10 SYRIA (1)570
Kilometres – 23 Days22
September – 14 October 2007
MAP
FLIP-BOOK
22–23 September – Atakia, Turkey – Aleppo, Syria – 110 kilometres
Leaving
Atakia, Turkey, I nervously approached the Syrian border, unsure whether visas
were issued on arrival. The visa gods must have been smiling on me, as I met
four motorbike riders travelling overland to South Africa. They introduced me
to Ahmed, a tour guide helping them with visas. Ahmed was incredibly
accommodating, helped me complete the forms, and then vanished. Three hours
later, my passport came back stamped, and I was on my way to Aleppo.
I
could hardly believe my luck. I knew I was tremendously fortunate to have met
the bikers and Ahmed.
My
first thought cycling into Syria was, “What have I let myself into?” Everything
felt different: culture, language, landscape, food, housing. Not only was it a
conservative Muslim desert country, but it was also one of the world's oldest
inhabited regions. Archaeological finds indicate human habitation going back
700,000 years.
During
the day, not much seemed to happen except for cotton fields and the occasional
typical Syrian community: a mosque, a market, and a few modest courtyard homes.
From the street, these homes looked unimpressive, but inside, they could be
surprisingly lavish. They offered total privacy and a central family courtyard,
often with a water feature or even a pool. I loved this architecture so much I
swore I’d build a courtyard-style home myself one day.
Biking
into Aleppo, one of Syria’s oldest cities, at 18h00 meant hitting peak-hour
traffic. I already knew traffic rules differed from country to country, but
Syria’s chaos was on another level. I had no idea Aleppo was such a large city.
As it was Ramadan, thousands of hungry people were rushing home to break the
fast. As a woman on a bicycle, I felt firmly at the bottom of the food chain.
Then
the heavens opened. It started bucketing down, and the road flooded within
seconds. While trying to dodge traffic, I rode through a puddle, and my front
wheel got stuck in a drain cover. I nearly destroyed a part of my anatomy,
which I believed could still come in handy later! Somehow, I made it to the
city centre, where I found a reasonably priced place to stay.
The
aptly named Hotel Tourist was centrally located and clean. Achmad, from the
hotel, was invaluable and offered to walk me around town. The following day was
spent exploring Aleppo’s citadel, market and museum. Finding my way back
afterwards required a mental GPS to navigate the maze of narrow, identical
alleys.
By
evening, Achmad offered to show me more of the town. We meandered through side
streets and ended at a typical Syrian eatery. The food was good, the
conversation easy despite the language barrier, and I was struck by how
friendly Syrians were.
24
September – Aleppo – Idlib – 66 kilometres
Upon
departure, Achmad presented me with a watch. I had no idea how to interpret
such a generous gift, but I thanked him and cycled out of Aleppo feeling
slightly bewildered. That was just… odd.
My
first full day’s ride, from Aleppo to Idlib, was about 60 kilometres straight
into a strong headwind. On arrival in Idlib, I asked around for accommodation
and in the process met Ahmad, who invited me to stay with him and his wife.
To
my surprise, I was given an entire apartment and invited to supper with Ahmad,
his wife Somod, his brother and his sister-in-law. It was a lovely evening.
They sat on a mat on the floor, used no utensils, and ate only with their
fingers. Even though it was Ramadan, Somod went to great lengths to prepare a
variety of delicious dishes.
Ahmad
was the only one who spoke English, yet we still managed to communicate and
enjoy each other’s company. They patiently showed me how to sit and eat
correctly, laughing good-naturedly at my attempts to manage without cutlery.
Later, I waddled back to my room, well-fed and grateful for such a unique
experience.
25
September – Idlib – Latakia – 130 kilometres
From
Idlib to Latakia was about 130 kilometres. Progress was slow as the road
climbed over a mountain range, and a headwind buffeted me most of the way.
Still, the people along the route were immensely accommodating.
Asking
for directions remained tricky; few could read an English map. For the most
part, Syrians stared at me, mouths agape. Their amazement mainly was because I
was an unaccompanied woman… on a bicycle. Yet nearly everyone was eager to
communicate. Along the way, I was offered far more food and drink than one
person could ever consume.
Towards
the end of the day, I battled through hectic traffic and a stiff breeze before
finally rolling into the historic port city of Latakia.
26
September – Latakia
Syrian
traffic was astounding. If there were rules, I never figured them out. Driving
seemed aggressive, and the constant hooting was deafening. Everyone did their
own thing and, amazingly, there were hardly any accidents. It was incredible in
a slightly terrifying way.
Syria
was also home to countless three-wheel pickups that carried everything from
people to building rubble. It was often easy to keep up with them or even
overtake them on the bike, much to the delight of the children in the back.
Latakia
deserved a full day of exploration. The site has been inhabited since the 2nd
millennium BC, although the city itself was founded in the 4th century BC under
the Seleucid Empire. Eventually, Pompey deemed the Seleucids too troublesome
and turned Syria into a Roman province. Between the 8th and 10th centuries CE.
Latakia was ruled by the Romans, then the Umayyads and the Abbasids. You’d
think that was enough history for any city, but Latakia wasn’t done. After
World War I, it was assigned to France and was not reintegrated into Syria
until 1944. Eish! Strangely, not much of its turbulent past remained except a
Triumphal Arch and the ruins of the Temple of Bacchus.
27
September – Latakia – Tartus – 85 kilometres
I
woke to brilliant weather and was eager to get going. The ride hugged the
coastline until I reached Tartus, further south along the Mediterranean.
Unfortunately, my body decided to declare war on me. I broke out in itchy lumps
and bumps that worsened as the day wore on.
Hot,
irritated and exhausted, I checked into an overpriced chalet only to discover
it was infested with creepy crawlies. It was one of those days when I felt
deeply sorry for myself.
Despite
being on the coast, the shoreline was filthy and strewn with rubbish. I decided
against swimming, not just because of the garbage but also out of respect for
conservative Syrian norms around women’s dress.
28
September – Tartus
The
following morning, I woke with a swollen eye and even more itchy
bites—something I hadn't thought possible. In no mood for serious sightseeing,
I still forced myself to wander around the historical centre within the
Crusader-era Templar fortress walls. Few of the old buildings remained, but
there were still a handful of interesting corners.
The
lack of tourists made me stand out like a sore thumb. Not in the mood to be
stared at, I soon scurried back to my room.
29
September – Tartus – Homs – 110 kilometres
The
next morning my route continued to Homs along a busy highway, and I arrived
relatively early thanks to a good tailwind. Still, I couldn’t make head or tail
of the traffic. Even at red lights, no one stopped; traffic police had to step
in to tame the madness.
That
evening, I took a taxi to a recommended restaurant. Things took a bizarre turn
when the taxi driver stayed and joined me for the meal. He spoke no English,
which made for an awkward dinner. I wasn’t sure if I was expected to pay for
his food or if this was simply Syrian hospitality. Whatever the custom, I
would’ve been far more comfortable eating alone.
30
September – Homs
As
little of Homs had been seen the previous day, I stayed on for another day. I
wandered through the ancient markets, ate cloyingly sweet pastries, and drank
tiny cups of strong coffee.
The
heat was sweltering. I couldn’t help wondering how the women coped, covered
head to toe in black. The men looked marginally better off in their long white
robes. The city was a jumble of noise and colour: constant hooting, crowded
streets, and the frequent, echoing calls to prayer from numerous mosques.
1
October – Homs – Damascus – 80 kilometres
The
scenery changed abruptly as the route swung inland from Homs to Damascus.
Suddenly, there was nothing but desert. The olive trees, pomegranates and figs
vanished, replaced by a vast expanse of barren land.
A
ferocious wind picked up, and visibility dropped to just a few metres in a
grey-yellow haze. I pushed on stubbornly but knew I wouldn’t get far in those
conditions. With my head down to keep the sand out of my eyes, I barely saw the
van parked by the roadside.
A
kind French couple had stopped to offer me a lift to Damascus. I tried to
resist, but the temptation was too great. I accepted, and in no time, we were
rolling into Damascus. They parked their van in the backyard of St Paul’s
convent, and I pitched my tent in the convent’s herb garden—trying not to
flatten the parsley.
2–6
October – Damascus
I
woke early to the sound of the gardener watering the herb beds. After waving
goodbye to my French saviours, I headed into the city centre through
life-threatening traffic.
The
inexpensive room I found needed a good scrub before I could settle in and wait
for my sister Amanda, who was flying in for a holiday. We planned to use public
transport to explore Syria and Jordan.
Then
I got a nasty surprise. My passport was practically full. On inquiry, I
discovered it wasn’t possible to order a new one in Syria, Jordan or
neighbouring Lebanon. I’d stared myself blind at the expiry date and never
considered how many blank pages were left.
That
left me with little choice but to return to South Africa, get a new passport,
and hope to continue my journey as soon as possible—an expensive and sobering
lesson.
7
October – Damascus - Amanda arrived in the afternoon and almost immediately we
set off for the old part of town, a tangle of narrow, cobbled pedestrian lanes.
As the world's oldest continuously inhabited city, Damascus oozed history:
ancient markets, beautiful mosques at every turn, and centuries of stories
layered in stone. The markets were utterly fascinating—and the traffic utterly
horrendous. Crossing a street was only possible if you joined others and
advanced as one solid human wall.
8
October – Maalula - After breakfast, we hailed a taxi to the Shrine of Saida
Zeinab, ten kilometres from Damascus and said to house the grave of Muhammad’s
granddaughter. From there, a minibus carried us to the cliff-hugging village of
Maalula, roughly 56 kilometres from Damascus, where houses seemed to cling to
the rock by sheer will.
Maalula
was one of the very few places where Aramaic was still spoken—the language
Jesus Christ presumably spoke—and hearing its lilting sounds in the streets
felt like eavesdropping on history.
It
didn’t take long to fall into Syria’s rhythm of life, where almost nothing
opened before ten. Breakfast often stretched to midday. Shops closed between
four and six, then came back to life and stayed open late, which suited my dear
sister’s night-owl tendencies perfectly. Unsurprisingly, it was late by the
time we finally turned in.
9–10
October – Damascus to Aleppo An early-morning bus carried us north to Aleppo, a
city with records of habitation dating back to 5,000 BC. I was eager to show
Amanda the covered souqs in the old walled city, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Said to be the world's largest covered market, it was a maze of hundreds of
long, narrow alleys running some thirteen kilometres, all crammed with people
and goods.
At
its core lay the Al-Madina Souq, the city’s beating heart. Here, stalls
overflowed with spices, traditional sweets, shimmering textiles, carpets, and
the famous Aleppo soap made from olive oil. For the people of Aleppo, the souqs
were far more than places of trade: they were living salons, where friends
gathered to smoke, sip tea, and exchange gossip.
We
wandered around the old citadel, whose origins stretch back to the 3rd
millennium BC. Rising in the centre of the city, the Citadel of Aleppo offered
sweeping views over the old town, whose history reaches to at least the 10th
century BC. Standing atop its walls, it was easy to feel that time in Aleppo
moved in layers rather than in straight lines.
11 October – Aleppo to Hama
Off the bicycles and onto faster wheels, we left
Aleppo behind and headed for Hama. As soon as we arrived, we didn’t waste a
second: straight into a taxi and off to Krak des Chevaliers.
Krak des Chevaliers, first occupied by Kurdish troops
in the 11th century, is often described as the best-preserved medieval castle
in the world. Standing on its hilltop, it truly felt like a fortress from a
different age. After wandering its walls and snatching a few photos, we made
our way back to Hama.
There was still enough daylight left to hunt down
Hama’s claim to fame: the world‑famous medieval water wheels, or norias. These
are the oldest surviving water wheels from the medieval Islamic period. Only
six remain along the Orontes River, and, amazingly, they were still in working
condition, slowly groaning and turning as they had for centuries.
12–14 October – Hama to Palmyra
By morning we were ready to roll again, this time by
bus to the oasis town of Palmyra—an ancient city founded in the 3rd millennium
BC. Palmyra is best known as the city of Queen Zenobia and for the ruins of the
legendary “Pink City”, once one of the most important cultural centres of the
ancient world.
In its heyday, Palmyra was a wealthy caravan oasis,
perfectly placed on the trade routes between Persia, India and China. One of
its most striking features was a colonnaded street stretching an impressive
1,100 metres. When we visited, the ruins still rose proudly from the Syrian
desert, revealing remnants of old roads and the great temple of BaΚΎel, considered
one of the most significant religious buildings of the 1st century AD.
It was in Palmyra that we befriended a local chap who
invited us to visit his family in the desert. The only way there was by camel,
so we hastily packed our bags and soon found ourselves swaying across the vast
desert, rocking back and forth on our mounts. The journey took the better part
of the day, and by the time we reached the Bedouin camp that afternoon, our
backsides were more than a little tender.
Although fascinating, the visit came with a fair bit
of awkwardness. Hardly anyone spoke a word of English, and we didn’t speak
Arabic. None of us really knew what to do, so Amanda and I simply sat there
smiling at them, and they smiled right back at us. Even without understanding
the language, it was clear that we were the topic of conversation—especially
when an offer of a few camels for us was jokingly floated. It couldn’t have
been many camels; by then we were well past the age of attracting any serious
offers!
Towards evening, we accompanied the family to a nearby
waterhole to water the camels. On our way back, a khamsin—a sand‑bearing
wind—rose on the horizon. We watched as a solid wall of dust advanced towards
us, slowly swallowing the landscape. By the time it reached us, the sky had
darkened and visibility had dropped to just a few hundred metres.
Back at camp, I was surprised by how insulated the
tents were from the storm. Inside, they were beautifully decorated, with woven
carpets covering both the walls and the floors. Amanda and I were seated with
the men in the main tent, while the women—faces adorned with traditional
tattoos—lived and cooked in separate, smaller tents. This arrangement made me
feel deeply uncomfortable. Once the food was ready, the women brought it in on
large trays. Following tradition, the men ate first; only afterwards would the
women eat whatever remained. Another awkward moment.
We were served rice topped with a chicken thigh. As a
vegetarian, I didn’t want to cause offence, so I closed my eyes and quickly
swallowed the chicken, barely chewing. Unfortunately, my hosts interpreted this
as a sign of great hunger. To my horror, a second generous portion appeared in
front of me almost immediately!
The next morning, the camels carried us back to
Palmyra—our backsides once again reminding us that we were not natural-born
camel riders. Still, it was a truly unforgettable experience.
There was just enough time to do a bit of last‑minute shopping before we boarded a bus once more, this time bound for Amman, Jordan—another ancient land with a long and endlessly fascinating history.
Five
months later, sporting a new passport, I returned to Syria, this time cycling north
from Sudan to Turkey, accompanied by Ernest Markwood.
