BIG BIKE: Syria

I arrived in Syria 6 days ago, cycling across the border with Turkey at Bab Al Hawa in the north west of the country after a few days in Antakya.

Cyclists have become a little rare in these parts, so to be welcomed by 21 german cyclists complete with support vehicle, Syrian police escort and much enthusiasm was a surprise. Their offer to cycle with them was welcome, but my approach is a little more laid back and Id struggle in such an organised group - police escort !? They are intending to arrive in Cairo by January 8, I will barely have left Syria by then...

Although touring cyclists must have something in common, it is no longer surprising how different peoples approaches can be. Some take a week to cross a country another would take 6 months, I guess the former enjoy the sport or challenge - although I wouldn't say I dislike that, cycling is far more valuable to me as a flexible means of transport, slow enough to feel part of your surroundings but fast enough to cross countries within what I feel is reasonable time. With enough time and patience walking has to be king.

The border crossing was straightforward, pictures all round with the border police, before I have even entered the country I experience the legendry Syrian hospitality.

The first thing to hit me about Syria, as hospitality is par for the course in these parts, isnt the diverse history, or the images of president Assad at every roundabout, the comical driving, arabic road signs I cannot read, Lebanese pop music, red and white check shem'agh or even the excellent food... but how cheap things are. Thats pitiful I admit, but my quality of life has suffered since my days of full time employment. In Syria I can eat, drink and sleep in comfort. The food is excellent too. From the simple fool, a humus, yoghurt, mix eaten for breakfast which can sustain for seamingly days to a full blow out of meze and kebabs.. its all good, fresh and very cheap.

The country is filled with ruins, although thats not necessarily my scene I nearly ruined (out). But with help from a campervan wielding Belgian couple, we have seen eery dead cities, ruined Basilicas, hill top Citadels, Crusader Castles and received bad directions from everyone we stopped to ask. The maps are not good here, road signs are worse and in Arabic, the locals always wanting to help would rather make up directions than admit they dont know where to go, it will come as no surprise when someone points either up or down the next time Im lost (up is quite appropriate).

St Simon's Citadel, 60 kms north of Aleppo was the home of possibly the most miserable of all old gits, St Simon. A shepherd who, after a revelation in a dream, became a monk to pursue a life of solitude. He started off confined to a cabin near a mountain, but seeking ever more solitude he moved to a small prison cell for 2 years and then a small platform, some 2 metres square, 3 metres off the ground upon which he remained for nearly 42 years... the platform was raised many times to move him further from the visting hordes and closer to God, 20 metres high at one point. So far so good, a little odd perhaps but not necesarily miserable, but St Simon hated women with a passion. When a lepered women brought him some bread, rather than thank her, he spat on her... which so the tale goes, cured her of lepracy, leaving miserable St Simon even more famous and I suspect having to suffer even more hordes with a few requesting to be spat upon. At least the higher the platform got the better his accuracy would have to improve, providing the git with some no doubt unwanted variation. Strange old world.

Heading down to Damascus tomorrow, decided against a Lebanese christmas - bar humbug...

Piccies...