Syria Pilgrim

Saturday 11 September 2010

It was a hot humid and sultry night in Bahrain when we set off in two cars at 4.45am for our flight to Damascus. The airport was a short drive away and completely empty upon arrival so we checked in immediately after the obligatory ten minute discussion as to who would sit where. Our group, including Hussain, numbered five and with the standard airplane seating configuration of 3+3 it meant one of us would end up being sandwiched in the middle next to somebody else as it was a full flight. Both JD and Hussain always took aisle seats whereas I preferred the window so I volunteered to take the centre this time. The ground staff showed us the available places and JD rashly chose somewhere at the back of the plane before anyone had time to argue.

I hadn't slept as the day before was Eid-ul-Fitr so I'd spent the night playing Mario Kart Wii with the boys. I was also hungry so I headed over to Jasmi's which was empty save for some staff who were busy lounging around and taking pictures with a digital camera. I asked for a grilled chicken meal and was rewarded with a supply of freshly cooked crispy fries with a burger that didn't taste at all bad.

Hussain had wandered off to the smoking room and I bumped into him as he stocked up on Snickers bars for the trip. Chocolate in Bahrain is relatively expensive even at the duty free with a 400g bag of funsize bars costing nearly GBP £5.

The airport began to fill up and I stopped at the National Bank of Kuwait kiosk to enquire about the FX rates. The NBK guy was sitting behind a glass screen and couldn't seem to understand a word I said. "What's your rate for exchanging Euro's to Syrian Pounds?", I asked the man who looked as quizzical as if I'd just asked him many cows he might like to exchange for a handful of magic beans. He shook his head and cocked an ear towards me so I repeated slightly louder. Still no luck and with the whole of Bahrain Airport, which had previously been half asleep, now taking a close interest in what I was bawling at the guy, I stalked off to the bookshop in a huff.

The last call for our flight was announced and we headed to the departure gate. It certainly was a busy flight and seemed to consist wholly of Bahraini's going to Syria on pilgrimage. With there also having been a public holiday for Eid-ul-Fitr, there were plenty of families taking a short break too so the place was full of screaming kids, not an entirely attractive proposition to relish when waiting to board a packed plane.

A bus stupidly drew up outside to take us the twenty yards to the plane that was parked so close that we could have thrown the baggage on. It took far longer for everyone to board the bus, close the doors, drive forward for several seconds, open the doors and then disembark to climb the stairs than it would to have been to just walk there.

Sliding into our seats at the back, I was instantly uncomfortable. Although it was a Syrian Airways flight, the plane was a Jordanian chartered aircraft complete with flag on the tail and Jordan Aviation safety instructions. The aircraft was without exception, the smallest, most cramped plane I'd ever been on with the seat in front jammed right up against my knees and no room to fully stretch my legs. JD who was shorter than me and not the most comfortable of flyers at the best of times felt even worse and for half a moment felt a panic attack because of being jammed into such a small place.

The passengers jostled and heaved for seats with plenty of people, mostly women, seeming to think it was their God given right to sit wherever they pleased. Eventually however, the cabin crew managed to sort everybody out and the crush of people boarding the plane began to thin.

The window seat next to me was still vacant and I eyed up all the passengers shuffling past wondering who I'd be stuck with for the flight, heaving a sigh of relief whenever a fat bloke carried on to the back. With all of the passengers on board there was as a single family left and the father decided to take the seat in front of us and put his boy in the window seat next to me.

My new companion, who couldn't have been more than six years old, didn't wait for JD to stand up and eagerly squeezed past getting stuck when he reached me. I lifted the little fella up clear of my legs and plonked him in his window seat that caused no end of amusement for JD and Hussain who was sitting on the other side of the aisle and grinning his head off.

The little guy promptly sat down and looked for his seat belt. For some reason, budgetary constrains being the most likely one, my seat had no buckle so I gave the redundant belt section to the boy who couldn't seem to find his own belt. There was no doubt that the aircraft was in poor condition overall so it was no surprise to see the seatback tray promptly fall to bits when I tried opening it. Even worse, I couldn't seem to put the thing back it where belong and ended up wedging a section of the in-flight magazine underneath the hinge to prevent it from popping open again.

As the plane lifted off from the runway, many of the pilgrims gave a cheer about going to the shrine of Sayeda Zainab, something that took me rather by surprise as I had been on similar flights previously with the only noise coming from the odd passenger with a fear of flying who was busily murmuring a prayer.

The little boy next to me nodded off almost immediately but JD being the kindest person in the world woke him up when a breakfast of olives, cheese, bread rolls and omelette arrived. As the boys father was preoccupied chatting with a mate, JD switched to Arabic and took charge to help the boy with his meal.

When the drinks trolley came by, the boy chose a glass of iced orange juice which he then balanced precariously on the edge of his tray right next to me. Five minutes later, most of it had ended up in my shoe when the boy suddenly lunged at his drink, miscalculated the distance and sent it toppling over the side of the tray.

My sock was soaked through as the cup had miraculously managed to pour its entire contents into the tiny crack between my trouser hem and shoe. The seat was also wet and my jeans had acquired a dark sticky patch, thankfully near the pocket and not the crotch where it would have been far more embarrassing. The boy had come off even worse soaking all his trousers and JD hilariously handed me a small matchbox sized tissue that would have struggled to mop up a stray snowflake let alone a shoe half full of OJ.

There wasn't much to say to the boy who didn't speak a word of English and seemed far less sorry about the whole affair than he was about not getting a sip of OJ in the first place. The incident did however contribute to this being the most miserable flight I could remember having been on. Ignoring any signs of turbulence, people constantly strolled up and down the aisles whilst the obligatory kids ran amok screaming their heads off. Half of the plane seemed to know the other half and were forever wandering about to say hello. I watched as one particularly large and obnoxious man in a dish-dash stopped by our seats, leaned across Hussain so his armpit was in the poor man's face and then proceeded to share a long, loud joke with his mate sitting behind. I marvelled at the patience of Hussain to not say a word as I would have certainly shoved the fat bloke out of my face, Arabic or no Arabic.

As this was one of the rare occasions where I hadn't got a window seat, I didn't see any of the terrain we were flying over outside. Not that it would have mattered much anyway, I was too busying emptying a shoe full of OJ and trying to dry a sodden sock to be enjoying the view.

With both shoe and sock finally dry by the time we landed in Damascus at 9.15am, the pilot announced we had arrived and there was another cheer from the pilgrims. Mobiles were promptly switched on and everyone got up to get their hand luggage without bothering for the plane to stop, pausing only to scoop up their kids from wherever they were hiding in the fuselage.

As we were seated right at the back of the plane, it took us a good fifteen minutes just to get off because everyone in front seemed to take far too long sorting themselves out and had the world's supply of lugagge stored in the cabin. The pilot had said the temperature outside was 21C but it felt much hotter and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

A bus came to take us to the arrivals terminal and everyone piled on. As we drove to the gate, I got my first look at the airfield that had a few planes dotted around but was otherwise fairly empty. Either we had arrived at a quiet period or Damascus International Airport had a lot of spare capacity.

The bus stopped and everyone immediately started pushing and shoving to get through the single door that led inside the terminal. We all had to fill in immigration cards before queuing at the counters that had long lines of people waiting. The guy in front of us had cunningly spread his vast family across several queues and now duly called everyone back over which immediately lengthened our own progress. With Hussain rolling his eyes in exasperation, all the other queues quickly shortened and we pretty much ended up being the last to go through although I wasn't too annoyed with this having long recognised that it is God's wish for me to always join the back of the longest and slowest moving queue available.

Our man at the immigration counter had Arabic music blaring out as if he was working in a storage depot shifting boxes around rather than the more serious business of stamping passports but he was fairly quick and everything was dealt with efficiently. On the whole, Damascus airport was fairly modern, much larger than I expected and with the exception of the fair skinned Syrian staff, could have been pretty much anywhere in the Gulf.

Trolleys needed to be paid for and there were no shortage of eager volunteers to load our few pieces of luggage in exchange for cash. It seemed that taking your own luggage was not an option here with an expectation that a trolley would be needed, even if it was for a handbag. However, this did ensure that the locals made a living and was pretty much the same across the Gulf where everyone was encouraged to do as little for themselves as possible.

We stepped outside the airport into blazing sunshine. It was hot just like Saudi and the temperature was higher than the 21C the pilot had said even though it had only been about forty minutes since landing. There was a taxi rank nearby and Hussain went over to have a few words about transport to the hotel. As there were five of us, we'd need something a little larger than the usual saloons or estates that would only accommodate four and ended up with a people carrier that had motorised doors.

The driver was an Iraqi and told us that he had prayed that he would get a fare to take to Sayeda Zainab even though his handler had said that he could pray all he wants, there wouldn't be anyone arriving today who wanted to visit the shrine. This was great for us because we felt our pilgrimage had got off to a good start with a welcoming from somebody who enjoyed taking visitors to Sayeda Zainab.

A long dual carriageway led out of the airport past farming land. The roads were in poor condition which didn't seem to worry the few bikers wearing no helmets from speeding past. Our driver took a shortcut over some very rough ground that tested the suspension to the limit and then plunged into a series of rural back roads past olive groves and what looked like vineyards. Squeezing past a coach travelling in the other direction, we finally arrived at a run-down area with a rubbish tip outside and a maze of dark alleys and narrow streets. The buildings here were shabby and I thought we still had a while to go so it was rather a shock when the driver abruptly pulled up outside the Hotel Ghasroldeafa where we were staying. The beauty of this hotel was the proximity to the Sayeda Zainab shrine; it was a mere five minute walk and right in the heart of the Shia area of Damascus.

From the outside, the hotel certainly looked decent and modern enough whilst the lobby was small but typically fancy Arab-style complete with intricate decoration and marble finishing. As this was still the Eid holiday period, the hotel was busy and full but we soon checked in, handed over our passports for security and then took the glass lift to our floor.

To our dismay, the rooms were far below the standard we had paid for and expected with very old and dated furnishings complimented by a rusted, watermarked bathroom. Now I'm an easy kind of guy and not fussy when it comes to hotel rooms since the way I see it, I visit places to go out and about, not stay inside and admire the ceiling. As long as the place is clean, comfortable and usable, I'm happy and couldn't care less about the fittings or furniture. Here though, my bathroom actually had no shower door and the whole place was wet through in no time, including me, after I opened the taps to see if they worked. Still, at least it washed off some of the OJ that had lingered on my jeans and socks although I really hadn't planned to take a bath in my clothes.

The view of the rubbish tip didn't bother me so much as the fact that everyone else's rooms were no better so it wasn't just the one off with mine. JD who has the most critical eye known to man and would easily put to shame any hotel inspector for a seven-star establishment rang reception to complain and demand different rooms for us all. The Syrian replied rather rudely with a brusque take it or leave it since this was the holiday season and the whole hotel was full to the brim.

Rather than arguing over the phone, we all decided to head downstairs to reception in a show of force to demand our rooms were changed or in the very least fixed up to a satisfactory level. With everyone complaining and one of our group threatening to go right to the top and call the father of the hotel manager's boss, we were finally given better rooms where everything at least worked although they were all in the same old and dated condition and we'd have to wait a few hours for them to be ready.

This meant that we could unpack for now and as nobody had slept the night before, we all decided to retire and have a short nap in the place we'd originally been allocated. A knock on the door from the porter woke me up later that afternoon to confirm the new the room was ready and we collected our things.

The new digs were much better with a view of Damascus set against a backdrop of distant mountains and a far larger bathroom that had not only a working shower but a proper bath as well, something the previous place had been missing. You could still hear the sound of running water from the neighbour but this was a small price to pay for being able to take a shower at a timing of your choosing and not simply when opening a tap to brush your teeth. In any case, drowning out superfluous noises was exactly what the hotel TV was meant for.

With everyone else still asleep, JD and I decided to head to the mosque. This area of Damacus where the Sayeda Zainab shrine stood was very poor and full of Iraqi's. The streets were crowded and dirty with rubbish everywhere, not entirely surprising as shops and stalls lined the narrow roads.

The grounds of the shrine were surprisingly small given the importance and reverence befitting Sayeda Zainab who was also known as the heroine of Karbala. Whereas Imam Hussain fought his enemies with a sword, his sister Sayeda Zainab fought with a tongue and used PR to carry the vital message of her brother's vicious slaughter at Karbala as well as protecting her son and fourth Imam known as Zain-al-Abideen.

I had expected a much larger place for one so important but JD explained that the shrine was right in the middle of an urban and poor area where there was little room to expand plus the Syrian government, unlike the Iranian authorities, had no inclination or desire to improve the site.

Entering or leaving the shrine involves placing your right hand on the chest and saying "assalaamu alaikum Sayeda Zainab" and as with most similar places, there was an inner and outer sanctum with several entry points from all directions. A counter outside the shring took visitor's shoes and gave a small token in return for collection later with segregated entry for both men and women. A large prayer adorned the wall right outside the shrine entrance which all pilgrims needed to recite before visiting Sayeda Zainab. Usually in these circumstances, Hussain would have read on my behalf thus ensuring the correct pronunciation but as he was not with us, I read it myself. It was a long prayer and took me nearly ten minutes to recite which is probably the slowest that any pilgrim has ever taken but I wanted to ensure I had read it as best I could.

Stepping inside, the shrine was small but this being the middle of the day, not too busy. I found a quiet spot and settled down to read my prayers as the plan was to spend the rest of the afternoon here until evening prayers at dusk. The walls had a kind of latticework effect so the sunlight poured in through the holes and made for a very nice place to be in. Most shrines are enclosed so that if inside, you don't have any sense of whether it's night or day outside but here, I could see the skies slowly begin to darken.

The mosque began to fill up for the evening prayers and I decided to go nearer to the shrine before it got too full so I could touch the walls and speak to Sayeda Zainab and pass on my condolences for the massacre and brutal murder of her brother Imam Hussain. In the immediate aftermath of the massacre, it was Sayeda Zainab who took care of the women and children and also the young Imam Zain Al Abideen. She refused to recognise the authority of Yazid and gave an eloquent speech in his court that ensured the message of Imam Hussain and the tale of Karbala was known to all. For this reason Sayeda Zainab is often referred to as the heroine of Karbala.

Her actual death is disputed; some say Sayeda Zainab died of natural causes whilst others say she was poisoned. The reason for this is because knowledge began to disappear as the Imam's and their followers were persecuted by Muawiyah and the Abbasi caliphs who wished to rewrite history and eradicate Shi'ism. What is known though is that Sayeda Zainab lived for only a year after the murder of Imam Hussain and during this time, spread the message of the Imam far and wide.

Evening prayers over, JD and I headed back to the hotel making our way through the jostling crowds that were now out in force to enjoy the last of the Eid holidays. I needed to recharge my phone and unbelievably, the rooms had no power sockets so I ended up unplugging the empty fridge and using that instead, something that I would regret the next day.

It was time for dinner and a buffet was available on the top floor restaurant of the Ghasroldeafa. We met up with the rest of the group and headed upstairs via the glass lifts. I actually quite enjoyed the buffet and had chicken biriyani, kebabs with stewed tomatoes, chicken tikka with a salad and a chocolate doughnut to finish off which tasted rather stale but was edible. The OJ also had a funny taste although it could have just been me as my shoe had been filled with the stuff several hours earlier. The canned fizzy orange tasted much better and the whole buffet came to 450 Syrian pounds per person, about GBP £5 each.

I left the hotel at 10pm with Hussain for a short stroll around the market. The shrine closed at 10.30pm which was a surprise to me as I took it for granted that it would be open 24-7. It was much busier out on the streets now with cars loudly honking their horns and crawling single-file down the crowded roads without stopping for pedestrians. Hussain said that this area had been full of Iraqi's during the Saddam regime. Most had left to return to Iraq after the Gulf War but now returned again as the US led invasion had made things much worse over there.

A group of Lebanese women passed by, all brightly dressed as if going to a party. Hussain told me that they would not be allowed entry to the shrine during normal hours on account of their dress not being the more traditional abaya and thus disrespectful.

Hussain had visited Syria before and stopped at an Iraqi shop that he knew to buy tea. Right next door was a cafe with the world's biggest shawarma slowly being turned across a grill and a queue of people waiting to be served. I'm no big fan of shawarma but it looked so juicy that I was tempted to join the back of the line just to see it close up. As with most places in the Gulf, people shopped here mainly in the evening so places remained open until past midnight.

The temperature had dropped to around 18C yet there was still the hum of air cons. It was very pleasant being outside with Hussain contentedly sipping on his tea whilst I watched the crowds jostling in the market. Given there was a holiday for Eid, there were a few simple rides for kids consisting of a wheel and swing, all of which were manually operated. Even though, it was a delight to watch the children enjoying simple rides like these and brought home just how much the kids back in the UK take for granted with their electronic devices and mobile phones.

Hussain finished the last of his tea and we headed back to the hotel through the rest of the market. As we passed a darkened alley, I saw a woman in abaya talking to three guys who were all wearing dish-dash with a red band on top. This looked suspicious as the woman was by herself and the men were dressed as traditional Arabs not Iraqi's. I mentioned this to Hussain and he told me that within minutes of switching on his Bluetooth in the mosque vicinity, he received a message asking he was interested in a temporary marriage. Apparently, this was the norm around here so it was likely that the group were discussing something of a similar (or sleazier!) nature.

The market petered out and we strolled down some more darkened alleys full of teenagers who ignored us and seemed more interested in just lounging around talking to their friends. I was in bed by midnight but there was plenty of hustle and bustle outside until 2am after which it then became very quiet almost as if somebody had flicked a switch. It reminded me very much of Yemen that had also been very quiet during the night, something you don't often find in Gulf countries.

The air con was cold so I switched if off. Despite the room becoming a little warm, it wasn't at all stuffy and the chirping sound of crickets outside finally lulled me to sleep.

 

Sunday 12 September 2010

I was already awake when the call to prayers boomed out over the city at 4.47am. Nobody else seemed to be up so I left the hotel and went to the mosque by myself. Outside, the streets were fairly quiet although some market stalls were still open and looked as if they'd never closed during the night.

It was very busy at the mosque but I found a spot in the shrine area where I could read my prayers. Upon leaving I had a wander around the inner sanctum. Next to one of the minarets was a big tree full of small excited birds all furiously twittering away. They looked and sounded very much like the ones we'd seen in Makkah that flew over the holy Ka'ba during the same period for morning prayers, not something I thought could be a coincidence.

Outside the mosque, I passed by two big coaches full of people who were leaving after the Eid holidays. Apparently the shrine was a popular short-break destination from all over the Gulf including overnight excursions by coach. Plenty of taxis were parked up too, all of them yellow to denote they were officially Government approved.

Back at the hotel and with everybody still asleep, it was time for a short nap before breakfast. We all met at the restaurant on the top floor of the Ghasroldeafa and discovered a long line of people waiting for fried eggs or omelettes. It soon became apparent as to why; there was only one chef with a single pan who looked like he would much rather be snoozing in the sun and as such, took all the time in the world to do even the most simplest of tasks like adding salt and pepper. Meanwhile, women constantly pushed into the queue like it didn't exist whilst others ordered enough eggs to feed a small army so it took a good fifteen minutes before we finally reached our turn.

By contrast, the cook responsible for the freshly baked bread was far more efficient and quite fascinating to watch at work with this cool, edgy, fidgeting thing going on as he expertly kneaded the dough and flipped it around. He made ordinary flatbread that was the Arab style, soft and warm rather than the Iranian thin and crispy variety, but also baked the same bread with cheese which he rolled and cut. The same women again pushed in here to get bread but the baker was so efficient that it took no time at all to fulfil everyone's order.

Leaving JD in the queue glowering at the plump woman in front who seemed to have an obsession with omelettes, I had a nosy around the rest of the buffet that was quite sparse but wholly adequate. Various fruits and cereals were available along with selections of cheeses but there was no toast or pastries, neither of which would be usually found in a traditional Syrian breakfast. As such our meal was nice and simple with everyone opting for eggs and the flatbread.

Returning to my room, I found that unplugging the fridge the previous evening to recharge my mobile had caused water to leak from the freezer so I was forced to spend the best part of ten minutes grumbling and mopping up water from the floor before a maid finally turned up to finish the job. A quick change of clothes and I headed downstairs to meet up with the others.

Upon leaving the hotel, a small group of boys immediately pointed in my direction and made a beeline to beg for money. Hussain shooed them away and ushered the group into a waiting Hyundai H1 SVX minibus that would be our taxi for the day. The driver was called Mohammed and originally from the Golan Heights but now lived in the al-Wafideen camp in the suburbs of Damascus. The minibus had a Barcelona badge dangling from the mirror and I joked to the football-mad Hussain that he had found the right taxi driver.

We drove out of the Sayeda Zainab neighbourhood onto the highway that was still empty as most businesses were shut for the Eid holidays. Camel-coloured sandy brown mountains suddenly loomed into view on the horizon that we hadn't noticed before due to the smog around Damascus. Our destination was a place called Adra that is the Arabic word for pure or virgin.

Out on the highway Syria looked more like I had expected; mainly scrubland with patches of green and lots of desolate hills without any sign of habitation or livestock. Mountains had huge chunks scooped out for construction and there was the usual dearth of any road markings which meant everyone drove pretty much wherever they liked without any regard for other vehicles.

The signs for Harsata and Duma, a couple of towns outside Damascus, soon sped by and we turned off shortly afterwards into an area with lots of high walls that had barbed wire and broken glass on the top. This was a military base with farms on the other side and pictures of President Assad were plastered everywhere.

We drove through a small market and parked in a side street. Here was the mosque of Hujr ibn Adi, a devoted follower of Imam Ali. The family name Adi is Yemeni in origin whilst the grandfather of Hujr was Hatam al Ta'i who lived before the time of the Prophet Mohammed and was widely acknowledged as the most generous person. It is said that because of his generosity and as a non-muslim, having lived before the religion of Islam, was established, upon his death Hatam al Ta'i would not taste hell as a non-believer when in the grave and instead God would place him in a state of perpetual peace until Judgement Day where he would then be taken to heaven.

The story of Hujr is more sombre. Hujr was killed by Ziyad ibn Abi whose name means "son of his father", so called because his promiscuous mother had many lovers and hence his father was unknown. Ziyad was a brutal and sadistic loyal lapdog of Muawiyah, rewarded by being appointed the governor of Basra and the title of Sufyan which meant that Muawaiyh recognised him as a brother. After the death of Imam Ali, Muawiyah began killing the Imam's followers. Hujr was the the main supporter of Imam Ali during this period and as a result was deported from Kufa to Damascus. Before entering Damascus though, Muawiyah sent the order to kill Hujr and his group, an order Ziyad wasted no time in executing.

The mosque listed the names of all the martyrs here; Hujr, Hamam (son of Hujr), Saif al Shebani, Kabisa al Ghubsi, Mahrez al Sadi, Kudam Abdi and Shureq al Hadrami. The names were all Yemeni in origin identifying the tribe the person was from whilst the place Adra was so called before Hujr was buried there.

It was busier than expected at the mosque and a voice suddenly bellowed out over the loudspeakers to tell the story of Hujr. As the shrine was maintained by Persians, the narration was also in Persian although there was also an extensive Arabic narration written on a plaque in the entrance. We read our prayers there, paid a donation and I busied myself with trying to read the Arabic translations on the wall.

Back outside the sun was high and it was very hot with flies everywhere. Cars were parked in the grove next to the building as it was approaching afternoon prayers. The only difference between a mosque and a shrine was that the latter would have a tomb of someone prominent that had been buried there. Because of this, shrines were considered more important than a mosque which is why people would make the effort to travel a little farther to visit one for prayers.

I found a pleasant patch of shade in the corner of the market and watched the locals go about their business whilst waiting for the rest of the group. Because of the heat, Hussain had gone to get drinks for everyone and seemed to have melted into the crowd, no doubt having made firm friends with half of the stall owners there in the amicably warm way that Arabs usually did when meeting strangers.

Drinks in hand, everyone climbed into the minibus. On leaving Adra we passed by an area called the Palestine Welfare Society which looked derelict and forgotten but which had once been very grand.

Back on the highway a coach full of pilgrims bombed past us with the back cover wide open like a huge misplaced spoiler. At first I thought that the driver had simply forgotten to close it and the passengers would be lucky to find any baggage left on arrival. I pointed this out to Hussain who laughed and said that it was merely an ingenious way to keep the engine cool in these hot climates. And sure enough, as another coach screamed past, I saw the back cover wasn't actually the luggage compartment but the engine bay.

We eventually reached Damascus and carried on straight through the capital towards Lebanon. The highway here was in much better condition with cat's eyes and road markings and more expensive cars. Our next destination was a shrine in Daraya where Sayeda Sukina, the daughter of Imam Ali, was buried. Her husband owned farming land here and Sayeda Sukina passed away from natural causes years after the death of both Imam Hussain and Sayeda Zainab.

The shrine was divided into separate male and female areas and still being expanded. It was very busy for afternoon prayers and in common with most Shia shrines, the upkeep of the site was taken care of by Iran. By the time we left it was even hotter outside and everyone was glad to pile into the minibus for the cool breeze of the air conditioning. We headed back to the centre of Damascus, past a fountain and a stream of crowded traffic, and eventually turned off into a series of cobbled roads outside a large graveyard with accompanying mosque. This was the Ahul al-Bayt Cemetary and buried here was Sayeda Sukina, the daughter of Imam Hussain and Umm Kalthoum.

The mosque was a small building and not divided like most simply because of a lack of space. A lower level that Hussain remembered visiting as kid had been closed for renovations. We read our prayers and then entered the graveyard that had several prominent shrines for the people buried here; Sayeda Fatima, the daughter of Imam Hussain; Abdullah as Sadiq, the son of Imam Jaffar; Bilal, the person who called the adhan for the Prophet Mohammed; and Abdullah ibn Jaffar, the husband of Sayeda Zainab.

Across the road from the Ahl al-Bayt Cemetary was a place called al Karaba that literally translates into "The Dump". The heads of all the Karbala martyrs were put on display here along with Sayeda Zainab and the womenfolk who were imprisoned as a warning to others who defied Yazid. The courtyard also had a monument for the hands that had been cut off during the Karbala massacre and displayed here as a source of humiliation for the martyrs. Just outside al Karabi there was one final small shrine where Abdullah, the son of Imam Zain Al Abideen, was buried.

We left and drove through the Christian area of Damascus right into the centre itself for our final visit of the day to the shrine of Sayeda Rukeya. She was the youngest surviving daughter of Imam Hussain aged around four years and her tale was especially sad. After the murder of Imam Hussain, Sayeda Rukeya cried for her father. Yazid decided to give her the head of the Imam on a silver platter so she would see her father and stop crying. Upon seeing the head of Imam Hussain, Sayeda Rukaya hugged it tightly whereupon she died peacefully embracing her father's head.

The site was near a market called Hamadiyah Souq, in the old Damascus district of Bab Touma. The minibus dropped us off at the mouth of a long darkened alley and we made our way on foot to the shrine entrance where turnstiles led the way inside to a large open courtyard and then the usual segregated men and women's section. Although not crowded, there was a fair amount of visitor traffic but as the place was so large, we managed to find prime spots right next to the shrine from which we could read our prayers. Hussain told me that he always liked to spend some time here so I left him at the front and explored the inner sanctum that had a number of interesting displays of historical significance that further explained the terrible events around Karbala.

Leaving the shrine, we immediately entered the bustling market that was crowded and noisy and made our way to the nearby Umayyad palace of Yazid. This opened onto a large square full of tourists and had lots of stalls dotted around the periphery to capitalise on the site as one of the main visitor attractions in Damascus. The palace looked more like a castle with huge gates and thick walls from which sprouted a number of towers. A blue plaque on the wall near one of the gates commemorated the place where Sayeda Zainab had given the famous speech in Yazid's court defying his authority. Unsurprisingly, a large crowd had gathered here to read the plaque and offer prayers.

It struck me as odd that the shrine of Sayeda Rukeyah was very near Yazid's palace and I asked Hussain about this. His simple explanation was that the prisoners of Karbala were kept near the court of Yazid and the shrine marked the place where Sayeda Rukeyah died and was buried whilst still in captivity.

For some reason the palace was closed that day and as everyone was getting hungry, we decided to leave and return tomorrow so we could go inside. The palace was not only a remnant of the Ummayad dynasty but also the place where the Prophet Yahya, known in the Bible as John the Baptist, was buried. The slaughter at Karbala took place on the direct orders of Yazid who held court in Damascus and it was here in the palace that the survivors, led by Imam Zain-ul-Abideen, were eventually brought.

Imam Zain-al-Abideen was in his early twenties when the sad events of Karbala occurred. Since the Quran mentions that this world cannot survive with no Imam present, it was God's will that the Imam became severely ill during the battle of Karbala and could not participate as a warrior.

Despite this, Imam Zain-al-Abideen asked permission to fight in the battle but was told by his father Imam Hussain that a different type of battle had been assigned to him that would begin after the martyrdom of Imam Hussain. This battle would involve leading the women and children (all the men were martyred) of the household of Prophet Mohammed into the bazaars and courts of Kufa and Damascus.

After the slaughter of Karbala, Imam Zain-al-Abideen was made a prisoner of war together with the whole family of the Prophet Mohammed. It was at this time that he was given the responsibility of the Imamate, one of the most difficult and testing trials given to any Imam. Being subjected to all the insults and humiliations thrown at him and on the womenfolk of the house of the Prophet was far more difficult than being martyred on the battlefield. The survival and true message of Islam depended on Imam Zain-ul-Abideen, a huge responsibility at such a young age.

The army of Yazid treated the Imam very badly by putting him in heavy chains. As a prisoner of war, he was made to travel on the open back of a camel in burning sunshine from Karbala to Kufa and then from Kufa to Damascus, a distance of some 750 kilometres. Sometimes, the Imam would be made to walk on the burning sands of the desert.

Women and children of the family of the Prophet Mohammed were handcuffed and treated like slaves. The daughters of Imam Ali and Sayeda Fatima had their hijabs were taken away from them and a caller accompanied them everywhere introducing them to passersby as "those who had disobeyed the Muslim ruler, Yazid".

The whole group were presented as prisoners, first to Ibn-e-Ziyad, the mayor of Kufa, and then to Yazid in Damascus who gave the orders for the slaughter at Karbala. In the courts of Ibn-e-Ziyad and Yazid, Imam Zain-ul-Abideen presented the true message of Islam to the listeners and introduced himself and his accompanying members as the descendents of the Prophet Mohammed. His speeches had such an impact on the listeners that several attempts to kill him inside the courts of both Yazid and Ibn-e-Ziyad were thwarted. Sayeda Zainab and other women of the household of Prophet Mohammed became the frontline protectors and were backed by the people in the court of Yazid who were deeply ashamed of the events of Karbala.

The effects of these speeches were so powerful that the Syrians began to blame Yazid and turn against him for the terrible crimes he committed. Yazid, fearing that his reign would be lost if he did not act, decided to free the Imam and the survivors so they could return to Madinah.

The minibus was still parked a distance away so we headed back the way we came, past the shrine of Sayeda Rukeyah to the darkened alley. We passed by a place where there were stone pillars built on the ground. During Saladin's rule, countless numbers of Shia were brutally killed for believing in the twelve Imams and these pillars had been built on top of those Shia who refused to recognise the four madhabs, or schools of thought, of the Sunni sect that Saladin tried to impose everywhere. The pillars looked very odd sprouting out of the ground with nothing on top but we didn't stop to have a look as the plan was to return the next day and finish the whole of Old Damascus.

An old man with a street cart full of fresh figs stopped by the entrance to the alley and the group paused to buy a few bags, not only because the fruits look very good but also to help the guy make a living. Syria by all accounts was still a poor country and with more established shops lining the road, competition was fierce for customers. Figs are called teen in Arabic and even though I wasn't a big fan, these were certainly the sweetest I'd ever tasted.

With everyone clutching a bag of fresh tasty figs, we climbed back into the minibus and drove through a grand Ottoman style roofed souk called Medhad Pasha. Despite the shops all being were closed there were more Western tourists here than at the palace and moreover, the tourists were dressed in Western style clothing complete with an arsenal of electronic gadgets at hand so they stood out even more.

Hussain had been getting more cranky since we left the shrine of Sayeda Rukeyah and was grumbling about the sun, lack of food, having to walk everywhere and the heat making him tired so it was a relief when the minibus finally pulled up in a side street in the Mazanat al Shahim area where we got out to have a late lunch. The restaurant was called Al Khawali which means olden days in Arabic and it was widely regarded as one of the best places to eat in Damascus. Entry via a modest wooden door led inside to a grand building fashioned in the style of a centuries old Syrian house with patterned windows, an open canopy canvas roof and balconies that surrounded a large square seating area. Syrians love eating which is why they tend to be fat and going for a meal was considered a big and lengthy event often lasting hours for which people dressed up and generally regarded as much a social occasion as one for dining.

The waiting room had various pictures of famous Arab celebrities who had visited the Al Khawali as it was a well known place. Inside the actual courtyard several families were already seated and waiting for food whilst a pair of double doors led into a kitchen from which all manner of exciting looking dishes were being dispensed.

We chose our starters and were brought maqdous (stuffed aubergines wirh walnuts) together with tabouleh, humous and muhammara which is a kind of spicy pepper dip served with soft flatbread. For the main, I had the mixed barbecue grill of lamb tikka, chicken kebab and lamb kebab served with almond rice. Everyone else went for the lamb cutlets with sauce that was served with chips of all things. I opted for a mango juice drink to accompany the meal but swapped halfway with JD who found the fresh lemon juice far too sour.

A complimentary dessert offered fresh figs, grapes and a date shaped Indian style gulab jaman sweet with a hard crunchy shell. I had Arabic ice cream with nuts that unfortunately wasn't fresh and frozen completely solid. Syria is well known for its selection of ice creams so this was somewhat of a disappointment, especially as the ice cream was far too nutty with crazy amounts of pistachio. As a result, it didn't taste as sweet as ice cream but it wasn't too bad once it had softened up a little although that took a good thirty minutes. In the meantime, Hussain, who had perked up considerably having been adequately fed and watered and was now puffing contentedly on his second cigarette, started joking that even I was too full as I picked at my ice cream waiting for it to thaw.

The heat of the sun had disappeared and swiftly replaced with the unwanted nuisance of flies. Despite this, it was very pleasant sitting underneath the canopy that had been rolled back so we could see the blue sky beyond. The total bill for our meal came to 3,300 Syrian Pounds which I settled in full as a treat for everyone, and then with a final mouthful of pistachio and the merest hint of ice cream, it was time to leave.

We headed back to the hotel for a quick freshen up and then evening prayers at 8pm. The Sayeda Zainab shrine was very crowded and it was difficult to find any space to stay long enough without getting jostled by pilgrims. I had seen a selection of notice boards near the entrance to the shrine and this seemed the ideal moment to go check them out as it was away from the crowds of people, none of whom seemed to think them of any importance. It turned out the displays contained military information, provided by Hezbollah in both Arabic and English, about Israeli weapons, identifying them and how they are used. It was not unusual to find Hezbollah material in Syria given their close ties with President Assad but I was surprised to find military information being made available in a holy place.

As the place began to empty, I returned to the shrine with Hussain. We found a spot near the front but away to one side and settled down to read prayers. Although it was less crowded, it suddenly seemed very busy where we were sitting and a few minutes later, a bloke had stood on Hussain by mistake and started apologising profusely. Hussain was far too gracious to start an argument, least of all in a holy place so he told him that was quite all right, accidents happen and we decided to find a more quiet spot where this time I, being the bigger of the two, would sit on the outside where there was likely to be more people traffic.

I tried reading from a prayer book but found the Arabic very difficult as the characters were different from what I was used to. Hussain was reading the same and after half an hour offered to read for me whilst I sat and listened, something I gratefully accepted as even if I was reading correctly, there was always the case of pronunciation, especially in Arabic where one word can have several meanings depending on how it is spoken. Better to have an expert recite and listen rather than run the risk of reading it wrong.

We left at 10pm for a wander around the area. Directly opposite the shrine was the Safir hotel, a proper 5-star establishment and far nicer than the Ghasroldeafa. Hussain had stayed at the Safir before and we decided that this would definitely be our hotel of choice when we next visited Damascus. There was a bookshop in the lobby that had lots of titles unavailable outside the Middle East so Hussain very kindly bought me three detailed volumes about all the Prophets and a book about Abu Talib, the father of Imam Ali.

Leaving the Safir, we took the long way back to the hotel passing through the expanded and newer part of the shrine accessible from the main road only. I had not seen this before as the Ghasroldeafa was at the back of the site in the poorer area so we always entered from here. Hussain told me that there were lots of Ahul Bayt (household of the Prophet Mohammed) buried in Syria because of the events of Karbala and also because they were forced from what is now Iraq and Saudi to leave the countries for good. Additionally, lots of areas of Syria were named after Yemeni tribes from the influence that the Yemeni's bought to the land over the centuries.

I needed local currency so we popped into one of the shops that Hussain knew and I changed USD $70 for 3,200 Syrian Pounds. Nobody was sleepy when we finally returned to the hotel so we sat chatting for a while before it was time to hit the sack. I showered and was in bed at 12.40am, relatively early for me when I was travelling abroad.

 

Monday 13 September 2010

The guests in the room next door to mine had been talking loudly until 2am so despite having gone to bed a bit earlier than usual, I didn't fall asleep until hours later even though I hammered on the door at around 1 and demanded they keep the noise down. Damascus had been far quieter too during the night with no sounds of chirping crickets or even the distant hum of air conditioners. I was up at 4.54am in time for the adhan and to my surprise, found the rest of the group also ready to go which made a change. That is apart from Hussain who was still sleeping off the previous days activities.

Arriving about 5 minutes later than usual, the shrine was extremely busy and there was no excited twittering of birds either. We read our morning prayers and were back at the hotel by 7am for a quick nap. Because of the early morning rise, we always tended to go for breakfast as late as possible, a somewhat risky strategy that usually worked but would occasionally yield a rather lacklustre and empty buffet. Happily, this was not one of those days and we had a meal of omelettes with flatbread, humous and Laughing Cow cheese.

By 10.30am, everyone was in the minibus on our way downtown to stop by the Syrian Air office so we could confirm our reservations for the return journey back to Bahrain. This part of Damascus was more modern and business like with offices as well as retail outlets. Hussain and I left the group to walk the few hundred yards to the Syrian Air office and passed by a small cinema with pictures plastered all over the outside, some of ancient blue movies that looked like they had been made in the 1980's. Businesses here were all open as Syria has only three days holiday for Eid regardless of whichever day it fell on. In other words, there were no holidays given in lieu of Eid falling on a weekend day like with most other countries in the Gulf.

Our tickets confirmed, we returned back to the minibus and drove out onto the main road through the Al Messeh district. The cars downtown were more modern than those in Iran and I saw new BMW, Lexus, Kia, Peugeot and Hyundai models. This was also most likely related to the vast number of government buildings sited in this part of Damascus, public office apparently being one of the better paid jobs in Syria.

We joined the main highway heading towards Al Zabadani, about 10km from the Lebanese border. Other vehicles here just merged without any traffic lights or road markings and as usual, nobody used any indicators. The scenery soon became craggier and the minibus crawled up a mountain, speeding up as it eventually levelled off and giving us spectacular views across the valley. We drove past the towns of Sabboura and Al Dimas and began to see villas dotted around the mountains built in Assad villages where the Syrian President's family originated.

As the air turned cooler, a wasp managed to find it's way through one of the open windows of the minibus and there was a major panic, me included, as everyone tried to shoo it back out again. Wasps are one of those seemingly tiresome creatures that serve no useful purpose other than to annoy and they're truly the chav of the insect world. Despite the sudden drama however, it was a very pleasant being up in the mountains on a hot day among the natural fruit trees that provided a welcome burst of colour.

The road became narrower as it wound around the steep inclines and we were eventually stopped at a checkpoint near a military base where we were forced to pay a little petty cash for further entry. Another checkpoint wanted to see all our passports which we obviously didn't have but settled on our driving licences instead and waved us through.

We were nearing our destination in the west mountains of Syria as lots of coaches were travelling the other way towards us so, all of them driving like maniacs on the sliver of remaining road that had steep drops on either side. A Range Rover Sport in front of us had Sharjah plates and had driven all the way from the UAE to here where there was the shrine of the Prophet Habeel at the very top of the mountain that we had come to visit.

The was quite a lot of traffic when we arrived and rather than spending twenty minutes trying to find a parking space, we got out of the minibus at the first available opportunity and set off for the short fifteen minute walk to the site. I was surprised to see a bustling market at the top of the mountain. It sold mainly clothes, materials and haberdashery and although it had sprung up to cater for the large numbers of visitors, it was also quite nice too.

There was a small building to one side that had a couple of outdoor taps so Hussain and I used these to wash with before we entered the shrine. The icy cold water was absolutely freezing but it felt all the more real for having these basic facilities on top of a mountain rather than a modern washroom with mirrors and paper towels. A meshed fence surrounded the area as this was all military land but it still afforded great views across the mountains to the villages of the Barada river.

We made our way to the shrine and went inside. I was amazed to see the tomb of the Prophet Habeel was some twelve foot in length and this was the actual tomb itself, not the shrine built around the burial site. The reason for this was simply that the Prophet Habeel, along with his father the Prophet Adam and brother Qabeel, were all much bigger and taller than the people of today so the tomb merely reflected the actual length of the body. Fortunately, the room was quite empty too so we were able to walk all the way round and take in the size of the structure. The story of the Prophet Habeel and his brother is also known as Caine and Abel in the Bible and describes the first ever murder on Earth.

Outside the shrine was a wonderful picture that showed all the major, and some of the minor, prophets of the Islamic world depicted as a giant tree so you could see the exact lineage as branches. I very much wanted to buy a copy of this and was ready to scour the market as I'd never seen something so elegant before in explaining the relationship between all the Prophet's but JD told me that such pictures were readily available in the Gulf and were not particular to the place we were visiting or even to Syria.

We left the mountain top, returned to the checkpoint to collect our ID's and were then back on the highway where we nearly drove into the back of some idiot in a Kia with his family who had decided to park in the fast lane. The next place to visit was a freshwater lake called Zarzar. There were no mountains here and the lake itself was drying up with very little to see so we merely stopped to buy bottles of drinking water and then carried on. The water we had bought was from Boukein Spring, a place in Zabadani where we were now heading that was a large resort which lots of Arabs visited during the summer months to enjoy the cooler climate.

Once again, the road began to steadily climb and we passed black mountain goats and other smaller resorts along with several apple orchards bearing lush green fruits. The whole area of Zabadani is mainly Muslim but they live peacefully with their Christian neighbours that make up the minority.

We stopped at a small farm halfway up the mountain for coffee or gahwa as it's known in Arabic. The farm was called Abu Radhwan and it was immediately apparent why; Radhwan means Angel of Heaven and it was very peaceful and relaxing place with a welcoming garden that would have put many a UK prize winning entry to shame. Every farm had a small place for visitors with seating area complete with rugs on the floor and a canopy to keep off the sun. Grape vines hung around the garden like treasure whilst a pear tree stood in one corner next to a well.

The old woman who lived there was Syrian but spoke Lebanese Arabic due to the proximity to the border. She brought us fruits including apples and pears from the garden and also offered us lunch with typical Arab generosity. The people here were very warm and simple trusting folk who would offer you their bed for the night if asked.

Coffee was of the thick Turkish type served in small cups. The rest of the group knew I didn't drink coffee; the last time I had a Turkish, I nearly passed out it was so strong however I took a sip out of respect for our host who then left us whereupon I took the opportunity to pour the rest away so as not to cause any offence.

The farm grew its own fruit and vegetables that were for sale to visitors and we decided to buy some olive oil that was very popular in this part of the world. It would take a while to prepare as everything was fresh so we agreed to stop on the way back to Damascus as our trips were not yet complete for the day.

Outside the farm, there was a house being built right next to the entrance. Four guys were working here on some very dangerous looking rickety scaffolding perched atop a few wobbly stones. Nobody wore any protective gear and with the nearest hospital miles away, it took a brave man to draw the short straw and climb to the top to start hammering away at the walls. I couldn't help but think of the fuss this would have caused back in the UK with the pompous and unecessary health and safety zealots who will take any opportunity to wear a hi-viz jacket and boss people around.

The minibus drove up a long straight road into the main Boukein thoroughfare. Shops and stalls lined the street with lots of branded groceries for sale, most of which had been smuggled out of Lebanon where the availability of such goods was much higher. We stopped at the famous Boukein spring to fill our bottles and then walked down the main street. I watched a guy make 50 rolls of flatbread and add tomato, lemon, falafel and green herbs, all in under 5 minutes. Boukein was always popular with visitors and this particular stall was getting its wraps ready for the afternoon crowds.

We drove further up the mountain to the resort of Bloudan that was also popular with tourists. During the summer time, Bloudan had cool breezes and low humidity whilst the snows in winter often drew crowds of skiers. The road winding up the mountain became very steep and the minibus crawled almost to a halt as it fought the combination of a low powered engine and an incline that didn't want to quit. At one point I half thought that we'd have to get out and push or at least walk the rest of the way up the mountain but we finally reached our lunch destination after chugging along for fifteen minutes during which time the weedy diesel engine noise had pretty much deafened us all.

The restaurant was the Janaat Bloudan that translates as "heaven of Bloudan". It was a large place offering spectacular window views overlooking the mountain valleys. Unfortunately, when we arrived, despite there being plenty of space, all the best tables had already been bagged so we decided to wait until one of the window views was free for us to enjoy. In the meantime, we were seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant.

Looking around, I saw an Arab guy wearing a t-shirt that said "I am real, unless declared integer" that struck me as not the typical garment a local would be wearing. The Range Rover we saw earlier was also parked outside and it was clear that most of the visitors were not only from out of town but most likely tourists visiting Syria.

A big beefy guy who was a dead cert for Vin Diesel, only with hair, seemed to be in charge and swaggered around placing people at tables and barking orders to the waiters. After twenty minutes, we were rewarded with a front view window table that looked out across the mountain range towards the Lebanese border that was just five miles away.

We browsed the menu and the first thing I noticed was that nothing had a price listed. The waiter merely shrugged when asked about this and said the restaurant would tell us the bill once we'd ordered. Or in other words, Vin Diesel and his crew would decide how much they could get away with charging us based upon our nationality, what exotic dishes we order and how flush we looked.

Everyone else went for the lamb but I decided on the chicken kebab with rice. There was a huge platter of fruit for afterwards with peaches, grapes and sweet watery melons. A far cry from the rubbish found in UK supermarkets that's flown halfway round the world and still tastes awful.

As expected, the air up in the mountains was much cooler and leaving the restaurant after a hearty meal made it feel it even chillier. We piled back into the minibus and began the journey home. The driver barrelled down the bumpy road and I began to feel ill after just a few minutes. Stopping off at the farm we visited earlier to collect the olive oil, I soon fell asleep and was woken much later by a cacophony of blaring horns as we rolled back into the suburbs of Damascus.

Back at the hotel, I had a sudden urge to use the bathroom. Nothing unusual there but immediately afterwards, my legs turned to jelly and I started trembling all over even though it was hot outside and I wasn't the slightest bit cold. I crawled into bed and lay shivering under the sheets as my head started to pound. I couldn't understand what was wrong but when I started getting a fever and began to feel very sick, I called JD who gave me some paracetamol and told me to drink lots of fluids. By this point, my hands were shaking so much that I could barely hold a can of 7-Up and decided that bed was where I wanted to be to sleep it off.

Over the next few hours, I visited the bathroom a further three times and after the fourth visit, forced myself to vomit as the feeling of nausea by now was overwhelming. This seemed to have opened the floodgates and I started making some very nasty sounds as I vomited a further several times in quick succession.

11pm approached and after managing to drag myself back to bed, JD called the rest of the group. There was a 24-hour doctor's surgery near the hotel and I agreed to go despite being a stubborn old goat that does everything to avoid doctors, especially in the Gulf where they are far too eager to prescribe the world's supply of medication. However, even I could see now that I was rapidly going down with a horrendous fever. Alarmingly, my vision began to shake and I started hallucinating. It was like I was outside my body and looking at myself and the group from a third person perspective.

With JD propping up an arm as I couldn't walk straight, we left the room, took the lift down and stepped out onto the street with me shuffling along pathetically like a zombie. The surgery was a short walk away, no more than fifty yards, but it still took us a while to get there, far too long for my liking.

Inside it was clean, modern and efficient. There was a person ahead of us but the doctor said he'd see me first after he'd finished with his current patient. JD told me to sit down and like an obedient puppy, I obliged, hands on forehead to try and soothe the pounding headache.

After a few minutes wait, I went in to see the doc, JD having already told him that I was of Asian descent as Syrians generally didn't like Brits. Thankfully, the doc was a middle aged, decent looking chap rather than an old quack and immediately told me to sit and open my mouth so he could look inside and poke around with a wooden spatula. As I was already feeling sick, this made me gag and I nearly swallowed the thing. The doc tried again and this time I grabbed his leg as he moved the spatula further back for a better view.

With the doc realising that he was as likely to see my tonsils as he was of an angry bear with a bee hive stuck on its head, he swiftly moved to phase two the analysis which was to take a temperature reading, a far more agreeable proposition. Sticking the bulb in my mouth, he then took my blood pressure and said it was normal. My temperature however had rocketed to 40C and the doc told me to sit on the examination table. I didn't wait for him to ask me to lie down and immediately curled up in the foetal position, hands on head as they had pretty much been all evening.

The doc said I needed something stronger than paracetamol and that it could only be administered via a couple of injections. The first was another shot of paracetamol that would go straight into the bloodstream so it could act quicker to bring down my temperature whilst the second was something to stop me vomiting.

If there's one thing I hate more than anything, and I'm a pretty stoic guy who's cool with stuff like heights, spiders, blood, gore and snakes, it's needles but this was no time to start arguing with a trained medical professional. The injections would be administered just below the hip on whichever buttock volunteered first. I'd had injections here before but nothing like this. It felt like the doc had stuck a hot needle in me and then used an extendable drainpipe to deliver the dose.

I stifled a yell and opted instead to bang on the wall with my nearest hand like an inmate in a lunatic asylum demanding release whilst the doc tried to stop me flinching too much. It was over within a matter of seconds and then onto the second dosage which was far worse as I now knew what to expect.

Injections done and swabbed clean, the doc wrote out a battery of tablets and told JD that I would need plenty of fluids for the next 24 hours. I got up to my feet ready to shuffle off and thanked the doc using what little Arabic I knew.

My head was still pounding and heavy so JD settled the bill and bought whatever medication was needed. There was a pharmacy next door that was empty when we entered but immediately filled up with people the very moment I sat down to wait. However the pharmacist was efficient and gave us our things quickly so we were back in the hotel within an hour of having left.

The doc had given me four different types of pills to take; 500mg cirproflex, 500mg tinidazole, 500mg paracetamol and 8mg ondansetron. I needed to take several of them immediately with food but with no solids allowed for the next 24 hours, it was soup only. However, with no room service available at Fawlty Towers, it was left to JD to try and find somewhere that had soup, not a particularly easy thing to do in the poor part of Damascus at midnight.

I lay down and tried to sleep. The can of 7-Up opened earlier was now deliciously flat so I finished it off and was feeling a little better as the injections began to work their magic. JD returned an hour later just as I was beginning to worry where everyone had gone. With nothing open at this time of night, JD had taken a cab to the Grand Safir hotel, gotten soup and then had a fight with the cab driver who had wanted to charge extra for simply waiting two minutes outside the hotel.

Unfortunately, JD had got chicken soup which I was completely off so I managed just a few mouthfuls, took my collection of pills and then sank back into bed to try and sleep off the effects.

 

Tuesday 14 September 2010

It was a long hot night and I hardly slept. My temperature hadn't appeared to drop at all and I was tossing and turning well into dawn as I searched for that cool patch of the bed that would bring some relief. Nevertheless, I did I feel better.

Everybody was getting ready to go for breakfast and JD called to ask whether I'd like any eggs. The nausea from last night was still present and I felt I could only manage plain flatbread so asked for that instead. A few mouthfuls of this washed down with more 7-Up and my morning feast was complete. It turned out that even if I did want eggs, it wouldn't have been possible. JD told me that the guy who made the omelettes hadn't turned up and when asked why, the manager replied it was his day off. You'd have expected there would be more than just one cook in a restaurant who would know how to crack an egg and make an omelette!

The plan for the morning had been to return to the square to visit the Ummayi palace but I just couldn't manage going anywhere for now so the trip was cancelled for which I felt immensely guilty. With everyone at the mosque, I drifted in and out of sleep for the next two hours until a call from JD woke me up. I felt much better and still needed to go to the mosque myself to read all the evening prayers I had missed the previous day as well as say farewell to Sayeda Zainab.

Hussain and the rest of the group arranged to meet JD and I in the lobby of the hotel and I set off with JD for the mosque just after noon. It was hot outside but it felt good to be walking around again and getting some air.

My worry was that I'd need to keep visiting the bathroom every 10 minutes and wouldn't be able to read prayers but in the event, I stayed at the shrine for an hour without any problems. The mosque was bustling but not crowded and I said my farewell to Sayeda Zainab giving thanks for allowing me to visit as well as asking that this wouldn't be the last time I'd visit. Meeting up with JD, we left for the lobby of the hotel to meet the others.

Back at the Ghasroldeafa, I used the bathroom immediately and packed before heading down. This was the first time I had seen Hussain since getting off the minibus the previous day so when he saw me, he grinned and said "welcome to the third world". I was forever good humouredly mocking Arabs in general for being a bunch of big softies ready to run to the doctor at a moments notice for the most trivial of reasons so this was payback time with Hussain taking full advantage and ensuring I wouldn't hear the end of it all the way back to Bahrain.

We checked out of the hotel, got our last look at the Sayeda Zainab shrine and then piled back into the minibus. At the airport, we checked in and I managed to eat a cheese sandwich, my first proper meal since the previous day. I still didn't know what had happened to me and the doc had not volunteered an opinion but I suspect it was either the food at the Jannat Bloudan or the water or a combination of both coupled with the cold mountain air that perhaps had exacerbated the effects.

I did use the bathrooms at the airport a further two times but was definitely on the mend. Our flight was called and as everyone queued up, a fat Jordanian (on account of her accent) woman pushed ahead of everyone, maid in tow, demanding to be let on first. We exchanged glances and decided to leave it be rather than create a fuss, it was not like seats were a free-for-all and given on a first come first served basis.

Another guy had several excited kids in front of us who urged their father to come join them. He told them to wait and that we were ahead of him but Hussain told him to go get in front of us and join his family. The contrast between him and the Jordanian could not have been more obvious.

There was a bus that took us to the plane and getting off at the gate, the fat Jordanian woman sat in a wheelchair and was pushed all of 20 paces to the bottom step of the staircase. I thought to myself that the old bat had more than enough puff when she was busy pushing in front of the queue so why the charade with the wheelchair now or was she trying a pathetic attempt to blag an upgrade?

The aircraft was a Syrian Air Airbus 330 and far more comfortable and spacious than the horrible Jordanian chartered plane that had brought us here. We sat near the front and had 3x3 seats for the five of us. I spent the whole flight chatting with Hussain and didn't have any food but plenty of OJ and a Swiss Roll which reminded me of the old joke (Q: How do you make a Swiss Roll? A: Push him down a hill).

Our landing in Bahrain was smooth but very noisy and the plane rattled alarmingly causing JD to clutch the side of the chair and frantically recite a prayer. The fat Jordanian woman didn't bother with a wheelchair for Bahrain immigration; she was quite content to waddle up to the desk so why she had to put on a show in Syria is anyone's guess.

It took me about a week to fully recover from whatever had struck me down but despite that, I didn't think anything bad of having visited Syria and an incident a few days later reinforced this view. When visiting any holy shrine, it's common for sweets to be given to visitors. These sweets are considered blessed since they have been in the shrine where prayers have been recited so it's good to take some and give them to others upon your return. By the second day in Bahrain, I still had to use the bathroom too often and it was quite by chance that JD gave me one of the sweets.

After taking one, I felt immensely better, stopped visiting the bathroom every few hours and even the feelings of nausea vanished. In some small way, I felt that Sayeda Zainab had accepted my prayers and was inviting me to return to Damascus, a visit that I look forward to and, God willing, will definitely be making again.