THE VISITOR

Living in a city in Syria gave us the opportunity to buy delicacies, that otherwise we could not find in a small town such as Skelbieh. Food has always been an important part of my life, not only for survival, but for its actual enjoyment, taste and sensuality. It has also been an emotional crutch and a great source of comfort during difficult times.
I cannot remember buying many tinned food products other than jam, tuna and mortadella. The main foods that were stored in my freezer were ice-cream and frozen fresh vegetables, cut, shelled or peeled in the summer months for use in the winter.
Ninety nine percent of the food we ate was either picked fresh on the farms that morning or the previous day, or killed in the case of meat, chicken or fish, on the same day we bought it. Syrian people liked their meat and vegetables fresh. Meat was a lot more expensive to buy than vegetables, hence, a small amount of meat was used in cooking, with lots of onions, garlic and vegetables in season.
Azzam and Yasmin especially enjoyed the fruit of a cactus called prickly pear or (teen sebbear). Its tubercles had small prickly spines on the skin. The flesh was yellow to dark red in colour, sweet and juicy with crunchy seeds throughout. They were always a treat when we, in later years, returned to the seaside for holidays.
Arabic pastries were rich in honey and sugar and sweet on the tooth. Anything made with dates was my favourite, particularly a biscuit called (mamoul) made from semolina, dates, orange flower water and rose water. It was such a treat to eat out in a restaurant. Fawaz didn't like to eat out and occasionally he would buy a roasted chicken or kebabs.
I missed Australia so much and having no family or friends and no-one to converse with in English was at times difficult to bear.
Fawaz wasn't an easy man to live with. He set high standards for himself and others to live by and his twelve brothers and sisters were afraid to do the wrong thing by him. He was always the head of his Syrian family, because his dad Aziz was oftentimes away hawking his goods to folk in the mountains. I always liked to keep the peace, especially for the sake of the children, so I left many an argument unanswered.
Our time in Lattakia was coming to an end because Fawaz was in the process of negotiating a deal to buy a house in Skelbieh, his hometown. He had many friends and relatives in Skelbieh and his dream was to grow old surrounded by them. That was definitely not my dream. I planned to return to Australia in the future.
One of Fawaz's second or third cousin who lived in the mountains visited us in Lattakia. He appeared to be friendly and trustworthy although I had no idea what he or anyone else was talking about. I tended to drift off into my dreamworld and live in my own head. Fawaz asked him to check on the children and I whilst he was away on one of his Skelbieh excursions. This particular cousin, due to his occupation, always carried a gun and one morning he came to visit us. His presence afforded me no comfort as he had brought a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag and proceeded to ask for two glasses. I could not speak Arabic so I gestured to him that I did not drink and he immediately started to smile flirtatiously and I was anxious and afraid. I knew I had to leave before he got too drunk and I feared for the childrens' and my safety. They were playing in another room so I apologetically made my exit to check on them and quickly packed a small suitcase with some clothes and ran out the front door into the courtyard, opened our huge steel gate and ran down the footpath, with the children in hand, trying to hail a taxi. As we climbed into our taxi I could see him at the gate watching us depart. The only word I could say to give directions to the driver was "bus." He took me to the bus terminal and I gave him a handful of money as I wasn't sure what the taxi fare cost.
There we were, standing, the children upset and myself a wreck and nowhere to go except Skelbieh. I didn't know how to get to Subarb's house or even the name of her suburb. Fawaz took care of all the day to day travel arrangements and I had never left the house without him because not only would he not allow me but I had no reason to leave.
There were brightly dressed bedouin women sitting on their luggage with children playing near them. Some men were dressed in their galapeas and holding onto goats. There were girls and young men in jeans carrying books, maybe taking a break from their university studies. Everyone had somewhere to go and most knew how to get there except me. A man wearing a suit was standing near the entrance to the makeshift bus shelter and I said the word "Skelbieh" to him with an inflection in my voice which was both a question and a plead. He pointed in the direction of an old fashioned white and red two toned bus. I thanked him and we made our way across the dusty bus depot to buy our ticket. I stood on the stairs of the bus and again I said the magic word "Skelbieh" and gave the driver a five hundred Syrian pound note($15) and he gave me change and I knew then that we were safe at last.
The bus gradually filled with passengers and we were asked by the driver to move from our seats and directed to one seat at the front of the bus. Yasmin, Azzam and I and my small suitcase had to squash into a tiny space. The children were upset and I started to cry. The tears would not stop and a young man called to me from behind. He called me Um Azzam, which means mother of Azzam and kindly offered his seat to Yasmin and I thanked him. He stood in the crowded aisle for the rest of the two and a half hour trip. We exchanged some polite conversation as he could speak some English. Apparently, he knew Fawaz and was sorry that I was so upset. It was Friday, and a public holiday so he was able to have a day off from his studies at the Faculty of Medicine in Lattakia university and return home for some rest and relaxation.

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