I'd had a pleasant afternoon of tea and hash with the Sufis of Damascus talking quantum mechanics and the unfixed nature of history, but that's another story.
I had then spent the night being chased around Damascus by the Syrian riot police (well, if you start a riot....). I'll give them one thing; they were nearly as persistent as the Moscow Militia, and those are definitely another story.
Cold tired and footsore, I hailed a cab to Hatra Bus Station thinking it was time to get out of Dodge (the railway stations are always watched wherever you go), pausing to walk past the two old boys with their djellabas under the chins having a poo into the gutter and one of those amiable chats that long friendship and a complete lack of social awareness can produce.
Ticket bought, I ran to the bus, jogging up the stairs, unwinding the keffiyeh from my head and ignoring the look of horror from the driver and the passengers in the first few rows as my vision unfocused, searched for an empty berth.
Spotting an empty seat I made my way down the passageway as an expensively dressed, burly Arab jumped up and started to gesticulate in at me.
'Aklaklaklaklaklak' (you'll notice I'm good with foreign languages).
'Pffft!'was my response as I brushed passed him and popped into the empty aisle seat, stuffing my bag between my legs.
Two equally burly and expensively dressed Arabs jumped out of the seat in front and started jabbing fingers at me, eyes wide with rage and horror.
'AKLAKLAKLAKLAKLAK!!!'
I gave them the eye, thinking that if this kept up, I would have to do something about it, when out of the corner of my eye, the VERY expensively dressed gentleman next to me waved a languid hand that was clutching an expensive smelling cigar above a wrist with three fading, tattooed dots on the wrist.
Everyone took their seats and the bus pulled off.
The effects of tea, hash and the lack of sleep had taken its toll and I drifted off into a doze to the smell of expensive cigars and cologne.
Coming to, a little later I was aware of the two pairs of eyes staring malevolently at me through the gap in the seat ahead and I would have sworn that I felt breath on the back of my head; I was also aware of the attention of the owner of the cigar.
Now, like us all when sitting next to a stranger, I tried observe my companion out of the corner of my eye; the oiled, coiffed hair, the neatly trimmed moustache, the camel hair coat, that easily worn air of power and command.…
'FUCKING HELL! IT'S HIM!'
'No, it can't be. The Yanquis are turning over the Middle East looking for him!'
'Well if it's not him, it must be his fucking twin then'.
'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mrs Hillpaul's going to kill me for this one'.
'Hmmmmnh, well old love, Mrs Hillpaul may have to wait in line!'
All this flashed through my mind as my eyes snapped shut, the reason for my good sleep becoming apparent. The absolute stillness and quiet of a hundred other people on a Middle Eastern bus that should have been full of babbling and chatting.
A triple tap to my chest and I half-turned, and was asked if I spoke English. For a change, my survival instincts kicked in early and I said I had a little.
'Good. My…. 'friends' and I' he said, 'are having a bet. We are trying to guess where you are from'.
I didn't ask what the forfeit was, or who would be paying it, but merely gulped. Another three taps on the chest.
'Are you an American?'
Quick as a flash, I replied 'God, no!'
He turned to his companions.
'Aklaklaklaklaklak American!'
The tension drained visibly. Then the harsh guttural voice continued with another three taps on my chest,
'Are you perhaps English?'
Again, 'God no'.
'Aklaklaklaklaklak English!'
A breathing out from half-a-dozen noses and an air of relaxation until with a cold, wintry smile, he turned and said;
'This is good my friend. The Americans, they are like wolves, but the English? They are like foxes. Both must be shot of course, but the fox is more dangerous, because you can never guess what it will do next'.
I believe I may have nodded.
At this point a low muttering from the seat ahead.
'Aklaklaklaklaklak?'
'Ah yes. The bet. I think my friend, it is time you told us what you are'.
I stuck my chin out and said 'I'm Welsh "'.
'Aklaklaklaklaklak Welsh!'
This produced such a gale of laughter from his 'friends' that I thought the first one to call me 'sheepshagger' was going to be told thanks for reminding me of his mother’s first name; even if I did get shot, it would be worth being shot for.
Another triple tap to the chest (I should mention that this was becoming a bit irritating).
'My friend, what is Welsh?'
The survival instinct kicked back in again and instead of an existential answer I said; 'It's a small country in the north of Europe'.
Those dark eyes, like a sharks now, pinned me in place and he leant forward and unexpectedly put a cigar in my mouth, lighting it with an expensive Dunhill lighter held in a manicured hand above those fading three dots, in a low insistent voice, said…
'And when you are at home, my friend, what is it you speak? My friends and I are very curious, it would perhaps convince us that you were really not American or English'.
'OK. 'Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri;
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mad,
Dros ryddid collasant eu gwaed'.
'This is beautiful what does it mean?'
'That I love my home very much and I would like to see it again'.
Now, I know Welsh is a beautiful, emotive language, but it must have resonated with someone else on the bus, because I could hear sobbing.
Until, that is, one of my companion’s 'friends', got up and cuffed them across the back of the head as the rest of the passengers stared fixedly ahead. Part of me thought that they were probably English.
Suddenly an alarm went off on the expensive watch on his wrist above those tattoos which kept drawing my attention. Switching it off he snapped:
'AKLAKLAKLAKLAKLAK!!!'
A 'friend' jumped up, marched to the front of the bus and cuffed the driver across the back of the head and gesturing at the road ahead barked:
'Aklaklaklaklaklak'
Now at any point during this bus ride have you wondered about the desert scenery outside the windows? No? Well, there were no drifting sand dunes, like in Lawrence of Arabia. That's an erg. This was a reg, a mix of sand and gravel and we were driving along a hamada, a series of hills into which road was cut along which culverts had been cut every so often, for those infrequent but savage rains of the Syrian winter, to prevent those roads from being washed away. And this is what the 'friend', was indicating we should pull up against as he tapped his left armpit for emphasis.
The bus ground to a halt to the hiss of indrawn breath from the other passengers and then a long drawn-out moan.
Do you ever have recurring dreams? I have two. The most common is the Faceless Man, and that's a story I will never tell. The other is the Travelling Dream, and that is The Ditch. A place I find myself lying in, my life ebbing away, my cunning and my strength having failed me at the last. The only other alternative was a close relationship with a pair of handcuffs and a radiator.
If I was lucky.
The man in the window seat made the universal shooing motion with both hands, and assisted by a pair of hands grasping my collar I stumbled out into the aisle, where another pair of hands crept under my jacket and grasped my belt.
Ditch or radiator? Radiator or ditch?
Leaning forward, he plucked the cigar from my hand and screwed it into the corner of his mouth, his eyes again as dark and cold as a sharks, he half-smiled and said:
'My friend, you are an entertaining travel companion; but you are a poor liar!'
'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's the ditch!'
'There is no such thing as Welsh'.
'?'
A low murmur from behind:
'Aklaklaklaklaklak?'
He lent back and with a sweeping, chopping motion, answered:
'AKLAKLAKLAKLAKLAK!!!'
A kick to my left knee and the hands expertly swung me into the two seats to my left leaving me looking up at two terrified old Syrians, a man with a badly shaven, stubbled face and his shawled wife, the eternal sorrowful woman, with tears running out of her eyes. As I lay there in their laps, one of the guards leant in and spat:
'AKLAKLAKLAKLAKLAK. WELSH? HAHA!' and I knew this one was definitely part-English.
Now, have you ever rehearsed your last moments. No, none of us do because it wouldn't be honest, but this isn't how I saw myself going and prepared to jump up and fight. But then, the old man reached down and pressing his hands on my chest holding me in place, and the old woman started stroking my face, murmuring and weeping, her tears falling on my face like hot rain. They held me there long enough for the party to leave the bus and I broke free and I jumped back to my seat and hands and face pressed to the window saw the last of them descend the engineering steps cut into the side of the road his hair whipping in the snowflake laden air and then disappeared into the grey Syrian winter. Five minutes later, three black Land Rovers zoomed out of the culvert heading east, and I watched until the trail of dust merged with the sky.
A triple-tap on the back of my jacket and a loud squeak escaped me and I turned to see the old Arab, the mirror opposite of my travel companion hold out a bottle of milky liquid with two shaking hands.
'My friend. I would like to share a drink with the luckiest man in Syria', as his hesitantly smiling wife held out two grubby glasses and everyone on the bus started crying, weeping and trying to press something into my hands, my pockets, touching my jacket, my hair, my face.
As the bus pulled up, outside Palmyra to let me off and the old couple took me to the door, the old woman tugged my sleeve and muttered something to her husband, I laughed and asked if my singing was that bad.
As the bus pulled off he shouted through the door. 'No, my friend, she said to be careful. A storm is coming'.
But that, as they say, is another story.
POSTSCRIPT
Months later, back at work waiting for a flight to arrive, I happened to mention this anecdote to a waiting detective as we were chatting. He looked at me quizzically and said would I repeat that story to a friend? I said if the friend bought me a fancy tea he could have it. The next day I got a call and met his 'friend' at a gate and was introduced to a Mr Smith. Quizzed about the story this way, that way, up and down, he leant back, saying you know of course no one will ever really, deep down believe this. I said I didn't care but was desperate to know whether it was really him or not. He sighed again, and said, there were three people going around the Middle East to his knowledge, his doubles, trying to draw the attention of the wolves and the foxes, but that with him you could never, ever, really be sure, because however cunning a fox was, it was never as cunning as the serpent. It could have been; it might not have been. But, but, you should think yourself a very, very lucky man.
I said it stang that even that far away, I was laughed at for being Welsh and not being able to do something about it. He gave me a queer look and said: ' Cartref yw cartref er tloted y bo’, and started to walk off and turned and said 'My name is actually Mr Jones'.
Which leads back to a bus full of drunken and or shaken passengers who I was teaching to sing The Ladies of the Harem of the Court of King Caractacus.
As Mr Jones said, home is home indeed, no matter how poor it is and mockery stings worse for it. But as Mr Jones had gone on to say, we have a long history of living with it and taking what we can, even if it's getting off a bus, drunk on arak teaching people rubbish Welsh songs but you're still alive to fight another day and that a live Welshman was always better than a dead one.
June 2017
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