Damascus

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I must have some kind of illness, a very odd illness, one that drags me back to Iraq like some kind of migratory bird each year. Each year for my birthday I gravitate this way.

My first waking memory as a 23 year old was soundtracked by the end of the world crashes of a massive mortar attack. 'Whooomph, bang!' The first salvo woke me up as it barreled in, splitting the air and popping like a TNT balloon. I curled foetal and tried to pretend that the explosions were only an extension of my brain sapping hangover. I opened my eyes as I tried to shrink into nothingness and somehow avoid the instant roulette death of falling mortars. With flinching and puffy eyes I saw the Iranian helmet in bed with me. Hazy memories flooded back. The gashes in the metal and fibreglass hat whispered of the luckless previous incumbent. It had been picked up by one of our unit on patrol, and when drunk it had seemed like a fantastic idea to put it on me and smash bottles over my head. More memories leaked back, of wearing the helmet and nothing else as all comers ran at me and cracked wine bottles over my skull, or just threw them at me from corners of the portacabin. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been for the punctures in the fibreglass, which had burred and jagged edges to stab into my head with each impact. The mortars continued to land, eventually 18 in just the one attack - the Hajjis giving me a firework display to remember for my birthday.

My 22nd was spent in the company of a completely crazy Kenyan, and an overly intelligent naval officer. I told neither it was my birthday, but I wouldn't have chosen to be anywhere else. We sat in the grounds of a stately Baghdad palace, watching Black Hawks fly overhead, and drinking half frozen Tuborg that exploded like grenades when opened. Iraq had just won the African nations cup, and half of Baghdad was happy firing AKs into the clammy air. All around us the rounds pinged down as deadly rain, as the call to prayer issued from speakers and rotor blades thudded above.

This year my homing instinct has failed, I've not made it to Iraq for my 24th - I'm 200k short. This birthday I am spending on a roof in Syria. My companions are Han, two Canadians who speak in whispers so quiet as to be inaudible, one Russian, two Brits and a South African. The Canadians like everyone, the Brits like noone, the South African hates everyone, the Russian just told me that Ukranians are barely more than farm animals. I'm liking everyone. I have sun, and a bottle of vodka, I have my notepad and a pen, and I have a life that has just moved one year closer to death, I have no job to wake up to, I have no stress, no cares, I have the world and love, and life and infinty. It's all pretty good. Even if my homing instinct has failed- but not by much - what's 200k between friends?

We've done the tourist trail, we've visited the medina, the old city, the Ommayad mosque, we've 'done' Damascus, and it is a cool city - after all - it is the oldest permanently inhabited city in the world

Though life is great, it does feel as if I am missing something. The last two birthdays were incredible, spent playing out little boy dreams. I look to the sky, and see the vapour trails disappearing behind jets. People up there are heading off home, or excited about the impending holiday. Nobody expects SAMs, or a harsh landing, nobody will run from their flight in darkness to a nearby mortar shelter, nobody will barrel in in complete darkness, scared and sweating, and nobody will pick up their weapons from the baggage bay. To some people, Syria will always seem like an adventure, a strange, foreign, exciting country. To me it is a strange, foreign, exciting country - and a huge anti climax. After Baghdad, is there anywhere left in the world that can still seem exciting? Have I peaked, shot my load too early? There is nowhere left on earth where I can get the same Baghdad buzz. What am I looking for?

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