Syria and Beyond

Spent the last few days in the northern Syrian cıty of Aleppo. The cıty ıtself was fairly interestıng but the couchsurfıng experience ıs what made the tıme worthwhıle (I apolıgıze ın advance for thıs post's grammar and typıng ırregularıtıes, especıally the lack of the dots ın the ''i''s as the Turkısh keyboards are kıllıng me!!) OK, where was I? Anyways, I ended up crashıng at the apartment of two young Syrıan doctors, who found tıme ın theır resıdencıes to show me some ıns and outs of Aleppo as well as provıde me wıth some ınsıght ınto daıly lıfe of Syrıans. I wıll defer on acknowledgıng theır names as durıng my stay they both spoke candıdly about the theır thoughts on the present Syrıan government, whıch accordıng to them does not hesısıtate to jaıl and torture those who do speak agaınst ıt (both of theır fathers had been tortured ın the past--one almost to death). Despıte the lack of many cıvıl lıbertıes, they ındıcated that lıfe there ıs stıll pretty comfortable for them, although both are plannıng on movıng abroad as soon as vısas are acquıred.

One of the more memorable days, myself and one of the two ventured up to hıs old unıversıty so he could pıck up some transcrıpts. The excursıon provıded us wıth the excuse to engage ın the unıversal past-tıme of scopıng babes on campus and dıscussıng the datıng rıtuals of our respectıve cultures. As Aleppo ıs a faırly conservatıve cıty, about half of the campus women were scarved and some were fully covered. I told hım I thought that the success rate of pursuıng of these type of gırls would be comparable to fıshıng wıthout a hook but he ındıcated to the contrary. He stated that ın the past, he has ''made ıt'' wıth far more ''covered gırls'' than the more pretentıous, western dressıng women. He ındıcated however, that the relatıonshıps were always ın utmost secrecy as most of the gırls would rather skıp straıght to the fun stuff, than be publıcly vıewed doıng relatıonshıp type actıvıtıes lıke dınıng or walkıng together, whıch would tarnısh theır reputatıon and jeopardıze theır marrıage hopes. I know what you are thınkıng, all fun and no work--the perfect scenarıo rıght? Well, don't book your tıcket to Syrıa just yet as the pıcture they paınted of the Syrıan matıng/datıng rıtual seems perpetually stuck ın the 5th grade. I dıd thınk ıt was funny however the the two guys, one Chrıstıan and one Muslım, both ın seperate ınstances, told me that the other's relıgıous group had the more morally casual gırls...

After two nıghts of Syrıan meals prepared by them, I decıded a lıttle ınjectıon of the fruıts of Amerıca was ın order and whıpped up some stovetop-made hamburgers (the fırst for one of them), taught them the drınkıng game ''Quarters'' and screened the pırated Wıll Ferrell movıe ''Stepbrothers.'' Both are now movıng to the States.

Reluctantly I departed theır company, I went ınto town to buy a bus tıcket for the journey ınto Turkey. At the offıce of one of the bus companıes, they offered me a spot ın a taxı across the border for the same prıce as the bus, whıch I eagerly agreed to. Wıth just me and the taxı drıver ın the car, we set off ımmedıately after he brıbed hıs way out of a parkıng tıcket. Wonderıng ıf we were goıng to pıck up other passengers as a ''prıvate taxı'' costs abot 7 tımes more than what I had paıd, I told hım I was not goıng to pay more than I already had. He acted ındıfferent about the money I began to wonder what the deal was. As ınsurance, I secretly copıed hıs passport ınfo and was plannıng to counter-threaten hım wıth a bluff about callıng the Syrıan polıce about the wıtnessed brıbe ıf he trıed to scam me when we arrıved. At the Syrıan sıde of the border, he bought three cartons of cıgarettes (he dıdnt smoke) at the Duty-Free and asked me to put them ın my bag. I refused but allowed hım to at least set them near me fıgurıng Syrıans weren't allowed to export cıgs ınto Turkey and that he was probably buyıng them for a relatıve (hence why he was takıng me wıth hım for so cheap). Although I began thınkıng of less benıgn reasons for why I was the ''token'' passenger as I saw money exchange hands wıth Syrıan offıcıals more than once ın unoffıcıals ways. Havıng the benefıt of prevıously readıng Mıdnıght Express and knowıng the accounts of the joys of Turkısh prısons, I made decısıon that ıf pressed by customs about them I was goıng to rısk pıssıng off the drıver and the almost free rıde by dısownıng the cartons of cıgs (or whatever was ınsıde). At the Turkısh border, the offıcers were extremely thorough ın the searches and seemed ınterested ın the cıgs, but luckıly I was too busy assıstıng another offıcer ın dumpıng out my backpack, and was able to avoıd the verbally statıng they were mıne. Once thru the border, the drıver dropped me at my desıred town and dıdnt charge me anthıng more. After thıs, I swore that from here on out I was goıng to take more conventıonal means of transport across borders ın the future. And wıth that promıse, I arrıved after a 15 hour bus rıde to Istanbul and booked passage on a sleeper traın for the overnıght journey to Sofıa, Bulgarıa set for tonıght. Only been ın Istanbul a couple hours but already know I am gonna love ıt when I return ın a few weeks.

Too old for thıs shıt,

Brıan

Monastery Soup for the Wandering Soul

Well, I found it. Tucked into a wind-swept Syrian mountainside lies the Deir Mar Musa monastery. I was largely unaware of what was waiting for me at the monastery as I only had heard of it through word of mouth by another traveler. Not having voluntarily gone on a spiritual retreat since the sleep deprived mental tampering I received at KAIROS in high school, I was anxious to get off the grid for a few days and do some inner reflecting, however scary that may be. After a half-day of bus traveling, I was placed at the bottom of a hill by a taxi, with the monastery looming quite a bit higher. The hike up with a full pack was a bit much and I was wondering how they would react to unannounced visitors, especially those hoping to stay a few days. I was fully planning on using the line that I overhead an Evangelical traveler tell another in Jerusalem: "I was SENT." By the Man, I presume.

Once arrived, they first person I saw was a dreadlocked Frenchman playing a guitar on the rock path by the monastery. He welcomed me and told me to make myself at home. And so started my monastic existence that would last for the next 4 days.
Run by an Italian Jesuit, the monastery has become quite a famous place as it has evolved into a globally known center for inter-faith dialogue between Christains and Muslims. It allows all visitors to stay as long as they wish, with only the expectation that they occasionally help out in the kitchen or in projects around the grounds. During my stay, there was a good mix of Europeans, mostly French, who were all there for various reasons. The only other native English speaker was an Aussie, whose intentions there was on par with mine--a bit of reflective relaxing and most importantly, living cheaply. Meals were a social affair and broke up the monotony of the endless hours of reading, writing, or however you chose to spend your time. The food was basic but varied and nourishing and provided a nice change to my subsistence only diet of recent. The hiking around the monastery was nice and there were a series of caves in the mountainside for praying, meditating, animal sacrificing--whatever you needed to tap that inner spirit. As for me, I got my read on, about three books in as many days. The monastary had an incredible cave-like library, where amazingly enough I found an autobiography written by one of Mick Jagger's conquests, Marianne Faithful. Man, that women got around. It was funny because whoever left the book in the library inscribed it with a warning to all female sinners...

A stand-out character at the monastery was my Russian roomate, whose monosyllable answers/replies kept me cracking up. "Eat." "Pray." "Smoke." In a rare moment of articulation he stated one of the more profound things I heard spoken at the monastery: "In Russia, we say that someone who doesn't smoke or drink is dead person with good body." I am pretty sure he said this after meditating for 12 hours solid, so you know it was divinely inspired.
After 4 days, I felt enough was enough and heard my inner voice calling me back to the road. So I packed up, hiked an hour to the road and hitched a ride to the main highway. A fellow Syrian hitcher helped me navigate the next series of buses, adamantly paying for all. So kind, that it tripped my radar and made me contemplate any possibility for dubious intentions. Turned out to be just another gesture of good-will to a foreign guest, which seems to be an emerging theme of my middle eastern trek.
Made a pit stop at the famous Crac Des Chevalier, a crusader castle, that has inspired writers like Paul Theroux to write about its magnificence and boyhood fantasy charm. Ran around its cave-like tunnels for an hour, took pictures for you and darted. I had a date with the border.
Hopped in a mini-bus packed with people and made the cross into Lebanon. It made geographic sense (i will return to Syria to visit more and then head to Turkey). Plus Lebanese food is just what the doctor ordered for me. I am also trying to find any truth to the reply made by my good friend, Chris Clarkson (who is also half-Lebanese), who said when I told him about my visit to his motherland: "I think they now call it 'Don't go there land'." Well, only one way to find out.

Oh yeah, and have a great Thanksgiving.

Missing the tryptophan coma,

Brian

Damascus & Palmyra

Enjoying a peaceful existence here in Syria. Damascus is an incredible city and as part our dim leader's "Axis of Evil," it lacks many tourists, allowing one to be free to stroll leisurely with little hassle from touts and shopkeepers. As such, I have actually been doing a bit of window and store gazing, not because I intend to buy anything, although I probably should as Damascene markets contain some amazing handicrafts. I took some pics for parties interested (uploaded to album--Blogger in Syria is partially blocked therefore I am not sure if pics are uploading to the blog). Things are cheap. Could potentially be ground zero for the formation of the What Fell Off the Back of the Truck import company.
There has been a good cast of interesting characters at the guest house I was staying at. Like most Islamic cities, there is a serious absence of Western-styled night activities, forcing one to routinely engage in an oxymoron called "sober fun." Or meaningful conversations, whatever you prefer to call it. There was two German guys, sporting beards that put Joe and I's post-Amazon ones to shame, who had bicycled for 7 months from Germany all the way to Syria. When I spoke to them it was actually their last few hours before they flew home. They spoke of some incredible experiences along the way--most notably their stay in Georgia, when the Russians started shelling the town they were staying in. We also were contemplating the fact that they had been traveling to this point for 7 months only to return back home on a 7 hour flight. Also spent some time discussing importing logistics with a french girl named Sev (yes, I told her she shared the same name with a football god back in KC) who had been spending the previous two weeks scouring the markets for textiles and fabrics to send back to France. More interestingly, we discussed the finer points of the colloquial differences of descriptions of coitus in French and English. Their romanticism of even brief liaisons confused me.

Just took a bus to the Syrian desert oasis of Palmyra. Was able to be alone amongst Roman ruins for the first time in my life. Boy they are old. I think I may have hit my "old things" quota for the month.

It may be time for a brief societal and financial sabbatical, so if you don't hear from me for 4 or 5 days, I apparently have found the supposed Syrian monastary Mar Musa, which is tucked into the mountians. Yes I know, me and the monastic life go together like whisky and milk, but hey, I hear they take free boarders.

Contemplating the phenomenon that is belly button lint,
BQ

Riding an Emotional Wave to Syria

After missing the last shuttle to the Israel/Jordan border, my exit out of Jerusalem was delayed. Not wanting to hike with my pack all the way back to the hostel I was staying at, I chose instead to bunk up at politically charged hostel near the shuttles. Run by Palestinians and occupied mostly by journalists and sympathizers to the cause, I soon found myself accepting an invitation from an English girl to go "hang out at a tent" with her and some of her friends. Fully aware that such a cryptic invite would most likely result in something out of the ordinary, and without a good excuse not to, I found myself walking to the outskirts of Jerusalem to a squatters camp, where several Palestinians families, whose homes were recently demolished by the Israeli Police to make way for Jewish settlers, were living. I asked another guy exactly what was going on and why we were going there and he replied that there was already some people (international volunteers) hanging out there with the families in case the Police were to show up and execute the eviction notices. Which was set for tonight, he added. Great. Knowing my luck, all these kids have international organizations to bail them out of jail, while I would rot in jail as an unwitting spectator. At the camp, they were cooking food, watching footage of violent clashes between these volunteers and the police, and waiting out whatever was to transpire. We stuck around for awhile chatting up some of the volunteers. There was just a couple of them. Young and European, they had been doing this in the West Bank for several months now and I had to give it to them--they had some balls. They had been beat and shot at while sticking up for the Palestinians. There seems to be a pretty small but passionate and courageous group of them doing it although to my knowledge they haven't really made the U.S. news since American Rachel Corrie was run over by a Israeli bulldozer in 2003. We left the scene before midnight and as I left Jerasulem early today, I didn't hear what ended up happening.
It was a full day of transit. Took the shuttle to the Isreali border and managed to avoid both stamping by them and the Jordinians. Then while sharing a taxi back to Amman with a girl from New Zealand, she was telling me how she witnessed a bad accident while visiting the Dead Sea, and added that she feels that this sort of stuff seems to happen to her alot. Just as my inner monolouge was going something like I need to get away from her, I saw a delivery truck veer off the road and flip over. We stopped to help the occupants trapped inside, whom luckily seemed frazzled but not seriously harmed. Also, fought the urge to run away from the girl, before her aura would taint my lucky rabbits foot, that has kept things oh so well.
My day of excitement wasn't even half over. Technically, Syria requires a visa submitted from the Syrian embassy in Wash D.C. But I have heard that some Americans have been able to get it after waiting at the border for hours on end. I was gonna give it a try, due to lack of other options.
Negotiated a driver to take me from Amman, Jordan through the border procedure and then onto Damascus, Syria. I had to pay him a fairly large sum, due to the fact that he would need to wait many hours to see if I received the visa. He requested the payment up front, which normally I would almost always refuse, but this withholding recently resulted in a shouting match with a deeply offended man in Egypt and not wanting to repeat this episode, I took a chance and paid it forward. Halfway to the border I was getting bad vibes about his trustworthiness, so I decided to concoct a story that I had 3 friends wanting to make the same trip next week, and would he be the driver for them also? Hoping that the promise of future money would dissuade any funny business. As I suspected, after the border officials castigated me for showing up without a visa and told me to wait for 1,2, or 7 hours for a possible visa, the driver started to complain that he didnt have time to wait. I replied that he could leave but that he needed to refund half the money. He adamantly refused this idea, thus starting what would become a very heated exchange. Things advanced to the point where we were trading F-Us and he waved his cigarette in face saying "you do not F with me." Then feeling that I was in a losing battle, I tried my risky trump card, an appeal to his piety. I told him that he could leave but that his dishonesty was known by me and Allah (pointing upwards). This had a momentary effect until his moral relativism put him back on his spiel of leaving me to my own fate. Things got heated again and we managed to draw a crowd of Arabic men, always eager watch a show. Alas, I tried to diffuse the situation and stall his presence there by breaking out my deck of cards and showing him my one and only card trick. Amazingly, we started laughing and patting each other on the back. Such a dramatic range of emotions that I suspected schizophrenia in both of us. Finally after a quick 2 hour wait, my visa was approved and the driver, who would not drive me to Damascus but would pay someone else to do it, gave me an extended handshake while we exchanged unspoken apologies.
My new driver (Syrian) and the two other occupants (Jordinians) provided me a heartwarming welcome and through rudimentary conversation, explained their desire to see peace in the world. They, like all others I have spoken with in the Middle East, see a disconnect between government and people and harbor only ill will towards Booosh. Additionally for about the 100th time, they expressed their optimism for the future.
Finally arrived in Damascus and was pleasantly suprised to find a clean city with a nice mixture of modernity and antiquity. Spent the night strolling through the endless markets and treated myself to a much needed shave.
In the course of 24 hours, I have been inspired by the passion and courage of the foreign volunteers in Palestine, witnessed a terrible accident, narrowly avoided a fistfight with a taxi driver, participated in heartfelt political dialogue, and succesfully produced myself through 2 borders. Feeling more alive than ever.

Only scared of what we don't now,

Brian