Aleppo to Damascus

Well, so far from skulking in my hotel room all Friday, as I’d been planning to do in ‘oh-so-dangerous Syria’ I enjoyed myself sampling the delights of the National Museum, walking through the streets in the old part of town, visiting the Omaya Mosque (the oldest and most important old mosque in that area) and even trekking to the citadel where, apparently, pro-government demonstrations are held every Friday after the midday prayer.
I had a perfectly lovely time, made even better by the relative lack of traffic on the street as Friday is the first day of the Syrian weekend.

The most dangerous thing about Syria is – as always – crossing the street. Or so it feels to the novice; the drivers are perfectly aware of and well able to miss the people crossing heedlessly in front of them.
Not to say there are never accidents. My bus from Aleppo to Damascus took at least an hour longer than it should have because of a road accident which happened on the outskirts just as we were leaving. Traffic was backed up for several kilometres at least.
My first thoughts, when we slowed down, were either a checkpoint or an ‘incident’. But pretty soon a fire truck squeezed its way through the standing traffic, followed somewhat later by an ambulance and then a tow-truck.

We never did get as far as the accident site. Pretty soon we came upon some guys who were diverting traffic onto a small neighbourhood road and from there over a ploughed field, so our diver decided to save some time by going this route. Bad choice! Turning the bus into the field proved impossible and for 15 minutes our diver plus about six willing ‘helpers’ rocked back and forward trying to turn the bus onto the alternative route through the village instead.

We all held our breath, willing the bus not to tip over. And, wonder of wonders, it didn’t.

So off again we trundled, down village streets not made for large air-con buses, being waved on with smiles and pointed directions by the locals, who’d all turned out to assist and to enjoy the novelty.

A couple of false turns later we were on the parallel motorway – but on the wrong side of the road. No matter; we just went backwards, followed by at least five more cars who’d elected to follow us, until we could cross over via the break in the central partition to the right side again. It wasn’t more than half a kilometre.
Then off again – at some speed, going the right way but on the wrong road.

Resourceful people, these, and there is always help at hand if you get lost. Our bus-boy got off several times to ask directions as we took the round-about route through lush fields and small villages, the road varying from A road to C-minus. About an hour later we met up yet again with the Aleppo-Damascus highway, having had an unexpected and unscheduled tour of north-west Syria. Nothing is quite as expected this time round!
So we arrived at the Harasta bus station in Damascus, without passing a single checkpoint or road-block, though I did notice two Toyota trucks of soldiers passing, machine gun ready on the roof. They waved cheerfully at us as they went by.

At Harasta there’s no shortage of ‘helpful’ people ready to take you into town for 200 Syrian Pounds. But there should also be a bus for 10 SP – and the real taxi rate is 100 SP. I told them I’d take the bus.
“No bus,” they said. “One comes, but it doesn’t go back.”
“We’ll see” I said, and dragged my bag over to the bus stop. So some guy, trying to be helpful, put me on the wrong bus, though explaining to the driver where I wanted to go. The driver spoke a little English and I was too tired to argue, so went with him – all round the town, to everywhere except where I was going – until at last he arrived at the terminal and put me on another bus, explaining once again to the driver where to let me off.

Oh dear! I didn’t recognise Al Marjeh (Martyrs Square, near my hotel) in the dark and the bus went on and on. Eventually it stopped somewhere where there was a large market. I was sure we’d gone past Al Marjeh. We had indeed, so I got off the bus and hailed a taxi.

Al Marjeh is only about half a kilometre, if that, from my favourite hotel so that was where we went. Home at last?

Well, not quite. I had to cross a busy road, which meant using the over-the-street footbridge. A kind angel came to my rescue, carrying my bag up the steps and down the other side for me, then there was only the short walk along the street and down the lane. I turned into the lane, a song in my heart.

“Welcome!” a voice called out from the barber’s shop on the corner. My God, I haven’t been here for at least six years and the barber recognised me immediately, in the dark. My heart skipped a beat. And …

“Welcome!” cried Ramees, who has the tailor’s shop opposite my hotel. I just couldn’t believe it. If they’d been expecting me, then perhaps – I’d be flattered they remembered me. But I’d arrived out of the blue, with no warning. I tell you, these people are amazing. I am so, so glad to be here. :>))