[1]

Sharia ath-Thawra was a jumble of shining yellow taxis, fearlessly zipping between moving metal. Their drivers rested weary elbows on horns, hooting, blind to all but their destination. A pedestrian flyover was visible in the distance, beyond a mammoth neon Sony sign, about a ten minute walk away. But Iain and I had slept too late; we had things to see, a city to explore, and so stood, peering onto the street, waiting for a gap. A truck chugged along further down – at a safe speed, it seemed. We took the chance, darted across the road, and began a sprint as one of the faceless yellow vehicles sped toward us, its horn hooting profanities. A leap forward and we were out of its path, balancing on a white line. Cars swished behind and in front of us, displacing bulks of air that slapped you in the face; ‘idiot’ they screamed. I exhaled, stood jelly legged in between the two rows of speeding traffic, and clutched Iain’s hand in terrified futility.

Across the road, vegetables were laid out on pieces of sacking, spread over the bare tarmac. Women sat in front of a few shrivelled vegetables, headscarves hanging over their foreheads as they stared at me, blank. Hundreds of people manned a makeshift market place that curved along the pavements and led to a wider avenue of street sellers. Arranged before them, on tables or the street, were bundles of shoelaces, polyester socks, flimsy plastic toys or seed bars: a handful of meagre items formed their livelihood. Men squeezed lemon juice into yellowed glasses and water was doused onto tired cucumber slices, refreshing their chance of purchase. All around me, people stood or sat, hoping to make a sale, and a living.

Rows of tiny workshops with busy men inside, welding metal, made sparks fly. Then began the rows of butchers, their wares hung outside on hooks: cow carcasses, whole chickens, ballooned intestines, ready to pop. Trades clustered together, juice bars with juice bars, pastry shops with pastry shops, shoe shops with shoe shop; why, I couldn’t fathom. Surely spreading themselves out would surely lessen competition?

We continued through the market, further from the skyscrapers of modern Damascus, feeling more and more conspicuous. My trousers, long Turkish tunic, and modestly tied up hair were not enough to keep the scrutinising looks at bay. I smiled meekly, walking through the sea of Arab faces, and wondered what compelled them to stare, what they were thinking, and what made me so different in their eyes.

Iain fancied that his relatively dark looks – tanned skin, brown hair and eyes – allowed him to pass as a Syrian, despite his height and tattered jeans. But it wasn’t racial characteristics that separated us from the hundreds that we passed: many Syrians’ eyes were as blue as mine. But mine was the only uncovered female head in sight, gliding through a rainbow of headscarves, speckled with black burqa-ed faces. Perhaps the way I walked; self confident, independent – regardless of my sex – oozed immodesty in the eyes of these market people.

Beside the citadel, we found the entrance to the Souq al-Hamidiyya, the city’s main bazaar. Built in the 19th century, the souq’s curved metal ceiling soared sky high, punctuated by bullet holes which let in streams of dusty light. The bullet holes were left by the French, who occupied Syria – with League of Nations approval – from 1920 until 1946.

Strolling with scores of shoppers, I snatched glances at brightly coloured tunics and dresses, sparkling in glittery excess. I passed jeans, knit wear and Lycra – the clothes of home – handmade perfume stores and shoe shops, chock full with ‘Nika’ and ‘Rebok’, two pounds sterling a pair.

We came across a shop dedicated to the sale of women’s headscarves. Rows of mannequin heads modelled all number of colours and fabrics, and each headscarf was displayed with its matching counterpart: a wide headband of the same colour to be worn underneath, lest a strand of disobedient hair reveal itself.

A girl about my age strutted up to the shop to browse. She wore skin tight jeans, a figure hugging sweater and maroon leather boots, knee-high. A black headscarf was stylishly draped over her head and chestnut wisps floated about her face. I wondered: would a token headscarf redeem me too?

Daylight shone onto an archway, glowing white at the end of the souq. We exited, into a square, and were confronted by several ornate columns, standing independently, supporting nothing but a decorated lintel: the remains of the 3rd century Roman Temple of Jupiter’s western gate. Beach umbrellas in primary colours shaded parts of the square, and tinsel-decorated stalls sold books and mother of pearl treasure chests. Men’s vests and sesame bread rings were stacked up on wagons, balanced between people and palm trees. A pomegranate juice vendor served us a chilled glass, freshly squeezed; a deep burgundy colour that stained my fingers. We sat sipping liquid health, beneath the columns of ancient ancestors, watching the bustle, mesmerised.

Umayyad Mosque stood across the square, behind a high wall, amongst the Temple of Jupiter’s ruins. The temple had become a Byzantine cathedral, and then a mosque. It had a rather staid appearance from where we stood, outside the wall. No graceful domes rose skyward and, at first glance, only the minarets that had been added to the original architecture signified a Muslim place of worship.

We had inadvertently entered the old city through the souq and now weaved our way into the narrows of old Damascus. A few random turns and we were in a maze of impossibly interlaced homes, their doorways hidden amongst dim alleys. We stooped under an archway, layered with black basalt and white limestone stripes: typically Damascene. Continuing beneath gothic arches we crept through the peaceful quietude, as lost as in [2] Venice’s winding streets. This city within a city had the pleasant isolation of an island: beyond the souq, its pulse was unhurried; these residential streets were free of cars, and the web of alleys was left alone to float in the centre of traffic-crazed modern Damascus.

Wading through the muted light, we followed the brisk steps of a slight woman, down an anonymous lane. She wore a brown trench coat, a black headscarf tight around her bowed head, and clutched the shoulder strap of a handbag closely. Daylight streamed towards us as we were spat out into a busy shopping street, leaving the shadowy afternoon behind us. The lady disappeared into the flocks of shoppers, many wearing the ubiquitous trench coats: an autumn solution to the figure disguising that Islam dictates – for women.

Plastic containers of all shapes and sizes were stacked high, spilling onto the pavement outside a shop, scattered with other locally made cheap odds and ends. A million potions and lotions lined the shelves of a shop clucking with cloaked ladies. We retreated into the quainter depths of the city’s old part, and found our way back to Umayyad Mosque, which we intended to visit.

The stone paved streets returned and a distant melody wafted towards us, plucked nimbly from a guitar we could not see. We followed the mosque’s eastern wall, where in its shadow, a group of young men sat smoking a bubbling nargileh and drinking chai with a pony-tailed guitarist.

Across from the group was a teashop with a few outdoor stools, from where we could savour the music. The pony-tailed man played Spanish guitar beautifully, and for a minute my mind drifted back to [3] Santiago, where a midnight musician had played Iain and I an impromptu tune. Our chai arrived, tannic and strong. The tea leaves merged with fresh mint; the ultimate refreshment.

“Ek-skews me,” said a strange voice; gruff, yet somehow shrill. “My name…” The man drew breath. “…is Hussein. Professor Hussein… Mohaaammed. I am… a teacher.” He spoke with a long drawl, which flavoured his words with the tinge of an American accent. We introduced ourselves and repositioned our stools closer to his. He obviously fancied a chat.
“Thees cafay… its name… it is Khabini. It meens… hide me… where nobody… can find me.” He wheezed and brought a cigarette closer to his lips. “Hide me… where nobody… can find me.” The café had apparently sheltered several Syrians when the French, in 1925, reacted to nationalist agitation with violence – hence its name.

Hussein looked about sixty, wore a tired navy blue blazer, black trousers and a peaked cap. Stark black eyebrows framed his hooded eyelids and a thin black moustache was streaked onto his pulpy tan coloured skin.
“I am an Eengleesh teacher,” he told us proudly. “An’ Arabic… French, Spaneesh… an’ geetar. I teach the geetar… but I am retired now,” he continued. “You have good hands for the geetar,” Hussein told Iain. “Good long fingers…good for reeching the chords… the notes… the harmonies.”
Hussein’s own left hand had two badly damaged fingers. One had a gnarled stump of a nail, the other was amputated at the first joint.

We chatted for a while, and he suggested we go for tea at his house the next day. “But my seester… she has not cleaned my house… my house is vary dirty now…”
Instead, we agreed to meet him at Khabini at the same time the following day, and left.

Back in our hotel’s pedestrianed street, the barber was shutting his doors and the tailor kept on sewing. Chickpea balls were being dunked into hot oil at a regular, unhurried pace at the falafel stall, and further down, a few street-side tables and chairs seated hungry men. We sat down beside an urn of chai, its tap waiting to be turned, and I ordered the meal on offer: fatta, it was called. Within minutes, a bowl arrived, filled with pita bread that had been baked into layers of chickpeas and hummus with olive oil drizzled on top. I ate with relish, scooping the hot creamy hummus up with bread, served on the side. Curious as to how tasty such a sloppy vegetarian dish could be tasty, Iain sceptically dipped a piece of bread into the bowl. A virtual carnivore who had recently discovered the joys of falafel – turning up his snout at any vegetable that wasn’t a potato – Iain began dunking the bread into my bowl until I was forced to restrain him, and order another.

Dusk was creeping up on what is debatably the world’s oldest continually inhabited city; this vibrant gem of frozen tradition that simultaneously sprouts emblems of modernity. The city’s multiple identities stare each other in the face and warped mirror images are reflected back, to look at one another with curiosity.

[4] Read Damascus: Part II…