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: