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…

Qala’at Saladin

Trying to attack this castle, 1000 years ago, must have been nigh-on impossible. The high castle walls sit on top of steep, forested rocks & cliffs of a hill which rises up from a deep valley.

T.E. Lawrence was right to say that it was “one of the most sensational things in castle building” that he had seen.

It’s not easy walking from Al Haffa, six kilometres away from the site. Not because of the path which climbs from the town, then descends into the valley, before climbing back up to the hilltop. Rather it is the taxi-drivers here who don’t understand the notion of wanting to walk it; a beep coming from their horns every time one drives past. Standing on the other side of the valley from the castle, though, offers an amazing view, well worth the sweaty trek.

Once up in the castle ruins, few habitations are in sight, and there are 360° views of the lush forests. What I’d do to have a mountain bike here…