GEMINI
Last Monday (April 27th) was a holiday to celebrate the arrival of the Moslem New Year. However, Robert had to go to work because a meeting to be held with one of the most important industrialists in Syria had had to be postponed from the previous day and there no other time to have it except Monday. Then, when he came home at midday, he brought an invitation to have lunch at the Grill Restaurant which Shaam’s younger brother was going to open on April 30th. The whole family would be there, and the reason for the gathering was so that the cooks and waiters could have a trial run serving dishes, and those present were to criticize any defects they found either in the food, presentation or service. The young owner of the new enterprise was at pains to point out that this was a new concept in restaurants for Damascus, because he wanted it to be a place where service would be good but where the waiters would be friendly and not frosty or distant as they are trained to be at the big hotels.
The location is certainly ideal because the restaurant is in the heart of Abou Roummanah where all the best shops are. The installations are first class and all the kitchen equipment was imported from Europe through the Lebanon. The dishes are German and modern in design. He had also taken great care with the decoration because the colour scheme is quite unusual with a huge mural depicting the signs of the zodiac in metal and various other materials. There is a salad bar against one wall and quite near there there is a piano. He has hired a pianist and saxophonist to play jazz and blues every evening. This type of music will also be a novelty here.
All the family were there, including father who is a minister in the government, so I had the chance to thank him for smoothing my way the night I arrived. There are five brothers and three sisters in the family. The eldest brother is married and that day had two children but the next day, his wife, had another little boy. Having children for the middle and upper classes in this part of the world only involves having them because, once the children are born, a nanny is hired for each child. The eldest daughter is also married and the next brother was married but is now divorced. The youngest boy is fifteen and attends the Pakistani school where education is given in English. The second daughter has taken over the functions of the mother who died three years ago. This means that she must stay at home and act as the overseer, running the servants and keeping the house ticking over. However, she is also the cook. Apart from that, her only occupation is spending two or three hours a day at the gym exercising.
The food was good and it was particularly nice to have the opportunity to eat a variety of salads which are not found so often. Then we had salmon, which is the only non- meat dish served, and then dessert, or I should say desserts, because we had to try them all and then express an opinion. Robert pronounced the apple tart good and the chocolate cake was excellent. In general chocolate here is very good indeed. Then the coffee. This is the most difficult thing to find. Turkish and Arabic coffee are served almost everywhere, but European style coffee is very rare. People usually produce a jar of Nescafé instant coffee. However, Shaam’s brother has bought an Italian coffee machine and he is going to serve cappuccino and other varieties of coffee. The difficulty is that, apart from people who travel to Europe, nobody has ever heard of making coffee with milk so Robert has offered to show them how to make coffee with milk on the machine.
The trial run over, everyone heaved a sigh of relief and started to prepare for the inauguration, although, of course, no meals would be served that night as the guest list was very long. The inauguration caused great expectation in the street with loads of people standing around waiting to see who would be arriving. The street and the whole vicinity was covered with flower arrangements because the custom is that, when a new business opens, the friends of the owner send flowers which come arranged on tall plinths about 5-6 feet in height.
Whereas in Spain savoury hors d’oeuvres would have been served on such an occasion, here it was all sweet cakes made in small bite-size morsels. The sweets here are truly delicious and vast quantities were consumed. No alcohol was served, only soft drinks, although the grill does have a permit to serve beer (Holstein) with meals. It was also interesting to observe that most of the girls invited to this event did not cover their heads. Maybe only five or six wore head veils.
April 30th 1998
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
IN THE NAME OF BEAUT
IN THE NAME OF BEAUTY
With the fuzz on my legs growing apace, it was definitely time to find a place to remove the offending growth. Consultation with Shaam revealed that she had an appointment for a manicure on Saturday and that I could go along with her as she also had her legs done at the same place. This could prove to be an interesting experience, and it would certainly be novel as this was a salon where the traditional Arab method of hair-removal was used rather than the wax used in Europe.
Shaam collected me at half past ten, slightly later than arranged because she slept in. As we approached the beauty salon in the Abou Roummanah district, she said, “Now, this may not be the most beautiful of places and they don’t have individual cubicles, but they are good. I hope you don’t mind it. I’m used to it”. Alarm bells ring. We made our way under a dilapidated blue awning and down some steps to a basement apartment where Shaam knocked on the door, which was opened to reveal a small room with a desk on the right and a stout lady in a black suit sitting opposite with both arms spread out in crucifixion pose and one manicurist working on each hand. One foot was soaking in a basin of warm water and the pedicurist was working vigorously - and I mean vigorously! - with a pumice stone on the other.
A partition on the left separates this section of the room from another where there is a treatment couch and the various implements required for facials, but nobody was working there. Also to the left of the entrance is another door which leads on to another equally small room where “waxing” is done. Preparations were not complete, so I had to sit and wait for a few minutes. Then Shaam, who produced her own manicure kit and nail polish, took up her place at the manicure table, on the left of the other lady and separated from her by a table.
I was soon invited to go into the other room. Three tubular metal chairs with worn black imitation leather seats lined the wall with enough space between to put down a handbag. In front of each seat was a low plastic garden stool of a shade of purple dearly beloved of the Syrians. No couches. I sat in the centre seat and waited to see what would happen next. The girl who was to “do” me went over to a gas cooker just in front of the door and to the left of where I was sitting. On the stove was a large aluminium pot. The girl stirred the contents with a wooden spoon and then scooped up a dollop of brown toffee-coloured substance. It was indeed none other than a kind of toffee. The mixture used in Arab countries to remove body hair is a concoction made of sugar, lemon juice and water. Watching all this reminded me of the toffee Dad used to make for us when we were children. However, the required consistency for the particular purposes of hair removal is different, so it was not necessary to wait for the mixture to solidify on contact with water. Here, a more pliable consistency is needed. The fistful of “toffee” was moulded into a ball and the girl approached my legs. She proceeded to knead the ball and then, with great skill, spread it out to a width of about three fingers all the way down the lower leg. Then she lifted it up pulling the hairs out as she went. Then she kneaded again and repeated the procedure. From time to time she got up from her stool and rinsed the ball under the tap at a sink just behind her, washing away the hairs accumulated in the process. As she worked, the the mixture grew lighter in colour, reminiscent of honeysuckle blossom.
Another girl came in and sat on the chair on my left but not before stripping off her trousers and sweater and tossing them on to a shelf beside her. Two girls went to work on her legs as she perused the results minutely, pointing out any stray hair which might have escaped their attention. She also examined the quality of my hair in unashamed fashion which was quite disconcerting at first. The youngest girl working in the place, who may be the owner’s daughter, then sat down on the chair on my right with a tray on her knee. She demolished a plate of onion and tomato salad and then peeled a lemon which she cut up into small pieces and dipped into sugar and cinnamon. These morsels she fed to herself, with much puckering of the mouth, and to the girl who was doing my legs. Then another client came in and occupied the chair on my right and the young girl set to on her. This poor lady seemed not to have a very high pain threshold for she moaned and winced a great deal throughout the process, to which the girl paid not the slightest heed but worked on regardless.
Now most of my lower and upper legs had now been dealt with. “Stand up”, said the girl. I did. She tapped the seat of the chair. What was I to do? Place my foot on it and bend the leg so she could work on the back? No. Stand up here. On the chair?, I asked in astonishment. Yes. The other people were smiling at my obvious confusion. So, standing on the seat of the chair, with my skirts hitched up, the backs of my legs were duly dealt with in double quick time.
Now, sit down again. Roll up your sleeves. The next portion was my arms. In traditional Arab culture, women remove all body hair from the head down except their eyebrows and eye lashes. However, I indicated that I would limit her intervention to my legs and arms. Once both arms had been attended to, she then worked over my hands and then my feet removing every possible offending hair, even from the toes!
I must say that the sugar mixture is most effective, more effective than wax I think, but the process requires great skill on the part of the practitioner, who has to knead the mixture, spread it evenly with her hands, and then collect it up as she goes. The lemon in the mixture also serves as a kind of antiseptic eliminating the need for alcohol.
When she was satisfied with her work, the girl pointed to a small area a little larger than a shower cubicle with a shower attachment low down the wall. Wash now. I went inside and, over the girl’s back, asked the lady sitting on my right whether this is where she meant. She smiled and nodded her head, so I closed the door and went ahead washing the areas which had been treated. Treatment over.
Shaam’s French manicure was finished too and she was just waiting for the polish to dry, so I paid the bill which was extremely reasonable by European standards. For less than half the cost of a lower leg wax, the whole body could be treated.
The next stop was unexpected, because I did not know that Shaam had a hairdresser’s appointment too. We drove around a maze of streets before reaching a hairdressing salon belonging to the younger of two brothers both of whom are hairdressers. As my hair was straggly and had lost the shape of the last cut I had before leaving Spain, I took the unexpected opportunity to have it cut while Shaam was having red streaks put in her own dark auburn hair. Apart from the owner, there were five employees in the salon, all but one boys. There was no shortage of clients, a steady stream arriving all the time we were there. The hairdresser cut well and the result is pretty good.
The most interesting thing from my point of view was watching the other people there. Just as the souk is the haven of sparkle and glitter, hairdressing salons are the domain of lacquer and highly elaborate coiffures. There is much preening and examining of every stage of the process though not such coquetterie as in Santa Cruz in Bolivia which, in my experience, must be the the most coquettish of all towns.
As I sat in the beauty salon - that is really rather too grand a name for the establishment in question - I could not help but think of Christine, the lady who taught me aromatherapy. “Now, girls, at all times the client’s privacy must be maintained. As the client turns over, hold up the towel until she is comfortably settled in her place”. I could also hear her reprimanding the young girls taking her beautician’s course who had to be immaculately turned out in their white uniforms and comply with a series of basic professional rules designed with the client’s privacy and comfort in mind. What would Christine have to say here? I wonder...!
On the other hand, I can well imagine the hilarity once I had left at the gross ignorance of this foreigner who didn’t even know the ropes. Imagine! She didn’t even take off her skirt - just hitched it up!!!! Didn’t she know that beauty salons are a free zone, the domain of the female sisterhood?!
April 25th 1998
With the fuzz on my legs growing apace, it was definitely time to find a place to remove the offending growth. Consultation with Shaam revealed that she had an appointment for a manicure on Saturday and that I could go along with her as she also had her legs done at the same place. This could prove to be an interesting experience, and it would certainly be novel as this was a salon where the traditional Arab method of hair-removal was used rather than the wax used in Europe.
Shaam collected me at half past ten, slightly later than arranged because she slept in. As we approached the beauty salon in the Abou Roummanah district, she said, “Now, this may not be the most beautiful of places and they don’t have individual cubicles, but they are good. I hope you don’t mind it. I’m used to it”. Alarm bells ring. We made our way under a dilapidated blue awning and down some steps to a basement apartment where Shaam knocked on the door, which was opened to reveal a small room with a desk on the right and a stout lady in a black suit sitting opposite with both arms spread out in crucifixion pose and one manicurist working on each hand. One foot was soaking in a basin of warm water and the pedicurist was working vigorously - and I mean vigorously! - with a pumice stone on the other.
A partition on the left separates this section of the room from another where there is a treatment couch and the various implements required for facials, but nobody was working there. Also to the left of the entrance is another door which leads on to another equally small room where “waxing” is done. Preparations were not complete, so I had to sit and wait for a few minutes. Then Shaam, who produced her own manicure kit and nail polish, took up her place at the manicure table, on the left of the other lady and separated from her by a table.
I was soon invited to go into the other room. Three tubular metal chairs with worn black imitation leather seats lined the wall with enough space between to put down a handbag. In front of each seat was a low plastic garden stool of a shade of purple dearly beloved of the Syrians. No couches. I sat in the centre seat and waited to see what would happen next. The girl who was to “do” me went over to a gas cooker just in front of the door and to the left of where I was sitting. On the stove was a large aluminium pot. The girl stirred the contents with a wooden spoon and then scooped up a dollop of brown toffee-coloured substance. It was indeed none other than a kind of toffee. The mixture used in Arab countries to remove body hair is a concoction made of sugar, lemon juice and water. Watching all this reminded me of the toffee Dad used to make for us when we were children. However, the required consistency for the particular purposes of hair removal is different, so it was not necessary to wait for the mixture to solidify on contact with water. Here, a more pliable consistency is needed. The fistful of “toffee” was moulded into a ball and the girl approached my legs. She proceeded to knead the ball and then, with great skill, spread it out to a width of about three fingers all the way down the lower leg. Then she lifted it up pulling the hairs out as she went. Then she kneaded again and repeated the procedure. From time to time she got up from her stool and rinsed the ball under the tap at a sink just behind her, washing away the hairs accumulated in the process. As she worked, the the mixture grew lighter in colour, reminiscent of honeysuckle blossom.
Another girl came in and sat on the chair on my left but not before stripping off her trousers and sweater and tossing them on to a shelf beside her. Two girls went to work on her legs as she perused the results minutely, pointing out any stray hair which might have escaped their attention. She also examined the quality of my hair in unashamed fashion which was quite disconcerting at first. The youngest girl working in the place, who may be the owner’s daughter, then sat down on the chair on my right with a tray on her knee. She demolished a plate of onion and tomato salad and then peeled a lemon which she cut up into small pieces and dipped into sugar and cinnamon. These morsels she fed to herself, with much puckering of the mouth, and to the girl who was doing my legs. Then another client came in and occupied the chair on my right and the young girl set to on her. This poor lady seemed not to have a very high pain threshold for she moaned and winced a great deal throughout the process, to which the girl paid not the slightest heed but worked on regardless.
Now most of my lower and upper legs had now been dealt with. “Stand up”, said the girl. I did. She tapped the seat of the chair. What was I to do? Place my foot on it and bend the leg so she could work on the back? No. Stand up here. On the chair?, I asked in astonishment. Yes. The other people were smiling at my obvious confusion. So, standing on the seat of the chair, with my skirts hitched up, the backs of my legs were duly dealt with in double quick time.
Now, sit down again. Roll up your sleeves. The next portion was my arms. In traditional Arab culture, women remove all body hair from the head down except their eyebrows and eye lashes. However, I indicated that I would limit her intervention to my legs and arms. Once both arms had been attended to, she then worked over my hands and then my feet removing every possible offending hair, even from the toes!
I must say that the sugar mixture is most effective, more effective than wax I think, but the process requires great skill on the part of the practitioner, who has to knead the mixture, spread it evenly with her hands, and then collect it up as she goes. The lemon in the mixture also serves as a kind of antiseptic eliminating the need for alcohol.
When she was satisfied with her work, the girl pointed to a small area a little larger than a shower cubicle with a shower attachment low down the wall. Wash now. I went inside and, over the girl’s back, asked the lady sitting on my right whether this is where she meant. She smiled and nodded her head, so I closed the door and went ahead washing the areas which had been treated. Treatment over.
Shaam’s French manicure was finished too and she was just waiting for the polish to dry, so I paid the bill which was extremely reasonable by European standards. For less than half the cost of a lower leg wax, the whole body could be treated.
The next stop was unexpected, because I did not know that Shaam had a hairdresser’s appointment too. We drove around a maze of streets before reaching a hairdressing salon belonging to the younger of two brothers both of whom are hairdressers. As my hair was straggly and had lost the shape of the last cut I had before leaving Spain, I took the unexpected opportunity to have it cut while Shaam was having red streaks put in her own dark auburn hair. Apart from the owner, there were five employees in the salon, all but one boys. There was no shortage of clients, a steady stream arriving all the time we were there. The hairdresser cut well and the result is pretty good.
The most interesting thing from my point of view was watching the other people there. Just as the souk is the haven of sparkle and glitter, hairdressing salons are the domain of lacquer and highly elaborate coiffures. There is much preening and examining of every stage of the process though not such coquetterie as in Santa Cruz in Bolivia which, in my experience, must be the the most coquettish of all towns.
As I sat in the beauty salon - that is really rather too grand a name for the establishment in question - I could not help but think of Christine, the lady who taught me aromatherapy. “Now, girls, at all times the client’s privacy must be maintained. As the client turns over, hold up the towel until she is comfortably settled in her place”. I could also hear her reprimanding the young girls taking her beautician’s course who had to be immaculately turned out in their white uniforms and comply with a series of basic professional rules designed with the client’s privacy and comfort in mind. What would Christine have to say here? I wonder...!
On the other hand, I can well imagine the hilarity once I had left at the gross ignorance of this foreigner who didn’t even know the ropes. Imagine! She didn’t even take off her skirt - just hitched it up!!!! Didn’t she know that beauty salons are a free zone, the domain of the female sisterhood?!
April 25th 1998
Sunday, November 27, 2005
THE BARADA VALLEY
THE BARADA VALLEY AND BAPTISM BY ......
The time had come. It could be postponed no longer. I simply had to take the plunge and drive round the Ommeyad Square, which is not a square at all but a fearsome roundabout where about seven roads converge in an apocalyptic melée with no apparent rules and regulations. In fact they do exist. The traffic on the roundabout should give way to the traffic coming on to the roundabout, but, if the cars coming on to the roundabout show the slightest hesitation, then the vehicles lined up diagonally around the roundabout like athletes waiting for the starter’s gun in the 100m. race surge forward and you are doomed. Going round the “square” and getting out at the desired road requires jostling and jockeying for position like the athletes in the 10,000m. The one thing which cannot be allowed to intrude in this exercise is fear. You must go for it!
The main street from our house is the Mezzeh Autostrade which is the main route to Beirut and Jordan. Officially it has five lanes, but in practice there are seven or eight, depending on the amount of traffic and the degree of aggression on any particular day. Nearer town the five lanes divide with one branch heading off for the Customs and three lanes continuing with a filter from the right where the same rules of “chicken” apply. These three lanes flow to the Ommeyad Square where there is a set of traffic lights to regulate the flow of traffic onto the roundabout.
On Fridays the amount of traffic is much reduced as most people stay at home with their families, at least until evening when they go out for a spin or for dinner or a walk, so the ordeal could be postponed no longer. The plan was to practise going round the roundabout and getting off at the roads where I am most likely to want to go should the need arise. The first route was to the Meridien Hotel where there is the remote possibility of finding some parking with some shade, if need be, and from there the centre of town can be reached on foot. This meant getting on to the roundabout, staying as far to the right as possible, crossing the flow of traffic coming from the first road on the right and getting off again at the second road on the right. Made it! Then the road continues on past the Meridien on the left towards the centre when it is important to get into the right-hand lane so as to be able to go under the flyover and turn back towards the Meridien which is then on the right. At a pinch the streets behind the Meridien may afford come parking space.
Back to the Ommeyyad Square. This time the objective is to take the road on the right of the Meridien road which goes through the Abou Roummanah district where most of the embassies are located, turning left at a small roundabout into a relatively quiet, tree-lined street where it might be possible to find parking during week days. After that, back to the Ommeyyad Square again. This time to take the road which leaves the Sheraton Hotel on the left and leads into the Barada Valley.
Looking at the general barrenness of the countryside around Damascus, one might be forgiven for asking how people came to settle in such an unlikely looking place from earliest antiquity. The Barada River is the answer. This little river rises in the Ante-Lebanon Hills to the west of Damascus and flows down, watering the land, and through the heart of the city just outside the walls of the medina. Orchards sprang up along its course which supplied the population of the city. Unfortunately, today land speculation is covering the once verdant orchards with blocks of high rise apartment blocks.
The road winds its way alongside the river which is now straddled by hundreds of restaurants providing food and entertainment for the Damascenes on Fridays and in the summer evenings when they escape from the heat of the city to the shady cool of the riverside. The railway also crisscrosses the river and the road on its way up to Zabadani and the hill stations in the Ante-Lebanon. As we drove along we heard a sound I had not heard for many years - clickety-clack, clickety-clack - a steam train! A small train takes passengers, mostly tourists, from the Hijaz Station just beside the Hamadiyye Souq into the Barada Valley. The hiss of the steam and the cadences of the wheels reminded me of the train journeys we made as children on our way to the seaside when Peter and I would spend our time counting the number of cows we could see in the fields, or the number of sheep or the high tension pylons, or anything else we could think of.
Driving with Robert as a navigator is something of a nerve-wracking exercise because, in typical Piscean fashion, he says “Now, here you turn left - or you could go right if you like”. As he has a virtually unerring sense of orientation, he does not care which turning he takes because he will always be able to find his way back, sooner or later and somehow or another. “Now, what does that sign say?”. If my reading age in Arabic is about five years when in the navigator’s position, it is quickly reduced to minus five when in the driver’s seat, so I had to stop the car by the side of the road to decipher the sign. It was a revelation. We were on our way to Zabadani which we had visited some weeks earlier but approached it from the Lebanon side. So, we decided to keep on going until we came to the junction and then turn back. The road did indeed come to a point we recognized from our previous trip so, gratified, I turned around and headed back to Damascus.
As we drove through a heavily militarized area with a great deal of construction work going on, Robert suggested that we should take a right fork which would also take us to Damascus. However, I had hardly gone two hundred metres when he said, “Well, maybe we should just take the other road because this goes to .....” I stopped and prepared to make a U-turn. Just then a police car which had been stationary outside the military barracks came up the road behind me and passed. When they saw me preparing to turn back, they turned back too and caught up with me just as we reached the junction and prepared to turn right. Whatever their intentions, when they saw me - a woman - driving the car with a man in the passenger seat and a dog in the back they looked in amazement and decided to proceed no further. A lot of women do drive here, but I have never yet seen one driving accompanied by a man. They usually drive when alone or accompanied by other women but, when there is a man in the group, he is the one to drive.
Having had my baptism by water on Friday, on Saturday afternoon, when there is considerably more traffic than on Fridays, Robert thought I was ready for my baptism by fire, so we set off once again around the Ommeyyad Square and up the Barada Valley, as that is the last road off the roundabout and, therefore, involves facing up to the traffic right the way round the roundabout. We managed it safe and sound, so I think I am now in a position to face the next challenge which is doing it on my own!
April 25th 1998
The time had come. It could be postponed no longer. I simply had to take the plunge and drive round the Ommeyad Square, which is not a square at all but a fearsome roundabout where about seven roads converge in an apocalyptic melée with no apparent rules and regulations. In fact they do exist. The traffic on the roundabout should give way to the traffic coming on to the roundabout, but, if the cars coming on to the roundabout show the slightest hesitation, then the vehicles lined up diagonally around the roundabout like athletes waiting for the starter’s gun in the 100m. race surge forward and you are doomed. Going round the “square” and getting out at the desired road requires jostling and jockeying for position like the athletes in the 10,000m. The one thing which cannot be allowed to intrude in this exercise is fear. You must go for it!
The main street from our house is the Mezzeh Autostrade which is the main route to Beirut and Jordan. Officially it has five lanes, but in practice there are seven or eight, depending on the amount of traffic and the degree of aggression on any particular day. Nearer town the five lanes divide with one branch heading off for the Customs and three lanes continuing with a filter from the right where the same rules of “chicken” apply. These three lanes flow to the Ommeyad Square where there is a set of traffic lights to regulate the flow of traffic onto the roundabout.
On Fridays the amount of traffic is much reduced as most people stay at home with their families, at least until evening when they go out for a spin or for dinner or a walk, so the ordeal could be postponed no longer. The plan was to practise going round the roundabout and getting off at the roads where I am most likely to want to go should the need arise. The first route was to the Meridien Hotel where there is the remote possibility of finding some parking with some shade, if need be, and from there the centre of town can be reached on foot. This meant getting on to the roundabout, staying as far to the right as possible, crossing the flow of traffic coming from the first road on the right and getting off again at the second road on the right. Made it! Then the road continues on past the Meridien on the left towards the centre when it is important to get into the right-hand lane so as to be able to go under the flyover and turn back towards the Meridien which is then on the right. At a pinch the streets behind the Meridien may afford come parking space.
Back to the Ommeyyad Square. This time the objective is to take the road on the right of the Meridien road which goes through the Abou Roummanah district where most of the embassies are located, turning left at a small roundabout into a relatively quiet, tree-lined street where it might be possible to find parking during week days. After that, back to the Ommeyyad Square again. This time to take the road which leaves the Sheraton Hotel on the left and leads into the Barada Valley.
Looking at the general barrenness of the countryside around Damascus, one might be forgiven for asking how people came to settle in such an unlikely looking place from earliest antiquity. The Barada River is the answer. This little river rises in the Ante-Lebanon Hills to the west of Damascus and flows down, watering the land, and through the heart of the city just outside the walls of the medina. Orchards sprang up along its course which supplied the population of the city. Unfortunately, today land speculation is covering the once verdant orchards with blocks of high rise apartment blocks.
The road winds its way alongside the river which is now straddled by hundreds of restaurants providing food and entertainment for the Damascenes on Fridays and in the summer evenings when they escape from the heat of the city to the shady cool of the riverside. The railway also crisscrosses the river and the road on its way up to Zabadani and the hill stations in the Ante-Lebanon. As we drove along we heard a sound I had not heard for many years - clickety-clack, clickety-clack - a steam train! A small train takes passengers, mostly tourists, from the Hijaz Station just beside the Hamadiyye Souq into the Barada Valley. The hiss of the steam and the cadences of the wheels reminded me of the train journeys we made as children on our way to the seaside when Peter and I would spend our time counting the number of cows we could see in the fields, or the number of sheep or the high tension pylons, or anything else we could think of.
Driving with Robert as a navigator is something of a nerve-wracking exercise because, in typical Piscean fashion, he says “Now, here you turn left - or you could go right if you like”. As he has a virtually unerring sense of orientation, he does not care which turning he takes because he will always be able to find his way back, sooner or later and somehow or another. “Now, what does that sign say?”. If my reading age in Arabic is about five years when in the navigator’s position, it is quickly reduced to minus five when in the driver’s seat, so I had to stop the car by the side of the road to decipher the sign. It was a revelation. We were on our way to Zabadani which we had visited some weeks earlier but approached it from the Lebanon side. So, we decided to keep on going until we came to the junction and then turn back. The road did indeed come to a point we recognized from our previous trip so, gratified, I turned around and headed back to Damascus.
As we drove through a heavily militarized area with a great deal of construction work going on, Robert suggested that we should take a right fork which would also take us to Damascus. However, I had hardly gone two hundred metres when he said, “Well, maybe we should just take the other road because this goes to .....” I stopped and prepared to make a U-turn. Just then a police car which had been stationary outside the military barracks came up the road behind me and passed. When they saw me preparing to turn back, they turned back too and caught up with me just as we reached the junction and prepared to turn right. Whatever their intentions, when they saw me - a woman - driving the car with a man in the passenger seat and a dog in the back they looked in amazement and decided to proceed no further. A lot of women do drive here, but I have never yet seen one driving accompanied by a man. They usually drive when alone or accompanied by other women but, when there is a man in the group, he is the one to drive.
Having had my baptism by water on Friday, on Saturday afternoon, when there is considerably more traffic than on Fridays, Robert thought I was ready for my baptism by fire, so we set off once again around the Ommeyyad Square and up the Barada Valley, as that is the last road off the roundabout and, therefore, involves facing up to the traffic right the way round the roundabout. We managed it safe and sound, so I think I am now in a position to face the next challenge which is doing it on my own!
April 25th 1998
Friday, November 25, 2005
HAMA APAMEA AND QALA
HAMA, APAMEA AND QALA’AT ASH-SHMAMIS
This weekend we stretched the limits of our northern range a little further. On Friday we set off for Hama 47 kilometres north of Homs, which is really about as far as you can travel comfortably in one day if you want to see things, even without taking into account the supreme degree of discomfort involved in riding in the Peugeot car! Robert had managed to get a hotel reservation at the Noria Hotel and, if that should work out well, it would give us the freedom to use Hama as a centre for exploring the central and northern regions a little better. So, we were anxious to discover what kind of accomodation the hotel would offer and whether the staff would take kindly to Simon. They had accepted him when the reservation was made, but you never know ... Fortunately, things went well on every score. The hotel is small but clean and fairly comfortable, and the owner, Badr, who studied pharmacy in Dusseldorf, is crazy about dogs. While he was a student in Germany, he had a doberman and he never got over having to leave the dog behind in the care of German friends who kept him till he died when he returned to Syria.
The prospect of having a secure base from which to explore meant that seeing Hama itself was not our top priority, so, after tea with Badr who furnished us with reliable instructions on how to get there, we set off for Apamea which lies about forty kilometres north-west of Hama. Apamea was founded when the area was conquered by Alexander the Great and finally acquired its name, after a number of changes, when it was named after Apama, the wife of the Seleucid commander. It then became the third city of the Seleucid empire after Antioch and Seleucus, another city on the Tigris. The city was a main military garrison, near enough to be able to call in the troops to Antioch if necessary but far enough away to keep the military from meddling where they were not wanted, and, thanks to the abundant grazing available in the surrounding area, it was also used as a stud farm, supply depot and training area. Apparently at its height 30,000 mares, 300 stallions and over 500 elephants are recorded as having been stationed there! In antiquity the temple of Bel and the oracle of Apamea were famous as far away as southern France, and Apamea wine was also renowned for being mixed with honey. The town was conquered by Pompey and continued to prosper well into the Byzantine era when it became a bishopric.
This was once a vast city, but today the principle remains are the colonnades which lined the streets. Only two percent of the surface has been excavated so far, and it is unlikely ever to be excavated in its entirety as the area involved is so great. The modern tarmac road roughly follows the route of one of the ancient decamani, running east to west through the ruins. The main colonnaded thoroughfare still standing is the cardus maximus. The city was laid out on the grid pattern and this is still evident today. To the south is a short row of columns, some of which have recently been excavated, and the difference in colour between the golden stone of the recently uncovered sections contrasts sharply with the blackened sections which have been weathered over the centuries. The other remains on the southern side are those of a round church and an atrium church as well as a cathedral all dating from Byzantine times.
The majority of the remains are on the northern stretch and it takes about two hours to walk the length of the colonnaded cardus maximus which is about 1.85 kilometres long and, consequently, longer than both the road at Palmyra and Straight Street in Damascus. The original thoroughfare was 37.5 metres wide with a 20.5 metre centre section for wheeled traffic and the equivalent of pavements either side for pedestrians. The paving of the centre section is rougher than the pedestrian walkways which are paved with quite smooth stones. As we walked down the colonnade we could see the mark where chariots and carts had worn down the stone leaving their imprint there over hundreds and hundreds of years of use. This certainly was a busy place.
On the north side the remains of the forum are still to be seen, though not nearly so intact as those at Palmyra. The remains of the temple of Zeus, which was dismantled in the fourth century by the bishop, are visible too, but the best preserved set of remains is the baths where the plumbing system is still intact and visible through the various holes which have appeared in the place which, like all the other ruins, no longer has a roof. The city was once surrounded by over six kilometres of defensive wall with several gateways. The northern gateway is still standing.
However, the most spectacular feature about the ruins at Apamea is undoubtedly the columns, particularly the sections in the northern part where the columns are fluted and spiralled. This makes them look more graceful and lighter, because, on the whole, the columns at Apamea give a heavier impression than those at Palmyra, perhaps because of the massive bases of some of them, although it must be said that the carving is beautiful. Some of the columns also have brackets for statues similar to the ones on the columns at Palmyra, but there are not so many of them. I suppose this is because Apamea was a military centre where institutional propaganda would have been the order of the day rather than the ego trips of the big merchants at Palmyra who erected statues of themselves and their families to show everyone who had what and who was who. About three quarters of the way up the street, approaching the northern gate, is a votive column with a colossal base with space for people to sit. There were other similar columns elsewhere but they are no longer standing. We only managed to see about two other bases lying around on the ground.
The area of Apamea visible today is considerably smaller than that to be seen at Palmyra but, to my way of thinking, it is the difference in setting which is most striking. Apamea stands in rural surroundings with lots of grass and plants growing among the ruins and birds singing and flying about here and there. This rurality gives the whole place a more familiar dimension, whereas Palmyra, standing starkly as it does in the middle of the desert, has an air of mysticism and otherworldliness about it which make it unique.
There are some old Roman houses still standing and, in fact, we took a photograph of one topped by a satellite dish (!) where a family is still living. This is a true example of moving with the times and adapting the function of old things to suit modern needs.
The town of Apamea is overlooked by a citadel but, as time was short and we are not really interested in the constructions of war, we did not visit it, but, like most citadels, it is impressive perched on the top of the hill. At the foot of the citadel are the remains of the theatre. This was the largest theatre in Syria, larger even than the one at Bosra, but only a small part has been excavated. It also differs from the Bosra theatre in that here the sloping tiers of seats seem to follow the flow of the terrain whereas at Bosra the whole construction is built free-standing.
When we got back to Hama, Badr invited us to go out with him in the evening and he had also invited another Englishman who is running a water project in Hama and Deir az-Zor at the far end of the desert on the Euphrates. At 6.30 we all met at the hotel and we were introduced to Jim and his Polish wife, Stasha, who had the most perfect and flawless complexion I have ever seen as well as the proverbial flaxen hair. We retraced our steps through what we now discovered is called the “Valley of the Christians” to a village called Mhardeh where virtually all the inhabitants are Christians, particularly Greek Orthodox. As the name implies, most of the villages in this valley are inhabited by Christians, either Orthodox or Catholic, mostly Greek or Syrian. This was the Orthodox Good Friday, or “Sad Friday” as it is known in Arabic, and most of the people were to be found around the huge church or in the main street leading up to it. The children were all dressed in their best and nearly everybody was carrying a small wooden cross garlanded with flowers. As usual our walk through the town turned us into the protagonists of the evening because everyone was amazed at the dog and any children who were not with their parents started to follow us around. Poor Simon puts up with this penance with a stoicism worthy of Seneca himself. The village, like most modern villages and towns, has very little to see because the standards of construction are poor and town planning is non-existent.
Next morning we got up early with the intention of having a look around Hama itself, although we were aware that our plans might have to change as the first Spring Fair ever to be held was starting in the town that day, and fairs of any description are normally a source of noise and confusion which I could well do without. Our premonition proved correct, as a collection of bands beating out an infernal rhythm punctuated by cymbals shattered the air and nearly left us deaf and the poor dog wanting to dive for cover under the nearest bush. However, before we left, we did manage to take a walk around the centre of the town and see its most famous feature which is the seventeen huge waterwheels - one is twenty metres in diameter - which in former times picked up water from the River Orontes and fed it into a series of aquaducts which then fed the city’s water supply. The name of the hotel, the Noria, comes from the Arabic word for waterwheel, naura, which is yet another Arabic borrowing still in current use in Spanish (noria) and Portuguese (nora) today.
Hama is, in many ways, the heartland of Syria: it is mid-way between Damascus and Aleppo, as well as mid-way between the desert and the coast, and around this pivot many significant events in Syrian and world history have taken place. The surrounding countryside is also fertile and a great deal of market garden produce is grown there. The town stands on the River Orontes, whose Arabic name al-Assi means “the rebel”, so called because it flows “the wrong way” i.e. from north to south. Another great city standing on the banks of the Orontes is Antioch. The Orontes, like the Jordan River further south, drains the great rift valley. Hama faces the desert and in the past it was a great caravan city. Even today it is a silk-producing centre.
Modern Hama is fairly picturesque with its central park and the river running through the heart of the town, and the constant creaking and grinding sound of the waterwheels is like an ever-present accompaniment everywhere you go, but, apparently, it is but a shadow of its former beauty because in 1982 , when the disturbances took place relating to attempts to depose President Hafez al-Assad, the town was bombed and many of its most beautiful buildings were destroyed or severely damaged. Nonetheless, it is still by far the most attractive of the Syrian towns that we have visited so far. Hama’s past would also appear to have been marked by tension. The town and surrounding area are an Isma’ili stronghold. The Isma’ilis are a branch of Shi’a Moslems who believe that there were only seven imams after Muhammed rather than the twelve of mainstream Shi’ism and that the last one was Isma’il rather than Musa. A description of Hama from 1932 says it was “at the same time the most picturesque and the least touched by the west” of the towns of northern Syria but it was also “a very enclosed town, unforthcoming to strangers, whose inhabitants border on the fanatic”.
Hama is the site of an ancient settlement going back to the neolithic period. The central park of the town, next to the river, is the mound where the original ancient settlement stood and it has grown higher as one civilization built upon the remains of previous ones to form the present “hill”. Archeologists have found artifacts there dating back to the seventh millenium B.C. By the third millenium B.C. it was one of the most important central Syrian kingdoms together with Ebla and Qatna, which we have not visited yet. However, Hama’s period of greatest prosperity was around 1,100B.C. when it was an important centre in an Aramaean state. Its name, Hama, dates from this time when it was known as Hamath. All the inhabitants of the town were transported by the Assyrian conquerors but the town’s fortunes revived under the Persian Empire when the inhabitants returned. It remained prosperous under the Romans but after that time its importance was purely on the local stage. During the Middle Ages its main claim to fame was the silk produced in the city, an activity which continues today.
Once we had taken a walk around the central area with the waterwheels, we decided to take a look at the preparations for the fair. Overnight, hundreds of little kiosks had appeared along the pavement bordering the central mound, and the owners were busy setting out their displays of everything from domestic appliances to clothing and perfumery. However, our walk soon turned into a dramatization of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Before long I had about fifty children following me around. For someone who prefers to pass unnoticed, this is something of a trial! The problem with children is that they are so unpredictable (or maybe I should say too predictable). Most of the girls are petrified of the dog so they just give me a wide berth and float away, but the boys, most of whom are also afraid, cannot resist the temptation, firing questions about the dog. Once they get their courage up, they are apt to try and hit him or kick him from behind or pull his hair. This means that Robert has to take up the rearguard and act as bodyguard. The best policy is simply not to answer any of their questions because then they get bored much quicker and all but the most tenacious are likely to wander away. It is quite clear, however, that if an animal should be wandering around loose it would stand little chance because it would be tortured to death in no time at all. (Could this be reminiscent of the fanaticism mentioned in the quote earlier?) Simon, it must be said, pays no attention to them whatsoever. He just keeps on walking and refuses even to look round even when they hit or kick him. It is an interesting thing that when he meets “Western” people, he susses them out straight away and his reactions are much more effusive. Some German ladies were visiting the Krak des Chevaliers at the same time as us and, when he heard them speaking, he immediately started to wag his tail and pay attention to them. The same thing happened with Jim, the consultant in Hama. Curious!
As we drove out of the town I saw a large building with a sign saying Faculty of Veterinary Medicine. This surely was a revelation. Where do all the graduates of this faculty work? So far, we have not seen a single veterinary practice in the whole of Damascus. I can only assume that they are employed in government livestock programmes and such like.
As the commotion of bands and parades forced us out of Hama fairly early, we decided to take one of the side roads which lead into the desert to see a citadel Robert had read about which is built in the crater of an extinct volcano and the photo looked very dramatic. The citadel is called Qala’at ash-shmamis and it is just on the outskirts of a village called Salamiya. At first we could not see any road leading up to it but, as we approached the arch marking the entrance to Salamiya, we saw a track snaking up the side of the volcano and another track taking off from the far side of the road, so we turned around and took the dirt track which, sure enough, joined the one up to the volcano. We parked at the bottom and climbed up the hill. The remains of the citadel, now badly eroded by the wind and the rain, do indeed sit in the centre of the crater, and it must have taken many thousands of workmen to build up the earthworks on which the citadel is perched looking from afar as though it is sitting right on the rim of the crater. The citadel was built by the Fatimids, an offshoot of the Isma’ilis. In fact the first caliph of the Fatimid dynasty was born in Salamiya. Although there is not much left to see, it was worth climbing up to see the view over the surrounding countryside, and Robert climbed up the earthworks to get a closer look at the citadel itself where there would appear to be underground chambers.
April 18th 1998
This weekend we stretched the limits of our northern range a little further. On Friday we set off for Hama 47 kilometres north of Homs, which is really about as far as you can travel comfortably in one day if you want to see things, even without taking into account the supreme degree of discomfort involved in riding in the Peugeot car! Robert had managed to get a hotel reservation at the Noria Hotel and, if that should work out well, it would give us the freedom to use Hama as a centre for exploring the central and northern regions a little better. So, we were anxious to discover what kind of accomodation the hotel would offer and whether the staff would take kindly to Simon. They had accepted him when the reservation was made, but you never know ... Fortunately, things went well on every score. The hotel is small but clean and fairly comfortable, and the owner, Badr, who studied pharmacy in Dusseldorf, is crazy about dogs. While he was a student in Germany, he had a doberman and he never got over having to leave the dog behind in the care of German friends who kept him till he died when he returned to Syria.
The prospect of having a secure base from which to explore meant that seeing Hama itself was not our top priority, so, after tea with Badr who furnished us with reliable instructions on how to get there, we set off for Apamea which lies about forty kilometres north-west of Hama. Apamea was founded when the area was conquered by Alexander the Great and finally acquired its name, after a number of changes, when it was named after Apama, the wife of the Seleucid commander. It then became the third city of the Seleucid empire after Antioch and Seleucus, another city on the Tigris. The city was a main military garrison, near enough to be able to call in the troops to Antioch if necessary but far enough away to keep the military from meddling where they were not wanted, and, thanks to the abundant grazing available in the surrounding area, it was also used as a stud farm, supply depot and training area. Apparently at its height 30,000 mares, 300 stallions and over 500 elephants are recorded as having been stationed there! In antiquity the temple of Bel and the oracle of Apamea were famous as far away as southern France, and Apamea wine was also renowned for being mixed with honey. The town was conquered by Pompey and continued to prosper well into the Byzantine era when it became a bishopric.
This was once a vast city, but today the principle remains are the colonnades which lined the streets. Only two percent of the surface has been excavated so far, and it is unlikely ever to be excavated in its entirety as the area involved is so great. The modern tarmac road roughly follows the route of one of the ancient decamani, running east to west through the ruins. The main colonnaded thoroughfare still standing is the cardus maximus. The city was laid out on the grid pattern and this is still evident today. To the south is a short row of columns, some of which have recently been excavated, and the difference in colour between the golden stone of the recently uncovered sections contrasts sharply with the blackened sections which have been weathered over the centuries. The other remains on the southern side are those of a round church and an atrium church as well as a cathedral all dating from Byzantine times.
The majority of the remains are on the northern stretch and it takes about two hours to walk the length of the colonnaded cardus maximus which is about 1.85 kilometres long and, consequently, longer than both the road at Palmyra and Straight Street in Damascus. The original thoroughfare was 37.5 metres wide with a 20.5 metre centre section for wheeled traffic and the equivalent of pavements either side for pedestrians. The paving of the centre section is rougher than the pedestrian walkways which are paved with quite smooth stones. As we walked down the colonnade we could see the mark where chariots and carts had worn down the stone leaving their imprint there over hundreds and hundreds of years of use. This certainly was a busy place.
On the north side the remains of the forum are still to be seen, though not nearly so intact as those at Palmyra. The remains of the temple of Zeus, which was dismantled in the fourth century by the bishop, are visible too, but the best preserved set of remains is the baths where the plumbing system is still intact and visible through the various holes which have appeared in the place which, like all the other ruins, no longer has a roof. The city was once surrounded by over six kilometres of defensive wall with several gateways. The northern gateway is still standing.
However, the most spectacular feature about the ruins at Apamea is undoubtedly the columns, particularly the sections in the northern part where the columns are fluted and spiralled. This makes them look more graceful and lighter, because, on the whole, the columns at Apamea give a heavier impression than those at Palmyra, perhaps because of the massive bases of some of them, although it must be said that the carving is beautiful. Some of the columns also have brackets for statues similar to the ones on the columns at Palmyra, but there are not so many of them. I suppose this is because Apamea was a military centre where institutional propaganda would have been the order of the day rather than the ego trips of the big merchants at Palmyra who erected statues of themselves and their families to show everyone who had what and who was who. About three quarters of the way up the street, approaching the northern gate, is a votive column with a colossal base with space for people to sit. There were other similar columns elsewhere but they are no longer standing. We only managed to see about two other bases lying around on the ground.
The area of Apamea visible today is considerably smaller than that to be seen at Palmyra but, to my way of thinking, it is the difference in setting which is most striking. Apamea stands in rural surroundings with lots of grass and plants growing among the ruins and birds singing and flying about here and there. This rurality gives the whole place a more familiar dimension, whereas Palmyra, standing starkly as it does in the middle of the desert, has an air of mysticism and otherworldliness about it which make it unique.
There are some old Roman houses still standing and, in fact, we took a photograph of one topped by a satellite dish (!) where a family is still living. This is a true example of moving with the times and adapting the function of old things to suit modern needs.
The town of Apamea is overlooked by a citadel but, as time was short and we are not really interested in the constructions of war, we did not visit it, but, like most citadels, it is impressive perched on the top of the hill. At the foot of the citadel are the remains of the theatre. This was the largest theatre in Syria, larger even than the one at Bosra, but only a small part has been excavated. It also differs from the Bosra theatre in that here the sloping tiers of seats seem to follow the flow of the terrain whereas at Bosra the whole construction is built free-standing.
When we got back to Hama, Badr invited us to go out with him in the evening and he had also invited another Englishman who is running a water project in Hama and Deir az-Zor at the far end of the desert on the Euphrates. At 6.30 we all met at the hotel and we were introduced to Jim and his Polish wife, Stasha, who had the most perfect and flawless complexion I have ever seen as well as the proverbial flaxen hair. We retraced our steps through what we now discovered is called the “Valley of the Christians” to a village called Mhardeh where virtually all the inhabitants are Christians, particularly Greek Orthodox. As the name implies, most of the villages in this valley are inhabited by Christians, either Orthodox or Catholic, mostly Greek or Syrian. This was the Orthodox Good Friday, or “Sad Friday” as it is known in Arabic, and most of the people were to be found around the huge church or in the main street leading up to it. The children were all dressed in their best and nearly everybody was carrying a small wooden cross garlanded with flowers. As usual our walk through the town turned us into the protagonists of the evening because everyone was amazed at the dog and any children who were not with their parents started to follow us around. Poor Simon puts up with this penance with a stoicism worthy of Seneca himself. The village, like most modern villages and towns, has very little to see because the standards of construction are poor and town planning is non-existent.
Next morning we got up early with the intention of having a look around Hama itself, although we were aware that our plans might have to change as the first Spring Fair ever to be held was starting in the town that day, and fairs of any description are normally a source of noise and confusion which I could well do without. Our premonition proved correct, as a collection of bands beating out an infernal rhythm punctuated by cymbals shattered the air and nearly left us deaf and the poor dog wanting to dive for cover under the nearest bush. However, before we left, we did manage to take a walk around the centre of the town and see its most famous feature which is the seventeen huge waterwheels - one is twenty metres in diameter - which in former times picked up water from the River Orontes and fed it into a series of aquaducts which then fed the city’s water supply. The name of the hotel, the Noria, comes from the Arabic word for waterwheel, naura, which is yet another Arabic borrowing still in current use in Spanish (noria) and Portuguese (nora) today.
Hama is, in many ways, the heartland of Syria: it is mid-way between Damascus and Aleppo, as well as mid-way between the desert and the coast, and around this pivot many significant events in Syrian and world history have taken place. The surrounding countryside is also fertile and a great deal of market garden produce is grown there. The town stands on the River Orontes, whose Arabic name al-Assi means “the rebel”, so called because it flows “the wrong way” i.e. from north to south. Another great city standing on the banks of the Orontes is Antioch. The Orontes, like the Jordan River further south, drains the great rift valley. Hama faces the desert and in the past it was a great caravan city. Even today it is a silk-producing centre.
Modern Hama is fairly picturesque with its central park and the river running through the heart of the town, and the constant creaking and grinding sound of the waterwheels is like an ever-present accompaniment everywhere you go, but, apparently, it is but a shadow of its former beauty because in 1982 , when the disturbances took place relating to attempts to depose President Hafez al-Assad, the town was bombed and many of its most beautiful buildings were destroyed or severely damaged. Nonetheless, it is still by far the most attractive of the Syrian towns that we have visited so far. Hama’s past would also appear to have been marked by tension. The town and surrounding area are an Isma’ili stronghold. The Isma’ilis are a branch of Shi’a Moslems who believe that there were only seven imams after Muhammed rather than the twelve of mainstream Shi’ism and that the last one was Isma’il rather than Musa. A description of Hama from 1932 says it was “at the same time the most picturesque and the least touched by the west” of the towns of northern Syria but it was also “a very enclosed town, unforthcoming to strangers, whose inhabitants border on the fanatic”.
Hama is the site of an ancient settlement going back to the neolithic period. The central park of the town, next to the river, is the mound where the original ancient settlement stood and it has grown higher as one civilization built upon the remains of previous ones to form the present “hill”. Archeologists have found artifacts there dating back to the seventh millenium B.C. By the third millenium B.C. it was one of the most important central Syrian kingdoms together with Ebla and Qatna, which we have not visited yet. However, Hama’s period of greatest prosperity was around 1,100B.C. when it was an important centre in an Aramaean state. Its name, Hama, dates from this time when it was known as Hamath. All the inhabitants of the town were transported by the Assyrian conquerors but the town’s fortunes revived under the Persian Empire when the inhabitants returned. It remained prosperous under the Romans but after that time its importance was purely on the local stage. During the Middle Ages its main claim to fame was the silk produced in the city, an activity which continues today.
Once we had taken a walk around the central area with the waterwheels, we decided to take a look at the preparations for the fair. Overnight, hundreds of little kiosks had appeared along the pavement bordering the central mound, and the owners were busy setting out their displays of everything from domestic appliances to clothing and perfumery. However, our walk soon turned into a dramatization of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Before long I had about fifty children following me around. For someone who prefers to pass unnoticed, this is something of a trial! The problem with children is that they are so unpredictable (or maybe I should say too predictable). Most of the girls are petrified of the dog so they just give me a wide berth and float away, but the boys, most of whom are also afraid, cannot resist the temptation, firing questions about the dog. Once they get their courage up, they are apt to try and hit him or kick him from behind or pull his hair. This means that Robert has to take up the rearguard and act as bodyguard. The best policy is simply not to answer any of their questions because then they get bored much quicker and all but the most tenacious are likely to wander away. It is quite clear, however, that if an animal should be wandering around loose it would stand little chance because it would be tortured to death in no time at all. (Could this be reminiscent of the fanaticism mentioned in the quote earlier?) Simon, it must be said, pays no attention to them whatsoever. He just keeps on walking and refuses even to look round even when they hit or kick him. It is an interesting thing that when he meets “Western” people, he susses them out straight away and his reactions are much more effusive. Some German ladies were visiting the Krak des Chevaliers at the same time as us and, when he heard them speaking, he immediately started to wag his tail and pay attention to them. The same thing happened with Jim, the consultant in Hama. Curious!
As we drove out of the town I saw a large building with a sign saying Faculty of Veterinary Medicine. This surely was a revelation. Where do all the graduates of this faculty work? So far, we have not seen a single veterinary practice in the whole of Damascus. I can only assume that they are employed in government livestock programmes and such like.
As the commotion of bands and parades forced us out of Hama fairly early, we decided to take one of the side roads which lead into the desert to see a citadel Robert had read about which is built in the crater of an extinct volcano and the photo looked very dramatic. The citadel is called Qala’at ash-shmamis and it is just on the outskirts of a village called Salamiya. At first we could not see any road leading up to it but, as we approached the arch marking the entrance to Salamiya, we saw a track snaking up the side of the volcano and another track taking off from the far side of the road, so we turned around and took the dirt track which, sure enough, joined the one up to the volcano. We parked at the bottom and climbed up the hill. The remains of the citadel, now badly eroded by the wind and the rain, do indeed sit in the centre of the crater, and it must have taken many thousands of workmen to build up the earthworks on which the citadel is perched looking from afar as though it is sitting right on the rim of the crater. The citadel was built by the Fatimids, an offshoot of the Isma’ilis. In fact the first caliph of the Fatimid dynasty was born in Salamiya. Although there is not much left to see, it was worth climbing up to see the view over the surrounding countryside, and Robert climbed up the earthworks to get a closer look at the citadel itself where there would appear to be underground chambers.
April 18th 1998
Thursday, November 24, 2005
QANAWAT
QANAWAT
Our plans having been thwarted on the northward-bound trip to Homs and Tartous, we decided to head south once again on the last excursion of these Eid holidays, so we took the same road towards Shahba but, instead of entering the town, we continued further south towards Suweida which is the provincial capital of the Suweida district. There are few ruins to be seen in Suweida itself, but they do have an important museum where many items that were taken from other sites, including Shahba, are on display.
The black basalt museum building is quite modern and fairly well maintained. There is a large number of exhibits including statues, pottery and lintels with inscriptions in either Greek or Latin. Given the hardness of the basalt stone, it is amazing how refined the sculptures are with fine detailed work. I particularly liked a statue of a horse and several Winged Victories where the folds of the clothing are carved beautifully. The carved heads showing the close curls of the people are also fine and the sculptures of eagles are so true to life that you can tell which are booted eagles and which snake eagles and so on. Two exhibits caught my eye. One was a chart (financed by TOTAL which financed a great deal of the work carried out by French archeological teams) showing the various alphabets of antiquity with the phonetic value alongside. Another was an example of the doors of the dwellings and tombs of the Hauran which were carved out of solid basalt rock all in one piece including the stone hinges which then fitted into a depression in the doorway. I had read about these doors but this was the first example I had seen. There are also fine mosaics taken from other sites and displayed on the walls, but I preferred the mosaics at Shahba which could be seen in situ on the floor just as they had been.
We then continued along the road for four kilometres to Qanawat, which means canals in Arabic, where there are a number of remains to be seen. Qanawat is an ancient site going back to the first century B.C. In 1A.D., during the reign of Herod Agrippa, it is mentioned as being in an area infested with brigands. During the Byzantine period Christianity flourished in Qanawat, as it did elsewhere in the Hauran, but once the area fell to the Islamic forces in the seventh century it entered a period of decline, and by the mid-19th. century was virtually deserted. The present population, as at Shahba and most of the surrounding locations, are Druze immigrants from the Lebanon.
The surroundings of the village are pleasant with olive groves and other trees. The main ruin is called the Seraya and is Roman in origin, the orientation at that time being north-south. Later, however, the building was adapted to form two basilicas and for religious reasons they were re-oriented so that the altar would face eastwards. There is a row of imposing columns at the southern end of the building and at one end a tower which was a later addition following the fashion for towers in the monastic tradition of northern Syria.
Inside we met two families, one from Hama just north of Homs where we had been a couple of days before who had come to visit friends at Qanawat. The wives were sitting on a fallen column under a large olive tree and the children had to come and have a look at Simon. When we had seen the ruins, we also sat for a while in the shade of the olive tree because the ruins had a nice feel about them. The contrast between the heavy dark basalt constructions of the Hauran and the light, graceful elegance of Palmyra could not be more marked.
One of the interesting points we saw there was the depressions either side of the door entrances where the stone hinges of the stone doors would have been. At the back of the northern basilica we even saw a window shutter made of stone, with its stone hinges intact, which must have come from the windows above the door. None of the doors or shutters was in place, however. I am looking forward to finding a site with one in place to see how they open and close. The very fact that they had such doors and windows indicates great mastery of building techniques and particularly of the plumb line because, if the wall should be out of plumb, then the doors which weigh tons simply would be impossible to move.
We then found the small Temple of Zeus with a number of columns standing. This ruin was being surveyed and plotted by a group of students from a German university who were working very hard and meticulously. After that we had an ice-cream at a little shop just opposite.
There are several other ruins including a small theatre at Qanawat but I had forgotten my glasses and Robert is simply hopeless having no patience for reading the meticulous instruction of how to get to such places, so we headed back to Shahba, a town we liked, to buy some fruit and other supplies which are considerably cheaper in these little towns than in Damascus, or at least the part of Damascus where we live.
Having seen photographs of the inside of the crater of the Tell Shihan volcano which overlooks Shahba at the Suweida museum, we have decided to try and climb the volcano early one morning to see what it is like. Such an excursion will have to be in the early morning because the sun now gets very hot very early.
April 11th. 1998
Our plans having been thwarted on the northward-bound trip to Homs and Tartous, we decided to head south once again on the last excursion of these Eid holidays, so we took the same road towards Shahba but, instead of entering the town, we continued further south towards Suweida which is the provincial capital of the Suweida district. There are few ruins to be seen in Suweida itself, but they do have an important museum where many items that were taken from other sites, including Shahba, are on display.
The black basalt museum building is quite modern and fairly well maintained. There is a large number of exhibits including statues, pottery and lintels with inscriptions in either Greek or Latin. Given the hardness of the basalt stone, it is amazing how refined the sculptures are with fine detailed work. I particularly liked a statue of a horse and several Winged Victories where the folds of the clothing are carved beautifully. The carved heads showing the close curls of the people are also fine and the sculptures of eagles are so true to life that you can tell which are booted eagles and which snake eagles and so on. Two exhibits caught my eye. One was a chart (financed by TOTAL which financed a great deal of the work carried out by French archeological teams) showing the various alphabets of antiquity with the phonetic value alongside. Another was an example of the doors of the dwellings and tombs of the Hauran which were carved out of solid basalt rock all in one piece including the stone hinges which then fitted into a depression in the doorway. I had read about these doors but this was the first example I had seen. There are also fine mosaics taken from other sites and displayed on the walls, but I preferred the mosaics at Shahba which could be seen in situ on the floor just as they had been.
We then continued along the road for four kilometres to Qanawat, which means canals in Arabic, where there are a number of remains to be seen. Qanawat is an ancient site going back to the first century B.C. In 1A.D., during the reign of Herod Agrippa, it is mentioned as being in an area infested with brigands. During the Byzantine period Christianity flourished in Qanawat, as it did elsewhere in the Hauran, but once the area fell to the Islamic forces in the seventh century it entered a period of decline, and by the mid-19th. century was virtually deserted. The present population, as at Shahba and most of the surrounding locations, are Druze immigrants from the Lebanon.
The surroundings of the village are pleasant with olive groves and other trees. The main ruin is called the Seraya and is Roman in origin, the orientation at that time being north-south. Later, however, the building was adapted to form two basilicas and for religious reasons they were re-oriented so that the altar would face eastwards. There is a row of imposing columns at the southern end of the building and at one end a tower which was a later addition following the fashion for towers in the monastic tradition of northern Syria.
Inside we met two families, one from Hama just north of Homs where we had been a couple of days before who had come to visit friends at Qanawat. The wives were sitting on a fallen column under a large olive tree and the children had to come and have a look at Simon. When we had seen the ruins, we also sat for a while in the shade of the olive tree because the ruins had a nice feel about them. The contrast between the heavy dark basalt constructions of the Hauran and the light, graceful elegance of Palmyra could not be more marked.
One of the interesting points we saw there was the depressions either side of the door entrances where the stone hinges of the stone doors would have been. At the back of the northern basilica we even saw a window shutter made of stone, with its stone hinges intact, which must have come from the windows above the door. None of the doors or shutters was in place, however. I am looking forward to finding a site with one in place to see how they open and close. The very fact that they had such doors and windows indicates great mastery of building techniques and particularly of the plumb line because, if the wall should be out of plumb, then the doors which weigh tons simply would be impossible to move.
We then found the small Temple of Zeus with a number of columns standing. This ruin was being surveyed and plotted by a group of students from a German university who were working very hard and meticulously. After that we had an ice-cream at a little shop just opposite.
There are several other ruins including a small theatre at Qanawat but I had forgotten my glasses and Robert is simply hopeless having no patience for reading the meticulous instruction of how to get to such places, so we headed back to Shahba, a town we liked, to buy some fruit and other supplies which are considerably cheaper in these little towns than in Damascus, or at least the part of Damascus where we live.
Having seen photographs of the inside of the crater of the Tell Shihan volcano which overlooks Shahba at the Suweida museum, we have decided to try and climb the volcano early one morning to see what it is like. Such an excursion will have to be in the early morning because the sun now gets very hot very early.
April 11th. 1998
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
ORTHODOX EASTER SERV
ORTHODOX EASTER SERVICE
In the Orthodox church, which never changed over to the Gregorian calendar but follows the Julian calendar, Easter falls one week after “Latin” Easter. With the help of George, a Greek Orthodox consultant working at the office, we found out that the Easter Mass would be held at seven o’clock on Easter Sunday morning, and we made the effort to get there on time. We arrived only a few minutes late because, when we got down to the street, the hired Clio would not start (again) which meant that we had to go back and change cars, all of which takes time and consumed precious minutes.
The Greek Orthodox Patriarchate in Damascus, which comes under the Patriarchate of Antioch, is a large building inside a walled precinct about a mile down Straight Street from Bab Sharki and almost on the limit of the Christian quarter of Damascus. We had been there before but everything was closed and workmen were labouring furiously. This time, however, the church doors were wide open and singing was to be heard from the street. The church was already full to capacity and more and more people kept arriving as the service progressed. There is plenty of room for late arrivals in a mass which lasts for three hours!
With standing-room only, we positioned ourselves at the back of the centre aisle so as to have a good view of all that was going on. On our left was a small counter where the pass-keepers issued candles to the various people who requested them as they came in and then went to one of the candle stands on either side of the door to place the smaller candles there. There were also larger candles with a cardboard protection around it to catch the wax which many people held in their hands thoughout the service.
The layout of the church is fairly standard in that it has a centre aisle and two side aisles. At the front on the left side looking from the back stood a mixed choir and on the right a male choir of young men dressed in black who I understood to be studying for the priesthood. The main difference between this church and a catholic church is that where the altar rail would be in traditional (i.e. pre-Vatican II) catholic churches, in the Greek Orthodox church there is a partition, the iconostasis, bearing icons in the centre of which there is an arch and through the arch the altar, or the centre part of it, is visible. A great deal of the early part of the liturgy is carried out before the arch and during the very first part the principle celebrant sits on a chair raised up on a dais. As the mass progresses and more of the liturgy takes place at the altar behind the iconostasis, this chair is then removed. There are no statues in the church, their place being taken by icons painted in the Byzantine style like the picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour which is perhaps the only (or at least the most widely known) example of this type of a art currently used in the Catholic church.
In general terms the mass is essentially the same, except that the order of service is slightly altered: for instance, the creed is recited just before the consecration and the sermon takes place right before communion. However, in the essentials the differences are minimal though the orthodox service is much more elaborate. There is abundant use of incense too. Before the offertory all the priests, except the principal celebrant, deacons and altar boys process right around the church carrying the bread and wine which is to be consecrated. At this point the splendour of the vestments made of magnificent damask brocade was very much in evidence. I particularly liked one set which were a deep pink and gold. Quite magnificent! Another difference is that the bread is real bread and none of those wafers. Each roll is cut up into quarters and, when communion time comes, each person or family is given a quarter which they then divide up among their children. When the time came, we were given our quarter too. It is rather sweet bread and quite delicious.
As this was a Greek Orthodox church, I was interested to see that, apart from the Kyrie Eleison and couple of other items at the start of the mass, all the prayers were sung or recited in Arabic, the Greek “Theos” giving way to the Arabic “Allah”. Of course, this “Greek” population has been here for centuries, so it is natural that their vulgate language should be Arabic. On the other hand, the atmosphere was decidedly European in that the people’s clothing is modern and the women wear knee-length skirts and do not cover their heads as the Arab women do. People here still dress up to go to church and the children, who behave exceptionally well particularly in view of the length of the service, were in their best. This year’s fashion for little boys seems to be navy blue trousers and waistcoats and bow ties. They thoroughly enjoyed themselves lighting candles. One or two of the older male members of the congregation wore keffiyehs on their heads (one took his off when he came into the church) but this was undoubtedly the exception. Many of the people were blond or fair-headed in the manner of the Classical as opposed to modern Greeks and the children’s names were certainly Greek - Alexei, Giorgios and so forth. George is a common name here and the Patriarchate is dedicated to St. George so there are many icons depicting this saint fighting the dragon.
However, the most outstanding feature of the Orthodox mass is the music. For the three hours that the service lasted, there was not one single moment of silence, and the whole liturgy is sung except for the recitation of the creed, the declaration of the faith and the sermon which are spoken. Everything else - EVERYTHING - is sung or chanted, either by one or both choirs with or without the participation of the congregation. Quite magnificent. All the music is unaccompanied and a particular feature is a constant bass drone similar to the drone on a bagpipes. For the music alone it is well worth coming to this church because, apart from anything else, you come away feeling edified by the sheer beauty of the sounds and the colours and the grace of the movements of the celebrants.
April 11th 1998
In the Orthodox church, which never changed over to the Gregorian calendar but follows the Julian calendar, Easter falls one week after “Latin” Easter. With the help of George, a Greek Orthodox consultant working at the office, we found out that the Easter Mass would be held at seven o’clock on Easter Sunday morning, and we made the effort to get there on time. We arrived only a few minutes late because, when we got down to the street, the hired Clio would not start (again) which meant that we had to go back and change cars, all of which takes time and consumed precious minutes.
The Greek Orthodox Patriarchate in Damascus, which comes under the Patriarchate of Antioch, is a large building inside a walled precinct about a mile down Straight Street from Bab Sharki and almost on the limit of the Christian quarter of Damascus. We had been there before but everything was closed and workmen were labouring furiously. This time, however, the church doors were wide open and singing was to be heard from the street. The church was already full to capacity and more and more people kept arriving as the service progressed. There is plenty of room for late arrivals in a mass which lasts for three hours!
With standing-room only, we positioned ourselves at the back of the centre aisle so as to have a good view of all that was going on. On our left was a small counter where the pass-keepers issued candles to the various people who requested them as they came in and then went to one of the candle stands on either side of the door to place the smaller candles there. There were also larger candles with a cardboard protection around it to catch the wax which many people held in their hands thoughout the service.
The layout of the church is fairly standard in that it has a centre aisle and two side aisles. At the front on the left side looking from the back stood a mixed choir and on the right a male choir of young men dressed in black who I understood to be studying for the priesthood. The main difference between this church and a catholic church is that where the altar rail would be in traditional (i.e. pre-Vatican II) catholic churches, in the Greek Orthodox church there is a partition, the iconostasis, bearing icons in the centre of which there is an arch and through the arch the altar, or the centre part of it, is visible. A great deal of the early part of the liturgy is carried out before the arch and during the very first part the principle celebrant sits on a chair raised up on a dais. As the mass progresses and more of the liturgy takes place at the altar behind the iconostasis, this chair is then removed. There are no statues in the church, their place being taken by icons painted in the Byzantine style like the picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour which is perhaps the only (or at least the most widely known) example of this type of a art currently used in the Catholic church.
In general terms the mass is essentially the same, except that the order of service is slightly altered: for instance, the creed is recited just before the consecration and the sermon takes place right before communion. However, in the essentials the differences are minimal though the orthodox service is much more elaborate. There is abundant use of incense too. Before the offertory all the priests, except the principal celebrant, deacons and altar boys process right around the church carrying the bread and wine which is to be consecrated. At this point the splendour of the vestments made of magnificent damask brocade was very much in evidence. I particularly liked one set which were a deep pink and gold. Quite magnificent! Another difference is that the bread is real bread and none of those wafers. Each roll is cut up into quarters and, when communion time comes, each person or family is given a quarter which they then divide up among their children. When the time came, we were given our quarter too. It is rather sweet bread and quite delicious.
As this was a Greek Orthodox church, I was interested to see that, apart from the Kyrie Eleison and couple of other items at the start of the mass, all the prayers were sung or recited in Arabic, the Greek “Theos” giving way to the Arabic “Allah”. Of course, this “Greek” population has been here for centuries, so it is natural that their vulgate language should be Arabic. On the other hand, the atmosphere was decidedly European in that the people’s clothing is modern and the women wear knee-length skirts and do not cover their heads as the Arab women do. People here still dress up to go to church and the children, who behave exceptionally well particularly in view of the length of the service, were in their best. This year’s fashion for little boys seems to be navy blue trousers and waistcoats and bow ties. They thoroughly enjoyed themselves lighting candles. One or two of the older male members of the congregation wore keffiyehs on their heads (one took his off when he came into the church) but this was undoubtedly the exception. Many of the people were blond or fair-headed in the manner of the Classical as opposed to modern Greeks and the children’s names were certainly Greek - Alexei, Giorgios and so forth. George is a common name here and the Patriarchate is dedicated to St. George so there are many icons depicting this saint fighting the dragon.
However, the most outstanding feature of the Orthodox mass is the music. For the three hours that the service lasted, there was not one single moment of silence, and the whole liturgy is sung except for the recitation of the creed, the declaration of the faith and the sermon which are spoken. Everything else - EVERYTHING - is sung or chanted, either by one or both choirs with or without the participation of the congregation. Quite magnificent. All the music is unaccompanied and a particular feature is a constant bass drone similar to the drone on a bagpipes. For the music alone it is well worth coming to this church because, apart from anything else, you come away feeling edified by the sheer beauty of the sounds and the colours and the grace of the movements of the celebrants.
April 11th 1998
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