Across the ravine from Suk Wadi Barada we can see the remains of an ancient road hewn in the solid rock, and a ruined aqueduct which some say was built by Queen Zenobia to carry the water of the Abana across the desert to Palmyra. It is almost certain, however, that both road and aqueduct, as well as the tombs whose openings appear higher up in the cliff, were constructed in the second century by the Romans.
Ain Fijeh, the next important village, bears a peculiarly redundant name, which reminds us of German Baden-Baden. The first word is Arabic and the second is a corruption of the Greek pege, and both mean “spring.” But, after all, “Spring Spring” is not such a bad name; for there gushes from a cave in the rock such an abundant fountain that the Abana here increases threefold in volume, and mediæval Arab geographers, as well as the modern inhabitants of the mountains, are unanimous in considering this the principal source of the river. From the cold, clear spring, a small tile aqueduct has for the last few years carried drinking-water to Damascus. Unfortunately, however, only a few of the more important buildings are as yet supplied from this source, and the common people are loath to journey to the public fountains when there are all over the city so many nearer—and dirtier—streams from which to draw. “The Moslems, especially, prefer to drink water which runs in the open rather than that which is piped,” said a native physician in answer to my questions as to the health of Damascus. “So, you see,” he added facetiously, “my practice has not suffered appreciably since the completion of the aqueduct.”
An old bridge over the Barada River
Cascade falling over the edge of the Hauran into the Yarmuk Valley
As we descend the narrow, winding valley of the Abana, it becomes more and more choked with verdure. We now begin to understand why the Greeks called this the Chrysorrhoas or “Golden River.” If we take advantage of one of the lengthy stops to step across the track and plunge our hands into its icy waters, we realize the fitness of its modern Arabic name, Baradâ—the “Cold Stream.” Occasionally we still glimpse far above us grim, treeless heights; but, between the cliffs, dense thickets or closely planted orchard trees line the river-banks. Now the Abana is a roaring, foaming torrent; now it flows chill, deep and silent; but always it hurries as if it were racing with the train. This, in its turn, goes more rapidly. It twists and swings and bumps as it takes dangerously short curves at—for a Syrian train—full speed. We pass into the shadow of a beetling precipice and, beneath the thick foliage which overhangs it, the river runs black as ink. Then, suddenly, we have left the gloom of the mountains and are out in the bright sunlight which floods a boundless plain. We have crossed to the eastern edge of Syria and before us, just beyond the orchards of Damascus, lies the desert.
CHAPTER VI
THE LAND OF UZ
To appreciate truly the significance of Damascus, one should approach it from the east, across the thirsty wilderness which stretches between the Euphrates and the Syrian mountains. The long, wearisome journey would be worth while if only for the first glimpse of the city as it appears to the wondering eyes of the desert-dweller. But the twentieth century visitor may be excused if he prefers to save time and strength by utilizing the railway. To-day there is even a choice of routes. He can travel to Damascus from the west comfortably, or from the south speedily. But the adverbs are not interchangeable.