DAMASCUS HERE WE COME!

It was an early arising in Amman to make certain we caught the Damascus bus. Fortunately the bus station was not far from our hotel, and soon we were bowling along a broad, double-carriageway highway linking Jordan and Syria.

Crossing into Syria was ‘interesting.’ First, there was the sheer familiarity of it all - it was just like entering the old USSR, with suspicious looking military characters at every turn, huge pictures of local heroes everywhere, and a sense of decay. Abandoned cars stood around, thick with dust - but under the dust you could see recent model Mercedes, Porsches, Ferraris. I never did find out what they were doing there. Then there was a two hour delay while the immigration authorities sorted out a Palestinian girl whose papers didn’t seem quite in order. Finally we were off and rolling towards Damascus. Lush green fields, all irrigated, and lorries laden with fresh produce heading for town.

Arriving in Damascus was a shock. Perhaps it was the bus station, a sort of used car lot in the south of the town. The street was lined with grimy, single storey buildings, many with a load of scrap iron and old tyres on their roofs, and a sense of deep decay everywhere. The taxi to our hotel was old and battered, and the traffic was horrendous. Particularly ‘impressive’ were the 150cc motor bikes of Indian or Chinese manufacture, which seemed to be the wheels of choice for most of the population. They were driven with absolute abandon. The drivers were often seen chatting via mobile phones as they swerved in and out of the traffic, hooting incessantly. One or more passengers seemed obligatory. Crash helmets were conspicuously absent.

We went for a walk after settling in to our hotel. I got lost - my map was 90 degrees out of kilter. Some kindly souls from the Department of Tourism put us straight, and we found our way to Damascus’ pride, the Souk or covered market. The holes in the roof were bullet holes - from the 1927 revolution against the French, we were proudly told!

There were tiny open shops with an amazing range of goods. Whole streets were devoted to gold and silver. Narrow alleyways led in every direction, and often opened out into courtyards or even mosques.
A typical shop sold herbs, spices, turtle shells, medicines, crocodiles, snakeskins, and sticky sweets. The women generally wore headscarves and all-covering robes (remember, it was hot when this picture was taken!) But the Syrians were quite relaxed about the Traveller’s flowing locks.


Down one little alley we came across a doorway where the guardian invited us in. Nervously we followed him, and found ourselves in the gracious courtyard of the ‘Azem Palace.
After the bustle of the Souk, it was a haven of peace and tranquillity. Cool archways held divans on which you could sprawl and listen to the tinkling of water in the fountains. The iwan, or formal reception area, was beautifully decorated, complete with its own fountain set into the marbled floor:
We wandered through the gardens and in and out of the buildings, until the guardian warned us of closing time. Sadly, we left the fountains and returned to the press of the Souk and Damascus' streets.