first days in damascus.

After landing in Beirut, S. and I drove into Damascus. Everyone drives like mad-men and hardly a lick of English or French. The money changers near the border laugh at me when I ask which organization they are soliciting donations for. Hezbollah, of course. The guards at the border are friendly – Swedish passports means we have no trouble getting into the country.

Syria is much more relaxed than Cairo where police and soldiers were everywhere. Rumour is that the new government is on a much more democratic path than the previous, opening up slivers of the Syrian market and culture. However, since S. lives near the President’s house, we regularly see plain clothed ‘secret service’ everywhere. After misguidedly taking pictures of a memorial at night, one of them walks up to us and opens his black suit jacket to reveal an army print holster and heavy gun.

I spent one night in the Muhajreen division where S. lives. It sprawls across the Kassioun Mountain. It is beige and dry and ragged. In the morning, we run along the highway snaking up to the mountain. The streets are steep enough that I get mild vertigo looking down. Corner stores and bakeries dotted between low cement apartments. Overall, Damascus is not a beautiful city: the communist feel of dark grey highrises permeates what might have been charming. The mosques are lit neon green, detracting from the potential of white washed stone.

I found a room in the Old City through one of the many small businesses catering to foreign students learning Arabic. It’s beautiful – sun streaming through in the morning, a warm white-washed terrace for my morning cup of coffee. The neighbors children roam the narrow cobbled streets in the evening, playing with soccer balls, chains and dolls. The streets are small and windy; a heart beat and I’m lost. It reminds me of the charm of Stone Town in Zanzibar.