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.