Day 11: Aleppo - "Where are you from?"

One of the things that caught my eye on the streets of Aleppo was a new style of chadhor I had never seen before. We've all seen the ninja, the semi-penguin, the nun and the simple headscarf in action. But out and about in Aleppo, even in the baking heat, I have been seeing a lot of women who are not only clad in black from head to toe but also have opaque black veils draped over their faces and even black gloves on their hands. The effect is to conjure the impression of a wraith from a horror movie or one of the demons from Silent Hill. It is actually a little creepy seeing women dressed like that, not in a judgemental manner or remotely anything to do with women's liberation - it is just flat out weird when you pass a woman on the street who is dressed as I would imagine lepers were in the Middle Ages. All skin covered, not even eyes visible, all black. I even saw one such lady holding a mobile phone to the side of her veil and wearing sunglasses over the covering. Luckily I didn't laugh, but Cousin It from the Addams Family sprang to mind.

Anyway, I began my day resting comfortably in the lounge of the hotel, reading my book. Once Amir was up, we headed over to the Citadel, a huge fortress that appears as if out of nowhere as you walk through the narrow streets of the Old City. It isn't visible from the modern sharias of Aleppo but rather appears suddenly, like a mirage. The Citadel is very well preserved and also features an immaculately tiled mosque with a beautiful stained glass dome, the only part of the ruin to have been fully restored. After the Citadel Amir and I sat down for a tea and formulated a plan. He and I both intended to see the same countries, and since doubles are cheaper than singles and we made each other laugh, we decided to throw in together for the forseeable future of our respective journeys. First thing first, we decided to leave for Lattakia, the city by the sea, on the 06:45 train the following morning. We broke up the huddle so that I could go see the souks.

The souks of Aleppo have been declared a wonder of the world by everyone from Lonely Planet to Nick Danziger, the author of the book I'm reading at the moment. They sure are big, but other than the number of shops, there is nothing significantly different or unique about the Aleppo souks to distinguish them from others I've been to. Having said that, I wasn't in the market for anything, and it would seem only fair to point out that judging a souk is only accurate when you've actually been shopping in it.

After the souk I went to meet Ahmad and Amir for dinner. We ate at a restaurant called Kan Zaman, somewhere in the labyrinth of tiny winding streets that constitutes the back alleys of Aleppo. On the way back to the hotel we stumbled across an Armenian club dedicated to the poet Takian (I think I spelt it right). A lovely lady, Mrs. Sarkissian, who was Jordanian but married to an Armenian, walked us through the exhibition that was on in the back room. I learned that Armenia was the first country to adopt Christianity as the official religion and that the Armenian alphabet has 36 letters and, along with Hebrew, is the alphabet considered closest to Assyrian.

Following our unexpected tour through Armenia's history, we reached the top of Bab al-Faraj, the street next to the enormous and ungodly Sheraton hotel. Bab al-Faraj is distinguished by a beautiful clock tower which, until recently, served as the pick-up point for prostitutes in Aleppo. Getting sick of the curb-crawling, the police moved the hookers on and they haven't returned yet. The clock tower also recently was the site of a very public execution. Five men aged 18 to 23 were hanged at 5am for crimes ranging from extortion and murder to child abuse. The bodies were left twisting in the wind from 5am to 11am to ensure that as many people as possible saw the wages of sin. Crime has since dropped, Ahmad told us.

As we walked down Bab al-Faraj, a small guy in a baseball hat flanked by what can only be described as two goons popped up out of nowhere.

"Welcome in Syria," he said amiably.

"Thank you."

"Where are you from?"

At this point, Amir got what he later told me was a tingling of his spider sense. It is important to note at this point that, while difficult to enforce fully, it is officially against the law for Syrians to socialise with foreigners unless they work at hotels or are registered tour guides. Amir nudged me and then answered the question.

"Turkish," he said, indicating himself.

"English," I said.

Amir pointed at Ahmad. "Indian."

Ahmad remained conspicuously silent. Baseball Hat and his goons fish-eyed us for a moment.

"Why are you in Syria? Tourism? Business?"

"Tourism," we chorused.

I noticed that Ahmad's grip on his bag of pistachios had tightened considerably.

Baseball Hat chin-lifted at Ahmad. "You are Indian?"

"He doesn't speak English," Amir said.

"Yeah," I joined in, slipping in a wink at Ahmad. "It's a real pain in the ass."

There was a silence filled with potential. Baseball Hat nodded. "Have a good night and welcome in Syria."

We thanked the denizens of Syria's secret police and repaired to the roof terrace of the hotel tout fucking suite. It was only there that Ahmad told us about the law regarding Syrians and foreigners. My conversation with the British couple from the previous day sprang to mind.