Maabour: These mountains northwest of Damascus are stark, stunning and snow-capped. It's easy to see these hills that separate Syria from the Beka'a Valley as a vacation retreat. On the other side, the view over Lebanon's Eastern mountains into the green valley below, the Litani river snaking through it, is a picture perfect postcard.

In normal times, this could be heaven. But these are not normal times. These are times of trouble and tensions, violence and vitriol, killing or being killed. I am sworn to secrecy on my life as to how I got here and who I am with. And I have every reason to believe that my acquaintances have the will to enforce that promise. I know that they have the tools to enforce it — all have Kalashnikovs, and two have 9 millimetre pistols holstered to their thighs by black velcro straps.

Most wear an assortment of combat tunics where extra magazines for their battered Kaleshnikovs are stuffed. Two wear keffiyeh tied to their heads. All are unshaven, tired and tense.

I have arrived to this place at this early hour by a circuitous route first off the main highway from Damascus that runs north through Homs to Aleppo and Turkey. I have changed cars from a taxi, to a little Geely with a cracked windscreen and a missing wiper, then to an old Peugeot that has a small Quran dangling from the rear-view mirror. Its mechanical odometer stopped working years ago. There is little wrong with the engine as we climb up these hills. Shepherds tend to their flocks of mostly black sheep.

For the regime of President Bashar Al Assad, my fellow travellers are far more than black sheep — they are traitors and terrorists who seek to destroy Syria. "Al Assad is a killer and a dictator," I am told. "He is worse than Gaddafi."

Al Assad and Russian Prime Minister Putin need to be put in a barrel and used for target practice, I am told. Or their throats should be slit, one of my unshaven acquaintances gestures in a threatening manner that surpasses our language barrier.

Our little convoy has halted and we begin to trek up a path well known to the black sheep of the woollen variety. Greetings are made and kisses exchanged between two new unshaven men with Kalashnikovs who have been standing watch over their two green wooden crates. The writing is Cyrillic and I cannot read it. "RPG" one of the men with holster on his thigh says. The two crates are carried down the shepherd's path and slid into the back of the old Peugeot.

One is pried open, and beneath heavy brown waxproof paper are the rounds, metallic and scored and tipped with a detonator that reminds me of a bottle cap. They are laid out in a row of 10, alternatively top and bottom. There are 20 rounds in each crate. I get but a glance as there is no time for admiring their acquisition.

But the unshaven cadre is pleased. "This kill [expletive] Al Assad," says the one who earlier had made the throat-slitting motion. He has enough English-language skills to make his intent known. I return in a second car to the place where the little Geely awaits. I am reminded again of the promise I have made.

They head north and I am brought east to where a taxi driver has smoked a packet of Alhamra cigarettes while he waits.

In truth, I am relieved to be away from these unshaven men, their Kalashnikovs and their cache of RPG rounds in wooden crates with Cyrillic writing.

They have work to do. And so do I, for there is a military sweep in Damascus and we part. On my life, I have a promise to keep. And they do too.