(Written in Syria, 30 March 2007)
No dramatic news this week – the snow has stopped (it only ever lasted one morning) and it’s sunny, though still a little chilly. Some men came round to ‘lay some turf’ in our garden and turned it in to a huge dirtbowl which we studiously water every day hoping for a hint of grass. During the palaver, a gold-toothed gardener took advantage of my distraction - trying to think how to say ‘one tortoise is missing’ in Arabic - and copped a feel of my boob (disguised as gesticulation). I gave him an extremely stern look and refused to give him any tea.
Talking of boobs, Mr A’s cousin E visited us last week with her friend C. We encouraged them to go the hammam (which I hadn’t been to yet – I wanted them to be my guinea-pigs) and it turns out that you pay £2 to lie in a puddle of dirty water on the floor while a larger-lady massages your boobs! We feel proud we gave them the genuine Damascus experience. They seemed slightly surprised. Mr A is keen to point out this is not what happens when he goes to the hammam. Men just get all their skin scraped off and their neck violently realigned with a clicking sound you think only happens on films.
Also, with E and C, we visited some ruins south of Damascus where we met a man in 70s flares who showed us round. It turns out that this is a euphemism for taking us to the top of ruined 1st century AD buildings and telling us we’re standing on the theatre, whilst Mr A points out a clearly visible theatre just next door. (Normally chaps wear flares with pointy toed shoes but he must have left his at home.)
No dramatic news this week – the snow has stopped (it only ever lasted one morning) and it’s sunny, though still a little chilly. Some men came round to ‘lay some turf’ in our garden and turned it in to a huge dirtbowl which we studiously water every day hoping for a hint of grass. During the palaver, a gold-toothed gardener took advantage of my distraction - trying to think how to say ‘one tortoise is missing’ in Arabic - and copped a feel of my boob (disguised as gesticulation). I gave him an extremely stern look and refused to give him any tea.
Talking of boobs, Mr A’s cousin E visited us last week with her friend C. We encouraged them to go the hammam (which I hadn’t been to yet – I wanted them to be my guinea-pigs) and it turns out that you pay £2 to lie in a puddle of dirty water on the floor while a larger-lady massages your boobs! We feel proud we gave them the genuine Damascus experience. They seemed slightly surprised. Mr A is keen to point out this is not what happens when he goes to the hammam. Men just get all their skin scraped off and their neck violently realigned with a clicking sound you think only happens on films.
Also, with E and C, we visited some ruins south of Damascus where we met a man in 70s flares who showed us round. It turns out that this is a euphemism for taking us to the top of ruined 1st century AD buildings and telling us we’re standing on the theatre, whilst Mr A points out a clearly visible theatre just next door. (Normally chaps wear flares with pointy toed shoes but he must have left his at home.)
On Wednesday we went to the Syrian side of the Golan Heights, where there is a ghost town you can wander around and look over to Israeli military watchtowers. There is only one building left in use, a café right next to no-man’s land, where we stopped for tea. It was a suitably sobering experience, sitting next to the barbed wire and hearing only the whistle of the wind through the trees, where once there was a thriving town. It probably would have been more sombre had it not been for the unexplained presence of an 8-foot Santa Claus looming over our table.
Last night we went to a party at the Total (as in French oil company) villa. My french is pretty hot so we chatted away (or not, ‘bon soir, hello, how are you?’). We had been invited by a French couple, the girl-part of which was playing in the band. They knocked out some French classics, or at least we presume they were classics as everyone else was singing along. One member of the six-piece was a saxophonist who didn’t seem to worry himself with what the rest of the band was up to. Then, the band finishes and…………………………….. on comes Dire Straits! Which it seems the Frenchies are mad keen for. Who would have thought……. A party. In Syria. Drinking red wine with hundreds of French people. Listening to Dire Straits…. now that is what this foreign adventure stuff is all about.
Mr A’s parents arrive on Monday for a while, and then we’re off to India for 10 days. So the next missive from us will be snaps of us hanging out with my uncle in some village far from civilisation. And then maybe a few of us on a beach in Goa just to piss you off.
We’ve attached the latest update on the tortoises – they are still at it. And the cats are perverts.
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