People try to live normally, they do not cower at home

If you want to get to the Syrian capital safely, it is best to avoid going by road which is rife with kidnappings and killings

SYRIAN AIR OBLIGES passengers to pay fares in cash, because of sanctions clamped on the country as a result of the government’s crackdown on dissidents.

Cheques and credit cards are out. European and US banks cannot do business with Syrian banks and firms. I travel with a wad of cash – foreign credit cards do not work here.

My flight to Damascus is via Aleppo, which saves fuel and adds two hours to the usual one-hour journey. The aircraft, a narrow- bodied turbo prop, is less than half full when we embark for Syria’s second city, in the north of the country.

Before the uprising began last March, flights from Larnaca in Cyprus flew directly to Damascus in large jets packed with Cypriot shoppers seeking bargain bed linen, towels and curtains. There are no shoppers aboard now.

Just before we clear for take-off, Cypriot immigration officers bring on to the aircraft half a dozen young Syrian men, handcuffed in pairs for deportation for overstaying work visas.

Thousands of Syrian workers who cannot find jobs go abroad in search of employment. For these men, deportation could be a death sentence if they return to an area gripped by the brutal struggle for power.

The aircraft dips low over glittering Aleppo, a city that has not joined the rebellion.

After some passengers disembark into the cold black night, a bowser draws alongside and pumps in fuel. New passengers file on. A Shia cleric in a grand white turban makes for the business section. Undaunted by the daily death toll, VIPs continue to come to Syria.

The Aleppo passengers fill all the seats. It is too dangerous to drive from Aleppo to Damascus, kidnappings and killings are rife along the highways. Aircraft are the safe option for those who can afford tickets.

We fly over restive Homs and Hama, their lights flickering on the dark plain. Damascus is a vast sprawl of red, white, and orange lights. The aircraft lands, taxis and disgorges its passengers. The terminal is empty. Our steps echo in the chill marble hall where immigration officials wait to stamp our passports.

In normal times, there would be long lines of impatient people at the booths.

The officer asks my occupation. Journalist, I reply. He slips away to consult an officer but returns promptly stamps my passport and welcomes me. There are many journalists here these days.

The government has found it is better to admit journalists than to refuse them visas, compelling them to rely on exiled opposition spokesmen.

We wait at the baggage claim. There are no other aircraft arriving so why should anyone hurry?

There are few cars on the road into town, but on the outskirts, weekend traffic jams the streets. The people of Damascus are determined to live normal lives. They do not cower at home.

Some neighbourhoods are almost entirely dark; flickering candles or kerosene lamps dimly illuminate a room or two. Electricity is rationed.

Syria, an oil producer, does not have the capacity to refine all the petroleum products it consumes. And sanctions prevent Damascus from buying them from its usual European suppliers.