Syria - Graeme Robin - Travels

Karen and Compass, Phe and Me - On Roads without Lines

Graeme Robin ...Travel
in Syria
(This journey is available in full in BOOK 4, available soon)

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About me
I was born in 1937, married Barbara in 1963, but lost her to a dreadful cancer 43 years later. I felt
as if the world had stopped. Life was suddenly not as precious as it had been. I didn’t care much.
But a change sort of evolved.
I travelled to Europe. I bought an old car. Then a GPS. Then a
compass. That made four of us – Karen (the robot voice on
the GPS) and Compass (just that), Phe (for Fiat - a 1993 left-
hand drive diesel sedan) and Me.
Suddenly it was “we” and not “I”’.
We started to drive around Scandinavia, Iceland the Arctic
Circle and into Russia all the time avoiding the major roads
and highways as far as possible – in other words, On Roads
Without Lines. We were just wandering around on winding,
single lane roads often unsealed, through small towns and
villages, seeing the people at their normal everyday lives and
work. Trying to get a feel for each country - to put a tag on it. I took a lot of photos and kept a
daily journal. So a book evolved.
Had this suddenly put meaning back into my life? It felt good so instead of selling Phe at the end
of the first four months I kept her for another four months of journeying this time behind what
used to be the “Iron Curtain” and another book evolved. It felt good so instead of selling Phe at
the end of the second four months I kept her for another four months of journeying this time
around Spain Portugal and Morocco and another book evolved. It felt good so instead of selling
Phe at the end of the third four months I kept her for another four months of journeying this
time to the Italy the Middle East and the Balkans and another book has evolved.
All have been marvellous experiences of discovery - so good that I would like it to continue for
the rest of my life! How long is this old bugger going to last!

Hear more about Graemes’ travels at http://robingrahamtravel.blogspot.com

Syria
Bye Bye Turkey - Welcome to Syria
Wednesday 22nd September 2010
We were away from Hakkari by half past eight, on a sunny, warm morning and straight back into the
dust, the mountains, and the army road blocks, heading for Syria. In so many places the mountains
are being nibbled away by giant excavators, the rocks crushed, then graded for size and turned into
concrete and road fill. And they are sure using tons of these two things.

From Hakkari, backtracking to Sirnak is 188 kms and it was the same trail as we followed yesterday
beside a river down on the valley floor – a gorge so tight at times there was barely room for the river
and the road side by side. You wouldn’t say the river was clear but it was not muddy either. It was that
pale aqua green colour that you would normally associate with rivers coming from a glacier, but that’s
certainly not the case here, so I presume that it picks up the colour from the rocky terrain. In places
where the mountains of rock spread apart a bit for a little flat land, there were villages, lots of them,
and small at that, all the way, until the road parted company with the river and headed skywards again
for that 2080 metre summit we passed over yesterday.
After leaving Sirnak we were then in an area we had not travelled before – flat country with a straight
road running parallel with the border of Iraq not far to the south. At the town of Cizre there is a left
turn to the Iraqi border crossing just 50 kms away. Its not a long border – maybe a couple of hundred
kms - and I find it just too hard to imagine the scenes, when Saddam Hussein was trying to extermi-
nate all of the Kurds in the north of Iraq. There would have been hundreds and thousands of refugees
trailing across this country trying to escape into Turkey. What was that? Twenty years ago or more?
Not far to the west of Cizre there must be a decent sized coal mine, well I didn’t actually see the
mine, but the coal had been trucked up to many ‘depots’ along the roadside and each ‘depot’ had
graded it in to big lumps down to little lumps and then the fines which were all but dust. You can
imagine the mess, but that’s the way they seem to do things in Turkey.
From there on we were driving on good roads on flat country and making good time, even though
I made a wrong turn and had to cut across on a minor road to rectify. There was a herd of goats,
maybe a hundred or more, in the care of two young shepherds about 13 years of age and one of
them had a pea rifle.
There was a lot of smoke in the sky because the Turks are burning off the stubble.
We are at the Turkish border and it’s a heap harder to get out of this bloody country than it was to
get into it – and we haven’t started on Syria yet.


The bloke in town where I converted the last of the Turkish cash into diesel, said “Better hurry as the
border shuts at 3:50.” My heart sank – it was already after half past three.
Why is there always something?
We got through the first gate into the Turkish compound and sat, and sat, and sat. I got the police
stamp, and then the immigration stamp, but the customs bloke (Phe had been ‘imported’ into Turkey
and was now being ‘exported’) had no English and couldn’t read the Rego papers and relate them to
me or my passport. I did my lolly after the best part of three quarters of an hour and poked a finger
at my name on the passport and the same name on the papers, and then out of the car and at the
words ‘Fiat Tempra’ on the papers and then to the label on Phe’s beautiful butt, and finally the rego
number on the papers and the same number on the plates. He reluctantly gave in and down came
the stamp! About time!
The gate opens and we were into the no-mans land before the Syrian border. We were the last
customers for the day and their 4 o’clock knock-off was long gone, Once again no English but a young
bloke took me from one window to the next and things seemed to be going okay until we got to
the Bank of Syria. Why do we need to go to the bank? Before leaving Australia I had paid for, and
received a 90 day, multiple entry, visa into Syria, so why the bank? But this bloke wants money – and in
US dollars. “Why would I have US dollars?” I asked him. “I come from Australia not America!” He was
adamant. US dollars! Then I asked him how much and he said $US 235! I just about fell over! The bank
bloke had very little English but between him and the young bloke I got to understand that it was for
Phe’s visa, and her car insurance, and than a premium because she uses diesel.
He wouldn’t take the visa card and there was no ATM at the border. I had no Syrian pounds of
course and no Turkish lire left as the last of them had gone into the fuel tank in town more than an
hour ago. A few euro coins – but $US 235? Not within a bulls roar! A problem is looming.
I was sent for a walk towards the fence while eleven of them, including the nice bloke who had
helped me through the system, stood in a circle trying to work out an answer. It was after five my the
time they called me back and the one senior bloke they had found who had a little English said I must
return to Turkey! And the word “Turkey” was the echo from another ten voices.
“No!” I Shouted “No, no, no!”
That rocked them so they had another talk – even got the police chief over to help and then eventu-
ally resolved that two of them would drive me the three kilometres into town to an ATM to get the
money. We went, but the first machine only had Syrian pounds – no US dollars. So off to another
ATM but the result was the same. I had taken the bank bloke’s word that only US dollars would do
and that he didn’t even want Syrian pounds. However that was not going to happen so the two
blokes with me organised to withdraw 16,000 pounds - that should cover the $US 235. A third man
in a suit, with English, had joined in to help and assured me that the two blokes were right and that
Syrian money would be accepted.
So I had a wallet full of cash and back we went to see poor old Phe sitting so forlorn and unloved
in the middle of the no-mans land waiting for her best mate north of the equator to charge to her
rescue – which he did.
The banker accepted the pounds – 11,250 of them – without a squeak. Bastard!
By a quarter to six they opened the gates and let the four of us loose into Syria.
And in particular, the town of Al Qamishli.
And what a mess, with dust and litter and people and little yellow taxis by the hundred. I saw a hotel,
and loved the name - Alsaid Hotel - so climbed the 50 stairs, asked the price – 500 pounds – and saw
the room, which was fine, although I would have liked a toilet seat and some toilet paper but neither
of those things were going to happen, so I placed the money down for one night and will decide on
another one later.


But how lucky can you be. A beaut reception/manager bloke. I later found out his name was Aziz, aged
33, with three children aged 7, 3 and a baby. He sat me down in their lounge – not really four star
like - but there were half a dozen tatty old lounge chairs and we chatted for a while, me in English and
him in Arabic. He offered coffee and I suggested chai (tea in Turkish) which was duly brought by his
side kick who I later found to have the name Zorro. He was an unmarried 22 year old. It was Zorro
alright because they both laughed and nodded when I did the Zorro sword thing of three swishes
and the letter ‘Z’ carved in the wall! How would they know that at their age – that was a comic strip
– or was it a film? - when I was a kid!
But it was nice and friendly and a wonderful welcome to Syria. I left them to organise my gear and my
room and to play catch-up on this journal which was three or four days behind. Worked for an hour
and there was a knock on the door and it was Aziz with a tray and a cup, saucer, sugar and another
pot of tea. Wonderful!

Al Qamishli - My first stop in Syria, and two friendly and helpfull Syrians
Thursday 23rd September 2010
The single bed was comfortable, the room was quiet, the aircon good and the shower fabulous – the
best since leaving home even though the whole bathroom of basin, toilet, (no seat) and shower head
would be no bigger than one metre by two metres and you had to keep the door shut to keep the
water in. After more than twelve hours of shut-eye I was outside at the reception desk to be sure
that there was no breakfast included – and there wasn’t – but Zorro took me across the street and
down a bit to a small restaurant selling breakfast. Just two tables and six chairs. I had what the bloke
was offering - a sort of broad bean stew with a ladle of something that looked like yoghurt but
probably wasn’t and heaps of spices. A big round flat bread the size of a large dinner plate was folded
and put on the table. A bowl of sliced tomatoes, cucumber strips, green peppers and some sprigs of
coriander. It was only when I got to the bottom of the bowl that I worked out it was broad-beans
because all of the other flavours left little room for the taste of the broad-bean. There was miles too
much for me to eat but I did my best without even touching the bread. He makes an egg omelet too,
so I may try that tomorrow.
Zorro stuck to me while I ate what I could – not at the table but outside in the street - and then
with sign language he guided me a place to fit a Syrian sim card into the mobile phone and add a few
pounds to top it up as well. There’s another birthday coming up – Lachie, our eldest grandson is going
to be 14 tomorrow so maybe I will be able to get this one right. Then next week our son turns forty
something.
The morning was spent working on this journal and in the afternoon I went walkabout around Al
Qamishli and managed to find an internet place. I was put out though, because they would not allow
me onto the internet without sighting my passport. It’s hot! Very hot, and even though I have learned
to walk on the shady side of the street I was wringing wet by the time I got back to the cafe with the
prescribed document. Now I know that you need your passport to buy a sim card and also to use
the internet. It’s not only for crossing borders and showing to nosey army kids. The internet cafe was
a good place though and I did what had to be done in a couple of hours then back to the hotel and
the aircon for more work on this journal.
I had another chat with Aziz and Zero before they knocked off about eight o’clock – so it seems they
do a twelve hour day but possibly a four day week. I tried hard to find out by drawing calendars and
things and the response from Azia was a “7777” and I don’t know what he was meaning. Anyway they
have both been so very good to me, a complete stranger with not a word of Arabic. The language
barrier is bad enough but I have always found solace in other non-English countries with the fact that
the numbers are the same – sure they sound different when spoken but when written they look the
same. Not so in Arab land! The Arabic numbers are meaningless to me. I wonder how big a problem
this will be in the weeks ahead?
I gave Zorro some money and Aziz a little more plus koalas for each of his three kids. I don’t know if
they appreciated it but they both knocked on my door before they went home to shake hands and
say goodbye. Maybe they don’t work tomorrow.


Friday 24th September 2010
Last night I tried out the new sim card on a happy birthday call to Lachie in Australia, and it worked
perfectly so what sort of swifty were those Italians pulling when the sim card for their country proved
to be worthless. The only problem was that I got the time difference mixed up and got my family out
of bed at five thirty in the morning – I thought it would have been seven thirty. Oh well thems the
breaks. At least I have handled one birthday almost okay.
Breakfast this morning was not at the same shop because he wasn’t open, but another just a hundred
metres in the opposite direction was open, and I ordered two of those thin pieces of round bread
topped with spicy things -similar to a starved pizza - and heated, plus a couple of bananas.

That would have been enough. But that’s not how it’s done in Syria so it came with diced tomatoes,
green peppers and some cucumber. Nice and better than yesterday – especially the second cup of
tea after I confiscated the sugar bowl. But it was good sitting and being a part of the morning traffic
through this part of the town. I must have overdone it on the peppers – I thought they were mild but
by hell did that last bite set my mouth on fire! Water didn’t help and neither did a bite of banana and
the tea being scolding hot seemed to do more damage than it was worth. Just had to wait for time to
do the healing. And it cost 100 Syrian pounds – so very cheap.

One of the main streets in Al Qamishli - best to walk on the shady side of the street!


We were leaving Al Qamishli sometime just after ten and I couldn’t find the way out of town for ages,
but it was good to wander around the place and try to find something attractive – other than the
friendliness and helpfulness of the inhabitants. They don’t smile a lot even when they are talking to
me but if, at the end, I pat him on the arm or shoulder, shake hands and a warm smiling thank you in
English, he always, and I do mean always, will break into a warm smile. One bloke today wanted to kiss
me on both cheeks but I thought that was a bit over the top. I haven’t noticed a lot of kissing yet but
it may be early days.
Aziz and Zorro were both back at work this morning again. Zorro walked my bag down the stairs
and even stopped and waved me goodbye. He would have watched as we made the mistake of turn-
ing right instead of left – and maybe he shouted - but I hope he wasn’t still watching when we went
past the same hotel a full hour later still trying to find the way out of town.
The litter is everywhere except that in the major towns and villages, first thing in the morning, there
are the sweepers doing their rounds, but in places where they don’t operate the bags and bottles and
paper and tyres – you name it – just build up until the first heavy torrent and then it will all be swept
out into the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a bloody mess. And the dust! I wonder if I am right in thinking I
am not going to like this country from the picturesque point of view - but I am sure I am going to like
the people, because I must have stopped 8 or 10 times this morning to ask people for directions to
get on the road south towards Deir Ezzor. One bloke walked away 100 metres and got his motorbike
out of a garage and started to lead me out of town. After a couple on minutes I pulled the plug on
it because I didn’t want him to be leading me for miles and miles perhaps when I was quite happy
wandering around in the approximate direction and absorbing the activity around me. And none of
these people had any English. None at all. And so the directions barely reached as far as the next
round-about and even then I often get a verbal ‘left’ with a hand pointing to the right. It then becomes
a matter of guessing which one to rely on - the verbal word or the pointed finger.
I had decided to drive directly south from Al Qamishli to the city of Deir Ezzor and when we eventu-
ally broke away from the city, the road south was excellent but was carrying not that many cars. There
had been plenty of cars in Al Qamishli though, but a quarter of them would have been the little yel-
low taxi trolling the streets for business.
Aziz told me that Syria has virtually no oil but some natural gas and produces lemons – maybe I
got it wrong but it was a round fruit that twisted the face at the bite! He said that he is Kurdish – I
didn’t ask about Zorro – and a lot Kurds live just over the border in the area around Sirnak in Turkey,
especially, and also in northern Iran, in northern Iraq and here in the north of Syria. Its all Kurdish. I
didn’t actually ask if there was friction in Syria but I gather there is not because had there been some
it would have come up in the conversation. They are all Sunni Moslem, except for Iran where they are
Shiite.
With the help from Compass we eventually found the road heading due south and once into the
flat country the houses look to be made from mud brick – the older ones – rendered with the
same material but the distinctive feature was the domed roof with no eaves or overhang. A bit like a
haystack. Only a few windows and often blank walls facing the northern heat. The newer houses were
from concrete blocks. I have given up trying to identify the few green crops along the way. I think a
lot would be green peppers which are being harvested at the moment. Much of the ground looks to
have been tilled after a grain crop and some of the land looks to be just bare.
There is not a cloud in the sky and only a whisper of a breeze. At midday it was in the early to mid
thirties, but I could not say the sky was blue because of the mist, or whatever it is. I couldn’t describe
it as a grey sky and even directly overhead it was not blue. As we got further south it got heavier and
thicker to the point where I could not even see the horizon on this flat land. I wonder if it is just dust
- a dust storm. But then without the wind what would keep it in the air, it would just settle.
We have come to a town where there are some new and big grain silos, so there must be a hefty
grain crop here when the time and rains are right, but it is difficult to imagine that today. It is bare and
brown and not nice. The same sheep are here in Syria - with the sad black faces – and are looked
after by shepherds, but it’s strange that I have not seen any shorn sheep – they have all been heavy in
wool right through our whole trip.


A common sight of women in the back of a truck. Like it or lump it - but that’s the way
it is in this part of the world.

Right now the land may look hot, barren, dry and bleak, but another town and more huge grain silos
so it can’t be like this all of the year round. They must rely on rain at the right time in the growing
cycle.
A couple of ten year olds when I stopped for a breather in a small village.
“Good morning. How are you?” with perfect English pronunciation. He didn’t have a “What is your
name?” like the Turkish kids, but I am sure what English I got was all he had to give! – but at least it’s a
start. Then something different because I had been accustomed to seeing men only on their own but
this time it was a family group – a man, his wife and two kids all walking together and all crowding the
car window as I asked for direction. Apart from the language, I could have been at home. So I gave the
little kids a Koala each.
What great fun it is asking for directions because the next time, in Hasakah, there were four blokes
together in a fish shop I think it was, and they were all pouring over the map trying to work out
where I was heading for – Deir Ezzor - and no matter how many times I spoke the words they just
couldn’t recognise the town and of course they could not read the English writing on the map. Had
it been in Arabic it would have been a breeze, but when the penny finally dropped they were all over
me like a rash, and I am sure, pronouncing it much the same as I had.
All morning the countryside had not changed one little bit although we are about 300 metres above
sea level so certainly not in ‘high country’ and there were a lot of settlements with a few houses ,
then a gap and another small settlement . It reminded me very much of Morocco where the houses
are made out of the local dirt and blend in so well you can hardly see them. But I must be missing a
beat somewhere because all of these people would not be settled out here without reason – but I’m
darned if I can work out what it is.
Oh yes, its dust alright now that the breeze has risen a notch I can see little willy willys travelling along
and the dust being picked up from the side of the road – the ground is all but bare so it stands to
reason that dust will be picked up. Then there are signs of artesian water, so that may be the link I was
missing.
But suddenly the road changes from a fabulous single lane surface to an unmade surface, rocky and
bumpy - but no problem because Phe is tough and can hack it.
But then it does become a problem when the unmade, rocky and bumpy road changes to a dirt track.
Throw in a few forks without signs and suddenly we are not looking too good. I stopped a bloke on
a motor bike and my pronunciation of Deir Ezzor was all he could go by because he had no idea of
reading the English on the map. He pointed for us to keep going But I was not at all confident he had
actually understood the question.


I think I heard Phe murmur “I don’t think we are on the right road Grae.”

Then another man on a motor bike came to meet me from one of the farm houses and recognised
the town as I pronounced it and told me, by sign, to drive “Towards those trees (a picture in the air
of a tree) but don’t turn left, (and pointed to the left and then chopped his hand off) but when as
far as those houses (a picture in the air of a house) then turn left!” I then got a “boop, boop” – that’s
the train line! Such a nice guy. First of all he wanted some American dollars and I said ‘not American
– Australian and no US dollars in Australia’, so he gave up and then he invited me in for something
to eat. Twice he did this. Should I have accepted? I don’t know. It gets terribly strained having tea in a
room where no conversation is possible. Wonderful and no words that either of us could understand.
I followed the instructions exactly as he had given them and it worked out perfectly. From the time
we crossed under the train line, it became easy because I could see vehicles moving on the highway
maybe 3 kms away so it was only a matter of following a track leading in that direction. We were back
on the first class sealed road all the way to Deir Ezzor. How the hell I lost it in the first place I will
never know and I was not going back to find out. It is 180 kms from Hasakah to Deir Ezzor and the
road has been flat, straight and true for all of those 180 kms except for that itchy, titchy, little bit in the
middle where we managed to lose our way.
When we arrive at Deir Ezzor there was a hotel that looked okay from the outside and stood up
alright on the inside but the price was 1600 pounds – makes the last two nights at 500 per night look
pretty good. (But this one comes with a toilet seat and a roll of toilet paper). I was tempted to try
somewhere else I must be getting old because I couldn’t be bothered. Instead I found an ATM, a car
wash inside and out for Phe and a fill of diesel – A price I couldn’t believe, just 20 pounds a litre. That’s
even cheaper than Tunisia and about a quarter the price of Europe.


Syria - Westwards along the Euphrates River valley to Aleppo
Saturday 25th September 2010
Breakfast at this mediocre but expensive hotel was about the same – mediocre. We are leaving
around about nine heading back across the country to Aleppo in the top left corner – the north west.
But before we leave I have a few things to say.
What a filthy bloody joint this is. Phe had a nice clean wash last night and I come out this morning and
she – along with every other car in the city - was covered with dust, just covered! I had to re-wash
the windscreen and the rear window just to be able to take off. This city could be a really beautiful
place because it has a huge river flowing right through the middle of it – and that river is the Euphra-
tes! The Euphrates, and it runs right through Dier Ezzor, and then across the length of Iraq and eventu-
ally empties into The Gulf. It is a big river that has it’s origins in the mountains of Turkey.
I know it would be hard, but there seems to be no attempt to control the dust and of course every
time a heavy vehicle goes past there are clouds of dust billowing out behind it. Then they could teach
the population to stick the rubbish in the bins and not just chuck it out the window or onto the street
– how hard is that! Many, many other countries have done it. Just how hard is it! It gives me the irits to
see such a mess!
Dier Ezzor could be a really beautiful city but it isn’t not, and not by a long shot.
I haven’t got to talk to a woman in Syria as yet – well not in Turkey either now that I think of it – but
this morning when I was cleaning Phe’s windows, a woman was walking towards us and as she passed
by she looked straight at me and I smiled, but her expression didn’t change one iota – her eyes didn’t
even blink just moved away from me to the way ahead. She didn’t even drop her eyes to the pave-
ment. It wasn’t even embarrassing – it was just sort of stone cold as if I wasn’t there at all. Just one of
those little person to person things that had a result that I am not accustomed to.
It seems almost compulsory for all of the men in Syria to smoke, but I wonder if women smoke as
well?
The river, the Euphrates, would be the life blood to the area because the flatland is cultivated all along
it’s banks – potato, corn, peppers and so many things that I don’t recognise and there are people
working in amongst the crops everywhere. There are small villages along the road every few kilome-
tres. We are only 250 metres above sea level so nothing much has changed from that point of view.
Phe needed a top-up of oil and amazingly at one of the many villages we passed through I was able
to spot a bloke who could sell Phe that one litre. I say amazingly, because retailing in Syria is different
than in western countries. There are no flashy glass shop fronts – in fact there is hardly any glass at all
– just a metal roller shutter that tells you that when it is down, the shop is shut and when raised, they
are open for business. There are no signs neither in Arabic and certainly not English, but the locals
know where to go for whatever they want, but us mere mortal tourists have to peer inside each of
these shop-fronts to decide if the items for sale are groceries, or clothing, or engine oil or a mechanic
fixing cars. Well I struck it lucky and a Peter Ustinov look-a-like took the first 50 pound note I offered
and then indicated ‘more’ and the second 50 proved to be enough to satisfy both him and Phe. The
same litre of oil cost 20 lire in Turkey – 7 times the price!
Despite the dust, everyone seems very neat and clean. Men in western dress have clean shirts with
ironed creases on the sleeves or if in traditional style, the shoulder to ankle gown is either very white
or beige, pressed and clean. The women have brightly coloured traditional dresses and scarves –
bright blues, or reds, or orange, and with gold or silver threads. A few women are in all black.
I can’t believe I have lost the medical kit. I had it out a week or so ago when I had the trots and today
I’ve won a bad foot and a bad elbow both at the same time, probably from the cold draft under the
air-conditioner a couple of nights back. I have had it in my foot two or three times over the past year
and am sure it is a chill that catches the muscle, and which normally takes 4 or 6 days to come right.
So I thought a panadol forte would help me to operate the clutch pedal without grimacing – but no
kit!
It’s the second thing lost on this trip – the first was the immersion element for boiling water, way, way
back.
At the turnoff to Ar Raqqah there was some roadworks and I could have taken more time to see
what was happening because there were women with shovels walking to do work and there were
also strange looking 200 litre drums of a very pale greenish liquid that was being mixed with a pole –
in one case just the one fellow mixing and in another case there were two women mixing but I never
saw anyone using whatever it was in the drum, so it will be a mystery to me forever probably. Over a
couple of kms there must have been six or seven drums of the stuff.


The dust has blurred the horizon for the last two days - I guess there is little that can be
done about it.

The countryside after the Ar Raqqah turnoff has not changed one little bit with people in amongst
the crops, harvesting, and the visibility poor. I don’t want to keep harping on about this dust, but how
the hell they live with it I don’t know. I suppose that is a stupid question because they have no choice
because the dust is going to be around whether there are people here or not.
I had decided to give Ar Raqqah a miss and head instead directly to Aleppo for - hopefully - a nice
hotel with wifi so I can get some business done with the publishers in England. There doesn’t seem to
be much of a ‘journey’ in today’s march. It looks to be just Dier Ezzor and Aleppo – the two destina-
tions and not that much in between, and what there is was pretty bleak.
But then quite suddenly the landscape changed as we left the desert behind – I still can’t resolve in
my mind the need for another big batch of huge grain silos – so where then hell is the grain com-
ing from? The improvement is gradual but definite. There are plantations of small olive trees still a
few years away from their first crop and there is some water lying around in places. The Euphrates
broadens out into a lake a way to our right out of sight but there are a number of channels that are
bringing water to the area. Then for the first time all day – and it’s now almost two o’clock – the sun
has managed to peak through the dust and is shining on Phe. We may have left the worst behind us.
Aleppo looks to be a nice enough sort of city, clean and tidy with buildings a concrete colour rather
than the colour of the earth. A few street trees. It is a big city of more than two and a half million
people and bigger than the capital, Damascus.
I drove around for a while before I started asking the locals about hotels, and it took four asks before
this middle aged guy, who had tried to direct me (in Arabic,) then suggested – I think – that he hop
in and guide us to one. I accepted the offer and away we went. For the next 15 minutes or more he
guided and pushed us through the tooting traffic to a 4 star at what looked like the centre of town
but even at 5300 pounds they were full for tonight. (Remember I paid just 500 Syrian pounds at Al
Qamishli for our first night in Syria) The receptionist suggested another hotel around the corner but
they were also full at 4200 pounds. This receptionist fellow was good enough to ring another three
hotels until at 4100 pounds he found one that had a vacant room and also wifi. My new ‘best friend
in Aleppo’ guided us there, found an illegal place to park, and got me to reception where I did the
normal things needed to book in. But then he disappeared. I looked all over but there was no sign of
him. I had intended to offer him some money but obviously that wasn’t part of his plan. One of the
hotel porters walked back to the car to lead me to Phe’s park for the night but there was still no sign
of him.


A shame really as I would have loved to have thanked him for being so very kind.

Syria - From the big city of Aleppo to the Mediterranean coast and Latakia
Sunday 26th September 2010

We made it out of this big busy bustling city of Aleppo, and if it wasn’t for Compass we would have
had no bloody hope at all. We had driven for three quarters of an hour I guess, by heading towards
the south-west whenever an intersection came up, before there was the first road sign in English that
I could recognise – and that was to Daret Azzah , a little more west than south-west but there should
be no problem with that. In fact the road looks to be a minor road which suits Phe and Me down to
the ground.
It was a nice hotel last night and I got chatting to a German couple who had been travelling around
Jordan, Lebanon and Syria for four weeks. They gave me a few tips on places they had been to and
enjoyed and were good enough to give me their Syrian maps. Courage is a very precious thing to
me and I don’t want to use any of mine up in trying to walk to – and then, maybe, find – the Tourist
Information Office just on the off chance that there would be some good info coming from them and
for the sake of getting a good road map of Syria. Aleppo is a strange and confusing city and the risk of
not being able to find my way back to the Hotel and Phe parked in a nearby car-park, was too great.
So thank you ‘German couple’ very much for your maps.


Today I am not going to mention litter, not at all - but that’s not to say it’s gone away, just that I don’t
want to keep on harping about it.

A street in Aleppo but it is now in the best light because we had three solid torrents of rain last night.
Each one only lasted for maybe five minutes but it really pelted down and would have freshened the
place up, so the photos are a bit brighter than they would have been had they been taken yesterday.

Then there was this big up-market housing development with three stories homes
on large blocks of land.

They looked to be very much the same shape and style as I discussed when travelling through Turkey,
but up to now I had not noticed the repetition of design here in Syria. There are about 30 on this side
of the road and maybe half as many on the other side and all about to the same (early) stage of de-
velopment. A couple look to be well on the way to completion, but the rest a long way off. It is about
10kms short of Daret Azzah so a fair way from Aleppo.
Another encounter of the happy kind this time at the small town of Daret’ezzeh. I suppose it happens
because I am a novelty, being old and scruffy with a car to suit, and with no Arabic at all – maybe even
a challenge to some people.


Just over three weeks ago, while we were in Tunisia I had a mishap which destroyed the camera and
after a big hassle I bought a replacement from the town’s one and only department store. Only the
choice of one digital camera but in two colours – silver or black. Great choice! Its a Fuji and works
well enough but runs on two AA disposable batteries which don’t seem to last long and it has been a
battle keeping new, fully charged batteries up to it. The shops and kiosks all the way since Tunisia seem
to stock only disposable batteries that are flat!
Well the (brand new) camera is playing up again so we cruised up the main street very slowly looking
to spot anyone who may know something about cameras. There was a tiny shop with some gear like
CD’s and phones in the window, so I gave it a go. Of course the bloody camera wouldn’t malfunction
when showed to the bloke but he took the easy way out of wanting to put the two AA batteries
into his charger. He was a nice, friendly young fellow and had his two little kids with him in the shop
but English was as scarce as hen’s teeth and even the regular sign language was not working very well
either. I tried to tell him that they were not rechargeable batteries and furthermore I had just taken
these two brand new batteries straight out of the packet. He was unable to understand the “Not
Rechargeable” sign written in English on the side of each battery.
Then I thought to get him to top up the mobile phone with another 100 Syrian pounds as I have my
son’s birthday to attend to in the morning – the last of this batch for a month or so.
Anyway, I sat around for half an hour waiting for the batteries to either explode or stay cool, until the
young bloke spotted two blokes on the street who had a little English. He called them inside and I
was able to get them to understand the batteries were not rechargeable and managed to get them
back out of the charger before any damage was done.
They then wanted me to buy some ‘rechargeable’ batteries – and I would have done exactly that
except the young fellow only had his own charger and not another that he could sell to me. No good
from my point of view buying rechargeable batteries without a charger.
So “Come” was the instruction, and off we go down the street a couple of shops to a grocer who
sold us (me) a couple of new AA’s. I stuck them into the camera and they were deader than the
do-do. The shopkeeper just shrugged and gave me my money back. (Did he really put those batteries
back on the shelf behind him?)
My old batteries kicked the camera into life but I know it won’t be for long. Anyway there were now
four of them and one of me trying to solve the unsolvable so eventually we all gave up. But parting
was a happy affair with warm handshakes and smiles all-round and a few soft palms to the heart –
which perhaps is an Islamic blessing for me.
In parting the main guy asked if I was going to the Citadel and I said “Yes” and then “Where is it?” He
told me a left and then a right and it was well worth the visit.

This is the Sanaan Citadel but there was not a skeric of information in English so I will have
to google it to get details.


On the way back from the Citadel the hillsides were just rocks but below there were green valley
floors. This was pretty typical. The rocky hillside is just that – rocks with hardly a shovel full of dirt. On
the other hand the valley floor looks to be pretty fertile and certainly good enough for olives and in
some places vegetables, corn and other bits and pieces as well. There is water as well.
We picked up a hitcher while I was parked looking for the way to Addana on the map and this bloke
told me the way and then hopped in. I didn’t mind but it was a shame he had no English – surely I will
catch one soon! Anyway he guided us to and through Addana and then for another 50 kms before he
signalled a stop. And the area had water and had become a rich bowl for the production of foodstuff.
There seem to be more and more olive trees and these trees although a lot larger were not the very
old, mature trees we have seen in other countries. Maybe Syria only started into olives 20 or 25 years
ago – in this area at least. I understand there is a mountain range that runs from north to south near
to the coast and maybe on our way to Latakia today we will pass over the top which will make a nice
change to the flat driving in Syria so far.
About 50 kms short of Latakia there were a couple of speed humps that made the car in front of me
and the truck in front of it, to pull up a halt. There was a bloke on the road and he shook hands with
the driver in front of us, so I pulled out to overtake these two mates who had stopped for a chat,
when I noticed a second bloke on the road, but this one had a rifle not on a strap to the shoulder but
at the ‘ready’. He was in civilian clothes but it surely was a Syrian Army check point of some kind and
we had almost barged straight through it.
Within about 10kms of Latakia I reckon I spotted some of Aziz’s lemon trees – just a handful in
amongst the olives, and if they weren’t lemons they were something mighty close to lemons.

Syria - Across the mountains to the plains around Apamea
Monday 27th September 2010
Once again when we had arrived at Latakia, I stopped at the first hotel we came across. This one was
1500 pounds which was a lot softer than the previous night’s 4100 pounds but it was pretty scruffy
– and heaps of street noise with those honking horns, until I got a change in rooms. So now it’s a lot
better. Perhaps I should do a bit more shopping around in future.
His name was Yasser, and he was the English voice at the Tourist Information office here in Latakia. He
had excellent English and I am so glad I didn’t give up trying to find the office - although I was sorely
tempted a number of times. It was only pot luck in the finish, as there were none of the usual ‘Tourist
Information Office’ logos which are recognisable world wide. Not even anything in English at all.
Maybe finding it was a good omen because the day just got better from there.
Getting back to Yasser though, I didn’t really get a great deal of information but what I did get will
be good quality I am sure, and it was just nice talking to him. I said to Yasser before I left, that I have
a thousand questions about Syria and I will remember them when he is not around, and of course
straight away, one of them was to ask for a note in Arabic describing AA rechargeable batteries with
a battery charger to suit. I would then have a chance of buying the gear to escape this rigmarole of
buying cheap AA batteries that are flat straight out of the packet. But I forgot.
After the Tourist Info place we drove north of the city to the nice Mediterranean beaches and then
around towards the wharf and port area when I spotted a brand new multi storey retail complex
with K Mart as one of the tenants. Worth a try.
Bingo! Just inside their doors there was a separate section selling batteries and the like and so a pretty
big and clumsy looking battery charger and rechargeable batteries became part of our gear. The
young fella – maybe 27 – looking after the section also had excellent English which made it easy and
very convenient. His name was John. But as I was walking back to Phe it occurred to me that there
was a long day coming up and I would need a camera that was functioning and not dependent upon
iffy batteries, so I backtracked and asked John if he could plug the new charger into the power to give
the new batteries a spark of life. I could hang around K Mart for the hour that it would take.
And that’s what happened. He wasn’t very busy so we chatted and he told me about his wish to
emigrate to Australia but he could not find information about the Australian Embassy in Syria. I told
him I didn’t think it mattered much whether he applied through Damascus or Cairo or London or
even Canberra but the sooner he made the application the sooner he would find out whether he
was accepted or knocked back. He said he had trained in University as a computer engineer – is there
any young person in the world who is not a computer engineer?


I asked him what the jobless rate would be in Syria and he thought it would be well over 50% and that
the wages were poor. I asked him how much he was paid in this job with K Mart and he said $US 100 a
month but it would be $150 a month if he was working at his trade. I asked if he was married and he said
no because it was too expensive – not quite sure what he meant by that. We parted after the hour was up
and the new batteries were cooked to perfection – I hope - and I took off on the rest of our journey.
We were 10 minutes up the road, around the docks area of the city, when I had a dose of the guilts.
Barb and I have three children, each of whom have married and raised three children. Each of them
and their spouse have worked hard and never had financial assistance from the Government or from
their parents but each couple now own their own home on a suburban block and two cars plus mon-
ey in the bank and only a small remaining house mortgage. This young bloke today could not, in his
wildest dreams imagine such a lifestyle – a lifestyle taken for granted by the average young Australian.
He seemed to be very intent on trying to break the cycle and I think he wanted to talk to me about
Australia and get some help. And why shouldn’t I help. There may be something I could do even if it is
only advice and support. So a U-turn to give him my email and postal address and a little information
about Australia’s low unemployment rate plus the shortage of skilled people. I also suggested he could
well be suited to working in the areas where the wages were the highest, and where jobs are available
because of the high temperatures, and that’s around the remote Queensland and West Australian
mining towns. The excessive heat surely wouldn’t worry a young man from Syria.
I like this town of Latakia despite the very ordinary hotel last night. It seems to be neat and tidy with
street trees and many broad streets. It has beaches to the Mediterranean Sea and a seaport. Traffic
control seems good with lights and roundabouts plus police on point duty along the way.
But by one o’clock it was time to leave. Yasser had marked a road on our map that meant going south
as far a Jableh, past the airport and then turning left into the mountains and out the other side to fin-
ish up at the town of Apamea for the night. It is the site of a citadel up on the hill.
Well we got lost again!
I don’t know if is just me or is it these stupid maps that are put out by the Tourist info people, but I
stopped at every signpost that had English writing on it and could not, not once, find one of those
town on my map! The best thing Yasser did was to give me a second identical map but written in
Arabic rather than mine that is written in English, so whenever I stopped seeking info, the local had no
difficulty reading the place names on the map – at least he knew where he was.
Compass says we are going east into the mountains and so long as the road doesn’t run out we
should eventually get to the plains over the other side. But I had no idea which road we were on. I
stopped and asked a couple of blokes smoking bongs – four o’clock in the afternoon - and they said
we were heading for Apamea okay. And that was only two men out of what must have been dozens
of enquiries. Then I gave away asking because the road was fine as it twisted and turned in the climb
to the summit.

One of the villages up in the rocks. It is almost invisible being the same colour as the rock
and the dirt.


As we passed through this village I saw an elderly couple sitting outside in the shade with washing
drying on their line but apart from that there was nothing much happening in that village that day.
A number of times I thought we had reached the summit of the road but around a bend and there
always seemed to be another climb – not that we were very high it was just that we had come up
from sea level to the mountain tops in a very short space of time. Eventually we made it to the top. It
had been an excellent road all the way with what looked liked a fairly new asphalt surface. But then it
stopped. It didn’t just peter out. It stopped!
It stopped!
About 100 metres further back I had seen a fellow walking into a house and as we passed I nodded
and he waved, so I went back and knocked and called a “Hello” into the doorway that he had gone
through but when I looked it was sort of a nothing space under the house. Nearby there were some
stairs to an open door so I climbed the stairs, called out, put my head through the door and here are
four blokes lying on carpets and cushions in a small room playing cards. This is precisely the same as
what happened in Morocco on the Sahara Desert a year ago – is this what they call daja-vu? That
time I had Ali who led me to the den but this time I had done it all by myself.
Anyway I went inside and asked the question “English – speak English?” and one of the men after a bit
of think music said “English – yes.” As it turned out he had only just passable English. It took a while for
the four of them crowded around the Arabic map to work out where we were and where I wanted
to go but then the English speaker said “Come – follow” out onto a deck and he explained in simple
terms and signs and finger pointing the way I should go to get back to the main road. In essence it
was to miss the first road to the left but take the second road to the left and then drive all the way to
Apamea. He couldn’t put a mark on the map showing exactly where we were at that moment but he
told me how to get out of the mess we were in.
Then he said “tea – like tea?” and I said “Yes” but because I said “no sugar” they had a laugh because
all of the pots they had must have had sugar – and there would have been a handful at least in each
pot - so it took a few minutes for a new pot to be made. These four blokes weren’t no-hoper’s or
layabouts – they seemed to me to be regular middle-aged men but when I tried to find out just what
they were doing perched up there on the mountain top in this village at the end of the line, I didn’t
really get an answer except that “We drive to Jableh” (back down on the coast), and I wondered if
they were a group of the small van-bus drivers which would criss-cross the whole area.
Anyway after two cups of tea I wanted to take a photo of the four of them playing cards – I had
already sat through a couple or three hands – but as I stood, so did all of them, so the moment was
lost, however they were happy to pose for a family group outside on the deck.

As we drove away they were all outside to wave us off.Wonderful friendly, helpful Syrians.


This day was just going on and on.
First of all I couldn’t believe it, but after driving for twenty minutes I was back at the same dead end,
of the same road, again, and had just driven right past their house without noticing it. We had done a
full loop. So I crept up the stairs again and popped my head in and said “Boo” and laughed and carried
on like a two bob watch. They then told me that the second turn-off was not really a fork with two
prongs but that it had three prongs and I had taken the left and should have taken the middle one. I
had not see any three bloody prongs but they should know – it’s their country! So off down the hill
again to the second intersection and I still can’t see three bloody prongs. I was tempted to give up
and backtrack towards the coast but then the thought ‘No, I will try again’.
There were some shooters up the right-hand road a bit, “I will go to where they are and try for a
second – or fifth – opinion.” They were good value. About five of them with a bird call blasting out
of a CD and the occasional shot at these little fellas that looked very similar to but smaller than a
Kingfisher we have in Australia. A long sharp beak and a green chest – a pretty little bloke but it would
take a lot to make a meal. Anyway two or three of the shooters had excellent English and threw their
hand up in the air when they found I was heading for Apamea, so I must have been a long way off the
track, but then they pointed out the road I should take to meet the main road – and lo and behold it
was the middle prong to the three pronged fork and I was standing almost right on top of it and still
had not seen it.
It still wasn’t all plain sailing but eventually we followed the hill down to the valley floor and picked up
the main road. I really am bloody hopeless though, because I am here to collect material to put into
a book, and after we left the shooters to take the middle fork, there was another shooter on his own
and I stopped so as not to disturb him as he took his shot. Why didn’t I take a photo of that! Some
journalist I am! A paparazzi without the P! He missed the bird but maybe I should have asked them
both for a replay and he may have shot it the second time around.
We are now on the (main) road that Yasser the tourist info bloke, said was a great road and he is
dead right, with a good drive through the hills that were bush clad with pine and little oaks (I think)
but still with plenty of boulders showing through, except it had paled a wee bit compared to that
marvelous road we had found when we got lost, if you get my drift.
It’s a quarter to six and we are out of it and onto the plains heading north Apamea.
Surprise, surprise, there is no hotel at Apamea and the nearest is back at Hama 50 kms to the south.
But there is always a flip side to the coin because we were probably only half way back to Hama and
there were all of these loaded trucks and trailers behind tractors lined up one after the other on the
side of the road – maybe a hundred odd – all loaded with huge hessian bags of what was sure to be
cotton. There must be a cotton gin here to process the crop, and that’s what would have been being
picked today by all of those people in the fields. That seals it! We will come back here tomorrow to
see the Roman ruins at Apamea and also to check out the cotton.

Syria - The Roman Ruins near Apamea and some cotton picking
Tuesday 28th September 2010
Last night’s hotel was in the ‘old town’ of Hama. Nice. This morning I have checked out, got all of the
gear into Phe and fully expect to be back here tonight – but at least we are not committed at this
stage. We are going to head back north to Apamea and its Roman ruins but on a different road and
on the way we can check out the cotton thing.
But we have to get out of this town first and someone said that life wasn’t meant to be easy! You can
say that again! Oh for Karen to lend a hand! But her maps all stopped on the other side of the Medi-
terranean so its up to Compass alone - no good looking at Me because Me hasn’t a clue. Every bloke
I asked had a finger and it pointed in the opposite direction to the direction we were travelling.
We were getting nowhere until I asked three young twenty year olds walking together and as an
answer, they all hopped into Phe and gave directions until, after only five minutes or so, they called a
halt, all piled out and signed ‘straight ahead for Apamea!’ Smiles and handshakes all round - but not
the slightest hint of money. Wasn’t that nice. These blokes – it’s nine o’clock , a Tuesday, and if they had
jobs they would be at work. So what were they going to do for the day? The three of them neatly
dressed and clean, just going walk-about. They seemed to be good mates and enjoyed each other’s
company but what is their outlook for life? Sad I reckon.


This is cotton as it is growing and in my hand is the cotton out of one quarter segment of the flower
or bud or whatever it is called. The three seeds were devilishly hard to separate out – and there are
still another three seeds embedded in that ball of cotton. The cotton, without any of the seeds, is
exactly as you would buy cotton wool from a shop. What an amazing plant it is! Lets call it a bud, but
it grows and swells but stays tightly enclosed in the outer shell until that starts to open revealing four
segments of tight wool inside. The four petals spread so far that they leave the wool completely open
to the air. I know cotton needs a lot of heat and a lot of water to succeed as a crop. The pickers only
move in when all of the buds are wide open and then it is simply a matter of plucking each ball of
cotton wool off the plant – maybe ten per plant – and then move to the next. Apparently picking is
women’s work but there are blokes around as the bags the women fill are bundled and squashed into
a hessian bail. They then become heavy.
It has never ceased to amaze me when you compare cotton and sheep’s wool. In the natural state
they are very similar to the eye and to the touch except that sheep’s wool is a little greasy with the
lanolin content while cotton wool is dry, but both are twisted into a thread and that thread woven or
knitted into a cloth and used for may things put predominately for clothing. The big difference is that
cotton is a vegetable grown with sun and water while wool is animal – a product of the sheep.
The area we are into today is arable, intensively farmed flat land with a plentiful supply of water. There
are lots of people doing lots of things on the land. It’s a very busy place.


The Roman ruins near Apamea date back to 300BC.

They are impressive but I found it particularly difficult to visualise how the city would have looked
when it was brand new all of those centuries ago. The row of columns is 1850metres long! And not
very wide. First the Roman baths with the exposed plumbing, then an arch – the rest of the building
has collapsed but the arch remains - then the row of columns and it looks very, very, very straight af-
ter all of these years – amazing people these Romans! Pity they didn’t teach the Italians how to drive!
I got suckered into buying some stuff that was most probably die-cast in Damascus (or China) and
buried underground for six months to give it some “age.” It was from a nice bloke on a motor scooter
who led me up here. I gave him 200 Syrian pounds for the guidance but then another 1500 for four
Roman coins he had “Found here on the site myself.” It sure was his lucky day when I came along! You
would reckon I would know better!
I really have no idea how original this site is but if it really is original then it is amazing.
At Apamea, as well as the Roman ruins there is also an ancient city up on the hill but the ruins were
enough for me for one day so I left the ancient city for next time.
We made it to the line of cotton trucks about two thirty and I sat for a while and watched as three
empty trailers came out but no full ones got inside, but then Phe managed to get us onto a side track
that went around the back and up onto a rise overlooking the site, and I was able to see that this was
not a cotton gin at all. It was simply a depot where the bales are stored under tarps for as long as it
takes before being trucked off to the gin. Makes sense because the gin would want to operate at an
even pace all of the year round and not just at harvest time. It is almost three o’clock, knock off time,
and the workers are tidying up the last of the bales into the giant ‘hay stack’ for the day and I guess
the farmers who own the fifty or a hundred trucks and trailers out on the road will sleep with their
cotton until the morn.
We are back to Hama for our sleep until the morn.

Syria - The Ancient city of Palmyra - an Oasis in the Syrian Dessert
Wednesday 29th September 2010
Yasser at the Tourist Info place had said that Palmyra is a must see! He said that Germans fly to Syria
to see Palmyra and then fly straight home again. I hope he is right because I am not a big fan of the
Roman ruins, or ruins of any sort come to that. It looks to be around 250 to 300 kms east from
Hama with not a lot in between so we should be there soon after lunch.


I guess we will be going back to the desert and the dust, but at the start it was clear, a warm morning
with not a cloud in the sky and only a breath of a breeze. It was half past nine by the time we cleared
Hama and the visibility looking east was as good as we have had for weeks. Sure, it’s still misty but not
anywhere to the same degree as in the past. I wonder how this happens? Those fertile plains of yes-
terday stopped almost as soon as we were out of the city. This could be pretty serious grain country
with just a few olive groves dotting the landscape and the rest a brown stubble colour waiting for a
rain and a new planting next month possibly. Almost every town along the way has the big grain silos
for grain storage.
Yesterday morning I drove the best part of 25 kms to the south when I thought we were going north!
I couldn’t believe it when Compass’s needle had the red end pointing the wrong way! So this morn-
ing I have been very conservative and have asked for directions at every intersection, or fork, or tee
because there has not been one road sign in English since we left Hama.
It paid off early when we were in the town of Assalamyeh and I stopped and asked directions from a
young fellow. He had good English and confirmed I was on the right track. He asked for a lift – and it
was my pleasure. He comes from Assalamyeh and is a doctor (still in training I suspect) and has work
at the local hospital. I asked him about money and he said he gets US$250 per month and when I
commented that that doesn’t seem to be much, he said that “If I was in my own practice I would do
a lot better and get closer to $2000 per month. Things are cheap in Syria and it doesn’t cost a lot to
live”. Why didn’t I ask him about the average size of a young family – him being in obstetrics and all –
because I have the feeling that the average may be a fairly low 3 or 5 kids and not the large figures of
Morocco and Tunisia, but I did ask him where he got his good English from and he had to repeat the
answer because I was not ready for it the first time – Russia! He lived there for five years with some
friends. Amazing! A nice young fellow, and my first English speaking hitcher for weeks but unfortunate-
ly he got out just on the other side of town.

Then the Wednesday livestock market – Syrian style.

It seemed to be only sheep and goats although it’s ten o’clock and it’s probably all but wound up. It
seemed a lot less frantic than the last market we went to - where was that? That’s right! Next door to
that five star hotel in Tunisia! At this market there were ropes and chains fixed to the ground and ever
so often what looked like a loop of rubber which could be easily slipped around the front hoof and
the animal controlled easily and simply. Didn’t see any cattle ramps though, but these Syrian farmers
are a pretty tough bunch and the lift of a sheep from the ground onto the tray of the truck was never
going to be a problem.
As we turned the corner and started driving south the country became hilly and terribly arid. I was
surprised. I expected the arid alright but not the hilly. No villages, no people, and no traffic on the
road. A breakdown out here would mean a long wait. But Phe’s tough and “breakdown” is a word
hardly in her vocabulary at all.


Another mob of sheep and goats with what looked like two shepherds, a man and wife perhaps. A
covered truck for their supplies and dirt and rocks for the sheep to eat. How do they survive? And
they need water too of course. I wonder if these shepherds in particular own the flock or are they
working for wages for some other owner.

I still have not seen one sign in English that tells us we are on the road to Palmyra, but I think this road
from Hama could be the less preferred route to the one a bit further south that comes from Homs
and another from Damascus. It has been a beaut drive though – the sort that Phe and Me both love -
on a sealed road without lines.
When we entered Syria I noticed the mud brick houses with domed roofs. Well the mud brick is
still prominent but the domed roofs have been replaced with the normal flat roof, probably out of
the same mud brick but supported on poles. Then there is the more modern type of house made
from concrete or concrete blocks and with a reinforced concrete roof. And the tent villages that look
pretty permanent. I wonder if this is the camp of the Syrian Berber?
We made it to Palmyra early in the afternoon and straight away found a nice friendly hotel facing the
citadel.


That left us three or four very enjoyable hours for wandering around the ancient ruins, the castle
and the citadel - all great even though ruins are not my favourite treat of the day. There were a lot of
tour groups and I only managed to latch onto an English speaking one at the end. Just as well though
because I get too impatient to try to sift out some relevant facts from all of the garbage thrust at the
captive audience. I wish these tour guide people would cut out all of the irrelevant drivel they go on
about and just cut to the basic facts that tourists can absorb and perhaps remember. You only need to
look at the faces to read the sheer boredom of listening to some bloke telling you about - - - - - - - -
-------!

The Temple of Ba’al at Palmyra

They are still digging at Palmyra


With Phe, I decided that a drive through the ‘green oasis’ would be a good idea. The sign was up and
pointing at the date palms but I guess it related to foot passengers only because we had just entered
a narrow, dusty, one way lane with the mud brick and rock of houses on one side and a high stone
wall into the date palms on the other, when a bloke motioned for us to back up and go no further!
He was talking in Syrian – as is his right – and I had no idea what he was talking about so I contin-
ued on a few hundred metres looking for a place to turn. Another couple of blokes were there with
words and gestures too. Actually I – and every one of the other tourists in Palmyra that day - had
been pestered by the minute by men and boys trying to flog us beads and whistles, carpets and post-
cards - you name it - and I had it in my mind that these fellows were onto the same game, so I tried
to ignore them by saying I don’t understand – which was the truth. Eventually the penny dropped
when they got me out of the car and pointed to Phe’s rear tyre – flat! Well it was a long way down
but not quite dead flat – yet! I thanked them and went looking to find a petrol station for some air
as a starter. Better still I found a small tyre shop with a young bloke still working at seven thirty in the
evening. He had just enough English to know that Sydney and Melbourne are both in Australia and
that if he pulls out that big shiny screw sitting in the tread and plugs the hole it will not need a tube –
and yes he can do it – and yes he can do it now!
He removed the tyre, plugged the hole and checked all the other tyre pressures and then said 100
Syrian pounds. What’s that, about 1.60 euro or $A2.40. I couldn’t possibly pay 100 pounds for his hour
so I gave him 300 and we were both very happy. He was such a nice friendly, happy, bloke. His name
was Mohammed – why did I ask!

Syria - and On the Road to Damascus!
Thursday 30th September 2010
We are On the Road to Damascus! I have been wanting to put that bit into this journal ever since
entering Syria but today is the day at last. It’s been a long time since I last went to Sunday school and
it took some research to find out that according to the New Testament, it was Saint Paul who was On
the Road to Damascus when he had a vision, was struck blind, and converted to Christianity. So there
you are. And I thought it was a movie staring Bing Crosby and Jerry Lewis!
We have about 250kms to travel through the desert much the same as yesterday I expect. Not far
out of town we passed a sign ‘The Palmyra Camel Racecourse’, and it reminded me that I saw two
camels yesterday standing outside one of the tourist hotels and that they were the only camels I have
sighted in out total journey in Syria so far. And now here is a camel racecourse. Who is doing the kid-
ding here I ask?


It is a lot easier drive today than it was yesterday – 110 km per hour all the way, single lane but a
good road surface, straight and flat, but not anywhere as interesting. This is the main drag between
Damascus and the Palmyra tourist destination and we passed a lot of tourist coaches heading out for
a day or two at the ruins.
We came towards Damascus from the north and there was a lot of pollution coming from some
heavy industry and stuff. A cement works as well, and there sure would be a big demand for cement
in Syria. I thought it was going to clear but as we got closer it became just one great big grey cloud of
smog. The huge advertising billboards for the likes of ‘Ford’ and ‘Hoover’ had that dark brown grime
stain creeping up from the bottom the same as you see on some railway stations and goods yards.
When we got to the outskirts of Damascus I got a fit of the smarts, and so I followed a big purple
bus into town hoping it would lead us directly to the bus station – therefore the middle of town and
right next to a wonderful three star hotel with a cheap price. Tell him he’s dreaming! The purple bus
was the one that left Palmyra every hour for Damascus. It didn’t work out. The purple bus stopped at
what I thought may have been a suburban bus station, let off a few passengers and took off again out
of the bus station and I lost it! Bugger!
But I stopped at an ATM to top up the wallet and then went into the bank for smaller change as the
machine had only given out 1000 pound notes. I can always be relied upon to make a fool of myself
– and here I did it again. I fronted the counter and pretended to tear a 1000 pound note in half but
the puzzled look from the other side of the counter prompted me to write with biro on the palm of
my hand ‘50, 100, 200.’ The nice cashier lady then said in perfect English “You want to break the 1000
into smaller notes.” I felt so small I could have walked under a snake with my umbrella up! Anyway she
took it in good fun and when the transaction was concluded she came outside to direct me to the
centre of Damascus where the hotels would be. Nice and helpful but she had a very cold hand when
I shook it to say thank you and goodbye. Strange, because it was well over thirty degrees again today.
Maybe it’s from handling so much of that cold cash all day – and an air-conditioner that may be set a
tad low.

A back street just off the main drag in Damascus.Very easy to buy an ice cream or a kebab
or a cold (soft) drink.

It was easy to find a hotel without breaking the bank, but devilishly hard to find somewhere for Phe.
In the end one of the hotel’s porters came with us to find a parking spot in a street nearby – not the
best but the only place on offer.


Probably going to be a small apartment block of four (at least) floors

This photo is a good illustration of the method of building modern houses and apartments, not just
here in Syria but all over this part of the world from northern Europe to western Europe and now
in the Middle East. I reckon it’s great and far superior to the ‘stick by stick’ method I am used to in
Australian and New Zealand where houses consume tons of trees and are then clad in clay bricks or
more timber, or some other product.
Here construction is simple. Pour a concrete floor with plenty of steel reinforcing, a few vertical pillars
with plenty of steel reinforcing, another floor this time with light-weight bricks as well as the concrete,
more pillars, another floor, or maybe the roof. The stairs are poured – with plenty of steel reinforcing
- at the same time. Then they use some large but lightweight clay bricks for internal and external walls.
The walls are not load-bearing – just filling the hole. Finally the walls are cement rendered on the
outside and maybe cement, or perhaps plaster or tiles, on the inside. The windows are mostly double
glazed in aluminium frames with sashes that open into the room – and with just a flick of the lever
they can open in as a casement window for maximum air flow, or tip in from the top as an awning
window. And I have never found one that doesn’t work! Terrific. I am a fan for this type of construc-
tion for a number of reasons. Surely it is cheaper than our way. Heat, cold, and sound insulation is
excellent. Even in a room with an occupied floor above, there is no sound that comes through. The
intermediate floors are solid with no sign of bounce.
The only problem I have found has been with the plumber - wouldn’t you know it!
In many, many cases the bathroom on upper floors smell badly because of inadequate traps from
the shower or from the drain hole in the bathroom floor. Without the trap the smell from the whole
drain system drifts straight into the bathroom. Easily fixed, I reckon, by getting the painter to do the
plumbing!
I had it worked out in my long-term forward planning diary, (what long-term forward planning diary?)
that tomorrow would be a day for looking around the ‘old town’ of Damascus and the Tourist Info
people, just a short walk from our new hotel, would be just the ones to lead me in the right direction.
But - there always seems to be a but – they were closed by the time I got there at six o’clock and
tomorrow, being Friday and a holy day, means they will not re-open until Saturday morning. A bit late
as we could be heading south on Saturday. Towards Jordan.


Syria - In Damascus
Friday 1st October 2010
Phe’s in for a spell today and my feet are going to do the walking. I managed to get a tourist map of
Damascus and the old city is only about 15 minutes walk from the hotel. I don’t know if it will be a
drawback or a bonus today being a holy day with the vast majority of stall holders and shop owners
having the day off, because I am certainly not the one for browsing through all the stuff that’s offered
for sale, but on the other hand the busy ‘souk’ atmosphere will be missing. Then there is the plus that
with less crowds I may have less chance of getting lost. The insurance this time though, is the little yel-
low taxi, so that if the worst comes to the worst I can get one of those mighty little mouses to bring
me back to the hotel – and just for 50 pounds – less than a euro.

I had to love this bloke’s hat

It is a holy day today and the bulk of the stalls are closed, but it is easy to imagine what it
would be like here tomorrow

There were a lot of men scrambling through the pile of shirts and slacks and even a jacket or two, so
evidently they must be cheap even by Syrian standards.

I had a joke with the owner of this small furniture shop because I thought the timber was inlaid with
mother of pearl. Silly me! How far away are shellfish from the middle of Syria. First of all I thought the
bloke said the white inlay was camel horn. “Camel horn?”
I tried to confirm ‘camel horn’ with a couple of forefingers coming from my forehead. He looked puzzled.
And I looked puzzled too because “Camels don’t have horns!”Then the truth – not horns, stupid. He is
saying camel bones! He said the furniture was made in Syria but when he said the camel bones were also
from Syrian camels, I laughed out loud because the only two camels I had seen in Syria so far were the two
giving the tourists a ride at Palmyra yesterday. He said there were heaps of camels in the desert around
Palmyra and Deir Ezzor where we were a week ago! Maybe they had been lying down when we were in
the desert! Anyway he took the kidding in good nature and we had a good laugh.
I had assumed that Syria would be all but 100% Islamic but not quite true with about 10% following
the Christian faith. There are a number of the Catholic churches in Old Damascus.

If spices are any way to judge, then Syrians love their food!


Damascus is apparently the oldest, continually occupied city in the world, but then the tourist informa-
tion leaflet described the early Roman Damascus as being up to 5 metres below this ‘old city’. How
can that be? Beats me! But Damascus today is a beaut place sitting as is does backing up against the
low hills to the north-west. On the way out tomorrow we can have a look and I guess that a lot of
the residential area is up there overlooking the city lights. I wasn’t game to move Phe today because I
doubt if we would find our way back to the hotel.
The ‘new Damascus’ was great too with contrasting tiny alleyways and then wider streets with a few
trees and greenery here and there. It’s clean because there are men with brooms and barrows picking
up litter almost before it hits the ground. And the Syrians I talked to were friendly and courteous. An-
other thing I really liked about the Syrians was that the men were often walking with their wives and
children and not a couple of paces out in front. And sometimes holding hands. And often I got that
warmth from a fellow, after getting help one way or another, a parting handshake, then many times
it has happened that he has put his hand lightly to his heart, briefly, and then a slight gesture to me,
which I take as being a silent blessing such as goodbye – go in peace. I hope I am right.

Syria - How about we go to Beirut?
Saturday 2nd October 2010

We left the hotel around nine and had a quick drive into the hills to the north-west for a couple of
photos looking down on Damascus. The area was nice but really an extension of the city itself.
One good thing though, was that it should be easy for Compass to set sail to the south so that
sooner or later we will see a sign that will take us to the border with Jordan.
Not so!
The first sign I saw was to Lebanon and it’s capital, Beirut, and a quick check with Compass showed
that for some unaccountable reason best known to Italian/ French sheilas, Phe must have done a
couple of right angle turns without either Compass or Me noticing and had us driving north instead
of south!
So I pulled over and had a good look at the map.


To help out with the reasoning I wrote a little calendar of the days remaining until the time to go
home on 21st November. Leaving out say, 7 days to drive back to England from wherever we are,
there are 42 days left for touristing. We could go to Lebanon for 6 or 7 days, then to Jordan for about
the same time, then to Egypt for three weeks and leave Israel until last, for 6 or 7 days also. From
what I understand some of the Arab countries will not allow entry if there is an Israeli stamp in the
passport so the problem will be solved if we leave Israel to last and then maybe catch a car ferry
from Israel to Crete and then to Turkey for the start of the trip back to England. I wonder if that will
work?
So lets go to Lebanon and Beirut!
We don’t even have to find the right road because Phe already has us on it!
But we do need some fuel and it would be best to buy it here in Syria with such a cheap price. We
left the highway for a reasonable sized town but the petrol station had petrol but no diesel. The bloke
there directed me down into the town and I looked all over but couldn’t find the other petrol station.
I asked a couple of blokes and they said “No diesel in town.” Well they should know – it’s their town!,
so back to the highway and along a bit to a second (sizeable) town and instead of driving around
aimlessly, I spotted a bloke on the side of the road putting fuel into his car from a plastic water bottle,
so I stopped and asked him. I reckoned he had run out and had had to walk to the petrol station for
a top-up. With no English at all I got the message that I would get no diesel in this town either. But
then he locked his own car and hopped into the passenger seat next to me and directed us back the
ten kms to the first town and the petrol station that had already told me they had no diesel. He got
proper directions (in Syrian) and back we went down into the town – remember the two locals had
already told me “No diesel in town.” But my latest best friend found the place okay – it was the tank
off an old petrol tanker, no wheels or prime mover, just the tank sitting up on blocks with a hose com-
ing from it. No wonder I had missed it on my run through the place. The measure was a bit dodgy
though because the bloke reckoned 46 litres, and there was no way in the world that Phe would have
taken more than 36 litres. Anyway it was not the time to kick up a fuss. I drove my friend back to his
car.
How nice was that! This bloke gave me, a total stranger, the best part of half an hour of his time just
in the name of what – not friendship – but perhaps friendliness is the word. I am certain an offer of
money would have offended or at least embarrassed. He was close to thirty. I asked if he was married
and he nodded a ‘yes’. “Bambinos?” I asked and cradled my arms. Another nod ‘yes.’ “One?” with my
one finger but got a two fingers from him – so I fished out two little koala bears for his kids.
That was the morning. Great! A good decision and another brush with the real Syrians.
But it was all downhill from there. My favourite parasite – the international bureaucrat - did me over
again and this time I got done like a dinner!
By one o’clock - after one and a half hours - we had finally cleared the Syrian side of the border and
made it into the no-mans-land between the Syria and Lebanon fences. One and a half hours of too-
ing and fro-ing from one window to the next and then back to the start to pay for another piece of
paper. It was enough to drive you bonkers! There was very little English around but at the one and
only English speaking chance I had, I asked the bloke if I needed a visa to enter Lebanon and he said
“Yes – but you can get it at the border.” Exactly the answer I wanted and early in the process too.
The no-mans-land has to be the longest. The road winds it’s way downhill through the rocky moun-
tains for maybe seven kilometres past a number of wrecked cars with bullet holes as a reminder of
the not so friendly times of not that long ago.
My first contact with Lebanon was good with a sign in both Arabic and in English which said some-
thing like “Don’t throw your rubbish away – put it in the bin.” My second contact got me a visitors visa
but my third contact with Lebanon was also my last!
“Phe cannot enter Lebanon because she is diesel and no diesel cars are allowed in Lebanon!” I still
can’t believe it so I will repeat it to see if I can make it believable!
“Phe cannot enter Lebanon because she is diesel and no diesel cars are allowed in Lebanon!” No!
That still hasn’t made it anything but still bloody ridiculous.
I almost cried. It’s not the end of the world but it’s just the disappointment of not being able to get
things right.
So there is nothing that can be done – we just have to go back to Syria. What a bastard!


By quarter past one we were knocking on the Syrian bureaucratic door again calling out “let me in –
let me in” and an hour later I had precisely the same problem as when we entered the country ten
days ago – they want another 4112 pounds ($US90) for Phe’s visa and I have only 2000 pounds left
in my wallet. They will not take payment by Visa card and there is no ATM at the border post - the
nearest is all the way back at Damascus. I certainly couldn’t walk it in a week and Phe is not allowed
out of the compound until the 4112 pounds is paid. One of the bright blokes has the solution “I will
drive you to an ATM in Damascus - but it will cost you 2000 pounds” That really sent me off. Just as
well they were not able to understand half of what I was saying. But I went away and had the sulks for
a quarter of an hour and then went back and accepted the offer. I was over a barrel and no matter
how much I raved on about it they knew, and I knew, that I would have to accept and pay the 2000
pounds. Either that or leave Phe there forever!
By quarter past four we were out of their clutches and back on the road to Damascus. It had taken a
full hour to get the money as the first ATM was ‘not in service’ and the second refused to recognise
my visa card – and that would be a first - and I was starting to think I had entered the wrong pin
number but the third one did the right thing and paid up.
My life seems to be just highs and lows these days. When I thought this morning about going to Beirut
and the thought had time to sink in and mature, I got all enthusiastic because it was a good idea, fitted
into a timetable okay and when the Syrian bloke said you get the visa at the border, well it was all go,
go, go. And then the Lebanese gave me a visa and then took it all away again by telling me to leave
my best friend north of the equator parked in some dusty, dirty, rubbishy no-mans-land car-park for a
week – well the sky sort of fell in.
The Syrians at the border were nice enough – I can’t take that away from them – its just the way it
is, the way their system works and no-one is going to kick it over. Probably it was some long-dead
bureaucrat who designed the system and no one has the guts or intelligence to change it. I wonder
what it is like at the airports?
We took the road back to Damascus almost all the way to the city before turning right towards Jor-
dan and a bed for the night on the edge of the Golan heights near the city of La Quneitra. This is the
buffer zone separating Syria and Israel with a UN peacekeeping force on the job. The hotel was a bit
expensive but it will be our last night in Syria unless for some reason or other we get stopped from
entering Jordan.
Must see about getting Phe’s face washed in case they don’t want dirty cars in Jordan!

Bye bye Syria and hello Jordan
Sunday 3rd October 2010
Today was never going to be the best day of my life with the prospect of battling through the Syrian
border bullshit for the fourth time, but I never expected our problems to start just a kilometre from
the hotel on the road to La Quneitra.


It was just one kilometre down the road heading south towards the Jordanian border that we were
stopped at a Syrian army road check. The bloke took my passport and left me to sit on the side of the
road for the best part of ten minutes while they did what they wanted to do. But then, rather than
get the go-ahead to drive on which is usually the case, I was told to drive into the compound of the
barracks and from there I was taken into a room with a desk, some chairs, four Syrians and a moun-
tain of paper, pads and forms.
After a few minutes I got the feeling they were ignoring me and rather than ‘sit’ as I was instructed,
stood as a gesture of defiance and tapped the face of my watch telling them I wanted to get going to
Jordan. One bloke had a little bit of English and asked “Where go?” and I told him to Dar’a and then
to Jordan. Dar’a is the town on the Syrian side of the border with Jordan.
He made a phone call and kept glancing at me and then back to the passport.- it made me uneasy,
but then he hung up and nothing more was said. They went back to looking at some forms and writ-
ing on other bits of paper and I was sitting by now, and sitting like a stunned mullet. A few minutes
more, the phone rang, a few words and then the question again “Where go?” I was getting pissed off
by now so I grabbed the English speaker bloke’s arm and walked him out to Phe – strangely enough
he didn’t resist - and showed him the map of where I had been in Syria and where I was planning to
go today.
The tide suddenly and unexpectedly turned. He was now on my side it seemed. He pointed to Al
Quneitra on the map and said “No” and then traced a line back to Damascus and then down the
main highway directly to Dar’a, so bypassing Al Quneitra altogether. He wanted me to backtrack to
Damascus and come back down the main drag just 30 kms to the east. Of course I jumped up and
down. He opened the passport and pointed to a particular oval stamp of the many Syrian stamps and
said “Al Quneitra - No!”
From all of this I gathered that at yesterday’s border it had been decided that this cranky old Aussie
fart was a definite risk to national security and that he should not be allowed to drive through their
precious territory and particularly not anywhere near the Golan Heights region! I wonder if it is a rule
for all tourist or have I been singled out – surely not! Maybe my name ‘Robin’ was too close to that of
Israeli Prime Minister ‘Rabin’ of the 1990’s, and if so, I must definitely be a Mossad agent.
I should not be making fun of this experience as it is their country and it’s theirs to defend and
protect as they think fit. All of the Golan Heights was Syrian territory up until the 6 day war of 1967
when Israel seized it but offered it back in return for a lasting and meaningful peace agreement. This
agreement never came about with Iran and radical groups like Hezbolah muddying the waters.
I am merely a short term guest - here today, gone tomorrow - whereas they, the Syrians have to live
with the consequences of their actions (or inaction.) The disputes between Israel and it’s neighbours
has been a festering sore for what is it , 50 years now, or more? I believe that disputes of any kind are
only ever settled by either force or by compromise – they never ever seem to ‘just go away’. I really
do hope that all the politicking and posturing doesn’t get in the way of an eventual compromise of
the Middle East problem.
So once again we are on the road to Damascus – Is this the third time? Nothing against Damascus,
but I really hope this is the last time! It’s 50 kms back to the turnoff to pick up the main road from
Damascus to Dar’a and I wanted to have some more cash from an ATM before tackling the border
again – so only the two objectives, find an ATM and find the turnoff.
The Syrian ATM network is poor with towns like Palmyra having none at all and when you do find a
machine there is a fair chance it will be out of service. In Damascus there are banks and ATM’s on al-
most every corner but not so in the lesser towns and cities. Case in point was the border from Turkey
– no ATM – and the border yesterday with Lebanon – no ATM. We were within 8 kms of Damascus
when I started tracking down a machine after two or three instructions from the locals and when I
eventually found it the bloody machine was a dud, and to make matters worse, with all the twists and
turns, I had lost the main road, so it’s back to Compass to keep us heading north. The stupid thing is
that I have 1000 pounds in the wallet and yesterday it cost 850 pounds at the border to get out, but
somehow I don’t trust the system and would like another 2000 Syrian pounds up my sleeve just in
case. Karen and Compass, Phe and Me – we must have been in 35 or maybe 40 countries and never
before, not once, have we had to pay money to leave the country. In fact as a matter of habit I have
always spent the last of the notes and coins on diesel just before the border.
By half past eleven we are all set – I have another 2000 in the wallet and we are on the road out of
Damascus – will it be the last time? I hope so!


No wonder I chose that road yesterday in preference to the motorway from Damascus to Dar’a
because this is one very ordinary way to get from A to B. It is straight and boring, the smog is thick
around Damascus and no sign of it lessening as we head south. But it is 110 kms to Jordan and it will
take us just over an hour and there is no alternative. But one thing though, they have people out on
this highway picking up the litter piece by piece, bottle by bottle, can by can – not a lot of people and
it’s a big job but at least an effort is being made.
Breakfasts in Syria have almost always included a sliced tomato and most times cucumber along with
flat bread, butter, cheese, and a couple of spreads to add to the bread. The spreads were nice – not
sweet, a little spicy and the consistency of mayonnaise. But it struck me that I have not seen toma-
toes or cucumbers growing. Maybe like the camels, I have not been looking in the right place. Well
that changed today because we are travelling through an area that is a little more arable and is full of
tomato crops and cabbages and peppers – you name it, it’s here, just around 40 kms north of Dar’a.
But it seems to run in patches of market gardens, then a bare patch, then an olive grove or two, then
back to the market gardens.
I am not going to mention the litter again.
It’s a hot day, probable low to mid thirties, the sun is shining through a patch of blue sky directly over-
head but the rest all around – the whole 360 degrees is bad, smoggy, misty, brown haze – not nice. I
am sure it is smog.
Ready. Set. Go! It’s ten minutes to one and we enter the Syrian border!
At twenty to three we are out of Syria – ten minutes short of two hours! What a shmozzle! Yesterday
it cost 850 pounds to exit to the Lebanon side of the fence and today it cost 5350 pounds to do the
same thing to Jordan. How come? Who knows! And of course I didn’t have 5350 – only 3000. There
was some lukewarm good news in that there was an ATM right there next to the banker (who won’t
take a Visa card) – but it is jammed tight and really looks as though it hasn’t worked this decade. The
banker said that there is a second machine in the duty free store half a kilometre back down the road
and as I sweat out the walk back I am thinking about the drive all the way back to Damascus should
this one be a dud too. But it wasn’t. Thank you Allah, or Jesus or was it just the National Bank of Syria.
By contrast the entry into Jordan took just one hour. Buy insurance for Phe, get a 30 day single entry
visa, passport control and customs – that was thorough, they even had a bloke in a pit looking at Phe’s
underbelly as we drove across. What a difference it was. Some of the blokes had a little bit of English,
they were all pleasant, they had computers, and it was just an easy simple thing to do. No bullshit like
‘fathers name’ and ‘mothers name’ and ‘address in Jordan’. The only hiccup was that they too had just
one ATM at the border but guess what! A message on the screen said “This machine is off-line tem-
porarily” I had converted the remaining Syrian pounds to Jordanian dinars but not enough to cover
the insurance, and visas for Phe and Me but luckily the bank was able to change a hundred Australian
dollars into 62 dinars and that saw us through.
So we are out on the open road in Jordan with a little cash and not much of a map, but enough to
suggest a right turn to the city of Irbed in the north western corner may be the way to go for tonight
and maybe even tomorrow night if the hotel is okay.
I look at the landscape trying to find a difference with Syria and can find none. Why should there be
any difference, after all it’s only a few kilometres and a fence! It’s dry, it has some olives, but hold on!
There’s some prickly pear – we haven’t seen prickly pear since Italy I don’t think.


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