Open Writing

After lingering on in Aleppo so long I was short of time than to do much more than return to Egypt via Damascus and Amman. I didn’t want to return just the same way I had travelled up there so I decided to make a detour to Lattakia, on the western coast of Syria. One of my colleagues had recommended it to me.

I had wondered why as The Lonely Planet described it as tacky and other travellers I’d met didn’t think much of it either. The problem with the place is that you can’t see the sea because it’s blocked by the ugliest concrete harbour I have ever seen. Apart from the places I had already been to in Syria, the next obvious choice would have been Palmyra, an apparently breath-taking set of ruins set in a desert in the middle of the country.

Actually, though, I deliberately decided not to see Palmyra because I have enough desert here in Egypt and I already felt over-saturated by ruins (and had no more room left on my camera’s SIM card!). I also wanted to go to place where there weren’t so many foreign tourists, thinking it would be more interesting to see the real social relations between people and also I think people are generally more friendly and welcoming in non-foreign places.

I was not disappointed. My train journey there was great in itself. The scenery was as amazing as my guide book promised it would be (just a shame about the smears on the windows), and I met really kind people. At one station the train stopped for a while and so I got out to buy tea. Typically, although the seller told me there was no sugar in it, he actually meant there was no EXTRA sugar. Sugar came automatically (and not just one spoon!) I therefore gave mine to a sweet old man sitting opposite me. He spoke no English but looked extremely grateful. He actually got up and if I am not mistaken he bowed to me. For the rest of the journey he nodded respectfully in my direction and just before he got off he presented me with a rich pile of juicy fresh figs (yum!!)

Opposite me were quite a poor looking family. The child tried to grab my snacks. I was eating dried apricot things wrapped in plastic. They looked like sweets I suppose. Eventually, to shut him up, I gave him one. Oh dear. His teeth were not developed enough to chew it and suck as he might the apricot got no smaller. His hands also got very sticky. I felt very embarrassed by the end of the incident (which ended with the child throwing the apricot on his father’s knee!) and the father shouted at his son. He showed no resentment towards me however, and gave me a bag full of local apples and plums in return for my apparent kindness (I felt very guilty for accepting such a kind gift in return for a measly dried apricot which caused only mess).

The kindness continued. My taxi driver told me I could pay what I liked and switched his meter off (which, I told him, was going too quickly). He also handed me an apple from his dashboard as a gift.

I stayed on the roof of Hotel Safwan; not the most hygienic place, and it was so windy that I had to pin my things down to prevent them from flying off. The owner spoke good English though and had lots of really helpful information. Also, I was the only person there so I had the place to myself.

The city itself was as ugly as it had been described but that was not my reason for going. Instead of lingering round the tired shops, I took a microbus to Kassab, a sweet village in the cool mountains, near the coast and on the Turkish border. I discovered it was an Armenian village, as when I thanked a sweet shop owner for her kind gift (yet more gifts!) of some Turkish delights, she informed me quite sharply that they were NOT Turkish delights, but Armernian delights and that the secret recipe had actually originated in Armenia, NOT Turkey..Oooops! They tasted like Turkish delights anyway. As well as Turkish, sorry, Armenian delights, the village is famous for its laurel soap which I am still using.

From this village I walked 10 km to the coast. My aim had been to hitch a lift but as a woman alone I was reluctant. The first part of the walk was very steep, uphill, so I gave in and stuck my thumb out. The only vehicle which stopped and which had a trustworthy-looking driver behind the wheel, was not going all the way to my destination of Al Samra, but at least the kind old man took me to the top of the steep hill. After that, it was downhill all the way. It was such a lovely walk through the mountains, past many farms and apple and peach orchards; a real treat after polluted, industrial Cairo.

The coast was breathtaking when I finally arrived. I was so glad I had chosen this spot rather than Palmyra. Although this might have been the obvious tourist sight fo rthe average Western traveller, after living in Cairo, I was longing for a change from the desert. Here the mountains were green and lush and the sea startlingly turquoise. Unfortunately I didn’t have chance to swim or stay too long, because I was more intent on securing a lift, as I didn’t like the prospect of hiking back up the steep mountain. I headed for the nearest open-air restaurant, on the cliffs, overlooking the sea and dropped a heavy hint to the first person I found who spoke English. Soon, I was whisked back up the mountains in a private minibus, with a family who had hired it for a family three-day mini-break.