Walden Wanderings:
A journey through the Middle East

by Stuart Hickox

Review Part 1
Review Part 2
Part 3: When we remember Zion

Desert Dirt Bike

If I had dared to let go of the speeding dirtbike, I would have slapped myself for being so stupid. But my risk-tolerance was already stretched, considering I was helmetless on a pocked gravel road behind a stranger at the wheel. My driver didn't seem concerned, and I doubt it was due to the additional protection his flowing headscarf would have provided in case of a wipe-out. My concern was more hypothetical and immediate. As I watched the town's light fade into the blackness of the Syrian desert night, I had only the stars to guide me in case I needed to escape. It had been a long day.

Just a few hours earlier I was in Aleppo, Syria's second largest city. I needed a break, so I hopped on a bus for the tiny desert towns of the east. Der ez-Zor was my first stop. It was small, even by Syrian standards, and about as close as you can get to Iraq without getting nervous. Arriving in the muddy town was a shock. I appeared to be the only Westerner, and the "hotels" were the worst I had seen on my Mid-East adventure. The best I could find was a four-room joint with doors that would not close, and a horrible excuse for sanitation. Even factoring in my cultural bias, the only conclusion even a local would make is: Dump.

So I retreated to the streets with day-pack and notebook, figuring I'd walk until my body could no longer object to climbing between buggy sheets. It wasn't long before I found myself in a coffee house - a cinderblock gymnasium-sized room lit with fluorescents, packed with middle-aged men drinking stiff Turkish coffee, smoking argileh and competing at backgammon. Within a few minutes I was surrounded by men offering coffee, deep inhales from the waterpipe, and limited conversation. It was all friendly, if somewhat difficult: "Welcome in Syria!", "You Canadese, very good, yes?"

One guy in particular kept grabbing my arm, saying, "You come my house, English. English. Yes? Very good, Mr. Canada Dry." (Apparently the only soft drink available in this town was Canada Dry, so my arrival seemed something of a flesh-and-blood corporate manifestation). He seemed nice, and I had witnesses. In the international language of winks and nods, no one gave me reason to fear this guy. I thought of my crappy hotel, and decided to take my chances with local hospitality.

I guess I could have said no when I saw the dirtbike. But I piled on and off we went. Fifteen minutes later I was hopelessly lost. We pulled up next to a series of small concrete houses that appeared out of nowhere from behind a craggy hill. It was dark. We were alone. I was scared stiff.

Then the kids came running out, followed by a beautiful woman dressed in a full-length embroidered gown and white head scarf. My host took my hand and led me into the warmth and light of his modest desert home. Allah Akbar!

I spent the next two days living with this little family. Mahmoud's motives were honest; he wanted me to teach English to his kids. We spent long hours drawing with rocks on the stucco walls, exchanging words: Sun, moon, tree, house, car … Once all the tangibles were out of the way, there were tougher words: Air, wind, peace, God … The scratchy God image ended up looking a lot like the one for sun. I rewarded my student's patience with balloon animals, but I got much more in return. I often wonder what those kids are up to now, and if they can get Pepsi there yet.

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Watch for Part Five, coming soon.

stuart@accolade.ca