The good, the bad and make believe
A trip to Syria keeps Rebekah Logan on her toes, but all is not as it seems
Breathless, I stumble into a small shop to seek refuge from the crossfire outside. I need to replenish my ammunition supply; and from the selection of arms in his display case, I know this man can help me. I do not speak his language, and he does not speak mine, but when I pull out my gun and show him the empty chamber, his instinct tells him what to do. He nods knowingly, and then disappears behind the counter. After a moment or so he reemerges with a bag of about 100 bullets. "Bizzupt (exactly)," I say and he winks.
We are in Damascus, just passing through. Damascus is a stopover that could easily be skipped and no one would ever know what they missed. So I was glad that I did not heed the comment of the man at the Syrian Embassy when I purchased my visa: "But aren't you scared? George Bush says we're terrorists." But I don't plan on letting George Bush decide things for me.
Syria is said to be the cradle of civilisation, and Damascus holds the record as the longest continually inhabited city on the globe. Hands down the Old City is my favourite section. You enter it through Bab Sharqi, the Roman Gate of the Sun. The gates lead into the suq where the masses flow in and out of the surrounding streets. Getting separated from your friends is unavoidable, so we arranged that if we were lost we would meet up in front of the Azem Palace, an Ottoman edifice built about 1750 for the governor of Damascus.
From there it is just a short walk to the astonishingly eclectic Umayyad Mosque. Within these walls one finds the remains of the Roman Temple to Jupiter, a Roman mosaic in the courtyard, and a prayer hall dedicated to St John the Baptist. After this it's best simply to stroll and explore the Old City.
Some say that a visit to Damascus is not complete without stopping at one of its many hammams (bath houses). One of us tried it, and gave a mixed report.
It was while we were each following our own pursuits -- there were four of us, and Conrad and Grace had gone off to buy fancy rugs -- that Atle and I were drawn into the irresistible game everyone was playing and stocked up on plastic guns to shoot little kids. But only after they shot us first.
Outside the shop I waste no time in reloading my Magnum 9307 pistol and head back out into the battle zone. The man behind the counter wishes me luck (I think) as I depart. When I spot my friends herding down the narrow ally I jump out from the corner and open fire. One of the soldiers winces and I know I have a casualty. However, one in the midst of 20, and there were at least 20, is too much for four men to handle, so we run away from the gang and dart into the nearest tavern.
Parched and panting, we lay our guns on the bar and order beers. The bartender stares for a moment and then turns around to get our drinks.
I pick up my friend's AK-887 and cock it, but the trigger is sensitive and a bullet ricochets off the ceiling and onto the bar. Grace pulls out her weapon and shoots me in the leg, and then Atle pulls out his. The bartender turns around, sets down our drinks and puts his hands above his head. We all look at each other and burst out laughing. Conrad stands up, points his gun at us and shouts: "Enough, Kids!"
Clearly, this situation has spun out of control.
As I sip on my beer I think that maybe we are a little old to be touting around plastic guns. Initially, the guns are disconcerting; we are all taught that weapons of any kind are Bad Toys. In reality, there are probably thousands of more positive children's toys and games, but when you set it in the context of the true problems of the world this fades into insignificance. It is time to return to our hotel. We have to wake up early the next morning to catch the microbus to Bosra -- the Syrian Bosra, not to be confused with the famous Basra in Iraq -- where we will sleep in an ancient amphitheatre.
As morning dawns, we set out for the two-hour trip to Bosra. When we arrive I feel as though the minibus morphed into a time machine at some point in the journey; it is a completely different world. Bosra is a hushed town where ruins and houses exist side by side, and the local children make playgrounds of the architectural skeletons of ancient mosques and churches. The location, amidst the amber-flecked plains of Hauran, adds to the remote air of the settlement. It was the first city in Syria to become Muslim. Until the 17th century it was a significant stopover on pilgrimages to Mecca. Today, it is credited as home to the oldest minarets in the world of Islam.
We bring our bags to the mediaeval Roman amphitheatre-turned- citadel, where the attendant leads us through the dungeoneaque passageways to a vertical staircase. At the top he shows us to our cement walled quarters. En route, we bump into two 20-something Aussie world travellers who warn us of disastrous repercussions if we invade their castle. As it turns out, for the past two nights they have been the Citadel's only inhabitants and they therefore feel entitled to the right of rule. However, they make a concession for our group, and even tell us about the Citadel's Cinderella policy: doors lock at nine-o-clock sharp. If we are not back by then, we'll be locked out of the walls of the fortress. This is out of their hands.
It is still quite early, and we decide to explore as much as possible before turning into pumpkins at 9pm. First we probe the 13th- century Citadel as Conrad plays Lonely Planet tour guide and fills us in with a brief history. Although it was originally erected for use as a theatre, the Arabs invaded Bosra during the Crusades and barricaded the structure transforming it into a defence base.
Following the Citadel tour we amble about the town's ruins, alternating between wandering and stopping for tea. After a day of only drinking and walking, our rumbling stomachs force us to seek out a meal of sustenance and we discover a restaurant near the Citadel. The food is endless -- a variety of bottomless salads and bread, potato and vegetable dishes, baked chicken and rice, tea and dessert. Quite enough to sustain us for the long night ahead.
Darkness has set in at least an hour ago and we decide to head back so as not to get locked out of "our" Citadel. But as I am about to pay the bill, I feel a quick nip on the back of my knee and spot a boy of about eight holding a plastic gun and giggling. I reach round and realise that my own is peaking out of my knapsack. Succumbing to the temptation, I pull it out, aim it at his knee and cock it. When I pull the trigger, he scampers away like a wounded pup. Ah-ha! I turn around to boast of my marksmanship to my friends, but they are already standing behind me, weapons guns pour out from behind stonewalls and allies; no space is left unoccupied. With one shot I start a war. And it is only make-believe.
Practical information
Non-Arab travellers need a visa for Syria. These are good for 15 days and expire one month after the issue date. Syria has two international airports: one southeast of Damascus and another north east of Aleppo. There is a $5 departure tax upon leaving the airport.
In Damascus we stayed at the Al-Haramein Hotel on Basha St. Single room S Lire 200, double 325 and triple 425. For S Lire 100 you can sleep on the roof. Hot showers available. LE1= 8.5 Syrian Lire.
Buses to Bosra with the Jameel Bus Company depart from Baramke terminal every 2-2 1/2 hours. The journey takes 2 hours; price S Lire 50. Alternatively micro/minibuses run from Damascus to Der'a, from where micro/minibuses run to Bosra. The journey takes 1 1/2-2 hours; price: minibus S lire 34, microbus S Lire 65.
In Bosra-there is one expensive hotel, the Cham Palace, double room $100-$120. Reservations not usually needed.
Accommodation at the Citadel is S Lire 100 per person, plus entrance fee of S Lire 300 for non-students and 25 for students.
