Syria Dec 2008 - Part 2

I Believe in Syria – Part 2
December 2008


It is eleven in the morning and I walk outside with my newly acquired visa and the weather is still bleak and windy. I pause to look around and everyone is jammed into cars, mini vans, and buses; no one else on foot. I walk towards Syria and pass by guard booths but no one yells at me so I figure I am fine to walk on. The next set of what look like toll booths are for inspecting cars. Again, no one yells at me so I walk on and a big smile comes across my face as I relish in the fact I am now in Syria. This has been a long anticipated moment but never thinking it would actually happen. I have been dreaming about this for over four years but trying to get a visa on the Saudi side is a long process.

My bliss is broken as men start to yell at me. Taxis, private cars and shared vans are waiting to fill their vehicle to make the trip back down the hill into Damascus. No time is lost at all with men approaching me and yelling at me to go with them. It is windy and noisy with the vehicles revering their engines indicating they want to go but still need a passenger or two so yelling is a must. I thought a shared van was a safe option and I yell back how much. He yells back 40. My mind is still on the Lebanese pound with it being 1500 lira for $1. It sounds cheap enough to me so I jump in. Well, “jump in” sounds eloquent and graceful, similar to Matt Damon jumping to catch a moving train, but getting into these vans is not easy with the big step up, low roof and no room to maneuver in. Forget about having luggage, there is no space for it but people make do. I had to deal with my backpack. While the pack is comfortable on my back, it is not flexible at all with this new fangled internal frame. If I put it on my lap it blocks my view and I can’t squish it down. Because of the design of the pack, it doesn’t sit upright by itself so when I want to sit it down while I do something, it rolls over playing dead and this could be on a wet floor or an oil stained one like the van.

The van is packed like sardines making my entrance with the pack less than small. I thank my lucky stars there is still a seat up front relieving me of climbing over people and bags to get to the back. Fare money floats from the back of the van to the front and correct change is then passed back from hand to hand. Sometimes there is a dedicated person to collect the money and because it looked like the money was being filtered through this one particular clean-cut young man, I thought he was that person and give him my money. Fifty minutes later the van stops outside a large bus park and every one gets off.

Damascus is still off in the distances meaning I have to either take a taxi and pay a lot more or hop on another van. The clean-cut man notices me pondering my situation and kindly guides me to another van going near where I want to go. At this point, all I know is the name of the place where I am staying and it is close to the Bab Al Sharqi gate of Old Damascus. I just hope I am saying the name correctly or at least somewhat understandable. The nice young man tells the driver where I want to go and he nods with indifference about the stop but keeps turning around looking at me and my pack sitting beside me. He is giving me the evil eye but I am not about to have that clumsy pack sit on my lap until someone needs that seat.

As we get closer into the city more people are getting on and off, at this point I put the bag on my lap. I still have no idea when to get off and I doubt if the driver is going to tell me. I ask a lady on the bus if we are getting closer to Bab Al Sharqi and with a smile she says no. At the next stop the driver has had it with me and my bag and he turns around with vengeance and barks something in my direction, my back is to him. I am dumbfounded; what does he want? Ladies on the bus are saying, “stand up, stand up”. I half stand up hitting my head on the roof clutching my bag. He barks something else and the ladies point and say something. Again, I am asking what does he want? With hand gestures I am to put the bag in the corner by my seat. Is that all? Please let the next stop be mine, I want to get off.

The Bab Al Sharqi gate stop is by the gate but I have no idea where. Once again I am looking perplexed but walk on thinking I should look like I know what I am doing. I hesitate to ask people for directions thinking my inner compass will lead the way. This lasts about three minutes since I have no idea where I am or where to go and I have no map. A family approaches me while I am asking a man where to go and the mother, speaking decent English, suggest I follow them to the gate and from there they will tell me which street to walk down.

Walking through the gate into the old city feels like coming home again. I can tell I will like exploring this old place. I thank the couple and the street they direct me down has signs to the art gallery where I am staying. Mustafa Ali is a well known Syrian sculptor and his gallery is in an old khan, an old house with an inner courtyard with two levels and there are a few renovated rooms for visitors. My room is small and the bathroom compact, about the size of a phone booth. It has the tiniest sink I have seen and the shower is directly about the toilet but it is clean and it looks and smells recently completed, at least the smell of the last coat of varnish makes it seem that way. It is 2:00pm and this leaves me with two and a half hours before sunset.

With camera in hand I wander around the gallery, the office, the courtyard, and the roof. I like this place. It is in a quiet area, there are several small stores nearby and it is reasonable at $33 a night.

I spend the rest of the day getting happily lost in the walled in city.

http://mustafali.com/

My photos of the place
http://www.flickr.com/photos/35215585@N08/sets/72157615768576766/

http://www.syriatourism.org/index.php?newlang=eng