Count your lucky pigeons

I have always believed it is unlucky to be superstitious. I pity those who walk around a pavement ladder straight into the path of oncoming traffic and those who spend zealously on losing lottery tickets having witnessed a black cat successfully negotiate a dual carriageway. And indeed those who shun the advances of their perfectly matched small redheaded friend for the wooly promise of a tall dark stranger. But when I was shat on by pigeons twice within moments I had to concede that if any day was auspicious it was going to be that one.

The day had started pretty badly with a hideous hangover, the result of a crazy night out in Damascus with a Saudi and Bahraini in an Iraqi nightclub. And then being rudely thrown out of my hotel due to incompetence and overbooking. Trudging round in the midday heat looking for another hotel with my bags and a stonking headache was not much fun. It appeared that all hotels in the area were full apart from the wonderfully inappropriately named Grand Hotel Syria.

I entered my cell like room which was so narrow that the process of turning around naturally meant dusting the peeling walls. Then walked across the sticky lino to the bathroom and attempted to have a cold shower – lucky because there was no hot water. But neither was there much cold water – a rusty spout emitted a tepid yellowish trickle akin to being peed on, which then petered out just as I was fully lathered. I wiped myself off with a towel, slightly larger than a flannel, that looked and smelled like the last guest had used it to clean out the festering bowl and then swatted cockroaches with it.

But I consoled myself in the knowledge that I was doing my bit for the environment and sustainable travel. I imagined the little card that might have been placed next to the sink. 'Dear guest, millions of litres of detergent pollute our waterways every day…in order to protect the environment please note that towel on the rail means that you are happy to reuse the previous guest's towel again. Towel on the floor means you are happy to reuse the previous guest's towel again but will first use it as a bath mat'.

I was not drying. The air conditioning was like been blown on by someone with a slight temperature and halitosis. But as I threw on a marginally cleaner set of clothes and left my room with the intention of doing some sightseeing, I realized that the previous hotel had actually done me a favour by throwing me out;

'I am a proper traveler after all, not a tourist. By checking into the 'Grand' I am saving 30 dollars a day. That's enough to sit on a beach in Thailand for a week, eating fried rice and juggling fire torches – with change to get my hair dreaded. The aging German tourists can have my room in the overbooked, overpriced 3 star hotel. Who needs cable TV when you can watch a cat tormenting cockroaches in the corridor?'

I sat outside the amazing Umayyad mosque in the heart of Damascus' old town and checked my guidebook for inspiration to wander next, oblivious to the fat, winged vermin perched directly above me…

The first huge splat violated both arm and ear and I froze in denial - while the second got my shorts just over my groin. I don't know if it was two pigeons shitting in near unison, or one pigeon double dumping with the second sphincter contracting deposit finally purging its system. But it didn't make any difference; I sat in startled disgust while warm, chocolate-streaked Mr Whippy ran towards my elbow and a mound of oversoaked tiramisu graced my crotch. And that's lucky? That's got to be fucking unlucky by my reckoning.

There was only so much my last moist wipe could be expected to do so I decided to attempt a slightly better clean up back at the 'Grand'. I conceded it was better to take a taxi, not because the hotel was very far but because I had no idea how to get there, being blessed with the sense of direction of a female bat with no sonar.

'Meter' I insisted, pointing to the dilapidated contraption almost hidden in the pit of the cab.

'Meter no. 100 pounds'. The driver replied glancing at the unfortunate looking damp patch on my shorts.

But I was in true traveler mode and I knew that it should be no more than 20 Syrian pounds. I puffed up and got out of the cab giving him a 'don't insult my street cred, I'm almost a local', kind of look. But I had made a classic schoolboy error; I'd hailed a stationary cab outside a tourist attraction. All travelers know you never do that, so I walked a few metres and hailed a passing one.

Again I insisted on the use of the meter and again I received the same answer; '100 pounds yani'

I was arguing over a tiny amount but it was the principle and I stuck to my guns eventually making it back to my grotty little hotel on foot, having asked several helpful passers-by for directions. It was then that I had the stomach churning revelation that I didn't have my camera. I must have left it somewhere or it'd been stolen. And so soon after the tragedy of having all my pictures and video camera stolen in Tibet. I felt sick.

Then my churning stomach knotted as I realised that I must have left it in the cab, and there was no way the driver was going to return it after my spurning his ride for the sake of two dollars. Just my luck – it must have been two pigeons with the second splat cancelling out the fortunate benefits of the first.

I pictured the driver already tucking into a slap-up dinner in a restaurant next to the secondhand shop – but I walked back to the rank anyway to ask around. I was just giving up all hope when I heard a car behind me screech to a halt and a vaguely familiar voice shout, 'Mister, mister'. I turned around to see the driver brandishing my camera through his open window. 'You looking this?'

Call me fickle but I was now loving both the pigeons and the driver. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to get my camera back but by some stroke of good fortune and goodwill it was now hanging out of a taxi in front of me – the lovely man having driven around for the last half an hour looking for me. I rushed over to claim it, at the same time giving the driver a huge hug and pushing 1000 pounds into his hand. He was now my new best friend and happily took me the two blocks back to the hotel. It must have been the most overpriced taxi ride ever (especially for a traveler) but I thanked the pigeon(s), counting myself extremely lucky that it was such an honest rogue that had tried to rip me off.