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.
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