"The Town that Repels" Not Living up to its Name

Written on 2/6/11

Far removed from the hustle and bustle of Damascus, my visit to the city of Tadmor and its adjacent Palmyra ruins was a perfect two-day escape before the start of classes. The three and a half hour bus ride northeast through the Syrian Desert to the isolated oasis was enough to convince me that I’ve never used the phrase ‘in the middle of nowhere’ more appropriately. Between Damascus and Tadmor (translated as The City that Repels) there were only a few small villages and a couple of Bedouin sheep-herders.

Arriving after dusk and planning to save the 3rd century B.C. ruins for the following day, my travel companion, Tristan, and I decided to stroll about town to get a feel for the place and grab a bite to eat. After escaping the taunts of many touts and hagglers we stopped at a small café for bread, hummus and, as always, black tea. Like in a Damascus cafe, everyone focused intently on the images of the Egyptian uprising on t.v.

The city of about fifty thousand—eighty percent of whom descend from Bedouin—was evidently rundown. It is the home of Syria’s most visited tourist attraction, Palmyra, which has drawn fewer and fewer tourists since 9-11 (that would explain the desperation in the voices of those trying in earnest to attract us to their shops and stands; the inclusion of Syria in the so-called “Axis of Evil” doesn’t help their cause). A decline in visitors coupled with highly fluctuating amounts of precipitation from year to year has nearly crippled the already distressed economy’s two primary industries, tourism and agriculture. Despite the lack of vibrancy in the economy and infrastructure, the city and people still had a charm about them.

On our way back to al-fundouq ashams, the small hotel where we negotiated the price of 900 Syrian Pounds ($18) for two nights in a double room, a group of locals sitting around a small fire invited us to sit and chat. As if we had known the men and two children our entire lives, we  talked all night as the air got chillier and the stars got brighter. Over warm, sweet camel milk we discussed politics, history and the reasons I’m studying their language. And of course, me being me, I stressed the importance of education to Khalid and Muhammad, the two ten-year-olds playing with a homemade slingshot. Happily they go to school five days a week where they are in the early stages of studying English, among other things. It was a wonderful opportunity to practice the language and be acquainted with the most hospitable people imaginable. As the night got late and we were about to depart Hassan invited us to his house for dinner the following evening.

After a tiring day of walking through the expansive, decaying ruins at Palmyra, Tristan and I met our hosts at the agreed time—sunset—and were fast on our way. Hassan’s nephew Amin drove us hastily through the busy streets on his motorcycle while ignoring the few traffic signs and using his horn as the only means of passing through an intersection (no slowing down or stopping, no turn signals, and no helmets). Safely we arrived to the delight of our stomachs as the smells in the kitchen were teasing our seemingly insatiable appetites.

Our entertainment for the night was Hassan’s beautiful one-and-a-half year old daughter, Shiam, who was born just two days before my goddaughter Emery. She quickly dove into the sweets that we had brought and indulged without restraint. Fixing a cabinet door that Shiam broke, Hassan told us that she blamed the incident on her sibling who happens to still be in her mother’s womb. Half a world away I couldn’t help but think about Emery and how similar the two are—always smiling and giggling but none too happy if things don’t always go their way.

Hassan’s wife and his friend’s wife prepared our meal, but they did not join our company in the sitting room. Women in this community and throughout much of the Arab world do the cooking and housework while the males are responsible as breadwinners. The women eat separately when guests are present.

The chicken and rice tagine was good and I did not want to let him down, but I was beyond full. Yet, long after everyone was finished eating I was still shoveling spoonfuls in my mouth, as it is the Arab custom to continue feeding a guest until the food is gone. It is the responsibility of the guest to eat all of what is offered to confirm that the food is good. Eventually I gave in to my body’s absolute rejection and Hassan seemed content. Throughout the rest of the night we sat around and chatted while playing with a few kids that came over. Hassan showed us a load of pictures, including those of family members, hunting excursions in the desert mountains, trips to Jordan and Egypt, and pictures from over a decade ago of him sitting around a fire on the side of a street against a wall in the same fashion as when we encountered him.

The experience that Hassan provided us has been every bit as memorable as the incredible ancient ruins that sit a mile from his house. It was one of those magical personal events when the stars are all aligned permitting me to walk down that street at that particular time and into Hassan’s warm hospitality. It is moments like these that one realizes humans, the 99.9 percent of us regular folks, want the same general things in life no matter where we are from or where we are going.

Post Script:  I asked some of the men if they would like to send a message to Americans who may not know much about their culture and daily activities. They were more than happy to do so and shared what they had to say. I will translate their correspondences in due time and send the video and text to a friend for edits and subtitles. I will post the videos as soon as I can, inshaa allah.

PHOTOS COMING SOON!