Discovering the "Rogue State"

Apologies for the delay in entries but travelling in underdeveloped, less modernized areas does not always lead to a reliable internet connection, nor even an internet connection at all. Since I last left you Ive wandered through the Kurdish streets of Diyarbakir, basked in the gardens of Urfa, and have then left Turkey for Syria. As always, I will start at the beginning, and will try to recollect my last Turkish experiences from this cloudy memory.

From Dogubayezit and the stoop of Mt Ararat I decided to continue south and so opted for Diyarbakir instead of Kars, a question I was pondering at the end of my last entry. Diyarbakir is considered to be the capital of what would be Kurdistan, if there was a Kurdistan, but there isn't, so instead its a gray, dusty city of no bureaucratic or political importance at all. I did not like the city, too bland, too odd; not strange, but odd. It struck me, but did not surprise me, that the only street that wasnt paved was the main one, a street that runs through the massive gates of Diyarbakir's ancient basalt walls and into the bazaar. The road was paved, and will be paved, eventually, it just wasnt at the time, and so cars skidded down the dirt road honking all the way, while the locals took seats among the concrete rubble of what used to be the road and played backgammon, sipped tea, or just gossiped the day away. The bazaar itself, upon close inspection, was a very organized affair, from appliances to furniture to clothes and shoes and scarves, and even to your friendly gun shops. Everyone could stroll by the multitude of old shops in the covered bazaar, but none, and I emphasize that none (including me), could not walk by the gun shops without at least stopping for a moment to examine the handguns in the window, or peeking their heads in at the back wall to gape over the shotguns, M16s, and everyones favorite the AK47. Much of the crowd which lingered were older Kurdish men, cloaked in their baggy Kurdish pants with their checkered keffiyehs upon their heads, and would shake their heads in regret as they left as if to say, "if only I could afford such a thing!" Across the unpaved street from the bazaar, and behind the alley of blacksmiths was the basalt old town, a maze of basalt alleyways. Even if these walls had not been made of this dark stone they would have been black with filth anyway, as garbage and mud and crust cushioned the soles of your shoes on every step. Diyarbakir, well, is a city i could not like. It was not a city without a soul, but its soul seemed to be stretched so thin that it threatened to snap. Perhaps that is why they are attempting to build a monstrous, fountain filled square in the center of the city, in order to at least ease the citys ugliness, or to distract the eyes of foreigners. So quckly and most certainly without regret I trucked on to the city of Sanliurfa.

Sanliurfa, or Urfa, is in complete contrast to a city like Diyarbakir, except that it too has a large Kurdish population. This city is blessed with the Golbasi park whose greenness, in contrast to the dusty hills surrounding it, makes it appear to be the very Garden of Eden on Earth. For Muslims a small cave in this park is where Abraham is believed to have been born, and is now surrounded by a beautiful mosque. Where the park is not filled with historic mosques whose very antiquity lends to the aura of this Eden, the grass is carved by a long stream filled with the carp. There is a legend behind this park, and especially behind the carp, but I will not get into that now, so if you must then I suggest visiting Wikipedia.com and simply typing in "Urfa". After being captivated by that magnificent park for days I took a day trip south, near the Syrian border, to the village of Harran. Harran is where Abraham and Sarah are known to have lived for about 15 years, and even today one can see the hill on which they resided and see many a ruin that stood when they still walked this earth. But Harran's most impressive sights, I thought, were the castle ruins (after Abrahams time) and the beehive houses. These Arab beehive houses are exactly like they sound, huts whose roofs look like a giant conehead. Inside the huts are now lavishly decorated for tourists, so while they are not quite original they are still enjoyable, especially for a cup of tea among the bedouin style lounges. After these houses I set out for the castle, and, not to disappoint, I was awarded with a massive thunderstorm as I arrived. I believe I have said this earlier in my blog, but will say it again anyway, there is no better way to see a ruin than during a storm. And this one was top notch. The thunder during this storm did not stop. Literally. It continually thundered above and reverberated through the damp castle walls for nearly 40 minutes. And whenever I would step into a new room, dark and dripping with the coming rain, a flash of lightning would illuminate the room, giving the experience a romantic and epic feel. It was quite fun, and did not mind the rain as I ascended to the top of this small castle to watch the webs of lightning streak across the sky and the thundering clouds crash above, and I half wondered whether the bloody Crusades had not ascended into the skies above. From Urfa I was forced to take a quick stop in Hatay, or Antakya, or Antioch, the deprived Biblical city of seemingly three names, and then took a bus the next morning into Syria. I would be lying if I said I knew what to expect.

The borders of the Middle East are nothing less than chaotic. Everyone hurries to scribble in their entry cards and then jostle forward in one huge push towards the uncaring and unmotivated border guard. After finally pushing my card and passport through I was beckoned to a side room. Walking in I saw a room filled with wide leather bound chairs whose size was so out of proportion that there only use would seem to be to make it's occupier feel horribly small, a large wooden desk, and then behind this desk a mustached Syrian officer whose body could not fill out the uniform he wore, and a cigarette in his hand. I sat down and for some time he did not acknowledge me, until finally he looked up, spread his arms and lips and offered me a "welcome to Syria!" (Ahlan wa sahlan). Soon an interpreter was brought in and thus the interrogation began. How old was I? What was my name? Where did I live? Where was my passport issued? All information that was readily available in the passport which lay open in front of him. Then they continued. What was my occupation? What did I study? How long would I be in Syria? What cities would I visit? What hotels would I stay in? Did I have any contacts in the country? These types of questions continued, were jotted down in a notebook, and soon I had been there for the better part of an hour. Next I had to wait as they made multiple photocopies of my entry card, my passport, and my visa which I had obtained prior to arrival. Finally I was sent out of the room, "ahlan wa sahlan!" and had to once again jostle the crowd to submit my information for inspection. Once I succeeded I was again motioned to the room by the guard, who was then swiftly rebuked when the leading officer told him I had already been in, and so I stood at the window as this guard attempted to ask me the same questions which had been asked, twice, in the other room, though him with almost no English and me with limited Arabic. Needless to say it was slow going, and the pressure of the crowd pushing against my lower back throbbed more and more steadily as time wore on. Finally, after again summoning the interpreter and being asked these questions for the fourth time, I was given my stamp and allowed back to the bus. Everyone else was outside waiting, and relief mixed with impatience spread across their faces as they wondered why I had taken so long. "American," I explained to them, and they nodded in understanding. Now that we had all gotten stamped at the immigration building we still had to cross the border, and at the border every passport was examined for the stamp and entry card. Everyone's was quickly handed back but mine, which was taken back to the shack. Twenty more minutes ensued as this officer chatted with someone over the phone about my passport, I was beckoned out, again asked the same questions, and then the gate swung open and we were among the blooming hills of Syria.

Syria is a backwards place. The streets are filled with calls of propaganda and hate, guns are toted nonchalantly, and the eyes of the people cloud over menacingly when they learn where you are from. It is one big terrorist training camp, and is quite frightening for an American travelling by himself. Or at least that is what the US state department would have you think! In reality Syrians are very friendly, the cities are rapidly modernizing, and the only dangerous risks involve dodging traffic to cross the street, or whenever you eat at a restaurant. My time here in Syria would have been much more enjoyable if it hadnt been the fact that by my second day in I had eaten something which had not agreed with me, and have suffered ever since. But for a quick recap of what I have done I spent three days in Aleppo traversing the fascinating souqs and smoking nargileh after nargileh while gazing up at the city's incredible citadel. In Hama I took a tour of the ruins of the Sheizar Citadel, Apamea, Musyaf, and the ever famous Crac de Chevaliers, an old crusader castle whose designs were plucked from the imaginations of every child, complete with not one but two monstrous walls, a moat, and even slits above the door to pour burning hot oil on would be invaders! From Hama I ventured out to Palmyra, and while i wasnt haggling with the locals (who repeatedly try to do nothing but cheat you) I was taking a camel ride through the pink ruins of Queen Zenobia's ancient city. Syria must have the best ruins in the world, in my opinion, and if relations weren't what they were between the west, the famous ruins of Greece and Italy would be easily trumped by these relatively unknown places.

I am now in Damascus, still recovering from this illness, but still finding a bit of energy to enjoy its historic Old City. There is clearly quite a lot of European and Byzantine influence in Damascus, and this coupled with the charms of the Omayyad Dynasty have left the world's oldest capital in a well preserved and beautiful state, preserving its identity while it also rapidly modernizes. I stay one more day here, and then Monday morning I move onto Beirut to catch a quick glimpse of perhaps the most tragic city in the world.