The Writer is Out There.

WOLF MUSIC

During the reign of the sun, the cockerals' occassional call is the accent to the constant melody of pigeon's lulling and the human noise of passion. But as the deep colour of the night sets in, dogs, or, in my mind, wolves, howl and yap and bark in a thousand pitches and rhythms. For five minutes, it's all  you can hear, and still, in the aftermath, their sounds break forth afresh every now and then.

— 

Some wild thing in the wind drove me, in the silence of the Meditation Hour, to play a thousand airs to the stars, perched on the terrace wall above the valley – covering the top part of the whistle, so that only a breathy, private tune would carry through the breeze. After a while, something stilled, and for hours, I watched the stars.

And, as the sun peeks through the mountains, and I nestle in a wind-free groove of rock, it's an incredible feeling, letting the music from my soul reverberate around me for several seconds. I know that I'm alone, but I know that everyone can hear, and wonder if they know it's me.

Playing music here isn't like playing elsewhere. If I don't play, I become this grumpy, ugly monster that nobody can stand. But somehow, playing in the mountains, and, once discovered, with the others, takes me beyond friendly normality to something even better

—

Toby discovers me with whistle in hand, and later that evening, we duck into the church for some guitar-whistle improv, which was cool.

And once it becomes known, he, Shadi and I form a trio, and others gather round as we produce a folk-funk-blues-rock mix for all. I wish that I'd paid more attention to theory, or at least been more adventurous when it came to improvising, a thing I've rarely felt the need to do, and rarely had success with. I am pants.

—

Music is a language everyone can understand. A wild, ancient, untameable tongue. For a couple of people who speak barely more English than I do Arabic, the whistle and the reedy Arabic flute were the start of our relationships. For some, just trying to play the whistle produced a wall of laughter… I could not produce a sound from the flute; it's harder than the digeridoo. For a while, some of us tried to imitate one another's phrases, which, given scale and fingering differences was a comical near-impossibility. Playing together was mostly a painful mess which ended in pools of giggling.

—

Here is one place I cannot avoid potential embarrasment for someone. I hope he doesn't mind the praise. Shadi is the most incredible musician – music is his reason for being. You can see it in the way his posture and expression change with drums to hand or a melody or rhythm in his head. And when he plays, something which is otherwise bound is suddenly set free.

—

RELIGIOUS REVELATION.

The church, which holds deep history and beauty within, has the most incredible energy, which buzzes across your skin as you walk through the door. It's caring, it's calm, it's lively. It feels like a comfortable friend; one who's older and wiser, but a friend nonetheless. It's an all-encompassing place; a place where you can read, relax, pray, make music, and have pillow fights.

Mass is a beautiful, intimate thing. The churches of the Western world could learn a thing or two (although, probably, some of my father's crew would die of shock if you tried to impart such wisdom upon them). Doing away with the stiff rows of seating, here, everyone sits as they like, where they like, on the floor, with candles,cushions and blankets if they desire.

The service is in a mix of languages, to suit the needs of the people who attend wherever possible. And the whole thing is much more relaxed and free than anything I'm used to, yet somehow, it is much more genuine. There's nobody here out of guilt or reluctant duty, nobody dragged by their family unwillingly.

Incidentally, my room was right above the church, and on lazier mornings, I was woken by the mystical song of 7.30 prayers. It was beautiful.

—

Sitting in Mass for the second evening, realisation hit me in the gut like a well aimed boulder. I'm sure I've been over all this in my mind before, but somehow this was fresh, and deeper. Though I do not agree with some religious practice, and can/ will not identify as Christian without some classification at least, I do believe in something more. It only takes a glance at the stars out here to know that there is something out there.

I believe in living as productive and compassionate a life as possible. I believe in private unregimented prayer (but not necessarily the 'Dear God' stuff) if only because it helps you to realise what you've got, and turn a critical eye over yourself. And I still believe that, sometimes, controlled worship and prayer can do a lot more harm than good to the human soul.

—

THE COLOUR OF MAGIC

I don't believe I could ever tire of the view here, any more than I could of Rowanlea.

Every person, be they brief first time visitor, or regular, long-stay staff, changes as they see catch sight of the valley and the mountains. Something shifts inside them, and everything is suddenly, somehow, right. I can't explain it; it's not the most awe-striking of views. It's just magic.

And no matter how often, or for how long you stare, it is never the same. There's a constant dance between light and shadow, and as the sun moves across the sky, the earth changes from blue to a dusty, heavy grey, through browns and reds of every hue to rose-petal pink, oranges and yellows, all the way to white.

And at night, as everything slips into greyscale before it returns to the deepest of blues, the stars come out to play; it's the kind of sky you don't see in Britain, even outside of the cities. Maybe it's the air that's polluted.Or the weather, permanently overcast. Maybe it's us, and we just can't see it. I don't know.

—

ALL SCRATCHED UP – SPLINTERS AND WASHERWOMEN.

Mar Musa is a place with awesome goals; goals which it's set to achieve, through the faith and effort of everyone involved.

It was nice to feel useful, in some small way; a part of something fo ra while, and not just travelling through.

My first morning's task was to help out in the library. A wonderful job, which I was shamefully bad at, thanks to my interest in the titles everywhere. Here, I discovered a wealth of English books. Though I meant to read some of the texts on religious differences and the roles of different people in shaping the eccumenical world, I was pulled towards the literature section. Much of my free time hereafter was taken up by the following books; Reading Lolita in Tehran; Little Men (okay, but not comparable to it's elder sister); Interesting times (I was so shocked to find this here that I had to re-read it. A comfort thing, perhaps);The Bookseller of Kabul. I even started on the Bible when seeking a quiet moment in the church one day, but was far too distracted by the repetitive 'and the number of days that X did live was 653 years: and he died'.

It became a sort of joke between a few of us.

"What? Reading again? Time out!"

Somebody doubted I was reading at all, threatening to devise a test on the texts.

"Fine." I grin. I can't help over-analysing texts anyway, and I have to answer the 'readers' questions' at the back of books in my head, or else they drive me mad. It's the writer in me; or else a permanent scar from English Literature classes.

From the first word to the last, 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' had a gripping effect on me, and though I can't identify where/ in what way, I feel as though it's changed my life forever.

Following mornings were taken up with sanding windows and doors in the 'shop', being part of the washing-chain, rubbish-collecting in the valley (it shocked me, perhaps more than it should, just how much stuff people had dumped out here), vegetable chopping and translating English into easier to digest words.

Mid-week, I looked at my hands and could not recognise them; splintered, wrinkled from cold water and hardened in the wind, stained by dust and dirt and aubergines .

—

CAMARADARIE.

So, there you have it, Deir Mar Musa. The biggest part of my atypical monastic experience though, was the people, who somehow seem not to know how special they are. Their stories, our stories, however, are not for the public eye, but for my private journal of memories, and people I know I can trust with the spirits of my friends.

—-

The only qualm I have, was being transported back through the passageways of memory, to Poring Hot Springs in Borneo, and the Shoe Incident, when my 2 pairs of hiking socks mysteriously vanished from the terrace washing line. Socks!!

Arriving back in Damascus last night, the sudden frenetic noise was as much of a shock as it was on day one. And, laying awake, I remembered I have yet to post on the Damascus scenes from last week. It's a bit jumbled in places, I'm afraid.

17th March.

I start the day off with a quick search for a pharmacy, not feeling so well. I find a whole street of them, every one closed (Fridays. Bah!). In fact, the only thing open is a whole street of luggage vendors. Rows of smart suitcases lined the street, and inside each tiny shop, security briefcases were piled by the tonne. It still seems strange that there are whole streets and markets dedicated to the sale of type of thing; often identical produce, row after row after row. Does the competition not hamper profit?

I seek refuge in Orient Net, until there's a chance of something being open.

A large hotel refuses to serve me lunch, claiming that they have no spare food – Bollocks! – so I head over to the old city, resisting the sour candifloss smell of the purple juice, and the bubbling of the falafel frier  – if I'm to shake this thing, I have to go for cleaner 'proper' restaurants for a few days, where the food's cooked thoroughly and the surfaces are cleaned with fresh, hot water.

I wander back to the botannical gardens, now steadily trickling with families, and ask if they served food.

"We do sandwiches…"

Looking over the counter, I see fluffy, English bread, and order a cheese sandwich. It comes toasted – squashed as flat as pita, but it's chewy in a way that only leavened bread can be. Already I start to feel better.

I wander past the mosque and Al Hamiddiyya, into the Old City's artsy textiles streets.; called into one shop (well, three, with the same owner) for tea and a chat about our respective homes, and then, wanting to see much more than just this street, I leave, putting on my determined 'I have to be somewhere' face as I head out of the door. One street along though, is a cubby-hole store, it's windows hung with art like I have never seen before (the only art in Damascus it seems which does not portray its alleys). Below the window is a board covered in yellowing newsprint. All but the bottom one is printed in languages unkown, but featuring a photo of the same man, or a piece of art.

Before I have the chance to read the article, a head pops through the wood-frame door.

"Come, welcome." bids the photographed man, as he hands me a brochure.

And so begins my relationshop with Mahmoud, which quickly shifts from tout and tourist to friendship, as I respond to his text with, "you write, too! So do I!"

It's maybe 2pm, and the following hours are crowded with artistic probing and the telling of stories; moaning about business and the hardships of the publishing domain.

"What would you say you eat lunch with me in my home?"

"Sounds fantastic."

"And come to the theatre tonight?" Mahmoud knows the entire cast and crew, and has complimentary tickets for himself and friends.

His home reminds me of Malcolm's room, with its eclectic artistic flair – collections of candlesticks perch on metal trays. Stones( most with painted faces), pots and urns line a wall of shelves. There are paintings hung or stacked everywhere, and ubiquitous mounds of tormented oil-paint tubes.

The guilt-green wallpaper is almost identical to the stuff which once lined my grandparents' walls.

Everything is personalised, from the rearranged poster of the Umayyad Mosque - which is stuck to the wall with a halo of masking tape – swirled in blue and white, to the pots, to the frame of the settee and the tv stand – a web of colour as complex as an artist's mixing pad.

He cooks up 'rice' which has in it vermicelli noodle pieces, and tastes as though it's been soy-sauced, and a pan of meat, chicken and veg in a little curried sauce. He won't let me help, so instead I play him Irish tunes, which make him smile and dance as though he were 5 years old, unable to supress the urge to move with the noise.

Syrian wine and stories wash it down; though he tells me several of his own, I still cannot find any tales of lore and legend.

Then talk turns to politics as we stifle anger at CNN reports of Iraqi deaths.

We return to his workshop, via a music store,where, on discovering the owner to be absent, he leaves a note slotted between door and frame, requesting a copy of a CD that we listened to over and over in his den. Twenty minutes later, et voilla!

Just before 8, Mahmoud's friend, a bearded young chap who appears to be wearing foundation and eyeliner appears, and together we head for the theatre. There, we meet the production's musician, and a 'very famous' starring actor – friends who insisted Mahmoud attends the show.

Production itself is in Arabic, and a little confusing, but the actor's power of expression, and my theatre studies examination of lighting/ stage techniques is enough to keep me interested throughout.

—

18th March: a sensory tour of sorts.

Picture an extensive wander around the old city, talking to its people; the boy at the fruit juice stand exercising his charm to get you to buy fresh strawberry and kiwi juice, the sweetest juice you can imagine. The 'Italian' Arab, who'd lived in Italy for years, and soaked up all the mannerisms, and his partner, who tried to sing Bob Marley's 'don't worry, be happy' but got the tune all wrong.

The guy in the antiques shop who had learned English from the market.

"You are the first person I understand easily – the others they all speak so fast."

And as you turn the corner, a baby Macaw catches your eye – you wander up to say hello, and he hops from his owner's arm to yours.

"Ah, Pumpernickel, you have a new friend!"

See how, as you wander, you fall in love with the warm woolen rigs in thier subdued reds and browns and greens; the bright patterened table cloths, every hue on the earth, with tufty embroidery in thick threads, and tiny mirror chips which glisten in the sun; the backgammon boards, carefully inlaid with mother of pearl, and patterned with stained wood; the hand carved red and yellow chess pieces; the delicate turquoise and silver jewelery and the silver/ Damascene steel of aincent, beautiful blades. You can't shift your eyes from it, each new stall an opportunity to gaze some more, though you know you cannot have it all. The recently-cooled dusty smell of carpets makes you sleepy; no, not sleepy –  wistful, perhaps.

Here and there, bicycles are propped beside a cart or box of things to sell, laden with a painted sign.

You glance up at the buildings, and the fact that most of it is in sad, neglected disrepair somehow does not detract from its elegance. See the eclectic styles all mashed together, unsegregated. The alleys, and archways and narrow leaning walls draw you in; a labyrinth of welcome, inset with tiny doors, with careful detail carved or painted on.

The smell of oranges hits you; fresh cut and waiting to be juiced. Then the sweet turkish-delight smell of nargileh, which mingles with the bitter-roast coffee at every coffee shop. The stewing, roasting meat smell from every restaurant, and the lighter scent of the falafel stand.

The lemonade stands, where a bile-coloured liquid boils in the centre of it. The smell is putrid, but you can;t figure out whether it's the liquid or the dishes of inidentifiable scraps which are gathered around the porcelain cups – just as easily torn meats as brains or cockles or god-knows what else. You've heard beautiful tales of Syria's orange-blossom lemonade, but surely this cannot be it. Quickly, you turn the corner to escape the thought of it.

Occassionally, a vile stench of sewage, or spoilt food rises up to meet you, hangs low in the air as it's baked by the sun.

Down one street, which you merely glance at, meat and fish lay on upturned milk-crates, already turning foul. The flies are celebrating; you can hear their songs of joy.

You're glad when you reach your target, and the parafin-sawdust scent of the artist's lair leaps to meet you at the door.

—

Spent the rest of the day with Mahmoud, and he showed me how to paint.

"Now, when I die, and they say, where is Mahmoud's art, they will find it with you." I feel so honoured.

(photos to follow. I seem to be saying that rather a lot.)

I'm back; what was supposed to be three days slipped through to ten. Deir Mar Musa is the most incredible place for a thousand reasons. Top of the list, the people there. Now I'm back, I'm having a hard time sifting through the notes and memories, deciding what to post, and what to keep all to myself.

Also, some of said fabulous people might (I hope, actually. It'd be nice to know I can sort of take them with me as I travel) happen across this blog, and I don't want to embarrass anybody. Even remaining nameless, people would be recognisable through traits and personalities. So, what follows may be more of a description of general atmosphere, rather than the parts which made it so special…

If you're nice to me, I might e-mail you some stories (guys, if you are reading this, it's all good, I swear! And I promise I'll send you anything about you, if you require). Otherwise, go there yourself and make some stories of your own!

I’ll post properly on the last two days when I get back from Mar Musa, I swear. Have spent much of the last two days with this guy, a fascinating, wonderful man, who I hope to spend more time with. Flickr pictures to follow, along with those from my walk around the Old City today, when space allows (why is there such a small allowance on the free portion of the site? It’s cruel!). Take a look at his site. It’s cool.

I want to try to organise an exhibit of his work in the UK; a place I feel will appreciate it’s beauty.

—

Arabic theatre is a wonderful thing.

Ma Salaama!

xx

The Artist’s Lair 

For Mahmoud Shahin, with the greatest of wishes.