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.
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