Journey to a Desert Monastery
Trip Start
Jan 06, 2006
1
27
120
Trip End
Sep 02, 2008
Mar Musa,
Syria
Sunday, February 26, 2006
After more than a milenia of habitation, the monastery was abandoned in the 1830s. Twenty three years ago, it was rediscovered by an Italian Priest. With some restoration, it was reopened as a monastery for both men and women. Travellers may now stay there, as long as they do a bit of work.
Mabs and I just wanted to see the place. It took a while to get there: it seems like Damascus has a bus station for every destination on the map! We found a bus but we were dragged off of it and into a service taxi by a tout who had clout over everyone else. Our passports were being checked, as usual. He saw them, and he seemed to know where we would be going. He grabbed the passports and we followed them onto another minibus. Free will is not encouraged in a Syrian bus station, but at the same time this was probably for the better.
While riding to the [nearest city] to Mar Musa, we met Haroun.* This kindly man's family occupied the rest of the minibus. We struck up a conversation and I learned about his life. Every few weeks he takes his extended family to spend a couple of days in Damascus. He invited us over to his house for tea, and since it was relatively early, by the time we arrived in the [nearest city] we took him up on his offer. Since his family occupied the rest of the minibus, it was easy because it stopped right at his front door.
His house was surprisingly large. Haroun took us into a few sitting rooms, both without Western furniture, but lavisly done up with cushions on the floor by the wall and lush carpets on the floors. Of course the ceiling was beautifully painted. In the middle of the room was a kerosene stove. He pulled out an atlas so we could show him where we were from. Just before the tea was ready, he took us to another room where he pulled out some dictionaries and we could watch BBC world on satelite while he looked through the books.
His English was excellent compared to every other Syrian whom I met. It turned out that he was educated as a lawyer in Damascus, and he had further education in Kuwait (Around this time he learned English). He had to look up the word for his current profession, something that sounded like "sa-carry." His old dictionary turned out the word "tinman" and I realised that he must have meant "plumber."
I asked him why he quit law. He had to look up the next word, "bribes" (!). Upon further explaination, we found out that he wasn't disbarred, but he was frustrated by the corruption of the judicial system. But that never darkened his perspective on life, it seems. Haroun was such a grand chap. After having a second glass of tea and some oranges, it was time to go, and he got us a taxi driver too.
The drive to Mar Musa was about 20 minutes of desert driving, both in setting and sound. But I would take the desolate desert over the (artistic) emptiness of Britney Spear's latest. Our driver was a modern Syrian** with a car that I would consider the Syrian equivalent to a rice box. I don't think they can get all the parts that they would like to have!
We had to dodge a few military trucks along the way, but more than anything else the utter bleakness of the desert was what I found the most concerning. I say concerning, because the place was so bleak that if a person, such as myself, was left out there for even a short period of time, that person could only expect the worst. It would be like trying to surive on Mars! The scenery was all brown rock and dust, and there was nothing living within sight save the passengers on the road. There was a lot of dust in the air, limiting visibility to about one kilometer. The sun was bright despite the dust. I had never seen desert like this before.
We parked at the foot of Mar Musa, which was a further 25 minute hike up a restored stone stair. A huff, a puff, and a dwarf sized door later, we found ourselves looking off the terrace of the Monastery. The inhabitants were finishing lunch, and some were enjoying a great giggle at our arrival. A dozen Syrians in their early adult years were making merry at one table and Mabs and I looked at each other. We both had an expression that said, "this is not what I expected." There were a few monks, to be sure, in long habits with old-growth beards and caps. I suppose that I should have not been so surprised, but we found out quickly that there wasn't very much to do at the monastery, apart from sit and pray. That's how monks live, and these ones are out in the middle of no where precisely because that's all they want to do. We spent the afternoon sitting on a terrace staring out into the dusty desert expanse, before driving back to the nearby town and Damascus.
Following the visit to Mar Musa eight of us went out to a really classy Damascus joint in the Christian Quarter of the old city. Alex met a Frenchman studying in Beirut named Thomas (Toma), who has connections in Damascus. Thomas and a Syrian friend of his whom I shall call Lemon (I say Lemon because I didn't catch her real name and that was as much of it as I heard). In fact, we had a whole seven degrees of separation in attendance that evening: Lemon knew Thomas, who knew Alex, who knew Arnika, who knew me, who knew Phil, who knew Rob, who knew Mabs. I think that's a phenomenon that can only happen while traveling! We ate too much, and drank too much to celebrate that and Alex's birthday. He turned 23. Felitications, vieux ami!
*Haroun isn't his real name, Au cas ou someone in Syria reads this and he gets in hot water (and not because he spills water from a boiler while fixing it).
** When I write modern Syrian, I mean one who has adopted Western style (in clothing) and taste (in music, etc). Obviously once again my use of semantics has given me away as a narrow-minded lout.
