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)
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Shephard In Eastern Syria |
