Maliki Mardinalli

He's relaxed, in shorts, grinning as he drives.

You get into town, go into a cafe.

Everyone is happy, smiling.

They order pizza.

But an hour later, the mood changes.

Maliki looks distressed.

He is changed back into jeans as conservative Syrians frown upon men wearing shorts.

We get back into the car with the venue owner for the show tonight.

OK, Maliki, tell me exactly what's happening.

The venue owner has gotten a call from the local government in Mahardeh, asking him to come in for a meeting.

We drive to the local municipal building.

I walk with Maliki, but get stopped at the stairwell, while Maliki and the venue owner go into an office.

A few minutes later, Maliki comes back and says I can come in.

They take my bag, the recorder, everyone's phones.

There are two government men inside the office, beards, shaved mustaches, military outfits.

They look straight out of central casting.

But they're polite.

One asks if we want coffee.

Another then brings glass cups of Nescafe 3-in-1, a sugary instant coffee ubiquitous across the Middle East.

My translator waits downstairs, so I don't follow everything, but one of the government guys says he recognizes me.