the wild east

There were two things at the top of my Syrian sightseeing list: castles (check) and the Euphrates. The latter is dissertation-inspired. If I study international river politics and focus on the Middle East, it's the top candidate for a case study. Also, I can't quite shake that fifth grade social studies class about the Fertile Crescent and the "Cradle of Civilizations." I figured I might as well see it in person.

So, I abandoned the (relatively) well-trodden tourist path and headed East. As I got further from Aleppo, a suspicion became a certainty: Damascus is not Syria. The East is mostly rural agricultural communities: poor, more conservative dress (for women and men), more Bedouin, and more 4-legged transport.

In Deir ez-Zour, where I spent the night, I couldn't have stood out more if I had grown a second head. It's a larger city, so there is more activity and fewer veils. But single, American females there are not. Being a curiosity had some interesting consequences. Lots of stares, but little hassling. Free peaches in the market and a free cab ride!

Plus plenty of attention from the police. As soon as we arrived at the Deir ez-Zour terminal, I was escorted off my bus and into a cubicle for questioning. The interrogations weren't aggressive or hostile; this is simply how foreign travel in Syria works. But the list of questions does get longer once you leave the Damascus-Aleppo corridor. In addition to the usual "where are you coming from, where are
you going, what are your mother and father's names," this time I got "why are you here, how long will you stay, and in what hotel?"

Happily, I hadn't done anything illegal. Yet. Saved that for the next day, when I broke into some historic monuments.

Really, it wasn't my fault. I got an early start for Deir Europos, an ancient town on the banks of the Euphrates, about 50 km from the Iraqi border. Heading south-east, the landscape got progressively bleaker: flatter, browner, and rockier. A thick haze half-blocked the sun, giving everything a wan, sickly look. Just as I was thinking, "Can it get any more deserted or desolate?" the bus slowed. The driver gestured towards some dark lumps in the distance: "Deir Europos."


To my sanity's credit, I did consider immediately catching the next bus back to town. But I had come to see the Euphrates and, by God, that's what I was going to do!

I started walking. Happily, the haze dulled the heat. The lumps slowly resolved into broad walls and an impressive stone tower, with a locked iron gate. An unmanned ticket office stood in an empty parking lot. A man unlocked the gate and emerged from the ruins. He told me the booth would open at 9:00 a.m. It was 8:15.

"Can I pay on the way out?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You need a ticket."
"It's just a piece of paper."
"Those are the rules."
"And he'll be here at 9:00?"
"Maybe. But it's a weekend."
"It's Tuesday!"
"Yes. The weekend for museums."
I curse the French. "But Palmyra is open on Tuesdays."
He shrugs.
I try for a bribe: "Don't you work here? You have keys to
the gate. Couldn't I pay you?"
"No. I don't have the tickets."

I resisted the urge to either pull out my hair or throttle him and make a run for it. Instead, I stomped off along one of the walls, certain that I'd just had the stupidest conversation of my life. Eventually, I rounded a bend, and saw another gate. Secret police be damned. I hopped the fence.

Inside there was...nothing. A few foundations and pits. Bound and determined to get my river view, I trekked across the scrub and rubble, climbed a small rise and, finally, there was the Euphrates. I snapped some photos and ate a victory peach.


Walking back, I discovered the main gate had been relocked and the guardian was nowhere to be found. Undeterred, I climbed back out of the ruins. Left a couple of coins by the entrance; never let it be said that I cheated the Syrian ministry of antiquities!

The ride back to town was happily uneventful.