OK, so I admit I have been going a little hard on the Muslim faith a little of late, so time for poking a little fun at the other main faith in the Middle East, Christianity.
In the north of Syria, near Aleppo - in what was in biblical times known as Antioch, is a place called Qalat al Samaan , or the Basilica of St Simeon. Simeon, born around 400AD was your run of the mill shepherd, who went on to become a monk, and then left the monastery to go and live in a cave - the monastery not being an ascetic enoug
h lifestyle for him. Just like these days, people who live in caves and claim to be closer to God seem to attract a lot of attention, and before you know it solitary seeking Simeon was so besieged by admirers that he had a pillar built so that he could escape the great unwashed (and probably so he could be a little closer to God) Now stopping there for a moment I think that is probably enough irony for an entire blog entry but the story goes on. It seems the pillar dwelling only made him more famous, so as more pilgrims arrived Simeon felt the need to get even higher, so that after forty or so years of pillar dwelling, he was now leaving at around 18 metres off the ground. Apparently he gave sermons and answered questions, but no women were allowed - except that we all learnt from the stoning scene in the Life of Brian that even in those days gender was pretty fluid. Seems Simeon's desire for more solitude only made him more famous, and he set off a fashion for pillar dwelling which swept the known world. The authoritative Lonely Planet says that when Simeon kicked the bucket, or fell off his pillar to use a more appropriate expression, he was the most famous person in the world - a bit like a fifth century Paris Hilton. Anyway, being so famous, they built the world's then biggest church over his tomb, to ensure that in death as in life, he would never have a moments' peace.
Oh, and that little rump of rock in the middle is what is left of his pillar, pilgrims over the years have each nicked a bit leaving the pillar not quite so impressive
I don't want to see any more old buildings - a mosque is a church is a colonial office.
I don't want to be invited for tea with the awkwardness of working out whether I am supposed to pay and then the long silences caused by the inability to communicate in a common language.
I don't want to have to negotiate finding the right bus terminal, chose a bus company, bargain the fare, argue with the luggage boy, arrive in a new town and try to find a place to stay.
I don't want to have a complicated conversation, using mainly hand gestures, to try and stop everything I buy being wrapped in three plastic bags.
I don't want to watch people throw rubbish absolutely wherever they feel like it - on the street, out the window of a moving vehicle, over the edge of the wall of a ruin, without even a second glance.
Time to move on.
The conversation on the road to Damascus was all in Arabic so no possible conversion there, unfortunately on my trip out of Damascus, on the way to the rather uninspiring largest of the Crusader castles, I was subjected to an attempted conversion in English. I had managed to squeeze in to the back seat of a minivan, rather uncomfortable with my backpack on my lap to avoid paying for two seats.
Not long in to the journey I found that I had the pleasure of sitting next to an English teacher in the local high school, who attempted over the entire length of the journey, almost 90 minutes, to bring me in to the fold. He was an educated man so it started out as a rather open discussion but the Converters always seem to get stuck on the question of where did you come from ? My attempt to short circuit this line of questioning by answering, "My parents made me" is never satisfactory and only leads to
a series of questions about who begtted each generations' forebearers. Then we got tied up in a discussion about the origin of life and everything being about chance. Under relentless questioning and preaching, unable to articulate what I thought and being stared at by someone who clearly thinks my responses are ridiculous I started to doubt my own beliefs. Somehow though I struggled on, clutching at whatever rational straws I could grasp and finally I think he conceded defeat and he told me, "When judgement day comes I will see you and I will say I told you about God and still you denied him"
So I am left still waiting for the light to knock me off my horse.
Legend has it that back in the day when the prophet Mohammed was wandering about he sighted Damascus from a hill top nearby the town but declined to enter the city saying that a man can only enter in to heaven once. It may well be sacrilicious, as Homer once said, to say this but the hummus in Damascus is bordering on the divine. In the small street where I am saying there are about five hummus places in the space of a couple of hundred metres. And when I say hummus place that is all they sell - and why would you mess with anything else when you can reach such perfection - served up on a square piece of cardboard covered in silver lining. You get a big dollop of rich, creamy hummus which is then weighed for the price. The master craftsman then shapes the hummus so that he can create a pool of olive oil in the middle, and place small slices of tomatoes in each of the four corners. A light dusty of paprika, some coriander leaves and a bit of lemon juice and voila !
Next door you can pick up your still piping hot fresh pita bread and you are ready to be taken to culinary heaven.
So maybe I give my heart away too easily but after half a day in Damascus I am already falling in love with Syria.
I arrived yesterday in the early evening and the city is an assault on the senses - in contrast to the rather homogeneous looking Egyptians, Syrians are a diverse mix - many look more European than Arabic. Also thrown in to the melange are plenty of other Arabs from the Gulf who come here for the shopping and cooler climate, and a few bus loads of Iranian burka clad tourists I saw wandering around. Dress varies wildly - from the completely covered in black women (burka, veil and even eye coverings) to short, tight jeans, fluorescent lycra clad modern women with hair flowing in the breeze and everything in between. (Something that still strikes me is the way even within a group of women who are clearly good friends the range of covering will vary - it is not uncommon to see a women completely covered with veil and all walking hand in hand with her friends wearing jeans and a t-shirt. It makes me wonder whether they discuss the matter between themselves, or look down or up at each other about it)
As is to be expected in a place that claims to be the oldest continually inhabited city in the world history drips out of the walls, runs along the roads and in to the gutters. Everywhere you look there are buildings from a different historical period - the odd Roman column and arch, a 2nd century synagogue, the first grand Arab mosque, grand old Ottoman houses, 20th century French modernist buildings and space age Iranian funded Persian style mosques/tombs. Throw in more souks (street markets) than you can throw a stick at, and the wafting aroma of a million perfumeries and it is not that difficult to transport yourself back in time.
This morning being Friday means that almost everything is shut, however I still managed to spot what I am going to have for breakfast for the next week: chocolate croissants (but real croissants), mini herb and lemon pizzas like in the Turkish bread shop in Sydney Rd, baklava and some other delicious looking sweet that is caramel on top and cream underneath, and what I finally opted for - fresh hummus served on a paper plate then decorated with tahini, olive oil, chickpeas, tomato and parsley so it looked like a work of art - and it tasted even better. Washed down with fresh coffee, needless to say I was one very happy camper.
wake up in the morning and speak Indonesian with the guest worker at the hotel in Wadi Musa, Jordan.
I hitch hike back from the Dead Sea to Amman with a Jordanian who lived in Italy for twenty years and speaks better Italian then Arabic. He speak to me in Italian, which I can understand, and I can speak to him in Spanish, with a few Arabic words thrown in, and he can understand.
I take a share taxi from Amman to Damascus and try to communicate using English with a few Arabic words thrown in here and there, and I find myself using some very Arabic hand gestures, particularly the tips of fingers together wriggle the wrist up and down one which ostensibly means wait but can be used for a myriad of other expressions. The other three passengers, two older women - an Iraqi and a Syrian, and a middle aged guy who sits in the front seat and thinks the back seat must be thirty metres away given the volume with which he speaks, and the driver spend the entire five hours of the journey in a heated debate about Iraq, Saddam, America, democracy, Palestine, Israel, the King and the best falafel joint west of the Mediterranean. OK, the made the last one up, but I did hear all the others mentioned.
I arrive at a hotel in Damascus and the receptionist, an older Syrian who lived in Germany for years insists on speaking to me in German, even after we clear up the Austria/Australia confusion.
I chill out on my bed in the dorm and meet an Algerian, and we have a long conversation in French about what Algeria is like and why he is living in Damascus.
I go to sleep a very tired and confused Loiterer.
h lifestyle for him. Just like these days, people who live in caves and claim to be closer to God seem to attract a lot of attention, and before you know it solitary seeking Simeon was so besieged by admirers that he had a pillar built so that he could escape the great unwashed (and probably so he could be a little closer to God) Now stopping there for a moment I think that is probably enough irony for an entire blog entry but the story goes on. It seems the pillar dwelling only made him more famous, so as more pilgrims arrived Simeon felt the need to get even higher, so that after forty or so years of pillar dwelling, he was now leaving at around 18 metres off the ground. Apparently he gave sermons and answered questions, but no women were allowed - except that we all learnt from the stoning scene in the Life of Brian that even in those days gender was pretty fluid. Seems Simeon's desire for more solitude only made him more famous, and he set off a fashion for pillar dwelling which swept the known world. The authoritative Lonely Planet says that when Simeon kicked the bucket, or fell off his pillar to use a more appropriate expression, he was the most famous person in the world - a bit like a fifth century Paris Hilton. Anyway, being so famous, they built the world's then biggest church over his tomb, to ensure that in death as in life, he would never have a moments' peace.
