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.