Police Presence

On the way to class the other day, I witnessed another lowlife dirt bag getting hauled into the police station by some plain-clothes detectives. I have no idea the circumstances of the arrest, but I like to make up scenarios in my head that match what I am seeing. (you'll never take me alive, copper!!) Was the guy really a lowlife? I have no idea. But he was wearing dirty jeans and was sporting about a four day growth. Actually, he was Arab, so he might have shaved that morning, so who knows (sorry Arabs).

Recently, I read about gun battles in the deep south of the country involving drug barons and Lebanese soldiers. This is Hizballah country, and I am not sure how they reconcile their squeaky clean image with the trafficking of drugs, but they do. To me, it either means that they benefit in some way from the drug trade or they are against it but are powerless to stop it. Its probably a bit of both. The south has the reputation for being a bit of a lawless, wild west-type place. There is little government involvement there and the area is run by powerful clans and families who decide who is welcome and what is lawful.

So if its between a stronger government presence and putting up with drug baron-protecting clans, the choice is clear. While weak government presence means an easier time for the traffickers, it also means that Hizballah can maneuver down there with less interference. And when the government comes down and leaves with a bit of a bloody nose, it benefits Hizballah even more because it makes the Lebanese army look weak. This was the case last week, when four Lebanese soldiers were machine gunned to death in their patrol SUV in retaliation for killing one of the barons who, with a load of hashish and heroine, refused to stop at a police check point. When the government looks weak, Hizballah benefits because it adds to the belief that only they can protect Lebanon from Israel.

But Hizballah, the Lebanese Shiite resistance movement, walks a fine line. They are very conscious of their image in the world and always try to appear straight forward, upfront, and forthright. This is important, because it enables them to maintain the moral high ground in a lot of ways.* They want to come off as an honest resistance movement helping a marginalized group of people (the Shia) and defending Lebanon from their ultra-aggressive downstairs neighbor (Israel). But, if I worked for their PR department, I would tell Hassan Nasrallah to beware. It may be nice to operate in a atmosphere of lawlessness in the south, but associating with drug barons can't be a good idea in the long term. It wouldn't be that hard for Israeli or rival Lebanese interests to mount a PR campaign focusing and hyperbolizing on Hizballah's involvement and connection with these people. It would surprise me if they weren't aware of this, and just the other day they released a statement declaring that they had nothing to do with the killing of the soldiers and that they would neither hide nor harbor those responsible.

*The Hizballah that existed in the mid-1980's is not the same group that exists today, and the turning point seems to come with the appointment of Hassan Nasrallah as Secretary General. If you don't include it's interactions with Israel, and I don't because Lebanon is at war with Israel, Hizballah has been on pretty good behavior. The group no longer engages in international terrorism and they have become invested in the Lebanese political system. Their last kidnapping was in 1991. They shouldn't be mentioned with the al-Qaida or even the Taliban.

Back in Beirut, six weeks before the election, everything seems quiet. A little too quiet. There is not much being said by the US, Iran, Syria, or Israel. There has not be any noticeable shows of force by any of the various internal political groups, such a Hizballah, AMAL, the Maronites, the Druze, etc. At first it seemed like the elections on June 9 might go off smoothly, without a hitch or incident, but now feels like that quite is evolving into an uneasy silence. As in a calm before a storm. So we'll see. This country has been ripped apart inside and out for the last thirty years, but he last couple have been prosperous for Lebanon. The reconstruction is booming and the powerful banking sector seems unfazed by the economic crisis (because of its strict regulation). People are feeling good about the country and about their future in it, which hasn't been the case for decades. It would be a shame for them to suffer another setback at this point.

Walking around the city, you encounter police and soldiers everywhere and I don't know if it makes me feel more safe of less safe. Actually, I do know. It makes me feel less safe. What's with all the barricades? Why is there a tank parked in the street? What is with that contraption that looks like a mirror on a skateboard attached to a broom handle? What? You slide that thing under cars to look for bombs? Huh. Oh ya, this place was a war from 1970 to 2000 and then again in 2006. And then there was that wave of bombings and assassinations that took place around 2005. Oh ya!

It is not clear that if the police and soldiers went home if the country would resort to its past ways or not. I do know that every time I see one of the barricades or checkpoints, it makes me consider what this place could be like. And maybe that's a good thing, maybe people should be constantly reminded of how things can be if they don't all work together. But having all the police and soldiers around doesn't make me feel any better. To be honest, they don't instill a lot of confidence in me.

Its not like in Syria. Syria is a strong state. Before I went there, a friend told me that every cab driver in Damascus is either a pimp or and intelligence officer, and sometimes both. In Syria, the roads are nice and the army is well funded, but the people are largely uneducated and poor. The "president" is in power for life. Much of the country's resources are allocated to keeping the current regime in power, which mean money for infrastructure, the military and especially, the Syrian intelligence. So the government has a strong presence. It's palpable. It may not be the right way to run a country, but there, at least you feel safe.

In Lebanon, its the same only the exact opposite. Here, the state is weak and a lot of power is retained by rich businessmen and powerful clans. The state maintains a conspicuous presence, but the effect is just not the same. You feel "safe" but it also feels like something could "happen" at any moment. You're not sure how much help the ubiquitous police presence would be in that case, but they are there just the same and let's hope they are not put to the test anytime soon.

Daily Life

Breakfast- I'm writing this in a small cafe about two blocks from my apartment. When you are outside of, say, North America, it can be hard to find a proper breakfast. Ask anyone who's tried. I'm talking eggs, toast, some sort of meat, and either hash browns or home fries. This place has the whole deal. They even have bacon, which is a small miracle here in the Middle East. I've been to other places around here and, when it comes to the most important meal of the day, none of them know what the hell they are doing. There is this one place near me that is fashioned to look like a 50's American diner. With the diner being the American breakfast mecca, I went in there my first week in Beirut figuring I would be in business. I was even told it had a proper American breakfast (by a Lebanese guy who had never been to America). My hopes were dashed when it came out: some poorly scrambled eggs, dry white toast, and tomatoes. Tomatoes! And the coffee tasted like old steel wool. Not the shiny new kind, the old kind that had been scrubbing pans for a few months.

Now, I can hear the defeatists saying “dude, just make it yourself in your apartment”. Fair enough. I do make breakfast on the regular. But on the days when I am out of eggs, or the sinks is full of dishes because the lazy maids are taking their sweet-ass time cleaning my apartment, I need a dependable place close by where I can just run out to, get a proper breakfast, and read the news. This place is that place. A breakfast oasis; its a little pricey, but its worth it. And I am always stuffed when I finish so you know its the perfect amount: a little too much. If I had to knit pick, I would fault them on not having “bottomless” cups of coffee, but that is completely unheard of outside of The States. Plus they do serve, to quote Jules from Pulp Fiction, “that gourmet sh*t”(as opposed to the kind Bonnie buys when she goes shopping). Plus, Kenny Rogers “The Gambler” was playing the first time I ate there, so I knew I was in the right place.

The Bar- Next on the list of making myself at home here is a solid bar, what I call “a drinking bar”. Now, I am certainly not a bar fly at home, but for my purposes abroad, the pub can be useful in a lot of ways. First and foremost, I live in a one bedroom apartment with another dude. He is a college freshman at the AUB and is by all accounts (most accounts) a great roommate. For me, that includes mostly not making a ton of racket when I am trying to sleep. We get a long really well and have a lot of laughs. I even get along good with his buddies. But I live in a one bedroom apartment. So sometimes I need a place to go at night when I need to get out of the house. That place is called the Captain's Cabin (referred to as “The Cabin”). When I was getting a tour of the neighborhood from my roommate, he pointed it out to me. My immediate impression was that the name sounded like some swanky place for which fisherman & pirates to rendezvous.

Needless to say, I was skeptical. But he also said it had cheap beer and when you are living on tight budget “cheap beer” is a huge selling point. This is especially true here in Beirut, which has been a lot more expensive than I originally thought. So one night I went down there not knowing quite what to expect. I walked in. The décor could be described as contemporary drunken sea captain. It was dank. There was a single dart board and a single pool table- people were using both. Led Zeppellin was coming out of the speakers. The crowd did not resemble the people you see on the street, either conservatively dressed, or flashily dressed wearing brand name everything. No, people there were rocking t-shirts and sneakers, and they were drinking beer and playing pool. Bars like this are almost a dime a dozen in The States, but in the Middle East, its a rarity. Most places are “clubs” that play techno. I am not against techno- I'll even confess to listening to it sometimes while working out or if I need to stay awake while driving- but I don't really like it at bars and clubs. Anybody that knows me knows I am a terrific dancer, but rarely do I feel the need to bust out my dance moves anymore. Plus, with bass and drum blasting in your head, its hard to carry on a conversation with someone you've just met. And that's a big part of why I am here (or anywhere), to talk to people and find out stuff about what's its like to live in the place I am talking to you in. That's hard to do in a techno joint. So The Cabin is where its at.

Also, something that's developing into a pet interest for me is the non-traditional youth culture here. It started with the graffiti study I did when I first got here. Then, on one of the days I was taking some photos of the art-vandalism, I noticed some skateboarders sitting on the sidewalk with their skateboards, drinking beers. Growing up, a lot of my friends were skaters and the scene was something eerily similar to what you might find them doing in Boston in the 90's. But when I found it here, I was a little shocked. (Have you noticed a pattern: I see something kinda western that I didn't expect and I write about it.) These guys had at least three things that stood out: they had long hair, they were drinking in public, and they were skaters. Its one thing for some kid from some American suburb to be part of that, but in the Arab world all three are incredibly taboo. Even here in relatively liberal Lebanon, it is a much more difficult choice to live like that. Anyway, The Cabin is a bit a haven for people like this, and for anyone who likes good music, and cheap beer in a laid back atmosphere. (If the owner/bartender is reading this, I can be repaid with free pints of Almaza beer.) So it serves two purposes, its a peaceful place for me to relax after a long day of reading and writing or studying Arabic, and it can be a convienent place to meet interesting people. Because a lot of times, if two people really like the same bar, they often have much more in common.

Cabs- Not much to report on this front. Our status is still the same pretty much. We have achieved an uneasy peace and it looks like neither party wants to upset that. Actually, there was a tense situation this past weekend that should be relayed. It started out at The Cabin (its like my Regal Beagle, if you know what that is), and I was rocking my lucky Larry Bird t-shirt, which usually means a good night. (Details of good night's past shall not be recollected here, so you'll have to take my word for it. After all this is a blog meant for the whole family.) I met some interesting people, drank a few beers, had some laughs and played some darts. After last call, some of us decided to go back to someone's house for some more beers and a nice night cap sheisha (flavored tobacco smoked out of a hookah).

It started getting very late, then it started getting very early. As the sun was coming up, I began to realize that I didn't know where the hell I was. I was pretty sure that I was still in Beirut, but it was not clear where, or who's neighborhood. Now, I am in the December of my twenties and pulling an all-nighter is just not possible for me anymore. My body and brain would go on strike for about six weeks, and there were no strike-busters I could hire to break their will, and no scabs I could hire to do their jobs until they relented. So, hyper-aware that I'd better not screw over my body and mind lest I face a ten fold retaliation, I charged out into the Beirut dawn with barely a goodbye to my new chums. In my haze, I wiped the crust from my eyes and reckoned three things: one, the mustacheod piranhas never sleep, so I knew I would be able to find a cab. Two, anyone who is up at 6:30 am on a Saturday is probably not going to mess with me while I charged around wherever the hell I was looking for a cab. Third and perhaps most importantly, I was still wearing my lucky Larry Bird shirt.

My instincts were, once again, correct. The only people who were up and out were some elderly folks and a couple of those people who walk around for exercise. Not two blocks from the apartment building I had just emerged from, I spotted a cab, who had spotted me about four seconds earlier. My blonde hair is like a lighthouse beacon to cabbies and so he stopped dead in his tracks. I told him I was going to Hamra and he gave me one of those almost imperceptible cabby head nods that mean “fine, get in”. I practiced a little Arabic on him and he practiced a little English on me. He may have been wondering what the hell I was doing strolling around that neighborhood at that hour, but if he did, he kept his curiosities to himself. The ride was longer than I remembered from the previous night and it was actually kind of far from home. We got close to my apartment and he stopped. It was the moment of truth. I asked him how much. He looked at me with the stern confidence of Doyle Brunson and told me ten thousand (about about $6.50). I thought about arguing, I thought about the détente and I thought about how long it took to get where we were at this “uneasy peace”. Then I thought that I was borderline desperate to get home and to bed, lest I my body and brain spend the remainder of my time here in Lebanon reminding me that I am almost thirty. I surmised that six dollars and fifty cents was a fair price to get me home from where I was at that hour, especially in the state I was in.

So I gave him the ten thousand Lebanese Pounds and scurried up to my apartment where my roommate was still up, sitting on the couch, watching TV and surfing the net. (living together for over a month and he has gone to bed before me only once). Let me tell you something, when your 19 year old college freshman roommate gives you one of the “where the hell were you, I was worried”-type looks, its weird. I told him my phone was broke and next time I swear I'd call. I went into my room and got into my PJ's as quickly as possible, figuring that the sooner I get to bed with the sun not all the way up, the better off I'll be. Somehow, I managed to get over six hours of sleep and I awoke that afternoon, fresh as a daisy.

Sunny Days- It's starting to get summertime out and I think I am gonna give the sun a second (fiftieth) chance. Maybe I am being dramatic, but I liken my relationship with the sun to loving the wrong woman: sure its not good for you and it will probably give you cancer, but it feels good at the moment and you can't stay angry forever. Also, disturbingly, I just read another study that said that sunblock can cause skin cancer. So I am convinced that nobody knows that the hell they are talking about anymore. People tell me its not good to eat a lumberjack's breakfast every day for twenty years, but look at me: I'm the pinnacle of health. They say that my cholesterol must be off the charts, but its not, its actually quite low. Plus, having a man-sized breakfast is good for the soul. Show me some poor turd that eats a “cereal bar” every day for breakfast and I'll show you a person who is dead on the inside and hates his life. So I am going to give the sun another shot, because deep down inside, I know I only have so many to sunny days to enjoy. And I know they are good for me.

My Apartment- I have a love/ hate relationship with my apartment. I love the location, and it feels unmistakably like home, especially coming back after a long day/night. Its cozy and it has sweet balcony that I keep telling myself I am going to buy a nice deck chair and enjoy. For $350/ month in Hamra, its a good deal. I'll put up with the other stuff because the money I save on rent (I was prepared to pay double that) I can spend on going out and meeting people and having adventures and such.

That being said, its tiny. A collegue from grad school is coming to Beirut for a visit, and I feel bad that I don't have the space to put her up. For all intents and purposes, its a college apartment- a small college apartment- and its not a place for a respectable young lady to stay (non-respectable young ladies welcome). And the bathroom is ridiculously small. If you fumble the face-wash while in the shower, you almost have to step completely out of the shower to retrieve it. The shower couldn't contain a keg, a bar stool, or a plus-sized model (plus-sized models welcomed to try). At its best, the bathroom is adequate, but when using the shower, toilet, or sink, each maneuver must be carefully considered. And the place floods with water after every shower. There are strategic holes drilled in the corners of the room for which the water to escape, but whomever built the bathroom strategically built it so that the water flows away from the holes. It a wonder of design, really.

Not that the kitchen is designed much better. There is a sink and large marble bar counter. But no space was considered for a refrigerator, so it sits the middle of this small space (about the size of the bed of an Chevy S-10 pickup). Which doesn't make it easy to cook on our one plug-in hot plate burner. (Whaaaah, My apartment in the nicest part of the capital city of a very poor country isn't as posh as I would like, whaaaah!) Whatever but its true.

The only complaint I have about the bedroom is that I don't have my own.

The only complaint I have about the living room is that it feels real crowded when there are more than two guests. And the weird thing is that we have a huge balcony that is never used by any of the Lebanese college kids that come over, except to make the occasional candid phone call. In The States, there would be deck chairs, a barbecue, and a beer-pong table set up out there, guaranteed. When I first moved in, I remarked to my roommate that its gonna be sweet to hang out there when the weather gets nice. He said why would we do that? I said its nice to be outside when its warm, because I am sure the apartment will get stuffy. He looked at me strangely and said everyone would just hang inside like usual, but with the AC cranked. I was baffled. I can't fathom spending so much time indoors especially on a nice day, and especially when most of his crew smokes butts like they're about to be outlawed.

So look for me on hot summer nights, sitting out on my Beirut balcony, drinking a couple cold ones. There's a good chance I'll be by myself. Would anyone like to join me?

Syria

As I mentioned before in a previous post, I had wanted to travel to Syria to see Damascus. It turned out to be a journey that could be described as 'one part pain in the ass, four parts pretty sweet'.

My plan was to leave Tuesday morning, get there in the mid-afternoon, spend the rest of the day as well as the next exploring the city, and then head home Thursday morning. Just a quick strike if you will, and then back to Beirut for Thursday night and the long Easter weekend. But other forces had other plans, and I didn't get back to my apartment until Saturday night. There was no Syriana or Body of Lies type stuff going down (luckily, I'm not that important), but still there are some lessons to be learned for Americans wanting to travel overland from Beirut to Damascus on Easter weekend.

I woke up by way of alarm at the ungodly hour of 9 am, fixin to take a shower, have breakfast, get down to Charles Helou Bus Station, and be on a bus for Damascus by noon. That would put me in the city sometime around 4 or 5 pm- enough time to putz around with some daylight, get my bearings, grab some dinner, and retire at a decent hour to have a full day tomorrow. I already had my hotel booked.

The Charles Helou Bus Station

Now, ever since I got to Beirut, I have been at war with the cab drivers here. I actually was going to write a post about it, where its starts, “Sorry mom and dad, Lebanon is a war- and your son is right in the middle...”, but due to an event that would transpire later, it would not be the case. Still though, going into the weekend, I was presently at war. Almost like someone snuck into my room and tattooed “dickhead” on my forehead, the cab drivers seem convinced in their minds that I am gonna make them a pile of money in the form of a huge ripoff. They get infuriated when they find out that I know how much I am supposed to be charged and when I laugh at their price and counter with the real price, they say things like, “fuck you” and “fuck your country!” (whichever one, I am not sure they're sure of).

Somehow I negotiated a price with a cabbie to the bus station that we both thought was fair. It was overpriced, but not out-and-out rapage. He dropped me off across the street, but before all the buses is a taxi stand. I got out of the cab and they descended upon me like mustacheod piranhas. “No bus today, how much you pay for cab?” was the common refrain. “How much you pay?” But I knew the score, I knew there were buses. So I headed to them. I found the next one leaving for Damascus. I gave a little man my passport and he scurried away. Now, you must always be careful with your passport, especially in an environment such as this, but in “uncivilized situations” sometimes you gotta trust your gut. So I did.

The bus was to leave at 11:30, but that was Arab time (sorry Arabs) and I knew it would be a while. Regardless, I hopped in to secure my seat. Inside, there was a nice Irish family already settled in the back of the minibus. A mom, a dad, and the little girl. For some reason, in “uncivilized situations” it helps to have some other white people around for comfort. Actually, any Europeans or Americans will do, complexion is just obvious visual clue. Its not so much the skin color thats comforting, its coming from similar places, with similar expectations. If there's trouble, it will be similar trouble. In a situation like this where there is chaos and uncertainty and we could all get ripped off at any moment, it helps that there are others around to get ripped off with you, or whatever. Because if there is trouble, your common interests and background will help provide a common avenue in which to extract yourself from said situation. Strength in number, we're all in this together, and such.

But there would be not trouble, only a lot of waiting. In the meantime, I had to use the lavatory. In some movie, there is a scene where this guy goes into a bathroom and the toilet is labeled “Worst Toilet in London”. Well, that scene entered my mind as I walked into the bathroom at Beirut's Charles Helou Bus Station. There were two stalls. I walked into the first stall and there was an ungodly mess. Squat toilet (always a disaster), flies, defecation, both piled and sprayed, in every direction. I am not sure if I was imagining stink-lines, but they were real enough to me. “Dear god”, I thought, “I don't care what is in the next stall, I am peeing there and that's all there is too it. I don't care if there is the same mess with a decapitated human head sitting on top, I'm gonna pee right on it.”

Now, I'm not squeamish. I have seen some foul messes in my day and have been in some unpleasant situations. I have seen the great masses of humanity relieving themselves in concert in India. I have slept in the Ryan Air terminal in London's Luton Airport. I have partied at college apartments in Boston. None of these are for the faint of heart. But ladies and gentleman, I will tell you this: when I opened the door to the second stall and saw what there was to see there, I closed the door and immediately went back to stall number one. And I did it quickly, and happily, and secure in myself that I was making the right decision. Its not for me to describe it here- I'm not sure I can- but I will say it was like opening the door to turd hell, and I have been trying to purge it from memory ever since.

I came out of the building having aged approximately five years. The guy who took my passport was standing in his little office, and he must have seen the look of bewilderment on my face because he brought over some spray disinfectant and hosed my hands down with it. Then he looked at me with eyes that said, “I am sorry you had to see that, mister. I know you are disgusted. This is the the bathroom of my workplace, and I am embarrassed.” He handed me a tissue and I got on the minibus. The last thing I will say about it is this: the man who walked into that bathroom is not the same man who walked out. That man is gone and he's not coming back.

I got back on the bus and the Irishman got out to do the same. I didn't stop him, it was something he had to see for himself. He got back on the bus five minutes later with the same look on his face. With that lovely Irish accent, his wife was asking him if everything was okay as the driver shut the doors and whisked us away.

A range of small mountains separates Lebanon from Syria. I put on my Ipod and settled in as we traversed it all. The scenery was beautiful and the view was for miles. I snapped pictures along the way of things I thought were interesting and before too long, we arrived at the border. I remembered what Droopy at the Syrian embassy had told me. In a thick Syrian accent, “one hour, three hours, five hours, six hours”. What the hell did that mean?

Before going into one country, you must leave another. This formality of getting an “exit visa” gives the immigration officials a chance to see if they want to let you out, which is no guarantee. Maybe you are wanted by the police, or maybe you didn't pay your hotel bill, or maybe you are a known spy. No of these applied to me, so they stamped my passport and sent me out.

For some reason, there is about a mile distance between the Lebanese border and the Syrian. I don't know whose land that would be, perhaps just some sort of buffer. I didn't ask and soon enough we were at the Syrian border. Someone should have told me to get comfortable.

The Syrian Border

One the minibus with me were the driver, his assistant, three Irish, two Arabs and two Spaniards. The Europeans and the Arabs were issued visas post haste. But when I handed over my passport, the official said that I would have wait. He said that he would have to send a fax (a fax!) to Damascus (the capital) and they would let him know if it was safe to let me into his country. Then he said those words that sent chills up my spine. “One hour, three hours, five hours, six hours.” I felt like the detective at the end of the Usual Suspects as he dropped his coffee mug in shock and disbelief. Right away, I knew it would not be one hour, three hours or five hours. It would be six. I knew it and I resigned myself to it right away. Dashed from my schedule were dinner in Damascus, putzing around the city, and getting my bearings. Without an option, I pulled the trigger and told the driver and the group to go on without me. I had some cash, a credit card, and my passport. I'm an American, for god sake. I would be fine and I would make it to Damascus alone somehow. My experience roaming the planet gave me the confidence I needed to strand myself at the Syrian border without a ride until the bastards let me in.

A man I met while on a jungle trek in Thailand once told me “if you have no plans, nothing can go wrong”. This was my first time overseas alone. I have never forgot it and it has shaped me as a traveler. I always try to keep it in mind when I am “out in the world”, especially in “developing” countries. So much stuff can happen, and does happen, that its not worth the gray hairs to be dead set in a schedule. This is why I abandoned my plans for that evening so easily.

What was not so easy was figuring out how I was supposed to kill six hours at a goddamn border crossing. I saw a couch in a little room so I went to sleep for a while. I woke up an hour later. Back a little ways towards Lebanon, there was a duty-free mall and a Dunkin Donuts, so I decided I would make my stand there. I had a look about the mall and it was just like a giant duty-free that you would find at an airport but with very reasonable prices. If I had to spend the night at the border by myself, at least I knew I wouldn't alone. An eighteen dollar liter of Jameson would keep me warm and happy, I thought. Its good to have a worst case scenario. Luckily, it wouldn't come to that.

After the duty free mall, I decided that I could really kill some time in Dunkin Donuts. Some coffee and my book (Oil! By Upton Sinclair, highly recommended) and the time would just melt by. To my dismay, Dunks was closed. Like, for good. Disappointed, but not quite crestfallen, I went into the adjoining cafe and set up shop. A dull headache I had leaving Beirut, had just entered “splitting” territory. I got a tea and prepared as best I could to settle into my book for the next five hours.

Across from me was a couple, from I couldn't tell where. I just know they were from two different places by the looks of them. After a while, the girl came by and asked me if I were an American. I told her I was and we discovered the three of us were in the same position. At the same time I handed over my passport, I had noticed two other USA passports coming across to the official too. It must have been theirs. Sure, they would take me to Damascus with them once we all got squared away. We talked and discovered we were from similar backgrounds. We came from similar industries and lived in similar places. They had been skiing in Farieh, like me. The gentleman, had been badly sunburned there, like me. We had even traveled to many of the same places, like India and Laos. There were so many similarities, as a matter of fact, I later wondered if the two of them weren't of intelligence of one sort or another...I highly doubt it, but it was strange to have so much in common. Plus, I like wondering about these things because it makes me feel cool and important.

Anyway, we passed the time sharing stories and lamenting our common situation. They had hired a driver who, having made the mistake of agreeing ahead of time to wait as long as it takes at the border, was also stuck in our boat. Later, he would admit that this would be the last time he would take Americans to Damascus. Poor guy, it was his first attempt and he didn't know how Syrians felt about Americans.

The USA and Syria just aren't on good terms. A Syrian couldn't just show up at the USA border and demand entrance, no sir. He would have to start the process at home, waiting long periods of time and providing only the proper documents. And then, only if he was lucky. So Syria is not happy with this, but they don't want to keep Americans out completely. It would look hostile and plus, Americans will spend good money at their hotels, restaurants, and gift shops. It wouldn't be prudent. But they have to do something, so they make you wait two to six hours for a visa. It 's supposed to take you down down a peg, I guess.

I had resigned myself to the six hours end, but one of us would go over every hour on the hour to check just for good measure. Annoying them while they're annoying us is the least we could do. Every hour an American would storm over to the immigration office and demand in the most indignant tones, “please sir, have you heard any word from Damascus yet?”, at which point the hardened bureaucrat would shake his head and tell you to have a seat. After five tries and five hours of this strategy, he finally buckled under our requests. At exactly 9 pm, exactly six hours after we handed him our passports, he handed them back to us with our visa stamps. Weary from battle and gracious in victory, we didn't rub his nose in it. We got the hell out of there and made straight for Damascus.

I am sure that whatever happened, I would have made it to Damascus eventually, but meeting those two made things so much more pleasant. Its people like that you meet while traveling that keep me coming back. Six hours ago we were complete strangers, and now the three of us were quietly zooming through the darkness towards Damascus together, as friends. I love it.

When I finally got into my hotel room at 10 pm- twelve hours after I left my apartment -I dropped to my knees and praised god I was at my destination. My bed looked so comfy, my bathroom was new and clean, my TV flat, my cable satellite, my internet free and wireless...I had made it, and it felt good. My headache was subsiding. I crawled into bed with a smile on my face and passed out.

The next day I got breakfast (included) at my hotel (the Afamia, highly recommended) and headed out to see what there was to see. Damascus is an ancient city, often billed as the longest continually inhabited in the world. Mountains are on one side and dessert on the other. Its dusty and crowded and awesome. The oldest part of the city is a maze of adjoining stone houses and winding alleyways. Throughout are souqs, or shops, selling everything from jewels to spices to textiles to coffee beans to antiques to housewares. In the middle of the old city is the Ommayad mosque, one of the oldest and most holy of Islam. John the Baptist is buried there. Saladin, the legendary Muslim general of the Crusades who tossed the Europeans out of Jerusalem is buried there. Ali Hussein, a pillar of Shia Islam is buried there. The place is amazing and I was ecstatic to get all my formal historical sight seeing done at one location. The rest of the time I could spend just people watching and putzing around, which is really my favorite way to get to know a place.

The Syrian People

Damascus feels like an outpost. Sure its a huge city, one of the major world capitals of history, but its in the middle of nowhere. Seriously, Google Maps it. This is why a city of 5 million or so can feel isolated (the other reason is government interference. The Syrian government doesn't like outsiders and outsider ideas, like human rights and democracy. This is why Facebook and Youtube is blocked.) This isolation, in my opinion is not necessarily a bad thing. Sure, the people are very poor, but whose to say that this would not be the case with due process, habeus corpus, and elected leaders? Isolation from the outside world, both physically and digitally, has allowed the people of Damascus to retain their tradition as well a sense of innocence that you don't find in flashy and style-conscious Beirut. I have been thinking this over, and I think the Syrian people are the nicest people that I have ever met anywhere in the world (sorry Laos).

The people I met were so warm and welcoming, and for no reason at all. Everywhere in the city, people stopped and smiled and chatted...and you weren't even sure that they knew each other. And people didn't look at me like an ATM for once. It was nice.

For example, I was having a sheisha (flavored tobacco smoked out of a hookah) and a coffee at a cafe in the old city, when I started chatting with the guy next to me. He told me welcome to his city and I tried my best to communicate in Arabic. He told me about a good place just outside the city on a hill where you can look down and see the city. I looked it up in my Lonely Planet guide book and his story checked out. He said he would take me up there and show me. Then he mentioned that he had a cab, at which point I thought, “oh geez, here we go”(this was before I knew how nice Syrians were). Then he said that the cab he owned was in use, but he would go up with me anyhow to make sure I got there and paid the right price for the cab. So we hailed a cab and went up. The view was incredible and he pointed out some stuff. I snapped some photos. I had the cab drop me off at the hotel. I shook his hand and he would only let me pay for my half of the cab. And that was that, just some of that decent Arab hospitality I'd heard so much about.

Everyone else was just as nice. If I approached someone who kinda looked like a grump for some directions, their face would turn completely into a gigantic smile as I requested their assistance, which they were only too happy to dole out. When looking for something, I would often be escorted right to it. And I never felt unsafe walking anywhere at any time of the day or night. I'm not sure what the cops do all day, because these people surely aren't making any trouble. The whole thing actually made me reconsider my position on the oppressive Assad regime; surely a society that produces people this nice must be doing something right.

I washed up and met up with the American couple for a coffee at the same cafe I was at earlier that day. We watched the “last” traditional storyteller in Damascus perform. It was common, like 500 years ago, for guys to go to sheisha bars and listen to someone tell a story, kinda like guys today going to the bar to watch a game. Now the art is all but forgotten and its down to one man. Performs nightly at seven for tourists and locals alike.

After we'd had enough, we split for dinner at the Four Seasons. Now, I am not a high roller by any stretch, but prices in Syria- especially for food- are incredibly reasonable, especially compared with Lebanon. And the occasion seemed sort of like a celebration, having all of us made it to Damascus and such. I stuffed my face with some of the best food I have ever had, most of it Syrian. The bill for the three of us was less than a hundred US dollars. We swapped stories about our days and shared a cab back to our hotels, which were close by to each other. Early the next day they would be headed to Allepo and I back to Beirut, so we said our goodbyes and I thanked them profusely for their company and assistance.

Trouble

The next day, things got interesting. My hotel did not take credit cards (in the Arab world, cash is king) so I needed to find an ATM, which wouldn't be too difficult because I had seen many. So I walked to the closest one and put my card in. It wouldn't work. I tried the one next to it. And then one at another bank. And another and another. None worked. Finally, a bank employee told me I had to try one of the international banks, like Audi Bank and Saudi Bemo Bank. But none of those worked either.

Alarmed, I went back home and Skyped my bank to see if my card was blocked only find out that Syria did not take Master Card at the moment. Shit. My next thought was to use my Visa credit card to get a cash advance at a bank, but they were all closed by this time. And tomorrow was out, because in Syria, Friday was the off day, not Sunday. I tried to get a cash advance at a foreign exchange place, but they wanted a hundred dollars for every three hundred withdrawn, which was a thousand percent out of the question. I would rather sleep naked in stall number two at Beirut's Charles Helou Bus Station before I'd do that. I Even went back to the Four Seasons to see if they would do a cash advance, but they said it was just for hotel customers. Dammit.

I wracked my brain. What the hell was I going to do? I knew that starting tonight, my hotel was booked solid for the next few weeks. I had no choice, I took my predicament to my hotel manager. He told me which ATMs to try and I told them I tried all of those and a dozen more. He look puzzled, then he said, “no problem, Mr. Patrick, you can stay in your room”. I was relieved that at least I would not be tossed out on the street with no money.

The next morning, in a last ditch effort, I went down to the Western Union to see if I could wire myself some money. Even though it was Friday, the website said it would be open. Not so. I wasn't even sure that I could wire money to myself anyway, but I would try again tomorrow. I went back to the hotel and, in a complete cliché, I called my mom and asked her to send me some money through Western Union. Always on the ready to help her baby, she said of course she would. I went back to my hotel manager with this news, and he arranged another night for me. Some poor bastard got to the hotel that night to find it “overbooked”. (I'd always wondered how this was possible, but now I know.) It was now 11am, however, and without a dime I decided to stay in my hotel room and read all day til dinner time, at which point I would go to a place that took credit cards.

The next day I woke up and said a prayer that my plan would work, as I was completely out of options after this (the guy who wanted to charge 33% on a cash advance did not even make it into my worst case scenario. If it came down to it, I would just go down to the US embassy, if there was one, and beg for money. Failing that, I would have to get a job and live there, at least until my fifteen day visa expired.) I got to the place three minutes before nine and three minutes later it opened for business. The pretty Syrian girl at the counter told me to have a seat while she looked into it. Ten minutes later, I left there with 19000 Syrian pounds, about 400 US dollars, and skipped all the way back to my hotel. I paid the manager his money, gave a good tip to my super helpful bellhop/room cleaner, and took a cab to the bus station.

At the station, I gave some homeless little beggar some money to tell me when my bus was ready to go. The place was kind of confusing and I didn't want to think about it, so it was money well spent. He came to get me when the bus was ready to go. I hopped on and we scooted back towards Lebanon. I was relieved to be getting out of Damascus, but it was bittersweet. Even though I spent four nights there, I feel like I barely scratched the surface. And I'd definitely go back if it wasn't such a gigantic pain in the ass to get in.

I'm Back

As we came over the mountains and I could start to see Beirut sitting by the sea, a sense of relief crept over me. I was coming home and I could see the city right in front of me. I would be home soon...and it was Saturday night! The bus dropped me off near the Sabra Palestinian refugee camp. I had no idea which way Hamra, where I live, was but someone pointed me toward a cab stand. Great, I thought, four hours in a bus and now I have to get ripped of by these mustacheod piranhas. Not back five minutes and I'm gonna find myself in my battle with the Beirut taxi drivers. And that's when it happened. A old man in an old taxi pulled up as I was trying to cross the street to get to the cab stand. I asked if he would take me to Hamra and he said to get in. I asked him how much, and he said “as you wish”. As I wished! I suggest a reasonable price and he said okay. And just like that, my war with the cabbies was over, or at least we are in a détente.

He dropped me off near my place and I took the elevator up to my apartment. I was satisfied by my journey, and I was happy to be back.