Friday, May 23, 2008

Syria 1982 or 1882 ? (4)

2.3 Damascus Syria (1st Night) Part 3

The brothel had the feel of a 1950's old oriental home, complete with the big clay pottery water preserver. The beautifully colored tiles in the main hall as well as the wooden window shades represented a very old Levant architectural preference. Nonetheless, the house as well as the furniture had its fair share of abuse. The paint was peeling off the mouldy walls. Several wires hanged from wall to wall singling that the house was not designed to accommodate electricity or phone wiring. An ugly iron kerosene room heater stood in the middle of the main hall. For a chimney, the heater had a long blackened tin pipe that connected it to the ceiling. Three girls were watching the old Syrian Made Sinclair TV situated just behind the ugly old heater.
By now, sweat felt very cold as it dripped on the back of my neck, my heart felt like ripping my ribs apart while my knees felt very weak. Excitement, sense of adventure and fear mixed in my mind in such a way describable only by the smile on my face and the sickness of my stomach.

To my disappointment, the girls looked nothing like Playboy models. Yet, there was something in the way they acted that made me feel very attracted to each of them. For the first time in my life, a girl seemed accessible to me, to my desires, to my fantasies and dreams.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Syria 1982 or 1882 ? (3)

2.3 Damascus Syria (1st Night) Part 2

Aymen looked too innocent to be my guide on my devilish endeavour; I thought. Yet, the smile that appeared on his little white face as he closely listened to the instructions from his "boss" made me realize that his childhood purity has been long robbed by the sheer facts of life under penury.
Aymen, acting as a tough man, tapped me on my thigh and said "let us go; you are going to meet Salma."
Following Aymen's lead through the back allies of old Damascus proved to be harder than I imagined. My head swirled as I tried to catch a glimpse of every street seller or traditional workshop. The sound caused by those along with the hundreds of people swarming these dirty allies on foot, bicycles and scooters made me feel like a child who is looking out from the window of a moving high speed train. "Aymen... slow down." I powerlessly protested. Nonetheless, it seemed that Aymen was more anxious than I to reach the whore house.
From a dirty dark alley to another we hurriedly moved passing by street beggars, street sellers, coffee shops and workshops. It seemed that every Soviet, French or Syrian product was sold on those streets.
Fear started to take hold of me as my excitement started to wear off. Spinning out of control, my imagination started to create a bad scenario after another. My heart sank between my ribs and I felt an urgent need to urinate as ideas of entrapment, kidnapping, robbery and murder flooded my young mind. "It’s surely a trap...they will rob me or even kill me..." I thought.
“Hey Mister” Aymen’s voice snapped me out of my amnesia-like status. “Come along....hurry” he firmly commanded as he he enetered a blue gated building that had a hotel sign fixed to its front.
We climbed a staircase after another, we walked through an endless maze of hallways that seemed to connect these old building together. Years of neglect have turned these buildings into a true health hazard. Suddenly, my little guide stopped and proficiently knocked on a green old wooden door. When the door cracked open my heart pounded intensely whilst cold sweat seemed to soak my hair and the back of my neck. The old short hideous lady behind the door fully examined us with a piercing gaze. Instantaneously , she smiled and moved her hand in the taditional Arabic hand gesture; welcoming us in. Yelling, as we passed, “Get ready girls...we have a virgin bird in the house!” To this day I don’t know what sold me out. However, this toothless hag taught me that working girls pass as 1st class psychologists.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Syria 1982 or 1882 ? (2)

2.3 Damascus Syria (1st Night)

To my disappointment my brother opted to sleep all the afternoon. I, on the other hand, wanted to explore the city. I went down to the reception desk and asked the receptionist for hints on sightseeing.
The receptionist blew some of his cigarette smoke in my face, gazed at the ceiling; then with a big smile the old grey haired man bluntly asked me "Are you looking for women?" Being as naive as I were I asked him what did he mean.
The guy shocked his head and with an overstated wink he answered "Are you looking for company; for good time?"
I felt the adrenaline rushing through my body...was I on the doors of a new adventure ?
What would my friends think when I tell them that I was with a real blood and flesh woman.
I would fulfill all of their fantasies. The ones we have spent countless days and nights dreaming about while drooling on fading pictures of smuggled playboy magazines. But of course, being who I am, an Arab that is; I immediately asked him “How much does it cost?”
“300 pounds an hour” he answered. Changing the amount into Jordanian Dinars almost made me laugh. “It’s cheaper than having a good restaurant meal in Amman” I thought.
“Well, Why not” I answered...”Where should I go?” I continued. “Ayman...come here!” the man yelled at the top of his lungs.
A nine years old blue eyed bare footed boy came running with a mop in his hand. “Yes boss, I am coming.” His childish voice echoed through the marble hallways leading to the reception area.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Syria...1982 or 1882 ?

2.2 The Way to Damascus, Syria....... Next Morning (Part 3)

The arrival hall at the Syrian Border was filled with people, waiting in chaotic lines. All helplessly tried to reach the service desk located on the other side of the hall. Hundreds of people formed a mass of tangled bodies in front of the stone clad service desk. Holding his and our passports in his hand; the car driver, expertly moved between the masses to reach the other end of the service desk. As we followed I noticed that he stood under a sign that read "Passport Pickup". He spoke inaudibly with the thin black-haired border control official sitting behind that section of the desk. In just an instant the driver turned around, gave us our passports and asked us to wait in the car.
"What an amazing man!" I thought to myself as I entered the car.
Moments later, we were on our way. As we cleared the border area, the driver asked us to pay 200 Syrian pounds each; totalling the "gift" he had paid to the official to speed up our arrival process.
Damascus a busy valley city is a beautiful city in its own right. An oasis in the middle of the desert, with the ultra old, the old and the new mixing together to form a unique portrait of sights, sounds, smells and colors. Our hotel in the city center (Sahet Al Merjeh), blended perfectly with the ultra old. The hotel was a two star family run establishment. The room reminded me of the 1960’s movies we used to watch on TV. It's empty refrigerator was probably built during one of the world wars while the bathroom featured a manual flushing system.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Stupidity Con'td

2.1 The Way to Damascus, Syria....... Next Morning (Part 2)

The car's interior was a true decoration disaster. Tens of Purple and Orange bead-strings hanged from the Car's cieling contrasting greatly with the fading red and white leather seats. The seats looked huge to me when compared to my father's Toyota. I greeted the over wieght Syrian Driver who was busy hiding several boxes of Marlboros under the driver's seat. As the car moved I looked back at home and saw my mother standing on the balcony waving goodbye to me and my trip mate, my older brother Shadi . She was a petite woman; her wide hazel sad-looking eyes seemed to glaze in the early sun light. As I watched her I remembered all the sacrifices she made for me and my brother, how she left her teaching passion to raise us. She raised us to be honest, good-hearted and compassionate... had she known what laid for us in the future she would have raised us differently.

The sound of the car's engine as it roared on the empty streets of Amman mixed with the sounds of the music played on the car's cassette system created an incomprehensible symphony of noises. Shadi, my eighteen years old brother, sat next to the driver while I shared the back seat with an old lady, who was the only other passenger on this trip.

The driver started to chitchat with my brother, asking him all range of questions ranging from the reason of our visit to Syria to my brother's opinion on cars and religion. Between cursing life and the governments for not solving the Palestinian -Israeli conflict; the driver offered several naive solutions to a spectrum of economical and political problems facing the "Great Arab Nation" as he puts it. As we drove through the valley of Baka`a on the outskirts of Amman, I started to notice the differences between the life I live in the ultra clean suburbs of west Amman, and the life in the refugee camps. Despair seemed apparent on the faces of young men and women on bus and taxi stops. Smells of lemon and orange trees that filled the valley mixed with the smells of the sewage recycling plant that neighboured it forming an awfully bad scent.
An hour later, we left the Jordanian borders and entered Syria.

The 3 kms long buffer Zone between the Jordanian border city of Ramtha and the Syrian city of Daraa' seemed endless to me. As we neared the Syrian border I started to see tens of portraits of Hafez Al Asad, along with several hundreds of Syrian flags and socialism propaganda banners. Innocently, I asked the driver "What is this all for?" The driver swiftly looked around as if being watched and started at me shouting "Shut up...idiot!" Shadi, coughed several times, his trade mark signal for me to shut up!. In that instant I realised that this is a different world, much different from what I am used to. What struck me the most, is the fear I saw in the eyes of the fifty something old driver's eyes.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Stupidity

2. Amman, Jordan.....1982

The day came for my first trip.... It was 1982 and I was extremely excited about it...

We were going to Syria...Our great neighbour to the north. I felt energized and just wanted time to pass. The simple fact of traveling just intrigued me. Syria for me was a great nation, with vast resources and kind people.... They were our Arab Muslim brothers and sisters... What hurts us hurts them... Or at least this is what I was taught in school.

I was unable to sleep all night...my imagination wove the nicest portraits of my coming trip...my mind could not stop thinking about how I will spend my time and who I will spend it with...


2.1 The Way to Damascus, Syria....... Next Morning

At the crack of dawn, a rusty yellow 1950 GM car was honking firecly at our door step... As I stepped out of the house my mother folowed me with a jacket...hleplessly trying to protect me from the morning cold breeze Amman is known for....

Monday, May 5, 2008

Prologue

1. Amman, Jordan ....Present Time

This is the place I call home. I have been here for a long long time, I have seen it all. It is time for me to rest and tell my stories.

The fact that life cannot be summarized by words haunts me day and night, I feel totally disadvantaged by the differences of what I feel and what I say...but the truth must be said, and it must be heard and kept in the hearts.

At certain points of my life I have truly wished that I was blind, deaf or even mad so that I would not see or hear what I have saw or heard. It is time for me to rest. Yet, what I am about to tell you is the truth as I see it... It might not be absolute or general it is just a mere perspective of a simple Arab guy traveling the world.