Day 293 Syrian Hospitality

The shared taxi from Beirut to Damascus was a nice, newer, air conditioned luxury sedan. Too bad it only took us out of the city where we were transferred, with loud protests from my fellow passengers, to an ancient piece of crap taxi that waited for an hour for one more passenger before we left. I was not sure what to expect at the Syrian border. I had told them when I got my Syrian visa that I would be going into Lebanon and returning to Syria.

At the border, they said, “no visa, wait, fax Damascus, wait.” My taxi left without me of course. At the duty free shop I ran into a guy from Portland who is studying in Beirut. It is a small world. I was prepared to wait another twelve hours for this visa. I lucked out with only three hours. Back in another taxi, I went to the bus station in Damascus and bought a ticket to Amman, Jordan, or so I thought.

Before I got on the bus, I asked the driver, “Amman, Jordan?” He nodded and motioned for me to get on. I felt sure I was headed in the right direction and did not worry too much. Even so, when we were on the highway, I checked the direction of the sun to make sure we were going in the right direction—you never know. We were going south toward Amman; all was okay. Almost. After two hours, I ended up in Suwayda, Syria, near the Jordanian border. Fortunately, I was helped by a friendly local guy that spoke a tiny amount of English. The problem was that I could not get to Jordan from there. I had to go all the way back to Damascus first. He asked for me about a bus back to Damascus that evening and there wasn’t one. He invited me to stay with him that evening and said he would put me on a bus in the morning. I thought it would be interesting, but being an American in predominantly Islamic rural Syria, I was a little nervous.

We took a taxi for about a kilometer and then worked at fitting into a minibus. When I said I wanted to pay my fare for the taxi and minibus, Ali laughed and pinched my cheek like I said something silly. I was in his care and my money was no good. The difficulty was getting all the people (17), bags, boxes, and my backpack to fit in a minibus designed for ten people. People got in an out and moved around until finally after about ten minutes we were all sardined inside. We drove out of the town into the desert for about half an hour until we reached a little village where we picked up one more passenger. The minibus was jammed and I could not see anyway he could fit. That was my Western thinking holding me back. He squeezed in the front seat, mostly sideways, on the left of the driver. We drove for another thirty minutes through the now pitch black desert. I was starting to wonder where the hell we were going.

In the village of Irmon, we got out, thank god, and walked a block to Ali’s house, where I met his wife and two little girls. None of them had ever met an American before and they were ecstatic. His wife immediately changed into nice clothes with lots of jewelry. They spoke almost no English so it was hard to communicate. We had a good time drinking tea, eating sweets, and talking with dictionaries. In the morning, Ali wrote everything I needed in Arabic and took me to the next town, where he put me on a minibus and told the driver to make a special stop to drop me off at the bus station. Meeting Ali and staying with his family was one of those great experiences that offset all the times you get ripped off or hassled.

Day 290 Porcelain Prisoner

I was not bothered by Fajid as he sat in quiet disillusionment, his sad antennae motionless and askew. I had watched him for much of the day, as he attempted to walk up the glossy white surface of the bathtub, only to slide ignominiously down, legs and antennae in awkward disarray. Occasionally I would find him peering into the blackness of the drain, longing for an escape from his seemingly impenetrable porcelain prison. His occasional awkward steps toward the hole of the drain only resulted in his spindly legs slipping on the edge, throwing him off balance, and making him grudgingly retreat to safety of the porcelain. Alas, his body lacked the flexibility of other species. It was at times like this that he would turn inward, staring at the emotionally devoid whiteness of his prison walls, and reflect on his short uneventful life. Was there warmth in his exoskeleton for another? Was there flittering progeny that will have to learn life’s lessons without him? Grand schemes of conquest and adventure slipping away?

He was silent on all counts.

It wasn’t because of cruelty that I did not set him free. I would be liberating him by morning-- because I had no intention of showering with him--but I did not set him free. In truth, I was feeling down and alone myself, and I valued his soundless company. Additionally, his imprisonment gave him a special status that crossed species lines. I am not sure I could guarantee his safety, even from me, if he lost this status. I did spare him the unpleasant knowledge that several of his species, no one special I hope, had attempted to access the bathroom via the fan ductwork, and because I had carelessly left the fan on, they had met their maker in an unholy puree that littered the sink with tiny crunchy bits and the fan housing with the moist parts. Thankfully, I only heard the commotion and did not bear witness to the carnage of which I bore partial responsibility.

It has been almost ten months that I have been traveling and I had avoided spending much time in bathrooms of a foreign nature, and had also made a special effort to avoid making friends in any of them. But then, with my first case of traveler’s diarrhea, I was grateful for Fajid’s company. We shared different but similar predicaments; neither of us knew if and when we would ever escape the confines of that bathroom. Sure, I could leave for a time, but I wasn’t long before I returned to Fajid’s side to sit in unspoken solidarity as prisoners of plumbing fixtures.

Day 289 Damascus, Syria

My hotel in Damascus was listed on Hostelworld.com as having dorm rooms or cheap single rooms. At the reception desk they denied that anything of the sort was available. They kept trying to show me expensive rooms (4 star) and I kept demanding something cheaper. Only after I refused to see anymore rooms upstairs did they relent and show me the downstairs rooms. I took a room two floors down that wasn’t much different than the upstairs rooms except it was smaller and windowless. My neighbors were the doormen and bellboys. The internet available advertisement actually meant that there is an internet shop down the street, not in the hotel. Nice truth in advertising. Of course the internet was not working half of the time at the shop.

Again the main tourist office, people in the bazaar, the internet shop, and a restaurant told me that I was the first American they have seen in years. The bazaar in Damascus is very very big. It did not take long for me to get lost. I stopped at one of the grand old Arab houses that was converted to a restaurant. In the lovely interior courtyard I had a thyme salad that was fantastic. It was fresh thyme in place of lettuce, olive oil, lemon juice, tomatoes, and onion. It was zingy and delicious. Then I had the tasty villager’s plate with bulgur, chickpeas, potatoes, and meat. With a one and a half liter bottle of water it came to about 6 USD. With help, I found the impressive old mosque in the old city and hung out to watch people.

If you visit Syria, there is one person you will feel like you know very well. Bashar Assad, the Syrian President. Every shop, or every shop that is smart, has at least one large poster of him up in the front window and usually many more inside. Sometimes they have so many pictures of him up in the windows that it is difficult to tell what they sell if you cannot read the Arabic signs. So imagine Bashar in every shop window. Now add huge banners and billboards on the buildings, every mile or so on the highway (really weird), and the posters and Bashar silhouettes in cars, buses, and taxis. There were times when I could stand on the street and easily see about 70 Bashars looking at me. He must really be loved there because in a “totally fair” election he won 99 percent of the vote. It is amazing how much people love an authoritarian ruler when there are soldiers around with machine guns implying that you should love him. The really great part is the variety of Bashar pictures. I personally love the Mr. Cool sunglasses Bashar, but others have merit as well: stern Bashar, laughing Bashar, noble Bashar, relaxing Bashar, military Bashar, concerned Bashar, fatherly Bashar, business Bashar….

Day 288 Hama, Syria

I took a bus (1 USD for 2 hours) south to Hama, home of the noria (giant water wheels) that once lifted water into the aqueducts. These giant wooden wheels are all this town has and they play them for everything they have got. The wheels are very big, powered by the river that runs through town, and make a godawful noise. Supposedly they generate 360 different tones as they spin. Loud. A local teenager thrilled the crowds by riding the wheel up and over the top. The slippery wet wood makes this a little dangerous and stupid. Fortunately, the water wheels do detract from the dirt, garbage, and ugliness that plague the city. For a few minutes anyway.

At my hotel I ran into a Canadian guy and the painful wall of reality. He was there looking for his fiancé that disappeared two months ago from the hotel across the street. Having traveled worldwide by herself five times, she was not inexperienced. She just disappeared and no one has any idea where. He has talked to every level of government, travelers, hotel clerks, and street vendors with little luck. He assumes she is dead. The question is whether she was in an accident and someone secretly buried her, afraid of the consequences, or if something more nefarious occurred. That gave me something to think about as I wandered the under lit streets. According to the hotel manager and a few other people I met, I am the only American they have seen in years. That is not reassuring.

Day 287 Aleppo, Syria

Arriving in Aleppo, right away I knew I was in a very different place than Turkey. I am not sure how to describe it other than poorer, less modern in thought, and slightly oppressive feeling.

The prices in Syria are silly cheap. Taxis are plentiful and almost free and food is a pittance. The souk, old market, was okay, shop keepers were very aggressive toward me, the rich foreigner of course. I wandered right through without looking at much. On my way out I stumbled upon the Citadel looming over the center of town. This was cool. I sat at a café right in front and had foul
(pronounced fool) which is giant fava beans in a yogurt sauce with ground sesame and olive oil. Seeing that it was only one USD, I made the mistake of ordering some dried yogurt with it. I got so much food there was no way I could eat it all. The yogurt came like hummus on a plate with olive oil, garnish, more pita, tomatoes, mint, onion, lemon, and pickles. The food was good. They have a saying about foul because it has so much protein that it makes all of the blood go to your stomach--so if you are acting stupid--they say you have eaten too much foul.

I wandered the ancient city inside the Citadel and loved the deep underground passages with scary steep steps. I am not sure I was supposed to go in them because they were not lit up, but I had a headlamp. Back up on top I went to possibly the most pathetic pay museum ever. At least it was only about $1.50. All they had were a few column fragments, a cannon, a simple catapult, some tiles, and a bunch of unlabeled crap. The best part of the Citadel, other than the grand entry, was Sharif, a young stone mason who was very happy to talk to me and invited me to eat with him. I regretfully declined eating as I was stuffed with foul. All through Aleppo, I was very pleased with the friendliness of the people.