Then there was the weekend flea market. On Saturday mornings, especially, just near the bridle sellers and just back from the freeway, a couple of city blocks gave way to weekend trading. Cars and vans appeared from everywhere and disgorged all manner of unwanted goods that might produce a little ready cash. Packed crowds rummaged through piles of old clothes. There was the odd live bird sitting alongside battered old brass plates, ottoman-style brass lamps and long-disabled brownie box cameras. There were books, old radios, glassware, magazines, old record players and some vinyl discs, spectacles, footwear, foodstuffs, coffee beans, old prints and pictures. In a couple of the covered ways, groups of men drank short black Turkish coffees while crashing their backgammon pieces or playing cards in the local noisy fashion.
This was the weekend in Sarouja, a few short steps from Hamidiyeh but a big reminder that the real Syria was still present and, because of that, a place to visit constantly because there was always something new to learn.
Eid Al-Adhar (the Feast of the Sacrifice that recalls Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his own son) is one of the great Muslim holidays. One of its many features is that almost all barber shops remain open, because the practice is to visit them and pay extra for the privilege as a mark of thanks and respect. On Day Two of this Eid, in a little square on Al-Seikeh in Souk Sarouja, Hussam was one of the many barbers open that day when almost all other shops were closed.
Barbers have long traditions in most cultures, of course, and Islam is no exception in that there are connections between practice and belief, but with some Syrian twists. Clearly, men need to perform this task on other men because of rulings on contact with women (although in more modern days men do work as hairdressers for women). Then, it is supposedly forbidden for barbers to completely shave a beard, although these days clearly not all Muslim men maintain a beard. As Egypt went through its 2010-12 changes, there were reports of Salafis visiting barber shops to encourage more modernist proprietors against shaving beards. The Salafis, often paired with the Wahhabis, support the teachings of the original Islamic principles, and it is these groups that are generally labelled as "fundamentalists". Strictly speaking, they are "originalists" but, even so, have become identified with the use of violence—Wahhabis were allegedly behind the mid-May 2012 killing of the Sayyida Ruqayya mosque's imam. In much earlier times, barbers also bled people as part of medical treatment. Thankfully, that is no longer the case and definitely not on the agenda this day.
The Barber had a customer in the chair, and another talking companion, along with several fish in an immaculate aquarium, a parrot in one cage and several canaries in another. The conversation was fast and furious, but I was welcome to join the queue. People came and went, money changed hands, and the styling went on. There was sterilising equipment and Hussam washed his hands frequently. Scissors and razors flashed. One man had what looked like blue plasticine already applied to his beard when I arrived, and was still sporting it when I left. I hope the effect was worth the effort.
It turned out that the man in the chair was the barber's brother who, like all other Damascenes, was keen to welcome a stranger now found in Sarouja. He spoke English having, he said, been poor at it in school so he went to formal classes later, then taught himself. This is a common and impressive characteristic that many foreigners wish they could accomplish with Arabic.
Where are you from?
Australia.
Ah, a very long way. Which hotel you are staying in? So you are not a tourist. Welcome. Where are you living? The Old City is very expensive, but it is very beautiful. Please, you must ring me if you need any help. You are most welcome to Syria, we must be sure you enjoy your stay.
His brother was an excellent cutter and followed the style given to Ahmad. It was all scissor and razor cut, apart from the beard that got the customary Arab treatment (trimmed, not shaved) in designer stubble style, so far as designer stubble can be achieved with a blonde, greying, fine-haired beard. But he left the overall shape immaculate, obviously used to fussy owners of beards. The neck was razored, the edges trimmed, the final effects finalised and the whole thing gelled. It was the perfect job.
The whole experience cost $5, and that included a very generous tip for the Eid holiday.
The Carriers
~
Early in the morning and late in the afternoon, the streets in and around the Old City souk complex are piled high with bags and packages in paper, cardboard and modern jute, ready for transport either to or from a trading destination. The small and under-powered Chinese Chang He vans that predominate in the city are then loaded to the gunwales, driving off with front wheels barely touching the road and engines protesting at being asked to carry so much.
All those bags and packages are delivered by a myriad of barrow men and boys who race in and out of crowds, somehow manoeuvring the handles of their metal framed, rubber wheeled trolleys so as to not maim passersby. The loads carried by some, including very young boys, are phenomenal, and they may be seen pulling or pushing these vast bulks through traffic from inside the souk, or going ever deeper into the labyrinthine inner recesses of the markets, emerging sometime later for their next deliveries.
For someone brought up in the west, this is pre-industrial. It is the modern manifestation of the trading impulse that has propelled Damascus from the time of its founding.
The city was blessed geographically from the outset. It was and to some extent remains an oasis. The once-flowing rivers combined with rich alluvial soils to produce a garden city on the edge of the desert, while backing into the Anti-Lebanon Mountains. That was a good beginning, but its precise location was always the real strength, and led to its significance and prosperity. Damascus was situated perfectly to dominate the east-west and north-south trade routes: Egypt to Arabia, Europe and Asia Minor through to Asia and principally, of course, all their spice and silk markets.24 In the mid-nineteenth century, it was common to see camel trains of 500-600 outside Bab Sharqi, having arrived from Baghdad in forty days during fair weather, perhaps up to seventy in the winter. Once Islam arrived the city became one of the main gateways to Mecca for the devout going on the Haj. As late as 1906 the Hijaz Railway Station was opened principally to convey Hajjis to the holy cities. Out to the east lay the fertile crescent created by the Tigris and the Euphrates, another food bowl that needed its products transported and consumed via the oasis city that distributed goods everywhere from there. That was Babylon.
Damascus effectively straddled the route from Europe to what became known as the Far East, as well as the cross-cutting routes that were as important. For that reason, Damascus grew and prospered as a trading city, and down through the ancient and medieval worlds witnessed the arrival and departure of the huge camel caravans. It became an entrepot city, as famous for its camel and horse bazaars as for its food and goods.
Just around from the house, in the sweet souk, Kamel Passage was named for the animal that in the old days helped move all those goods, and allowed all those people to work and prosper. A left turn from Kamel Passage into the souk leads up to the magnificent Khan As'ad Pasha. In the 1840s, A.A. Paton considered it the "handsomest" of all the Khans, the trading warehouses, the major venues for this trade and activity coming from far flung corners of the earth.25 But they were not prosaic buildings. Khan As'ad Pasha is a vast space with a soaring roof rising to a series of domes, the whole thing an architectural masterpiece. Built in the mid-eighteenth century by yet another member of the Azem family, it was the number one trading spot in the city. On its upper floors it provided accommodation for travellers, who could then descend to floor level to conduct their trade.
Many of the other surviving Khans are easily missed, but even now still carry on the trade that gave them life. A particularly evocative one runs off the Hamidiyeh souk just up from the Roman arch at the Mosque end. Now running in an L shape, it contains a string of shops carrying expensive up-market fabric, especially silks, dazzling colours and beaded designs f
lashing everywhere. As in centuries past, these silks come from around the world but especially China, a line unbroken now for over a thousand years. A glance away from the fabrics and up towards the roof reveals the origins: the vaulted domes and black and white, block-checked colours of the traditional trading centre. This is Khan Al Gumruk that dates from the very early seventeenth century, starting out as the customs centre but having traded continuously from the beginning.
The location of these Khans demonstrates just how central this activity was to Damascene life and prosperity. They were right in the middle of the main souk complexes, close to the opulent houses of the beneficiary officials and the mansions of the traders themselves. Many of these houses sit quietly awaiting restoration in the southern Muslim Quarter, immediately across Straight Street from the souks. These grandees could walk to work.
Many of their workers and suppliers, though, the predecessors of today's trolley men, lived further away, perhaps in Midan to the south or in Qanawat across from Bab Al Jabiye, or out in Souk Sarouja where the horse trade and horse supplies were located. Like any other society before or since there was an underclass, but they survived on the constant stream of work available so long as the caravans kept coming and going.
As times changed and the globe with it, so did Damascene fortunes and practices. In earlier days, for example, because of constant warfare and conflict, Damascus became renowned as a centre for swords and sabres, with Damascene steel the medieval forerunner of Wilkinson. It is still just possible to buy a later-period version of these finely bladed and elegantly shaped weapons, some still in their original decorated wooden sheaths, but the antiques dealers know their value.
At more mundane level, one constant was the dried fruit and nuts that emerged from the Ghuta orchards outside the city, along with other foods. Those orchards and gardens fed their respective souks until relatively recently. Early visitors reported that the trees and gardens were right up to the gates of the city on that side, out from Bab Touma and Bab Sharqi. They were what set Damascus in its paradise, the river water and the soil combining to create a guaranteed food supplier for those inside and just outside the walls. Supported by that, the merchants spurred the rise of "damask" and other fabrics, particularly threaded with gold, which became prize pieces in European markets, and helped feed the craze for "Orientalism" that Edward Said would later see as so influential in forming global perceptions of the Arab world.
Buying a Shirt
~
At a roughly pre-determined point, somewhere around forty eight hours, the conviction sets in that your bags will never emerge from the airline clutches. Somehow, that is strangely liberating, an unpredictable thought because although the laptop on which your life depends is with you, nothing else is, and the entire plans for the assignment have gone out the window or, more precisely, into a black hole known otherwise as lost luggage.
The point having arrived, however, it takes over. The first venture is into the souk for toothbrush, toothpaste and all the rest. Mission accomplished, and positively, because the ways and layout of the souk are becoming clearer. The next stage is more daunting, if only because shopping for clothes is a trial at the best of times. Those lost shirts were made in Penang, Malaysia by a tailor found years earlier and whose product is guaranteed. Trousers were found by trial and mostly error. One pair of shoes will do for now. Underwear? Now that is a nightmare.
The hotel clerk was helpful. Yes, it was the main Muslim holiday today but, no, not all shops would be shut.
"Can you find your way to Bab Touma?"
Yes, I think so.
Good, because in Bab Touma the Christian-owned shops will be open. Get to Bab Touma Square then continue over the bridge. Go straight, and you will find yourself in a street with several clothes shops. They will open from about ten a.m..
Fortified with an excellent Arabic breakfast, I set off. A bright, clear morning developed into a warm, pleasant day. The local area was calm, deserted, quiet, its Muslim inhabitants enjoying their holiday. A few restaurants and coffee shops were open, the city stirring slowly. I got to Bab Touma and its square, from here on it was terra incognita.
A little bridge led away from the square and the traffic, while not busy yet, fed into a one-way street that spirited as many vehicles as possible away from the Old City. I would get to know this area and route well in coming weeks, but for now it was a revelation. Unlike in the Old City just a few metres back, here were what counted locally as high rise buildings, in that they reached to four or five levels. The ever-present street vendors selling jeans, socks, shirts, jumpers (because winter is coming), jackets, hats and scarves were already out. The pick of them, though, were the mother and daughter, both in hijab, selling their intricate brocade work while sitting and sewing on a bench overlooking a small nature strip. Their work was exquisite, one of the local hallmarks and the real thing.
On the other side of the street, a much more twenty first century version of commerce awaited. Around ten a.m. the shutters rolled up to reveal shoes and fashion shops, the window dummies decked out in fashions that would look a la mode anywhere in the present world. The first problem was that there were too many of these shops and they looked too, well, "hip". How could I ever buy anything there that I would wear and feel comfortable? After two or three passes along the entire three blocks, I selected a candidate shop.
There was no particular reason for the choice. Nothing in the window set that shop apart. It displayed shirts and trousers, most looked too trendy but a couple of things appeared passable. That said, it did not look much of a shop and it was impossible to see what lurked inside. This always was a doomed expedition anyway, I would just have to make do for the next few months, but the experience would be interesting. I entered trepidatiously.
"Good morning sir."
He was in his 50s probably, neatly turned out and groomed, slight, hair receding.
"May we help you?"
Had he been watching Are You Being Served? Surely not.
I am not sure. My luggage has gone missing, I am due in the office the day after tomorrow and I need some clothes.
His English was excellent and he picked up the problem immediately.
"Sir, I am sure we have everything you will require."
The shop was very narrow so, from what was apparent, it was hard to see how that promise could be met. There seemed to be very little available.
"Some shirts first, sir?"
He suddenly shot round a corner to his left and disappeared. I had not seen that alcove but followed him, into a large space full of shirts in serried rows behind banks of showcases holding ties, cufflinks, even cummerbunds and pocket scarves. How had that happened?
He looked at me, measured my neck and headed over to a section of the shirts.
"This section should do sir."
We looked along the selection and it was, well, better than good, there was even a choice. Who would have thought that? Perhaps the expedition was not entirely doomed.
"If there is nothing here to your taste, sir, we do have more."
By now I was wary of making any more snap judgements, so said that it might be a good idea if we had a look at the "more."
"Of course sir."
He set off again and disappeared down a small staircase I had not noticed.
On the next floor down there was almost the Valhalla of clothes, because the entire floor mirrored upstairs, but without the interrupting showcases and all the rest. Suits, shirts, casual trousers, accessories, shoes, all burst out from cupboards and hangars and drawers.
An hour later I re-emerged on to the street, heading back to the Old City laden with four excellent shirts all made in Syria, three pairs of socks, two pairs of casual trousers, and five pairs of Turkish underpants. This level of purchase was rare for me, because I am usually hopeless in clothes shops, known to go into several in a row then go home unburdened. True, this was a desperate time but, even so....
Not that desp
erate, as it turned out. The next morning came a call from Royal Jordanian Airlines. My bag (complete with Penang shirts and all the rest) was at the airport, so if I would care to go out and retrieve it?
The steady project driver gave me a much calmer ride back to the airport than had the earlier cowboys involved on earlier fruitless expeditions out there in search of the bags. The man at the lost bags counter was very courteous.
"Please wait just a moment, sir, someone is coming to accompany you."
The question was where, I just needed to collect a bag.
A smartly dressed customs official burst out a door, gathered me up and took me back through whence he had come. We strode past security guards and customs agents, right back through to the immigration gates encountered upon arrival. No one looked at let alone stopped us. He took me into a busy but ordered office, and sat me down in a comfortable chair facing a row of four men at desks. One of them looked up, smiled.
"You are missing a bag?"
He stood up, beckoned me to follow him through a door behind him, and into a very large room with racks crammed with luggage. Without asking, he walked straight over grabbed my bag. He grinned:
"I was advised of your bag number while you were arriving."
That was impressive. I asked if all these bags were lost.
"Oh yes, sir, we have many bags that lose themselves."
Who could argue with that?
"Luckily, though, most of them find their way back to us."
These, then, were the most animate bags I had yet encountered.
He then took me back through the maze of corridors to the main hall.
"We apologise that your bag was delayed, sir, but hope its return helps make up for some of that inconvenience."
A House in Damascus - Before the Fall Page 7
