His name was Umayyad Caliph Al-Walid ben Abdul Malek

At first sight the Christian village of Ma'alula is quite disappointing. After kilometres of climbing with a fierce headwind on a road too busy with traffic and dogs we want nothing but rest, silence and especially no barking quadrupeds. The building noises of the construction of new concrete houses don't really fulfill our needs.

When we cycle further into the gorge though, the grandeur of the older part of Ma'alula becomes visible. The centuries old village sits on a 1.500 metres high inclining hill at the end of a wide gorge, squeezed between two rock cliffs.
The pale blue and white houses seem to be glued to the cliffs and stacked on top of each other. In our search for affordable accommodation people refer us to the Mar Taqla monastery, where a nun welcomes us. She is not allowed to provide us with a room though, this privilege is owned solely by Miriam, the abbdess. Awaiting her arrival we leave our stuff behind and stroll through the village. The old stone monastery at the rock cliff on the eastern side of the village was built in the fourth century AD and the remains of martyr Taqla are buried here.
From the monastery we walk into the narrow gorge at the end of the village. The walls of the gorge are full of graffiti, like all bare walls in western cities. At the end of the gorge lies a plateau, where a brand-new four star hotel offers splendid views of village and valley.
We walk back to the village via another gorge, scattered with old cave houses and tombs.

Trying to reach the higher parts of Ma'alula we are confronted by ever narrowing alleyways. Due to lack of space the houses have been built partly on top of each other. The owners stare at us, not being used to tourists who take the effort to climb into the authentic parts of the village.
Except for the extraordinary building constructions Ma'alula is well known for something special: the original locals still speak Aramese, the language that was commonly spoken at the time Jesus lived. Aramese writing has become extinct, and only spoken Aramese exists thanks to oral history.
Back at the monastery the abdis welcomes us. She shows us a beautiful room, built against a rock wall. A part of the rock even protrudes into our room. We take the much needed shower, light two provided candles and feel completely at home.
Staying at the monastery is not for free, unlike people told us, and after a conversation with the mother we pay a redemption fee of 300 Syrian pounds, still the equivalent of twelve antiquated Dutch guilders. Undoubtedly, serving God with an empty stomach is difficult.

Early the next morning, under a lovely sunny sky, we cycle out of the village. At this hour and altitude temperatures are low: 6 degrees Celsius. We ascend the lower slopes of the Lubnan Ash Sharqiyeh mountains. It's long stretched eroded rocks contrast in a fabulous way with the steel blue sky. A car suddenly pulls over, forcing us to stop. An unshaven and heavily built man, carrying a big belly, introduces himself as Muhammad Ahmad. He is a journalist with the Syrian television and wants us in his program. We write down his telephone number and tell him we'll think about it. Two minutes later we know we will not visit him, something doesn't feel right about him.
It's only a short leg to Syria's capital and the last ten kilometres we fly in a perfectly flowing descend through villages, passing men dressed in white djellabas with surprised looks on their faces. With the speed of a freight train we ride into Damascus and, like often in big cities, get lost. After a long search we find the tourism office, which of course is closed since it's holy Friday.
Thanks to some helpful bystanders we find the nicest and one of the cheaper hotels of Damascus: El Haramain. This 800 years old hotel sits hidden in a narrow cobblestone alley, which would make Belgium jealous. The creaking wooden stairs are askew, the walls are hewn out of grey granite, the floors have a splendid pattern of different colours of marble and none of the doors and windows close properly.
In the afternoon we stroll to the Umayyad Mosque, one of the world's oldest mosques (705 AD). At the central entrance to the inner courtyard, we, being foreigners, are asked to go to the ticket office where Western tourists have to pay an entrance fee of 150 pounds. Any Syrian citizen can enter the mosque for free. We don't like this kind of discriminating treatment and look for a way to avoid the ticket men. And find one: at the back of the mosque is a second entrance, which most people seem to use as exit.
As if it's a daily routine we walk in and enter the courtyard without any problems. Everything around us is made of carved marble, coloured mosaics and leaf gold. In the centre of the courtyard is the money bank, built on stilts, and completely covered with a layer of gold.

We shuffle into the mosque, where it's a lively hustle and bustle: children are playing, elderly men read the Koran or chat with each other, people take photographs, and in the corners a couple of men are sleeping. In the centre of the mosque is a green-lighted glass house, containing the tomb of the mosque's builder: Umayyad Caliph Al-Walid ben Abdul Malek. Nice name to remember.

With our visa card we try to obtain money, which is not possible at the banks. Some shops doing business with Western countries do accept the card though. At a travel agency with reasonable rates we cash in a lot, just to be on the safe side . The surplus, we think, can be easily changed into dollars...

So, on Monday we visit the big 'Commercial Bank of Syria' to change part of the Syrian pounds into dollars, to use later on in other countries.
After half an hour of waiting it's finally our turn. We can already see the large stacks of dollar notes on the cashier's desk. A man in a perfectly fitting black suit, who is very stand-offish, helps us. He uses only two words to tells us it's impossible to change pounds into dollars: "No dollars."
"Perhaps on the second floor," he says, "You will have to ask for the manager."
With a plain face the middle boss tells us to forget about it. Changing dollars into pounds: no problem. The other way around: no.
"But why isn't it possible?" we ask him as politely as possible.
"We don't sell dollars, we only buy them," is the short answer.
"But why? You don't even like America!"
We try to lure him out of his hiding with some cynical words about their hatred of America, but he doesn't flinch.
The many Syrian pounds are becoming a big problem: we can't spend them all if we wanted to, and no other country will accept them. We try to convince him once more.
"We can't use all these Syrian pounds, in a couple of days we'll be in Jordan. What can we do with our money?"
"Well, you can spend it, burn it or throw it away."
Now we're really upset. Stupid idiot! They detest everything American, but love their dollars.
Since we have nothing to lose anymore we add some fuel to the fire:
"This is not an Islamic way to treat your guests! What about your hospitality?"
The guy is unmovable, and he sends us away with a bullshit story about the banks' policy.
Hotel El Haramain is very helpful though, they exchange our excess pounds at a reasonable rate. Damascus suddenly looks a lot brighter and we stroll through the ancient city once again. There's a lot to see: the old railway station, the antique carriages of the Sultan Abdul Hamid train, soukhs, Azem Palace, old city walls and authentic gates, a nine hundred years old bathing house. In three days we visit half of the city.
We feel at home here and this has something to do with the absence of crime. You can put your bag on a busy street and come back half an hour later... it will still be there. Either this is a consequence of people obeying the Koran's rules, or everyone is afraid of the heavy physical punishment for stealing. We don't know but feel comfortable.

After four days we say goodbye to Damascus. Just before we leave we meet a couple of sympathetic Americans in our hotel: Nigel and Elijah.
After hearing how we got here they force us to keep on telling our stories. We still cannot believe how impressive and inspiring we are to others.
We're just having a nice cycle trip.