Jason's Weekly Slice: Life in and Around Abu Dhabi

A Day on the Road in Syria

Camille and I spent a day in Palmyra, Syria a few weeks back. Ancient desert ruins- a spectral sight, surrounded by sand and errant camels, and nouveau Bedouins on old motorcycles selling trinkets. As the new town is only a few ramshackle streets, it is virtually impossible to completely ditch a local trying to sell you something. This leads us to Mahmood, a charismatic, and shamelessly persistent cab driver who tracked us down multiple times to “offer” us a ride to our next stop: the crusader castle, Crak des Chevalier. After attempting to lose him- or get a better fair- through playing hard to get, or whatever one does when being stocked by a cabbie- we finally caved in. In no time, our bags were pack

ed, we had checked out of the rather bohemian one-star Ishtar Hotel (hopefully not named after the circa 1980 bomber film starring a much younger Dustin Hoffman), and we were off on another blind adventure in Syria.

I can’t think of the last time I spent the entire day with a cab driver- probably because there wasn’t one. Mahmood told us all about his wife and kids, his taste in women (an unsettling combination) and his political views. He seemed to leave out the fact that he was rather directionally-challenged and with a penchant for total denial. 

We drove west through the sandy desertscape of eastern Syria, as the landscape gradually came alive with rows of cypress and olive trees, brilliant fields of yellow wildflowers speckled with red poppies; fertile patchwork fields with a view of the distant snow-covered peaks bordering Lebanon. An old cement smokestack or other industrial artifacts the occasional reminder that this was still Syria.

An hour later we arrived at Crak des Chevalier, perched atop verdant green hills. Much like San Diego, or other Mediterranean climates, this grass will be golden yellow in a few months. Mahmood told us he would wait an hour or so for us, take us to our next destination, and we would call it a day.  We explored the castle, in all its textures of time- ranging from the 10^th century to the late medieval era. We met a Swiss biker outside who had just arrived, after motoring through the Caucasus and Iran en route from the motherland. We felt small and unadventurous- a feeling only exacerbated as the geriatric tour buses rolled up behind us.

This is when our linear plan became more circular. We decided to visit the beach, to make a loop, and end up in Apamea. We found our way to derelict Tartus, an industrial, litter-strewn port on the Mediterreanean. Seduced by the cobalt blue waters, careful to stick to walk between rubbish piles. No tour buses to be seen here. Mahmood smoked apple-flavored shi-sha under a colorful umbrella, looking on into the azure. This is as good as the job gets- certainly not saying much.

An hour later we found ourselves again in the green hills of central Syria, hairpin turns en route- we thought- to Apamea, another ancient Roman settlement. Numerous hilltop towns and hairpins later, Mahmood casually points out Crak des Chevalier on our right. It was then that our faith in our friend’s orientation prowess crumbled to powder. Perhaps out of spite for having been on the receiving end of Mahmood’s testosterone-driven denial, I insisted that he take us to Apamea, and that we arrive before sunset. He gave me a look somewhere between bewilderment and mild disgust, and we were off. Still silently lost. And full-steam ahead.

An hour later we were still speeding, the liquid orange sun creeping dangerously close to the horizon. In the last town we came to Mahmood did not bother slowing down at all. Mothers and children, and the occasional goat cleared a path for this runaway taxi, slowing for no one- despite anguished words of caution from the back seat. This man was going to get us to Apamea before sunset- dead or alive.

Minutes later, we arrived, noticeably shaken, but alive-- and euphoric with relief. Think Ebeneezer Scrooge the morning after.  This spot was stunningly worth the  risk. The golden hour was upon us, bathing in tangerine light a two-kilometer-long Roman colonnade. A redheaded shepherd boy grazed his sheep nearby. I ran through the fields of waist-high thistle to watch the sun set on one of the most dizzying days of our trip. It seemed to hesitate for a moment, setting the valley awash in diffused gold, before sinking out of sight.