See also: AxisOfEvil
Population: 17 million
Population Growth Rate: 3.4%
Capital: Damascus
Head of State: President Hafez al-Assad
Official Language: Arabic
Currency: Syrian Pound
Lonely Planet(written before the current U.S. sanctions were introduced):
'Many visitors find the Syrian people among the most hospitable in the Middle East, or anywhere else for that matter. Syria has long been run by a hardline and not entirely benevolent regime but its participation on the Allied side in the Gulf War and tentative moves towards peace with Israel, along with a relaxation in internal political and economic strictures, have softened the country's image. Nevertheless, the perception of Syria in the West still is one of a place full of terrorists (freedom fighters?) and other nasties; the truth is that most travellers leave Syria with nothing but good feelings - its that sort of place'
Notes from a Misunderstood Nation State:
98% of the Syrian people are friendly and hospitable. Hanging over streets filled with yellow taxis and minibuses, on barber shop, bank and post office walls, even in buses, are pictures of al-Assad and his father, the former President of Syria, now deceased. Occasionally one can observe the visage of al-Assad's older brother, natural successor to his father - who died mysteriously in a plane crash not long before his younger brother took over - hanging surreptitiously in offices and cloakrooms and even in living rooms. Yet despite Syria being 'staunchly' Muslim, it is important to bear in mind that Islam, despite pressure from many quarters, is not recognised as the State Religion. Jewish quarters and Christian quarters still exist in the two main cities, Aleppo and Damascus. During Christmas in these areas, windows are filled with Christmas trees and decorations hang over often narrow, often cobbled, streets.
I observed a Christmas service in a Syrian Orthodox church in the Christian/Jewish quarter of Damascus – not far from where St. Paul was lowered from a tower in a basket whilst escaping from the Jews – and was welcomed warmly by the priest in Arabic. In these areas, women walk without headscarfs. In the Meditterranean coastal city centres in particular the feeling is that one is almost in the West. Almost but not quite/white. Young people carry mobile phones and groups of men and women people coffee houses donned in Levis and long-sleeved T-Shirts. In one such coastal town (Lattakia; a key Meditteranean port) I was strolling the grounds of a Catholic church when a ‘Christian’ Syrian – an elderly lady who tended the church garden and who was also keen to show me the church nativity and how the area surrounding the Roman Catholic church was being used as an animal hospital and playground for Syrian children – I was ushered into the presence of an aging Italian priest engulfed in a wood carving of the knights of the crusade. He spoke little but was warm and friendly like the rest of the townsfolk. Indeed, the whole place seemed peaceful and open.
In most cities it is also possible to acquire alcohol and there is even Syrian beer and a spirit not unlike ouzo/raki available and brewed in Syria called, 'Arak'. Indeed wealthy locals can be seen furtively drinking in first floor restaurants or more openly in the aforementioned Christian areas which I wandered home from swaying noticeably on more than one occasion.
In the border town of Abu-Kamal, a gateway to Iraq, I was given free food by one local and was offered tea by another: such offers of hospitality are considered an insult to refuse. Everywhere one travels one cannot escape the phrase repeated endlessly without an accompanying loss of meaning or lapse into cliche, the phrase, 'You are welcome...welcome to my country, welcome to Syria'. This was the greeting we recieved in this lively but run down outpost on the edge of the Arabian desert.
A complicated set of customs are involved in being invited to a tea house, such as only sitting down when your host sits down and not taking advantage of your host's hospitality by ordering something really expensive from the menu. That said, we talked openly about subjects such as Israel and Iraq for over an hour, despite my host's broken English. After this we were picked up by a local civil service worker and invited to his home to eat with his family. In the centre of their living room was an oil stove and in a corner of the room was the ubiquitous T.V. set displaying images which the family had trouble ignoring whilst we were there. Nevertheless, the hospitality I experienced was unlike any other such experience in the so-called 'West'. We were force-fed our food, the Lady of the house shouting, 'eat, eat' at us in a brusque, seemingly unfriendly manner, but it was actually quite the opposite: we ate before the family did and so had the choice of the best food. I later learned that one is only supposed to eat with one's right hand: with the other one they wipe themselves, yet my hosts never said a word about my faux pas. I also learned later that you are only supposed to eat what is directly in front of you: another faux pas which my hosts never deigned to mention (unlike Morocco where such a display of seeming discourtesy was openly questioned). At the end of the night we were invited to sleep there and 'to stay for a week if you like'. Unfortunately we didn't have the time and after seeing the Iraqi border, closely watched by the perplexed Syrian military, we moved on, back into the desert following the path of the Euphrates river which marks the edge of Mesopotamia.
Half a day hitching brought us to Dura Europos: a ancient ruinous city in the desert. We thanked the minibus driver (the most proletarian form of transport in Syria, and the cheapest) and marched the 2 kilometres through the desert to the uninhabited city. One 'guard' greeted us on our arrival and after paying the 30cents ‘student’ entry fee, we were free to explore the city at our leisure. We walked on not really aware of the size of the ruined city, following a dusty track. Another kilometre and we came to a man-made cliff face yet we still had not encountered a single tourist – Western or otherwise – in this magnificent desert city. Approaching the edge of the cliff/wall, the Euphrates river came into view and the fertile expanse of land beyond stretching on into Iraq and Turkey was Mesopotamia, what was once known as Babylon. I imagined Enkidu running like a god across the great fertile plain below or Gilgamesh wielding a sword the size of tree trunk, centuries ago, centuries before Odysseus and Menelaeus. The view was spectacular and was accompanied by a freedom we no longer have in our Western 'nanny-states': there was no steel railing or barrier in place to prevent us plummeting 30m to the banks of the Euphrates river. The river was deep and wide and the ticking of water-pumps filled the air, irrigating the verdant fields stretching on below us across Iraq one way, Turkey another. A local farmer came to greet us but we had to turn down his offer of tea as we wanted to spend Christmas is Aleppo/Haleb which had a Christain quarter where we could drink uninhibited. An hour or so later and we were back on the desert road hitching onwards to Deir-ez-Zur.
We also encountered Circassians in Syria: people with pale skin and fair hair: one 'seller' we met spoke in terrible English but was pale and bore a head and beard of red hair: he looked distinctly Scottish as he approached with a bag full of his wares and pulled out a 'sample' scarf to show us the ‘quality' of the product. He wrapped the scarf around my head before I had time to protest and was straightening it as I looked into his blue eyes in astonishment. Of course a pampered Western tourist wearing such a scarf looked like someone sporting a fake tan in downtown Mogadishu, no question, and although he and I both knew it, he insisted I still looked 'beautiful'.
On the bus too I met a Syrian who I also assumed to be a Westerner so I decided to strike up a conversation with him. His cheeks were red and his hair was mousy brown and he spoke in present simple. He was a Syrian, he told me, and he was just about to do his national service for which he would be paid a grand total of nothing, only food and lodgings: travel expenses came out of his own pocket.
On another occasion, in one particular 'waiting room', with good spirits and openness in the faces of all who sat there, we were offered the ubiquitous cup of Ceylon tea, sweetened in a silver tea-pot and poured out tannin-coloured and steaming into small glasses. The man pouring out our glasses for us was an albino. His pupils were light blue and his hair and skin wheyish.
In the end, our money dwindled away (although this took some time, surviving quite comfortably on a daily budget of 12euros including travel, food and board) and the time came to move on. We decided to leave Syria on New Year's Eve from a transport hub town called 'Homs'. We searched for a bus willing to take us through into Tripoli in Lebanon yet no local bus would take us. I spent an hour approaching cigarette-lipped men who leant on the front bumpers of their cars and minibuses, all the while trying desperately to get the 'local' price. Everytime we asked someone a different person was brought forward who was presented to us as our 'chauffeur': a man who, for only ten dollars, would personally drive us to Lebanon in his yellow cab. It seemed there was no-one there who didn't see us as a business opportunity, but persistence and steadfastness, I hoped, would pay off. After another crowd had formed round us and various 'drivers' had been rejected, a younger man led us by the hand to an awaiting minibus. '2 dollars' he told me and with a sweeping motion of his hand beckoned me into the back of the vehicle where a rag-tag group of people were sitting, rather uncomfortably, their belongings on their laps or under their feet. I told the driver '1.50 and free tea.' He offered me a cigarette and a businessman’s grin crept over his face. Tea was brought and we assumed our positions for the next 4 hours. The driver had made his money for the day and was warmly congratulated by his partner. I had paid over the odds but haggling over 50cents just as a matter of pride seemed pointless.
We had found a lift on New Year's Eve to Lebanon. Or so we thought. At the border we were escorted out of the vehicle and were forced to enter Lebanon on foot. We would have to hitch the remaining 150km to Tripoli we were told. The border crossing, though, was empty and we passed into Lebanon without incident. 3 month visas were given freely and without question in contrast to the complicated process which had earned us our Syrian visas (a trip to the Syrian and Austrian embassies in Athens and to the British Consulate to get 'letters of recommendations' from our governments). Lebanon was decidedly more 'open' at least in the border sense. At the other side of the border we asked another guy – who was loitering by the roadside with a tattered suitcase clutched to his chest – if he wanted to share a taxi. He agreed, paying a little less than us because of his 'local' status, but we were already accustomed to paying a 'tourist tax' and forked over the money on request. Again cigarettes were offered, almost to thank us for paying their 'special rate', but then again, at least we would not be stranded at the Syrian border on New Year's Eve. The fare to Tripoli amounted to under 5 dollars: the other passenger payed about 2 so we payed a dollar extra but unfortunately one has little bargaining power when standing at the Syrian border, rucksack-laden at 8pm in the evening. Take it or leave it.
see: Moriarty