Marmousa

A week ago, I mentioned that Bret and I were heading to a monastery for the weekend; here is the story. The Marmousa monastery is located about an hour north of Damascus, 20 km outside of a small town called Nebek. The monastery beds and feeds visitors free of charge, and only asks that guests pitch in with meal preparation and do some work around the campus. Donations are accepted but not prodded for, and everyone I have met who has gone agrees that it is a very special place. Bret’s rent ended on the day that we left, and since he is not taking classes, he decided that that would be an opportune time to take off for some traveling around the Middle East. His plan was to do a tour of monasteries in the mountains north of Damascus, and leave straight from there to Lebanon. This would be our last hurrah.

In class on Thursday, when I was waiting impatiently for the lesson to end so I could meet Bret and get going, a Danish girl named Mia heard of my plan and asked if she could join. She seemed nice enough, and even though I would have rather just gone with Bret, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra person to split the cost of the cab with. The three of us met by the gate to the old city where Bret and I had first arrived in Damascus, almost exactly five weeks before. I thought about how scary and hectic the traffic circle had seemed on that hot early June evening, and noted how familiar it now felt. I asked Bret what it felt like to be leaving for good, but he was busy trying to figure out which bus terminal we needed to go to and wasn’t really paying attention to my nostalgic rumination.

Eventually we found the right bus terminal and hopped on a microbus to Nebek. An hour and a half later, we pulled up to a parking lot in the middle of the desert. The parking lot funneled into a quarter-mile-long set of stairs that lead up to what looked like a tiny Medieval village, set into a mountain drainage. Just to the right of the drainage sat one large, castle-like, structure with high walls that rose proudly above the mountain slope. The castle was flanked on the left side of the drainage by a large structure that sat high up on the next hill, and on the right by a series of small- and medium-sized homes.

We reached the top of the stairs, ducked through two three-foot doors, and emerged onto a beautiful open terrace with chairs and tables scattered about. A monastery employee approached the three of us and asked if we had come just to look around, or to sleep. We told him we would like to stay for a few nights and he asked if we had brought sheets. Woops. After we had been scolded by one of the monks, the employee found us sheets to borrow, then led Bret and I to one of the rooms set aside for male visitors. Mia had been nervous-talking since we got in the microbus, so we were both glad to get some time away from her.

We crossed to the part of campus with smaller buildings and arrived at a cave that had been walled off and outfitted with a door. The concrete floor was covered with straw mats and half a dozen bare, clean, and narrow mattresses were neatly arranged throughout the room. It was cool in the cave and, despite the multitude of flies buzzing about, there was a simple charm to it. Bret and I threw our bags down then took a seat on the balcony outside of the cave with our feet dangling over the edge. We sat and watched the expansive, empty, desert landscape in silence.

Bret is a very independent and difficult guy to figure out, but we had become close over the summer. There is an intimacy between us now that had not been there when we sat together at that airport bar in early June. I suspect that it came as a result of undergoing new and uncomfortable experiences together, but maybe we just have good chemistry.

Bret and I are very different in a lot of important ways, but a capacity for endless introspection is a quality that we share, and that common trait led a lot of our talks to very interesting and personal places. The summer has been a challenge at times and a joy at others, and at each of these stages Bret and I talked openly and honestly about how we felt and why we thought we felt those ways.

By the time we sat down together on that balcony, it wasn’t just that each of us knew how the other had felt at various points throughout the summer that made us close, it was that we each had arrived at some deeper understanding of the traits and priorities that drove the other. Bret no long felt the need to distance himself in order to ensure his independence and I no longer worried about invading his private time. We understood each other. We trusted each other. I would be sad when we parted ways, but I no longer feared being alone in the Middle East, and my new craving for alone time is a part of Bret that has rubbed off on me.

A priest passed by and told us that meditation would start at seven-thirty, followed by mass at eight and dinner at nine, so we headed back to the main building, kicked off our shoes and ducked into the church. Two rows of pillars separated the chapel into three rectangular areas. Everyone was seated quietly on pillows situated against the rear wall. Bret and I took seats in the center room. There was a brief prayer, and then thirty minutes of silence. Some people just meditated; others crossed the room and carefully brought candles to their seats from a table by the entrance, and used them for light by which to read and write.

When the mass started, Bret and I observed passively. Father Paulo gave a very interesting sermon in English about interfaith relations, passed around communion accoutrements, and dismissed the worshipers for dinner. Everyone helped in the preparation and clean up of a dinner that consisted of noodle soup and the usual sides of bread, yogurt, apricot jam, and olive oil. When all the work was done, Bret and I headed off to find a good spot to look at the stars.

We laid flat on one of the castle walls, hearing little other than crickets, and enjoying what was one of the most impressive star displays I have ever seen. Bret said that he appreciated the monastery’s beauty and quiet, but admitted that the whole “Christian vibe” was really throwing him: “Sometimes I just can’t turn my brain off, and the fact that there is this belief that all of these people share, that brings them all together, and that I don’t hold, just really fucks with my head. Except for the meditation hour, I’ve been feeling pretty uncomfortable. I don’t think I’m gonna stay as long as I thought.” It was more of the honesty that I truly appreciate. “I know what you’re saying, I guess I just have an easier time putting it out of my head. I wouldn’t want to stay more than two nights either, though.” I replied. Then we talked about boobs. Soon we were resting our heads on t-shirt pillowcases, slapping flies, and trying to ignore the snoring of our three roommates.

Having turned in early with the rest of the monastery, we woke up early and sat out on the porch, enjoying the quickly fading morning coolness, and staring out at the desert valley below the monastery. I spent a really relaxing day studying, reading, and writing. At various points there were odd jobs to help with around the monastery: Bret fed chickens, I helped peel and chop eggplant, but mostly we were free to do as we wished. In the late afternoon a very friendly regular visitor showed Bret and I around some nearby caves, and then we joined a group of other westerners for a walk up the canyon to the goat herders’ house. The goat herders, who, predictably, take care of the monastery’s goats, live in a very simple, but clean and comfy, house about two kilometers west of the monastery. The young Syrian who lead us there explained that the monastery owns all of the land between the entrance and the goat herder’s house, and pointed out a few buildings scattered on the desert hills that serve as various retreats and chapels for special occasions.

The goat herders were in the middle of dinner when we arrived, so they gave us a key to the goat corral, and told us to have a look. We spent about half an hour chasing the goats around, cracking up as we watched them spew scat, and trying to get one by the horns. Eventually Raice, a truly hilarious Dutch man, got one, but quickly realized there was not much to be gained by petting, and much to fear by way of kicking and biting. “I’ve never felt wool before”, I commented in a moment of weakness. “...and you still haven’t”, Bret added. Woops.

When we tired of trying to kill a goat just by staring, alla Clooney in The Men Who Stare At Goats, we found that the herders were done with dinner and wanted us to have tea with them. We watched MTV Arabia, drank boiling hot tea of disposable plastic cups, and then headed back down the canyon for mass and dinner.

After we had eaten and done our part to clean up, Raice commented, “I think they’re about to put on a play and I think it’s going to be in Arabic, so let’s get the shit out of here.” I was pretty beat, and our plan was to leave at five-thirty to hike the fifteen kilometers through the desert back to Nebek, but I felt bad just cutting out, so I stayed to watch. The play was…odd, and afterward I was happy to wash up and go to bed.

Bret and I woke on time and joined with Mia and her new American friend (who happens to live in Boulder) for the hike back to town. We past the goat herders’ house and were joined by two of their dogs. The dogs followed us for at least six clicks as we rolled over large desert hills. We all got increasingly nervous that we would be blamed for losing the dogs, but they left us when we hit a paved road that we had been told would take us into town. Two kilometers later, Mia lost her nerve and was certain we were on the wrong track. “We’re on the only road in sight, in the middle of the desert, Mia, I think we’re looking for the town where the road ends”, I pleaded, but there was no stopping her. After she had flagged down a sixteen wheeler and confirmed the directions (walk until you aren’t in the middle of nowhere), we were on our way. Bret and I fell back and talked about guy stuff, while Mia and Amy sped ahead, eager to see the next sandy hill. One kilometer outside of town, a Syrian man insisted on giving us a ride into the city center, which we graciously accepted.

It was just past eight when he dropped us off near the bus terminal. We had some well-deserved mini pizzas for breakfast, found a pharmacy where I bought nail clippers and itch cream (my arms and feet were pocked with bloody craters from clawed-at mosquito bites), and hopped the micro back to Damascus. I could not wait for my shower and my bed. Damascus was home…-ish.

Bret’s new plan was to stay with me in Damascus for two days and then leave for Lebanon, so I had a house guest, which I was excited about. He got along with my roommates Amanda and Chistopherus very well and they both teased me for my, typically American, lack of hospitality. (As a side note, this is not my fault: There is no telling what Bret ever wants. He has the oddest and most specific cravings, I swear. “I could really go for six fritos, some cheese-whiz, and an O.J.” or, “Man, a cigarette and a guava-flavored soda would hit the spot”, or my favorite, “I would kill for a Tab, some Mentos, and three ecstasy pills.” Ok, I exaggerated a little, but still).

It was boiling that night in Damascus, and Bret and I listened in horror as my trustee fan shrieked, sputtered, and died, just as we laid down to sleep. There were about seven seconds of complete silence, and then we burst out laughing. I think the incident of the dying fan really sums up my experience of life as a westerner in Syria: You figure out how to get by on comparatively very little and you learn to laugh at the minor annoyances. Although, for the first seven seconds, it really felt like the world would stop spinning along with that godforsaken fan.

All my best,

Eric Harris Bernstein