Take Me to Your Ruins

When I arrived in Damascus on (Western) Easter, a few questions nagged at my brain (aided by the fact that I have written several papers now about the connections between archaeology, museums, modernity and nationalism): Why is it that people celebrate dead civilizations? Why do tourists tramp across the world to look at the remains of lives 1000 and 2000 years gone when there are contemporary people, very much alive, who are equally fascinating to ogle? And do the countries themselves promote this vision of their ancient past at the expense of their contemporary present?

Well, for one thing, ruins are nifty and awfully photogenic. And when a country is one as dripping with the remnants of ancient civilizations as is Syria, it's difficult for tourists to do more than arrive and request of their hosts/hotels/selves: Take me to your ruins. And I did just that.
Thus, my first full day in Syria was an epic "day" trip (which ended up taking over ten hours) to the equally beautiful, historic and abandoned sites, Krak des Chevaliers and Palmyra. The first was begun in 1031 AD, the second dates to the second century, and that is about all of the information I took from the tour.

First, the site locals endearingly call the Krak:



A couple hours drive from Damascus, we (a group of 8 from my hostel, and a driver of course) came through a series of wild flower-strewn green valleys before we caught sight of what is alternately described as a castle, a citadel and a fortress. I'm not sure which of these is the best translation for "krak," but whatever the terminology, the buildings are great fun since tourists are allowed to climb all over them, even to ascend to the roof. There were no explanatory placards, so I can only report that the place is majestic and the views spectacular. Since I had with me a highly entertaining travel tripod, I was able to take photos of myself to display my elevated levels of dorkiness.

The town stretched across a hill below the Krak looked lovely, but we didn't have time to explore it because we hurried off to our next historic site. Seeing women hang their wash not 100 yards from the ruins added another question to my list: At what point to historic monuments lose their appeal? This woman, scrupulously ignoring the Krak (and the tourists) as she hangs tee shirts to dry in the sun, may have no interest left in the history here at all. She's got more important things to worry about whereas I, the interepid tourist, do not.


That's not entirely true - I worried about lunch until I was served some of the best babaganough I've ever eaten at the tourist restaurant next to the Krak. And they gave me free bananas for desert. Score!

The drive to Palmyra was long and hot. I fell asleep a few times, aided by the fact that once we left the green valleys of the Krak-area, the road stretched through desert and sand and desert again, although in the far distance loomed a few snow-capped mountains. Supposedly our driver almost fell asleep during that time, which event prompted one girl on the tour to ask him repeatedly whether he wanted some coffee. I don't know whether there was any truth to her allegations - I was asleep too.

When we finally arrived in Palmyra, it was almost sunset and we had only 15 minutes until closing time. We raced through the site, frantically snapping photos and stumbling over stones and camels. From what I managed to decipher from the monologue of an Italian guide, I can report that the place is very old and there's some stuff written on the wall over there, next to the thing with the stuff.







Here I am, dwarfed by some ruins:

Our frantic visit was cut even shorter by the collective desire to see the sunset from higher ground. Everyone piled back into the van and we hurried up the nearby hill to catch the very tail end of day.



There was another fortress/castle/citadel-type structure atop that hill, but I never did find an entrance so I adjusted my attention to the town below, to which some locals were descending by tripping down the sandy hill. While looking down, I noticed this small boy who was trying to peddle postcards. Since I have mentioned kifeyyas before, I thought I would offer an example of the correct way to wear one. The scarf is not meant to hang limply around the neck of a hipster, but is in fact intended for the head of an individual such as this one.



Extra points if that head belongs to an actual Arabic speaker, and double extra points for being completely adorable.