us so we drank quickly and passed them along.
We then headed back to Homs where Mamdouh located the bus to Aleppo (100 SP), my next stop. I usually travel independently and do not bother with guides, however, going to Crac with Mamdouh was one of the best decisions I ever made. Not only did he answer my every question, he introduced me to Syrian hospitality - an experience that would define my stay there. He also taught me the Arabic word for thank you - shukran - something I would say often.
In the bus the Syrian next to me was as helpful as his halting English allowed. He explained that this northern region we were passing through was the bread basket of Syria and then made sure I didn't wander too far when the bus stopped for a break. "Only five minutes'" he cautioned. I noticed that the women passengers didn't leave the bus at the stop. This is a very conservative country and women live their lives outside the public arena. Also, I never saw them traveling alone.
Two hours later we were in the northern city on Aleppo, Syria's second largest. I had come here to visit the famous souq - I had read that it was "atmospheric." It is, in fact, a seemingly endless collection of smoky, covered lanes laid out in a grid. They are filled with hundreds of small shops selling spices, shoes, books and light bulbs - anything and everything. As I wandered the narrow cobble stone alleys there were frequent power outages. The merchants, undaunted, continued to do business by lantern or candle light - "atmospheric", I guess.
I also visited the citadel that dominates the area east of the souq. I walked up the dark steep entrance behind a porter. The clip-clop of his donkey's hooves reminded me of how it must have been to approach this formidable castle before cars. From its 12th Century walls there are splendid views of Aleppo.
Later I had a beer at the Baron Hotel, famous for its past guest, T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia). It's old, run down and also, I guess, "atmospheric." The most delightful place in Aleppo is the giant, leafy park in the northeast part of the city. There the city's residents take the evening air. It's a wonderful place to sit and watch Syrians: men walking arm-in-arm, families eating ice cream and children playing impromptu games of soccer. Worn out from walking, I headed back to my hotel, the Amir Palace ($90) - a high-rise place located close to the souq.
Thursday, May 9, Aleppo
After walking more of the souq, I caught a bus back to Homs. I was on my way to the oasis city of Palmyra to visit its ancient ruins. Sitting next to me on the bus was a Syrian solider from the Agriculture ministry. He patiently answered my questions about the crop growing along the road: strawberries, cucumbers, melons and olives. He also told me that the videos that are a standard feature of all Syrian bus trips were mostly from Egypt and India. Their transparent melodramatic plots, he did not need to explain.
Near the end of our trip he showed me his key ring - it was a green stone on a chain. "Nice," I said politely. He then took his keys off and gave it to me. "To remember me by," he said. I was touched by his sincere desire to give me - a total stranger and an American to boot - a gift. I, in turn, gave him the only thing I had that seemed truly unique: my business card. He was delighted and carefully put it in his wallet.
I was always greeted warmly by Syrians. When they found out I was an American I always got an extra, "Welcome." If I complemented them or their country, they would put their hand to their heart and slightly bow their head in thanks. I walked the streets and alleys by day and by night and always felt safe. In the U.S. media, Syria is always associated with terrorism and the Middle East with violence. On the ground I found nothing but hospitality and generosity.
From Homs I caught a small crowded bus out to Palmyra (45 SP). Babies cried in the heat and when we did stop for a rest, the wind-blown sand drove me quickly back on. I was now deep in the eastern Syrian desert.
In Palmyra I took a room at the Orient Hotel ($20) in the center of town. It didn't have A/C, just a fan and opening the window offered no relief from the heat - more dust just blew in. Later, while waiting for the evening opening of the bus ticket office, (I sure didn't want to get stuck in this drab town) I met a French couple. Over beer they told me that back home they were doing meteorological research. Maybe they had come to Syria to get away from clouds. Since I had arrived I hadn't seen any - but that was going to change.
After they left I went looking for another beer and found a totally empty restaurant out near the ruins. I was planning to sit, drink, and bring my journal up-to-date. Instead the owner came over to keep me company. Next his six year old son - one of his eight children - came too. For fun I had his son write his name, Ali, first in English and then in Arabic in my book. To return the favor I gave him the pen. He seemed pleased.
It's a good idea to carry something to give in return for the hospitality you will receive. Kids in particular seem to like ball-point pens - the click-click kind. They would approach me in the smaller towns holding up their fist. "Pen, pen?" they would ask, moving their thumb up and down. Hand out a few and you'll be a hero.
Next day I spent the morning walking the ruins. Palmyra had been a great trading city in the 3rd Century and you can still see the miles of column-lined streets and the many crumbling temples. The day was awful: the wind was blowing so much sand that at times it clouded the air. It blew in my eyes, ears and even in my pockets. Finally, worn out by the wind, I headed back to a quiet garden café by the bus station. There I ran into the French couple again and we passed the afternoon talking about our travels.
As we boarded the afternoon bus to Damascus (95 SP) it started to rain. It fell lightly at first, then harder and finally it pounded madly on the windows. In the desert the water formed into streams and then into sheets. In some places it covered and completely hid the road. The passengers, excited by the rain, craned their necks trying to see how the driver could possibly stay on the road. As the rain drummed on the bus we made our way slowly up and out of the desert. The rain stopped, the land dried, and after three hours we arrived in Damascus. It was getting late so I bought some supplies for the next days trip back to Amman and checked into the Oyamad Hotel again.
Saturday, May 11, Damascus
I wanted to get to Jerusalem today. On the bus I found myself sitting behind the French couple and next to three Australians - more westerners than I had been with at one time since I arrived in Syria. I never did meet any other Americans. One of the Aussies had a small tape player and, as we rolled toward Jordan, she played Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" for us - a nice touch.
At the Syrian border things went quickly - the lines of buses were gone. First you turn in your passport and the little yellow immigration card that you are told to guard with your life - leaving without it is difficult. The bus driver hovered around us making sure we got through each step. After receiving the exit stamp we drove on to the Jordanian post where I purchased another visa. It would have been smarter to buy a multiple entry visa but they are only available from the embassy. The border now behind us, we whizzed along toward Amman which we reached a little after noon. Here we all headed our separate ways. I walked over to the Abdali bus station and found a service heading to the Israeli border.
Things were happening quickly now - in less than half an hour I was at the Jordanian border again. There they waved the exit tax. I had, after all, just entered a few hours before. Then I got on a special bus (1.5 JD) that just travels from Jordan to Israel across the Allenby bridge - it's only about 50 feet long. On the other side I quickly cleared Israeli immigration and customs and then got in a sherut (Israeli shared taxi, 6.5 JD) bound for Jerusalem. At 2:00, after only seven hours of travel, I was dropped off outside the old city by the Damascus gate - and I still had time for some sightseeing.
Ann Arbor, Michigan
June 1996
Part two: Israel and Jordan
Some of the details
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