SYRIA
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Subject: Hearing the music, living the verb Date: 17 May 2002 From: Kevin Charbonneau
"One more spring in Minnesota, To come upon Lake Wobegone. Old town I smell your coffee. If I could see you one more time - I can't stay, you know, I left so long ago, I'm just a stranger wuth memories of people I knew here. We stand around, looking at the ground. You're the stories I've told for years and years. That yard, the tree - you climbed it once with me, And we talked of cities that we'd live in someday. I left, old friend, and now I'm back again, Please say you missed me since I went away. One more time that dance together, Just you and I now, don't be shy. This time I know I'd hear the music If I could hold you one more time." Before leaving home and establishing the concept elsewhere, Minnesota armed my questing quiver with the requisite arrows of enlightenment: how to tie my shoes, the difference between a semimembrinosis muscle from a semitendinosis, a few Sven and Ole jokes, the art of juggling, and how to ride a motorcycle. Of course, I no longer wear proper shoes or pretend I'm a therapist, I've since forgotten the punchlines to the jokes, and as a matter of principle I only juggle for Circassian harem girls. Where does this leave me? Should I return to Minnesota to waltz in the womb or continue to wander in the wilds with wonder? It has been over a decade since Christophe taught me the jedi joys of life astride a motorcycle - the knight aspirant's steed of steel. I was more suited to riding a mule. My first drive: careening my kinsman through a corner I climbed the curb, scattered some innocent pedestrians, and came to a halt on the sidewalk in front of the Chateau. With the calm of Buddha my brother offered some kind, encouraging words. I may not have learned about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (my father is the mechanical wizard) but I understood the lesson: life is a delicate balance between risk and reward, the journey is more important than the arrival, solitude is a garden to be nurtured, the broader your horizon the greater its perspective, and taking the road less traveled truly does make all the difference. And one more thing - don't drive on sidewalks. As time unfurled, I eventually did learn how to control a motorcycle ... my brother and I made history by using his two-wheeled wonder to transport a twin-sized mattress through the suburbs of Minneapolis (balanced on our heads) ... and rather than suffer my crashing his cycle onto the sidewalks of the Chateau, Christophe now glides into its parking stall reserved for the president. The world spins and we evolve. Andrea Parvot, a recent director of the Louvre Museum in Paris, once said, "Each person has two homelands: his own and Syria." So, in a circuitous sense, I have finally arrived home for that long-awaited dance. The music echoes an enchanting oriental rhythm and the steps are fluid. Here is what I've learned ... Never turn your back on a Syrian monkey.Hama is a tranquil city that lies along the banks of the Orontes river. Apart from the luxury of dining in an old Ottoman insane asylum, its predominant charm lies in taking a tranquil stroll along the path of the Orontes. The river is lines with norias - an Aramaic word for waterwheels - which have creaked and groaned their wooden tune since the Middle Ages. Sauntering past a noria while nibbling a falafel I chanced upon a large tent with camels tethered nearby. Taking a closer look, I was informed by a boy via hand gestures that entrance into the tent was only five pounds (a dime). Ignorant of its contents I was nonetheless confident that I'd discovered a bargain. Curious George meets his demented cousin. Inside the flaps was the saddest 'zoo' one could ever imagine - an owl, porcupine, wolf, and jackal in tiny cages decidely un-PETA friendly. Manacled atop the cages were a pair of motley monkeys. Unwinded by the conditions, I sat down on a crate next to the owls. I was pounced upon immediately. Underestimating the length of his chain, the stealthy simian made an noble leap but was only able to snatch the top of my head ... my Portobello sunglasses were soon in his mouth. Understanding his miserable plight, I offered to share my remaining pita bread and placed the appeasement atop his cage. He considered the deal, accepted, and clambered up the wire leaving my shades in the dust glimmering with monkey spit. Easter comes only twice a year.The renowned hospitality of Syrians expands far beyond my capacity to convey it here. Endless invitations, spontaneous kindnesses, and daily exchanges of pleasant tidings are the norm. Someday, I'll relay some stunning good Samaritan stories over coffee. With a monotheistic segue ... Christianity confuses me. When I was in London at the end of March, the Christians of England were celebrating Easter. When I was in Aleppo on the fifth of May, the Christians of Syria were celebrating Easter. Now wait just a minute here. Doesn't everyone use the same pagan full-moon calendar? Is there a connection between the resurrection of the Syrian messiah and the Mexican festival of Cinco de Mayo? The world remains a delightful mystery. Incidentally, today is Syttende Mai - Norway's independence day. Old farmers across Minnesota are going loony for lutefisk. Do as Simon says, not as Simon does.Born in 392 AD, St. Simeon of Stylites acquired his name by spending almost 40 years preaching from a stylite, or pillar. Peasants hounded the local legend for advice, and the game of "Simon Says" was born. While he would gladly address the questions of men, St. Simeon refused to talk to women. Is it any wonder the kook was disenchanted with humanity and lived on a rock? Simeon's death didn't stop pilgrims from visiting his pillar so the emperor Zenon had a cathedral built around his home, now considered a masterpiece of pre-Islamic architecture. The 5th-century remains are quite attractive and afford a nice view of the rocky terrain leading up to Turkey. Quinine, found in gin, helps prevent malaria.The Basilica of St. Simeon is less than an hour from Aleppo - the ancientopolis that controlled the Great Syrian Passage from Mesopotamia and Persia with the Mediterranean Sea. My first port of call, I was impressed by the city's sheer chaos, towering citadel, crumbling caravanaserais, and incomparable souqs - nine kilometers of catacomb caverns straight from a vampire's darkest dream. A great place to lose oneself. Aleppo is known in Arabic as Halab - to milk - as Abraham is said to have milked his gray cow on the nearby acropolis. An odd name. Since malaria-transmitting Anophele mosquitoes enjoy nothing more than a milk-blood cocktail, I decided to forgo the dairy in lieu of fortifying my system. Agatha Christie, a woman of considerable taste, was known to take her medications at the Barons Hotel. I followed suit. Hassan the bartender fixing me up a gin and tonic, the Atlas of World History and a leather couch, surrounded by the palatial grandeur of a bygone age ... medicine has never tasted so good. As man aspires he thus inspires.Deir ez-Zur is a remote city of eastern Syria along the Euphrates river. Situated at the cusp of the cradle of civilization one might expect something magnificent. If so, one might be disappointed. It's cool to see the Euphrates but Deir ez-Zur, despite such a promising name, is a crap little town. Wherein lies the magic that inspires? Prior to hitting the high desert road I witnessed a spectacle that transformed my conception of human potential. I saw a man, robes aflutter, driving a motorcycle with two live goats stretched across the tank! Not one my friends - TWO. Sure knocks the motorcycle-mattress-on-the-head triumph down a few notches. It's time for the Charbonneau boys to return to their agrarian roots and get training. Family tradition mandates a nomadic lifestyle.Forget Mesopotamia and the agrarian roots, my lineage is that of the wanderer. The Viking majority of my genetic stew was never in question but I've always held misgivings about the strands of French. No more. During the Middle Ages, to preserve the integrity of the inheritance of land, male primogeniture was introduced in northern France. This change in the allocation of land produced the most characteristic figure of European medieval society - the younger son who, as the mounted knight bound by his aristocratic relations by a code of chivalry, was condemned to wander far and wide until by his wits and his sword he could win a rich wife, or her price in combat. These younger dispossessed sons of Europe would go on to play a prominent role in the reconquest of Spain, the foundation of the Kingdom of Sicily, and the numerous crusades. With the dubious gift of selective perception, I believe my namesakes commanded the greatest of all crusader castles - the Krak des Chevaliers of western Syria. Author Paul Theroux described the Krak des Chevaliers as the epitome of the dream castle of childhood fantasies; of jousts and armor and pennants. T.E. Lawrence simply called it "the finest castle in the world." I wouldn't go that far but it would be an ideal place for hide-and-seek-tag. It was nearly deserted upon my visit so I contented myself with playing on the parapets, exploring the dungeons, and sipping a coffee in the Princess Tower. For a suitable complement to this medieval mountain majesty, I spent the evening in the coastal city of Tartus. A crayola sunset over the Mediterranean, the isle of Arwad overflowing in the distance, puffing some smooth apple tobacco from an ornate silver argileh pipe, watching the east-meets-west fashion parade strolling along the Corniche, and learning that the seaside cafe never closes ... I tipped a cup to my ancestors both near and far. Hawaiian cuisine has gone global.For those who care about such things, Syrian cuisine is one of the finest in the Middle East. For the rest of us, the country provides an opportunity to explode on falafel-overdose (five for a dollar). It's a great place if you're into sheep (insert joke here). Apart from the ubiquitous shawarma stands (which are as prevalent as the pictures-posters-billboards of President / Dictator Assad), sheep are quite the diverse delicacy. Here in Damascus one finds the local dish ma'adim which consists of sheep hooves drenched in a hummus-like dressing and served over bread. The notorious 'sheep eggs' are actually testicles, and mukh is an intriguing salad made with lettuce, lemon, and sheep brains. Sweet. Yesterday I discovered a tranquil little cafe near my hotel in Al-Marjeh Square. Located in a winding alley, the interior is an astounding mosaic-tiled courtyard centered around a fountain. I choose to sit at the outdoor tables beneath the shady repose of tangled grape vines. Surveying the bilingual menu, I was stunned to learn that the Arabic script over the door translates as Hawaii. Whoohoo. They offered such Polynesian staples as hot dog, stomach, sawercream, honey and sweetsop, and spinal cord. I ordered the 'spinal cord sandwich' which, of course, is made with sheep brains. Mmm. Tastes like poi. Mathematics is nothing but glorified guesswork.In the Biblical text of Genesis, the dates and genealogies given would place man's origin (i.e. the creation of Adam) at roughly thirty-seven centuries BC. To be more precise - to use math - the Hebraic calendar has calculated that man first appeared on Earth exactly 5,773 years ago. Hmm. Damascus claims to be the oldest continously inhabited city in the world. These Bible-defying Damascenes have populated the Ghouta oasis for nearly 7,000 years. When the pre-Islamic Arabs first saw the site of present-day Damascus, they named it Balad al-Shaam: a phrase denoting luscious green hills, rich brown soil, and an otherwise blessed Heaven on Earth. Though my intuition favors O'ahu, perhaps Damascus really was the proverbial Garden of Eden. After spending my first night sleeping beneath the stars atop the hotel's rooftop, I've since descended to join the city's timeless tides and tempo. My preferred haunts are the souqs and lanes of the walled-in Old City. Its jewel is the Umayyad mosque, one of the oldest and greatest mosques ever constructed. Originally the site of an ancient temple dedicated to Hada (an Aramaen god revered around 1000 BC), it was later the temple of Jupiter the Damascene. In the 4th century, a Byzantine church dedicated to St. John the Baptist was erected on this site. When the church was destroyed to make room for the grand mosque, the only relic that survived was the head of St. John (known to Muslims as the prophet Yahya) which is now propped up in the prayer hall. The city of Damascus is like the Umayyad mosque - a fascinating confluence layered by the colorful strata of history. Two thumbs up. Multi-lingual babes are hot.The desert oasis of Palmyra (City of Palms, also known as Tadmor, City of Dates) truly stirs the soul. This is the place to visit in Syria. Located just west of nowhere, it is a splotch of green (palm, olive, and pomegranate trees) in a monochromatic sea of sandstone. A lofted citadel, a trickle of Bedouin caravans, and over 130 acres of Roman ruins accompany the prevailing silence. Once upon a time, the Palmyran resident Odenathus overthrew the city's senate and declared himself king. After defeating the encroaching Persians, Odenathus and his son were assassinated in 267 AD. Enter Zenobia. Odenathus's multilingual and strikingly beautiful wife who took control of the city. Claiming descent from Cleopatra and possessing "manly understanding" (according to 18th-century historian Edward Gibbon), this woman not only secured Palmyra's full independence from Rome, but also attacked Roman territories and took control of lower Egypt and much of Asia Minor. The minting of coins emblazond with her pretty profile was the final staw: the smitten-enraged Roman emperor Aurelian recaptured Palmyra and carted Zenobia off to Rome. The hush of the ruins at dawn, a cool shelter from the swelter sipping tea at the Zenobia Hotel whilst overlooking the Temple of Ba'alshamin (dedicated to the god of storms and fertilizing rain, whose name means Master of the Heavens), a late afternoon hike to the valley of tombs, sunset atop the ramparts of the Arab castle, lying amongst the ancient arches memorizing the desert night ... wash, rinse, repeat as desired. In the words of T.E. Lawrence: "The call of the desert, for thinkers of the city, has always been irresistable. I do not think they find God there, but that they hear more distinctly in the solitude, the living verb they carry within themselves." - reverberating due south ... Kevin |
