India Delhi-Agra

 I’m sorry about the last post, was a bit more of a novel than a blog, and so will endeavour now to do a short spicey blog than the long rambling ones. 

Anyway, plane was practically empty and so had a slightly more comfortable time going to the loo, which as most of you know is a regular occurrence with food poisoning, being able just to get up and out rather than clambering over the fat balding business man making both our lives unpleasant. Nice to see the recession has had its upsides! I transferred at Doha and boarded the plane. Despite this plane again being practically empty and everyone having allocated seat numbers the large Indian cohort of migrant workers seemed to not quite understand that they had allocated seats and thinking it was a free-for-all aboard, they ran to the steps to board as soon as the doors of the departure lounge opened onto the tarmac. The ground staff struggled to keep order as throngs of Indians dodged service vans and buses, completely disregarding the safe walking lines suggested. I and this German girl just kept laughing at the chaotic scenes unfolding before us. This was my first taste of Indian culture; mayhem!!

I arrived at Delhi airport at 3 in the morning to a slightly more organised scene. I waited for my hold luggage to come, and waited, and waited; before asking a member of staff if all the bags had come. “Yup” said the smarmy tit. Not the most helpful reply especially when you are still feeling like crap. 

A young very helpful girl then came up and asked if I was still waiting for my bag. “Yup”.   

She smiled, and looked for it in the system. “Its in...let me see here...Singapore...are you continuing onto Singapore?” 

“I Don’t like noodles”

We smiled and she punched a few more keys, “It will be at your hotel by 6 tomorrow.”

“Brill news, thats not too bad eh?”

“Along with your $100 in compensation”

“Haha, really? That just cut 50% off the cost of the flight!”

Feeling a little better after this recent announcement of compensation I found a cheap hotel at a desk in the airport, went back and told the girl where I was staying then got a cheap taxi. We weaved our way in and out of deserted streets with the sun just beginning to rise but the street lights still on. There was an eerie feel to the place. I had been to India before and had seen the chaos of traffic on the streets and so to find myself in this almost idyllic silence was rather unexpected; but a pleasure nevertheless. I got to the rather run down street lined with the seedy looking and sounding places like the Princes Palace and the Luxury Plaza. Mine, the Hi-Life hotel, was no exception. It was incredibly close to Connaught place and the New Delhi train station. This was handy in my state, no long journeys! But the place had either never got going or had faded over the years. Transiting Indians sat with their doors open, TVs blaring the latest Hindi hit and dipping their Naans into Dal and other spicy curried dishes. My room was spacious, if a little grubby. The Sat TV was a welcome addition with BBC news.

 The next night was the eagerly awaited cricket world cup final. I sat in lobby with the locals and staff. The match had its highs and lows; people whooped and cheered at every move India made which edged them closer. The street outside was deserted and all shops closed. The match concluded with India on top. Everyone spilled out onto the streets. Children not much older than 10 rode motorbikes precariously with at least 3 passengers and trucks with Indian drums being beat processed up and down the narrow streets with people dancing all around and on top. Fireworks, confetti explosions out of pipes, homemade grenades and firecracker bundles the size of tables blinding all in sight were set off as people either dived for cover of set off other ones! I walked around with the first backpacker I had met since arriving; a big Dutch bloke with an incredible laugh and a real passion for life. He whooped, hollered and danced in the street. We spent hours in this crazy atmosphere. We thought it would be good if we could get a bird’s eye view. We climbed up to the top of my hotel and after climbing up a ladder- half made of bamboo and the other half unfinished, we were at the top and by sheer good fortune the hotel was the tallest for miles around. The lights of Delhi shimmered in the heat and fireworks exploded all around. The city block we were in suddenly had its electricity cut out for an hour. The sky instantly darkened and the fireworks were even more impressive than before. The sound of the drums and beats seemed run in time with the hum of the generators being kick-started. We whooped as we glugged from our beers almost crying in sheer delight at the sights and sounds all around us. Nobody seemed to have a care, this was the night!! The fireworks faded, electricity came back and the sounds of the cheering from the streets subsided as people took their parties back inside. Dutchy shed a tear as “normality” resumed at 2 am. We said our goodbyes as he went back to his hotel with both of us knowing that we would probably never see each other again but what we had seen that night we would both never forget.

I woke up late the next morning, got a coffee and then rode the metro to my new hostel. I needed somewhere to meet people and this hostel looked the place. It was run by this Indian guy with the most incredible story of how he had toured Europe doing his medical degree at and operating this drug distribution company in Eastern Europe. The guy who was in charge of his company in Europe effectively stole from the company and then disappeared. He became bankrupt off the back of this as his suppliers and customers sued his ass off. He came back to India choosing to take a bit of time out from his degree (he had a weird set-up and he was only declared bankrupt in Ukraine whilst having money elsewhere, I didn’t quite understand and neither did he I think). He arrived in Delhi and looked for a hostel before he was to start travelling. Not finding one, the business man in him set one up. He knew from past experiences how to run the place and he got the beat just right and has since opened 2 more in Agra and Jaipur. The stories he told though were just brill; like running from the cops in various places with anatomy textbooks under his arms and a stethoscope flapping round his neck!

I visited various places and sights with people from the hostel and chilled at night with them and stayed there for 4 days. However I was rushing round Delhi trying to procure certain items for my travels in the maze of markets and so never spent long in anywhere however Qutab Mindar and the lotus temple were particularly impressive. The red fort looked stunning from the outside, but was closed on Mondays.

I met up with my dad’s friend in Delhi, Neraj. He and his wife took me out in Connaught place to a rather swanky joint. She was an incredibly sweet and bubbly lady and quite a character! Neraj who was as equally sweet and pleasant would often be just about to open his mouth to start a sentence when she would start and go for a good few minutes. Neraj would lose his train of thought and resume his soup. We guzzled down several bottles of Kingfisher, which was a most welcome change to the period of enforced sobriety in Syria and Turkey, and ate copious quantities of crispy wontons and noodles (I do like noodles after all!!). I boarded the metro, sat down exhausted and a little drunk and tried to make sense of the last week and abit since leaving the tranquillity and simpleness of Mar Musa. It was too hard, I gave up and read the adverts as the metro whistled by station after station. Saket arrived.

I had promised the owner we would share a beer that night after I returned from the meal, he was already drunk and so we had one each. We made our way up to the roof top. It was already 11 and I had a train at 7 in the morning. We sat up there and told stories. We both got bitten to shit by mosquitoes but we didn’t seem to mind and just kept talking. I woke up, had a coffee and got to the train in time. I had decided to buy on the day. I walked up to the desk and asked for one way to Agra.

“2^nd class?”

“Yeh, that’s great thanks”

I paid the 62 rupees (£0.80). The guy had this kind of smug look about him saying, “hehe stupid white boy! Doesn’t even know what hes let himself in for”.

I got chatting to this nice girl at the platform. The train rolled up, I asked where she was sitting, “2 AC, you?” (2 AC is as close to 1^st class in India and bout £8 for a journey in distance roughly equivalent to London-Manchester).

“2^nd class”

She smiled smugly like the ticket guy as we ran for our respective carriages.

The train was rammed. Some guys sitting in a luggage rack helped me up there. We got chatting and they were mostly running away from something or running to something (girlfriends and families). They were a great laugh and it sure helped to laugh in the cramp sweaty conditions; I felt sorry for the poor women we were sitting above as sweat poured down from our brows. About an hour in a group of uniqs (incorrect spelling I know) came round the carriage. These are guy’s outcast from society (generally gays and those who have been forcibly castrated) who are “allowed to live” by forming a “third sex” working mainly at births of boys where they are said to bring good luck. They came round in women’s clothing doing a sort of homo-erotic touchy feely comic act with the passengers demanding money or else they would put a curse on you. It was great fun and I put in 10 rupees (£0.15). Not high enough to be groped thank you, not too low to warrant a curse. Other groups of musicians and whatnots came and went, none as fun as the Uniqs.

I arrived soaked in sweat, sore and generally quite exhausted. I saw the girl from earlier, “enjoy yourself?” she enquired sarcastically fully expecting “it was horrible, bloody peasant class!"

“Hell Yeh!” I replied.                   

                                                                                           

I think with her hippo-hippie look she looked down on me as some sort of weirdo. Me and a guy in agra agreed on hippo-hippee, it means “hypocritical-hippy”, you see them everywhere. They wear these flowing 3/4 length trousers, a vest to show off their henna tattoos and flip flops to embrace the local culture. You sometimes see them in the hostels and cheap hotels (generally they tend to inhabit the more expensive places) and generally look down on those who didn’t wear “what the locals wear” and do “what the locals do”. Some are genuine pricks, excuse the French. In fact I am yet to see these distinctive “3/4 trousers” in use in the general population; most of the people wear jeans and t-shirts. I’m sure I’ll meet a real hippie at some point who doesn’t look down on us and who carries the look off and is a really nice guy/girl!

We parted ways and I bought some samosas for the cycle rickshaw ride there. They were the spiciest ones yet!I looked around and got a cycle-rickshaw to the backpackers hostel.

Im currently In Khajurho doing a job, I’ll tell you about that next time!

Admin-New pictures up on my gallery of Syria. Enjoy!

Oh and also I forgot on the last one, happy 18^th birthday brother Callum. Hope you didn’t have too many nippy-sweeties!

Syria

Well I arrived in Aleppo with Alberto and spent a few days looking around the various sights and experiencing the local cultur. The grand old citadel was particularly impressive but was closed on the day I went; which was a shame but I still walked all around the outside to admire its architecture. I bought a crappy Casiq watch (a Casio rip-off with an identical design...) in the amazing souk which unlike Turkey’s grand bazaar was not touristy at all and was purely for the locals. I then went to the Mosque just outside the souk which was particularly beautiful as on the bright hot day as the white marble the building was made out of reflected the sunlight until it was almost painfully blinding. I sat through a service and relaxed on the soft carpets and in the quiet atmosphere for a couple of hours which was a real change to the organised chaos that inhabits the streets of Aleppo. 

On the final night I went with three Germans, Karl, Moritz and Moritz (no this is no typo, they have the same name and for writing purposes I have called the taller, darker haired moritz, number2) and also Syrian doctor they met on a train who wanted to practice his German as he was going to move to Germany to work there to a footie match. The match was Aleppo vs Antakya in a sort of Middle Eastern Champions league. We initially sat in the section with all the diehard supporters who had their chants, brass band and a definitive abundance of flags to which we were given one each to join in. The doctor then arrived and suggested we go sit somewhere else as there were no more spare seats where we were; although we were a little disappointed as we were having a great time we concluded that we would never have gone if it wasn’t for him and it wouldn’t be polite if we abandoned him to sit on his own as our area was pretty crowded but we were lucky in that the match kicked off just as we sat down in our new seats. Whilst the footie wasn’t of the highest order the crowd still loved every minute of it and partied hard. Then controversially, and completely against the flow of play, Antakya are awarded a free kick from which they score from. The crowd goes ballistic as players from Aleppo are booked with yellows as they protest the obviously incorrect decision (it was a free kick but obviously to Aleppo, not the other way round). Missiles are thrown from some sections of the crowd and a number of 3^rd parties (supporters, subs, coaches, heads of the police, chairmen etc) invade the pitch to voice their anger directly at the ref. The riot police then become involved to protect the players and refs. Half time comes after 10 added minutes! The match restarts and another controversial goal from Antakya and the crowd are really fuming, more missiles and chants against the ref, his sister and mother! Full time comes and as the players from Antakya leave the pitch they are bombarded with anything the crowd can find and throw at them. Riot police step in, baton charge the unruly fans and form a roman army style turtle to escort most of the Antakya players but after a few seconds deem it too unsafe to escort the referee and the other remaining players. They then choose to go through another exit in an ambulance but as their plans become obvious the fans shoot across to intercept them but they fail to reach them in time and the ref slips through their hands. As we leave the stadium Moritz 1 and I take pictures of the outside of the stadium. A group of 15 guys then start following us just after we said goodbye to the Syrian doctor. After a short while they stop us and inform us that they are the police (no uniform). They ask to see mine and Mo’s camera to check the photos we had taken. As Mo and I flick through the pictures the undercover cop asks us to delete certain photos which contained pictures of the rioting inside the stadium. After both I and Mo completed this task they warned us not to take any more picies tonight and then slipped off into the darkness, all very strange and quite scary but an unforgettable experience nevertheless. 

The next day the three Germans and myself decide to head out to the East of the country. We decided upon recommendation of an English traveller to head out to a small town on the side of a lake (al Assad) near Raqqa. We arrived at the small village but were saddened to see that the accommodation was full; it wasn’t all that terrific a place to be honest anyway. We were then told to go to another hotel on the other side of the lake to which we took a taxi with a driver who had a penchant for English/German spoken word techno music (a fairly niche genre as you may gather). About an hour later we rocked up at a small cafe on the side of the lake next to Qala’at Ja’abar the centuries old castle in the middle of the lake. Upon the short walk back to the restaurant, the peaceful tranquillity of the deserted road was abruptly cut short as a massive wedding procession (more vehicles from buses and motorbikes to tractors going in a chaotic convoy peeping their horn and men dangling precariously out of windows) screamed past us to the castle, then turned around to come back immediately. A little side note on the lake; it is fed by the Euphrates and was created in the 80’s to supply the electricity for the entirety of Syria. However apparently the Turkish government too decided to dam the Euphrates to create electricity so it doesn’t quite power all of Syria. Anyway the entire area is exceptionally beautiful; with the glaring midday sun and the lake as flat as a pancake as we sat down for lunch which, not to ruin the moment, was also brilliant (the best to date); with a massive portion of fresh barbequed carp and other small dishes to which we dipped and dived into. After short walk around the castle we came back for tea and biscuits before we camped out under the stars.

The next day we hitched a lift back into Raqqa with the delivery guy who came to the restaurant come camping site we had stayed at. We then took a bus to Deir ez-zur which is on the banks of the Euphrates. We checked into the hotel run by the head of the local Baath party (it’s the main/only political party in Syria). We then walked around the town to different landmarks; in particular the rather impressive pedestrian bridge. When we were on the bridge looking all around at the sides of the Euphraties with its varied going ons and wildlife we were approached by about 10 young men who started chatting to us claiming to be students studying English literature. We all spotted pistol handles at the top of their trousers and deciding that this was an unlikely thing for English literature students to possess we made our goodbyes and left the bridge continuing down the street until we checked into an internet cafe to look up the latest on the protests in the country. When we left however we spotted the group of “students” on the other side of the square; they noticed they had been spotted and instead of going “hey guys hows it all going?!? Nice to see you again!!” they turned their faces away and ran down a little side street. We too didn’t not stay long there and made our way back to the hotel. 

A little side note on the Gestapo, secret police or as they are known officially Mukhabarat. They are literally everywhere. They follow your movements, check out what you are doing and generally make sure you’re not a member of Mossad (Israeli security who they fear like the plague).  Another thing to be said for them is that they really need to improve the cover stories of their members; after asking the usual four questions, “Where are you from? Why come to Syria? Where are you going next? How long you stay in this particular location?” in a sort of friendly inquisitive fashion like a long lost cousin you then get a chance to ask them something! As a fellow long lost cousin we would ask, “and so what do you do here in Syria?” to which their cover story was waiting and they would proudly announce they were studying English literature at the local Uni with a large cheesy grin on their face. This cheesy grin was shortly lost when we enquired, “and what are you reading at the moment?” This was obviously not taught in Mukhabarat class and so after a pause they would gingerly reply, “Shakespeare?” We all enjoyed watching drops of sweat start to gather on their brow as one rememberable poor lad then proceeded to list another author, “Romeo and Juliet?!?” We then informed him that this was in fact a play by Shakespeare not a separate author. Surprised and fearing their cover was blown they would then give up, make their excuses and whish us good travels in Syria.

That evening we ventured out to grad some grub and chose a little falafel store. We sat down at a table where several other locals were sitting and started chatting to a guy who was the brother of the guy who owned the place (or so he told us). He was very friendly and had a word with the guy and charged us £1 for 4 sandwiches and 4 cokes, bargain! He invited us to go watch the Tottenham game that night at a local shisha house (common throughout the Arabic world as they act as the British equivalent of the pub but do not serve alcohol). We had a great evening playing cards and drinking copious quantities of tea with the local teenagers. He then invited us to his house and again we had a great evening until we said our farewells until the next day when we planned to meet up with him to go watch a local footie match. The match was held in a fairly small stadium (probably 10,000 capacity) but that didn’t stop it being a sell out crowd. As we entered the large stadium entrance (without tickets mind) the guards with the Ak’s saluted Saladin and he saluted back, we thought it was strange but he had told us he worked in the government in some sort of capacity and so thought they recognised him or something. We continued on to a smaller gate where a scrum was taking place with people arguing to get in. One of the guards came up and had a word with Saladin and obviously discussed us, the Western tourists. The guard ran off to the other guys controlling the ever more violent clashes and disagreements taking place at this gate and a few commands to the crowd later; the crowd parted like the Red sea and we were ushered, no sorry, paraded in by the masses and saluted by the guards who all asked what was our favourite football team (Manchester United for me, well not really but Aston Villa goes down like a lead balloon). We sat down in the Vip section next to all the injured players, directors, chairman, heads of the Mukhabarat and generally anyone who was liked by the government and important in society, notably Saladine our newly acquired minder who seemed to be a pretty big fish, more than he had initially laid on. Anyway, we all were abit like “shittttttt what is going on?!?!” Well anyway there were a gazillion police officers surrounding our little area beating back the supporters into their own little over crowded chicken coups of stands. Anyway within 5 minutes of the match kicking off a major controversy hit the match, a goal for the opposition (I never found out who was playing) or so the ref indicated but the ball had obviously gone through a hole in the net or not at all as the ball continued on past the goal. The crowd went bananas; directors of the teams raced onto the pitch to protest with the managers, crowd members who had scaled the fence were rugby tackled by the players and missiles rained down from the stands with chants against the refs mother and sisters (as we were told by Saladin who was laughing at the various going ons on and of the pitch, ps these chants seem quite common in this part of the world as you may recall from the previous match).  

Whilst the heavy security in our area made us feel quite safe,  riot police struggled to contain the situation on and off the pitch in the stand and fired a volley of shots into the air repeatedly which seemed to do achieve 2 results, the crowd shut up, quietened down and play resumed and also made the four of us shit our pants! Well anyway a few more disturbances and 15 minutes of first half overtime it was halftime and tea was distributed to all in the area we were in and all the important men in suits talked politics and life in general as the throngs of baton and Ak wielding guards about us looked on. The second half started as controversially as the first with another goal for the opposition and as per usual the crowd really got going with pretty much exactly the same reaction from the security services as in the first half. Saladin suggested (told us) to leave with about 5 minutes to go and escorted us out; I don’t think he wanted us to see the “bad Syria”.

Later on we said our goodbyes to Saladin and also to Carl who had decided to head back up to Turkey via Aleppo and left for Palmyra. Ps just as we were leaving we found out that there were riots in Syria in Daraa to the south which were to become more evident later on in my travels.

A good hour or so bus journey through the desert, to which we were now distinctly tired of seeing, we arrived in Palmyra. The small town rises out of the bleak wasteland horizon with a skyline of lush coconut trees and it is truly a remarkable sight. We arrived just out of town and got a cab to our rather optimistically named hotel sun which resides permanently in the shade of surrounding buildings. What it lacked in sun, it certainly made up for in proximity to the expansive ruins. We roamed around the ruins for quite a while until Mo 1&2 decided they wished to go to explore another area. I instead decided to go climb a nearby hill with a castle on top to watch the sunset and was not disappointed. The view also from the top down into the oasis that is Palmyra was also pretty damn special. 

A side note into that nights culinary cuisine: Before we went out to the ruins me and Mo 1 were kicking a football round with this kid. Anyway this guy who was sitting there came up and said we should go to his restaurant (Warm Apple Pie- what a bril name!) that night and he would give us a good price. He was really nice and we had already been told about his place by a fellow traveller who raved on about the apple pie and said it was like nothing you would ever try. Anyway we were about to go to the restaurant when on the way there Mo 2 spots this rather old and run down place offering camel meat. The guy was pretty dodgy looking and Mo 1 and I had our reservations. Mo 2 promised us that we would go to the Warm apple pie restaurant for desert. The food was distinctly lacklustre and was a pretty disappointing experience. We then continued onto the WAP restaurant for desert. Upon sitting down in the lovely place we saw the friendly guy who suddenly turned angry and went “I saw you there!” 

“What do mean?”

“At his place, he always steals my customers,  he doesn’t even have a kitchen, bastard!”

“He said we could have camel”

“Camel..haha!” Upon which he brought the entire kitchen out to publically laugh in our faces then disappeared for half an hour leaving us without ordering. He then came back delivering food for another table and chose to carry the plate round our table three times and proclaimed “see this, see this, mousaka this is what you could have had, and this, see this, is the fluffiest rice in Syria”. He then disappeared to the other table. Anyway another 30 minutes passed and deciding we probably wouldn’t get any apple pie as we had enraged him so greatly we were about to give up and sneak out when he came up to our table and said “you are forgiven for your past mistake, but if I ever catch you at his place again, no pie for you!” We apologised profusely and guaranteed him we wouldn’t go there again.

This “no pie for you!” and his general attitude led us to give him the nickname Soup Nazi from the tv series Seinfeld to which he was almost a carbon copy- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2lfZg-apSA .

Anyway now one and a half hours in to the whole ordeal and ready for bed we received the apple pie with custard. I won’t try and describe this apple pie because not even Shakespeare so I will leave it to you try it, Warm Apple Pie Restaurant Palmyra. 

The next day we took the bus to Damascus where we said our goodbyes; hopefully not for too long as I said I might one day join them again at a St.Pauli game in Germany as they are massive season ticket holding fans (for those that don’t know St.Pauli are a left wing cult side in Germany’s Bundeslegue)

I spent a couple of days in Damascus sorting out my visa which was about to expire (turns out a 15 day visa is actually for 30 days) and visiting the various sights and bazaars. The Umayyad mosque in particular was exceedingly beautiful and impressive. The last night in Damascus a few of us in the hostel decided to go the last story teller in Syria. We weaved our way down some narrow streets near the mosque and found the small cafe. We sat down, started to sip our hot chai (tea) and started to discuss life and travel plans when a hush fell upon the gathered ensemble as an old man wearing a fez, funky flowing trousers and a waistcoat ascended to the high ornate chair in the middle of the room. He then spoke about stories of great kings and warriors (or so we were told as it was in Arabic) interspersed with modern day jokes and jibes (or so we were told). Anyway it was still pretty entertaining watching him get the crowd going then smacking his cane on his metal stand (probably to indicate some sort of violent action by a great warrior).  

He finished, we left and I split off from the group as they went back to the hostel to look around the souk a bit more. I walked past a tiny shop which had a little cabinet of drinks. I went in a purchased a bottle of water when I noticed that this place was a musical instrument shop/factory which made a Syrian guitar (the Ouk I think its spelt- pronouched Eww-k) which sounds quite a lot like a banjo. Anyway they had al-jazera on the tv (English speaking good quality news channel) and I sat down with the two guys in there to watch the beginnings of the international coalition’s action in Libya. Whilst the discussion was very basic as they did not speak much English (and I spoke little Arabic) and mainly centred on our mutual hatred of Gaddafi, it quickly turned to the instruments in the shop. The old guy reached up a picked one off the shelf and began to play a few tunes. He was amazing and had apparently been playing/making the Ouk for over 20 years as I found out from this guy who then entered the shop who was a friend of the two guys and spoke quite good English. He then picked up another instrument and started to play it developing the session into a sort of Arabic rendition of duelling banjos (classic scene from the film deliverance- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tqxzWdKKu8). I sat there bobbing my foot in time loving watching these 2 old amazing guys improv on these strange but incredible instruments. Amazing night!

The next day I headed off to Deir Mar Musa (a Syrian Orthodox church). A few hours of buses and a short taxi ride, I arrived in truly the middle of the desert at a barren and rocky cliff with an obvious half kilometre walk up to 3 small buildings, judging by the improbable location for any sort of habitation in such a desolate wasteland I asked the driver, “Is this is?” To which he replied, “yes” and abruptly sped off back into the desert. I made it up to the top and was directed into a tiny hole in the wall in the side of the main building. I was then warmly welcomed into the community with a lunch of flavoured rice and soup. I was then directed to my room with my bed on a raised platform dug into the side of the mountain forming a dark cave like structure. I then went for a walk in the hills with some girls from Iceland who were leaving that night but they told me all about life at the monastery, what to do and what to expect. I then attended my first service in the wonderfully old tiny church in the main complex followed by dinner. Generally speaking the services began with chanting in Arabic (in fact all services were in Arabic but sometimes readings were in French, discussions varied and prayers offered by the congregation were in a variety of languages, but the main community at Mar Musa ie the monks and nuns led by Father Paolo felt it was their calling to do it in Arabic) and bowing followed by silent meditation for an hour then a service or mass led by Paolo (or senior member) followed by a discussion and prayers offered. You personally were not expected to do anything or even attend and there was definitely no “pushing” of the “chosen faith” of the community, in fact the complete opposite was true; the community of Mar Musa felt it was their mission to act as a bridge between the Muslim and Christian faith and so the Koran and related texts were the main theme in the library and Mar Musa until recently (stopped due to diplomatic issues) held seminars on a wide range of Islamic/Christian issues and themes but also to a wider extent the place welcomed with open arms members of all/no faiths and you were allowed to stay as long as you wished. However there was always vigorous debate over dinner, in the cosy library and over tea about issues relating to God, politics and society with a wide variety of passionate views but tolerance of other views was always respected. During the mornings we would work in the farm helping to plant shrubs for the goats and trying to prevent desertification (as the community tried to make the most of the limited water, harsh soil and strong wind), help to clean the rooms and general living areas or help to collect rubbish however some would just spend the time in library which was fine or go walking; you worked for the community not because someone told you to but because you felt you should and this obviously worked as the place was still there! We would then lunch and the afternoon was generally devoted to study of Arabic or other foreign languages, writing up Masters or PhDs, talking, sleeping, prepping dinner or reading. At 7 people would then attend the service, then dinner of bread, goats cheese, yogurt, olives and other bits and bobs was served in a raised tented area with a couple of wood stoves (nights were very cold). I spent a blissful week there all the while we received news of the ever growing protests sweeping the nation. 

The protests seemed far away and unrelated to myself until I went near the end of my stay at Mar Musa to the nearby town to access the internet and buy chocolate. As we stopped to withdraw cash out of an ATM a group of about 20 children not much older than 10 started to chant (in Arabic, this was the translation given to us by a member of the group), “We are prepared to sacrifice ourselves for President Assad!”. We then went to a kebab shop for lunch and a boy cycled up on his bike with a new picture of Assad on it (this was nothing strange as there were a lot of obviously new pictures of him about which was rather strange in itself as his usual pictures were rather old and tatty). After going to the internet cafe and collecting supplies (including beers for our small group; we needed a nippy-sweety after a dry week!) the boy was back slowly cycling behind us and then swiftly and occasionally going in front of us. But in the time we had spent in the town he had acquired a brand new Syrian flag sellotaped onto his handlebars and a number of new pictures of Assad. We were also noticed that at times we were followed/ received particular attention from large blacked out 4x4 vehicles (mostly used by the Mukhabarat). Getting back to Mar Musa that night, I decided that following reports of the protests spreading North to Latakia and Aleppo I should try and get going to Jordan and Israel and so the next day I said my farewells to my newly acquired friends and left for Damascus. 

As the mini-van began to get close to the city the atmosphere in the mini-van became quite tense as we went through a police checkpoint but then became more laid back after we had passed. I arrived in Damascus to a festival like atmosphere with thousands of pro-government supporters out on the streets waving flags and pictures of Assad and hundreds of cars, motorbikes and trucks racing up and down the street like there had just been some sort of major victory (in fact politically nothing had happened but this was the precise point they were celebrating!) I walked though the crowds of the protestors to the same hostel I had stayed in before rather concerned but knowing that the risk was low considering they were pro-government. I arrived at the hostel where it seemed significantly quieter than before however was told that this was not an indication of the times, rather a big group had just left, but the atmosphere was relaxed and we felt safe despite being just off the main street where most of the protestors had gathered. 

That night I went out for dinner and a cup of tea with some fellow travellers when I started to feel unwell on the return to the hostel. I arrived back and “discovered” I had contracted some sort of food poisoning with severe vomiting, diarrhea and was completely delirious at times. Fortunately there was a lovely Swedish-Swiss 50 year old female doctor who took great care of me whilst outside we could hear the sounds of heavy gunfire and explosions as obviously the anti-government protestors had come out on the streets and the security services had reacted, aggressively. A very surreal night.

Well the next day, much better after 10 hours of the nastiest food poisoning I had ever had but still feeling pretty groggy, I caught a taxi to the airport and boarded a plane to Delhi I had booked the previous evening before I had become unwell. Well the flight was extremely comfortable, but not “fun” given my state. I felt saddened not to have stayed longer in Syria, in particular Mar Musa, but also relieved at the same time to be out of the ever worsening atmosphere there. Oh forgot to mention why no Jordan. Well I found out upon arriving in Damascus that the border had been closed a few days ago and they were not sure if it would reopen the next day or the foreseeable future. Furthermore it seemed dangerous to go down to the border as if it was closed to “wait it out” in the nearby town meant staying in Daraa (aka the place where the uprising had originated and where most of the violence and deaths had taken place). I like some other traveller in the hostel had given up on Jordan (and therefore Israel as you cannot enter Israel from Lebanon.) I then thought about Lebanon but from what I had gathered it’s quite expensive and a little dull but most importantly some seemingly intellectual travellers were predicting protests spreading there; but now looking back I should have done some research and found it that it would be extremely unlikely and I really should have gone, another trip. But anyway bollocks to this whole malarkey I thought, get to India and let the magic begin!!

I’m now in India and am currently in the process of writing the next blog. It should be out in the next few days as I’ve got a long train journey soon and therefore a chance to write. Hope this blog wasn’t too long (5,116 words is a bit much for a blog and almost certainly my biggest ever), but I had no chance to post in Syria due to restrictions on the net and so just kept writing. I certainly enjoyed writing this one and found Syria to be one of the most interesting and beautiful countries I have ever travelled in and truly loved it and in particular cannot recommend Deir Mar Musa enough; but go for at least a week if you have the chance, you’ll appreciate it alot more.

Pheww finished x

Ohhh two more tiny weeny things on admin (you've come this far dont give up now!) I have finally worked out how to change the formally ludricous setting of only google members being able to comment. This is now open to anyone, but dont forgot to say who you are! Feedback and comments, good or bad, are always appreciated (I just wrote 5,000 words, come on friend, gimme some lovin'!!!)
And the second and final thing is...drum roll...1000 page views!! Im not going to let this get to my head, but book advances for my self-titled autobiography are more than welcome. No but on a serious note thanks for taking time out to read this waffling shite, it makes it all the worthwhile!!

Now that really is it!