The Desert Calls

By the middle of last week, the hustle and bustle, constant noise, and smog of Damascus had left me ill at ease. I wasn’t quite sure what it was that was giving me mixed feelings about this new city, but I recognized that I hadn’t really found a space in which I felt comfortable; my room is clean and reasonably comfortable for sleeping, but it is hot during the day and not that appealing for sitting or studying. I had searched for a pleasant park, a shady bench, or a quiet coffee shop, but my efforts turned up no satisfactory locales. I began pondering a weekend trip to escape for a little perspective.

Coincidentally, on Wednesday, Bret called and asked if I wanted to check out Aleppo for the weekend. I was a bit turned off when my guidebook described Aleppo as Damascus with more hustle and bustle, but for the sake of a travel companion, I agreed anyway. I met up with a newly mustachioed Bret at a nearby park at 6:30 on Saturday morning.

Eric: “This should be cool, I read that Aleppo’s supposed to have some really crazy markets.”

Bret: “Aleppo? No, we’re going to Palmyra, we’re looking at Roman ruins in the desert.”

Eric: “Oh, cool."

Pause.

Eric: "Thank god.”

I was glad I had misheard Bret when we originally discussed the trip; Palmyra (Tadmur in Arabic) is a much smaller city - population between 50,000 and 75,000 - located in the center of a 500-kilometer stretch of empty desert between Damascus in the west and Deir ez-Zor, near the Iraqi border to the east. Ancient Palmyra served as a vibrant stop-over for caravans traveling the silk roads between Turkey and the Mediterranean. Today it is home to some of the world’s most expansive and best preserved Roman ruins.

Some low-key desert site seeing will surely help my inner-city blues, I thought as I boarded the coach bus.

Thirty minutes into the two-and-a-half hour ride, dusty Damascus faded into the sand and an enthralling desert landscape laid out before me. The deserts of Utah and Arizona, though just as grand, are made friendly by familiar gas stations, frequent traffic signs, and well kept roads. There were no such pleasantries here; the blazing sun, rough sand, and crumbling roadside homes combined to form a menacing and beautiful site. This was a harsh desert.

The bus passed abandoned buildings, Bedouin tents, and piles of garbage. People near the highway avoided contact with exposed earth like it was a lava flow, seeking refuge in the shade of any structure they could find. One image that stuck in my head is of an old man sitting in a folding beach chair propped against the shady side of his mobile home. I imagined that in the afternoon he would follow the shade to the opposite side of his trailer, and wondered if he would spend the middle of the day lying flat underneath it.

When we pulled up to the bus stop in Palmyra, two things became clear. First: this modern town exists only for tourism, and second: it is low season. When we step off the bus we are immediately mobbed by over half a dozen taxi drivers, each one shouting and beckoning us to his car. Intense. A calm and commanding man pushed through the crowd and spoke in a tone that did not seek to compete with the panicked cabbies.

His name was Mohammed and he offered us a good rate, breakfast included, in his hotel. Mohammed led us through the pack and across the parking lot to his waiting car. The room he showed us was clean and even air-conditioned. For half the price of the room we had eyed in hostel nearby, we were happy to switch.

After dropping our bags, Mohammed took us into town where we had a pricey lunch (8 bucks each), and scanned our surroundings. Modern Tadmur was built when French explorers pushed natives out of the ruins and its surrounding oasis in 1929. I haven't visited at peak season, but I can firmly say it is extremely depressing in the summer months.

It is a place without purpose and without distraction. It exists only to sustain the celebration of an ancient city that was more habitable and vibrant in the first few centuries A.D. than Tadmur is today. The wonders of technology have missed this place.

The run-down restaurants and shops, intended to attract wealthy westerners, are empty; their owners mill about aimlessly. Everyone we pass artfully traps us in conversation, feigning hospitality in hopes of making a buck or two. I snap a few pictures of the deserted main drag as the local Imam issues a wheezy mid-day call to prayer from a nearby mosque, then Bret and I head into the blazing mid-day sun to find out what could possibly attract busloads of tourists to this place every year.

We were not disappointed. Simply put: the ruins are amazing. I can honestly say it was the most incredible tourist site I have ever seen; the first century Temple of Ba'el is a city in itself, marked by 40-foot walls, with a stout shrine to Hellenist gods in the center and chariot paths winding all about. Outside the temple, in what was the city center, high pillars mark the ancient colonnade, lined with remnants of small houses and leading to another first century temple. And best of all, being in Syria, the ruins are, for better or worse, nearly devoid of paternalistic barricades and warnings of "keep off", "don't touch", and "no pictures". The experience of visiting is really yours to make.

Because of the extreme heat, we had the entire site almost completely to ourselves. Three and a half hours, and liters of sweat, later we had our fill, and found a café where we sat down for water and orange sodas. The thermometer read 45°C - roughly 113°F. Bret put his head on the table and promptly fell asleep. I sat up writing in my journal. Despite the slight physical discomfort, I could not believe how peaceful I felt. I hadn’t fully realized the extent to which I have been de-urbanified; it felt so nice to be in a quiet place, surrounded by expansive wilderness. Not the natural parks I was accustomed to, but still the wildness of the place was palpable.

After our rest we hired a taxi to take us to the Valley of the Tombs, an area of several square miles that is pocked by tombs of various shapes and sizes. The scale of the valley is unbelievable; three-story tombs dot the horizon as far as the eye can see, becoming nothing more than large rocks at the horizon. At a number of times throughout the day these tombs are opened to public for a small entrance fee and it is well worth the price.

Afterwards, we washed up at the hotel and walked into town for dinner. We ate at a restaurant that sits on the roof of one of Tadmur’s nicer hotels. The all-you-can-eat buffet was covered in traditional Bedouin fare. It was delicious, and I put down three plates not counting salad and desert. Once finished, Bret and I admired the view from the terrace where we met the restaurant manager, Jamal, who claimed to be the cousin of Mohammed the hotel owner. He offered us tea and coffee and we looked out on the view as he explained his childhood in the oasis, and the most recent mass migration into the new city, that hardly existed thirty years ago. With an hour to kill before the U.S. v. England World Cup match, Bret and I took a stroll down the main drag to digest.

Kids ran about in the streets as adults watched from lawn furniture parked on the sidewalk. My feelings about the town’s depressing vibe did not change, but I noted that the people were generally very pleasant, and that the streets we considerably less heartbreaking in the cooler evening. Along the way a very cute six-year-old attached himself to Bret’s right hand and refused to let go. It is a serious faux pas in the Middle East even to fawn or point to to a cute child, so one can imagine how locals would feel about an American in affectionate contact with a stranger's kindergartner. Our new friend walked along with us as Bret mumbled under his breath about his impending doom.

Once Bret was freed from his long-lost illegitimate child we headed to an outdoor café that had set up a projector screen to show the soccer game. We smoked sheesha and I embarrassed Bret thoroughly by cheering loudly for the U.S. The crowd appreciated me filling the requisite role of outspoken, slightly obnoxious American. We had a great time and I joked with some of our neighboring tables in the best Arabic I could muster.

The 3:30 AM call to prayer kept me up that night, but we woke early in hopes of completing our sight-seeing before the day’s heat set in. This proved a failed effort, though, when, at 7:15, the temperature was already well above 90°F. We revisited the Valley of the Tombs for some tourist-free photos then hiked to the Fakhr al-Din al-Ma'ami Castle, which sits atop a mountain overlooking the ancient and newer city. It felt great to be hiking in a smog-free breeze again, furnace blast thought it was, and the well-deserved respite at the summit gave me more time to think about how much I had come to value the serenity of the outdoors.

I was certain I could get lost in that sand and sun for the rest of my life and not have a trivial worry as long as I lived.

Back at the hotel I saw that my urine had turned to a healthy brown, so I hydrated and we took in the desert landscape over a light breakfast, served late as per our special request. Before our 2:30 bus we wondered the oasis, and chatted with some of the locals who have re-inhabited it since the French departure. A nurse from the nearby hospital showed us his small creek and insisted that we wet our heads with its cool water. I did not fight him on this gracious offer, and he even helped Bret get properly soaked by filling his cupped hands with water and gently spreading it through my unsuspecting travel companion’s well-coiffed hair. I got a great picture of the two of them kneeling by the water.

Back in Damascus, I still didn't feel much of a sense of belonging, but at least I had started to form a pretty good idea about where I did belong.