International Sign Language for: ‘Can I photograph your pigeons please?’.

I went to some ruins this morning early. A 2km broken collonade of romanity lost, a museum with high posted posters of Bashir al-Assad, opened in November ’82, by Hafaz al-Assad. 9 months after the destruction of most of old Hama by goverment troops after an uprising by The Muslim Brotherhood, a militant organisation. Many died. (see Robert Fisk, Pity The Nation).

An old fort, an old bedstead, iron cast, pillow soiled, in the courtyard shade where the Byzantine church-floor mosaics interweave lions and antelope prey, rose lianas, placid birds and geometric relief. Half the light bulbs are dead, the shades smashed. A guide tells me what the translations already say, clearly knows what he’s talking about, but offers no more. At the end of the corridor, stacks of mozaic slices, metre squared, sections numbered so we see only the spine. In the stacks below the British Museum, even less visible these kinds of trace.

We are offered silver, gold, jade, coins and stamps, copper and bronze, Roman heads and others stamped into valued metal, almost for pennies. Two millenia on a favourable exchange rate. I photograph an elaborately decorated 4×4, PC WORLD bold white on each proud bumper.

No one on the terrace, back at the hostel, after a tour of Hama with my kind ex-pat Syrian friends. I should be sleeping in this heat, I felt like it when I came in, but quiet, space, a shower, wash the clothes, then a stillness all too seductive to miss in sleep. There’s a guy cleaning up- I give him some fresh cold water, and try to learn how you say hot in Arabic. Different words for weather-hot, ill-hot, hot-of-the-skin. This is shoub. He squeegees the floor around me as I read Mother Tongues, Helena Drysdale, and preys before called to when work is done for now, and I think, this one would be good, but refrain from the photo.

Later, looking over the balcony I can see flocks of doves swoop and circle to whistles and shouts, round the sky, sharp the minarets, satelite dishes, light underwings, buoyant their liquid float and slow dive. I watch, listen in awe, photograph roofscapes, try distill their grace to film.

I went to some ruins this morning early. A 2km broken collonade of romanity lost, a museum with high posted posters of Bashir al-Assad, opened in November '82, by Hafaz al-Assad. 9 months after the destruction of most of old Hama by goverment troops after an uprising by The Muslim Brotherhood, a militant organisation. Many died. (see Robert Fisk, Pity The Nation). An old fort, an old bedstead, iron cast, pillow soiled, in the courtyard shade where the Byzantine church-floor mosaics interweave lions and antelope prey, rose lianas, placid birds and geometric relief. Half the light bulbs are dead, the shades smashed. A guide tells me what the translations already say, clearly knows what he's talking about, but offers no more. At the end of the corridor, stacks of mozaic slices, metre squared, sections numbered so we see only the spine. In the stacks below the British Museum, even less visible these kinds of trace. We are offered silver, gold, jade, coins and stamps, copper and bronze, Roman heads and others stamped into valued metal, almost for pennies. Two millenia on a favourable exchange rate. I photograph an elaborately decorated 4x4, PC WORLD bold white on each proud bumper. No one on the terrace, back at the hostel, after a tour of Hama with my kind ex-pat Syrian friends. I should be sleeping in this heat, I felt like it when I came in, but quiet, space, a shower, wash the clothes, then a stillness all too seductive to miss in sleep. There's a guy cleaning up- I give him some fresh cold water, and try to learn how you say hot in Arabic. Different words for weather-hot, ill-hot, hot-of-the-skin. This is shoub. He squeegees the floor around me as I read Mother Tongues, Helena Drysdale, and preys before called to when work is done for now, and I think, this one would be good, but refrain from the photo. Later, looking over the balcony I can see flocks of doves swoop and circle to whistles and shouts, round the sky, sharp the minarets, satelite dishes, light underwings, buoyant their liquid float and slow dive. I watch, listen in awe, photograph roofscapes, try distill their grace to film. [gallery=9] A block back and across I go looking for the source of this whirl across the bright sky. Last night's cheap whiskey, and the Active Morning making me bold for the photographic venture into unknown places. A row of birds alights on a top floor. International sign language for, 'Can I photograph your pigeons please?', to a guy on the relevant corner. His uncomprehending frown turns to grin affirmative. Up the stairs we rush past grubby concrete walls, peeking women behind doors to the roof terrace: kids and men, and a whoosh and globe of sky made life. This is flock-piracy, a game of territories and strategy to take the birds of another's flock with the lure of a beautiful bird of two. There's a black plastic bag on a cane, which might mean, ...'and they're off...', a net on a stick on the top of a shed, for the swipe maybe.... An assimilating flock wings round as I field questions in the International Language of clear enthusiasm for the pastime at hand, and the city around us, the light getting low. I don't care that much about the pictures, though I now do. Arm-fulls of children, a high five from someone and I've no idea beyond his wide grin what he wants me to know so emphatically that we share. We have to duck to hide from something. Another's bird is sought as it comes in to court one from the our flock. These guys clearly have the best fleet. Though i'm politely asked to sit, I stand and shoot photos, squatting, wishing I had it in my calves to Eastern do so. We have tea. Exchange the emails. I split, glad i gave it a shot. Masa il gheir
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A block back and across I go looking for the source of this whirl across the bright sky. Last night’s cheap whiskey, and the Active Morning making me bold for the photographic venture into unknown places. A row of birds alights on a top floor. International sign language for, ‘Can I photograph your pigeons please?’, to a guy on the relevant corner. His uncomprehending frown turns to grin affirmative. Up the stairs we rush past grubby concrete walls, peeking women behind doors to the roof terrace: kids and men, and a whoosh and globe of sky made life.

This is flock-piracy, a game of territories and strategy to take the birds of another’s flock with the lure of a beautiful bird of two. There’s a black plastic bag on a cane, which might mean, …’and they’re off…’, a net on a stick on the top of a shed, for the swipe maybe…. An assimilating flock wings round as I field questions in the International Language of clear enthusiasm for the pastime at hand, and the city around us, the light getting low.

I don’t care that much about the pictures, though I now do. Arm-fulls of children, a high five from someone and I’ve no idea beyond his wide grin what he wants me to know so emphatically that we share. We have to duck to hide from something. Another’s bird is sought as it comes in to court one from the our flock. These guys clearly have the best fleet. Though i’m politely asked to sit, I stand and shoot photos, squatting, wishing I had it in my calves to Eastern do so. We have tea. Exchange the emails. I split, glad i gave it a shot. Masa il gheir