Google Revolutionizes Cheating In High School Spanish Class

Holy crap. Google, please me merciful to me when you take over the world- just remember, I was an early supporter.

Today, unwilling to spend the time in an internet cafe it would take to translate an Arabic article I was interested in, I lazily ran that article through Google Translate, expecting to at least get a good chortle out of the pitiful attempt at making sense of Arabic that was to follow. Two minutes later, I began preparing myself for the human race's imminent demise. 

DAMASCUS (Reuters) - Said Syrian President Bashar al-Assad on Wednesday that peace talks with Israel stalled because Israel is not interested in achieving peace.

He said Assad, who was speaking at a joint news conference after talks with Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan in Damascus that Israel's demand for negotiations without preconditions means that they want to "destroy" the peace process.

"What we discussed today is how to get the peace process impasse it has reached, which we believe to be caused by the main ... the absence of serious Israeli partner who really sought to achieve peace in the Middle East."

Wait... is that... legible? Wasn't it only a year ago when I would try to do something similar with a much simpler language, Spanish, and the program would pull up something that looked less like a professionally written article and more like a Facebook post sprawled on your wall by Eric Dreir at 5:00 in the morning after an especially "thirsty" Thursday?

Truthfully, I'm not sure I want to live in a world where a free-online-translation tool can translate any article in any language, as well or better than a translator, whilst completely avoiding the butchery of the English tongue. (Although on the upside, whoever bears responsibility for the prose of the Twilight books officially just ran out of excuses.) In particular, this new development puts a nail in the coffin of my plan to try to get a job in translation when I return to the States, whenever that fateful day might be. Now that I see what I'm up against, I can only concede defeat. The golden age of humanity is over; the dawn of the machines is on.

(Sorry, Jose, but that means we don't need you anymore.)

Finally, as a reference and a desperate comfort-seeking measure, I tried the same thing with the only other online translation tool I could find that would translate Arabic to English for free. The results eased my mind:

Damascus (Reuters) - Syrian President Bashar al-Assad on Wednesday that peace talks with Israel deadlocked since Israel is interested in peace. He added al-Assad, who was speaking at a joint press conference after talks with Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan in Damascus that Israel's demand for negotiations without conditions mean that it wanted \ "هدم\" of the peace process. He said \ "Today we discussed how to get the peace process of the impasse in which we believe to be caused by statute... The absence of the Israeli partner serious, which seeks to achieve peace in the Middle East."

Is there anything quite like a visit from an old friend?

---

In another tidbit, which I'm not even going to pretend is even tangentially related to the above, I feel I should warn anyone who plans on ever using a Syrian treadmill: don't ever use a Syrian treadmill. Or at the very least, don't turn it on while standing on it, in the expectation that it will be like it's Western counterpart and start at 0 mph, allowing you to increase the pace at your own rate. You see, apparantly, Syrian manufacturers saw fit to save us treadmill users that time and effort by simply starting the mph meter at full blast, the instant you press that little red button. What's a few hundred treadmill-related deaths a day in the name of efficiency?

And the West thinks it has a stranglehold on ingenuity... Fools.

Calling On All Minnesotans

26-7. Three weeks before the playoffs. Uggh...

Minnesota, we have a problem. A hideously bearded one, in fact:

The bad news: if the above man remains the leader of the Minnesota Vikings into the playoffs, we're doomed to watch our favorite team's season end in the worst possible way- almost certainly to a second round loss to the Green Bay Packers.

The good news: we have the ability to do something about it.

Now, I'm not necessarily saying that if you happen to spot Brad Childress, Minnesota Vikings head football coach, crossing the road whilst cruising the cities, you should plow into him like a hooker on Grand Theft Auto. I'm also not necessarily saying that were you to do such a thing you would find a lofty check in the mail from yours truly the next morning.

Just take note that I'm not not necessarily saying both of those things either.

Yes, it's true that from my isolated perch in Damascus where I've been unable to actually see any Viking games (despite the fat, Syrian, barely-English-speaking dude I saw not long ago wearing a Minnesota sweater, Minnesota sports teams aren't exactly in vogue here) I'm hardly qualified to make football judgements. I am, however, qualified to say this: Brad Childress is a soul-devouring, lollipop-stealing, fetus-eating succubus, only pretending to be an almost overwhelmingly unattractive, balding, incompetent football coach.

Believe it or not, I'm not basing that statement on the fact that I've watched this man slowly prey on the hope of Minnesotan fans for 3 years and counting now. Rather, I'm basing it on a very different experience. I never told anyone but Luke and Chris Beddor this, but the night before we left for our travels I had a dream in which I stumbled into a man in an airport- a man who apparantly knew all about my crew's plans to travel Asia over the next year. That man then went on to predict that, not only would the four of us make it all the way to China as planned, but we would make it by relying on each other. Foolishly, I believed that man.

One month later, the four of us found ourselves scattered across continents, the trip a resolute failure. Do I even need to give you the name of this this sage purveyor of predictions, the man at the center of the implosion of a trip that on paper looked like it couldn't possibly fail?

I doubt you need it, but here's a hint: he's also the man who drafted Tarvaris Jackson. And his name is Brad.

Of course the idea that Brad Childress cursed our trip is ridiculous and I fully expect you to want to mock me for saying so. But before you do, I implore you to take a look at these two pictures I took in Turkey, only weeks after Brad Childress infested that dream and made that fatal prediction:

This first picture I already posted, with the caption, "no way that black sheep could be anything but the physical manifestation of pure evil ". I stand by that statement, though I'll admit that this picture alone isn't enough to prove that we were cursed. It's definitely a little creepy though, to see an obvious minion of satan leading an army of unknowing followers to, no doubt, destroy some small Turkish village and feast on the blood of every women or child in it's path. A little too reminiscent of Brad Childress' tyrannic rule as the leader of a team of violent, testesterone-driven, probably steroid-consuming giants if you ask me.

And then there's this shot I took in Istanbul, where things go beyond mere creepy. I swear that when I took this picture, I was just snapping a shot of a single cat frolicking on a dumpster. There was no other cat in the frame. I repeat: there was no other cat in the frame, let alone not one that existed only in shadow form and with the freakiest eyes I've ever seen. If ever there were unnassailable evidence that evil is afoot around us, besides Brad Childress apparant ability to convince otherwise intelligent, discerning people, like Vikings owner Zygi Wilf, that he deserves to get paid millions of dollars to make Minnesotans want to throw themselves off of small-to-medium sized buildings, than this picture is it.

Now, of course you can argue that, while some evil force might have indeed derailed our plans and in the process sunk the trip of a lifetime, there's no reason that we should attribute that evil to a Minnesota football coach and his messed up facial hair. But do you really want to take that risk? Just remember, everytime a child sheds a tear, Brad Childress' beard grows a little bit thicker, and everytime a bank collapses or a nation is invaded or Tiger Woods bangs another stripper, Brad Childress grows a little bit closer to his dream of seeing the world collapse into complete anarchy.


So with that in mind, let's return to the scenario we started with: next time you're driving down the road and suddenly see this dude...

...ambling through your headlights, all I'm suggesting is that you take a second to think about it, collect yourself, and do what you gotta do. For the dignity of the great state of Minnesota, if nothing else.

Ask yourself, WWJD?

Answer: He would run over Brad Childress.

(Or at least wrestle him to the ground and shave that unholy thing he calls a beard.)

Luke's Apologia... and Mine

Yesterday, Luke's blog finally saw an update, one that I've been bugging him about for two months now: his mia culpa (in a way) for his surprise return to the states. Go ahead and read his post now, because it both informs and reinforces everything I'm about to say. That and it's a pretty rock-solid piece of insight in it's own right.

Read it? Good. Moving on then...

I draw attention to Luke's post on my blog, not only because it ties up the final loose end of our crew's four way split months ago, but also for another important reason: as I read this paragraph in particular... 

Well, since coming home I've realized why I left. After graduation, the crossroad of crossroads in one's life, I found myself with a distinct need for some direction in my life. I hadn't taken the last two years of my life seriously, traveling Europe and planning our next trip, so that by the time I was actually on the trip, I was burnt out. I realized that I had lost all sense of purpose. I know that travel can be a justifiable purpose, but for this trip, it was not for me. Upon coming home, I begin studying intensely for the LSAT and am in the process of applications.

...I couldn't help but think, I should have written that.

Even back when I still wanted to castrate Luke (a fairly harsh reaction, admittedly), I had to admit that there were a lot of parallels between Luke's decision to fly home and my own to settle down, however long, in Damascus. Even my first E-mail to Beddor after making up my mind began with a warning that I was about to pull a Luke on him. On the other hand, I figured our motives in leaving the homeboys behind were probably far different: in spirit, I told myself, my decision to stay in Syria meshed perfectly with the greater goals of the trip- to experience the world from an entirely different perspective, to meet a whole lot of fascinating people, and to learn quite a bit about life along the way. Luke was just running away.

Well, I guess I owe Luke an apology, though it would go against my very DNA as a male to actually give it. In the end, his reasoning makes perfect sense and meshes almost eerily well with my own for our respective abandonments. In fact, replace LSAT with Arabic, home with Syria, and 2 years with as long as I can remember, in the paragraph above and you have nearly my exact reasons for staying in Syria at the expense of everything else.

As Luke says, traveling isn't exhausting for all the reasons that people think that it should be exhausting; the constant uprooting from one location only to begin anew somewhere else, the burden of lugging one's home- stuffed neatly into a single backpack- across countries and continents, the vulnerability that comes with placing yourself in unknown situation after unknown situation on a near daily basis, the occassional flirtation with genuine danger, and, as Luke says, even the squatter and the many hours spent in mediation between it and a furious bladder, are all part of the excitement and the novelty and the richness of experience that lead us to travel in the first place. They definitely aren't what breaks you; at least not in my case and apparantly not in Luke's either.

Instead, it's the late nights and even later mornings; it's the one shot of raki too many; it's the confused look on the little old man in traditional Kurdish clothing's face as you ask him to pose so you can take his picture and commemorate such a novelty; it's the $2 haircut that you obstinately haggle down to $1.25, and then pat yourself on the back when you decide, as a symbol of Western generosity, to pay the original price anyways; it's the $10 tourist T-shirt that you purchase in a moment of weakness, only to find yourself wearing it in a country two weeks later where that $10 could have fed a family for a week; it's the conversation with an Italian girl who moved to Kenya on her own when she was 17 to do what little she could to change things; it's the Lonely Planet you cradle in your hand and thumb through as she tells you this.

(Disclaimer: I'm starting to really, really hate Lonely Planet.)

Meanwhile, it's the cold breath of the past on the back of your neck, as you realize the kind of person you could have been over the years, and weren't, and the contributions you could have made, and didn't. And it's the moment when you look into the mirror, ready for eyes to burn back at you defiantly and scars and creases and folds to attest to a life lived for something... and all you see is a reflection.

For me, the most telling moment was when I watched a Syrian kid, maybe twelve years old, tumble two-thirds of the way down the side of the massive mound propping up Aleppo's citadel, only to lay limp like a fish that's been out of water a moment too long, and... I instinctively pulled out my camera and started snapping pictures.

So while I can't speak for Luke, I do find myself nodding my head when he says that it wasn't hardships of the road that wore him down. For me, it was the guilt. Travel is an education that money can't buy, but it's also an indulgence. Some people, of course, have unquestionably earned the right to indulge themselves a little.

I just don't count myself among their number just yet.

Yassir, the (Probably) Rapist Kurd

Everyday, a little, old 5-foot Kurdish man walks up and down Old Damascus' main artery, Straight Street, in search of tourist blood. Upon sight of a white face, he hones onto his target and goes into a salesman-like spiel, desperately attempting to get them to come back to his place so he can, ostensibly, "play them some music". Why this man is so desperate for tourists to come back to his place so he can "play them some music", no one knows. They only know that the locals advise not to take him up on his strange offer. And that his Brad-Childress-like-mustache makes him look like a rapist.

For most people, that's where the curiosity ends. But not me. Thus, today, I had the distinct pleasure of spending an hour with the man my roommate and I had come to affectionately know as "Yassir, the rapist Kurd".

In the past month, I've been greeted by Yassir about ten times. Each time, his greeting was the same: "Hello, where are you from?" Because I quickly realized that Yassir had the memory of a drunken 85 year old and seemed to be incapable of remembering that we had this conversation about twice a week, my nationality changed everytime. What didn't change was my answer to his proposition.

No, I'd prefer to not get anally violated today, thanks. Though I worded it differently.

Finally today, knowing that my time in Syria is waning and having been slowly and systematically warn down by Yassir, Andy from The Office style, I took the persistent little man up on his offer. What can I say? I kinda did want to hear some Kurdish music. And more importantly, I wanted to see firsthand what kind of villainy was lurking behind that stache'.

And oh yeah, did I mention that Yassir is 5 feet tall? That may have played into my willingness to go along too.

After becoming reacquainted for the 11th time, we eventually got to Yassir's pad, a tiny little hole in the wall. I would have felt sorry for him, if I hadn't been living in an even tinier hole in the wall for the last few months. And then, Yassir pulled out his instrument.

(Cue misleading dramatic pause...)

(Hold on, I want to draw this out a little bit longer...)

(Okay, that's good...)

Yassir's instrument, fortunately, was a small, handmade Kurdish guitar-like contraption with six strings. He called it a bizzuka. I pointed out to him that, in Arabic, bizzuka translates as your boobs, a little nugget of wisdom taught me by my sometimes Arabic teacher (who by the way hasn't been seen in weeks and could very well be dead). Yassir, and his mustache, stared at me vacantly. Apparantly, I thought, Kurdish rapists don't exactly have the best sense of humor.

For the next 30 minutes, he and I jammed out on the bizzuka and two other instruments, an old Arabic flute-thingy and a one-stringed Arabic violin-majig that was called, if I remember correctly, an urab. They weren't exactly the most complex, technically difficult instruments to play- even when he played the six-stringed bizzuka, he only moved his left hand on one string the entire time, leaving the rest open- but the music coming out of them definitely had it's own appeal. I would compare music created with traditional Arabic and Kurdish instruments to movies shot in grainy old-fashioned black and white; yeah, the quality is infinitely worse than what you can get out of more typically modern instrumentation, but the end result very capably conjures a particular time and place. In the right hands, that effect alone can produce something powerful.

(Admittedly, those hands weren't my own; when I attempted to play the one-stringer, it sounded like a combination between nails on a chalk board and the sound of something slowly and painfully dying.)

Finally, he pulled out two cups of chai, something I had been waiting for him to do. I grew apprehensive; if ever there were a tried-and-true technique that could work for a 5-foot rapist, it would be the "slip a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' in the chai, wait two minutes, then go to town"; the classic of classics. I debated switching cups with him as he turned his back, but ultimately decided instead that if I felt even a little bit dizzy, I would grab his little Kurd-guitar and use it to go "tee-ball" on his face.

A couple minutes later, happily, I was still standing, with a renewed trust in little, old Kurdish men with suspicious motives and even more suspicious facial hair. I told Yassir I had to go, offering him a dollar with the explanation "Here, for the chai". Meanwhile, in my head I thought "Here, for not date-raping me."

But perhaps I had changed my mind about Yassir too soon. As I walked out the door, he called after me, requesting that I bring him my "young female European friends". I asked him if "old, fat, balding non-European dudes" would do. I can't say he seemed particularly interested.

The lesson, as always: the rapist stache' never lies.

"Habeeeeeeeebiiiiiiiiii!"

Everyday I become more and more impressed with the Islamic community as a whole. That said, I have to admit that two of the greatest travesties of this century and the last fall squarely at the feet of señor Muhammad and the religion he founded:

Modern Islamic extremist terrorism and traditional Islamic vocal warbling.

If you don't what I'm talking about when I say Islamic vocal warbling, just spend a single day anywhere in the Middle East and you will. Oh, you will.

For those of you who have, sing it with me:

"Allaa-aa-aaa-aaa-aaah akbaaa-aa-aaa-aaaaaaaaaar..."

To be honest, I'm not sure which of the two above Qu'ran-inspired evils is worst. Granted, Islamic terrorism leads to kidnapping and torturing of innocents, which is no doubt a horrible, horrible, horrible thing; it's just that the torture being inflicted on my ears by The Warble might be worse. Honestly, given the choice between curing cancer and ridding the world of the Arabic warble, I'd probably cure cancer- but it'd be close.

So with that in mind, I fully expected that 112% of Arabic music would be irredeemable poop.  What I didn't expect was that I would became an Arabic pop fiend.

I don't really know how it happened. At first I couldn't stand the stuff- it was like someone had taken Akon, taught him The Warble, and then forced him to sign a legal contract stating that if he were ever to go three words without wailing the word "Habee-eee-eee-bii-iiiii!" (my love), he would be killed on sight.

But happen it did, largely because I study in a cafe nearly every day where the employees have great taste in music and are happy to let me know the artists behind the captivating tunes being played (and by happy to let me know, I mean that they visibly roll their eyes everytime I approach them- oh well, the results are the same). In particular, I've found myself lovin' Egyptian-born crooner extraordinaire Tamar Hosni (طمر حسني)'s new CD, featuring a song or two where I'd go so far as to say he manages to out-Legend John Legend himself, making the latter look in comparison likeJustin Timberlake- that is to say, like a pre-pubescent girl pretending to be a popstar.

And then there's a few other songs, where Tamer Hosni sounds a lot more like the Juanes of the Mid East. But hey, I'll take it; afterall, finding endurable Warble-free music in Syria is like finding an oasis in, well, Syria.

If nothing else, the dude's better at looking cool on CD covers than, say, this guy:

 Perhaps unsurprisingly, this disk did not turn out to be the prize of my Middle Eastern collection.

The Warble isn't the only thing afflicting Arabic culture, however. Possibly even worse, if you can imagine such a thing, is the fact that this adorable lil' feller here...

...is the star of every single Egyptian comedy movie ever made. I'd tell you that his movies are terrible, but after posting the above picture I feel like that would probably be redundant. He's like the Shia-LaBeauf-meets-Nickelback-meets-Adam-Sandler of the Arabic world; only uglier.

Choice cuts off Hosni's new CD are forthcoming. It's okay to druel.

5 Days In Iraq and 67 in Syria Later...

...and ya boy back with a fresh blog post.

First of all, let me apologize for that last sentance; I blame black people. Secondly, let me apologize for that last sentance; I actually love black people. Thirdly, and most importantly, let me see if I can't come up with an adequate explanation for why it took me over 2 months to update this blog with an actual original post (the kind that doesn't just rot on my iPod for months before I get around to finishing and putting it up):

Umm... I'm lazy and crapping out solid blog posts is hard work?

So what's new? Well, for one thing, it appears that the trip, in some mutilated form at least, is back on. A few days ago I found out that Alex has randomly- and shockingly I might add- surfaced in Cambodia, with Beddor trailing shortly behind. I'm probably not gonna get a chance to meet up with him before he heads back home, but I'm inspired by his dedication all the same. And even more so by his mustache:

I shall never again doubt that 'stache.

Meanwhile, I've been working my ass off attempting to scale the mount everest* of tough languages- Arabic. And man, let me tell you, does it suck. Not long ago I was flipping through TV channels at a hotel when I stumbled across a French news broadcast and mistook a few of the news headings at the bottom of the screen for English. Then I realized that I could be learning that language instead of Arabic. Then I fired the remote, which is lucky I throw like a girl, across the room.

(*No offense, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Russian. I'm sure you all suck too.)

I've also made the mistake of attempting to read the Koran in Arabic multiple times. Let me put it this way- if I had been forced to sacrifice a virgin to Allah every time I completely butchered the meaning of a Koran verse, Syria would be a land inhabited only by wives and whores by now.

But- and this is one gigantic butt- it's also been unbelivably rewarding- and enlightening- to take on a behemoth of a task and to give it everything I've got. I can honestly say that I've spent more hours studying some weeks here in Damascus than I did some whole semesters at Marquette. Which is, admittedly, incredibly, incredibly sad.

And then there are the fleeting moments where all that sweat and toil pays off, even if the peaks that I dream of reaching are still months, even years, away. Three weeks ago I bought an Arabic edition of Newsweek and attempted to read an article by Fareed Zakaria, translated into Arabic. I say attempted, because I would have placed my comprehension of the article somewhere between 1 and 3%.

Impressive, I know; it's like I was born speaking Arabic.

I finally revisited that article a few days ago, however, and somewhere in inbetween that first attempted reading and this latest, I apparantly learned a lot- I knew about 75% of the words in the article; I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that that's not bad after a month and a half of study.

The only way I can think of to describe the utter elation I felt upon reaching the end of that article is to say that it must have been a lot like what the guy dancing in this music video with Shakira felt when he found out that he was the guy who got to dance in that music video with Shakira.

Of course, immediately afterwards, I turned the page to a different article and felt like I was staring at a brick wall. But I'll take "hit and miss" over "miss, miss, and more miss" any day of the week.

Oh yeah, and I can finally read the first two words on the book cover I posted in my first Iraq post!

The first is "Saddam". The second (I'm pretty sure) is "biography"*. Exhilirating stuff.

*EDIT: Nope, it's "life".

Bombs Dropping In Damascus

"And then there were two," read Beddor's E-mail.

"Of course I was right about Luke and Alex", read my dad's.

That was a few days ago. This was Beddor's E-mail yesterday:

"And then there was one".

Completely, thouroughly, unarguably defeated.

And just like that, the best laid plans of four wide-eyed and ambitious Minnesota boys have been torn asunder and defecated on; our merry band of wannabe nomads strewn- mind, body, and soul- across oceans and valleys and mental and emotional chasms:

Luke, back at home, safe and secure, in the warm (figuratively) grasp of Minnesota and the comfortable presence of friends and family, after making the sudden, game-altering decision to catch the first flight back home from Israel.

Alex, in limbo as he visits his girlfriend in the States and left to ponder his next move, after catching the second.

Byado, left with the lonesome and unenviable task of carrying the torch across the remains of the route we had all planned together.

Me...

A few days ago, even with Luke and Alex back in the states, I was determined to carry on. I'd spent all day looking for the road out of Damascus southward, to Jordan, trying to find someone to hitchhike with. Finally, I'd found a nice guy driving towards a city south of Damascus, on the road directly to Amman, willing to drop me on the highway out the city where it would probably take mere minutes to catch another ride. I was seated comfortably in his passenger seat. And I was deep in thought.

We approached a fork in the highway- one ramp directed towards the city I'd been trying so hard all day to leave, the other towards the country I'd been planning all along to enter after a week or two in Syria. I'd told Beddor that I would spend a few days in Jordan, maybe a few in Israel, and about a week in Egypt, before meeting up with him in India. The trip was still on.

Meanwhile, I'd been thinking all day about all the interesting people I had met in Damascus: Americans, Brits, and Russians studying Arabic for the semester; Syrians who had offered to personally teach me if I ever returned with any intention of learning their language. I also thought about the city itself- a strange mix of modernity and history, the exotic and the universal. I decided that it would be an amazing thing if, someday, I could return to Damascus, study Arabic, and really immerse myself in this incredibly different, yet in so many ways incredibly comforting and familiar world.

For some reason it wasn't until that moment, as the driver prepared to fork right towards my intended destination, that the revelation struck me. To my driver's surprise, I thanked him for the short ride, got out of the car, walked over to the other ramp, and stuck out my thumb.

There was no reason that today couldn't be that day.

A few hours later, I sent out the E-mail to Beddor and started talking to my Syrian contacts about becoming a student at the University of Damascus.

Looking back, it's hard to believe that I spent so many hours coming up with the route and the budget that would get our crew from Istanbul to Beijing. Every last detail was examined from every possible angle; every possible angle was analyzed down to every last detail. And yet... in the end, it obviously wasn't enough. The plan has turned out to be a failure of epic proportions. As a group, we couldn't even make it through the very first region on our itinerary. Hell, I set the precedent, abandoning the group after five days in Istanbul.

And yet, as much as I miss the homeboys and feel bad for leaving Beddor stranded, somehow I think I'll be okay when I wake up tomorrow in one of the most historic cities in the world, with the opportunity of a lifetime, surrounded by friendly faces. Maybe I should scrap the plan more often.

Some pics in honor of my comrades, both fallen and yet persevering onward:

(Insert your own melodramatic Celine Dion/Enya ballad here)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Land Of Falafels And Jihads At Last

A future jihadist setting his sights on the Ummayad Mosque

It's been an interesting 30 days.

I've lived the life of a Turkish college student for a full week, at the same time witnessing a kind of hospitality that I didn't know was possible in a Westernized city like Istanbul; I've been officially incorporated into "the family" in a small Istanbul hostel that has earned the number one rating on Hostelworld among Istanbul hostels, not for the excellency of it's facilities or even it's ultra-low price, but rather for the consistency with which it seems to draw amazing people; I've barreled my way through one of the most contested regions in the world, only to discover a country that I didn't know existed; I've rode shotgun as my new friend Roman and I hitchhiked our way across three countries, with a wallet full of air.

And about 7 days ago, exactly a month after I landed in Istanbul via London, I stumbled- finally- upon that giant basin of sand and strife we call the Middle East.

Pictaresque, dusty, sunsoaked desert villages, manifested in an all-beige pallet like something straight out of a movie; ancient bazaars, with their own rhyme and reason that only appears to border on anarchy, where you can buy anything and everything for a twentieth of what you would pay in London; pre-Walmart-era capitalism, in the form of entire sidestreets of mom-and-pop shops all selling the same basic commodity, be it yarn or tires or banana smoothies; an all new people, the Arabs- too lightskinned to be Kurd, too unibrow-less to be Turk- eager to do everything in their power to contradict every negative thing you've ever heard about them or their country; isolated pockets of Christians and other minorities, somehow managing to coexist with the majority without any of the palpable tension that you seem to find everywhere else on Earth.

Welcome to the axis of evil. A bastion of cruelty. A playground for terrorists.

Or, if you prefer, as half the people I talk to tell me, usually in a boisterously joyful tone, after I reluctantly admit that I'm an American: "Welcome to Syria!"

The border was actually a lot faster than the Iraqi one, though that extra efficiency certainly wasn't thanks to the border checkpoints, which were actually far slower than their Iraqi counterparts; rather, it was a result of the emptiness of the crossing, with about 5% of the traffic we found in Iraq. Considering that 99% of the Iraqi traffic was made up of Turkish truck drivers crossing the border for cheap oil, it appears that Syria would prefer to not give away it's chief resource for dollars-to-donuts prices; either that, or they don't have one.

The only real memorable moment while crossing the border came when the health inspector that all foreignors had to visit looked at me, dead serious, and told me to drop my pants. I looked at him suspiciously, only to find an unblinking and impatient man staring back at me.

"You do what you gotta do," I thought, and started to reluctantly undo my belt. Suddenly I heard hysterical laughing, from my suddenly jolly doctor.

"No, no! I joke!"

Later, in line to get my passport okayed, I heard a Canadian guy telling the exact same story. Considering that the actual health inspection consisted of doctor jolly briefly checking one of my ears for infection and then giving me a paper to sign saying that I had no allergies, I have to wonder whether the Syrian government keeps this guy employed just to remind westerners of their place in this country- basically, I'm Bashar Al-Asad's bitch for a week.

It could just be that border towns suck (they do) or that in many ways I'm ashamed to be a citizen of the country that once included Syria in the infamous "axis" (I am), but I did feel a familiar uncomfort in my first Syrian city. With the inescapable sense that I was being examined with distrust by everyone around me, it was like Zakho in Iraqi Kurdistan all over again.

As in that case, I ultimately found it was all in my head. The locals were nothing but friendly, in the end, repeating the soon-to-be very familiar country mantra, "welcome", as if they had been trained to do so in school. (Maybe they had.) Then again, as with Iraq and Turkey before, the friendliness was taken to another level as soon as I escaped the border town.

And I have to say, after all the preaching of my last post, a message that I will stand behind 'til the day I die, it did feel good to have a nice thick wallet in Aleppo, if only because that meant that I could gorge myself on street food 'til my gut hurt but my soul was satiated.

It also felt nice to be back in a big city. There's something comfortable about dissapearing amidst the bustle of any big city at night and just taking in the vibrancy of it all, and Aleppo was no exception. In fact, it was a lot cooler city than I expected- not only was it full of life, but it was surprisingly attractive as well, with old, worn-down, gravity-defying buildings that somehow caught my eye sitting next to largewell-kept parks. And a very impressive citadel, where an event took place that I'll write about it in another post.

For a city that's outlived a thousand great empires, Damascus, meanwhile, doesn't really feel so different than Milwaukee, a city that's outlived maybe two. And I mean that as a complement, believe it or not, for those of you who are aware of my feelings towards Milwaukee. It didn't immediately capture my attention like Aleppo did, but then it hadn't been 3 days since I showered or had a decent meal when I arrived in Damascus either. What did capture my attention is that Damascus is a very modern, very comfortable city. I've met a lot of international students studying here for the semester and I can see why- it feels like a place that would be very easy to live in; even more so than Istanbul, which was almost too big. Damascus feels like a place that you could make your own personal playground.

Which brings me to another point- there are a lot of foreignors here in Damascus. Even Americans, despite the gigantic barrier to entry for our kind. And with them, of course, is the tourist machine. On my first day in Damascus, as I looked for hotel, a Syrian man in a souq approached me:

"You look lost. Are you looking for backgammon?"

Why yes, how did you know? Was it the look of yearning in my eyes, the one that could only possibly be explained by an unsatisfied need for a good game of backgammon? Go get me a backgammon table and an opponent, dammit! I got the shakes!

(The fact that some tourists actually apparantly do come to Syria and play backgammon should save me the trouble of discussing Syrian night life. This ain't Amsterdam, ladies and gentlemen.)

And then there's the man who assaults me with a chorus of "Hotel? Restaurant? Taxi?" everytime I walk past. One time I actually stopped to explain that I didn't need any of those things, but I did need an ATM. He nodded understandingly and kindly guided me about 30 feet down the road, pointing at the spot where I could find an ATM. Five minutes later I walked past him again on the way back from the ATM, only to have him shout at me:

"Monsieur, you need hotel? Restaurant?"

"Dude, I just talked to you. You pointed me to an ATM? I told you I didn't any of those things."

He stared at me blankly.

"Taxi? I get you taxi, monsieur."

I've now spent 2 nights entrenched in the chaos of Halep (Aleppo), made a pitstop in nice but unspectacular Homs to stay at the guesthouse of the sugar refinery that my dad helped build a few years ago, conquered the famous Crusader castle Qual'at al Hosn (Crac Des Chevaliers), taken in the many sides of Damascus during an all-too-brief 2 night stay, and finally found peace and solitude- if not God- in the secluded mountaintop monastery of Mar Musa. I've even mastered the Arabic alphabet, not nearly as treacherously difficult as it first seemed.

And with that last annecdote about "Taxi" man as my witness, I'll say this: maybe Syria's not such a profoundly different place either.

Arbil to Aleppo On A Dollar

Well, it's been a few days since I left Iraq now. My closing thoughts on the country are still forthcoming, but the last few days, in limbo between destinations, have been interesting in their own right.

Iraqi Kurdistan wasn't the place I expected it to be for a lot of reasons; where I expected to find slums and beggars and giant piles of trash, I instead found hotels and parks and fountains; where I expected to find anger and anti-American sentiment, I instead found free meals and warm smiles.

The only thing I didn't find was an ATM.

It was my second day in Arbil and my fourth in Iraq when I realized that the contents of my wallet were down to 10 Turkish cents and a lot of month-old receipts that weren't going to do me a lot of good. More importantly, I realized that I hadn't seen a functioning ATM since I crossed the border.

So I did the only thing that seemed logical: panic.

After letting me vent for a bit, Roman decided it was time for a pep talk. Basically, he told me to quit acting like a dumbass American who sees value only in the form of a green rectangular slip of paper featuring a number and an historically important dead guy, and to start acting like a dude who had just hitchhiked from Cappadoccia into the heart of Iraq, repeating "yok para" (no money) like a mindless drone, to anyone and everyone who would listen.

(For his sake, I'll choose to forgive the irony then, that the next night he would tell me about how he had spent nearly a year's wage on a brand new second car that he didn't need. Welcome to the other side, my former commie friend; capitalism- where the grass is so green, it's probably artificial!)

The wisdom of Roman's words didn't hit me immediately; I was a little too busy being pissed off that no one would tell us which direction the exit to Arbil was in and that literally every single soldier who spotted us would pull us aside and interrogate us for 15 minutes, before deciding that we didn't matter.

We did make it out of Arbil, however, and after being offered an absurdly plentiful meal by a friendly restaurant manager (white shirt, above), enduring a brief but horrific bout with food sickness (I won't go into detail for your sake, but know that the memory will always conjure images of a cement truck) and then setting up camp in a nearby mountain, I started to feel very differently about my lack of money than I had just hours ago. I was beginning to come around.

Waking up to this might have helped:

Now, 4 days after my mini-breakdown in Arbil and seated comfortably on my bed in a $5 hostel in Aleppo, Roman's words are dogma. Why? Because I managed to get here on a grand total of 75 Turkish lira cents.

(Where did that 75 kush go, by the by? Try a public bathroom attendant who tricked me into thinking that the gas station bathroom would be free and then ambushed me on my way out. Hell, I'm not even sure the bastard actually worked there.)

Hitching, camping, relying on the kindness of strangers, and eating groceries out of our bags (yeah, I know that should count towards the total money spent, but hey, this is my blog, I make the rules); that's how we did it. My wallet was literally empty besides change the entire time; and man was it a good feeling. Even the burdenless feeling of having so much money that you don't have to care, can't compare to the burdenless feeling of having no money and still not caring.

And it allowed me to learn to become comfortable with being in a state of constant dependance towards strangers, from the aforementioned restaurant manager and his free meal, to the various truckers who gave us free rides, to a great Kurdish guy named Khalil (red shirt, below) who put us up for the night in a prayer room (after making us promise that we weren't homosexual and weren't about to go gay it up in a sacred area).

At the same time, I've been thinking about the various possessions I accidently left behind as I departed Istanbul in an emotionally wrecked stupor (to this day I couldn't tell you why I found it so hard to leave, I can only say that it felt like being gutted and having my intestines drip out on the floor before me): 4 T-shirts, a long-sleeved shirt, a pair of pants, and a towel.

Yeah; so, I was a little overwhelmed with my first big emotional goodbye.

The moment I realized that I'd left all that stuff behind was almost worse though; I couldn't get over it. Yeah, it was just stuff, but man, that was a lot of stuff. To lose it on my first stop? It reinforced the fear I had been carrying with me from the minute I waved goodbye to my family in the airport in Minneapolis; even as I walked through the metal detector, I had been certain that I would lose something important at any moment and be completely screwed.

Well, thus far I haven't lost anything of import, only what I left in Istanbul and an Arabic guidebook I forgot while hitchhiking, swiftly replaced in a bookstore. I haven't lost my wallet, my camera, my iPod, or, God forbid, my passport. But I will; I'll lose one of them at some point in the coming year and beyond- there's not a doubt in my mind.

And yet, somehow, I'll be okay; some part of me might even be happy. I'm reminded of the scene in The Darjeeling Limited (a movie anybody interested in India needs to see), when in order to catch a departing train, the three brothers in the movie are forced to toss their copious luggage aside and fling themselves onto their moving metal target. In the context of the movie, it served as a pretty heavy-handed metaphor for unburdening oneself and embracing the uncertainty of life. In other words, if all of your energy goes into holding on to the past and the present, you're probably going to miss the next big opportunity that comes along. These days, I'm starting to get that.

And if I finish this trip naked, all the better. Figuratively speaking. Here's some pictures:

Voices of Wartorn Iraq

I swore to myself I would write this entry eventually, collecting all the people and opinions I came across in Iraq and compiling them into one big ugly, mess of a blog post in an attempt to make sense of an even more messed up country. But man, does that sound like a lot of work.

In the meantime, enjoy this badass picture I took of the Kurdish flag atop Arbil's citadel in the middle of a sandstorm, which somehow communicates everything I couldn't put into words anyways.

(For instance, why would they allow the highest-flying and proudest flag in the city to remain torn when they could easily replace it with a new one? Probably because it's Iraq.)

Attacked, in Iraq!

Remind me: why did I think it was a good idea to play tourist in the most dangerous country in the world?

Yesterday, in the de-facto capital city of Iraqi Kurdistan, Arbil, Roman and I stumbled across a particularly poor, but particularly photogenic back alley. Roman insisted that we stay on the main road, but for me the allure of taking photos of the other side of Iraq proved to be too strong. And so we wandered down the alley, not at all certain of what was waiting within it's narrow walls. And, I was right, it was picturesque:

But unfortunately, Roman was right as well; because within minutes in the narrow alleyway, we were assaulted by two thug kids.

Our armed assailants- the ringleader cackling in glee the whole time, the other not even cracking a smile- didn't demand money or try to steal anything (other than my water bottle). They just wanted to cause some pain to some innocent tourists, maybe as retribution for our two country's checkered pasts and uncertain presents.

Once I knew I was safe, I pulled out my camera and caught the offenders on video:


Which you will have to wait for... because Syria hates you and doesn't want you to see my sweet video or any video on this blog for that matter.

America Invades Iraq, Again

And this time, the reds (and some random Turkish dude that we hitched across the border with) are by our side.

Or, as the fat, jolly Turk we rode across the final leg of the border with put it:

"America, Russia! Arkedeš? Holla, holla!!!"

Yes, I did indeed enter the Kurdish part of Iraq today. And yes, I am indeed still alive. Some very limited first impressions...

First of all, the trip across the border was long, boring, and entirely painless. Surprisingly, being tourists from America and Russia respectively allowed us to get through both the Turkish and Iraqi side of the border almost instantly. The only real issue was that we had to have a car to cross, but considering that we had already hitchhiked the entire way from Cappadoccia, it didn't prove to be too much of an issue.

The Turkish customs check in particular was probably the most amusingly relaxed one I've ever seen. Once the Turkish soldier saw that we were not Turk or Iraqi, he pulled us aside to a special section to have our luggage immediately inspected. Roman began the arduous task of pulling item after item after item out of his bag, to display to the soldier that he was carrying nothing illegal. After maybe a whole 15 seconds of this, the soldier grew impatient and waved for Roman to stop.

"Gun?" he asked, gesturing to his holster.

Umm... no.

"Cocaine?" 

No.

"Heroine?" 

No.

"Okay."

And he waved us both through. Apparently Turkish government officials aren't staying up late every night devising ways to protect Iraq from drug and arms smugglers.

The scraggle-beard accompanies me across the Iraqi border

(You'll forgive me someday for making you look at that picture, I promise.)

The other interesting thing about the border between Turkey and Iraq, besides the ease with which tourists like us could wander through, was that it seemed to be occupied exclusively by Turkish vehicles; in fact, I think I saw a grand total of one Iraqi license plate the entire time I spent in the area. Granted, we were headed from Turkey to Iraq and not visa-versa, but unless no Iraqi visitor to Turkey ever returns, I have to conclude that very few Iraqis are ever allowed in in the first place.

Pretty much all of the Turkish drivers were headed south for one reason, and as far as I could surmise that reason was cheap oil. Apparantly it can be very lucrative for an enterprising Turk to make the run back and forth between the two countries, buying low in Iraq and selling high in Turkey. And while Iraqi Kurdistan probably makes a lot of money from this arrangement as well, something tells me that a disproportionate amount of the wealth flows into the already richer country.

You'll see about a thousand of these right inside the Iraqi border

Finally, we reached Iraqi Kurdistan proper. I was immediately shocked by only one thing- that I wasn't shocked at all. Iraqi Kurdistan, upon first impressions after only a few hours, looks almost entirely like Turkish Kurdistan. It's a little bit grubbier and of course the signs are all in Arabic and Kurdish (as well as a surprising amount of English), but neither of these things was particularly unexpected. Meanwhile, the standard of living looks to be as high as most of Eastern Turkey, at least after only a few hours.

The only real difference that's jumped out at me so far is the claustrophobic feel of the only city we've been in, the bordertown, Zakho (where we've booked a hotel for the night for $10 apiece). While the cities of Turkish Kurdistan- and eastern Turkey in general- feel very wide open and comfortably populated, Zakho, to me, is defined by narrow boulevards that are absolutely teeming with life. The escalation in population density has been a little bit unnerving so far, but compared to the rampant poverty and anarchy that part of me was expecting and the tribal villages that another part of me envisioned, this is nothing. And really, it's no different than Istanbul; it's just that, unlike Iraqi Kurdistan, I expected Istanbul to be a raging orgy of human activity.

More interestingly, I just finished one of the most eye-opening conversations I've ever had, with a Baghdad resident named Wisam, vacationing with his family in Kurdistan. After letting me know that he preferred my accent to the British one, because the British one was annoying and "too strong", I immediately decided that I liked this guy. And when I found out that he lived in Baghdad and spoke good English, I knew that it was my civil duty to hound him with questions, so that I could relay the truth of the situation to the uninformed masses back home.

First of all, according to the admittedly biased Wisam, about 80% of Iraqis are pro-American; meanwhile, roughly 30% of the country still believes that Saddam Hussein was a good leader. Whether these two figures contradict each other, I'll leave it you to decide, but this is what I was told.

Secondly, while the Arab part of Iraq is getting better and will likely continue to get better- "God willing", Wisam said- terrorism still persists and is a very real problem. Though he considers Baghdad a safe enough place that he is raising his children there, he warned me that, as a Westener, it would be very foolish to even think about setting foot there. That same warning applied to all of Arab Iraq, even though he felt that certain places like ancient Babylon would be "very good for tourism".

The most intriguing thing by far, however, was Wisam's own personal story, which I should have recorded and sold for millions to Fox News, as it might have been the first time I've heard anyone make a convincing emotional argument for neo-conservative foreign policy that didn't amount to:"We're America dammit! Eff you, France!"

(Not that making an argument for any particular American foreign policy was what he was trying to do; he insisted he was indifferent to both Bush and Obama.)

Long story short, Wisam is an Iraqi who spent very little of his life in Iraq. This is because, when Wisam was a child, Saddam Hussein usurped all of his family's belongings- along with those of many other of the wealthier families living in Baghdad- and exiled his family. He's grown up and spent most of his life in Iran, though he still views himself as Iraqi.

When Iran is your safehaven, you know you've had it rough.

Which, of course, explains why this man was a lot more friendly towards me than anyone else I met on my first day in Iraq; it's hard to not love America when they gave you back your home. Plus, we really do have a better accent than Brits.

Now, Wisam is only one man with a very particular story and I'm sure that there are plenty of other stories for me to encounter in the days ahead which will assuredly illuminate the situation from whole 'nother perspectives.

But it's interesting no? Maybe I didn't come here, just for a really cool stamp.

Adriz, the Kurdish Asshole

"You wanted adventure", Roman said, as if it were my fault.

That's true I did; but I would have traded it for a good night's sleep.

The story of my night along the Turkish border begins and ends in the same benign way- with me preparing for a peaceful night sleeping under the stars, camping out behind a truck stop with the consent of the local landlords. It's the inbetween that makes the story worth telling; somewhere between 10:00 PM and 4:00 AM, I experienced one of the wierdest nights of my life, complements of a dickhead named Adriz.

I had literally just finished my last, oh-so ominously titled blog entry and fallen asleep in the tent, when both Roman and I were woken by loud voices and a flickering light just outside of the tent. We listened silently, hoping in vain that the voices and footsteps would eventually begin fading into the other direction; they didn't.

Suddenly a man- middle-aged, almost certainly Kurdish, and strangely wearing the first suit and tie that I'd seen since Adana- peeked his head into the unzipped entranceway and stared at us; just stared, as if his face were carved out of stone. By morning, I would learn that the straightface was just another part of his schtick as a sadistic deadpan comedian, but for now it mostly as a veil shrouding his true agenda.

Somewhat reassuringly, one of the men we had met earlier in the petrol stop out front- a quiet, decent young guy who had brought us bread and given me a discount on a Fanta- turned out to be the other voice we'd heard. Judging by that man's deferential tone, I assumed that the man staring me in the face was the owner of this establishment that we had decided to make our home for the night- meaning Roman and I were at his mercy.

For all I knew, our visitor could have meant us no harm and just been curious as to why two dudes were sleeping in a tent in his backyard. There was something menacing in his eyes and unsmiling expression though, and as he barked at us in a language that was either Turkish or Kurdish, but definitely not English, I was aware that Santa Clause stopping by to drop off presents this man clearly was not. Meanwhile, the words of our friends in Adana, about how the Kurds would just as soon stab you in the back as look at you, rang shrill in my ears.

Finally, after trying to talk to us in Turkish for what seemed like forever, he offered Roman a cigarette- a welcome, reassuring sign- and the younger man explained, in hideously broken English, that he wanted to buy us a beer. Primarily to alleviate the situation, I said okay.

With that both men walked away, ostensibly to go buy beer.

Meanwhile, Roman and I discussed our options. We ultimately decided that since the guys out front earlier had been so nice in inviting us to stay and offering us bread, it wasn't worth the effort to pack up our stuff and try to find a new place. Neither of us particularly loved this new guy, but he hadn't done anything negative to us, besides waking us up which isn't a criminal offense when someone is sleeping in your backyard, and now he was offering to buy us alcohol; maybe he was a nice guy whose bedside manner just needed work.

It also definitely didn't hurt that there was a Turkish oskari (military) checkpoint just half a kilometer away, which as far as I could tell, existed for one reason and one reason alone: to keep the Kurdish people, like our new drinking buddies, in their place.

After a few minutes, our friends returned, paper bag in hand, and pulled out two bottles of Efes, Turkey's finest (read: only) beer. They shoved them in our hands and then proceeded to stare at us awkwardly as we drank. I tried to start some rudimentary conversation and, despite the ginormous language barrier, I was able to discover that the middle-aged, suit-clad gentleman's name was Adriz and that the younger guy was his little brother.

Finally, Adriz dispenced with the awkward small talk and got down to business. Smiling sadistically, he turned to his brother/pawn, who would serve as translator most of the night, who relayed the message.

"He ask, do you want girls?"

Something in the dark grin that had suddenly manifested upon Adriz' face told me that I didn't.

"Mmmm... naaah. I'm good."

Apparently to change our mind, Adriz pulled out some reading material that would make Hugh Hefner's mom blush:

With a sudden glint in his typically cold eyes, he motioned to the newspaper and then in the direction of a nearby bordertown, Silopi. He didn't need to; his sly, dark grin said it all. There were girls in Silopi and he wanted to bring them to us.

It didn't take long to put it all together: Silopi, like every small hole of a city within 5 kilometers of the border, was undoubtedly a haven for drugs, sex, and other less-than-legal activities; our new friend Adriz, meanwhile, like every amoral jackass trying to kick and scrape and backstab and hustle his way up the ladder of life, was undoubtedly not above partaking in these activities if it meant some fresh green somehow making it's way into his pocket. It fit like a glove.

In other words, we were sleeping in the backyard of the local pimp. And trespassing.

We tried to explain our stance on this particular issue, but "for love, not money" didn't quite seem to translate; and if it did, it apparently translated into something along the lines of "show me some more pictures of half-naked girls in your newspaper and maybe I'll change my mind", because that's what Adriz continued to do for the next 30 minutes or so as we emphatically continued to voice our disinterest.

Finally he seemed to realize that he was getting nowhere with us, and suddenly and unexpectedly changed his tactics. He turned to his brother and began motioning between Roman and I, the whole time chortling in Turkish. I knew where this was going, even before his nervous brother voiced Adriz' thoughts.

"He say, you gays."

I thought about just agreeing with him and leaving it at that, in hopes that he would stop trying to dump prostitutes on me, but as I watched Adriz' eyes narrow into reptilian slits and heard his already barbaric yelping become louder and crueler, I figured that was probably not the way to go.

Finally, after another staredown, he turned to walk towards the lodgings of the station, and for a few seconds I thought we had won. Maybe he had just given up. When he stopped flat after a few feet, however, I suddenly realized that all he had been doing was positioning himself between us and the petrol station, the road, and, most importantly, the Turkish soldiers. I began to appreciate for the first time what an imposing physical presence this guy was.

He barked something at his meek translator, who quickly turned to us.

"He want money, for beer."

Of course, I should have known.

"How much?"

"150 lira. Each."

I gaped at them, in disbelief that they expected Roman and I to pay the equivalent of $100 each for our beers. Adriz stood; unblinking, dead serious, palm held out expectantly.

Finally, grasping for straws, and after explaining that I had nowhere near that much money, I muttered something about how I wanted to consult his friend out front, a man in a purple shirt who had been the one to originally tell us that we could sleep behind the truckstop. I took off before I could be told otherwise, and hoped that he wouldn't resort to force to prevent me from doing so. Thankfully, he didn't.

Finally, after a long, barely comprehensible conversation between us, Adriz and our new ally, purple shirt man, it was revealed that apparently Adriz had been joking the whole time. Not that I entirely bought this- it seemed more likely that purple shirt man had talked some sense into his friend, maybe reminded him that there were quite a few Kurd-hating oskari looming not so far from our present location- but when they offered to settle our debt for 7 lira per beer, I had no problem offering up the money.

To my surprise, he turned it down.

And thus a turning point in our relationship was marked. The next 45 minutes were like something straight out of a montage in the second act of a buddy-cop flick, where the formerly reluctant partners begin to warm up to each other and eventually become friends. I showed Adriz my passport; Adriz showed me his Turkish Department of Defense employee ID card (apparently pimpin' is just a sidegig). Meanwhile, I made liberal use of about the only 2 Turkish words I knew, Guzel (Good) and Arkedeš (Friend). At one point, I swear Adriz even cracked a smile. And that's when I dropped my guard... and let him hold my camera.

From that moment on, the trajectory of our relationship, as summarized in the following two photos taken by Adriz who was now refusing to give up my camera, plummeted faster than you could bat your eye.

Everything crested, after about 30 minutes of desperate, impassioned pleading on my part, and still more extensive use of the word Arkedeš, with Adriz threatening to smash the camera on the ground if I didn't hand over that 150 lira he'd been lusting after all night. Some bluffs are easy to call, like Iran threatening to nuke Israel off the face of the Earth, and Adriz and I both knew that there was no chance he was going to destroy that camera as long as he had a chance to profit off of it. On the other hand, I knew there was no way I was going to physically pry my camera out of his hands and no way he was going to give it up without being forced.

Finally, he decided I wasn't going to give him cash in exchange for the camera, and moved to plan B. He got in his car, prepared to drive away and settle for a slick new American camera as a consolation prize for his efforts. And that's when I pulled out the ace up my sleeve.

Before he could take off, I managed to motion him in the direction of the backyard, where our campsite was located. Curious, he followed me, only to discover something surpising: our tent, bags, and everything else had vanished into thin air. Suddenly he realized that Roman, who had asked to use the bathroom around the back of the station about half an hour ago, had vanished with it. He scanned his brain for an answer, and I gave it to him:

"Oscari."

Little did Adriz know that the last 30 minutes of conflict between he and I over the camera had been a distraction- a risky distraction that placed one of my prized possessions at risk, but a distraction all the same. As had been arranged, I would keep Adriz distracted just long enough for Roman to pack up all of our things and hike to the soldiers. I hadn't expected it to be so easy to keep Adriz from realizing that one of his two hostages had gone missing, but in the end his single-minded greed did that for me.

Needless to say, he eventually parted with the camera. And with one last exuberant, "Arkedeš!", I offered to take a picture of him; he grumpily shielded his face, probably a smart move on his part, considering who I planned on delivering that picture to.

At last, Roman and I met up, near the soldiers. In an unheard of example of mercy, Roman had elected to not actually speak to the soldiers; he argued that it was enough that Adriz and company thought we had done so- afterall we had escaped with all of our belongings intact and with a good story to boot. Instead, he suggested we camp out near the soldiers' camp, where we would be safe from Adriz if he decided to enact vengance. I didn't have the energy to argue- all I wanted was to find a place to sleep free of rapscallious Kurds- and so we walked to one side of the military compound, about 100 feet away from the barbed wire fence, and looked for a new place to set up camp.

Suddenly we heard shouting. A huge array of armed soldiers had gathered at the fence and was screaming at us in Turkish. We figured we should probably try to explain ourselves. Finally we found someone who spoke English and explained the whole situation. I wasn't as interested in mercy as Roman, so I told them all about the truckstop owners. They knew exactly who I meant.

20 minutes later, we'd befriended the soldiers of the camp,who were all too happy to have something to break the monotony of a life within a barbed wire fence. We were having a conversation with one English-speaking soldier in particular, when he called over one of the passing comrades, pointed to him, and told me something I did not expect:

"He thought you were a terrorist. He wanted to shoot you."

And as I stared at him in shock, the soldier in question did two things that were even more unexpected: he blushed, and then he giggled.

Now, normally I would be mad at this man who had wanted to kill me. But really, how could I be mad at a giggling Turkish oskari? It's cool.

And that's how Roman and I ended up camping behind the truckstop a second time- the soldiers' forced them to let us sleep there and leave us alone. Adriz, unfortunately, had escaped, and I almost felt sorry when purple shirt man, a relatively decent guy, was forced to take the brunt of the punishment from the soldiers for Adriz' sins. But not really.

Mostly I was just glad to have a place to sleep and looking forward to putting this ordeal in the past. Goodbye and good riddance, Adriz. You too, Turkish Kurdistan.