Lions & Tigers

Tony & I had heard of some mountains out east from Tartous, and so via a series of micro-buses, went in search of some hiking.

We did indeed find some great hills, although as seems to be always the case here, there is no development in terms of trails. Hiking doesn’t seem to be a popular past-time; walking for fun simply confuses most of the people we meet.

Walking out from a village we’re stopped by some road-workers to have some shai, and then later by a guy calling down from his balcony, asking us (in Arabic) where we were going. “Mashi, shoof” we called back, whilst miming our intended actions. These two words (“walk” and “look”, respectively) are some of the most useful Arabic we’ve picked up. Calling his young daughter over with the hope of warning us of the danger in the hills, he calls back “Tigers!”. In Syria? we wonder.

Once up in the hills, scrambling about on some rocks, gun-shots occasionally echo through the valley as flocks of birds fly-up from the trees. The dirt-track up here was littered with empty shot-gun cartridges.

The guy down in the house didn’t know what he was missing, as we sat watching the sun set over the mountains.

Ghetto blaster

The local tunes rattling the speakers of a little hut down on the Tartous coast.

Down on the beach

One of the things I don’t like about Syria is the pollution. Walking along the shore, the beach is littered with plastic bottles, old shoes, carrier-bags and everything else that has been left by the tide. It’s a shame, because this coastline, with its long, sandy beaches, could be beautiful.

Tartous is undergoing a lot of development, mainly for tourism as the construction of hotels testifies. Apparently, in the summer, this place is bustling with Syrians and Saudis trying to escape the heat. Walking out from the town, the buildings give way to ramshackle little huts which line the shore; their existence under threat from the predicted boom. The land was given to people with a fifty-year lease; that period is coming to an end and the government is keen to sell it to the developers.

At this time of year, there are few people on the beach, we cross only a few fisherman preparing their nets, and we are soon out swimming in the sea. A few hundred metres further down the beach a couple of guys are sat under their bamboo shade, drinking maté, the Argentinian tea seemingly the latest trend in the region. We start speaking to them, and end up spending the whole afternoon sat chatting with them, drinking tea. These guys spend the day enjoying the sun, the sea, and come evening, cast their nets for the evening barbecue, to which we are invited back later. The contrast between the life here of Hussein, our host, and his previous fourteen years spent working seventy-hour weeks in New York is pretty stark.

Down by the Port

The coffee in Syria is infused with cardamom. Walking past the numerous shops selling coffee here with the sacks of beans sat outside and the machines grinding it inside, there is that lovely, rich smell emanating from them, and I am too weak to resist it.

Buying our morning coffee in Latakia a guy started chatting to us and was keen to know what we thought of his country & the people here. He talked of how sad — and even annoyed — he was when traveling abroad and people responding to his nationality with questions of “isn’t it really dangerous there?”, and particularly with the bad wrap Syria gets in the international media. “Do you see people with guns in the street here?” he asks. Personally, I feel more threatened in certain parts of the UK, of France, and certainly in the States, than I have ever felt here. This discourse finished with him buying our coffees for us.

A few hours later, we were in Tartous, a town on the coast just north of Lebanon. Getting off the bus, we met an American guy, Joseph, who is traveling around the region with a project (Roving Musicologist) recording locals musicians & groups here. After having rented an apartment for the three of us for a few days, we headed down to the sea, along with a Japanese girl Joe knew, and spent the evening sat on the rocks with boats arriving & leaving from the little harbour. This was one of those typical traveler-type clichés.

In Baklava We Trust

Still eating my way around the Middle East…