To enter Syria I crossed the Anti-Lebanon mountains from Zahle, with one of the longest no-man-land stretches between border posts. It was so long that I started thinking that I must have missed the Syrian entry post, which would have been a drag after the sweaty climb I had made since leaving the Lebanese post. But I eventually found the accomodating Syrian border officials who stamped me in for a second visit to the Republic. By early afternoon I descended from the hills into the dusty chaos and clouds of honking exhaust clattering about modern Damascus, and found accomodation on a roof mattress of a downtown hotel where mosquitos, early prayer calls and the noise of the capital's traffic kept me company. Although I've been living in a city for the past 8 years or so, I felt a bit claustraphobic in the Damascene urban miasma. Like anywhere with economic challenges there were too many people chasing the same nut - people selling packets of batteries on every corner and overpass, or mechanical mice or balloons with propellers. So much time invested for so few transactions at so small a profit. Also, the police were regularly breaking up the unlicensed street vendors. Twice I saw the dash and scramble of merchandise trays quickly covered and slid under metal doors while the vendors scattered from the swooping police. Another time I saw an officer stomping through cardboard boxes of goods, which made me angry, particularly in the pleasure he seemed to take in the destruction permitted him by his authority.

So the big Damascus drawcards are all relatively close to each other in the old town, including the mannequin-populated Azem Palace. I have never been to a hamman - and some would say I am thereby missing an essential middle eastern experience. I am just not into the idea of paying someone to wash and scrape me - but now I have an idea how they work after having visited this colorful display of the hamman in the Azem Palace. This appears to be the ear-cleaning portion of the bath. (4/6/05) *

The Christian quarter in Damascus's old town had a different feel than the rest of the city, and the burqas, body suits and mosques gave way to free-flowing hair, dresses and Chaldean cathedrals. This was also the part of town with the fine dining options - and at Syrian prices these were all readily affordable luxuries. Similar to the rest of the country, museum-piece cars still ramble in good health along the streets. It's still a strange sight for me, coming from a land where we trade in our cars almost as often as our disposable razors. (4/6/05) *

The Ummayad mosque in Damascus has a history that predates Mohammad (having been used for pagan worship of Hadad, the god of Sun and Thunder) and is supposed to be second in religious importance only to Mecca (although another source lists it as being fourth in importance). But what I found strange about so venerated a mosque was the ease of access for infidels such as myself - although I was required to enter by way of a special infidel portal where a toll was collected. The mosque is gigantic and there were thousands of segregated men and women listening to the imam giving readings from the Koran. What is pictured here is only a small part of the complex, the shrine of John the Baptist's head - which was not on display. (4/5/05)

A handful of isolated Christian communities are sprinkled in the Syrian desert mountians - these are so old that some still speak Aramaic, the language of both Jesus Christ and B.P.'s tattoo. In crossing the mountains ringing the north of Damascus I stopped briefly at the Saydnaya Convent where the holy Chagoura - an icon of reputedly powerful healing and protective properties - awaits the many visits it receives from faithful pilgrims. My interest in seeing the icon stemmed from its rarity - it is one of only four icons of the Virgin that were painted by St. Luke the Evangelist - and I was really curious to see another side of his artistic output. After removing my shoes I entered the pitch black darkness of the chapel room that housed the icon, illuminated only by a wooden stand of crackling votive candles, with my only company a steadily praying nun clothed head to toe in black. It was exceptionally difficult to make out the icon in the darkness - unlike the mosaics elsewhere in the convent - such as those pictured here. Supposedly the spot where Cain killed Abel is also not too far from here. Modern claims to Biblical history are interesting geographically - supposedly the Garden of Eden is somewhere in modern Bahrain - which would mean quite a trek for the first brothers to the killing field in Syria. (4/7/05) *

Later that day I cooled my heels at Maloula, a small Aramaic speaking Christian village carved like a little piece of blue and white cross-topped Greece into the mountain cliffs. After giving one of the sisters a donation in an amount that I calculated to be the equivalent of a cheap hotel room (hey, I'm no freeloader - most of the time) I spent the night sleeping at the Convent of St. Tekla surrounded by black robed nuns wearing black woolen hats that were shaped like crusader helmets. My favorite part was the evening prayer call in Aramaic. Similar to the mosques, the convent broadcast an evening call that echoed against the cliffs, but it was sung in a call and answer form by two nuns with beautiful voices. There was a narrow canyon passage behind the convent that can only be compared to the siq at Petra, except that it was covered in defacing graffiti. The next morning I awoke to the sounds of busloads of Syrian christian pilgrims who were giving the convent gift shop a good deal of trade in icon reproduction purchases. (4/7/05)

Almost all of my travels in Syria (the second time) have led me through deserts, the more interesting of which were at higher altitudes. This photo was taken just outside of Maloula when I was still at a pretty decent altitude. On the desert floor it was nothing but a flat sandbox extending to the horizon, with the exception of one day where I went through the Badlands of Syria. The day of riding after Maloula to Homs was one of the best of the trip with gorgeous mountain and desert scenery and a tailwind that was the stuff of legends. I was pushed HARD by those winds down the neverending grade to the Orontes plains with shoulders as broad and smooth as a boulevard, and spent most of the ride above 50 km/h, and even broke the speed record that had been set seasons ago in Spain (by a slight .6 km/h), so that it now stands at an even 79 km/h. What was key in allowing these speeds was having the descent carry down roads straight as a city grid - no twists or turns that required braking. Still have not hit the triple-digit ride - that may never come. (4/7/05) *

The 160+ km ride from Homs to Palmyra began with rolling hills through grassy countryside under rain clouds with a spattering of rain - enough to cool me and not so much as to drench me. This fertile patch in the water-harvested Orontes valley abrubtly terminated in the late morning and opened to a strech of rocky desert expanse broken only by a narrow two lane highway. Motorcyclists with red checkered headcoverings repeatedly slowed to try to talk with me and occasionally motioned offers to push or pull me. Offers with which I was by then familiar. Just for kicks I had taken up one of these offers the first time I was in Syria, where the motorcylist's passenger and I locked hands while the driver accelerated, but this experiment lasted for less than a kilometer before the arrangement became more and more unstable due to unwise speeds of the driver, and I let go. Besides, this is all about peddle power. But back to the desert. In the beginning there is something exciting about the reality of the desert, which for me is mediated by childhood stories of the desert, flying carpets, hundreds and hundreds of nights of arabian stories, and camel-riding nomads. The reality is something different but remarkable - particularly the hospitality of the people. It is so freely given, so generous and welcoming as to at times be overwhelming. Pictured here is one of many people who whistled me over for offers of tea, hand rolled cigarettes and any food that happened to be around, with nothing expected in return except the exchange of conversation. I should have brought an arabic phrase book, because I was really only able to engage in the ritual of conversation - the exchange of mutually unintelligible sounds. (4/9/05) *

Toward the middle of the afternoon on the desert ride from Homs, what had seemed magical upon first sight became a stretch of monotonous difficulty with far too many kilometers remaining until I reached the Palmyra oasis. I bonked hard after riding all afternoon in the heat and was feeling extremely naseated when I reached my hotel - so naseated that shortly after checking into my room I actually did ralph in the sink. One thing that was weird for me was seeing all the signs to Iraq and to Baghdad along the way. Everything was perfectly tranquil and orderly here, but just a couple days' cycle ride away in the same stretch of desert across an arbitrary border some serious chaos is taking place every day. But anyway, I stayed to the left on this fork. (4/9/05) *

The desert still has some strange forms of life, mainly these hideous giant black dung beetles, monsters of the insect world. I actually saw one rolling a ball of desert feces - sick. I also saw lots of sand-colored birds that had a head shaped like a cardinal and flitted sharply rather than the slow soaring of most birds. There was also a fair amount of squashed mammals with needles on their backs, but they looked too small to be porcupines. Finally, I also saw one giant bird of prey. The camels at Palmyra, like beasts of burden at tourist sites the world over, lead an unenviable life of beatings from their heartless owners. How could you hit something as charming as this guy? (4/10/05) *