It's actually the 19th today- was taken off the grid by the Syrian government (they don't allow blogs; hopefully they're not reading- if I find this blog entry erased, I'll know it).
Left Amman at 7:30 AM to drive 45 minutes north to Jerash, another ancient city founded by the Romans: Columns everywhere, columns and columns of columns... a couple theatres; a racetrack (where they re-enact chariot races, full roman garb and everything); took about two and a half hours to walk around, filled up my camera. Funny how this set of ancient ruins is just off the street in what looks to be a suburb. Houses run just about down to the fences of the place.
Drove back to Amman to catch my taxi ride to Damascus: Gotta say, after 3 to 4 days of having a dependable driver that I could communicate with, and more importantly trust, getting dropped off on a random street in Amman to trade drivers was a bit traumatic. Yahya was a great guide, super cool and easy-going, and if he ripped me off as well, he earned every fil and dinar. I knew exactly where he was going to be when I needed him, and I knew my stuff was safe in the trunk of his taxi. I get dropped off, think I'm riding in one taxi, then a guy comes, grabs my stuff out of the trunk and starts carrying it away (I'll remind you I can't understand a damn thing); turns out I'm travelling with this other guy instead (and 3 other passengers), and I really have nothing to fear, just my paranoia on overload.
The border crossings were a bit more of an adventure than I can remember (I've only crossed into Canada; been to Mexico, on a plane)- three different stops at three different buildings or checkpoints, each time getting a different stamp; and each time whenever I finished, both the car and driver (and all of my posessions) disappear from the parking lot... but the guy always turned up about 5 minutes later, always with a look that said something like, 'what the hell is the matter with you?'... me... nice enough guy though, actually really helpful- only 24 years old, 7 less than me, yet compared to me and my frayed nerves and shaken confidence he may as well have been 7 years older than me. Jordanians seem to be very calm and easy-going, generally pretty happy. This guy was no exception. I should've tipped him more when he dropped me off on the shoulder of the highway immediately outside Damascus.
So my arrival was equally if not more traumatic as my departure to Amman... my driver convinced me that this was the best and cheapest way to get a taxi into town- flag down a driver outside of one of these 3 story cinderblock buildings immediately outside Damascus that you can hardly believe people live in. Mortar smeared between the crevices; the only indications of actual habitation are the windows (barred, if not boarded); ragged flapping curtains; and a satellite dish awkwardly attached to the side of the building. So anyway, my driver flags down a taxi for me, speaks some eloquent gibberish, tells me this guy will take me where I need to go for what I though he said was $200 Syrian Pounds (SL); I hop in, the guy doesn't speak a word of english; I speak about six words of Arabic, including, 'I Don't Understand.' Great help. And he doesn't know where to go. Can't really blame him- Damascus doesn't have any street signs. We're moving forward- the scenery is immediately better upon entering the acutal city- I keep reading the name of the street off my Lonely Planet guide map; doesn't do a lick of good. I keep listing landmarks, 'Old City,' 'Old Damascus,' 'Train Station,' 'Post Office,' which doesn't do any good because he can't understand me. He asks for directions; finally gets me there. I'm weary from travelling; warry of all hazards and crooks from being ripped off my entire trip to date; and now time to pay this goddamn taxi fare... I don't know Arabic numbers; he doesn't speak english; eventually he takes out a wad of SL, starts counting out hundreds (about $2); all I have are JD, I know the exchange rate, and I swear my Jordanian driver told me SL200, but oh no, this guy wants more... much more. And he eventually gets it because I can't take any more, I can't stand staring this guy in the face any longer, he can't understand me, I can't understand him, his car stinks, my stuff's in the trunk, and if I leap out he takes it with him. So 9 JD later (about $12- 3 times what I'm pretty sure I should've paid), I'm at the foot of my hotel, and the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone. Luckily the folks at the hotel (Al Afamia) speak very good english, are very hospitable, and I check in with no problems.
Next step- finding food- my primal hunter gatherer instincts are flashing with great urgency. I've taken my licks in Jordan, I'm aware that restaurants have 'tourist' menues... however even with this knowledge, I don't really know how to use it, especially if you're surrounded by Syrians. All I want is a shwarma stand (the Arab equivallent of a hot dog- chicken shaved off a virtical spit (like a gyro) and wrapped in flat bread); but also craving a basket of fries, and if possible, a beer. I get none. Not at the tourist trap I fell into. A guy gives me a menu- I know the exchange rates, and these prices do not look right at all. Should've gotten up immediately, but screw it, let's see how this plays out. Make my order- chicken kebab, fries, sprite- out comes four little pieces of shit covered in parsley, a fried tomato, a bowl of hummus, and an orange soda. Not exactly what I ordered, but it could've been fried alley cat, I haven't eaten since breakfast so I could give a shit. Took a mental note of the total $500 SL; Finish up- the server, a boy from Kirkuk (Northern Iraq/Kurdistan) asks me where I'm from, I instinctively say 'Canada.' (Not sure I told one person in Syria I was American- probably didn't have to play it that way, but felt like a good call). He gives me a total- SL 700. A stand-off: I know SL 500 (about $10) is at least twice what I should pay; this place wants $14 for a meal I could've found in a trash bin outside. "That's a lot," I tell him; he just holds his stare, gives a goofy grin, shrugs his shoulders; he calls his boss; boss man walks in, puts on an accomodating air, knocks it down to $500, says I can have the bottled water (which I didn't order) free of charge. Thanks a lot assholes.
Returned to the hotel; asked the clerk, a man about 40, what I should pay for the dinner I ordered; I tell him what I paid; he asks me where I ate, threatens to kill the guy if it's who he thinks it is- it wasn't. I point the place out to one of the help- yep, tourist trap; don't eat there. No shit... At least these guys are pretending to have my back. At least a little reassuring.
The internet in Syria may as well not exist- many sites are restricted, including some email accounts; you definitley can't blog there (hence the backlog here). It says so right here in my trusty Lonely Planet guide, but like most of the Arabic I attempted to teach myself, I'd forgotten it. Even some of my text messages to Dan are blocked; some of his replies are edited. So I go to bed my first night in Damascus feeling like I can't travel, eat, or communicate. Not without severe compromises. Sweet dreams.
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