Looking Back

So, I've reached the end of the line, the journey's terminus. The boats are docked, the planes are grounded, all ships tied to the quay. It seems more than a little strange that after more than 15 months of travel, the end has finally arrived. From the arid deserts of the African Interior to the exposed peaks of the highest mountains in the world; from a peaceful Scottish riverbank to the buzz and excitement of a neon Manhattan skyline; from the snow of the Middle East to the heat of Eastern Europe; the contrasts have been startling, as well as amazing.

It has been a real mixture of people and places, sights, sounds and smells. There has been the entire spectrum of emotions and thoughts. Travelling can be hard sometimes. It may be churlish to suggest that backpacking is not like a holiday brochure, that some days are very hard and some experiences very difficult to accept. But that is the truth. You are well and truly taken out of your comfort zone. No day on the road is ever the same. Amidst a complete lack of routine, your mind does somersaults as you take in all that surrounds you. There are alien cultures to negotiate,flies, stifling heat and other weather extremes. There is poverty, dirt and decay. People get sick, and they die. It is as straightforward as that.

There are people who have to labour through these adversities every day of their lives, and such realities are not simply a passing observation to them. It's these people and the thoughts they convey that I take away with me in my mind far more than anything else. The mindset is to take what is given to them and make the most of it everyday. To smile and be positive, and be grateful for being alive, no matter how hard that life is.

It is always the easier question to ask: "What was the best thing you saw?" It's completely understandable, and a question I have asked more than once myself. Nowadays, hopefully being a little wiser, and certainly a little older, I think a more pertinent (if slightly harder question) retrospectively and introspectively is: "What did you take from your time away?" So, I take away the contentment of those I have encountered. Contentment is the word that this trip has gifted me. It is not simple people who revel in the small delights of life, but rather people who understand that the delights of life should be simple- happy never to be hungry, thirsty or sick. I am fortunate to have met amazing people who have taught me this lesson.

I finish by thanking all the people I met along the way- all my fellow travellers, and mostly the local people. Every person I met, to some degree, shaped my time away and it would not have been the same without you all. To the tiny few of them now reading this, I wish you a happiness and a contentment in your future life adventures. Make the most of the time afforded to you, and lose yourself in the marvel and wonderment of life's great experiences, both big and small.

JRX

The earth is warm next to my ear, Insect noise is all that I hear, A magic trick makes the world disappear, The skies are dark, they're dark but they're clear.

A distant motorcade and suddenly there's joy, The snow and ticker tape blurs all my senses numb, It's like the finish line where everything just ends, The crack of radios seems close enough to touch.

Cold water cleaning my wounds, A sad parade with a single balloon, I'm done with this, I'm counting to ten, Bluest seas run into them

I feel like I am watching everything from space, And in a minute I'll hear my name and I'll wake, I think the finish line's a good place we could start, Take a deep breath, take in all that you could want...

GL

Lingering on the Edge

The last day, once more. Last night was tremendous. It was a night of no room mates, no snoring, no call prayer, just sleep and peace. I feel great for it today. A lot of this trip has been combating the cold- not bitter cold by any means, simply a cold that made things, at times, simply uncomfortable. It seems uncharacteristic of this trip to finish in warmth. I'm not complaining.

I enjoy a really relaxing breakfast with the owners (I'm the only guest), before a wander along the old Byzantium streets towards the shores of the Mediterranean for one last time. I pass the early morning sun worshippers all sitting in the light, enjoying a breakfast on the outer tables of hotels or tavernas, or strolling along the old town ramparts. I take a seat near one of the old cannons, looking down on to the azure waters below me- it's quite a drop. A singular fishing boat navigates its way slowly along the shore heading towards the harbour I visited yesterday. I enjoy a moment in the sun. Its a chance to reflect in the present on the many memories I will take with me from this journey- the people, the towns, the steps back in time, the laughter and the silence.

My farewell to the owners is brief, as I sling on my backpack for one last time, and make my way out the door. I follow the tramlines, once more, to the Airport bus station on the main shopping street. A friendly driver helps me heave it in the back. I take a seat, and breath a sigh. Looking at the steadying stream of tourists, sometimes it's easy to spot the difference between the new arrivals and the one's who have been here a while. Observing some of the newbies, I cast my mind back to the start of my trip several weeks ago, and remember my expectations, thoughts and plans. There is always an ambivalence to these moments- part of me feels like it was an age ago and another part feels like I'm only really just beginning, just as it actually all concludes. I rest my head against the window. The suns shines in on what looks like will be a glorious spring day. I take in my last views of the city as we exit and join the highway for what transpires to be a short journey.

When we pull up at the Airport, I enter a very airy, modern building. It seems to encapsulate all that is new and modern about this country. The campaigns and discussions about Turkey's possible entry into the European Union as Europe's first predominantly Muslim state will continue to wage. For me now, I'm left with the thought that Turkey manages to pull off this almost contradictory balance of reaching for a more secular future, whilst holding on to the spiritual beliefs of the past. Visiting this country has reminded me of trips from days gone past. Everytime I enter the Islamic world, I almost immediately get the soft scent of apple shesha pipes hanging in the air. It's happened before. It happened this time. Inshallah, or God willing, it happen again. Smelling that sweet, reminiscent fragrance makes me feel safe and content. It brings about a feeling of being somewhere exotic. It also creates a feeling of being completely alive.

Ski and Surf

I'm awakened after a night of intermittent sleep by a security guard who seems to be trying to smarten the place up a bit by getting me to sit up in my chair. I was sort of expecting this to happen, but hoped it would be slightly later than 6am.


By a miracle, I happen to sleep a while longer sitting up, before making my way into Antalya on a exceptionally crowded local bus. I show the bus driver the address I'm trying to locate, but he's too content shouting at everyone to keep moving down the bus. I ask for assistance from the man sitting next to me. He asks the lady behind. Despite the address being central ( and in Turkish), everybody looks as confused as I do. The lady behind disembarks and tells me, in very stilted English to follow her. We walk to her beachfront law firm office and find the pension phone number online. A quick thank-you and a slow seaside tram ride later, I find myself at the gates of the old Byzantium part of the city. From there, I wander around the alleyways, sifting my way through a host of shops, and hotels. Success! I enter the Oasis pension and am greeted by the friendly owners and their big slavering dog. It's a lovely clean, fresh, quiet place that will only serve as my home for tonight.


I gratefully, and finally, dump off my bag and head out to explore what is a lively, modern looking city. I'm afforded a fine view from the old town peninsula right across the bay to one part of the modern, and much more high rise newer part of Antalya. It really is quite spectacular. There's a clear view of the rows of hotels and tourist hubs that span along the pebble beach. They only travel so far and nature reclaims some authority on the opposite, and eyecatching headland of the other side of the cove. Behind all of this lies a range of amazing sharp rising mountains, most of their peaks covered in dazzling white. They offer a stark contrast to the brilliant aquatic blue of the ocean. I'm later told that there are all year round ski resorts in the high ground, so if the mood takes you, you can ski in the summer days and relax on the beach in the summer evenings. Still gazing at the view, I make my way down towards the old marina, which serves as a refuge for tourist pleasure boats, and working fishing vessels alike. I watch the fisherman fixing and adjusting their nets, before walking over to dark wooden, varnished tourist cruise ships. These open deck vessels are all trying to take advantage of early season tourism, a tout or two standing nearby on the shore, explaining why their boat is better than everyone else's.

I enjoy watching some fishermen cast their big white floats out at the entrance to the harbour, all hoping to catch their tea for the day. I make my way back along the quay, where one of the pleasure boats offers me a deal not to be missed. I hope on board and end up chatting to a couple of ladies across from the Midlands on a golfing holiday at a nearby resort. They're here to swipe their sticks as often as possible, but today is a rest day, and a chance to take in the sights. One of the ladies, a retired teacher from New Zealand says she would love to do the whole backpacking thing, but lacks the confidence to give it a try. "Do what I do, and rely on the good spirit of local people to help you out when you most need it. It will always get you through", is the best thing I can offer her.

We make our way tightly along the rocky coast towards the new part of town, observing small waterfalls cascading into the clear seas. We see fisherman, who have somehow scrambled down to the waterline from the cliff tops above. We turn around and head back to the harbour, thus completing a short, yet enjoyable excursion. Feet safely back on Terra Firma, I follow the tramlines along the city's main seafront and take in the westernised shopping boutiques and arcades. Here you can visit official Levis, Quiksilver, Adidas, Abercrombie & Fitch and Nike stores. I walk the length of the seafront, ending up on the main shingle beach. With the sun still out and the weather warm, I can't resist dipping my foot in the sea( has to be done as often as possible, surely?) Today is another day where I have observed a destination during a very quiet period of the year. So many places on this journey will appear almost like a different place in the months to follow. For now, I see a few couples embodying the notions of love's young dream and a gang of school boys communicating in the universal language of schoolboys- kicking each other up the backside as hard and as often as possible.


I make my stroll back towards the old town. The day has now clouded over. The light is changing and the sky has become very dramatic looking. I can still make out the vapour trails of jets making their way back to a cold Europe. It reminds me that my flight home tomorrow is fast approaching. So, opportunities to take in the sunshine of today are fast disappearing. I suddenly realise I am the only person I have seen today in shorts. Not even the Germans had their's on.

Showered and changed back at Oasis, I take an evening stroll through the multitude of lanes and closes in the old town. Traffic is certainly limited here, and the quietness of the air is seldom punctuated, usually by the nearby mosque's call to prayer. I attempt to find a bar with enough of an atmosphere for a final drink and maybe even some music, but on a chilly February evening everywhere is quiet, and I make a premature return to the pension. I sit in and discuss online gambling with the owner, as he gambles online. He loves football. He loves gambling. It's been a very long and tiring day, but also a most enjoyable one.

The Long and Winding Road

An old new country today. I am returning back to Turkey, for the final chapter in my journey. I'm content with what I've seen in Aleppo, so I set my alarm early and make my way to the new, nearby international bus station. It's 4.45am when I wander through its gates in the darkness. Ticket in hand, I rumble up the stairs and find my seat on a very empty looking bus. I drift off on my Thermarest 3000 travel pillow...

The attendant wakes me all too quickly in order to complete border formalities at both sides. Syria's one of these countries where, even at land crossings, you have to pay to leave. It's all a bit daft, akin to going to a disco for a boogie and a drink, and paying the bouncer on the way out. Our final check in the proceedings is the Turkish baggage search. "You better not have any tea! It's like having heroin!!", declares one fellow passengers as our bags are searched. This is principally because (like most things) Syrian Tea is so much cheaper and the Turks don't like to see it enter the country. Thankfully, I don't. Don't have much of anything really.

Changing buses in Antakya, what turns out to be a marathon bus journey gets under way. It isn't helped by the frequent roadside stops for passengers or food breaks in the middle of nowhere. The journey starts off expediently enough driving through a city which boasts impressively wide avenues and open parks. The architecture here is decidedly different to that of Syria. It's more modern, a lot less concrete in style, and far more colourful, with contrasts of pastel and primary colours.

The journey continues and I sleep, converse and read. My neighbour is a Syrian called Salah, who speaks fluent English, having lived in London for 18 months. He's a cake maker by trade and specialises in weddings and family occasions. He proudly shows me his best creations on his Sony Vaio. I also get to see images of his father's visit to London and their taking in of the London Eye in the rain. By now, our journey's landscape has changed and the roads have become more windy, pinned in by imposing rock faces. Although we are closely following the Southern Mediterranean coast of the country, we barely get to see it as our path takes us to higher more rural settings. We sometimes drop down to sea level and, for stretches, we pass orange and lemon groves and Mediterranean styled houses once more, all located in around conspicuous, sandy coves. It all feels a world away from the behemoths of Bodrum and Antalya. Eventually, the night arrives and we lose sight of everything. The bus gently rocks us about as we wind and climb, wind and descend.

I use this time to tentatively discuss Syria's issues with Sallah. I ask him what the big difference is between Turkey and Syria. "Government", he declares succinctly. " Our President studied in the UK and took home the language, but, somewhere along the way, he left the freedom." I have often been reticent to discuss such topics, for fear of putting people in awkward positions and upsetting the proverbial "Orange cart". The worst that would result for me in such a situation would probably be having to leave the country. But, what for the Syrian?? I don't intend to paint an unfair picture of Syria or perpetuate an imaginary climate of fear. However, people can't express themselves or make choices like in your average western nation, and there is a collective unhappiness about it.

I've often wondered what people in Syria think about foreign travellers like me who just breeze into a country and say how wonderful everything is, simply to drift out again after a few days or weeks like the tide. I guess we should all be careful even when we are paying what we consider to be compliments. I'm sure locals must look at us westerners and see people who take concepts of democratic freedom, and economic choice almost completely for granted. If they though less of us for it, I can't say I've noticed. Salah wants a very different future for his country, after having tasted the idylls of another part of the world. For now, he must focus his efforts on his adopted homeland of the UK and the court battle he is currently involved in attempting to extend his work visa and remain in London.

It's been a long journey today, and, by the time we pull into our terminus, it's 1.30am- 16 hours since we left Aleppo. Just like the very first night of my journey back in Greece, I am resigned to not having a clue where I am (other than the bus station) or more importantly, where I am going. I decide to bed down on the most comfortable looking metal bench in the quietest part of yet another large, modern looking bus station. I'll consider my options tomorrow in the cold light of day.

The Seven Thrillers of Wisdom

The hostel is eerily quiet this morning. Stepping outside it, the surrounding streets are eerily quiet too. Then I remember- Saturday morning. Very little happens on Saturday morning. Wandering the fine, large gardens of the city centre, I fend off all the shoe shine boys and take in all the relaxed people moving around at weekend pace. Some take photos, some sit and smoke on the benches, others walk around with a takeaway breakfast. It's a lovely sunny morning after the rain of the previous night.

I'm not in the correct frame of mind for the battling in the Souk today, even if things will start slowly and not ever get up to its normal frenetic pace. I walk on to the newer part of the city to experience what modern day Aleppo has to offer. There, I receive considerable help in posting some long overdue postcards. One man cannot direct me to a post office, so he takes me to a Syrian Airlines office which might sell stamps. It doesn't, so the airlines staff write me a small note detailing an address in Arabic. An old man with a stoop and a walking stick overhears my plight as he hobbles past and he offers to take me their personally. I figure the destination must be near. I figure wrong. We battle our way through busying streets and ruthless traffic, never mentioning a word to one another. We arrive at the post office. The old man ambles off into the distance with my thanks, his part having been played. This post office would be the post office which doesn't sell stamps. Fortunately, an employee leads me to a nearby branch which does. I enjoy a quick chat with a blind postcard seller, write my cards, stick on the stamps, and then walk back to post them at the branch I was just at! Job complete. It turned into a bit of a saga in the end, but a great way to meet new people and experience local help. I could have sworn I heard some "Lord of the Rings" music at one point. The assistance I received today is just how many people are here. If they can understand you, the will surely help you as best they can.

During the post card episode, I received a tip off for the next thing on my list: Live EPL soccer. Following my failure to locate it last time I was here, I had little faith in being successful. Of course, I had been looking in the wrong place previously. Every self respecting fan now knows where to find such things: The Cinema! Cinema street offers a few options. I dodge the dodgy looking films and follow a small stream of youths making their way to one of the smaller screens. Yes! They have football scarves and tops on. I have cracked it. I speedily pay my cover charge to the man loitering outside and we all cram in to a small, dingy looking place. The strong, acrid smell of cigarette smoke pervades everything. The air is thick with it, but at least it masks the almost overpowering smell coming from the attached toilets. Nobody ever said international soccer chasing was ever going to be glamorous, or enjoyable, come to think of it, as disappointment follows. Incidentally Syria is going all European on us now by introducing a smoking ban in public places. Quite how it will work considering it's prevalence throughout all stratas of society is anyone's guess. What for the future of the Nargilha??

The Baron Hotel is but a short trot away from my hostel. It is here that T.E Lawrence frequented when he lived in the region all those years ago. It is a bit dusty looking nowadays, but still manages to retain a certain charm. A fragment of it looks new, but, for the most part, it all gives a feel that this is how things have appeared for decades. The history of the place is very much unavoidable as Lawrence memorabilia, such as a signed hotel bill can be found on the walls. Other signs from the past include original "White Horse" whisky signs and hand crafted paintings detailing days gone by. An old B.A.C.C positioned near the bar reminds me that my flight home is fast approaching. I enjoy a beer, listening to a group of young privileged sounding gap year Brits playing cards at a nearby table. Other than that, the place remains empty until I make my way out, passing some new patrons in the doorway. Everyone talks of Lawrence- Lawrence of Arabia.

Take The Train, Hear The Strain

I'm joined by the only other tourist on my hotel today (and maybe the only other one in Lattakia right now). Sebastian is a young, German beekeeper and cuts quite a striking figure. He wears a thick, grey Jalaba and rounded glasses, smokes fine German cheroots, and keeps a pocket watch and a fountain pen in his breast pocket should necessity deem their requirement. I think Sebastian was probably born about 100 years too late.

Last night, we loosely arranged to go to the Qualat and go there we do today. The easier option of taxi to the distant bus station is followed by a micro bus to the nearest town of Al Haffa. There, we negotiate a ride up and down the winding, veering roads towards the castle itself. With all three of us squeezed on the motorbike, it's a bit of a labour ascending, and a bit of an experience descending- closing your eyes offers the only refuge. It doesn't help that our driver is slightly crazed either. He particularly enjoys shouting : "Mr! Mr! Good, Good?!", as we sweep around corners. Downhill is when he is at his most enthusiastic. We get our first view of our destination from a nearby hilltop, separated from it by a very steep ravine, which the three adventurers rapidly descend and then climb. Looking across at the fortress of rock and faded green, you could be forgiven for thinking you weren't in the Middle East, as the wind begins to pick up, bringing the rain clouds ever nearer. It's certainly hard to imagine that 700 odd years ago, a group of religious fanatics swept their away across Europe all the way here in the name of a Christian God, attempting to reclaim the Holy lands. They were ultimately undone by their Nemesis. A man in whose castle I know stand: Saladdin.

The castle itself is nowhere near as well preserved as Krak, but the location is rather spectacular- a must for anyone's Syrian itinerary. There are several large, stout mains towers and an equally eye catching mosque all waiting to be explored. The new arrival of flowers poke through the rocky ground, small blobs of life on an otherwise colourless day. We leave our motorbike rider at the bottom of the walls making our way up the main steps to the entrance hall. Inside it, we take a quick seat next to the custodians and warm our hands by his fire in the gloom. We spend the afternoon individually scrambling around the deserted remnants, occasionally bumping into solely Arabic tourists.

The longer you stay in Arabia, the more you notice the variety of differences and subtleties between its wide ranging populations. The people I pass now are very darkly, and conservatively dressed men, and my guess of Saudi Arabia/ Gulf States proves correct.

We meet up with our driver once we've finished our self guided tour and "enjoy" more of the same adrenalin filled fun on the way back to the nearby town. An uneventful microbus journey sees us back in the city. It's been a real whistle stop tour of Lattakia from the moment I arrived. I contemplate it all as I stand on the station platform awaiting my 15.40 train back to Aleppo. The train pulls out bang on time. We make our way through an agricultural greenscape I haven't yet experienced in this country- all ploughed fields and orchards and olive groves. It all turns into a very pleasant journey once the winner of "Syria's loudest kid competition" takes a breather and catches some sleep. He was up against some pretty stiff competition to hold on to that title, let me tell you, and that was just in our train carriage this evening. Light turns to dark, and the peaceful lands disappear from view.

pull up in the friendly city of Aleppo once more in the early hours of evening, where a very helpful passenger (also a railways engineer) directs me towards the bustling centre. As we walk, he informs me just how much better the train is than the coach service. Although not disappointed with the latter, I must confess to him being quite correct. I should have used it more often than I have done. First class for £1!

Arriving in the Spring Flower hostel of days gone by, I know I have come full circle in this country. The first face I see as I stagger up the steep narrow steps is Korean Richard. It's music to my ears as he says he is just cooking a huge bowl of a Korean noodle dish, and I should join him. Food and a beer and bed follows.

I'm Looking For The Donkey Rides

Goodbyes are said today, as I make my towards the final part of my Syrian saga. I guess that there is always a balance to be had between mixing with the locals, and mixing with your fellow travellers. I believe the former is one of the main reasons in being somewhere, and the latter provides an insight into a variety of cultures and attitudes from around the world. You can glean all sorts of ideas and information from your roommates and friends, creating new ideas on what to see next. Both sets of people have been tremendous on this journey, and, for now, there's plenty still to see in this country.

I return to the coast for the first time in a while, to the city of Lattakia in North western Syria. It will be my first experience of the Mediterranean on this trip. Having just arrived here on my bus, I'm called over by a busy looking traffic policeman to his isolated spot in the middle of a rush of vehicles. We discuss my accommodation options and he hails me a cab. The driver of it is a wily old seadog who has spent many years on the high seas travelling around the world. He tells me of some of the ports he visited and how he would love to still be working as a cook in the merchant navy. Sadly for him, the maritime company went bust and he, like many others lost his job. Like other places in the world I have visited the job of taxi driver, though not very appealing, at least offers him the chance of a regular wage.

Safely arrived at the hotel, I make my usual bid for rural freedom in the form of Ugarit, a nearby town along the coast from the city centre. This place is famous for French archaeologists discovering the oldest examples of a written alphabet. As the rules of global archaeology seem to dictate, you need to go to Europe to view the priceless pieces- this time to Paris. The really kind hearted woman at the ticket office gives me a quick lowdown on the site and its history, and I even get a quick peak of some areas I shouldn't really see. The place is empty, devoid of the coachloads of tours which will frequent this place in the summer months.

The afternoon is passing me by, so I leave to walk the quieter stretch of the coastline back towards the city, and enjoy the sea from there. It transpires to be a good idea. I enjoy a zesty glass of juice picked from the fruits of the nearby orange, lemon, and grapefruit groves. The area has a distinctly agricultural feel to it. It's very pleasant walking along the rural backwaters, and before I know it, I'm invited in to enjoy a nice glass of Matte with some relaxed looking mechanics. I make my way along the shore, watching the locals in their customary clothes walking along the beach and drinking in the nearby bars and cafes. I meet a local family out for some sunshine and proceed to have a skimming competition with the young girl, before we attempt to find some unusual shells.

Leaving the shore, I wander back up to the nearby road and arrive at a nearby shop just in time for sunset. The owner craftily has a pelican perched outside the shop in order to bring in the punters, and he's more than happy to snap me with it. I enjoy a beer outside with the owner and his friend. Everywhere in Syria, I am met with "welcome" in these situations. People are always keen to hear where you are from, and what opinions you have of their country. I feel a number of these people are very conscious of the image that is portrayed of countries like Syria in the media of the western world. It's an image very much misrepresentative of the masses. I have found the vast majority of people in Arabic countries to be most friendly and hospitable. I believe their culture is partly based on these principles. It is often the case that such dialogues are not exactly fluent due to the language barrier, but we get by and some level of understanding is usually reached. Hopefully during these conversations I haven't blazed a devastating trail of confusion and misunderstanding everywhere I've been.

I must confess that, aesthetically, Lattakia has been a real let down. I had imagined a city with an industrial heart, and a laidback touristic waterfront. Well, I'm afraid the waterfront is also industrial. There are containers and warehouses and an extremely busy road exactly where I imagine the pedestrian walkways, candy floss shops and "kiss me quick" hat stalls should be. I'm told this place gets very busy with visitors in the summer months but I'm not entirely sure where the people go when they arrive. I think the town planners must have been on the funny tea when the city was designed.

One place I can see as busy is the main swanky, westernised street more commonly known as "Amerikana Street". It holds many of the city's fancy boutiques stores, shops and restaurants. Here you will find the stylish and the wealthy, driving their big off road vehicles, and being dropped off outside their favourite bars and eateries. These cars have to squeeze their way through the masses of young people hanging outside on the street talking and smoking, keen to be inside the places they now hang about, but probably lacking the funds to do so. The streets are full and the premises look mostly empty. Perhaps this is indicative of the nation itself, a microcosm of the bigger picture.

I wander along the heaving streets on this Friday night back to my hotel in a quieter lane. The owner happens to be one of the most aggrieved people I think I have ever met. I don't think he can find enjoyment in anything, though his arguments clearly indicate a man who blames the government for much of his woes. Many people have alluded to such a sentiment, though this chap is a very vocal extreme. I think he could disagree with his own shadow. I manage a quick argue of my own with him before I trot off to bed for an early night. The hotel is empty.

Crossroads

Enjoy a lie in today after the room's collective decision last night to visit the nearby Qalat. It's late morning by the time we roll out of the hostel towards the minibus station. I converse with a lawyer as we drive at the usual warp factor 4 along the highway. The bus leaves us by the side of the road, but it's not difficult to make our way to the castle, looking all big and imposing on a nearby hillock. We sit and enjoy the views of the arid landscape. Some Bedouin tribes people have arrived and are observed erecting their big tents at great speed on the ground below us. We are the only visitors today, save for some Bedouin kids who have decided to take a break from their game of football, and a couple of girls from the nearby town.

I leave the perch first and pass what turns out to be the girls' families on the way down the hill as they sit and enjoy a roadside picnic. They unsurprisingly invite me over for some food and a nice cup of tea, which is much appreciated. The rest of the group eventually catch up and we all sit relaxed on the rug watching the world go by, eating scrambled eggs and attempting to work out which kids belong to which family. We ultimately say goodbye, and make our way back along the road to the main intersection. It's pretty funny attempting to flag down a bus or car. A farmer stops, simply to have a chat with us- he's not going our way- and we almost miss the bus that stops just behind him.

Safely back in Hama, we're conveniently dropped off near some of the famous waterwheels, but getting to them proves surprisingly difficult. We reckon we'd have to walk miles to get to them past all the private fenced off houses and riverside cafeterias along the bank, so we gainfully hop over a dyke to get in some good shots of wheels that haven't moved for some time judging by the stagnant water surrounding them.

The latter part of the day is spent with everybody sorting out their own particular tasks. A Ronaldinho backpack, a pair of jeans, knock off DVDs, some cheesecake and a haircut are all part of the equation. Hama has been a revelation. It was immediately friendly and we've all had a great time here. Our last act on the busy central streets is to grab another bite to eat at Yasser's busy takeaway, where once again, he provides us with awesome falafel and chips until we can't eat anymore. After refusing to take my money, he shouts "Habibi" as we say our goodbyes.

It would be wrong on so many levels not to celebrate our last night together- tomorrow we all head in our own directions. So, we locate a nearby (and typically discreet) bottle store to purchase some of the more popular Egyptian beer, which we enjoy back at the hotel. The evenings of this trip have been a series of rapid flashes. Even though there haven't been many nights out, most evenings have been very sociable and even the quieter times seem to have passed very quickly. A few pages of a book and a couple of chats, and before you know it, it's light out time again. I think that's probably a very good sign.

The Sound Of Silence

The early morning light streams through my curtainless window this morning, and this and the already busy traffic on the street below foretells that any further sleep will be hard to come by. Gerry and I visit the nearby former Roman city of Aphamia. After two minibus journeys (past some big water wheels that still might be working), it's only a short walk to the ruins themselves on the outskirts of a modern day town. Ruins is definitely the word, with everything being levelled to the ground over the last 1500 years or so. During the last few decades,a team of Belgiums undertook the lengthy effort of resurrecting the main columns of the former main avenue of the city. At over two kilometres in length, it has been quite an undertaking.

We walk the vast majority of this stretch. It's a beautifully warm, dewy morning, and the birds are out in force as are huge bundles of swarming caterpillars, lying in the damp grass. The haze of moisture softens the sunshine and it's just fantastic to be outside. We enjoy the peaceful nature of the early morning by making use of the many benches that appear along the way. It's great to just sit at such a place without hearing the sounds of other voices or footsteps- just like Palmyra. However, I have to say that despite the long colonnade, the attractions here are very much a distant second to the "City of Palms". Gerry walks off towards the far end of the city, so I decide to relax on a rock in the continuing morning sunshine, and fall asleep for a while.

Eventually, we trace our steps back along the cobblestones and notice what may well be the rut marks of chariot wheels that once used these streets in the stones along the ground. It gives us a real sense of history, reminding us that people left their mark in more ways than just building stones. We stroll back through a small town on the outskirts of the main town, passing some boys sleeping on the ruins, and other more industrious youngsters taking their sheep out to graze amongst the rocks.

A lady invites us into her shop for a quick cuppa and we duly accept. We experience similar generosity for the next hour as we walk along the busy main street of town. People invite us into their shops for a chat and samples of their food. It may seem like good business sense to some, but I can tell you that it feels a lot more than that. People seem genuinely happy to see visitors and promote the good things of the area. In more cynical moments it is easy to misinterpret when such offers are made: Will I have to pay for this later, and how much is it going to cost? For the vast majority of the time such fleeting considerations aren't worth having, and you can feel a bit guilty of being wrong when you do think them. We receive loads of offers for food today, and I struggle to get one chap to take payment for a cold type of semolina pudding which is delicious.

The evening is spent enjoying the Champions league AC Milan game in the comfort of the hotel sitting room. I had spent the time preceding this locating a few suitable cinemas in town using the contacts I have recently established, but it's nice just to relax and take the game in without even having to cross the doorstep. A comfortable win follows and all is good. The sad thing is I remember every game I have watched abroad. Quite often it's been great fun even just locating a potential venue, and even the games which I didn't get to see often have a memorable story behind them, for me at least.

Forts, Falafel, Football, And Friends

My spiritual journey ends today, and I, like many others, am leaving the desert retreat. I say my goodbye to the head father, before Gerry, Wacky, Richard and myself canter down the steps to the waiting bus at the bottom. It's been an unforgettable experience. I admit to never quite being too sure of these religious places, but the people here have been generous and non- pressurising. I think that these places attract a spectrum of characters- the lost, the curious, the burnt out, and the skinflints. It certainly creates a different vibe to the average backpacker retreat. A recommended experience.

The pull of Craic De Chevalier sees us us changing our plans and saving time by taking a taxi from the city of Homs instead of completing our journey to more northerly Hama. The fortress is an amazing piece of architecture and historical importance. Despite the slight lack of definition in certain areas, the castle or Qualat remains in extraordinary condition. You need to be a little bit careful of a distinct lack of barriers protecting drops and holes, yet the chance to look around the castle is unmissable. It's a huge place on a number of levels with cavernous water chambers and impressive towers. You could easily spend all day here.

We finish our self guided tour in the highest tower of the stronghold, admiring the great view down on the hills and plains that the occupiers would have controlled. The two hours has whizzed by. We rejoin our waiting driver, buy him a kebab and a can of juice, before our drive takes us to our final destination of Hama.

Strolling the busy streets of the illuminated town centre, we take in a number of the waterwheels that this city is famous for. The original purpose of these giant structures was to help transport water from the rivers upwards to the aqueducts which then distributed the water to the surrounding farmlands. Nowadays, they lie idle with the only movement around the area coming from tourists photographing the scene. We wander the lively and modern streets of the centre, looking in the shops and up at the towering castle. I leave my "champagne backpacker" friends in a swanky restaurant and head off in search one the real backpackers' true gems: street food.

I meet Yassar in his small falafel hut right in the middle of the central street of the shopping area. He's instantly friendly, and offers me free samples of his food. If you were so inclined, I reckon Syria is a place where you would never need to actually buy your food- such is the generosity (and maybe a smattering of business sense too) of the local shop people. Tonight I've been given falafel, chips, and two kinds of sweets. There has been an instant feeling of warmth since we arrived here today. The city has taken three strangers in and people have been smiling, waving, and saying hello from all angles. This was something noticeably lacking from Damascus, but not that it made the city a bad place, just a little cooler. This is often my experience of the capital/ largest city in any country. People often lose the time to communicate, and maybe even a little of their trust. I digress once more.

Yasser is kind and great fun. He speaks a little english and we share jokes about football and his Barcelona pictures on the wall and badges on his cooking whites- He is a self confessed and obsessed FCB fan. "Real donkey!", he says. "Ronaldo donkey, too!". We are shortly joined by some locals who are equally polite and good natured. We converse about football and life in general, even though communication is not always instantly understood. However, it's a great way to break the boundaries and we all enjoy a laugh. Yasser refuses to take any money from me, instead insisting I come back tomorrow. I certainly will return.

I wander back down the main streets to the glitzy restaurant I left my friends in earlier. A man is tinkling some ivories as they finish off their meal. Most of the many tables sit empty. We exit and take the short stroll back to the very colonial looking clock tower area where our hotel is located. It's been an action packed day, and I know I'll sleep well in my new bed tonight.

The Holy Goat

We hear a rumour of a friendly goat herder who lives further up the valley. Our morning is spent tracking the wadi further up than yesterday, attempting to locate him. We do just that as he jump starts his generator with the tractor. One bone shudderingly bumpy journey up the rocky road later on the back of the tractor, we arrive at his house and get to view his entire flock penned up at the back. He treats us to a nice cup of tea and a biscuit, as I look at his impressive array of shortbread tin lids which mostly focus on Eilean Dhonan, mounted on the wall. The man clearly has taste. He seems to enjoy the company of people from the monastery, which is probably a good thing as I think he sees rather a lot of them. His stellar satellite system with a zillion channels also keeps him company. I had to laugh when I saw it after my attempts to locate televised soccer in Damascus-It was all waiting for me rather biblically at the top of this mountain. As I admire the system, he tells me that he is often visited by monks during the World Cup, desperate to catch a game or two. Today, the farmer is happy just to watch some girls dancing around to music.

I drink my tea as Gerry falls asleep on the couch, the farmer throwing him a blanket as he does so. Minutes later, he's woken by a very noticeable bang which happens to gently shake the house. It transpires that they are dynamiting the quarry some three kilometres away.

As we say out thanks and bid our farewell, we are passed by a rather serious looking man we recognise from the monastery. Before we even get to the bottom of the stairwell of his house, we hear the sounds of a man sobbing from where we just came. if I were a betting man, I'd reckon that our herder friend has more than one flock to attend to most days.

When we arrived at the monastery yesterday, there were two large troops of young christian scouts from Aleppo here, and things were apparently a bit noisier than usual. They leave today, but not before they manage to surround and converse with me en masse after lunch. The chief spokesman's is a bright button called Elias. There are four other Elias' in front of me and three Georges- clearly the names to have if you're a Syrian Christian. They're all very interesting and polite, happy to talk to someone from another part of the world.

With so many people now departed, the evening is spent quietly celebrating the birthday of a regular visitor to the monastery( George, would you believe), a fine fellow who has been most friendly. The priests have even managed to find some cake and a bottle of red to aid the celebrations. With nowhere to go after dinner at 10pm, the day concludes with us all enjoying an evening without the sound of 5o adolescent Eliah's and George's queuing for the bathroom outside our window. The silence really is deafening tonight, and it's is almost spooky. Even the rare moment of Syria's laziest dog barking outside the church doesn't seem to alter my inevitable march towards slumber.

Spirits And Spirituality

Time to depart Damascus today. Ideally, I would have liked to stay longer, spent more time in the old city and visited a few of the museums, but the constraints of time dictate a new destination once more. Gerry, Joachim (or "Wacky" as Gerry now inadvertently calls him) and myself hop on another bus. Our stop is Mar Musa, a monastery perched high on the side of a mountain. It's a slight detour off the arterial route of most travellers, and we end up taking another bus, and a taxi that drops us off at the foot of the rock. From here we make our steep climb up the many steps. The hardest part of the climb is negotiating the tiny front entrance of the building at the top. You have to stoop right in order to make your way through. Must be the religious thing of not making life too easy for yourself.

The monastery is a multi denomination friendly place for faith, meditations and spirituality, and the place looks like it will be quite a step away from the usual backpacker experience. Anyone can come here and stay for free for a while, providing they assist in the daily chores. Spiritual participation is encouraged but not pressurised.

After lunch, we wander up a dry wadi bed in the ravine to catch the sunset in the mountains at the back of the monastery, before evening prayer and meditation in the old church. It's a fairly small building stone built with a wooden facade altar area at the front, and plaster painted scenes from the Bible on the walls. Most of them are in a state of disrepair with a number of them having been intentionally defaced, their eyes hacked out over time.

The two priests begin their service with the Lords prayer in Arabic. Other members of the congregation kneel behind them with their arms outstretched. The seats for the service are simply firm cushions placed on the floor. After prayers are finished, the lights suddenly go out and we sit for an hour in the faint candlelight as people focus on their spiritual connection, reflect on their past, or contemplate the future. Whatever it means to the individual, I guess. Only the flickering light from the candle and the drip-drip sound of thekerosene heater fill the air. Everybody sits in silence. I use the time to reflect how few opportunities like this we seem to afford ourselves in the rush of modern life, other than lying awake before or after sleep.

Meditation time duly complete, we listen to passages from John, Job and Corinthians, before the service draws to a close. Our new Korean friend Rich used the meditation time in his own way by falling asleep. Unfortunately for him, he's still snoozing as the service ends, looking quite a picture as everybody else vacates the floor. This only leaves the priest staring at him, and Rich staring at the back of his eyelids. Fortunately, the religious man sees the funny side of it, and a joke is shared as we move off for dinner.

Like every night in winter, dinner is served in a curtained, heated/insulated exterior room raised on poles. We all help to serve the food, before sitting down on the floor in rows to enjoy it. No food goes to waste here and what was served yesterday will be served again until it is finished. Things shut here early and we're all tucked up in our room shortly afterwards, enjoying the warmth of our heater as it protects us from the cold mountain air outside.

The Crescent And The Cross

Over breakfast we formulate a plan to charter a mini-bus with a group of Irish people to Maamula, a small, lofty town with a distinctly christian history. It is also part of the last remaining area where Aramaic is spoken to any proper extent.

Our bus winds it's way way through the hills and valleys at considerable speed. Walking up the steps from the bus stop to the church perched high above the houses of the town, we are greeted by an enthusiastic nun who directs us to the chapel. We are carefully observed by a much more austere nun as we admire the religious gold paintings. We climb through a gorge and then up a steep path that allows us great views of the area and of two statues sitting in the cliff face. One is a brilliant white image of Christ the Redeemer, and the other is a pale blue sculpture of The Virgin Mary.

We enter a very small church where we are told is one of the oldest christian altars in the world. We enter to hear a woman saying the Lord's prayer in Aramaic. This ancient language hovers just above extinction, yet it was from this language that the old languages of Hebrew and Arabic derived from. It is also widely held to be the language of Christ. It was supposedly and famously brought back into popular culture during the film "The Passion of Christ", and this is one of the questions I put to the really helpful young warden. She tells me that several languages are widely spoken during the film , but Aramaic is not one of them. "When he speaks on the cross, he speaks Hebrew", she offers. I suggest that they must get quite a few academics, and linguists amongst others, visiting the area, and researching the language "Actually, no".

We leave this cool, refreshing hill town and start making our way back to Damascus. On the way back we stop off at Seidnaya. This monastery town also has a rich history, and was once the second most important place in the east for Christians to visit after Jerusalem. It was built upon the spot that an Emperor saw a vision of the Virgin Mary, and the crowds soon followed. It still gets a steady enough stream of pilgrims in the modern age, and we soon visit one of the main reasons why. In a very discreet room hangs a very famous painting that Luke the Evangelist purportedly painted of Mary. The creation itself is hidden behind a metallic screen, but that does not deter crowds of people squeezing into the tiny, darkened room for a chance to be near it. A nun stands tending the candles and incense sticks, and the air is heavy with breath and fragrance. People line up to take their turn kneeling before something they cannot see for an all too brief moment to pray for healing, help, comfort and strength. There's a really multicultural feel within the crowd that I find myself standing in and I'm sure a number of these people have waited a considerable time to make it here today. These religious or spiritual places are always so fascinating, watching the intensity and emotion of religious belief etched on the faces of those present.

Arriving back in Damascus, or Sham as it is also known,we enjoy a fruit shake on the crowded outer streets of the old town before a quick change of religion. We visit the Sayyidah Zaynab Mosque which houses the body of one of the Grand daughters of the prophet Mohammed. Zaynab's coffin is highly decorated and housed within an ornate cage, which many people are crowding around. It splits the wall divider that separates the men from the women, so that both sets of people can see and touch the sacred relic. There are tears in the eyes of several men as they hold on to the outer caging, whilst, out of sight, women howl and sob from behind the screen. Other men calmly sit cross legged on the floor, patiently listening to a cleric reciting passages from the Koran. Others sit elsewhere, looking wistful, counting their prayer beads. In such places as this, you always feel like you could stay considerably longer, but it usually feels like you are gazing irreverently for far to long, and taking up a space of somebody else, to whom the experience would mean a lot more to.

We walk back through one of the main walkways of the bazaars, the streets eerily quiet and nearly all the stores closed for business. The religious Friday is very much a day for rest and spending time with family. We end up back near the hostel, sitting out on the streets enjoying hummus, chick peas, and pickles, all accompanied with generous amounts of flat bread. We randomly encounter two tourists (separately) who have just arrived, and whom at least one of the group already knows. Backpacking is often like this. You seem to meet similar people doing similar things at similar times. And everyone knows Gerry. I later meet Diwan at the hostel, and we laugh about a previous conversation. "Oh that Gerry", he exclaims. "Why didn't you say?".

We make the short walk back to the resplendent courtyard of our hostel which is all vines and hand painted walls surrounding a now dormant fountain. Sitting there we all discuss and reflect on our day. It certainly has been one of people and spirituality, capturing a religious feel for the area and those that have lived here for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Small is Beautiful

A new personal best on the heater in the room last night- 24 degrees! Not even rising room temperatures can prevent me stealing myself away front the tranquility of the palms, ruins and desert and heading for arguably the oldest continually inhabited city on the planet- Damascus.


The bus station lies on the outskirts of town, so a taxi it is first thing this morning. My driver is in great form and he conducts a short lesson in Arabic for his ill educated student. He then takes me into the ticket office and procures my ticket for me, whilst the language lesson continues. Finally I'm escorted on to the bus, and waved off along the highway. Have I ever told you I love taxi drivers?

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Catalonian Joachim arrived on board just before we left. Our paths appear inextricably linked. We speed west along the road, watching the goat herders tending their flocks and the tent dwelling migrant workers going about their every day lives. This area is mining country and a number of large scale excavations and operations mark the land.

The first sign of Damascus are the grey looking suburbs of the city, perched high on the mountain walls that surround a considerable part of the it. A number of people have told me that the capital is very laid back, but my first impressions of the centre highlight to the contrary. My arrival in town is initiated by a quite farcical 90 minute walk, attempting to locate the hostel. It's made all the funnier as the bus dropped us pretty much right outside the place, before people started pointing us in all manner of different directions. It was a sort of human pinball with people sending us right back in the direction we had just arrived from. Joachim and myself even got split up on the streets, as one man started leading us in person to where he thought we wanted to go. I had to laugh as, finally making it to the hostel (I'd actually located someone who knew it) the owner informed that a long haired Spaniard had just taken the last bed only ten minutes ago- Joachim had a guide book and a personal guide too! However, there are beds on the rooftop. I don't need to be offered it twice. Besides, I can't not stay here after the time it took for me to find it.

It's time to leave the noise and commotion of the central streets. So, I head for the more historical area of the walled city and citadel, where the traffic is still busy but purely human, with the odd cat chucked in every now and then. I marvel at the Grand Mosque- the ornately and colourfully decorated gates and marble tiled floors. It's a lively place of worship, full of exuberant children and proud parents. I sit and bathe in the sun, feeling relaxed despite the crowds.

After some street Pida a small group of us from the hostel make our way to the Christian quarter, right the way along "Straight Street" towards the promise of beer. "The Saloon Bar" is definitely the smallest bar I have ever been in- compact and bijou, you could say. We sample the local Syrian Beer for the first time as well as the Arak, which for some reason, the owner didn't want to serve to tourists (!). There's a real mixture of old LP covers on the tiny walls, including Fleetwood Mac's Rumours, Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, and some funky 70's soundtrack from a blacksploitation film of the time. A couple of the group head on to a couple of clubs allegedly in the vicinity. Alcohol is hard to come by in this city and these small number of bars are tightly packed together in the Christian part of town. Good ol' Christians.

Desert Rose

I'm enjoying Palmyra- everything is laid back,places are easily located, people are friendly, and the neighbourhood has a certain character. Many people would zip through the place in on a long day trip, but I'm going to stay another night.

It's the tomb towers today that I briefly saw some of yesterday. Ticket in hand, I face the unenviable task of grabbing a taxi to the tombs in the nearby valley. It's a frustrating setup as the two sets of tombs you can see open and close at the same times, and are not within walking distance of each other before they shut. It's great to look inside the tombs but a really rushed set up doesn't allow you a really leisurely experience. There are no mummies left on the many now empty shelves inside, but some of the painted decoration and reliefs still remain, and are fascinating. We end up giving a lift to the museum custodian/keyholder who has opened the tombs. Rushed through my experience in this second one too, a quite frank exchange of views about principles of agreements occur between myself and the tag team of taxi driver and custodian. At one point I have the medieval keys to the priceless tombs in my hands. Pretty frustrating stuff, but we all manage to have a laugh about it as I get out back in town.

Palmyra is well known for it's olive plantations, and Hussain, a worker and family member of the hotel's owners takes me to the family's high walled garden compound. Hussain is student and speaks excellent English. He tells me about the gardens and their history. We enjoy a cup of tea and a bite to eat in the afternoon sun. It's out of season so the workers are building a new store house in preparation for the more fruitful months to come. One of the men takes great enjoyment from sporadically shouting the word "we-akk", whenever he feels like it. I'm told it has no meaning and, regardless, everybody finds it quite amusing.

After lunch, I stroll the ruins once more, watching the postcard sellers plying their trade on their motorbikes, weaving in and out of the rubble, hunting down the sick and vulnerable, and covering them with jewellery and postcards. Climbing over the fallen walls and columns, it's easy to drift back to the lives of the ancient Romans- of speeding chariots bringing news from abroad, of men trading goods from across the empire on the Agora floor, of actors receiving the adulation of the packed theatre; of battle hardened soldiers practicing desert drills under the watchful eyes of a centurion. The endless roar of civilisation continues to be carried on these desert winds. Even with an occasional influx of 21st century tourists, I contemplate how much quieter life is here now amongst the great city's remains, partially covered in the sands of time. All great civilisations have their day, with a new one waiting to wrestle the mantle for another glorious, and often fleeting, chapter in the history of mankind.

My afternoon is spent resting behind a fallen column, seeking shelter from the desert's sun and chilly breeze. As the sun begins to set, the colours of the area change, and the former city is awash with a softness and warmth. There are new colours and shapes to be found in the landscape. Soon, a young girl from a nearby house joins me and seems content for me to take her picture and then for her to take some photos of me. She certainly knows her way around my camera. Her brother also joins us later and we share some cool water from a metal pan as the day fades from sight.

On my way to the best kebab shop in town for the best kebab ever, I join the kids from the hotel in a game of balloon headers and volleys until Hussain breaks the fun up. Next stop is a spot of street soccer where I audaciously lob the ball over an admittedly tiny goalkeeper for a wonderful goal. Wheeling away to celebrate, I'm met with stiff protests from Tiny Tim, who manages to gesticulate to me with his giant gloves that it hit the crossbar and stayed out. I'm convinced it went in.

I make another attempt for Premiership soccer tonight and am joined by Kiwi Andrew, and Dirvan whom I have bumped into once more. Our only chance to see it is a nearby cafe, where we're met by a very small man with a very strange hat. This chap loves his football and in a combination of Arabic and English gives us his predictions for the big games of tonight. Our hopes greatly raised, he then proceeds to tell us that we are unlikely to get the game. Whilst he deals us this hammer blow, another man walks in and removes all doubt by promptly unplugging the satellite box, and carrying it off to a waiting car. Our dream has died.

Palmyra has many qualities but nightlife isn't' really one of them. I enjoy what has become a tradition of a cup of tea in the TV room of the hotel, chatting to the children and the infrequent other guests. I ascend the quiet, empty stairwell for a final night in my room. The people in Palmyra have been tremendous- Arabic hospitality at it's finest.

Black Mariah

After a night arrival, you only properly feel like you are in a new location in the warm light of the following morning. Palmyra doesn't seem as crowded as Dier ez-Zor, and, being smaller, everything feels a lot more conveniently located. The internationally renown ruins and state museum are right next to my hotel, though I never noticed either of them last night. The museum is my first destination today, as I hope to get a better understanding of the area before I see it all. The place even has mummies from antiquity which are remarkably well preserved. It must be the desert air.

The museum is followed by the grandiose Bel Temple. My would-be guide encourages me to employ his services. "You are from Scotland? Ah, the last Scotsman I showed around here was Sean Connery." "Was he with his wife?", I enquire. "No, Omar Shariff", comes the reply. As I stand and talk, all of what appears before me dates back from the 1st to 4th AD. They certainly built things to last. However, there was record of a civilisation based here up to 4000 years ago. It's isolation from others helped protect it from attack as well as facilitate it being an important place to replenish along the vital and lucrative trade routes of the age. The wealth of goods and the reach of the tradesmen were both highlighted in the museum where they displayed unearthed pottery, clothes, wine glasses and silk from around the world- from the Danube, Babylon and even China.

I exit the temple and stroll the full length of the colonnade, speaking to a camel owner and his two sons in the process. I pass the Agora and a small theatre as I wander along the avenue towards the desert. The early morning sun has lost it's intensity and the previous warmth is now replaced by a chill in the gentle breeze. Picking my way through the rocky ground and various ruins of buildings that have not survived, a single card bounces past me on the wind. I make my way up towards burial towers that reach out of the craggy hills. Like the pre-Roman Egyptians, the Palmyrans also strongly believed in the afterlife and regeneration. The mummies from the museum I mentioned earlier would have been taken from similar tombs. None of the chambers are accessible due to the large iron gates blocking the entrances.

I cross the small valley and make my climb to the 17th century castle on the top of a hill. You really have an impregnable feeling as you stand within it's wall. Assaulting up the steep sides would have been an unenviable task. Fortunately, my only task today is exploration and I enjoy wandering around the latest fortress-it's real warren of a place, and a great point to watch the sun descend. There is a sublime view of the mountainous area which stretches all the way off to Damascus. The date and olive plantations, and trees which give such oasis places their distinctive look(and made them so important) still stand and grow both around the outskirts of the ruins and new town, and the lake glistening in the distance.

With the sun going down, the lights of the town begin to twinkle in the darkness below me. I descend and make my way towards them. I bump into Joachim in one of the few bars in town, and we enjoy some tapas and a very refreshing Heineken. Regardless of the weather each day, the air in these parts is usually dry, leaving the unacclimatised with a sort of perma-thirst. I find beer will do the trick, though.

Back at the hotel, I meet Isaam, who happens to be an air traffic controller. Occasionally (like today), he must come to Palmyra to direct a plane that happens to be flying directly there from Europe. Today, it happened to be a load of Italians. He is a heck of a nice chap, and he decides to personally direct me to the best kebab shop in town (along with his driver), upon hearing I'm hungry. I ask him how he spells his name. He replies in international call sign language- " India-Sierra-Alpha-Alpha-Mike". Ha, old habits die hard. My kebab is quite special, and I wander back along the street enjoying it. The boys are out on the streets playing with balloons and footballs. They are all keen to approach. "I am Messi", says one. "I am Ronaldo", screams another. They love football in Syria, and the Spanish Primera is definitely number one.

It's getting cold now, and I put my heater on as soon as I enter my chilly room. The temperature gauge measures 22 degrees, but I'm really not sure whether that's Celsius or Fahrenheit.

Baron Von Greenback

I slept well last night despite the icy conditions in my room. I can't believe I said "escaping to desert warmth" earlier on- there just isn't any to be had. Anyhow, I did relatively well last night. Joachim looks like he's seen a ghost when I meet him straight after ablutions. Apparently, Papa snores like a congested pig, and Joachim's room was right next to Papa's reception/ room. The Spaniard's room reverberated to the sound of it until he got up and found the seclusion of another room at the other end of the building.

Doura Europas is our port of call today and and early departure see us arriving at the micro-bus station which caters for small buses going to small, relatively nearby places. We speed along the desert highway, once more, dropping off and picking up wherever appropriate. We get dropped off ourselves at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, right next to a tattered sign for the site. At least we aren't too far from it. We wander along the sub road, passing Bedouin tents and a herder tending to his sheep, who are finding some food, somehow amongst all the rocks and the scattered rubbish.

We approach the main and only walls still standing. They confidently rise out of the desert floor even to this day and are long and well constructed. We wander through the ruins of what must have been a lively city in an otherwise baron landscape. It was Roman built and formed an important barrier against the might of the Persian empire. Time has ravaged what remains of the place, though the quartz bases of the columns and the abundance of shattered pottery give an idea how things would have looked all those years ago.

The promise of a glorious winter's day proves false, but we still make the most of what we can from the vague metallic map sign. I climb an impressive part of tower that remains standing on the far side of the city, overlooking the Euphrates. It's just a stones throw away. An owl shoots up from below me, temporarily startling me as i weave along the highest part of the walls. I'm enjoying some olives and apricots when I happen to chance upon a group of women cutting a particular plant from the earth. They are all resplendently and colourfully dressed. My waves are reciprocated as I wander past them towards the river. I enjoy sitting watching the famous river twist and meander off into the distant towards the more uncertain land of Iraq, just 30 odd kilometres away.

I pack up and walk back to the exit. The lonely looking job of ticket seller is filled by a very friendly chap. I'm invited in to the single room building and am pretty happy to get out of the cold breeze that scours the land. We sit in front of his stove fire and enjoy a nice cup of hibiscus tea, whilst I wait for Joachim (wherever he may be). He puts on another pot of water, as he informs me how they received two tourists yesterday and he doesn't expect anymore after us today. Presently, Joachim returns and we make our move back to the highway. In front of us the two police men in a four wheel drive, who have been hovering around the site just after we arrived, flag down the first passing minibus and make it wait as we walk towards it. We wave our thanks as we drive off, and, before we know it, we're flying again.

The crowded bus has a mixture of characters- an educated pharmaceutical salesman, an amicable Barcelona fan, a woman with a young girl and an older lady who has the darkened charcoal eyes of someone who has seen a thousand and one of her own Arabian tales. She is quite a force as we find out when Joachy takes a photo with out asking. She's not fully covered either. We engage in a lively chat with everybody onboard, even winning round ol' charcoal eyes. I give her a drink out of my bottle and she threatens to hit me with hers, and so it goes. She is very theatrical, but she's not acting the definite glint in her eye. I somehow have ended up taking most of the heat from her as a result of Joachim's David Bailey moment earlier. All of a sudden the little girl pukes up all over the bus, and her mother pulls out a decorated perfume bottle to mask some of the smell. The next thing, she is telling me in fractured English that she got it on her Hadj to Mecca and that she wants us to have it. We know it's rude to do so, but we can't accept the glittering container gift. Besides, looking at her sick child, we figure she will need it a lot more than we do.

I wander along the functional and non- picturesque streets of Dier ez-Zor in the afternoon air, rejoining the Euphrates once again. I cross some cheeky postcard salesmen on the bridge, before my feet take me back to a Fawlty towers of my own. Lying on my bed, I have one of those rare epiphany moments. I pay Papa a few extra dongles to check out late. He's doing some cheese frying when I see him, fag hanging out of mouth,dropping ash into his creation. It's definitely time to move on, despite the advanced time of the day.

I catch my bus out of town, and a short while later, I arrive in Palmyra. I check into the friendliest hotel I can find and crash out on the bed, with the fan heater whirring above my head. There's history a plenty to see tomorrow.

Rule VII: Thou Shalt Not Be Reasonable

Many countries around the world tend to bunch the same or similar sellable commodities together. A nest of one type of shop quickly becomes a street, or even an entire area. You can probably see the logic in it. My hostel is located on "Car Tyre" Street, where that's pretty much all you can get. It's a shame I'm not housed on "Live T.V Sports" Street, but what can you do?

Several of the banks have huge queues forming outside them today. Men( and only men are present) dressed in black leather jackets and the ubiquitous black and red Keffiyah all wait outside as security guards near the door ensure things remain organised. Some of them look agitated, whilst most stand passively, patiently waiting there turn for whatever they are depositing or collecting. Each one of them clutches a small piece of paper in their hands.

Despite the usually busy streets being considerably more quiet today, I seek further solace in the grounds of the city's most historically important Mosque. It's very peaceful with only a few women in view, slowly moving around the open courtyard. They're dressed in yellow and Islamic green, which makes me wonder if there is any special occasion or ceremony on today. A single male voice recites passages of the Koran across the airways, the sounds bouncing of the sandstone walls and echoing around the yard.

I take some photos of the scene and am accosted by a mildly unhappy official who points to the ladies washing their hands at the fountain. "No photo. Women!" It's considered bad form to take pictures of ladies doing this, and whilst my intention wasn't to catch such a shot, a closer inspection of my photos shows that I did. I apologise and decide to move on. It's glaringly noticeable that in some situations in life, people seem to change their demeanour and behaviour where their religion is concerned. To me it's often like people consider it acceptable to be blunt, and sometimes even rude and slightly aggressive when religious beliefs are called into question, whether it be accidental or deliberate. I find it most peculiar and a little sad. Surely, one of the cornerstones of any respectable faith is tolerance?

I can't quite grasp the will to shop today. I figure I'll probably be back here at least one night on the way back to Turkey. Instead, I wander homewards. My hunger pangs lead me to a fruit shake shop, where they concoct all kinds of fruit and milkshakes before your very eyes. I enjoy what can only be described as a quite brilliant Banana shake. I order a chicken Kebab covered in a really tasty hummus type sauce from next door and stand at the counter of the shake shop, eating and drinking and watching the world go by.

Another change of destination today. Bag on back once again, I leave my hostel and wander back into the crowded afternoon streets. I receive some general information on Syria from a ridiculously helpful man at the Tourist centre, before attempting to locate the main bus station. Mid dawdle I realise I have absolutely NO idea where I'm going. This would usually be the point when you would check the guide book....

Sitting by the side of the rode doing my best guppy at feeding time impersonation, three men exit a nearby parked car simultaneously and approach me. Instead of offering me "a ride with the boys" a la 1920's Chicago, they all kindly offer me their knowledge of the area. As all four of us try and determine the best bus to take (and where exactly to catch it), another man overhears the conversation as he walks past. He informs the men (in Arabic) that he is travelling to the very same bus station, and I should come with him. We hop on the bus and the newest stranger in the saga thrusts a paid for ticket in my hand before I have any chance to protest. We finally make it to the edge of the city and the stranger take me right up to the correct ticket office, before he turns on his heels, offers a smile and a wave, and then promptly disappears into the crowd, never to be seen again. Unbelievable.

Soon I'm off into the desert interior of the country, heading east towards the city of Deir ez-Zor. The landscape quickly becomes one of rock and dust, though not sand as you might imagine. The roads are fairly decent, as well as fairly empty. The colours of the desertscape slowly change until darkness has fully descended. The TV gets cranked on to one of those "An audience with..." type shows with a famous Arabic singer. I do my level best to avoid most of it and fall asleep as we head into the night. I awake as we enter the bus station of my destination. It's common procedure, if sometimes sporadic, to register with the security forces at any given point of arrival. I get escorted to the station's police quarters where the kindly officer, takes my details (Robert Rogers!), and sends me on my way.

A quick and furious haggle with a young taxi driver later ( prices always seem to go up when it's dark), I arrive at the town centre well after nightfall. The streets are still packed. I have no idea where to go. As I stand and attempt to establish a plan, a long haired Spaniard strolls by and tells me his place isn't too bad. This is how I meet Joachin. It really isn't great but i'm too tired to care by this point, so I check in with "Papa", our new name for the old and extremely fat proprieter. We take a stroll to a bar with another guest (an English Tefl teacher living in Cairo), and sip on some hot lemonade and watch all the men clustered around tables in this heaving, smokey cafe, puffing on their Narghila pipes and playing cards.

Seriously, This Is Not A Pen

There was quite a wait last night in between the bus that took us from Goreme to Adana, and the connecting bus from there to Antakya. Fortunately, I encountered three very sociable tourists( Neil from Ireland, Akiko from Japan, and Divan from Malaysia), and we got chatting, passing the time in a huge modern bus station that reminded me of an airport terminal.
The night bus section to Antakya went like a dream- I had my trusted travel pillow and the window seat, so all in the world was good. We had been chatting to these very young police men behind us who gave us something that looked like a slightly decayed chili, and had the texture of licorice. It is purported to have good sleeping properties, and it must have done the trick, like I said.

Changing buses first thing in the morning at Antakya to cross the border, I say goodbye to Divan, who is staying a night there. The remaining three of us make a smooth transition across the border, leaving all the work to the bus steward. He looks like he's done this once or twice before. The only thing I have to do is hand over my $52 dollars and fill out two forms. I stand and chat to an Iraqi, as the steward buzzes around. He's a really nice fellah, returning on university business from Turkey, but sadly, for whatever reason, his application is rejected and he must go back to Turkey instead of making it home. It's a shame.

"Welcome to Syria", the sign proclaims. Arabic scripture is finally on view, and it certainly makes you realise there is both a subtle and significant change between the two countries. We are well and truly in the Middle East now. We get dropped off at the side of a very busy street, right in the middle of a bustling Aleppo City, and we're off and running. We chance upon the Tourist Information centre , and the very helpful lady directs us to the "Spring Flower Hostel".

I spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon wandering the teaming streets of the city, the Citadel and the Souk. As you can probably imagine, such places are hives of activities, with locals and tourists all squeezed together, intermingled between Arabic archways and impossibly narrow alleyways. In the bazaar, there are nut stalls, butchers, spices stores, clothes shops, and art shops all competing for your attention and custom. Soap is particularly prevalent. I learn that soap from Aleppo is legendary, and it is customary for any soap seller to thrust a bar into the face of any tourist unwitting enough to enter the premises. You really can sense the place walking these crowded alleyways. The air is also crammed with the lingering scent of fruit sheesha, scented soap, and freshly cooked falafal. I pass one restaurant and the waiter skips out the front door and onto his bike, singlehandedly cycling between everyone, whilst deftly balancing a meal for two in the other.

I finally locate somewhere to change money- a quiet looking tourist shop in the shadows of the castle. I get talking to the three guys working there, and once again, enter the bizarre world of the tourist worker. I'm served a nice cup of tea, as is the custom in these parts. After a couple of minutes, one of them closes the front door and walks up to me declaring:" We are Mossad (Israeli secret service). We want you to join us." I've noticed that during these chats, sellers get to see you more as real person and not just a potential sale. At no stage do I ever get asked to buy anything. Maybe they've already made enough money today as one of them flashes a 500 Euro note at me, and walks off, declaring he's away to buy a Bugatti.

I finally bid adieu and wander out the door towards some steps that lead up to the main gate of a very imposing castle. Safely up at the top of it's ramparts, I get a superb view of the surrounding city stretching out in all directions. I'm welcomed by a big family with lots of kids. Each one practices their English and every single "Hello!" is warm. The whistle blowers return in the form of custodians encouraging people to leave the huge castle as closing time approaches. On my way out, I pass the family from before. "Goodbye, Jake!" the youngest child enthusiastically shouts as I pass by them on the steps.

The evening begins frustratingly, attempting to find a bar, which either serves beer or has the EPL on. It's certainly an indicator that I have arrived in an Arabic country when you can't get a beer, but I was confident I'd find somewhere for the game. Never mind. I collect a bottle of the local scotch ("Sham") from a very discreet off licence and toddle back to the hostel. I catch up with Neil and Akiko and we share a drink and an interesting night's talk in the hostel's bar, before squeezing into the smallest room I have ever stayed in in my life. I've seen much bigger snooker tables. True story.