Kamikaze

It was the end of June, a hot and humid morning on the southern Dream Beach¹ of Tartous. I slept alone and rather erratically, having watched Argentina beat West Germany 3-2 in the FIFA World Cup Final the night before. A bunch of friends and I had consumed plenty of beer and whatever leftover bottles we could find in the secluded chalet. I had a terrific hangover and couldn't tolerate even the smell of coffee. Instead, I gazed at the endless expanse of blue from the western terrace then walked lazily on the warming sand. Only if someone could stop the goddamn spinning, I wished. I threw myself in the tantalizingly refreshing water and surrendered to the sensual fingers of the undulating waves. The salty breeze and the engulfing wetness brought me back slowly and without coercion to awareness. My muscles relaxed. The pounding in my temple eased off. What a glorious day ahead, I mused.

I had nothing to do or worry about. My immediate concern was to secure some basic form of breakfast. There were eggs in the fridge, Labneh, olives, tomatoes and cucumbers. After filling my stomach with solid food I could return with a book, a beach umbrella and a towel to my favorite spot where the soft breakers came to rest at my feet. I needed a pair of slippers, I thought, for the round trip to the chalet. The sand would be getting hotter and hotter by the minute as the sun rose unblinkingly higher and higher. I would read for an hour or two then go back to the chalet. In some kitchen cabinet there were at least a dozen cans of various types of junk food and olive oil. I saw a knot of bread² and potatoes over the counter. I will throw in something with the potatoes and have lunch straight from the skillet. The plates were piled high in the sink, unwashed. Sure, the place was an absolute mess and in dire need of cleaning but it wasn't something I was willing to lose my precious time over. I would clean a knife and fork, yeah, that I would need. The telephone line was out, oh thank goodness for that. There will be no interruptions. No calls from anyone to join me or for me to join them. For the afternoon, I schemed, suspended on my back like a dead porpoise heaving up and down on the surface of the sea, I could fill the icebox with cold beer and fasten it to the inflated inner tube of a car tire. I would then tie the tube to the folding chair placed knee-deep in the water. I would aptly sit and the chair would sink down evenly until it settles firmly so that the water is at the perfect nipple level. Ahhh, I'm so smart, so efficient at minimal work, I'm a damn genius, I beamed with pride and delight. Two, three beers down my belly, I would contemplate the meaning of life and probably nap. I would need a baseball cap and my sunglasses to minimize the glare. Ooooh, what a glorious day indeed.

I ran back invigorated. It was time to execute this perfect plan of mine. My eyes caught the reflection of the sun in the mirror of the parked Yamaha. My brand new cherry colored 135RX beckoned at me: Come ride me you hunk of a male, she whispered. With less than a 100Km on the odometer, I couldn't resist the seduction. Should I have breakfast first, I wondered. I didn't think so. I couldn't keep her waiting much longer and I was getting very excited myself. Ok baby, your man is coming, I smiled at her like Clark Gable. I was wearing only my wet shorts, absolutely nothing else. They weren't even swimming trunks, just plain blue, cotton, sexy and very short shorts.

She purred at my first kick-start. She was too hot and bothered to be warmed. Take me for a spin darling, she begged, give it all to me. I smiled again, more idiotically this time, a little like Tom Cruise perhaps. The road down the Dream Beach strand of chalets was as close to a ¼ mile drag race stretch as we could ever have in Tartous. It was much longer and narrower though and offered plenty of opportunity to go wild on two wheels. There were only me, a horny motorcycle and hot asphalt as far as the eye could see.

I fore-played the petite Yamaha and watched her RPMs going up and down the green range of the dial. Her purring changed into whining then screeching moans of ecstasy. Oh damn you take me hard, take me all the way, red-line me now, now, now....... she screamed. I gave it all to her and her needles rose into an insane frenzy of speed, 120, 140, 156, 57, 58, 59, aaaaaaahhhh 160 km/hr, OMG, yeS, yES, YESSSSS. My tears flowed, hair pulled back, lips twitching, my nipples tormented with the rushing onslaught of pinpricks... and, and... up ahead in the distance, 50 meters or so, straight forward, a tiny dot was approaching from the opposite direction at an unbelievable pace. I could see it getting bigger and bigger while at the same time I was realizing fully that I could never take any evasive maneuver anymore. I remember that split of a second as if it was shot with an extremely slow motion camera. How could I forget.

I mentally surrendered to the fateful impact. A nanosecond before we collided, the maniacal Kamikaze took a vicious dive to maximize the damage. My recognition of the identity of my assailant and his death happened at the exact same instance. He was hideous, evil and yellow, an Asian giant hornet who flew all the way from Japan to avenge his honor. Evidently it was too much for him to digest the sight of a Japanese bike and a Tartoussi guy going wild with each other on a beach road. Goggled, bandana-ed and scarfed, he flew his last mission for the glory of Japan. He extended his 6 mm stinger, released his lethal cytolytic peptide venom as he was squashed into oblivion against the soft tissue of my balls.

The blow was so powerful I felt as if I were kicked in the crotch by a heavyset and ugly Russian soldier from one of the Bond's movies. I released the throttle instantaneously. I had to crawl on all four, take the fetal position and die somewhere on the shoulder of the road. The Yamaha finally came to a complete stop. I laid her on her side and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY I screamed, a demented soul rolling and turning in the dirt like a butchered animal. My first thought was how far the chalet was. A couple of hundred meters, I guessed, in heart wrenching agony. After what seemed to be an eternity, probably five minutes in real time, I summed what was left of my strength and limped back in the saddle of my bike to my hole in the ground. I stepped in the chalet, closed the door behind me, pulled down the shutters and shades, collapsed on the floor and lost consciousness in the darkened room.

The poison flowed in my bloodstream and my temperature rose dangerously high. I swam in a pool of sweat as my whole body was taken by a fit of shivering. Paralysis spread from my loins down through my legs and up toward my chest. I dosed on and off and suspected seeing the grim reaper at the edge of my vision. A long spell of hallucination followed leaving me clueless as to the passage of time. It was pitch black outside when I leaned on my elbow, crawled to the sofa and managed to switch the light on. I was swollen, all of me. An allergic reaction to a massive dose of venom left me like a useless lump. I could hardly breathe as I looked in dismay at my swollen shorts. The lump was the size of a softball and if you're not familiar with softball, suffice it to say that it's at least twice as large as a baseball and not by any means softer. My legs buckled underneath my weight and I lost my mind completely. Nightmares and delusions shone, flickered then dimmed like ignes fatui as the night and half of the following day consumed themselves. A little before sunset on the next day I was still in the exact same spot on the floor but my eyes regained focus and the fog in my mind began to dissipate. I removed the remnants of the martyr and his stinger off my left ball. He had a wicked grin on his face the sonofabitch. I was still pretty swollen and multicolored like an old Bollywood movie when I took off my shorts but I knew that the worst had come to pass.

A little before midnight, after a cold shower and a gallon of water to drink I sat quietly in the night enjoying the quivering image of the moon on the gentle surface of the sea. The air was moist and pregnant with untold secrets and I could hear the echoes of laughter in the distance. My temperature and heartbeats were gyrating closer and closer to normalcy. I was still weak and shaky but feeling much better. Will I ever be the same, I wondered. Twenty three years later and I still don't have an answer.

Dream Beach = Shate'e Al Ahlam
Knot of bread = Rabtet Khebez

Put Something Exciting Between Your Legs

Being the simple man I gladly admit to be, I would like to write about one of my benign pleasures. I want to start from the very beginning. Prior to my “arguably” early infatuation with the Big 3 (the Tic, the Tac and the Toc) and even before I started dreaming of Flying, motorcycles captivated me with an inextinguishable ardor, an abundance of exhilaration, an irresistible sense of independence and an absolute, unlimited, unending rush of private freedom.

It would be totally inaccurate to write that I grew up around motorcycles. Not a single person in my entire family had owned or ever ridden a motorbike. However, I did find my way to be on or around them very early on. One of the unsolved riddles of my childhood is the way my father and mother had let me made these radical choices, totally ignoring complaints and consternation of the omnipresent extended family. I was the blackest of black sheep, and in a way, I still am.



Amongst my earliest auditory memories is the whining noise of a two-cycle 50cc puny motorcycle engine buzzing below the balcony of my home by the sea. I would rush out to get a glimpse of a Simson or a Balkan screaming down Al Mina St. at the awesome speed of 60 km per hour. Most of you have never probably heard of a Simson, let alone a Balkan. The Simson, such as the one in the picture above was originally manufactured in East Germany in the 1960's. A few dozen units were sold in Syria. The Bulgarian Balkan (1958-1975) had a more streamlined body and was my favorite of the two. It took me forever on the web to find this single photo (below) of the exact model that was prevalent in Tartous back in the mid 1960's. I feel deprived for not having the chance to have ever ridden either. Yeah, I'm this sort of guy.

Some wilder beasts made their way to Lattakia around the same period and started operating as taxis.

Matchless, BSA and Triumph were the top choices and proved themselves on the streets roaring wildly and flexing their powerful muscles (up to 500cc single cylinder four stroke engines).

Believe it or not, over 40 years later, some of these British beauties are still serving commuters to villages around Lattakia.

I was able to spot a few in still immaculate and mint conditions. Regretfully, I have missed the opportunity to buy a gorgeous Triumph when the opportunity presented itself some years ago.

I first soloed on a 1964 Lambretta (above) a few months before my eleventh birthday. The bike was too heavy to control from a stationary position. Someone would lean it on the sidewalk for me. I would then engage 1st gear, rev the engine up and surge forward in a frenzied heave. To stop I would approach the sidewalk at a slight angle as if I were docking a boat and make the final contact with the sidewalk as smoothly as possible. By the way I started driving a car at roughly the same time. Tartous was a much quieter town then and there were no more than 2 or 3 policemen. The streets were practically void of cars and I had free reign over the neighborhood. But no car ever impressed me. Cars are cages on wheels and they are adequate for a group of 3 or more to get from point A to point B. It never made any sense to admire a comfortable, expensive and shiny horse carriage more than a beautiful stallion. So it is with cars and motorcycles.

I had my chance to ride a wide variety of bikes and scooters over those early years, European and Japanese. I loved the Vespa despite of its nerdish looks. "Sembra una vespa!" ("It reminds me of a wasp!") Enrico Piaggio, the president of the company exclaimed when he first laid eyes on one. It would later become the most successful scooter in history and a pop culture icon. The obvious reasons of course include comfort, storage space, ease of handling and relative protection from the elements. The Japanese were swiftly moving to take over and I got my chances with your run of the mill Hondas, Yamahas and Suzukis. I had suffered from too many minor accidents and mishaps to keep track of but it was never the bike’s mistake. It was always mine, in one way or another. Yet the learning curve follows only this example as far as motorcycles are concerned. You have to take your fall then get up again, improving, honing your skills, learning to respect the machine but never to fear it. Before I left to America, I was already very comfortable in the saddle.

On the back roads of southwestern Louisiana I got my first chance to meet face to face with the beast. A Harley-Davidson in its native environment is probably the most harmonious machines ever built by man. As I look back toward those happy years I feel disturbed when a Harley is taken out of its context. Riding a Harley anywhere else in the world is sacrilegious. God and man meant it to roam freely in the USA and nowhere else. No biking experience ever comes close to riding a Harley on America’s open highways and I had the privilege of riding in Lousiana, Texas, Arizona, California and Arkansas. I snapped my right knee on this naked white beauty (above). It was black then, but after the accident both of us needed the paint and bodywork.

On my trips to Europe the sight of a Harley lumbering along the rows of dull looking and efficiently compact cars gets on my nerves. The few captured Harleys in Lebanon and Syria caused me even more pain. If I were an American president, I would never allow the export of Harley-Davidson motorcycles. The truth of the matter is that a Harley is incapable of competing with either the European or Japanese brands. These are much more efficient, more reliable, safer and faster bikes. Simply put, whether I draw fire or not, a Honda is a better machine than a Harley. But this absolute truth loses its meaning on American ground, where the Harley is deservedly the king of the road.

I have been riding a 1986, 250cc Yamaha to work for more years than I care to count. But I have been riding some other impressive machines on the mountain roads of Tartous as well.

The 4-cylinder 750cc Honda Magna is hard to beat. I have no idea how the Japanese packed so much pleasure essence in its loins. It breathes in and out rhythmically like an Olympian Marathon runner. Give it some throttle and it’ll take your breath away. Recently, I started a love affair with a 600cc Honda Silver Wing scooter.

At first I felt a little embarrassed to get back to not only a scooter, but worse yet, a scooter with automatic transmission. However, after a couple of long rides with friends, my body thanked me and begged me to get one of them. It sure doesn’t offer the pure and naked pleasure of a real bike but it’s so god-damn comfortable it would be absolutely hypocrite not to admit it. I think I can do without the broken ribs and twisted fingers, without the burnt hands and dirty nails, without the dead bugs on my teeth and the maddening rain assaulting my face like cold needles.

You might all think that I’m getting too old for this shit. You’re wrong boys and girls. I have my eyes and heart set on a Honda Forza Z. It’s a little lighter than the Silver Wing and this is exactly what I truly need.

"Too old my ass, go ahead, put something exciting between your legs!"

A Lazy Friday

I’ve been waiting for Friday for the last six days. It has been a heavy week, a slow one. By mid-morning Thursday, I lost all interest in busting my ass any further. I was unfocussed, exhausted, insouciant. I wanted to get the hell out of the office and call it a day. And, I did just that… at five o’clock in the afternoon.

After one beer too many later that evening in the company of men, I waved them goodbye and headed home. Winter, still struggling to make an impression, went wild with a heavy fall of rain and hail. Too much, but too late I’m afraid. By the time I reached the flat on the second floor I had already started stripping. I sauntered straight to the shower. Thanks, I don’t want to have any dinner. I just want to sleep it off… the week, the rain and the beer.

I woke up luxuriously late in the morning. The kids were cuddled next to me in bed. They’ve come in a little after seven thirty and went back to sleep. I sat out on the balcony, slowly sipping my espresso. The air was refreshingly fragrant, the streets surprisingly clean. From behind the glass I saw them stirring. Friday is their favorite day. We all have breakfast together.

In the kitchen there was little left to actually do. I helped by being unobtrusive. Om Fares had already prepared a beautifully simple, deliciously inviting table. She must’ve thought of everything. There was the bread, the Labne and the olives, Shanklish and white cheese, the Fool and the omelette, apricot jam, mortadella, tomatoes, zeit & zaatar, an apple pie and a hot pot of tea.

A few things needed fixing and with toolbox in hand I made my rounds. A dripping faucet here, a noisy door hinge there. A soiled water filter, a burnt lamp. I used up the hours, never happier, never more tranquil. I lazed about, watched the box. Another espresso, lunch, a chocolate ice-cream and popcorn.

The kids found their preferred cartoons. Om Fares wanted to go for her daily one-hour walk. Not this time, honey. I miss the open road, the mountains, the roar of the engine. I would be back in an hour, I promise.

I made good on my word. She looked healthy and refreshed. I felt serene and revived. The day was well spent. It was well deserved. No thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.

Om Fares, the Wind Beneath My Wings

She wasn't even twenty when we first met, a pretty face with a big gorgeous smile, cat-walking through life as an English Literature student at Damascus University. I was a disillusioned soldier who did not belong, sailing through as the winds willed me. No chart to follow, no likely call for a next harbor.
She saw through me and perfectly understood why I spoke so little. It was much easier to express my feelings by bringing her (to her parents’ house) a bag of quails I’ve hunted than to look her straight in the face and say what’s really on my mind.
And she accepted that. She held my hand and took me as her life-long companion and soul mate.
Twenty years later, she can still stand me, which, by itself, is quiet an achievement and a true indication of her beautiful spirit. We’ve been through it all, the good, the bad and the in-between. Being married is like this, you know.
I can close my eyes and remember the moments of true happiness we’ve shared over the years. The birth of each of our three children. The pride, the joy. Trips we’ve made together, just the two of us in a small airplane or in the saddle of a motorcycle. I can also remember the hardships we’ve endured. The pain, the agony. My leaving home for a time, in search, yet again, for a bigger bite to eat, for more than my share in life. I strained my eyes looking too far when all I had to do was just close them and look inside. Whatever I wanted has always been here, within my reach. I would never let go again.
Om Fares reads my blog, when she has time, she tells me. Whatever I write, she already knows. I am still poor at finding the right words to tell her how I truly feel. I hope I can surprise her this time. I have chosen Bette Midler’s song because that’s what Om Fares is to me, the “Wind Beneath My Wings”.

Ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, ohhh.
It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine, that's your way.
You always walked a step behind.

So I was the one with all the glory,
while you were the one with all the strength.
A beautiful face without a name for so long.
A beautiful smile to hide the pain.

Did you ever know that you're my hero,
and everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.

It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I've got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?
You're everything I wish I could be.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.

Did I ever tell you you're my hero?
You're everything, everything I wish I could be.
Oh, and I, I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings,
'cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

Oh, the wind beneath my wings.
You, you, you, you are the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly away. You let me fly so high.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.

Fly, fly, fly high against the sky,
so high I almost touch the sky.
Thank you, thank you,
thank God for you, the wind beneath my wings.

Activate the Player below to Enjoy this song (audio stream)


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Husn Suleiman - The Temple of Zeus Baotocecian

The path to our destination is not always a straight one. We go down the wrong road, we get lost, we turn back. Maybe it doesn't matter which road we embark on. Maybe what matters is that we embark. Barbara Hall, Northern Exposure, Rosebud, 1993

When I get in the saddle of my bike, this is exactly how I feel. My two biker friends gave me the honor of picking the destination on a hot Friday afternoon. We were in the mood for a long and tough ride. We had all the necessary gear, three full tanks of gas and 9 or 10 50cl Swingtop bottles of Grolsch Beer completely cradled in a pack of ice. Let’s go to Husn Suleiman I yelled over the asynchronous dins of the three engines. It was going to be one hell of a ride to the temple of Zeus himself.

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We hit the road around 5:00PM to reach Husn Suleiman (53 km to the east of Tartous) in a little bit over an hour. There’s nothing exciting to write home about in riding from Tartous to Safita. You might as well do it in a cage (car). It’s one of the busiest roads in Syria day or night. Hundreds of micros maniacally roam this stretch. We were very happy to put it behind our backs and slowly cruise the quiet streets of Safita (elev. 400 m). This is one of the most beautiful cities in Syria and it surely deserves a separate post in its honor. We left Safita from the east and waded our way uphill and slanting northward on one of the most magnificent roads I had the pleasure of riding anywhere in the world. We owned the asphalt with sporadic micros and cars along the way. Thank God for digital photography. A picture is indeed worth a thousand words.

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I have been to Husn Suleiman (elev. 800 m) a couple of times before, not so my friends. When we finally made it around a bend and the site was just underneath and to the left of the road, I stalled my engine and only looked in the direction I wanted my friends to follow. I was as dumbstruck as both of them. What did these ancestors of ours have in mind when they built this place? What road did they follow to come all the way here?

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It is believed that the first temple was devoted to the god Baal and built by the Canaanites. Later the worship of Baal merged with its Greek equivalent “Zeus” who was named “Zeus Baotocecian”. The remains of today date back to the Romans and were built around the first century AD. Astarte was also worshiped at the temple and her followers thrived during the Roman times. In the second century AD the various Syro-Phoenician cults were still flourishing in this part of Syria despite the advance of Christianity. The surrounding countryside worshiped at this temple and continued to pay taxes as late as the fourth century AD. The ruins at Husn Suleiman are of an extraordinary nature. Mammoth stones measuring 10 m by 2.5 m were used to build the surrounding rectangular walls. The site measures roughly 134 m by 85 m and has a gate on each side. The main gate is the one at the north wall where there is an elaborate propylaeum (a colonnaded entrance) 15 m wide. In the middle of the open space within, there is a large platform with an altar on top. A secondary structure which real purpose remains unclear is less than a hundred meters to the northwest. It is called Al-Deir, though it was probably converted into a monastery much later. The concurrence of this temple with the serene and tranquil background is surrealistic to say the least.

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We consumed the ice-cold beer at the altar, but soon enough it started getting cold. Chatting with a young man, we learned that we were closer to Dreikish than to Safita. So on we jumped and started our descent on a treacherous road. It is a heavenly trail for a bike but not recommended if you visit Husn Suleiman by car. Driving back to Safita is definitely safer and easier on the stomach. I was fortunate to take one more photo of the clouds veiling the villages along the way. Once we reached Dreikish we got in the end of fun mode and seriously drove back to Tartous in the falling darkness amid the crazy four-wheeled vehicles. Next time we hit the road, I won’t pick the destination, but I’ll sure keep you posted.

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Trip Log: Total distance: 117 km - Elapsed Time: 3 hours and 30 minutes - Remarks: 3 Pit Stops to discharge the beer on the side of the road.

“Monuments of Syria An Historical Guide” by Ross Burns, I.B. Tauris – Dummar Publisher, 1999. is an indispensible tool for the research invloved in writing my posts covering archeological sites in Syria. I rely on this single work more than any other because of its simplicity, precision and catering for the need of the Syria traveller.

A One Hour Itinerary [Tartous - Al-Sawda & Back]

If I had one free hour on my hand and if the weather was suitable to ride, a possible itinerary is to leave Tartous from the north and head toward Al-Sawda, 12 km to the northeast. I ride by the Free Zone and continue straight on the old Tartous-Lattakia road. 3 km out, I reach a railroad crossing and a bridge over Nahr Al-Hsein (نهر الحصين).

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I stay on the old road until I arrive at the Dweir Taha sign and start my climb to the right. I stop on the side of the road anywhere and take a look back toward Tartous and may be have a cold beer.
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Time to move on again, so I continue my ascend till I reach Dweir Taha on a picturesque scenic road. I stop at the east end of the village, dismount and enjoy the unrestricted view in all directions.
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The cement factory is an out of place monstrosity in this otherwise serene backdrop.
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Now I’m 8 km out of Tartous in the village of Al-Breij and I pass by Cantia Hotel/Restaurant. It looks like a real nice place, but I’ve honestly never been in.
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Up ahead the road forks in two, and I sway to the left and step on it on the open stretch to Al-Sawda. Nothing much goes on during the day in this village, but on evenings and special holidays it would be teeming with life.
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I have great memories of this excursion as a teenager. In the winter time, it would have been possible to virtually stop anywhere on one of the many branching trails and wait for thrush (سمن) at sunset and hunt it en passant. In other seasons, these same trails offered great concealment for two love birds in a car. Olive trees are a blessing in "disguise".

Lunch Break in Tartous

It's early summer. The days are long, hot and humid. I leave the office and head home for my lunch break and afterward... I have a choice of taking a nap in a darkened air conditioned room or...
Kicking my old bike into life and heading east toward the hilly terrain around Tartous. With no intention, without a purpose, I make a left turn here, another right there, follow an uphill path, or chase a narrow trail down ahead.
I follow the road. I'm alone with the thumping monotonous din of the engine and surrounded by the most beautiful Godmade natural scenery anywhere in the world.
I return to my office a couple of hours later, feeling new and invigorated. I receive tired looking clients and visitors. They tell me that I look relaxed and fresh, I must've had a nice and long nap...
I'm just a lucky guy I guess.