16 SYRIA
548 Km – 9 Days
11
March – 20 March 2008
MAP
PHOTOS
SYRIA (2)
11–13 March – Syrian border – 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.
We rolled into Damascus around four o’clock, pleasantly wind‑assisted and only mildly sun‑baked. I was excited — genuinely 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.
14 March – Damascus – 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 — preferably not in a ditch.
15–16 March – Roadside restaurant – 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 had once housed up to 2,000 people, though only about 60 of them were actual knights. The rest were support staff — medieval logistics, essentially. We spent hours wandering through the fortress, marvelling at its scale and imagining the lives of the people who once lived there.
17 March – Homs – 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.
18–19 March – Hama – Aleppo – 144 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.
20 March – Aleppo, Syria – 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 Turkish stay without delay, without fuss, and without any of the bureaucratic drama I had come to expect from 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.
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