Damascus

Damascus is a suprisingly small city- or at least it feels that way. The traffic is as maddening as you’d expect; but not quite as crazy as you’d might fear. The old city is as exotic as you’d hope, but not as impossible as you’d might be lead to believe.

This is not Bankok. This is not Jakarta. Thank god.

No dogs, was one of the first things that hit me. Going to bed after arriving, at four in the morning, I thought- fall asleep fast – the dogs will start the morning concerto, and then the mosque, and then the traffic.
But there are no dogs. It makes sense, of course, when you think of it, but four in the morning.. I expected a Bankok alarmclock.
And the traffic – at least from my hotel – was not anything that would stop me from falling asleep or wake me. Neither was the mosques (lower volume than Malaysia?!). A blessing, surely, but I woke each morning, thinking I had lost precious hours of adventure. Still. Fond of sleep. And holidays should be that magic combination of having time for sleep, adventure and food (The thought of the chicken at Krak des Chevaliers still makes me hungry).
Cats, though. Loads. They sound like tortured children, but you get used to it.

I walked through the old city a hundred times, and my left foot aquired blisters in three levels – one generating another. I walked from my hotel, just east of the university, past the Big Ballpointpen, the fast food joint, the dead railwaystation, the absolutely not dead policestation (Saladins statue on the left, down that way), under the road, into the souq and the city walls.. through masses of garish clothes, beautiful fabrics, the odd guy sprinkling water (please someone, explain this shamanic looking ritual of brass, glass and water!) awful, hilarious pink furry underwear, shiny brass, glitter and gold, to the Umayyad mosque.
Turn right, through spices, more gold, nuts, sweets, herbs. Past the palace. Turn left, and for the next k, balance on bits of planks, over the crater that is the street… street renewal at it best. Dust, dust everywhere. Past the mysterious place with pasta (?) and strange little earthenware pots – I still have no idea whats in them – past more brass, more copper, more carpets, and finally the fruit-juice-guy (wave, if he’s there), try to avoid the pistachio-guy.. he’s a little more pushy than I like.. still… the pistachios are good.
Past more carpets, but this is shops, not stalls, so I can look at things with a little more ease. Plastic toys, monopoly in arabic. Walking canes.

Pop in to the tiny, tiny shop with the unbelievably polite man and buy water. I figure this is the christian part of the city, as the number of madonnas outnumber ditto in the west of Ireland. There’s a few other clues too – here, the only people covering their hair is a handful of (male) clergy in those funny pillboxes. Men covered, women less so. Through a large pile of red, powdered clay, around some diggers and the sign «Sorry, working for you». Keep zig-zagging over holes and piles of gravel, grit and dust. Past the only fishmonger I’ve seen (..thought a lot about that. Because christians eat fish on fridays!?), Past the «oh,-my-god»-kid, the poor fellow stuck with my SL1000. Right at the butcher with the unidentified carcass with unmentionable bits hanging off it in the glass box (at least, this is not Indonesias marked, with 250 kilos of flies for sale). Straight ahead, pass the guys digging up the street. left at the madonna with the pink backlight. Straight at number 13 and S & J’s door. Danes in Damascus.
It’s not far, but it’s packed with impressions. I need a break.

The president, Bashar al-Assad, is everywhere. Poor chap; the seemingly unwilling heir to the nations pedestal, he looks at you from every wall. He looks pensive, undecided (I’m sure he’s not. At least not to his own loyal subjects).

People have lived here since time began – I venture this statement, as 6-5000 B.C seems pretty prehistoric to me. This city has so many layers, that digging anywhere is difficult. I have no idea what they want to accomplish, digging up the entire lenght of Madhat Basha/Ali Al Jammal/Al Mustaqueem, but they say the city is on top of another city, on top of another city etc etc., so either something standing might collapse, or something underneath something standing might collapse etc., but the word around town is they’re fixing it all up – Damacus apparently chosen as a cultural capital or some such thing, and they’re precariously balancing to repair the bulletholes (courtesy of the french, I believe) in the roof of the souq.
Oh, yes, and then they cut the waterpipe. Oops.

Women. From the flimsiest, tightest clothes to the full burqa, gloves, boots, and sunglasses. From head scarves more as a loosly draped fashion accessory (I’m sure some are more expensive that my entire wardrobe), to the moving black tent, clutching the arm of a husband, wobbling along on hidden high heels on impossible cobblestones.

The only bare shoulders I ever saw, though, was a danish woman – (eavesdropping in a cafe), who apparently have been to Syria several times. This seems odd to me. Does she not notice she’s the only one in the city with bare shoulders? Is she not giving a shit? Or is it some daft statement? I spotted her (and her husband) as danes a mile off, so maybe that’s all that there’s to it. Make sure you come home with some proof of sunshine. And maybe it’s easier with a husband in front…?

One guy followed me for about 10 minutes, but apart from that, it was remarkable hassle-free. I was just about to pop into my neighbours shop and tell the friendly proprietor “this man is following me, please tell him to stop”, but the stalker vanished as soon as he saw me talking to the old guy. Weird. A few comments on the street, but I don’t understand Arabic, and their english vocabulary seems lacking in the “lewd street-talk” department – so, that’s fine with me. Ignorance sometimes is bliss.

Shop-keepers, the hotel staff and others I actually approached was unfailingly polite and helpful. And there is none of the south-east-asian pushiness in the souq. I said I was just looking, and that seemed fine – some snickering from the shopkeepers mates across the street, but that was all. No hassle.

Taxidrivers do NOT generally fall into the “extraordinary helpful”- category- au contraire. Some harrowing, nasty guys there- one in partics. He took upon himself to scare the shit out of three western women, and as he did not get any reaction from us whatsoever, his driving got crazier and crazier. We sat as three sfinxes, unaffected in the back seat, and I kept an eye on what roundabout directions he was taking. He veered madly, left-right, right-left in fast jerks, and we in the backseat silently braced against each other and the doors, not raising an eyebrow. He narrowly missed a cyclist, that had fallen over in one of those there-must-be-a-system,-surely?!-roundabouts.
Finally, he got so worked up (why?!), that he hit the prayerbeads-rosary-thing (?!) that hung from the mirror, slapping his hand on the dash. We have no real good idea why he was so pissed off, and why he got more and more furious..except maybe that a danish girl told him to turn on the meter… god knows.

Having said that, we also found Mohammad, the nicest driver in Damascus. In an tiny, seemingly ancient Iraqi (?) car with a french engine, he spluttered, wheezed and rattled around the city. He drove me to the airport, and the thing can hardly have done more than 60 k/h at most. I liked his car a lot, completely out of propotions, a “baby car” – Muhammad called it a baby Hummer… yes, if Hummers hatch, maybe!

Putting on special clothes room – The Umayyad mosque.
I entered, donning the obligatory coat (not-quite burqa), covered up in proper fashion. Can someone explain to me why we – western women – look like gnomes and hobbits in these things, while muslim women in identical garb look like elegant muslim women?
I feel like Frodo in Rivendell; they look like flowing, fluttering women. Elves to my hobbitness. Hmm.

A stunning, beautiful and peaceful place, the Umayyad mosque. I cooled my sore feet on cool marble, and watched the kids run around. People hang around and chat, kids skate over the polished stone floors, japanese tourist fire off cameras at everything, and I stand gaping, neck twisted, looking at the ceiling.

It is built on the foundation of a church, that was buildt on the foundations of a temple of Jupiter, which was build on the foundations of a temple of Zeus, which was … you get the idea. The sense of ages and timelessness is touchable.
I nodded to the head of John the Baptist/Prophet Yahia, (metaphorically), and ditto to his father’s head, Zechariah, or Hussein, the son of Imam Ali, depending on your point of view. (..hope someone will explain to me the ..um..square hollow in the wall everybody photographed and some stuck their heads in…. :-S )
The minaret of Jesus, where he will turn up at the end of everything..not quite soaring, but above it all. Beautiful old stones.

Sayyida Ruqayya (bint al Hussein) Mosque. A diffrent thing indeed. Lavishly, tackily decorated with millions of little mirrors, paintings and a lovely small and intimate courtyard. Extreme contrast to the streets outside. This mosque is a shrine to the daughter of Hussein, and is one of the most important Shi’ite ziyara (visitation) in Syria. It’s build with support from Iran, and seems to be a diffrent, lavish every-surface-decorated style. A lot of pilgrims come here, and even if some women cried and prayed intensely, others chatted, read and photographed each other, while a handful of kids dashed around. A very diffrent place from the Umayyad indeed.

Azem palace… a gorgeous place, in the middle of the old city.. beautiful buildings, delishious courtyard, and royal decorations and artwork. I wish it was not a museum – then I’d buy some baggy trousers and move in… I sat people-watching, and it was great to watch Syrians on a day out with the kids. In fact, I spotted the mother of Brian, from the Life of Brian….Monty Pythons’ hilarious nonsense. She exist. Amazing. Go there, but go in the morning, and hope for water in the fountains…

Tellingly. We went to Damascus hippest and biggest (only?) shopping center, miles away. A little shinier, but a cousin of the one in my home town. The lighting a little more fluorescent-greenish, it took me about the same time as usual to get restless and feel a need to get out of there.
It’s where rich people and foreigners shop. You can get pretty much anything, and amazing amounts of unbelieveably boring things in tins. They have a thing or two to learn about lighting and presetation, but I’m sure it’s posh as hell. And twice as boring. Worth it only to spot the cool, wealthy and highly strung, in shiny, pristine cars (how is that possible? A new one each week?).

It was amazing days in Damascus – I wish I had had more time for drawing and peoplewatching.. another couple of weeks would do. I’d go there again any time. When I grow up…