Breakfast on the balcony was competing with cartoons for Tim so he didn't eat much and was not happy about the thought of a 3 km walk up several hundred feet to Krac de Chevalier so there was a bit of negotiating and posturing going on but the breakfast was good – pizza-like savouries rather than the ubiquitous olive. Tim was genuinely tired and it was a long walk but Matthew did the normal big brother things that make a little brother laugh and forget their tiredness for a while.
This was our first experience of a spring time for a year. The river was as depressing as the Barada in Damascus (except it had less water than the Barada and more rubbish) but walking up the hillside was a joy. The olive groves were rich, clean and green, brimming with spring flowers. The contrast between the beautifully tended terraces and the ugly, litter strewn villages couldn't be greater. It is extraordinary how a culture that can farm these steep hillsides for over a millenium and create a beautiful landscape in the process is unable to create beautiful towns and villages where nature is embraced.
On the 3 km walk we had people stop twice to offer us a lift – typical of the Syrian hospitality. The second one was very near the top but we had the steepest and hardest to navigate bit coming up so we we accepted, squeezing the four of us into the back of the car. The driver told us about himself and his family in tentative, slightly rusty English, helped by Matthew’s Arabic. They were Christians (as were most people in the area) but the village around Krac de Chevalier was Moslem, having arrived with the Moslem occupation of the castle. He spoke about the events of history as if the present extended back a thousand years and talked of an uncle who had been a mason on the original castle as if he dimly remembered him from a medieval childhood. For communities as transient as those in the west, such roots take some getting your head round. Only been here five centuries? No wonder you’re not properly accepted as a local...
When he dropped us off by Krac de Chevalier we had some time to wait for the service to Homs. The plan was to take the minibus to Homs then catch a coach from there to Palmyra. We went into the café while a local worthy complete with Arab costume and crutches acted as an unofficial lookout for us. The service arrived (and we were duly informed by our spy) but the driver was vague about when he might leave...they like a full complement of passengers because it pays more. He offered us a special rate to leave straight away - a rate that would fall if we picked up extra passengers en-route. We were anxious to get going (and by English standards it was still extremely cheap) so we had a personal service with the comfort of space and the convenience of toilet or photograph stops whenever we wanted.
After 20 minutes driving and chatting with Matthew he offered us another rate for the full journey past Homs to our final destination at Palmyra. He was one of the safest drivers we had experienced and the thought of a comfortable unstressed journey was too appealing to be able to resist. Consequently we arrived in Palmyra in very good time feeling quite refreshed. This was just as well really because it is not the sort of place it is easy to relax in. This was the one place in the whole of Syria where I felt hassled and pressurised. We paid to go in the museum and I made the mistake of letting one of the museum staff talk to me about an exhibit I was looking at. He stuck to me like a limpet, describing each of the exhibits then taking me on to the next, even when I didn’t want to go. It was only when we left the museum and Matthew said ‘What are you going to pay him?’ that I realised he was standing with his hand outstretched and a pleading look in his eye. I had assumed I was humouring an over-zealous curator rather than employing a guide; I was wrong. But the pestering was only beginning.
Even Matthew who is so accomplished at dealing with such things ended up giving away spare pastries from breakfast and attracting an animated queue of potential beneficiaries. One of the guys insisted on having us all go round for tea to meet his family. I heard the argument raging in Arabic and assumed it was to do with pressurising us for a camel ride. I suggested to Terry that we just walk away because at least it gave Matthew the chance to say -''I have to follow my parents". When I later found they were responding to the gift of food by offering hospitality I felt ashamed of my clumsy western cynicism...but not entirely. Had Matthew been on his own I suspect he would have risked the adventure but with an entourage of non-arabic speaking parents and a tired little brother to protect he could foresee awkwardness at best and exploitation at worst. The sun was setting, the tourists were leaving and Matthew at last was able to wrestle himself from the hospitality offers.
The others went back to the hotel but I stayed out longer, wanting to get more photos. The ruins at Palmyra are unbelievable in scale and extent so it was not difficult to avoid the few remaining vendors. I thought I had succeeded and was setting up a long exposure shot to catch the moon rising over the ruins when I heard a familiar phrase "Hello. Welcome to Syria". In Damascus those words can be taken at face value and we were often blessed by their sincerity but in Palmyra they were a bad omen and presaged an argument guaranteed to make you feel mean and despicable for not purchasing something you neither wanted nor needed.
Meeting Hanni out in the ruins was an unsettling experience for many reasons. A young guy - probably the age of my older sons - he spoke good English and was riding a beautifully adorned camel. He claimed to speak seven languages, all picked up from the tourists. Whether this was true or not I don't know but it was evident there was a keen and shrewd intelligence here. He got down off his camel and sat on the ground while I phoned Matthew (at Hanni's insistence) to see if a sunrise camel ride featured in tomorrow's plans. It didn't. Hanni reluctantly accepted this and continued sitting on the sand as I asked him about his languages, his camel and his family.
I admire intelligence and having the opportunity for an authentic conversation with a bright young local was appealing until I realised he wasn't interested in a meeting of minds, only a parting of money. "I have 10 dollars" he said, "but I cannot get to the bank to change them to Syrian pounds because I cannot leave the camel. You can give me 600 Syrian pounds and I will give you the 10 dollars". I knew little about the exchange rates but it was clear this transaction was designed to benefit one person only. We had limited Syrian currency anyway but more to the point, I had no intention of getting out my wallet in front of a complete stranger in the middle of the now deserted ruins.
"I have no money with me, my son has the money back at the hotel" I said. He was unconvinced and I hated myself for lying. "Which hotel are you staying in" he asked. I said I couldn't remember the name because my son had done all the booking (and I had no intention of trying to remember either). His tone was becoming more annoyed the more he realised I had no intention of parting with money. He complained that I was unwilling to help him and then offered me a camel ride back across the ruins to the town. I wanted to walk (after all I was only out in the ruins to take photos, not ride camels) but he insisted he could take me directly to the hotel for only 200 sp. I reminded him I had no money and he reminded me that my son had money at the hotel so I could pay when we got there. At last I realised that a polite and friendly end to this conversation was slipping out of my grasp and I just needed to get up and go. He offered a camel ride for the family tomorrow – what time did I want to meet him. I said I didn’t know since it was my son planning tomorrow’s activities but promised that if Tim wanted another camel ride I’d look for Hanni and give him first refusal. At last he left me alone, muttering something incomprehensible which might have been aimed at the camel or me.
I was disturbed by the meeting. It was unadulterated scheming under the guise of friendliness and that annoyed me but I also felt annoyed at myself for resorting to barefaced lies in terms of whether I had money on me or not. Speaking to Matthew about it afterwards was somewhat reassuring. He had no scruples about it. ‘The guy was completely out of order. He was pestering you and trying to make you feel guilty. Don’t’. It was good advice but I still couldn’t help wondering what I’d be like if I lived on very limited means and my income depended on persuading people much richer than me to part with their money.
For Tim the highlights of Palmyra were the camel ride and the ants. While we were looking round the hugely over-rated Temple of Bel, Tim had a wonderful time building an ant enclosure for a group of foraging ants then watching them as they dragged odd bits of grass and seeds down underground. But another highlight was about to come..
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