Fresh from the sterile, air-conditioned surrounds of airports and hotel lobbies we piled into a taxi, all five of us. The faint odour of dust and diesel fumes hung in the air.

Damascus was not like I had imagined from Biblical texts and Karl May fantasies. Everyone wore Western clothes. Many of the men bore Kalashnikovs. It was the first time that I’d seen a Kalashnikov in real life, rather than as an icon of guerillia warfare depicted on protest badges. It was at once apparent that there was nothing cute about them.

But the men bearing the rifles smiled as we passed. We accepted many invitations to sip hot, sweet tea as we walked down the street.

Our teacher seemed to know almost everyone in this area. But then was a citizen of the world, with friends in many countries. I had first run into him on a street corner in Dar es Salaam where he’d helped me to find accommodation. Eight months later I was in Denmark, back at school, learning another language and preparing to see more of the world.

Guns and all.