Sherrill, my wife, and I visited together more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 44 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Ready for More Adventures "Which was your favorite?"
People love that question. When they asked which of the countries of the Middle East ("middle" from whose point of view?) and North Africa that Sherrill and I had visited did we like best, we usually said that they all were fascinating in different ways. Each one was an exciting opportunity for a curious traveler to open his or her heart to life-changing experiences. Well, it was true, back then. Still, Syria probably was our favorite.
"It's the people," Sherrill always said. And I agreed.
People love that question. When they asked which of the countries of the Middle East ("middle" from whose point of view?) and North Africa that Sherrill and I had visited did we like best, we usually said that they all were fascinating in different ways. Each one was an exciting opportunity for a curious traveler to open his or her heart to life-changing experiences. Well, it was true, back then. Still, Syria probably was our favorite.
"It's the people," Sherrill always said. And I agreed.
Ancient Village of Maaloula, Syria Syria has always had a tradition of hospitality. When Sherrill and I were there in 1994, it seemed to be successfully navigating the conflicting currents of a traditional Islamic religion and the modern secular world. They welcomed people from other lands, happy to share the beauty and delicious food of their country—and its formidable history, a history that reached back to the beginnings of civilization, a land of places so old that they seemed almost mythical.
Maaloula, a village tucked into the rocky mountain cliffs north of Damascus, was one of them, a place where the people still spoke Aramaic, the ancient language of the Bible, and where in an ancient church we found an altar that long ago was adapted from a pre-Christian one used for animal sacrifices, with a carved channel for draining blood. The morning after visiting Maaloula, Sherrill and I walked up the cobblestone street of a nearby town almost as old, passing a pair tiny old women in black leaning against the wind, the ochre stones of an ancient citadel behind them. Then, up some steps from the street, we came to a little church, tried the door, discovered it was locked.
Maaloula, a village tucked into the rocky mountain cliffs north of Damascus, was one of them, a place where the people still spoke Aramaic, the ancient language of the Bible, and where in an ancient church we found an altar that long ago was adapted from a pre-Christian one used for animal sacrifices, with a carved channel for draining blood. The morning after visiting Maaloula, Sherrill and I walked up the cobblestone street of a nearby town almost as old, passing a pair tiny old women in black leaning against the wind, the ochre stones of an ancient citadel behind them. Then, up some steps from the street, we came to a little church, tried the door, discovered it was locked.
A young man in sweats came out of a neighboring house and offered to open the church. He showed us through it, pointing out the icons, then, with a sweet, eager smile, offered us coffee in his home. With a glance at each other, we followed him into a small, tidy room with two little sofas and a couple of small tables. He introduced us to his mother, a shy, kerchiefed woman in black, who made us strong Turkish-style coffee with cardamom. Somehow, we managed to communicate with his few words of French and English and a lot of sign language.
Later that day, our friend Hala introduced us to the wonders of Krac des Chevaliers, the great crusader castle that dominated the rugged landscape from its hilltop. Hiking on its cobbled passageways, through its many levels, dark chambers, and cool stone rooms, we almost could imagine life in a medieval fortress/castle. From the battlements at the top to the base, where the stones were as much as 80 feet thick, the castle was more impressive than any Hollywood version. For a while, Sherrill played hide and seek with a couple of Syrian children until their mother took them away.
Later that day, our friend Hala introduced us to the wonders of Krac des Chevaliers, the great crusader castle that dominated the rugged landscape from its hilltop. Hiking on its cobbled passageways, through its many levels, dark chambers, and cool stone rooms, we almost could imagine life in a medieval fortress/castle. From the battlements at the top to the base, where the stones were as much as 80 feet thick, the castle was more impressive than any Hollywood version. For a while, Sherrill played hide and seek with a couple of Syrian children until their mother took them away.
Sherrill with meze in restaurant The town of Hama, where we continued, was hosting an all-Asia handball competition, so it was full of tall young athletes from the competing nations: Korea, Japan, the United Emirates, China, and so on. Except for our little group, we saw no Europeans or Americans in town. While we were strolling along the river admiring the giant noriahs, or waterwheels, that for centuries kept water flowing in this oasis city, several of the athletes came up and tried out their English. Soon, they had surrounded Sherrill, deep in conversation. As often was the case when we traveled, people immediately felt at ease with her. I think they sensed that she was really interested in them.
In Syria, history wasn't just locked away in museums. It was everywhere, from the remains of the classical city of Apamea still standing on its windswept plateau to the newly excavated city of Ebla, dating from 2,500 BC, to the great trading center of Aleppo, with a history going back at least four thousand years. Even more than Damascus, Aleppo felt like a voyage into the past. The old city sprawled across from a gigantic honey-colored medieval citadel: mosques, caravansaries, Turkish baths, workshops in which men hammered out copper platters and silver dishes, and huge covered souks with narrow covered alleys that wandered maze-like for miles. We weren't surprised that Aleppo's historic center was named a World Heritage Site by UNESCO.
 Medieval Citadel, Aleppo |  Baking bread, Aleppo |
Soon, we were happily lost in Aleppo's sprawling souks, maneuvering past tiny shops and displays of every kind of merchandize, dodging men pulling wooden carts piled high with bolts of cloth and other wares, even donkeys trudging stoically beneath their loads. A couple of times, we had to jump out of the way of a darting motorcycle, narrowly avoiding women in traditional hijab. Of course, we couldn't resist stopping to sip hot sweet tea with friendly shopkeepers in red-check kaffiyeh head coverings.
A cramped little shop that sold antiques and small objects drew us in. Sherrill was intrigued by an antique brass pen holder with an attached inkwell that was etched with an ornate, interlocking leaf design. Curious, she lifted the little scallop-shaped cap to the inkwell and popped open the lid to the shaft made to hold pens and brushes. When we left the shop a few minutes later with the newspaper-wrapped treasure in her hand, we saw four tent-like figures like black ghosts facing the bright display window opposite. Even their gesturing hands were hidden by the inky fabric of the chadors. Behind the smudged glass, three bald mannequins flaunted skimpy brightly hued dresses that revealed most of their plastic bodies.
A cramped little shop that sold antiques and small objects drew us in. Sherrill was intrigued by an antique brass pen holder with an attached inkwell that was etched with an ornate, interlocking leaf design. Curious, she lifted the little scallop-shaped cap to the inkwell and popped open the lid to the shaft made to hold pens and brushes. When we left the shop a few minutes later with the newspaper-wrapped treasure in her hand, we saw four tent-like figures like black ghosts facing the bright display window opposite. Even their gesturing hands were hidden by the inky fabric of the chadors. Behind the smudged glass, three bald mannequins flaunted skimpy brightly hued dresses that revealed most of their plastic bodies.
 Our friend Hala in Aleppo street, 1994 |  Copper craftsmen, Aleppo, 1994 |
The next day, Sherrill's birthday, our little group had lunch in a restaurant across the street from the oldest hotel in Syria, the Baron, built in 1909 when the country was part of the Ottoman Empire. T.E. Lawrence once lived in room 202 and Agatha Christie wrote Murder on the Orient Express in room 203. Theodore Roosevelt and Charles Lindbergh also stayed there. In addition to the brass pen holder, I gave Sherrill a silver necklace made from Syrian coins for her birthday. The big surprise, though, was when Hala had the waiter bring a birthday cake with lit candles and present it to Sherrill. Her name was misspelled, but the gesture pleased her. She even blew out the candles with one breath.
 Surprise birthday cake |  Guard, Doura Europos, Syria |
Following the Euphrates River across the great desert, we reached the once fertile heartland of ancient Mesopotamia, an empire that challenged that of Egypt, and finally came to the mud-brick walls of the once great city-state of Doura Europus towering over the dark waters of the Euphrates.
Sherrill and Guard, after the rain Except for a lone guard in a tan ankle-length abaya, military-style vest, and red-checked kaffiyeh, the enormous site was deserted. Our little group walked through the towering entrance and gradually spread out along the ancient streets among the remains of the mud-brick buildings. Eventually, Sherrill and I reached the edge of the Euphrates, the city sprawling around us. Then, unexpectedly, the sky darkened and rain started to fall. We began the trek back, the huge drops turning the earthen street into a meandering parade of mud puddles. Suddenly, the guard roared up on a motorcycle from behind a mud brick temple, rifle slung over his shoulder, and asked Sherrill if she wanted a ride back to the entrance.
"Thanks!" she said, ignoring my shake of the head and climbing onto the motorcycle behind the guard.
They bounced away, mud exploding behind them. When I finally reached the entrance, I found them drinking hot tea with our driver and a couple of our compatriots under a makeshift shelter. Before long, at least, the rain stopped, the sky cleared, and the ground began to dry. The guard even let me take a photograph of the two of them on the motorcycle.
"Thanks!" she said, ignoring my shake of the head and climbing onto the motorcycle behind the guard.
They bounced away, mud exploding behind them. When I finally reached the entrance, I found them drinking hot tea with our driver and a couple of our compatriots under a makeshift shelter. Before long, at least, the rain stopped, the sky cleared, and the ground began to dry. The guard even let me take a photograph of the two of them on the motorcycle.
As we continued across the gold-brown hills and valleys, we saw a random pattern of dark-haired goats stitched to the side of an almost barren hillside. We stopped and Hala and our local guide climbed up the hill to a black goat-hair tent. A few minutes later, they came back and told us that the Bedouin family living there had invited us to visit them. Most of the men were away tending other goats nearby, but the three generations we met in the camp welcomed us into their tent and offered us some of their flat bread, still warm from the fire.
Bedouins welcoming us to their camp, Syria
Later, we visited the Bedouin bazaar in the town of Deir Ezzor near the Iraqi border, where colorfully garbed and veiled Bedouin women from several encampments had gathered. They sold handicrafts, goat cheese, and blood-oozing goat meat. Chirping loudly, dark eyes like birds, brown hands gesturing, they competed for customers. Many of them wore meticulously drawn henna tattoos on their hands and faces, patterns that seemed to explode on their sun-weathered skin.
Souk, Deir Ezzor, Syria That night, we stayed in a surprisingly modern small hotel in Deir Ezzor. It seemed to be full of muscular, sunburned American men who were there to work in the oil fields. A few European businessmen were staying there, too, but no other Americans until we arrived. Hearty, friendly, somewhat lonely, the oil men spent six months in the desert, then rotated out for another six months. We chatted together for a while in the hotel bar. They were not allowed near the Syrian women, so they liked talking with the women in our little group.
The historical splendors throughout Syria continually impressed us. Any one of them would have been the jewel in the crown for any other country. The golden limestone remains of the 5th century Byzantine Church of St. Simeon, once the largest Christian church in the Middle East, still stubbornly stood on the hill where he supposedly preached from the top of a stone pillar for 42 years. A Hittite acropolis adorned with 3,000 year-old sculptures, including massive Basalt lions, was still being excavated by Japanese archaeologists. The next place that we visited, however, was the jewel above all the others.
Ancient Palmyra, Syria Under a bleached blue sky, we found the ancient caravan route from Arabia to the Mediterranean—not sandy, but desert, all right. Here, in the fabled oasis city of Palmyra once ruled the rebellious Queen Zenobia, who challenged the Roman empire and nearly got away with it. Long ago, all roads passed through Palmyra. We stayed in a low-slung guest house next to the archeological site. From its porch, we could gaze at the arches and columns, faded by sun, wind, and time, of the once magnificent city, rich and luxurious before the Romans. It was easy to imagine camel caravans resting among those pale columns. Next to the guest house loomed a three-decker vehicle pulled by a tractor-like cab. The young Germans next to it, guzzling cheap wine and cooking on portable stoves, slept on shelf-like spaces in it.
"It must be fun," said Sherrill. "And cheap."
The next day, we hiked through the three thousand year-old city, past marble temples and through the ornate remains of Zenobia's palace, where we lingered beside the mosaic-lined pools in which she'd soaked her royal body.
"Emperor Caracalla claimed Palmyra as a colony," our guide told us, "but its wealth gave it unusual freedom. Zenobia made Palmyra into an independent power—even dared mint coins with her profile."
"Maybe I'll find one," Sherrill said.
"You'd be arrested if you were caught trying to take it out of the country."
"It must be fun," said Sherrill. "And cheap."
The next day, we hiked through the three thousand year-old city, past marble temples and through the ornate remains of Zenobia's palace, where we lingered beside the mosaic-lined pools in which she'd soaked her royal body.
"Emperor Caracalla claimed Palmyra as a colony," our guide told us, "but its wealth gave it unusual freedom. Zenobia made Palmyra into an independent power—even dared mint coins with her profile."
"Maybe I'll find one," Sherrill said.
"You'd be arrested if you were caught trying to take it out of the country."
Sherrill in ancient oasis city, Palmyra, 1994
Desert tomb, Palmyra, Syria 1994 We drove in two jeeps into hills near the ancient city to see Palmyra's desert necropolis, where small limestone towers jutted like teeth from the sandy earth: elegant tombs in which the Palmyrenes originally buried their dead. Later, they changed to safer underground tombs. Each one held a family, each body on a shelf sealed with a carved stone slab, but the bodies were long gone, most of the stone portraits stolen. From a cliff nearby, a much later Moslem fortress stared disapprovingly down on us.
Later, after bouncing across the desert, we stopped at the limestone entrance of one of the underground tombs. Our friend had arranged something special for us. A pipe more than foot in diameter bridged sandy steps that descended to a pair of massive doors. Our guide ducked under the pipe with a flashlight and unlocked the stone doors, so perfectly balanced that they swung open easily.
Following him down the steps and under the pipe, we walked into the dry dusty chill of the past. With his flashlight and a single caged bulb shining through clouds of dust, we explored a tomb not denuded by grave robbers, with carved portrait slabs still protecting many stone shelves. Here, a curly-headed youth, there a proud middle-aged woman, hair elaborately arranged atop her long face. At the end of the room, a bas relief showed the entire family languidly eating Roman style. We followed the guide through the icy tomb to where a portrait slab had been lifted from one of the burial shelves. He aimed his flashlight inside, onto a skeleton, its shape twisted as if sleeping, a small clay oil lamp near the bony hand.
Later, after bouncing across the desert, we stopped at the limestone entrance of one of the underground tombs. Our friend had arranged something special for us. A pipe more than foot in diameter bridged sandy steps that descended to a pair of massive doors. Our guide ducked under the pipe with a flashlight and unlocked the stone doors, so perfectly balanced that they swung open easily.
Following him down the steps and under the pipe, we walked into the dry dusty chill of the past. With his flashlight and a single caged bulb shining through clouds of dust, we explored a tomb not denuded by grave robbers, with carved portrait slabs still protecting many stone shelves. Here, a curly-headed youth, there a proud middle-aged woman, hair elaborately arranged atop her long face. At the end of the room, a bas relief showed the entire family languidly eating Roman style. We followed the guide through the icy tomb to where a portrait slab had been lifted from one of the burial shelves. He aimed his flashlight inside, onto a skeleton, its shape twisted as if sleeping, a small clay oil lamp near the bony hand.
Temple of Bel, Palmyra, 1994, before ISIS blew it up in 2015 In August 2015, ISIS deliberately blew up Palmyra's best-preserved temple, the 2,000 year-old Temple of Bel, and damaged many of the city's other standing remains. Today, it is almost impossible to the recognize war-ravaged Syria in the news as the beautiful, welcoming country that Sherrill and I knew in 1994. Since 2011, when the civil war between the rebels and the dictator Assad began, with the western countries supporting the rebels and Russia and China behind Assad, much of Palmyra and other historical sites has been damaged and destroyed as battles have raged through them—and that's only one example of how the country's (and world's) historical heritage is being lost.
During recent years, the violence has persisted and escalated, destroying much of Damascus and Aleppo and their environs and other cities, as well. Many thousands of the country's citizens have died, been left homeless, and fled to other countries, but Sherrill and I treasured the welcoming smiles that greeted us across the country before this conflagration overtook them.
During recent years, the violence has persisted and escalated, destroying much of Damascus and Aleppo and their environs and other cities, as well. Many thousands of the country's citizens have died, been left homeless, and fled to other countries, but Sherrill and I treasured the welcoming smiles that greeted us across the country before this conflagration overtook them.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
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