Between Sand and Citadels
10 SYRIA (1)
570
Kilometres – 23 Days
22
September – 14 October 2007
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.
SYRIA
(1)
22–23 September – Atakia, Turkey –
Aleppo, Syria (110 km)
Leaving Atakia, Turkey, I pedalled
toward the Syrian border with the kind of optimism that only comes from not
fully understanding the situation. I had absolutely no idea whether visas were
issued on arrival — a detail most sensible travellers would have checked before
cycling toward a new country. But there I was, rolling toward the unknown,
rehearsing my most innocent smile and hoping it would translate across cultural
and bureaucratic boundaries.
Just as I was preparing myself for the
possibility of sleeping at the border like a stray cat with panniers, the
universe intervened. Four motorbike riders appeared — the rugged, dust‑covered,
overland‑to‑South‑Africa type who look like they’ve survived at least three
deserts, two corrupt checkpoints, and a questionable kebab. They introduced me
to Ahmed, a tour guide who seemed to possess supernatural administrative
powers.
Ahmed took one look at me — sweaty,
hopeful, clutching my passport like a toddler holding a favourite toy — and
immediately adopted me. He guided me through the forms with saintly patience,
nodding kindly as I fumbled through basic questions. Then, in true mystical‑guide
fashion, he vanished. Not suspiciously — more like a man who had other
bureaucratic fires to put out.
Three hours later, he reappeared with
my visa as casually as if he’d just fetched a loaf of bread. I could hardly
believe it. Three hours! That’s practically warp speed in visa time. I’ve
waited longer for toast. I thanked him profusely, thanked the motorbike riders,
thanked every deity I could think of, and cycled into Syria before anyone could
change their mind.
My first thought upon entering was: What have I done?
Everything was different — the culture, the language, the landscape, the food,
the architecture. Even the air felt ancient, as if it had been circulating
since the dawn of civilisation. Syria wasn’t just a conservative Muslim desert
country; it was one of the oldest inhabited regions on earth. Archaeological
finds date back 700,000 years, which is roughly how long the traffic jams feel.
The day’s cycling was uneventful in
the way that only long stretches of cotton fields and quiet villages can be.
Each community had the same comforting trio: a mosque, a market, and modest
courtyard homes that looked plain from the outside but were apparently palatial
inside. I loved the idea so much I swore I’d build a courtyard home someday —
preferably without Syrian traffic outside.
Speaking of traffic: biking into
Aleppo at 18h00 during Ramadan was like entering a video game set to
“Impossible Mode.” Thousands of hungry drivers were racing home, and as a woman
on a bicycle, I was somewhere below “stray goat” on the traffic hierarchy. Then
the heavens opened, the streets flooded instantly, and I rode straight into a
drain cover that tried to claim part of my anatomy I may have a use for in the futher.
Miraculously, I survived and found a
reasonably priced hotel called — appropriately — the Hotel Tourist. Achmad from
the hotel took pity on me and offered to show me around. Bless him.
The next day I explored the citadel,
market, and museum, then got lost in the labyrinth of identical alleys. By
evening, Achmad accompanied me again, and we ended up in a typical Syrian
eatery. Syrians, I discovered, are some of the friendliest people on earth —
endlessly curious, endlessly kind, and endlessly amused by a lone woman on a
bicycle.
24
September – Aleppo – Idlib (66 km)
I
left Aleppo feeling rather pleased with myself for having survived the traffic,
the flooding, and the drain‑cover incident that nearly ended my future romantic
prospects. As I was wheeling my bike out the door, Achmad — sweet, earnest
Achmad — presented me with a watch. A whole watch. I stood there blinking at
it, unsure whether this was a cultural gesture, a personal gesture, or a
“please don’t get lost again” gesture. Whatever it was, I thanked him
profusely, strapped it on, and pedalled away feeling both touched and slightly
bewildered.
My
first full day of cycling in Syria was a 60‑kilometre battle straight into a
headwind that clearly had unresolved emotional issues. It pushed against me
with the determination of someone trying to prevent a bad decision. The
landscape rolled by in shades of dusty beige and muted green, and every now and
then a passing driver would slow down to stare at me as if I were a
hallucination brought on by dehydration. An unaccompanied woman… on a bicycle…
in Syria. It was as if I’d broken several laws of physics simultaneously.
By
the time I reached Idlib, I was sun‑baked, wind‑whipped, and ready to collapse
into any accommodation that didn’t involve livestock. I asked around for a
place to stay, and in the process met Ahmad — yes, another Ahmad. Syria is full
of them, and they are all delightful. This Ahmad invited me to stay with him
and his wife, Somod. Before I could even protest, I was ushered into an entire
apartment that they insisted I take for myself. I felt like royalty, albeit a
sweaty, wind‑blown version.
That
evening, I was invited to supper with Ahmad, his wife, his brother, and sister‑in‑law.
They sat on a mat and ate with their fingers, and I joined them, trying my best
to mimic their graceful movements. They laughed kindly as I fumbled, dropping
bits of food like a toddler learning fine motor skills. Despite Ramadan, Somod
had prepared a feast — fragrant dishes, warm bread, and flavours that made me
want to weep with gratitude. Ahmad was the only one who spoke English, but somehow,
we all communicated, laughing, gesturing, and sharing food in a way that
transcended language entirely.
When
I finally returned to my room, I was full, humbled, and deeply grateful for the
kind of hospitality that makes you question whether you’ve ever been truly
generous in your life.
25
September – Idlib – Latakia (130 km)
The
next morning, I set off on a 130‑kilometre ride toward Latakia — a distance
that sounded manageable until I remembered the mountain range standing between
me and the coast. The road wound up and over the hills, and the headwind
returned with a vengeance, as if it had been waiting for me. I pedalled slowly,
stubbornly, and with the grim determination of someone who refuses to admit
she’s made a terrible route choice.
The
people I encountered along the way were endlessly accommodating. They waved,
smiled, and offered food and drink with such insistence that I began to worry
I’d never make it to Latakia because I’d be too full to move. Asking for
directions, however, was a challenge. Most people couldn’t read English maps,
and my Arabic consisted of “hello,” “thank you,” and “please don’t run me
over.” Still, they tried. They pointed, gestured, argued among themselves, and
eventually sent me off in what was hopefully the right direction.
For
most of the day, Syrians simply stared at me, mouths agape. I could almost hear
their thoughts: Is she lost? Is she mad? Does she know where she is? To be
fair, I wasn’t entirely sure of the answers myself.
By
late afternoon, I rolled into Latakia, exhausted but triumphant. The traffic
was as chaotic as ever, but the sight of the Mediterranean lifted my spirits.
I’d made it — wind‑burned, sun‑scorched, and slightly delirious, but I’d made
it.
26
September – Latakia
Latakia
deserved a day of exploration, and I set out eagerly, though cautiously,
because Syrian traffic is not for the faint‑hearted. There seemed to be no
rules whatsoever. Drivers hooted constantly — not out of anger, but seemingly
out of habit, boredom, or perhaps as a form of echolocation. Everyone did
whatever they pleased, and yet, miraculously, there were no accidents. It was
like watching a flock of birds move in perfect chaotic harmony, except the
birds were cars, trucks, and three‑wheel pickups carrying everything from
people to building rubble.
Those
three‑wheelers were my favourite. They chugged along so slowly that I could
easily overtake them, much to the delight of the children riding in the back.
They would cheer, wave, and shout encouragement as if I were competing in the
Tour de France.
Latakia
itself was steeped in history — Seleucids, Romans, Umayyads, Abbasids, the
French — everyone had taken a turn ruling it. You’d think a city with such a
dramatic past would be overflowing with ruins, but strangely, only a Triumphal
Arch and the remains of the Temple of Bacchus had survived. The rest had been
swallowed by time, war, and modern development. Still, the city had a charm
that made up for its lack of ancient monuments.
27
September – Latakia – Tartus (85 km)
I
woke to brilliant weather — the kind of sunshine that tricks you into believing
the day will go smoothly. I set off along the coast toward Tartus, enjoying the
sea breeze and the gentle roll of the road. For a few blissful hours,
everything was perfect. Birds chirped, the Mediterranean sparkled, and I felt
like the heroine of a travel documentary.
Then
the itching began.
At
first, it was a polite little itch. A whisper of irritation. Then it escalated
into a full‑scale assault. By midday, I was covered in lumps and bumps,
scratching like a flea‑ridden street dog. I tried to ignore it, but the itching
had ambitions. It wanted to be noticed. It wanted to be the main character.
By
the time I reached Tartus, I was hot, tired, itchy, and dangerously close to
tears. I checked into an overpriced chalet, hoping for relief, only to discover
the place was infested with creepy crawlies. Actual, visible, scuttling
creatures. I stood there, staring at them, thinking: Of course. Of course this
is happening. Why wouldn’t it?
I
briefly considered sleeping on the beach, but the coastline was so filthy —
littered with plastic, bottles, and unidentifiable objects — that even my
itchy, exhausted self had standards. Besides, I didn’t want to scandalise the
conservative locals by accidentally exposing an elbow or, heaven forbid, an
ankle while swimming.
It
was one of those days where you feel profoundly sorry for yourself, and the
universe doesn’t even bother pretending it cares.
28
September – Tartus
I
woke the next morning with a swollen eye and even itchier bites — a combination
that made me look like I’d lost a bar fight with a mosquito gang. I was in no
mood to explore, but I forced myself out, determined not to let Tartus defeat
me entirely.
The
historical centre, tucked inside the old Crusader‑era Templar fortress walls,
was interesting enough, though surprisingly little of its medieval past remained. A few old buildings clung on, stubborn and weathered, but the rest had
been swallowed by modern life. I wandered around, trying to appreciate the
history, but the constant staring made me feel like a walking billboard. There
were so few tourists that I stuck out like a neon sign, and in my itchy,
swollen state, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for attention.
I
retreated to my room, scratched miserably, and contemplated the life choices
that had led me here.
29
September – Tartus – Homs (110 km)
The
next morning, I set off toward Homs along a busy highway. Thankfully, a
tailwind pushed me along, and I made good time. The traffic, however, remained
a mystery. Red lights seemed to be decorative suggestions rather than rules,
and traffic police had to physically intervene to prevent total chaos. I
watched them with admiration — they were like conductors of a very loud, very
unpredictable orchestra.
Later
that evening, I took a taxi to a recommended restaurant. The taxi driver, for
reasons known only to him, decided to stay and join me for the meal. He spoke
no English, and I spoke no Arabic, so we sat there in awkward silence, eating
together like two strangers on the world’s most uncomfortable blind date. I
wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to buy him dinner, or whether he was
supposed to buy mine, or whether we were simply trapped in a cultural
misunderstanding with no escape route. Whatever the custom, I would have been
far more comfortable eating alone.
30
September – Homs
Since
I’d seen almost nothing of Homs the previous day, I dedicated the next one to
exploring. I wandered through the ancient markets, sampling pastries so sweet
they could have powered a small city, and drank tiny cups of strong coffee that
made my heart race like I’d been plugged into a generator.
It
was sweltering hot, and I marvelled at how the women managed to stay fully
covered in black. The men, at least, had the advantage of long white robes that
looked marginally more breathable. The city was a jumble of noise and colour —
hooting cars, bustling markets, and the melodic call to prayer echoing from
numerous mosques. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly fascinating.
1
October – Homs – Damascus (80 km)
The
scenery changed abruptly as I left Homs and headed inland toward Damascus. One
moment I was surrounded by olive trees, pomegranates, and figs — the next, I
was cycling through a vast, empty desert that looked like it had been designed
by someone with a limited colour palette and a strong dislike for vegetation.
The wind picked up, turning into a ferocious, sand‑flinging beast that reduced
visibility to a few metres. Everything was coated in a grey‑yellow haze,
including me.
I
battled onward, head down, trying to keep the sand out of my eyes and my
dignity intact. I was so focused on not being sandblasted into oblivion that I
barely noticed the van parked beside the road. A sweet French couple waved me
over and offered me a lift to Damascus. Normally, I would have politely
declined, determined to cycle every inch of the journey. But this was not a
normal day. This was a “take the lift or die trying” day. I accepted
immediately, grateful beyond words.
They
drove me straight to Damascus and parked their van in the backyard of St Paul’s
convent. I pitched my tent in the herb garden, hoping I wasn’t flattening
anything sacred or culinary. Parsley, basil, divine intervention — who knows
what I was sleeping on.
2–6
October – Damascus
I
woke early the next morning to the sound of the gardener watering the garden —
including, nearly, my tent. I waved goodbye to my French rescuers and set off
into Damascus traffic, which was every bit as life‑threatening as I remembered.
I found an inexpensive hotel, cleaned it to a habitable level, and
settled in to wait for my sister Amanda, who was flying in for a holiday.
While
waiting, I made a horrifying discovery: my passport was practically full. I had
stared at the expiry date for months, feeling smug about how much time I had
left, and never once considered the number of remaining pages. Rookie mistake.
I learned that I couldn’t order a new passport in Syria, Jordan, or even nearby
Lebanon. My only option was to return to South Africa, get a new one, and hope
I could resume my journey without losing momentum — or my sanity. It was a
costly lesson, and I mentally kicked myself for not checking sooner.
7
October – Damascus
Amanda
arrived in the afternoon, and we immediately set out to explore the old part of
town. Damascus, being the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world,
wears its history like a layered robe — ancient markets, beautiful mosques,
narrow cobbled lanes, and a sense of timelessness that makes you feel both
insignificant and privileged to witness it.
The
markets were fascinating, full of colour and noise and the smell of spices. The
traffic, however, was a nightmare. Crossing the street required forming a human
wall with other pedestrians and hoping for the best. It was less “crossing” and
more “collective survival strategy.”
8
October – Maalula
After
breakfast the next morning, we took a taxi to the Shrine of Saida Zeinab, said
to contain the grave of Muhammad’s granddaughter. The shrine was beautiful,
serene, and filled with worshippers. From there, we caught a minibus to
Maalula, a historical town where houses cling to the cliffs like stubborn
barnacles. Maalula is one of the few places where Aramaic — the language Jesus
presumably spoke — is still used. Hearing it spoken felt like stepping into a
time machine.
We
quickly adapted to the Syrian lifestyle, where nothing opens before ten,
breakfast lasts until midday, shops close between four and six, and then stay
open late into the night. This schedule suited Amanda perfectly. She thrives in
the late‑morning‑to‑late‑evening window, whereas I tend to operate on the “up
at dawn, asleep by ten” model. Still, travel has a way of bending your habits,
and I found myself adjusting without too much protest.
9–10
October – Damascus – Aleppo
We
caught an early morning bus to Aleppo, a city with historical records dating
back to 5,000 BC. I was excited to show Amanda the covered souqs in the old
walled city — a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the world’s largest covered
market. The souqs stretched for approximately thirteen kilometres, a labyrinth
of narrow alleys packed with people, goods, spices, sweets, textiles, carpets,
and the famous Aleppo soap made from olive oil.
The
Al‑Madina Souq wasn’t just a marketplace; it was the beating heart of the city.
Traders shouted, customers bargained, tea was poured, gossip was exchanged, and
life pulsed through every corner. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly
captivating.
We
also visited the citadel, dating back to the 3rd millennium BC. Perched in the
centre of town, it offered grand views over old Aleppo. Standing there, looking
out over the ancient city, I felt a sense of awe — and also a sense of relief
that I wasn’t currently navigating its traffic on my bicycle.
11
October – Aleppo – Hama
Travelling
without a bicycle felt like cheating, but it was undeniably efficient. Amanda
and I hopped on a bus to Hama, and before we knew it, we were checking into a
hotel and hailing a taxi to Krak des Chevaliers — the kind of castle that makes
every other castle look like it’s not really trying.
Krak
des Chevaliers is the best‑preserved medieval castle in the world, and it knows
it. It sits on its hill like a smug stone giant, radiating the confidence of a
fortress that has survived centuries of sieges, storms, and tourists. First
occupied by Kurdish troops in the 11th century, it later became a Crusader
stronghold, housing up to 2,000 people — infantry, crossbow specialists,
mercenaries, and, according to records, a mere 60 actual knights. Sixty! The
rest were essentially medieval interns.
We
wandered through its vast halls and towering walls, marvelling at the sheer
scale of it. Amanda snapped photos like a woman possessed, while I tried to
imagine what life must have been like here — cold, drafty, and full of men
arguing about whose turn it was to fetch water.
Back
in Hama, we still had time to visit the city’s famous norias — enormous wooden
water wheels dating back to the medieval Islamic period. They creaked and
groaned as they turned, lifting water from the Orontes River with the weary
dignity of ancient machinery that refuses to retire. There were six of them
left, still in working condition, still beautiful in their own rustic way.
Standing beside them, listening to their rhythmic moaning, I felt like I’d
stumbled into a living museum.
12–14
October – Hama – Palmyra
The
next morning, we boarded a bus to Palmyra — the legendary oasis town, once
ruled by Queen Zenobia and home to the ruins of the “Pink City.” Founded in the
3rd millennium BC, Palmyra had been one of the most important cultural centres
of the ancient world, a wealthy caravan stop on the trade route between Persia,
India, and China. Even in ruins, it radiated grandeur.
The
colonnaded street stretched for 1,100 metres, lined with towering pillars that
seemed to glow in the desert light. The Temple of Ba’al rose from the sand like
a memory refusing to fade. It was impossible not to feel small in the presence
of such history — small, and also slightly sunburned.
While
wandering the ruins, we befriended a local man who invited us to visit his
family living in the desert. This is the kind of invitation that sounds both
magical and mildly alarming, but we were swept up in the romance of it all.
Before we knew it, we were packing our belongings and climbing onto camels for
the journey.
If
you’ve never ridden a camel, imagine sitting on a moving bar stool while
someone tilts the floor beneath you. The camels lurched forward with the
enthusiasm of creatures who had absolutely no interest in our comfort. We
rocked across the desert for hours, our backsides slowly losing all feeling. By
the time we reached the Bedouin camp, we were walking like two people who had
recently survived a minor earthquake.
The
camp itself was fascinating — a cluster of tents decorated with woven carpets,
warm and inviting inside despite the harshness of the desert. Communication was
limited to smiling, nodding, and hoping we weren’t accidentally insulting
anyone. At one point, we were fairly certain we received an offer of a few
camels in exchange for ourselves. Not many camels, mind you — we were clearly
past our prime bargaining years — but still, it’s nice to be wanted.
That
evening, we accompanied the family to a waterhole to give the camels a drink.
On the way back, a sand‑bearing wind — a Khamsin — rolled in. We watched it
approach like a wall of dust swallowing the horizon. Within minutes, visibility
dropped to a few hundred metres, and the sky turned the colour of old
parchment. It was dramatic, unsettling, and oddly beautiful.
Back
at camp, we sheltered in the main tent with the men, while the women — adorned
with traditional facial tattoos — cooked in separate tents. This arrangement
made me deeply uncomfortable, but I was a guest, and guests adapt. When the
food arrived, it was served on large trays: rice topped with chicken thighs.
Being vegetarian, I hesitated, but refusing would have been rude. So I closed
my eyes, swallowed the chicken thigh whole, and hoped no one noticed my
internal crisis. Unfortunately, my speed was interpreted as hunger, and I was
promptly given a second portion. I ate that one too, because sometimes survival
requires sacrifice.
The
next morning, the camels returned us to Palmyra. Our backsides protested, but
our hearts were full. It was an unforgettable experience — surreal, awkward,
beautiful, and deeply human.
We
barely had time to shop for souvenirs before catching a bus to Amman, Jordan —
another ancient land with its own stories waiting to be discovered.
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.
