Between Sand and Citadels
Between Sand and Citadels
16 SYRIA (2)
548 Km – 9 Days
11
March – 20 March 2008
MAP
PHOTOS
FLIP-BOOK
PROLOGUE
Syria
arrived first as a whisper on the wind, a name carried across borders like a
rumour of ancient things. A land older than memory, where stones keep their own
counsel and the desert watches without blinking.
I
entered it twice —once with the naïve courage of a woman who believes the road
will always rise to meet her, and once with the quiet resilience of someone who
knows that sometimes the road does not.
Between
those two crossings lay sandstorms and citadels, courtyard homes and chaotic streets,
the laughter of strangers, and the soft, stubborn beating of my own heart as it
learned — again —that the world is far kinder than it appears from a distance.
Return
to the Ancient Road - Syrian border to Damascus (115
kilometres)
Five
months, one new passport, and a great deal of bureaucratic trauma later, I
found myself back at the Syrian border — this time cycling north from Sudan
with Ernest Markwood. After the mountainous terrain of Jordan, Syria’s flat
landscape felt like a gift from the cycling gods. The road stretched ahead in
gentle, forgiving lines, and for once, the weather seemed to be on our side.
Green fields rolled out like a soft carpet, and distant snow-capped mountains
shimmered on the horizon. It was almost enough to make me forget the
sandstorms, drain covers, and itchy Tartus fiasco of my previous visit.
A
City Revisited and a Travel Partner Who Doesn’t Sightsee
We
rolled into Damascus around four o’clock, pleasantly wind-assisted and only
mildly sun-baked. I was genuinely excited — excited to show Ernest around this
remarkable city. After all, I had been here barely six months earlier and had
spent days exploring its ancient streets, its markets, its mosques, its layers
of history. I was ready to be the knowledgeable guide, the seasoned traveller,
the one who says things like, “Ah, yes, this alley — I know it well.”
Unfortunately,
Ernest was not particularly interested in sightseeing. He visited the historic
walled city and the markets, nodded politely, and declared himself done. That
was it. Meanwhile, I was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, wanting to drag
him to every corner of Damascus. Instead, I spent most of my time exploring
alone, revisiting the places that had enchanted me the first time around.
One of
those places was the Umayyad Mosque — the Great Mosque of Damascus — one of the
oldest and largest mosques in the world. I had explored it with Amanda months
earlier, and it had left a deep impression. The mosque was built after the
Muslim conquest of Damascus in 634 CE, on the site of a Christian Basilica
dedicated to John the Baptist. Legend has it that the building contains the
head of John the Baptist, which I still found bizarre. I mean, it’s not every
day you visit a place that casually claims to house the head of a major
religious figure. It’s the kind of detail that sticks with you.
Tailwinds,
Tantrums, and Being Blown into a Ditch - Damascus to Roadside restaurant (74
kilometres)
We
left Damascus with a glorious tailwind pushing us along — the kind of wind that
makes you feel like a cycling champion. But as winds often do, it changed its
mind. The tailwind became a crosswind, and the crosswind became a howling, bike-toppling
menace. At one point, it blew me clean off the road and into a ditch. I climbed
out, dusty and furious, only to be blown off again a short while later. By the
third incident, I lost my temper entirely and shouted abuse at Ernest, who
seemed blissfully unaware of the meteorological violence unfolding around us.
Mercifully,
we found shelter at a roadside restaurant. The owner, a kind man with a
calmness I envied, offered us floor space above the restaurant for the night. I
accepted gratefully, relieved to be out of the wind and off the ground.
A
Feast for Breakfast and Ernest vs. The Stationary Minivan - Roadside Restaurant
to Homs (95 kilometres)
The
next morning dawned calm and clear, as if the wind had simply needed to get
something off its chest. We cycled the 95 kilometres to Homs in relative peace.
At a breakfast stop, a kind Samaritan invited us to join him for a meal. What
began as a simple invitation turned into a feast — hummus, olives, cheese,
pastries, and enough food to fuel a small army. We left with full stomachs and
renewed energy.
That
energy lasted until Ernest rode straight into a stationary minivan. In broad
daylight. On a straight road. Nothing was broken except his ego and the van’s
taillight, but the incident did nothing to boost my confidence in his
observational skills.
We
checked into the Al Naser Hotel in Homs, which was easily the crummiest but
also the cheapest in town. The toilets were filthy, and the paraffin‑heated
shower cost extra — a detail that felt like an insult. Still, it was a roof
over our heads, and after the wind-induced ditch episodes, I wasn’t in a
position to be picky.
The
next day, we took a minivan to Krak des Chevaliers — my second visit in a
matter of months. The castle was as magnificent as ever, its stone walls rising
proudly against the sky. Built for the Emir of Aleppo in 1031 CE, it once
housed up to 2,000 people, though only about 60 were actual knights. The rest
were support staff — essentially medieval logistics. We spent hours wandering
through the fortress, marvelling at its scale and imagining the lives of the
people who once lived there.
Short
Ride, Groaning Norias, Modest Citadels - Homs to Hama (47 kilometres)
The
ride from Homs to Hama was barely 45 kilometres — a welcome change after the
longer stretches of previous days. We arrived with plenty of time to explore
the historic norias once again. Their rhythmic groaning and creaking felt
almost comforting, like old friends complaining about their joints. The
citadel, however, was less impressive — more of a picnic area than a fortress —
but it did offer a decent view of the city.
The
Relentless Ride North and the Comfort of Familiar Chaos - Hama to Aleppo (140 kilometres)
I
didn’t expect to cycle all the way from Hama to Aleppo in one day. Truly, I
didn’t. I had mentally prepared for a leisurely ride, a scenic lunch, perhaps a
nap under a tree — the kind of day where you stop to smell the pomegranates.
But Ernest had a bee in his bonnet. A very determined bee. A bee that had
apparently decided Aleppo was the only acceptable destination for the day, and
that stopping anywhere short of it would be a personal failure.
So
we cycled. And cycled. And cycled.
The
kilometres stretched on like a bad joke, and by late afternoon, I was convinced
we were trapped in some kind of Syrian cycling purgatory. The sun dipped lower,
the traffic grew more chaotic, and still Ernest pushed on, possessed by
whatever mysterious force drives men to do unnecessary things at great speed.
We
finally rolled into Aleppo long past sunset, exhausted, hungry, and coated in a
fine layer of road dust. Fortunately, this was my third visit to Aleppo, and I
knew exactly where to go. There’s a special kind of comfort in arriving in a
foreign city and thinking, Ah yes, I know this chaos. It’s like being reunited
with a dysfunctional but beloved relative.
The
next morning, after a leisurely start and a breakfast that restored my will to
live, we headed to the world-famous souqs. Even after multiple visits, the Al‑Madina
Souq still amazed me. It was a living organism — a labyrinth of long, narrow
alleys, all covered, all bustling, all overflowing with goods and people and
noise. Traders shouted, customers bargained, spices perfumed the air, and the
whole place pulsed with life.
Aleppo
had been at the crossroads of trade routes since the second millennium BC, and
you could feel that history in every stone. The old walled city was a UNESCO
World Heritage Site for good reason. The Citadel of Aleppo, perched proudly in
the centre of town, offered sweeping views over the ancient city. It dated back
to the 10th century BC, and standing atop it, you could almost hear the echoes
of the countless civilisations that had passed through.
Ernest
seemed mildly impressed, which for him was the equivalent of a standing
ovation.
Across
the border and into Turkey - Aleppo, Syria to Reyhanli, Turkey (74 kilometres)
The
next morning, we resumed our ride toward the Syrian-Turkish border. I felt a
familiar flutter of anxiety — the same one I’d felt months earlier when
entering Syria from Turkey. Would visas be issued on arrival? Would we be
turned away? Would we be forced to camp at the border like two confused nomads?
Rumours
suggested that procedures had changed since my last crossing. Rumours, however,
are not known for their reliability. Still, we pedalled on, hopeful and
slightly tense.
To
our immense relief, the rumours were true. We were granted a 30-day stay in
Turkey without delay, without fuss, and without the bureaucratic drama I had
come to expect at border crossings. I could have kissed the immigration
officer, but I restrained myself.
So
delighted were we that we parked off in the nearby border town of Reyhanli,
basking in the sweet, sweet feeling of having successfully crossed yet another
international border without incident. It felt like a small miracle — the kind
you don’t question, just accept with gratitude.
EPILOGUE
I left Syria the way I entered it: wind‑tossed, sun‑creased, and carrying more stories than sense.
The border stamped my passport and released me back into the world, but Syria stayed —in the dust on my panniers, in the echo of the souqs, in the memory of hands offering food before they offered words.
Some places you pass through. Others pass through you.
Syria did both.
