Sleeping in a temple and an amphitheatre

We're cycling through the lively main street of Assayidah. At our left is a golden domed mosque with two colourfully tiled minarets.
Just a moment ago we passed half a dozen Bedouin tents where veiled women were taking care of their many children. In Damascus, two days ago, we were invited into a workshop where these tents are made. Here we saw the entire manual production process from up close. In a corridor on the ground floor stood a ten metres long wooden weaving loom. On this machine they weave goat hair into narrow pieces of fabric. One floor up, these strips are sewn together into a tough and very strong waterproof material and eventually made into tents.
The kilometres seem to effortlessly glide under our wheels. At lunch break two soldiers walk up to us to tell us we are not allowed to sit right here, because of a military terrain close by. Well, we think that we can't sit anywhere then, half of this country is military terrain.
In the afternoon it's getting more difficult. We ascent quite a bit and the upcoming wind approaches us from the wrong direction again. Exhausted we reach Shaqba.

After the ever necessary shopping we lead our bicycles by hand to the beautiful antiquities of the village. At least half of the inhabited houses comprise ancient ruins and are constructed out of black granite. At the main street is the main site: a very old temple of which all walls are still standing upright. Officially this is a museum, the entrance gate is wide open though and there is nobody to be seen anywhere. We push our bicycles onto the terrain and admire the impressive and massive walls of the centuries old prayer house. We take the risk: in a quiet corner, invisible from the road, we pitch our tent. One hour later we're dozing off when a stone lands on the tent. We get a hell of a fright and sit startled upright in our bed. Moments later a small stone lands on the ground next to the tent. Probably some brats. Peter sneaks out of the tent and crawls alongside the walls around the corner. On the street three about twelve-year-old boys are ready for their next throw. When Peter catapults forward from his sitting position and shouts loudly whilst running towards them, they get the fright of their lives. To be on the safe side Peter runs after them a bit. Down the street Peter sees them talking to some older boys. They run again when Peter approaches the group. The older boys hear Peter's account and promise him an undisturbed night.

Late the following morning we arrive in Bosra, the last major place en route to Jordan. Bosra is an ancient town, already mentioned on clay tablets during the reign of Tutmosis III, who ruled in the 15th century BC. A large part of the town consists of, just like Shaqba, the ancient black granite. Many live and work in the actual antiquities.
But not in the Roman amphitheatre, Bosra's major tourist attraction. It dates from the second century AD and is one of the world's most beautiful and best preserved amphitheatres. Constructed entirely of stones hewn of the extremely hard black granite, it offers seating to some 15.000 people.

Annually national and international festivities are organised here. When we arrive we are warmly welcomed by Nigel and Elijah, as well as the Dutchman Romano and the Australian Shariff, whom we met in Damascus. The world is a small place.
Together we visit the amphitheatre and because all of us carry student-cards we are allowed to stay in the youth hostel. On the roof of the amphitheatre some spaces have been turned into bedrooms. Together with a small kitchen and a bathroom it's the perfect accommodation.

The complex is great, grand, lustrous and impressive. And this is no overstatement! We roam through the huge hallways below and the adjoining theatre, discover small rooms, visit the open-air-hall with statues and let our hair down in the theatre. The acoustics are as you might expect from those days: from every seat in the immensely big and high semi-circle the quietly speaking artist on the stage, Nigel, can be clearly heard. At night, after having eaten the meal we prepared together, we amuse ourselves with the fluorescent frisbee Romano carries with him. From different positions in the amphitheatre we throw the toy at each other, whilst the owls, the present inhabitants of the amphitheatre, fly into the night from the dark hallways, searching for prey whilst shrieking loudly.
We end the late night with an international song contest. After the unavoidable American hymn, Romano follows with 'Oh Den Haag' and Shariff with an Australian bush-song. We offer the finale with the glorious 'Ketelbinkie' and go to bed in our new 'hotel'.

The next morning we say goodbye to our travel friends. The chance that we'll ever meet again is very slim. Three hours later we arrive at the Jordanian border, where we say goodbye again, but now from a whole country. Syria is a beautiful country with a number of cultural highlights and an extremely hospitable population. It is a pity that the bureaucrats of government and banks try to spoil the atmosphere, but they never manage to do so for more than half an hour.