The hostel's shite but the Old City's a delight

Trip Start Feb 22, 2007

Trip End Jul 19, 2008

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Flag of Syria Damascus, Syria
Thursday, March 1, 2007

After five and a half hours of peaceful, first-class comfort, my train rolled in to Damascus in the late evening and my first task was to find a taxi to take me to the hostel where I had reserved a room. After testing out the prices from a couple of drivers, I took the third taxi I came across. After a couple of minutes of friendly banter with the driver, he suddenly made a grab for my crotch whilst laughing at a comment I'd made. "Uhh, what the fuck?", I thought to myself, and promptly told him to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. I would have got out had it not been for the fact that I had no idea where I was. As we drove on he attempted in vain to coax further conversation from me, but I was no longer interested in keeping in the good graces of this corpulent lech. This, however, did not deter further exploration from his wandering hands. I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable and was left to wonder if this was the norm in this strange new city.

After a short while he pulled over the taxi and told me we had arrived

Bab Faradis

. Looking around I saw no sign of mine or any other hostel, and I again reiterated where I wanted to go. He then confessed he didn't know the hostel or where exactly it was, but that he was not willing to go any further. Having been mildly molested and then taken to what I believed to be the wrong place, I was thoroughly unhappy and demanded he take me to the correct place else I would not pay him at all. At this point he himself started to get angry which drew the attention of some nearby shopkeepers. Initially none of them knew where the hostel was either until one young guy told me he knew where it was, that it was not far, and he would take me by foot. In the end I did not pay the taxi driver and my shattered dignity and I went with the kind young man and within a minute we were at the hostel.

As I entered the hostel a sense of relief washed over me as I felt I'd at least reached some form of refuge. The hostel manager, however, after buttering me up with a stiff coffee, soon informed me that he'd double-booked my room and I would have to share the dorm. As there was only one other guy in the dorm and it would only be for one night, I accepted the mild inconvenience and went for a quick lie-down, briefly wandering out later on for a bite to eat.

Tired after another fairly long day of travelling, I was looking forward that first night to a good night's sleep. As I prepared for bed, an old Portuguese man came in, and, after exchanging brief introductions we both went to bed. Across the sizeable room, Portugal was asleep within moments; in no time I was besieged by his almighty and relentless snore, and I knew sleep would be at a premium this night.

The next day I set about an exploration of the city and quickly found myself gravitating towards Old Damascus

hostel

. While not as immediately spellbinding as the architecturally stunning Old Sana'a (my spiritual home), it had its own uniqueness and charm that quickly had me seduced. Its many narrow, cobbled streets were lined on each side by carpet shops and food stalls and juice stands and tea shops where young folk energetically conversed and old men sipped tea and sat gracefully. Above the throng hung old, bowed balconies wherefrom wintered vines grew and connected the buildings from either side of the winding streets; fleeting shards of sunlight penetrated their intricate webs and painted patterns on the ground as I walked. In the centre of the Old City stood serenely the Umayyid Mosque, its old walls and understated stone minarets a stunning focal point to this delightful scene. Nearby stood proudly the remnants of the once-mighty Citadel where now lay in its shadow the vibrant alleyways of the vast Souq al-Hamidiyya.

I spent several hours absorbing these charming surroundings, walking with roused senses and stopping intermittently for tea or juice in the company of garrulous shop owners whose conversation was not married to a sales pitch, but stemmed instead from an innate hospitality.

Back at the hostel, having forgone sleep the night before and spent much of the day walking, I was glad of my own room and the prospect of real sleep. I turned out the lights, closed my eyes and quickly dosed off. Not long after, I was awoken by the sounds of boisterous conversation between the manager and his staff which continued in to the small hours. "Jesus Christ, what do I have to do to get a night's sleep around here", I thought to myself as their orotund voices carried through the picturesque courtyard and in to my room where I lay, without sleep, for a second night silently seething.

That settled it: tomorrow I would begin in earnest my search for permanent accommodation.