My new abode in Bab Sareeje is a wonderously small flat inhabited by a brother and sister, 27 and 30 respectively. Paying the extortionate sum of 4,000 SYP (under half what I was paying before and the equivalent of about 56 british pounds stirling) appears also to include a lot of food and middle eastern cooking lessons which is rather nice I must admit...

So one fine friday evening Wissam and Minal (my new flatmates) announced that they were going to a wedding the next day near Dara'a near the Jordanian border. they followed this up with the proclamation that I too should attend this most illustrious day. Seeing as I really had no other more pressing engagements I took them up on the offer, secretly thinking that I was going to be the token prize foreigner for that day. I was right.

Obviously first of all they decided that very moment that they would have to chose my wardrobe for the day. This very suggestion filled my heart with fear because as we all know I have spent many years perfecting the dress sense I have (if you can really call it that) which is in my opinion the least offensive to the eyes of the common people when coupled with my dubious figure. Various delightful options ensued including a kak and rust brown old-woman-from-the-80s-crossed-with-victorian-England jacket, a grey functional pinafore that was reminiscent of school uniform, a glittery purple and grey striped acrylic sweater, a gingham red and white lacy pregnancy top and a velvet brown halterneck monstrosity that would have made miss Havisham look like a spring chicken in comparison. As I did a fairly bad job of hiding my distaste for these vestments and the obvious fact that I looked ridiculous in every combination nomatter how hard they tried, they eventually admitted that some of my pantaloons and my good old waistcoat would just about do. but I didn't escape that easily. Next they tried to put me in high heeled bling sandals and a gold headband that reminded me of Fame. I relished the difficulty (enthusiastically exaggerated) with which I stumbled about the flat in the high heels and resolved secretly to 'forget' the headband the next day. but I did not escape the blinging gold jewellery thrust upon my personage and having my nails painted a shade that simultaneously my seven year old pink-obsessed self and an aged porn star would be more than satisfied with.

The next morning we left damascus in the back of a friend's white four wheel drive with Wissam in a long white gallabea and the traditional red tea towl headdress that he kept having to re-adjust and stop from slipping off his head. Minal and I laughed at this because no one else was dressed anything like this, ie:like someone from the gulf. We arrived and, as predicted, I attracted quite a lot of attention. This area was VERY removed from the delights of modernity and education. The chidren asked whether I was all the way from Damascus. when I replied that in fact I was English they looked confused. I then explained the geographical coordinates of great britain (an in island in europe) and they still gazed at me quizzically. Indeed, the children I met were all girls because the entire wedding was completely gender separated. I hadn't experienced this sort of separation before, even at the wedding I went to in Egypt. We could only sneak the occasional glance at the men...

I was overjoyed to hear once again the delights of an old bedoui accent (some of the 'k' sounds become 'ch') that I had first come across in Palestine and realised how close we actually were. Oh for the old days of the Ottoman empire without borders between these regions! Many of the old women commented on my beauty (I have eyes that are not brown which is apparently enough for them all to suggest I marry one of their sons) and later on when they were supposed to be singing the praises of the bride as is done in traditional weddings they got bored and decided to praise me instead. It would have been highly flattering had I had any idea whatsoever as to what exactly they were saying.

We had been waiting around for about half an hour when there was a general movement into the street and we made a procession with dancing and singing following the groom to his house where he then went into one of his rooms and dressed and shaved. There was a great cheer when he emerged on the shoulders of one of the other men and some individuals started enthusiastically shooting what I hope were air rifles above everyone's heads. We then followed in cars to another house where he met with the bride and on a stage in front of everyone they swapped their rings from their right hand onto the left. They then went to another house and stood on another stage with grins stuck resolutely to their faces as the groom had money pinned to his suit by guests. The bride, as is the custom apparently in the middle east, resembled a disney princess crossed with a drag queen with solid gold hair and a big glittery white blancmange of a dress. Despite a serious excess of makeup she looked very young. I asked later how old they both were. The groom was 26, but the bride was either 16 or 17...

We then waited for a long long time for food to appear. By this time I was utterly ravenous and had no problem devouring a large amount of rice and lamb with labneh when it finally arrived. We then headed home and a couple of hours later, seriously dehydrated from a long day in the sun with not quite enough water I expressed a desperate desire for fruit, lots of fruit. An hour later we sat down to a veritable cornucopia of strawberries, kiwi, banana, dates, apples, small orange fruit from turkey, oranges and, in pride of place, keneffe. All right it's not fruit but I happily wolfed it down. Thus ended a strangely marvellous day, even though I was pretty horrified at the age of the bridge.The sheen of modernisation is only skin deep in many places, and once out of the comforts of Damascus it is surprising how quickly and how drastically attitudes change and old traditions still prevail.

This extends even into Damascus. When speaking to people who have been here their entire lives they describe how much it has changed over the past 15 years or so. Had you come before that all the road signs were only in arabic, the streets of the old town were not stone cobbled and straight street didn't look as clean or tidy as it does now. In fact none of the city did and this is still the case once you get out of Damascus and the main tourist hubs. Responsible waste disposal consists of leaving it in the road to feed the stray cats and the hobos which seems an odd way of being charitable. One of my friends says the biggest change was in fact the arrival of satellite TV. Before this, Syria had been utterly closed and sheltered from the western world, then suddenly there it was on a screen in all its glamour. I had no idea that the change had been so recent. Syria is full of surprises.