People tell us, nothing is free here. The last day Nisha and Nina started seeing more and more evidence to the contrary.
Nisha and I planned to take a cab ever since we first saw one, but an opportunity never presented itself. I never heard, Hi, I'm your opportunity, how do you do?. So I remain untaxied in Syria, except in an aircraft, and that planely does not count.
But the first time they wander off by themselves, they end up in a quarter far, far away and take a cab home. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe it's the date, but the taxi driver was so enchanted with the conversation that he waved to them and refused payment. Dull thuds were heard when the longtimers' jaws hit the floor.
And a lady was trying to sell some flowers, and we were rudely not buying any, so she gave one to Nina. Gratis.
And then later they were looking for a post-office, and the English speaker that happened to be in the same shop told them, It's over there, just around the corner, but listen, I'm going there, I will drop you off with my car, only badlier and worsely. Okay, this wasn't really a case of business non-transaction, like the first two, but still.
And there was again Nisha's haggling session of yesterday, but I have already talked about that. Looking at that objectively, it might not fall squarely in the "for-free" category, but roundly, certainly does. All depends on the category's shape, you know.
Why did I miss the taxi ride? Why was I not with them? I was doing last minute business transactions. Unlike theirs, mine were the real ones, with largely inefficient price negotiation tactics. (On my side. They did okay.) But, not my money: these items were ordered. I just hope my idea of what was desired coincided in a sufficiently large part with the image in the owner-to-be's mind. (Don't worry, I'm exaggerating. The price was fine, just not outrageously behaggled.)
Tomorrow, a couple of more items, to blow my last half thousand, and that's it. Zero balance — or it would be, if my uncle did not sponsor me quite so much. I blush just remembering it. I'm still embarassed, but I've accepted my beneficiary fate. So, thanks again.
But zero balance is what I'm aiming for. I don't have any use for Syrian pounds in Croatia. Pretty, but I'm not framing them. And I suspect they'd prove somewhat difficult to exchange. Besides, and at the risk of possibly reiterating the restated, there are things so cheap here that it's a sin not to buy them. Even though no holy tomes precisely prescribe Thou shalt spend of thy coins upon the holy city of Damascus with saintly largesse and magnanimity... Maybe it is under Charity. Both Islam and Christianity have that. Thou shalt be judged miserly, and convicted of a mortal sin, and burn eternally in a bonfire stoked of paper monies, lest thou purchasest at such discountly prices as one findeth in the holy city of Damascus? Possibly. So I'm not taking any chances, and I'm spending as the Good Books advise.
Then it's off to the airport, and if my roomies are up with their airline trivia and temporal mathematics, I'm in my home town by half past eight, their time. And hopefully, soon to be my time again, too. See you there, somewhen.
2006-02-14
2006-02-13
Urchined
More shopping ensued, with several surprising turns. One was when we were searching for a shop. Pierre Balmain? we were asking. Where, shop Pierre Balmain? our choppy Arabic said. Then, without fail, they would start jabbering in not nearly so choppy Arabic. We shrugged our shoulders off, but eventually we did get the drift in each of our encounters. But the best one was when we asked a woman in a shop, and we couldn't understand her, and she couldn't make herself understood, so she pulled a car over. In an one-point-three-car-wide alley. The guy started thinking, PierBalmanPierBalmanPierBalmanPierBalman..., then got irritated by the car behind him blowing his horn to pieces. Just a moment, he said, and drove off. A minute later, there he was again, pulling out a pad and a pen, and pointing to the Pierre's position. The cars queueing up behind him were a bit more patient, or rather their drivers were, so the several minutes of his briefing was uninterrupted by random honking. One just has to love these people.
Another twist was one Nina and Nisha pulled. We walk into a shop (or rather climb after a hawker, for it was not on the street but inside, up the stairs, where advertising and sleeve-pulling become necessary), and Nina asks about an article (of a kind that shall remain unnamed, for it prefers to remain anonymous and not spoil the surprise, and it feels irrelevant in this discussion). The shop owner says 4000. Aghast, Nina protests, that's too much! The merchant exhorts the high quality of his goods, then asks what we think we would pay. 500, Nina says. Ooo, no, no, no, comes from his insulted face. Okay then, see ya...
Wait wait madam, okay, 2000! We turn around. But we got one same like this, from another shop, and we paid 500! Nisha complains. Same one?!? asks he. Same one? Yes,answers Nina, and she's not even lying. Much. Okay, it was just similar, not same.
He's thinking, and discussing the business with his colleagues... then, Okay, 1000! We do our shukrans and ma` as-salaams, and he's yelling Okay, 500, take! at our retreating backs. So we did.
A bit later, we saw some cute toys being sold on the streets by the urchins. Wanna buy, sir? Only 100! We compose our sceptic/insulted faces. 2 for 100!... 3 for 100! That did not sound too bad, so we took them.
Ten yards down, another urchin is stopping us. Buy, sir, cheap! We explain that we bought some already, and he goes, How much cost?. We tell him. I give 5 for 100! 6, sir! How can you resist? It's really no money at all, and twice as much trinkets as the last kid offered, so we took them.
He had but two, so he ran off to his base to get us more. We were left standing rather stupidly in the middle of the bustling suq street holding two toys. We started wondering if he'll ever come back, then remembered that he gave us something and we did not yet give him anything. He came back, got his hundred and gave us the four trinkets he brought, so we took them.
Another ten yards, and there was an urchin yanking my arm, kissing my sleeve, and begging me to buy 2 for 25. We had quite enough of the blasted things, and I really did not want his drool on my jacket, so I scooted into the nearest shop as fast as we could.
We went to the suq by car. The drive was uneventful, our senses having been deadened by our street experiences so far. But this time we turned into a parking lot, as the streets were packed full, and there were abs-0-lutely no parking spaces to be found anywhere near. When we inquired at the parking lot gate if there were any vacancies (unlikely as that appeared), a guy said sure, he'll find us some, we should follow him. He took us on a tour of the parking lot, which was trickier to navigate than Moon Lander, with couple of very close shaves. Five meters from the exit a car left and he made us squeeze in there, by inches, in such a place that we believe at least four car owners were cursing us in absentia.
I know, I'm not that good at recounting things in sequence. Think of my blog entries as small temporal puzzles. Every cloud, silver lining, all that.
Another twist was one Nina and Nisha pulled. We walk into a shop (or rather climb after a hawker, for it was not on the street but inside, up the stairs, where advertising and sleeve-pulling become necessary), and Nina asks about an article (of a kind that shall remain unnamed, for it prefers to remain anonymous and not spoil the surprise, and it feels irrelevant in this discussion). The shop owner says 4000. Aghast, Nina protests, that's too much! The merchant exhorts the high quality of his goods, then asks what we think we would pay. 500, Nina says. Ooo, no, no, no, comes from his insulted face. Okay then, see ya...
Wait wait madam, okay, 2000! We turn around. But we got one same like this, from another shop, and we paid 500! Nisha complains. Same one?!? asks he. Same one? Yes,answers Nina, and she's not even lying. Much. Okay, it was just similar, not same.
He's thinking, and discussing the business with his colleagues... then, Okay, 1000! We do our shukrans and ma` as-salaams, and he's yelling Okay, 500, take! at our retreating backs. So we did.
A bit later, we saw some cute toys being sold on the streets by the urchins. Wanna buy, sir? Only 100! We compose our sceptic/insulted faces. 2 for 100!... 3 for 100! That did not sound too bad, so we took them.
Ten yards down, another urchin is stopping us. Buy, sir, cheap! We explain that we bought some already, and he goes, How much cost?. We tell him. I give 5 for 100! 6, sir! How can you resist? It's really no money at all, and twice as much trinkets as the last kid offered, so we took them.
He had but two, so he ran off to his base to get us more. We were left standing rather stupidly in the middle of the bustling suq street holding two toys. We started wondering if he'll ever come back, then remembered that he gave us something and we did not yet give him anything. He came back, got his hundred and gave us the four trinkets he brought, so we took them.
Another ten yards, and there was an urchin yanking my arm, kissing my sleeve, and begging me to buy 2 for 25. We had quite enough of the blasted things, and I really did not want his drool on my jacket, so I scooted into the nearest shop as fast as we could.
We went to the suq by car. The drive was uneventful, our senses having been deadened by our street experiences so far. But this time we turned into a parking lot, as the streets were packed full, and there were abs-0-lutely no parking spaces to be found anywhere near. When we inquired at the parking lot gate if there were any vacancies (unlikely as that appeared), a guy said sure, he'll find us some, we should follow him. He took us on a tour of the parking lot, which was trickier to navigate than Moon Lander, with couple of very close shaves. Five meters from the exit a car left and he made us squeeze in there, by inches, in such a place that we believe at least four car owners were cursing us in absentia.
I know, I'm not that good at recounting things in sequence. Think of my blog entries as small temporal puzzles. Every cloud, silver lining, all that.
2006-02-12
How We Went Italian
I just talked with Nisha about foreign language misuse, prompted by another fine example of Syrian English: Extra Vergin Olive Oil. We had a good laugh, then he wondered aloud, Don't they have any linguists or anglists or any other qualified ists? Then I remembered, well, it's not much different back home. Think. How many variations did you find for the word Cheeseburger? How many places offer Cordon Blue? How many...
Oh, oh, the two best ones I can remember off the top of my head! One is in Croatian, and I will not recount it, but the other one happened at my work. We have a restaurant there. We commonly call it Poisoner's. The name has not affirmed itself yet, at which fact one can only shake one's head in wonder. Anyway, I think they have taken it off the menu since, but for a while they offered Hemedex. When you give up, float over the strange word. And no, it's not a brand name.
This evening we were invited by my uncle's supervisor and his wife to dinner in an Italian restaurant. One would surmise that my preference so far to Syrian food against our usual meals would indicate that I'd prefer they picked something else; but it was a really good restaurant. We ate only half of the food, and we're all full to bursting. Syria definitely provides a good diet for me, if you define a good diet as one providing lots of body mass in a limited time. I have no idea how much it cost, but in Croatia it'd probably be a week's pay. At least.
In truth, the Italian restaurant only had one Italian in it, but the rest were cunning copies. And the food... Half the people were more than half full from half the appetisers we got, and groaned when the other half of the dinner was brought to the table. There were shrimps and calamari, tomatoes and cheeses, garlic and onion, olives and prosciutto, ruccola and salad, then pasta with saffron and shrimps, and with assorted frutti di mare, and with parmesan and tomatoes, and with gorgonzola and mushrooms, and then six different varieties of cake, of which I tried two and found them yummy.
The company was very nice, and tennish in size. And all but one of the rest of them were practically locals. We got good tips on haggling (although my hopes of becoming an expert haggler are feeble, straddling that subtle border between the beep-beep-beep-beep-beep and the beeeeeeep-clear-THUD-beeeeeeep-crap-nineteen-twenty-seven), and heard nice anecdotes, and generally had a Good Time™, among other things learning that cheap saffron is cheap saffron, while the expensive saffron is really good saffron. Iranian. You might think it's trivial, but it's been bothering us. One more weapon against you, George (although you'll probably still be slaughtering me in Trivial Pursuit for aeons to come). A revelation a day keeps dementia at bay. Thanks again for a very nice evening, folks, if you're reading!
Before the restaurant, guess where we were. Suq, of course. I have a list of things that I have to buy, which was today down to five items. I bought five or six items today, and my list is down to four. Does that seem right to you?
One remarkable stall was the perfumer's. There are lots of those in Damascus, easily recognisable by the myriad of little bottles surrounding them. You can buy essential oils, or they can dilute them for you, and even dye them, to make a bottle of perfume. And you don't even have to settle for one scent, they can expertly mix them to your specification. Their principal instrument is what looks like a horse needle one would sooner expect in a brawny Texan vet's hand, rather than in a delicate Damascene's. They have all the usual suspects: rose, citrus, jasmine... but they also have Hugo Boss, Chanel 5, and other pricey goods. Pricey? 250 pounds for a bottle of perfume, 150 for a vial of essence. Wouldn't you shop too?
Trivial Pursuit, Hugo Boss, Chanel 5, Jasmine and Bottle trademarks of their respective owners, where applicable.
Then we went again to try the Museum of Calligraphy. No luck. Too late. Foiled again! I really hope we'll have some time tomorrow. Earlier.
Just around the corner we found what my uncle promised: sand artists. We bought some sand art earlier, but it was pre-made; now we could watch it emerging before our very eyes. A dozen cups of coloured sand, a long-necked funnel, some glue, and one or two stranger implements, and you get an art form I have never seen in Croatia. And, I suspect, neither did you. Especially those of you who don't live in Croatia.
Oh, oh, the two best ones I can remember off the top of my head! One is in Croatian, and I will not recount it, but the other one happened at my work. We have a restaurant there. We commonly call it Poisoner's. The name has not affirmed itself yet, at which fact one can only shake one's head in wonder. Anyway, I think they have taken it off the menu since, but for a while they offered Hemedex. When you give up, float over the strange word. And no, it's not a brand name.
This evening we were invited by my uncle's supervisor and his wife to dinner in an Italian restaurant. One would surmise that my preference so far to Syrian food against our usual meals would indicate that I'd prefer they picked something else; but it was a really good restaurant. We ate only half of the food, and we're all full to bursting. Syria definitely provides a good diet for me, if you define a good diet as one providing lots of body mass in a limited time. I have no idea how much it cost, but in Croatia it'd probably be a week's pay. At least.
In truth, the Italian restaurant only had one Italian in it, but the rest were cunning copies. And the food... Half the people were more than half full from half the appetisers we got, and groaned when the other half of the dinner was brought to the table. There were shrimps and calamari, tomatoes and cheeses, garlic and onion, olives and prosciutto, ruccola and salad, then pasta with saffron and shrimps, and with assorted frutti di mare, and with parmesan and tomatoes, and with gorgonzola and mushrooms, and then six different varieties of cake, of which I tried two and found them yummy.
The company was very nice, and tennish in size. And all but one of the rest of them were practically locals. We got good tips on haggling (although my hopes of becoming an expert haggler are feeble, straddling that subtle border between the beep-beep-beep-beep-beep and the beeeeeeep-clear-THUD-beeeeeeep-crap-nineteen-twenty-seven), and heard nice anecdotes, and generally had a Good Time™, among other things learning that cheap saffron is cheap saffron, while the expensive saffron is really good saffron. Iranian. You might think it's trivial, but it's been bothering us. One more weapon against you, George (although you'll probably still be slaughtering me in Trivial Pursuit for aeons to come). A revelation a day keeps dementia at bay. Thanks again for a very nice evening, folks, if you're reading!
Before the restaurant, guess where we were. Suq, of course. I have a list of things that I have to buy, which was today down to five items. I bought five or six items today, and my list is down to four. Does that seem right to you?
One remarkable stall was the perfumer's. There are lots of those in Damascus, easily recognisable by the myriad of little bottles surrounding them. You can buy essential oils, or they can dilute them for you, and even dye them, to make a bottle of perfume. And you don't even have to settle for one scent, they can expertly mix them to your specification. Their principal instrument is what looks like a horse needle one would sooner expect in a brawny Texan vet's hand, rather than in a delicate Damascene's. They have all the usual suspects: rose, citrus, jasmine... but they also have Hugo Boss, Chanel 5, and other pricey goods. Pricey? 250 pounds for a bottle of perfume, 150 for a vial of essence. Wouldn't you shop too?
Trivial Pursuit, Hugo Boss, Chanel 5, Jasmine and Bottle trademarks of their respective owners, where applicable.
Then we went again to try the Museum of Calligraphy. No luck. Too late. Foiled again! I really hope we'll have some time tomorrow. Earlier.
Just around the corner we found what my uncle promised: sand artists. We bought some sand art earlier, but it was pre-made; now we could watch it emerging before our very eyes. A dozen cups of coloured sand, a long-necked funnel, some glue, and one or two stranger implements, and you get an art form I have never seen in Croatia. And, I suspect, neither did you. Especially those of you who don't live in Croatia.
Gratz!
I just got the happy news! Congratulations. You know who you are. I wish I could say I knew it would go well, and I can, so: I knew it would go well! And you deserve it, every li'l bit. And if you don't tell me when, I'll bite you, first chance I get, so help me Goddess (for this is not about hot dog buns; maybe hot buns, dog!).
You others who happen to be confused by this, don't worry. You probably should be. All is well. These news aren't mine to tell. So if the hot non-dog chooses to divulge, that too shall come to pass. Remember: confusion is a precursor to enlightenment, so just cheer along with me!
Off to bed now. Four more days.
You others who happen to be confused by this, don't worry. You probably should be. All is well. These news aren't mine to tell. So if the hot non-dog chooses to divulge, that too shall come to pass. Remember: confusion is a precursor to enlightenment, so just cheer along with me!
Off to bed now. Four more days.
2006-02-11
How We Visited Hawai'i
I'm going to be an envy of all my linguist colleagues! Actually, no-one will probably care one whit. But I think it's still cool, in my lingogeeky way. I've been to one of the three villages in the world whose native tongue is Western Aramaic. Ma`alula is a beautiful christian community that nests high up in the Anti-Lebanon mountains of Syria (and not a Hawai'ian atol, Nina!). Pictures required for full comprehension, but the word nest was not chosen at random. And this is not the only significant fact about the place. We have visited two monasteries there, and both of them have a story to tell.
St. Thecla said to have been fleeing from the anti-Christian persecution some time in the first century of Christ, when she came to an unpassable mountain. God split the mountain asunder, so that she might escape, while the horsemen who hunted her were foiled by the narrow passage. She subsequently hid in a cave at the other side of the ravine, where she stayed for the rest of her life (or most of it, according to another telling). We went to the said cave, and there's a small shrine in it. Not much to look at, but homey. It was filled with icons, and in one wall there was the tomb of Taqla (as the locals call her), with many objects lying on it and hanging above it — watches, bracelets, and sundry other presents — and several wooden crutches in a corner accompanying one prosthetic leg — conceivably from the beneficiaries of healing miracles granted by the holy spring water in the adjoining cavern, or by the saint herself.
St. Sergius and St. Bacchus were Roman soldiers martyred for their Christian beliefs in the 4th century AD. The church was built on top of a pagan shrine, and is so old that it still preserves the pagan architecture. The altar is not flat, it has raised edges; and it is not rectangular, but semi-circular. The original altar was destroyed, but it was in the same shape. The pagan one also had animals engraved in the altar walls, and a blood drain in the middle. No hole, nor animals, adorn the new one's marble, only a small triangular indentation intended to hold a relic. And it is so old that the wooden beams still holding the interior support walls carbon-date to a period not at all much later than that of the saintly couple.
In St. Thecla's, we were thankfully left alone. No postcard-pushers! Yay, how happy we were! Then we walked through the passage, and roughly 10 minutes later we found ourselves at the monastery of Sarkis and Bakhus. It has tiny little doors, as if the building was from the wonderland, and I had yet to take my DRINK ME. The reason for that was probably the fact that a stone building on the top of a hill about 2 km above sea level would have severe insulation issues. I managed to bump my head only once, but that was while I was looking at the beautiful tour guide, so it does not count. Gorgeous, smart and trilingual (at least). She talked about the history of the monastery, the icons there, and the Aramaic language, then gave a rendition of Our Father on Aramaic and Arabic (sequentially, not simultaneously). Then we were shown to a souvenir shop, where we resisted in vain our shopping drive, and ended up buying half the store. Okay, I exaggerated; but they were very friendly, and bid us taste their wine (which some subsequently bought, it being a very fine wine indeed, and ridiculously cheap at that; I did not, for I would have enough trouble transporting my other breakables, and I do not drink wine — which was commented as strange by our colocutor, I wonder why...), and convince us not to abandon Christianity for Islam. We assured them that no such thing will happen (in my case, I can say for sure for such a thing to be a complete impossibility, because of my unChristianity). There was even a cassette tape telling the history of the monastery, in Yougoslav, but that one we decided to skip. The nice lady at the shop explained that some Franciscans visited from Yugoslavia. Probably from Zagorje, we figured. They tell me the wine is really good.
St. Thecla said to have been fleeing from the anti-Christian persecution some time in the first century of Christ, when she came to an unpassable mountain. God split the mountain asunder, so that she might escape, while the horsemen who hunted her were foiled by the narrow passage. She subsequently hid in a cave at the other side of the ravine, where she stayed for the rest of her life (or most of it, according to another telling). We went to the said cave, and there's a small shrine in it. Not much to look at, but homey. It was filled with icons, and in one wall there was the tomb of Taqla (as the locals call her), with many objects lying on it and hanging above it — watches, bracelets, and sundry other presents — and several wooden crutches in a corner accompanying one prosthetic leg — conceivably from the beneficiaries of healing miracles granted by the holy spring water in the adjoining cavern, or by the saint herself.
St. Sergius and St. Bacchus were Roman soldiers martyred for their Christian beliefs in the 4th century AD. The church was built on top of a pagan shrine, and is so old that it still preserves the pagan architecture. The altar is not flat, it has raised edges; and it is not rectangular, but semi-circular. The original altar was destroyed, but it was in the same shape. The pagan one also had animals engraved in the altar walls, and a blood drain in the middle. No hole, nor animals, adorn the new one's marble, only a small triangular indentation intended to hold a relic. And it is so old that the wooden beams still holding the interior support walls carbon-date to a period not at all much later than that of the saintly couple.
In St. Thecla's, we were thankfully left alone. No postcard-pushers! Yay, how happy we were! Then we walked through the passage, and roughly 10 minutes later we found ourselves at the monastery of Sarkis and Bakhus. It has tiny little doors, as if the building was from the wonderland, and I had yet to take my DRINK ME. The reason for that was probably the fact that a stone building on the top of a hill about 2 km above sea level would have severe insulation issues. I managed to bump my head only once, but that was while I was looking at the beautiful tour guide, so it does not count. Gorgeous, smart and trilingual (at least). She talked about the history of the monastery, the icons there, and the Aramaic language, then gave a rendition of Our Father on Aramaic and Arabic (sequentially, not simultaneously). Then we were shown to a souvenir shop, where we resisted in vain our shopping drive, and ended up buying half the store. Okay, I exaggerated; but they were very friendly, and bid us taste their wine (which some subsequently bought, it being a very fine wine indeed, and ridiculously cheap at that; I did not, for I would have enough trouble transporting my other breakables, and I do not drink wine — which was commented as strange by our colocutor, I wonder why...), and convince us not to abandon Christianity for Islam. We assured them that no such thing will happen (in my case, I can say for sure for such a thing to be a complete impossibility, because of my unChristianity). There was even a cassette tape telling the history of the monastery, in Yougoslav, but that one we decided to skip. The nice lady at the shop explained that some Franciscans visited from Yugoslavia. Probably from Zagorje, we figured. They tell me the wine is really good.
2006-02-10
The Great Mosque
Hmm. I talk about the beauties of a country most of you will never see, and no-one except Jules gives a damn. Now I write one article about religion and current events, and there's no end to comments. So not what I wanted. If you've missed it, and you're sorry you missed it (which you probably shouldn't be), check out Stupid People.
In the meantime, a slow day. In the morning we went to see the Umayyad mosque, the greatest mosque of all, if I understand correctly. It's huge. The number of carpets alone required for the main hall boggles the mind. We were there off-season, so to speak; I can't even imagine how it looks when people gather to pray. Right inside the mosque there's a tomb consecrated to St. John the Baptist, maybe containing his head. Maybe not. The literature seems to indicate it, but we couldn't find a single soul with enough English to confirm it for us at the site. Some people said it was in Aleppo. Then again, they might have said that Damascene people don't cut off heads, even if we were foreigners. With my Arabic, who knows.
The mausoleum of Sal al-Din is just beside it, and it's very nice. I seem to vaguely recall having read that some German dude made a present of a beautiful stone tomb. The Damascenes put it into the mausoleum right next to the old one, but they still keep Saladin in the original wooden one.
Around the corner is the Museum of Calligraphy, or something like that. It was closed, because it only works on weekdays except Tuesday. If this sentence did not make much sense in a Friday blog, you haven't been paying attention, as Nina and Nisha are wont to say. I'll try again on Monday, Insha`Allah.
Later, the others went to a store for the supplies. I didn't. I dozed, I blogged, I read and I teeveed.
Preference games interspersed the events of the day. We're all sick of it, because we all keep failing today. It's not a day for cards, either, apparently. Anything that can go wrong, will. We thought we'd have a quick game (started at 50, normally, for a total of 150). Two hours later, we were playing for 200. I don't think that game would ever have ended, if we did not cut its miserable life short.
Tonight the Olympic Games open. No-one will talk about anything else for two weeks, and then some. Makes me glad to be in Syria. At least here the Winter Games do not dominate the everyday life of Everybody Not Me.
Five more days.
In the meantime, a slow day. In the morning we went to see the Umayyad mosque, the greatest mosque of all, if I understand correctly. It's huge. The number of carpets alone required for the main hall boggles the mind. We were there off-season, so to speak; I can't even imagine how it looks when people gather to pray. Right inside the mosque there's a tomb consecrated to St. John the Baptist, maybe containing his head. Maybe not. The literature seems to indicate it, but we couldn't find a single soul with enough English to confirm it for us at the site. Some people said it was in Aleppo. Then again, they might have said that Damascene people don't cut off heads, even if we were foreigners. With my Arabic, who knows.
The mausoleum of Sal al-Din is just beside it, and it's very nice. I seem to vaguely recall having read that some German dude made a present of a beautiful stone tomb. The Damascenes put it into the mausoleum right next to the old one, but they still keep Saladin in the original wooden one.
Around the corner is the Museum of Calligraphy, or something like that. It was closed, because it only works on weekdays except Tuesday. If this sentence did not make much sense in a Friday blog, you haven't been paying attention, as Nina and Nisha are wont to say. I'll try again on Monday, Insha`Allah.
Later, the others went to a store for the supplies. I didn't. I dozed, I blogged, I read and I teeveed.
Preference games interspersed the events of the day. We're all sick of it, because we all keep failing today. It's not a day for cards, either, apparently. Anything that can go wrong, will. We thought we'd have a quick game (started at 50, normally, for a total of 150). Two hours later, we were playing for 200. I don't think that game would ever have ended, if we did not cut its miserable life short.
Tonight the Olympic Games open. No-one will talk about anything else for two weeks, and then some. Makes me glad to be in Syria. At least here the Winter Games do not dominate the everyday life of Everybody Not Me.
Five more days.
Evening Sooking
So we went shopping yesterday. Did I buy stuff? You bet!
But first, we went to see glassworks. There's this little shop, we come in, there's glass all around. Little glasses, big glasses, jugs, vials, stoppers, bottles, vases, all kinds of transparent merchandise. Very nice. But we don't stop there. Immediately, my uncle leads us to another room, then another. I'm about to complain how I can't see anything if my eyeballs do not have enough time to rest on an object for at least a hundred milliseconds or so, when I see where we now are.
In front of me there's a kiln. It looks as if it's been there for a thousand years. You know the mud houses? Same architecture. But it is obvious it was as precisely made in its crudity as anything, and that it is very much functioning and functional. The only clues of the modern times were a huge bellows-substitute blower engine, the other one is an electric fan pointed at whoever is working the kiln at the moment.
The glassworkers seemed unfazed that we were there. Unless by fazed you mean showing us to a hundred-year-old bench sitting in a corner and bringing us four glasses of tea on a platter. They just continued to work as normal, and it was beautiful to watch. The dexterity with which they handled the tubular staves with bulbs of glowy glass on top was [insert your own word of admiration here, I'm fresh out]. The pitch proved effective: very soon we found ourselves in a car full of black-plastic-baggie-packed glass.
Black plastic baggies are the rule here. Who knows, maybe it's a matter of privacy? But I like being able to see what's in which bag I brought home. There are non-black baggies, like Stefanel's, for example, but the majority uses the black. Just like women here. As they carry, so do they wear.
After leaving the nice glassblowers, we went once more to the old city. A suq, to be exact. The one dedicated to food. (Like me, apparently. The others are starting to sweat about my striving to sample every snack stand we stroll by. I'll stick to it; so many sweet stuff here, it'd be a sin to skip them. Salties as well. I'll slim subsequently. This digression brought to you by the letter S.) The variety of foodstuffs around us made me intensely curious, especially since I could not satisfy it, since my Arabic does not extend to kinds of spices, and spice sellers do not generally have a college education, or actually any education containing classes of English, or French. For example, many spice stalls displayed various tea-brewing herbs and flowers. And many of those that did, had a bin in that very section filled with inch-cube pieces of wood. It did not have any special odour, and, it was wood! I remembered my dictionary back at the apartment, and tried to see at least how the bin was labeled, but the short name defeated me. I can read the letters in print, maybe even simple calligraphies (the non-tangled ones). But handwriting escapes me. And thus the little wooden knots remain a mystery.
But I did make myself proud when I bought a calligraphy pen. I went into a little bookstore and there were two boys there, and, of course, not one of them spoke any language I can communicate in. Except Arabic, apparently. And I managed to get them to give me something that was not on display. Quite a feat, I believe, even if I type so myself.
The stalls were varied and varicoloured. There were the aforementioned spice sellers, trinket traders, bean brokers, pastry sellers, olive vendors and butchers, all next to each other in one long and narrow street, bustling with people, carts and an occasional car, magically not bumping anyone or anything. While the eye was inevitably drawn to more exotic of the displays, one could not but wonder at the meat merchants. You know the stinking clouds surrounding our butcheries? I start holding my breath ten feet away, and I don't release it until i'm well past. Well, their meat-on-street does not smell. At all. And my uncle said it's not much worse in summer, either, when the temperatures rise over 40 degs see. Unbelieveable. But I believe him anyway.
But first, we went to see glassworks. There's this little shop, we come in, there's glass all around. Little glasses, big glasses, jugs, vials, stoppers, bottles, vases, all kinds of transparent merchandise. Very nice. But we don't stop there. Immediately, my uncle leads us to another room, then another. I'm about to complain how I can't see anything if my eyeballs do not have enough time to rest on an object for at least a hundred milliseconds or so, when I see where we now are.
In front of me there's a kiln. It looks as if it's been there for a thousand years. You know the mud houses? Same architecture. But it is obvious it was as precisely made in its crudity as anything, and that it is very much functioning and functional. The only clues of the modern times were a huge bellows-substitute blower engine, the other one is an electric fan pointed at whoever is working the kiln at the moment.
The glassworkers seemed unfazed that we were there. Unless by fazed you mean showing us to a hundred-year-old bench sitting in a corner and bringing us four glasses of tea on a platter. They just continued to work as normal, and it was beautiful to watch. The dexterity with which they handled the tubular staves with bulbs of glowy glass on top was [insert your own word of admiration here, I'm fresh out]. The pitch proved effective: very soon we found ourselves in a car full of black-plastic-baggie-packed glass.
Black plastic baggies are the rule here. Who knows, maybe it's a matter of privacy? But I like being able to see what's in which bag I brought home. There are non-black baggies, like Stefanel's, for example, but the majority uses the black. Just like women here. As they carry, so do they wear.
After leaving the nice glassblowers, we went once more to the old city. A suq, to be exact. The one dedicated to food. (Like me, apparently. The others are starting to sweat about my striving to sample every snack stand we stroll by. I'll stick to it; so many sweet stuff here, it'd be a sin to skip them. Salties as well. I'll slim subsequently. This digression brought to you by the letter S.) The variety of foodstuffs around us made me intensely curious, especially since I could not satisfy it, since my Arabic does not extend to kinds of spices, and spice sellers do not generally have a college education, or actually any education containing classes of English, or French. For example, many spice stalls displayed various tea-brewing herbs and flowers. And many of those that did, had a bin in that very section filled with inch-cube pieces of wood. It did not have any special odour, and, it was wood! I remembered my dictionary back at the apartment, and tried to see at least how the bin was labeled, but the short name defeated me. I can read the letters in print, maybe even simple calligraphies (the non-tangled ones). But handwriting escapes me. And thus the little wooden knots remain a mystery.
But I did make myself proud when I bought a calligraphy pen. I went into a little bookstore and there were two boys there, and, of course, not one of them spoke any language I can communicate in. Except Arabic, apparently. And I managed to get them to give me something that was not on display. Quite a feat, I believe, even if I type so myself.
The stalls were varied and varicoloured. There were the aforementioned spice sellers, trinket traders, bean brokers, pastry sellers, olive vendors and butchers, all next to each other in one long and narrow street, bustling with people, carts and an occasional car, magically not bumping anyone or anything. While the eye was inevitably drawn to more exotic of the displays, one could not but wonder at the meat merchants. You know the stinking clouds surrounding our butcheries? I start holding my breath ten feet away, and I don't release it until i'm well past. Well, their meat-on-street does not smell. At all. And my uncle said it's not much worse in summer, either, when the temperatures rise over 40 degs see. Unbelieveable. But I believe him anyway.
2006-02-09
Random Thoughts of Preference
Not one of the good days. We stayed in this morning. The clouds lay heavy, dark and pendulous. And yesterday we shopped, so we couldn't go today again, especially since Nisha exhausted his purchase plans as well as his wallet. So we stayed in this morning. Preference was played extensively. I have been accused of cheating because I started using Arabic numerals to keep my score. Nisha has been accused of cheating because he could play almost every hand. Nina has been accused of cheating because no amount of bad luck could explain her abysmal cards. And even when she does get a good hand, someone bids over her. Usually someone boyfriendly. Thus one of the spokenmost expressions in the last couple of days, since I taught them Preference: You're sabotaging me!
Otherwise, nothing new. The TV is usually tuned to EuroNews or Croatian TV, to catch the Syrian-Croatian relations. Heard nothing yet. Which is good.
Nothing much elsewise, other than the surprise and disgust over my pancake filling recipe (lemon juice and sugar, so you can scream in horror as well, dear readers). Pancakes are yet to be flipped, so I may still convince someone in the deliciousness of ad-hoc lemon jam.
I read much less than I thought I would. I bought a Steven King for the trip, but haven't even finished the first story yet. Strange how that is. Probably all the trips — I'm too scared to read in a car, because I'm a highly evolved lean mean toxin-detecting machine.
And we come back to the topic of shopping. To say that Syria is cheap (as I have been saying up to now) is such a lie. Syria is bloody expensive, if only from the fact that the low prices and interesting items tempt you to buy a lot more than would be prudent. I'm going to get some more trinkets before we get back home, but I think the wisest thing for me now would be to make a prio list, and budget my further purchases. Or I'd spend all my riches today, and live the next week on alms.
It seems we're going shopping now. Pray for me. I don't care to which deity, as long as it's not a patron of spendthrifty shopping.
Otherwise, nothing new. The TV is usually tuned to EuroNews or Croatian TV, to catch the Syrian-Croatian relations. Heard nothing yet. Which is good.
Nothing much elsewise, other than the surprise and disgust over my pancake filling recipe (lemon juice and sugar, so you can scream in horror as well, dear readers). Pancakes are yet to be flipped, so I may still convince someone in the deliciousness of ad-hoc lemon jam.
I read much less than I thought I would. I bought a Steven King for the trip, but haven't even finished the first story yet. Strange how that is. Probably all the trips — I'm too scared to read in a car, because I'm a highly evolved lean mean toxin-detecting machine.
And we come back to the topic of shopping. To say that Syria is cheap (as I have been saying up to now) is such a lie. Syria is bloody expensive, if only from the fact that the low prices and interesting items tempt you to buy a lot more than would be prudent. I'm going to get some more trinkets before we get back home, but I think the wisest thing for me now would be to make a prio list, and budget my further purchases. Or I'd spend all my riches today, and live the next week on alms.
It seems we're going shopping now. Pray for me. I don't care to which deity, as long as it's not a patron of spendthrifty shopping.
Castling
Late now, so I'll be brief. While all that I described was going on, we were in Krak des Chevaliers. We thought, it's a castle, we'll be in and out in 30 minutes. How wrong we were! We stayed for hours, and the only reasons we left so soon were the pain in our legs and the hunger in our bellies. The castle is amazing. Built in 1031, it served a variety of masters, among others Richard Coeur de Lion and Sal al-Din. The inner castle was built by the crusaders; when the Arabs seized it, they reinforced it with an outer wall and an additional moat. We went through a lot of the castle, but missed even more. And we met a nice architect-restorer that gave us a free tour of his castle model. Pictures and description, some other time. I hope I do do it, because Krak deserves an entry all by itself. With piccies.
Then we drove a bit further, and saw great mill wheels of Hama. The road to Hama was windy and uncertain, but we made it. They were nice, but they were just big wheels.
Then we returned to Damascus. I know, this sounds awfully short, but those places are not close, and the drive (and the snooze) took most of our day. In a new car. Because neither the old tyre nor the new one were very good, and the agency chose to give us another car rather than change the equipment immediately. So we drove in an ATV-limo hybrid. Very nice. Don't ask me what it is. I might try to remember for tomorrow's entry, but no guarantees.
Today we went shopping. In the morning, my uncle was in the office, so the three of us wandered off to see the shops by ourselves. We got some nice things, including half decent T-shirts for 250 or 200 pounds per. I drove the price down to 250; Nisha managed 200, just a minute later, with me still standing there. I suck at haggling.
Then in the evening, the collective visit to the souq. I got some nice presents (for other people), and I got a nice present (by my uncle, to me). I loved all of them. Although my uncle rolled his eyes at our mercantile ineptitude. We just don't haggle enough. He's probably right.
Although, Nisha is pretty good, at least in my layman's eyes. Two more incidents from today: a) He walks into a shop, and asks about an object. "Two thousand five hundred." "Ooh, too expensive, I need something about a thousand." "Thousand okay." b) "Thousand two hundred." "Maybe discount?" "Okay, thousand one hundred." "Wait, let me get my wallet... So, you said, thousand and...?" "Okay, thousand, take it."
We also visited the silver souq, and the military museum. I couldn't see anything in the military museum except for three or four airplanes, but the silver souq was very interesting. I might return there. I asked the price for a piece I liked very much, very cunnily crafted, and the silversmith just plopped it on his scale, did a quick multiplication on his calculator, and quoted me the price. That it was of exquisite make did not factor anywhere, just the raw weight of silver, which is, by the way, really cheap here. Very cool.
They loved us still, but I have no idea if it will last. Apparently, at least in some Bosnian eyes, Croatia has joined Denmark. Insults were shouted, flags were burned. We'll see. I'm not frightened of the public opinion. I'm worried what some individuals might conceive of.
I heard that Pukanic, the reporter responsible for the cartoons being published in Croatia, got death threats. I do not care. My compassion is wasted on worm society castouts like him, and he deserves whatever he gets. I do not condone violence, but in this instance, however corny and callous it sounded, He asked for it applies here very well. Not very Christian of me, I know, but then, I am not one.
Then we drove a bit further, and saw great mill wheels of Hama. The road to Hama was windy and uncertain, but we made it. They were nice, but they were just big wheels.
Then we returned to Damascus. I know, this sounds awfully short, but those places are not close, and the drive (and the snooze) took most of our day. In a new car. Because neither the old tyre nor the new one were very good, and the agency chose to give us another car rather than change the equipment immediately. So we drove in an ATV-limo hybrid. Very nice. Don't ask me what it is. I might try to remember for tomorrow's entry, but no guarantees.
Today we went shopping. In the morning, my uncle was in the office, so the three of us wandered off to see the shops by ourselves. We got some nice things, including half decent T-shirts for 250 or 200 pounds per. I drove the price down to 250; Nisha managed 200, just a minute later, with me still standing there. I suck at haggling.
Then in the evening, the collective visit to the souq. I got some nice presents (for other people), and I got a nice present (by my uncle, to me). I loved all of them. Although my uncle rolled his eyes at our mercantile ineptitude. We just don't haggle enough. He's probably right.
Although, Nisha is pretty good, at least in my layman's eyes. Two more incidents from today: a) He walks into a shop, and asks about an object. "Two thousand five hundred." "Ooh, too expensive, I need something about a thousand." "Thousand okay." b) "Thousand two hundred." "Maybe discount?" "Okay, thousand one hundred." "Wait, let me get my wallet... So, you said, thousand and...?" "Okay, thousand, take it."
We also visited the silver souq, and the military museum. I couldn't see anything in the military museum except for three or four airplanes, but the silver souq was very interesting. I might return there. I asked the price for a piece I liked very much, very cunnily crafted, and the silversmith just plopped it on his scale, did a quick multiplication on his calculator, and quoted me the price. That it was of exquisite make did not factor anywhere, just the raw weight of silver, which is, by the way, really cheap here. Very cool.
They loved us still, but I have no idea if it will last. Apparently, at least in some Bosnian eyes, Croatia has joined Denmark. Insults were shouted, flags were burned. We'll see. I'm not frightened of the public opinion. I'm worried what some individuals might conceive of.
I heard that Pukanic, the reporter responsible for the cartoons being published in Croatia, got death threats. I do not care. My compassion is wasted on worm society castouts like him, and he deserves whatever he gets. I do not condone violence, but in this instance, however corny and callous it sounded, He asked for it applies here very well. Not very Christian of me, I know, but then, I am not one.
2006-02-08
Stupid People!
Yesterday was a beautiful day, marred only by stupid, stupid tabloid journalists. Idiots!
In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, read on. In recent news: Danish cartoonist published a series of frames targeted at the Moslem. Not nice, but it would probably have stopped there if one of the cartoons did not represent the Prophet. The one that shall not be represented. For Moslems, this was double blasphemy: ridiculing the most revered personnage they have, and breaking one of their most sacred prohibitions.
Understandably, the whole Moslem world rose in protest, and started boycotting Danish goods. Then other newspapers started reprinting the cartoons, and the protests, in places, turned violent.
Any sane man would then recognise that a hornet's nest was touched, and leave it alone. Any sane man would offer respect to a fellow human being, and leave the cartoon in the obscure drawer of unfortunate and best-forgotten history. But nooo. It devolved into a battle between respect for others' values, and freedom of speech.
Now that's just ridiculous. Freedom of speech is all fine and well, but there are some times one should exercise some constraint. I may think a friend of mine is ugly as sin, but do I have to tell her that? Do I need to hurt her feelings, just for the sake of not honesty, but bluntness? Will I be better thought of if I hold the freedom of speech torch, or if I keep my thoughts to myself? There are situations where the choice between honesty and silence is a hard one, with grave consequences to silence. But just to satisfy one's whimsy, only a sociopath will choose speech over autocensure. And it's even worse when one could hurt not one friend, but an entire civilisation.
Apparently, we live in a society where sociopaths have positions of power. The press has an enormous influence over how people live and think. And the decision to keep the cartoons in circulation is not even honesty. The only principle this action is guided by, is profit. The unscrupulous journalism trying to raise hell in order to raise their circulation.
An example of this just happened in Croatia, too. We were thanking Goddess, God and whatever deity we respected that Croatian journalists were smart enough not to get involved in this matter. No-one printed the offensive cartoons, and we could pat our backs for living in a democratic, intelligent and respectful society. Then a tabloid under the name Nacional published the material. Not even in the first couple of days of the crisis, when one could argue (like the Danish paper argued) that they did not know the consequences, or how deeply offensive the Islam found them. No, they reprinted them a week later, when everyone and their grandmother knew exactly what kind of response could be expected, and how much the Moslem community will be hurt. None of us could believe how mindbogglingly stupid journalists could be. Or greedy.
A representative of the trash weekly in question gave a statement for the TV, and it was just amazing, for the sheer stupidity that came out of her mouth. "We think that this offends no-one." And apparently you haven't heard the protests in every Northafrican capital, and many European ones, as well? "We believe that the readers have the right to be informed." Well, the information was available in every daily for a week, and on every TV station's news. So even the people who were trying to live in political ignorance (as I usually do) could not but overhear all the details of this unfortunate situation. The only thing that the people might have missed is the cartoons themselves, and no moral person would miss them.
Besides, we're not the only Croats in the Islamic world. Croatia has big investments in cooperation with the Northafrican countries. I don't rightly know about the other countries, but I know that here in Syria there are not only personnel but substantial amount of expensive equipment, not to mention the trade agreements. I have an acquaintance who, similarly, worked in Qatar until very recently, and also I have heard about Croatian-Libyan cooperation. Even uninformed as I am. So by publishing those cartoons, even if one disregards the (to me the most important) detail of human decency and respect, they have put all those people and all that capital at risk. Knowingly and deliberately. Amazing.
The really great thing that returned to us the faith in our countryfolk is that everybody was quick to point out that this was just the voice of one journal that aims to sow dissension. The government leaders agree it was stupid, the Christian leaders agree it was stupid, and the journalists' association leaders agree it was stupid. We only hope the Moslems, both in Croatia and here, will realise that it is just the voice of a minority, and not judge us all by Nacional's covers.
In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, read on. In recent news: Danish cartoonist published a series of frames targeted at the Moslem. Not nice, but it would probably have stopped there if one of the cartoons did not represent the Prophet. The one that shall not be represented. For Moslems, this was double blasphemy: ridiculing the most revered personnage they have, and breaking one of their most sacred prohibitions.
Understandably, the whole Moslem world rose in protest, and started boycotting Danish goods. Then other newspapers started reprinting the cartoons, and the protests, in places, turned violent.
Any sane man would then recognise that a hornet's nest was touched, and leave it alone. Any sane man would offer respect to a fellow human being, and leave the cartoon in the obscure drawer of unfortunate and best-forgotten history. But nooo. It devolved into a battle between respect for others' values, and freedom of speech.
Now that's just ridiculous. Freedom of speech is all fine and well, but there are some times one should exercise some constraint. I may think a friend of mine is ugly as sin, but do I have to tell her that? Do I need to hurt her feelings, just for the sake of not honesty, but bluntness? Will I be better thought of if I hold the freedom of speech torch, or if I keep my thoughts to myself? There are situations where the choice between honesty and silence is a hard one, with grave consequences to silence. But just to satisfy one's whimsy, only a sociopath will choose speech over autocensure. And it's even worse when one could hurt not one friend, but an entire civilisation.
Apparently, we live in a society where sociopaths have positions of power. The press has an enormous influence over how people live and think. And the decision to keep the cartoons in circulation is not even honesty. The only principle this action is guided by, is profit. The unscrupulous journalism trying to raise hell in order to raise their circulation.
An example of this just happened in Croatia, too. We were thanking Goddess, God and whatever deity we respected that Croatian journalists were smart enough not to get involved in this matter. No-one printed the offensive cartoons, and we could pat our backs for living in a democratic, intelligent and respectful society. Then a tabloid under the name Nacional published the material. Not even in the first couple of days of the crisis, when one could argue (like the Danish paper argued) that they did not know the consequences, or how deeply offensive the Islam found them. No, they reprinted them a week later, when everyone and their grandmother knew exactly what kind of response could be expected, and how much the Moslem community will be hurt. None of us could believe how mindbogglingly stupid journalists could be. Or greedy.
A representative of the trash weekly in question gave a statement for the TV, and it was just amazing, for the sheer stupidity that came out of her mouth. "We think that this offends no-one." And apparently you haven't heard the protests in every Northafrican capital, and many European ones, as well? "We believe that the readers have the right to be informed." Well, the information was available in every daily for a week, and on every TV station's news. So even the people who were trying to live in political ignorance (as I usually do) could not but overhear all the details of this unfortunate situation. The only thing that the people might have missed is the cartoons themselves, and no moral person would miss them.
Besides, we're not the only Croats in the Islamic world. Croatia has big investments in cooperation with the Northafrican countries. I don't rightly know about the other countries, but I know that here in Syria there are not only personnel but substantial amount of expensive equipment, not to mention the trade agreements. I have an acquaintance who, similarly, worked in Qatar until very recently, and also I have heard about Croatian-Libyan cooperation. Even uninformed as I am. So by publishing those cartoons, even if one disregards the (to me the most important) detail of human decency and respect, they have put all those people and all that capital at risk. Knowingly and deliberately. Amazing.
The really great thing that returned to us the faith in our countryfolk is that everybody was quick to point out that this was just the voice of one journal that aims to sow dissension. The government leaders agree it was stupid, the Christian leaders agree it was stupid, and the journalists' association leaders agree it was stupid. We only hope the Moslems, both in Croatia and here, will realise that it is just the voice of a minority, and not judge us all by Nacional's covers.
2006-02-06
Stuffed
After a short break, keyboard, here I come again. Today. We heard the riots still going on in the Islamic world, so we decided to go out of town again. The decision was reinforced by the weather forecast, which prophecied a day or two of sun followed by reign of rain. Nothing violent was happening in Damascus today, but there was still chanting going on on the streets in the morning, so peace and quiet there is not. Still, we're pretty sure Damascus is safe again. We went out yesterday evening, grabbed some food, and had very nice chats with several fine Moslem people. Out there in Palmyra, everyone was heard of Croatia, and we were nice. Dobro. Everybody loves us. Here in Damascus, most people have never heard of Croatia, most believe it's somewhere in Russia, until we explain about Yugoslavia. Everybody loves us.
Digression aside. Today we went to follow Barada to its source. My uncle told a funny story about the first time he went to find the spring, how they missed it twice, then finally found it after being told the directions by a local, twice: they had to go through a gate. The gate in question is a gate in a long wall in a region where everything is military property — a gate indistinguishable from the previous one or the next one, both of which lead to Syrian barracks, a turn one emphatically does not wish to make. No-one heeds the traffic police here, but when you see someone wave at you with a semiautomatic instead of a baton, you bloody well obey.
Barada's birthplace is a smallish lake high up in the mountains, an excursion spot for the Damascene folk. They have horses there, and you can ride — on the asphalt road around the lake — but unfortunately they also have horse-hustlers, which were even more annoying than the postcard-pusher, so we escaped in a hurry. They are the folk who don't understand no. Nor non, nor ﻻ. In my opinion, everyone should understand a refusal in at least one language to qualify for life in civilisation.
On our way we saw some wonderful unnatural cave-shaped formations on some cliffs, and we decided to climb there and take a peek. Suffice it to say, mountaineering is not my sport, but the holes were nice. I have no idea if they were living quarters or burial chambers, or sarcophagi also served as beds, but they were impressive, if only for the willpower it must have taken to refuse the aid of powertools. Jokes notwithstanding, I do not regret taking the time to climb there, but my body might. Tomorrow might prove to be a very lactic morning.
After the horse incident, we went to lunch in a restaurant. The opulence of the table is something I will not be able to describe. We did not order anything extravagant, but there were no less than four or five different salads and four or five different pâtés, four different kinds of meat, three different sorts of fruit, five different flavours of jams, and cookies and pancakebread to go with all that. Pancakebread is my word, I have no idea what it's called, but it's eaten in lieu of bread, tastes like bread, looks like a big crêpe, and my imagination's tired. So, pancakebread. And I must have forgotten something, because we took up two tables for the four of us, only with the food brought to us. And there were four or five different waiters flitting about serving us, and they were all very nice. Kudos to Syrian restaurants! The food was good, on the average; some I did not like, some I enjoyed way too much. Most of it was strange, but I'm a stranger in a strange land, so it's pretty much what I expected.
After having thoroughly stuffed ourselves, we went to a nearby hill, the top of which supports an Orthodox Christian monastery. I forget the name; the place was unforgettable. I can't say much more than that; I hope some pictures come back with us and turn out well so I can show you.
Then we packed up and went home. I dozed all the way. The blog was waiting when we came to the apartment.
Digression aside. Today we went to follow Barada to its source. My uncle told a funny story about the first time he went to find the spring, how they missed it twice, then finally found it after being told the directions by a local, twice: they had to go through a gate. The gate in question is a gate in a long wall in a region where everything is military property — a gate indistinguishable from the previous one or the next one, both of which lead to Syrian barracks, a turn one emphatically does not wish to make. No-one heeds the traffic police here, but when you see someone wave at you with a semiautomatic instead of a baton, you bloody well obey.
Barada's birthplace is a smallish lake high up in the mountains, an excursion spot for the Damascene folk. They have horses there, and you can ride — on the asphalt road around the lake — but unfortunately they also have horse-hustlers, which were even more annoying than the postcard-pusher, so we escaped in a hurry. They are the folk who don't understand no. Nor non, nor ﻻ. In my opinion, everyone should understand a refusal in at least one language to qualify for life in civilisation.
On our way we saw some wonderful unnatural cave-shaped formations on some cliffs, and we decided to climb there and take a peek. Suffice it to say, mountaineering is not my sport, but the holes were nice. I have no idea if they were living quarters or burial chambers, or sarcophagi also served as beds, but they were impressive, if only for the willpower it must have taken to refuse the aid of powertools. Jokes notwithstanding, I do not regret taking the time to climb there, but my body might. Tomorrow might prove to be a very lactic morning.
After the horse incident, we went to lunch in a restaurant. The opulence of the table is something I will not be able to describe. We did not order anything extravagant, but there were no less than four or five different salads and four or five different pâtés, four different kinds of meat, three different sorts of fruit, five different flavours of jams, and cookies and pancakebread to go with all that. Pancakebread is my word, I have no idea what it's called, but it's eaten in lieu of bread, tastes like bread, looks like a big crêpe, and my imagination's tired. So, pancakebread. And I must have forgotten something, because we took up two tables for the four of us, only with the food brought to us. And there were four or five different waiters flitting about serving us, and they were all very nice. Kudos to Syrian restaurants! The food was good, on the average; some I did not like, some I enjoyed way too much. Most of it was strange, but I'm a stranger in a strange land, so it's pretty much what I expected.
After having thoroughly stuffed ourselves, we went to a nearby hill, the top of which supports an Orthodox Christian monastery. I forget the name; the place was unforgettable. I can't say much more than that; I hope some pictures come back with us and turn out well so I can show you.
Then we packed up and went home. I dozed all the way. The blog was waiting when we came to the apartment.
Nothing at All
Ouch. A day without a blog means lots and lots of typing today.
Yesterday we went to Palmyra. Palmyra is some 250 km away from Damascus. After the first 50 km, we've spent all our inhabited city allowance. After that, 200 km of desert, Bedouin tents and isolated habitations (for houses is an overly generous word). The nature there was amazing. After a time you do get tired of seeing nothing at all, but we didn't reach that time yesterday, until we couldn't see nothing at all, when nothing at all went too dark to see. But, I'm jumping ahead of myself.
At roughly halfway to Palmyra (or Tudmor — ﺗﺩﻤﺮ — as it's called by Syrians) lies a curious establishment under the name "Bagdad Cafe". We stopped there to rest for a while, stayed too long, yet not nearly long enough. The visit to the Bagdad Cafe was, I think, the most enjoyable time I've had in Syria yet, and it's not a win by default, either. The staff-slash-inhabitants of the Cafe are among the nicest, warmest and most welcoming people I've met. They were polite, not pushy like some other merchants that we've met, yet very eager to show us their goods and services. We drank some very good tea there, Nisha bought a beautiful... err, put your mouse here to find out what if you're not someone in his family he's trying to surprise with a present, we all took photos in Bedouin garb under a Bedouin tent, and I bought a fossil for 50 pounds and got another one for free. They like Croats very much, they've already appeared in Vjesnik (and hold a photocopy proudly on their wall), and... they're simply great. The good man-with-the-English showed us around the Bedouin place, explained about some Bedouin tools that at first glance some took for massage chairs, and demonstrated traditional Bedouin music on an instrument made from an oil can. We were very sorry to go, but the long lied long ahead of us, and we had to leave the nice Bedouins.
A hundred meters later, we found another Bagdad Cafe. Apparently, the one we were at just a moment ago drew so much traffic that some entrepreneurial soul undertook to copy it, right down to the architectural details of the original, and so take some of the customers travelling in the opposite direction. A bit later, there was another Bagdad Cafe, and then shortly a non-Bagdad-Cafe restaurant. Then, again, a hundred miles of nothing at all, until...
Boom tokkatokkatokkatokkatokka...
My first flat, ever. Or puncture. For some of you, a clarification: I have an apartment, I'm not talking about that. For others, a clarification: I did get immunisation shots, I'm not talking about that.
Our tyre was limp on the ground, like a dead trout. Gone to the caoutchouc heaven. And we were late for lunch. After some frantic searching through the crannies of the car (as nooks yielded no results), we found all we needed to change our wheel. An elegant aluminum cap replaced with a black iron one was almost too much for our car-loving Nisha.
We were worried by then, because if another one blew, we would be stuck in the middle of nowhere. But our luck held, and we reached Palmyra. Actually, almost; we missed it by a tennish kilometers, and proceded to drive to an oil rig. Nisha is a student of the naphtha science, and my uncle promised him to show him the rig, where he could shoot some pictures for his thesis. Pictures were shot. A lot of them. A movie was already in the making, until his girlfriend started to give him significant black looks. It was getting late, and we were yet to see Palmyra, and it was now 60 km back.
Full from the delicious lunch we were treated to, and still in shock from Nisha's find (which consisted not of some fossil, but of a young man working there as a rig manager, who turned out to be his colleague from the university), we came to Palmyra at last, with only an hour or two of daylight left. We climbed first to a tower, or a castle, overlooking the valley, and the view was simply magnificent. That was also the site where Nisha and me were, despite the advices, robbed blind by some Bedouin traders. We paid twice as much for the things we bought than the price we found elsewhere, and probably thrice as much as they were worth. Another lesson in haggling, hopefully learned.
Then we descended to the main archaeological site: the ruins of a huge Roman city. Many arches still stood, and even a building or two survived the ages. What might have been an enjoyable visit was soured by the extremely annoying merchants that locked on to us the second we entered the grounds, and did not leave us alone until we left, even after we bought something from them. There was one that was chasing us around with a motorbike, trying to sell us beads and scarves, and circling to ambush us when we entered the amphitheatre. Some others were trying to convince us to ride their camels, filthy, stinking beasts (not camels in generals, I lack sufficient dromedary expertise, but the particular specimens we were presented with). The worst one was the postcard-pusher, who would not leave our side, even after we bought some postcards, even after we showed we had no money left, even when we told him we would not buy any more postcards, not now, or later, or tomorrow, or ever.
After escaping the ruins and shaking the traders, we went to refresh ourselves in a nearby hotel. We asked about our rubbery transgressor, and the hotel clerk called a craftsman for us. The guy came to the hotel, took our tyre and went off with it. That's how it's done here, apparently. An hour later he reappeared, with our tyre, and a bill significantly lower than what would have to be paid back home. With no haggling needed, either!
In the meantime, we heard about the hotel history: how it was started a hundred years ago by a French countess, how she was a spy during the war, listening to one side chat, then reporting to Lawrence of Arabia, and how she murdered her husband so she could marry another man. We were even shown the room. The room itself is apparently very popular, many well-known folk have stayed there, including Agatha Christie, who seems to have written her Oriental mystery there.
The way back was uneventful, except for Nisha's gushing praises for the automatic transmission, and our having managed to photograph in passing the single Syrian train in existence.
Yesterday we went to Palmyra. Palmyra is some 250 km away from Damascus. After the first 50 km, we've spent all our inhabited city allowance. After that, 200 km of desert, Bedouin tents and isolated habitations (for houses is an overly generous word). The nature there was amazing. After a time you do get tired of seeing nothing at all, but we didn't reach that time yesterday, until we couldn't see nothing at all, when nothing at all went too dark to see. But, I'm jumping ahead of myself.
At roughly halfway to Palmyra (or Tudmor — ﺗﺩﻤﺮ — as it's called by Syrians) lies a curious establishment under the name "Bagdad Cafe". We stopped there to rest for a while, stayed too long, yet not nearly long enough. The visit to the Bagdad Cafe was, I think, the most enjoyable time I've had in Syria yet, and it's not a win by default, either. The staff-slash-inhabitants of the Cafe are among the nicest, warmest and most welcoming people I've met. They were polite, not pushy like some other merchants that we've met, yet very eager to show us their goods and services. We drank some very good tea there, Nisha bought a beautiful... err, put your mouse here to find out what if you're not someone in his family he's trying to surprise with a present, we all took photos in Bedouin garb under a Bedouin tent, and I bought a fossil for 50 pounds and got another one for free. They like Croats very much, they've already appeared in Vjesnik (and hold a photocopy proudly on their wall), and... they're simply great. The good man-with-the-English showed us around the Bedouin place, explained about some Bedouin tools that at first glance some took for massage chairs, and demonstrated traditional Bedouin music on an instrument made from an oil can. We were very sorry to go, but the long lied long ahead of us, and we had to leave the nice Bedouins.
A hundred meters later, we found another Bagdad Cafe. Apparently, the one we were at just a moment ago drew so much traffic that some entrepreneurial soul undertook to copy it, right down to the architectural details of the original, and so take some of the customers travelling in the opposite direction. A bit later, there was another Bagdad Cafe, and then shortly a non-Bagdad-Cafe restaurant. Then, again, a hundred miles of nothing at all, until...
Boom tokkatokkatokkatokkatokka...
My first flat, ever. Or puncture. For some of you, a clarification: I have an apartment, I'm not talking about that. For others, a clarification: I did get immunisation shots, I'm not talking about that.
Our tyre was limp on the ground, like a dead trout. Gone to the caoutchouc heaven. And we were late for lunch. After some frantic searching through the crannies of the car (as nooks yielded no results), we found all we needed to change our wheel. An elegant aluminum cap replaced with a black iron one was almost too much for our car-loving Nisha.
We were worried by then, because if another one blew, we would be stuck in the middle of nowhere. But our luck held, and we reached Palmyra. Actually, almost; we missed it by a tennish kilometers, and proceded to drive to an oil rig. Nisha is a student of the naphtha science, and my uncle promised him to show him the rig, where he could shoot some pictures for his thesis. Pictures were shot. A lot of them. A movie was already in the making, until his girlfriend started to give him significant black looks. It was getting late, and we were yet to see Palmyra, and it was now 60 km back.
Full from the delicious lunch we were treated to, and still in shock from Nisha's find (which consisted not of some fossil, but of a young man working there as a rig manager, who turned out to be his colleague from the university), we came to Palmyra at last, with only an hour or two of daylight left. We climbed first to a tower, or a castle, overlooking the valley, and the view was simply magnificent. That was also the site where Nisha and me were, despite the advices, robbed blind by some Bedouin traders. We paid twice as much for the things we bought than the price we found elsewhere, and probably thrice as much as they were worth. Another lesson in haggling, hopefully learned.
Then we descended to the main archaeological site: the ruins of a huge Roman city. Many arches still stood, and even a building or two survived the ages. What might have been an enjoyable visit was soured by the extremely annoying merchants that locked on to us the second we entered the grounds, and did not leave us alone until we left, even after we bought something from them. There was one that was chasing us around with a motorbike, trying to sell us beads and scarves, and circling to ambush us when we entered the amphitheatre. Some others were trying to convince us to ride their camels, filthy, stinking beasts (not camels in generals, I lack sufficient dromedary expertise, but the particular specimens we were presented with). The worst one was the postcard-pusher, who would not leave our side, even after we bought some postcards, even after we showed we had no money left, even when we told him we would not buy any more postcards, not now, or later, or tomorrow, or ever.
After escaping the ruins and shaking the traders, we went to refresh ourselves in a nearby hotel. We asked about our rubbery transgressor, and the hotel clerk called a craftsman for us. The guy came to the hotel, took our tyre and went off with it. That's how it's done here, apparently. An hour later he reappeared, with our tyre, and a bill significantly lower than what would have to be paid back home. With no haggling needed, either!
In the meantime, we heard about the hotel history: how it was started a hundred years ago by a French countess, how she was a spy during the war, listening to one side chat, then reporting to Lawrence of Arabia, and how she murdered her husband so she could marry another man. We were even shown the room. The room itself is apparently very popular, many well-known folk have stayed there, including Agatha Christie, who seems to have written her Oriental mystery there.
The way back was uneventful, except for Nisha's gushing praises for the automatic transmission, and our having managed to photograph in passing the single Syrian train in existence.
2006-02-04
Basalt Tales
Something is rotten in the land of Denmark. I say this because I wanted to go out tonight to grab some yummy local street food, and I couldn't, because protesters were on the street waving We will squash you foot-over-bug signs, and Our prophet was a peace, and yelling through loudspeakers and commiting some patriotic arson on the Danish embassy. My uncle's boss offered a gentle recommendation that we stay indoors tonight, and we decided to comply. Mon, why didn't you make me learn to speak Arabic fluently?
Already yesterday we saw seeds of trouble when, driving past the aforementioned embassy, we beheld a picket line (emm, a picket bunch, more properly) of about fiftyish. But those were peaceful protests still. The first sprouts of trouble appeared earlier today, when we were returning from our trip. We were stuck in traffic for about an hour, our four lane street packed with six queues of mostly patiently waiting cars. We thought there was an accident (and there is something profoundly disturbing in watching a police car weave through the congested traffic like a blind spinster with a broken thumb), but there wasn't, unless one believes a crowd with banners and loudspeakers can just happen to spontaneously erupt in the middle of a street like a proverbial gas main.
Oh, the trip? Was nice. We went to Bosra, or Busra, or even Borsa (as one sign proclaimed proudly), or — well, ﺑﺼﺮﻯ is the only name I trust — and then... one thing at a time. During the drive (because the B place is not that close), we went through a number of typical Syrian towns (and here I use the word town generously), many villages, and I have no idea what we did with the hermit houses standing alone in isolation by themselves in a field, since going through gives rise to a decidedly false interpretation. Most of those houses were squat and square, with armature hairs sticking out from their jarhead roofs. Wha...?
My uncle to the rescue. A typical Syrian house is built in a manner somewhat different from our own. The house rests between vertical blocks of reinforced concrete — they are built first, then the bricks are filled in between them. During all that time, the houses look as shabby as a bum's underwear, but at the last step the house is dressed in marble or stone, and it suddenly shines in all its splendour. Fascinating, but what does that have with the price of epils? Well, the hairs we were spotting were sticking out of the concrete pillars, which were in turn sticking out of the house tops, as if holding a ghostly second floor. It would be quite reasonable to assume that starting a a second floor was exactly what was happening here, but in all the houses in the village at once?!? What is really happening is clever Arab trader spirit at work: a house is not taxable until it is built. By making the houses appear clearly unfinished, the inhabitants are saving on unnecessary budget expenses.
Bosra is the site of the best preserved Roman amphitheatre. I did not know that. I am usually better informed of places I go to, but this time I was blogging while Nina was reading, so I was to be surprised. It lies in an old Roman city, a lot of which can still be seen standing. Roofs have fallen down in many buildings, but it is incredibly well preserved. And not just a building here and there, the city is about a square kilometer big, maybe even bigger, as far as I could see.
Actually, the amphitheatre is not visible at first, being surrounded by walls, moat and eleven watchtowers (if I counted correctly) with 350 arrowslits (for this you will have to trust Taysin; I'll talk about Taysin in a bit, patience!). The city is a well-preserved antique; the amphitheatre is "slightly used". It's amazing. Except for the audience seats being a bit chipped, the VIP seat backs being a bit broken, some columns being a bit replaced, it is almost like new. And since tourists in winter flock to Bosra like storks to the North Pole, we mostly had the amphitheatre to ourselves, and so I can attest to the fabulous acoustics. My uncle said it was too gloomy, seeing as how the dark basalt around us required the shiny forty-degree-centigrade sun he enjoyed the other time he was here, but I liked it. Gloomy fits.
Taysin joined us almost at the start of our tour. He worked in the delusion that he was our tour guide, and eventually the delusion proved contagious. He was a little guy, a head shorter than me, and full of enthusiasm, dragging us to every nook and cranny of the amphitheatre, suggesting restaurants, taking our pictures and calling us all my friend. He was really an amicable sort, and you couldn't not like him; however, his demeanor changed into that of an Arab businessman when we were leaving, disapprovingly suggesting that the 200 pounds that my uncle slipped him were not enough. Yes, I know, Maya, I recall your instructions: do not take anything until you negotiate the price first, but I did not have the heart to tell the guy to beat it, and no-one else apparently did, either. And he proved a source of various tidbits of information, and what we paid him was really not much when compared to what a western guide would ask for for a much more impersonal service, so I do not complain.
After we left Bosra, we went to see some volcanos. The first one we came to turned out to be a quarry, and there was no way in except to tread the muddy red earth path through the quarry workers, and the climb would have proved impossible. So we found another one, and that one was great! It was completely black, and no pictures among the myriad we took could hope to capture the amazing darkness of that hill. Suffice it to say, rock samples were collected, and some people will not be disappointed. I hope.
Then we found one more volcano, higher than the first one. In the attempt to reach it, we wandered over to a little road meandering through fields of rocks, with amazing rock walls among us. The wind was really strong, and I suspect it gets stronger, too, but the holy rock walls rose above our height, with nothing at all to bind them. The road ended in the middle of nowhere, and the only thing that marked our fated destination were several crude graves painstakingly dug from the basalt-filled ground and marked with broken marble slabs.
Retracing our proverbial steps, we finally found our way to the bigger volcano, and drove to the top. There was a restaurant there. Even though it was closed, and the winds were almost rolling us off the level top, an Arab appeared and beckoned us to enter. Indeed, their hospitality is matched only by their mercantile canniness. We politely refused, since the sun was setting and we wanted to be in Damascus before dark. Well, we reached Damascus; home was another story, and already told.
Already yesterday we saw seeds of trouble when, driving past the aforementioned embassy, we beheld a picket line (emm, a picket bunch, more properly) of about fiftyish. But those were peaceful protests still. The first sprouts of trouble appeared earlier today, when we were returning from our trip. We were stuck in traffic for about an hour, our four lane street packed with six queues of mostly patiently waiting cars. We thought there was an accident (and there is something profoundly disturbing in watching a police car weave through the congested traffic like a blind spinster with a broken thumb), but there wasn't, unless one believes a crowd with banners and loudspeakers can just happen to spontaneously erupt in the middle of a street like a proverbial gas main.
Oh, the trip? Was nice. We went to Bosra, or Busra, or even Borsa (as one sign proclaimed proudly), or — well, ﺑﺼﺮﻯ is the only name I trust — and then... one thing at a time. During the drive (because the B place is not that close), we went through a number of typical Syrian towns (and here I use the word town generously), many villages, and I have no idea what we did with the hermit houses standing alone in isolation by themselves in a field, since going through gives rise to a decidedly false interpretation. Most of those houses were squat and square, with armature hairs sticking out from their jarhead roofs. Wha...?
My uncle to the rescue. A typical Syrian house is built in a manner somewhat different from our own. The house rests between vertical blocks of reinforced concrete — they are built first, then the bricks are filled in between them. During all that time, the houses look as shabby as a bum's underwear, but at the last step the house is dressed in marble or stone, and it suddenly shines in all its splendour. Fascinating, but what does that have with the price of epils? Well, the hairs we were spotting were sticking out of the concrete pillars, which were in turn sticking out of the house tops, as if holding a ghostly second floor. It would be quite reasonable to assume that starting a a second floor was exactly what was happening here, but in all the houses in the village at once?!? What is really happening is clever Arab trader spirit at work: a house is not taxable until it is built. By making the houses appear clearly unfinished, the inhabitants are saving on unnecessary budget expenses.
Bosra is the site of the best preserved Roman amphitheatre. I did not know that. I am usually better informed of places I go to, but this time I was blogging while Nina was reading, so I was to be surprised. It lies in an old Roman city, a lot of which can still be seen standing. Roofs have fallen down in many buildings, but it is incredibly well preserved. And not just a building here and there, the city is about a square kilometer big, maybe even bigger, as far as I could see.
Actually, the amphitheatre is not visible at first, being surrounded by walls, moat and eleven watchtowers (if I counted correctly) with 350 arrowslits (for this you will have to trust Taysin; I'll talk about Taysin in a bit, patience!). The city is a well-preserved antique; the amphitheatre is "slightly used". It's amazing. Except for the audience seats being a bit chipped, the VIP seat backs being a bit broken, some columns being a bit replaced, it is almost like new. And since tourists in winter flock to Bosra like storks to the North Pole, we mostly had the amphitheatre to ourselves, and so I can attest to the fabulous acoustics. My uncle said it was too gloomy, seeing as how the dark basalt around us required the shiny forty-degree-centigrade sun he enjoyed the other time he was here, but I liked it. Gloomy fits.
Taysin joined us almost at the start of our tour. He worked in the delusion that he was our tour guide, and eventually the delusion proved contagious. He was a little guy, a head shorter than me, and full of enthusiasm, dragging us to every nook and cranny of the amphitheatre, suggesting restaurants, taking our pictures and calling us all my friend. He was really an amicable sort, and you couldn't not like him; however, his demeanor changed into that of an Arab businessman when we were leaving, disapprovingly suggesting that the 200 pounds that my uncle slipped him were not enough. Yes, I know, Maya, I recall your instructions: do not take anything until you negotiate the price first, but I did not have the heart to tell the guy to beat it, and no-one else apparently did, either. And he proved a source of various tidbits of information, and what we paid him was really not much when compared to what a western guide would ask for for a much more impersonal service, so I do not complain.
After we left Bosra, we went to see some volcanos. The first one we came to turned out to be a quarry, and there was no way in except to tread the muddy red earth path through the quarry workers, and the climb would have proved impossible. So we found another one, and that one was great! It was completely black, and no pictures among the myriad we took could hope to capture the amazing darkness of that hill. Suffice it to say, rock samples were collected, and some people will not be disappointed. I hope.
Then we found one more volcano, higher than the first one. In the attempt to reach it, we wandered over to a little road meandering through fields of rocks, with amazing rock walls among us. The wind was really strong, and I suspect it gets stronger, too, but the holy rock walls rose above our height, with nothing at all to bind them. The road ended in the middle of nowhere, and the only thing that marked our fated destination were several crude graves painstakingly dug from the basalt-filled ground and marked with broken marble slabs.
Retracing our proverbial steps, we finally found our way to the bigger volcano, and drove to the top. There was a restaurant there. Even though it was closed, and the winds were almost rolling us off the level top, an Arab appeared and beckoned us to enter. Indeed, their hospitality is matched only by their mercantile canniness. We politely refused, since the sun was setting and we wanted to be in Damascus before dark. Well, we reached Damascus; home was another story, and already told.
How We Went to Town
My uncle has gone to the office, so I have a li'l bit o' time to type some more. I did not say anything about our yesterday's visit to the Old Damascus. Yep, Good Ole Damascus, uh-huh...
We went there by car, because it's a day's hike to get there by foot. Damascus is big! On the way, lo and behold! Real-to-Goddess mud houses, in various states of disrepair. We saw one with a wall washed cleanly off, its undergirders shamefully exposed and bare to the world.
We parked the car in Al-Kassaa, a Christian district where most shops still worked (remember the Friday?). Immediately before the Bab-touma city gates there was a big busy intersection and a bridge over the world-famous Barada river (at least, if you've read your Bible), an impressive rushing deluge of watery power, almost two meters wide! Okay, sarcasm off, the "river" fills not even a foot of the almost-two-man-high channel, but I gather that while it is arid here most of the time, floods are not unheard of, either.
Behind the city gates there lies a maze. There is no other word to describe it, excepting possibly warren. Or tangle. The main street is just a tad over a car wide, the side streets can be barely be squeezed through without scratches, and some streets are probably unpassable to any but the local miniature vans. The local miniature vans, having no better way to call them, are just like the normal vans, only a third smaller, and a third more dangerous. The best stunts (or the worst ones, depending on your perspective) are performed by local miniature vans. They're ubiquitous and deadly, just like the african red ant colonies, and if you see one coming, don't be near.
Just after the Bab-touma there are churches. A lot of them. Anglican, Greek Orthodox, Franciscan, half a dozen of them, all different, in one city block. And a little bit further, a gem: a quaint little store, with traditional goods: inlaid wooden boxes, old curved knives, tiny glass vials, beautiful woolen scarves... We were drooling at the window, when we turned around and spotted another one, just opposite. More woodwork, little boxes, carved frames... Then, look — the first one's neighbour is another shop just like that. Two doors down, one more. It does not take much imagination to guess what we found ten meters away down the street, does it? Suffice to say, novelty wore off as we were shown a chess set after an inlaid chess set, and a knife after a silver-plated knife. Some traders were friendly, some standoffish, while some somewhat bitter over our see-all-buy-naught policy. Our feet swollen by the procession of identical little quaint Damascene shops, we decided to return home.
On our way we almost bought a balloon for 25 pounds. Now if you're picturing the standard foot-size balloons we all know and ignore, these were not like those. The guy carried just one that was inflated, but it was not from laziness: the thing was bigger than him. he looked like a four-meter mushroom, with a brownish stalk and a bright red bulbous cap. Two soldiers seized him just as we were about to agree on a transaction, and we backed off, not knowing the nature of their dispute.
Okay, off to Bosra now (no, nothing rubbed off, it wasn't supposed to be an N). I'll post this later, no time to flirt with the 'Net now.
We went there by car, because it's a day's hike to get there by foot. Damascus is big! On the way, lo and behold! Real-to-Goddess mud houses, in various states of disrepair. We saw one with a wall washed cleanly off, its undergirders shamefully exposed and bare to the world.
We parked the car in Al-Kassaa, a Christian district where most shops still worked (remember the Friday?). Immediately before the Bab-touma city gates there was a big busy intersection and a bridge over the world-famous Barada river (at least, if you've read your Bible), an impressive rushing deluge of watery power, almost two meters wide! Okay, sarcasm off, the "river" fills not even a foot of the almost-two-man-high channel, but I gather that while it is arid here most of the time, floods are not unheard of, either.
Behind the city gates there lies a maze. There is no other word to describe it, excepting possibly warren. Or tangle. The main street is just a tad over a car wide, the side streets can be barely be squeezed through without scratches, and some streets are probably unpassable to any but the local miniature vans. The local miniature vans, having no better way to call them, are just like the normal vans, only a third smaller, and a third more dangerous. The best stunts (or the worst ones, depending on your perspective) are performed by local miniature vans. They're ubiquitous and deadly, just like the african red ant colonies, and if you see one coming, don't be near.
Just after the Bab-touma there are churches. A lot of them. Anglican, Greek Orthodox, Franciscan, half a dozen of them, all different, in one city block. And a little bit further, a gem: a quaint little store, with traditional goods: inlaid wooden boxes, old curved knives, tiny glass vials, beautiful woolen scarves... We were drooling at the window, when we turned around and spotted another one, just opposite. More woodwork, little boxes, carved frames... Then, look — the first one's neighbour is another shop just like that. Two doors down, one more. It does not take much imagination to guess what we found ten meters away down the street, does it? Suffice to say, novelty wore off as we were shown a chess set after an inlaid chess set, and a knife after a silver-plated knife. Some traders were friendly, some standoffish, while some somewhat bitter over our see-all-buy-naught policy. Our feet swollen by the procession of identical little quaint Damascene shops, we decided to return home.
On our way we almost bought a balloon for 25 pounds. Now if you're picturing the standard foot-size balloons we all know and ignore, these were not like those. The guy carried just one that was inflated, but it was not from laziness: the thing was bigger than him. he looked like a four-meter mushroom, with a brownish stalk and a bright red bulbous cap. Two soldiers seized him just as we were about to agree on a transaction, and we backed off, not knowing the nature of their dispute.
Okay, off to Bosra now (no, nothing rubbed off, it wasn't supposed to be an N). I'll post this later, no time to flirt with the 'Net now.
Evening Reds, Greens and Blues
I am exhausted. I should not be, but I'd like nothing more than to just drop for a quick nap. Although it might not turn out so quick, I might snooze off into the wee hours, and then ghost around while everyone is still asleep, and then be more tired when they're all feeling chipper. So they warn me. But then, they're having immense fun watching tennis or skiing or whatever the sport of the day might be on satellite Croatian TV, which holds zero interest for me, while I have a choice of nodding over a book like an slightly senile narcoleptic, futilely trying to connect to the Internet during the most error-endowed hours of the day (or the week, or I have no idea why I can't connect for the last hour or so, since I never get a same error twice in a row), or joining the others in their sports enthusiasm. Somehow I do not understand the level of emotions that a directionally ambivalent ball can invoke in people, and any outrage I would join them in woud have to be faked. I mean, I don't begrudge them their pleasure, I just can't empathise here. So, having nothing better to do, I totter around, avoiding sleep guiltily, and enter my second hour of redialling. And wracking my semi-sentient brain, trying to write another edition of Foolproof.
I promised the wheel wackiness, but I'm not sure I can remember much of it. Several things stuck in my mind: when we were returning from Qasyun yesterday, we spotted a sign that basically said: Entering Damascus; horn beeping not allowed. Now that's a laugh. While driving, the horn is your best friend. The point is, everyone is totally focused on the forward arc. The sides receive some attention, sporadically. The rear... Well. Let's just say that the Syrians are progressive people, who don't look back. Amazing. Everyone just drives, taking extra care not to ram anyone in front of them, and trusting those behind to have the same kind of attention on them. If you're ahead, even by inches, you have the right of way. For instance, if your car is a foot behind a car in the next lane, he is completely within his rights (by custom, if not by law) to swerve and try to cut in front of you, changing lanes by sheer brute force. He will not worry about hitting you, expecting you to slow down and yield, if he even sees you at all. You will probably not even get die Blinkenlichten, if you're lucky all you can hope for is a quick blast of horn music.
In fact, when people use the turn signals it is even worse, because many times they are not given congruently. In other words, the cars here lie on a wink! For example, a car can drive miles with the left winker on, then turn without any warning into a right sidestreet. When they give no signals, then you can at least rest assured that you can expect anything at all. Signals lead to complacency, which equals gullibility, which leads to crashing and burning. Metaphorically speaking. Apparently, they don't crash that much, even though half the cars in Damascus sport bumps and bruises.
Sometimes, accidets do happen, though. A company driver was shuttling some of my uncle's co-workers, and decided that the intercity road was empty, so he spread to the center lane of three. A contramotive car apparently decided the same, and neither of them chickened. This cost a company secretary her arm bone integrity, among other things, and engendered another precautionary tale (now immortalised on this blog!).
* * *
Now it's morning, and I'm online at last. We're going on a road trip, so about the next entry — who knows. Wish us a safe journey, without desert road warriors.
I promised the wheel wackiness, but I'm not sure I can remember much of it. Several things stuck in my mind: when we were returning from Qasyun yesterday, we spotted a sign that basically said: Entering Damascus; horn beeping not allowed. Now that's a laugh. While driving, the horn is your best friend. The point is, everyone is totally focused on the forward arc. The sides receive some attention, sporadically. The rear... Well. Let's just say that the Syrians are progressive people, who don't look back. Amazing. Everyone just drives, taking extra care not to ram anyone in front of them, and trusting those behind to have the same kind of attention on them. If you're ahead, even by inches, you have the right of way. For instance, if your car is a foot behind a car in the next lane, he is completely within his rights (by custom, if not by law) to swerve and try to cut in front of you, changing lanes by sheer brute force. He will not worry about hitting you, expecting you to slow down and yield, if he even sees you at all. You will probably not even get die Blinkenlichten, if you're lucky all you can hope for is a quick blast of horn music.
In fact, when people use the turn signals it is even worse, because many times they are not given congruently. In other words, the cars here lie on a wink! For example, a car can drive miles with the left winker on, then turn without any warning into a right sidestreet. When they give no signals, then you can at least rest assured that you can expect anything at all. Signals lead to complacency, which equals gullibility, which leads to crashing and burning. Metaphorically speaking. Apparently, they don't crash that much, even though half the cars in Damascus sport bumps and bruises.
Sometimes, accidets do happen, though. A company driver was shuttling some of my uncle's co-workers, and decided that the intercity road was empty, so he spread to the center lane of three. A contramotive car apparently decided the same, and neither of them chickened. This cost a company secretary her arm bone integrity, among other things, and engendered another precautionary tale (now immortalised on this blog!).
Now it's morning, and I'm online at last. We're going on a road trip, so about the next entry — who knows. Wish us a safe journey, without desert road warriors.
2006-02-03
Tales of Shops
Last night we went shopping. Finally. When I came, my suitcase contained another suitcase, and the other suitcase contained not much at all. I heard about the Syrian prices, and decided to renew my wardrobe while here. The downside of that — no wearables. I just filled the washing machine with two sets of underwear and a T-shirt. So some shopping was seriously called for. And it was the last minute possible: except in the Christian district (which is not in the walking distance, unless one is a marathon runner, or a postman), the weekend starts on Friday, so Thursday 8 pm was really cutting it a bit close. However, it seems that here things liven up considerably in the evening. Shops work late, and not emptily, either. Anyway, it was fun! I got a shirt and one set of trousers. And I had fashion advisors at hand, so it probably does not suck as much as my clothes usually do. The traders also had things to say, although one did try to sell me some things I really couldn't imagine myself in (and, more importantly, my clothing jury couldn't, either). They also surprised me somewhat, acting very westerny and polite, and not in the Typical Syrian Trader Fashion™, which I worked out before.
I mean, Nina was looking at a shop window, and a guy she imagined was the proprietor invited her to come inside. Blink, and she found herself in a deep basement three stories under the street, Nisha loyally two steps behind. She finally extricated herself from the little underground shop, and ten steps further comes a-running a little boy, perhaps 8 years of age, babbling something in Arabic. Nisha said he didn't understand, and the boy held out his hand for a handshake. Unsuspecting, he humored the local urchin, who, after a prolonged handshake, grabbed Nisha's arm under his with both hands and started dragging him back to one of the shops. Entrepreneurship...
Speaking of entrepreneurship, crafts are the lifeblood of the city. Everyone is making something, even if it's something really simple. (Hyperbole alert. Don't point out the flaws in my prose logic, and I won't point out fingers into people's eyes. Thank you for your co-operation.) For example, there are more jewellers than bakeries (and there is no shortage of bakeries, either). Which makes for a strange situation where it is impossible to buy pure silver or gold, only the crafted pieces. You want a sheet of gold, for example for a tooth, probably the best way to go about it is to select a gold trinket and ask the jeweller to smelt it. And some things I find sorely missing in my oh-so-western Zagreb, where traders abound yet no-one makes anything at all. A a case in point: juice shops. Little businesses that at first glance appear to be fruit groceries, but in actuality sell freshly squeezed/pulped/shaken fruit. You have a yearning for a banana shake with a dash of strawberry? A 0.0% pina colada? (Ask a Croat to explain.) A glass of pomegranate juice? No problem! Even if English not spoken here, they will be very happy to try to play mime with you until you're satisfied with your virgin cocktail. Yummy! and Healthy! and Cheap!
Then we went to the Qasyun mountain (variously pronounced by Nina as Keshun, Kaysun and a sundry of other variations on theme, until she finally affirmed the correct name by walking on it), to see the ﺩﻤﺸﻖ panorama. Not a real mountain, more like a bump in the ground, but it is steep, and so one stands right next to the city, and no clouds or distance mar the view. What beautiful! How wow! Words do not do it justice: wait for the pictures, but even then I am not sure you can feel the sprawliness of the city beneath. Seeing all the green lights dotting the streets below, you can count the countless minarets throughout the city. We'll be going up again, to see what it looks like in the day — this was more for the sparkly plains effect, not for informativeness. After about ten minutes we finally made a tentative guess at the location of our apartment. And that only because it's very close to the "mountain", and has a mosque nearby.
English is fun. You know Chinglish and Engrish? Well, Syrians have their own variety. The first example was immediately after we landed. We received some forms we had to fill out to be allowed in the country, demanding our names, birthdates, syrian addresses and whatnot, and on the other side it said something like: Welcome to your country Syria. OMG, what have I signed, I asked myself, then reassured myself it was only a language glitch. But language glitches catch on my linguist ears, and I find them immensely funny, especially if they are printed on hand-outs like these, where every single foreigner is bound to see them. Literally. By law.
Then we were walking in the city, and we found a Technical Laundry. Wishes for Happy Juorney are extended from the side of a bus, and (to tie in with the topic of the day), most of the shops sport either Sale signs, or Sold signs, or both. They are apparently synonymous in this part of the world, and 30% SOLD! does not mean "You can browse on the left side, but the bit in the corner is private property now.".
And if you think 30% sale is great, think again: there are shops that advertise 20% 30% 40% 50% 60% 70% SALE SOLD. Some shops have price tags on their articles, but not all, and even if they do, they are the "non-sold" price, and you have to ask what the discount is for the thingy you're interested in. This shoe, two thousand ninety pound. For you, maybe two thousand hundred, yes?
Typed too much again. We'll be going to see the old city some time now, but there's more to be written. Next episode: more vehicular fascination. Some time, same channel.
I mean, Nina was looking at a shop window, and a guy she imagined was the proprietor invited her to come inside. Blink, and she found herself in a deep basement three stories under the street, Nisha loyally two steps behind. She finally extricated herself from the little underground shop, and ten steps further comes a-running a little boy, perhaps 8 years of age, babbling something in Arabic. Nisha said he didn't understand, and the boy held out his hand for a handshake. Unsuspecting, he humored the local urchin, who, after a prolonged handshake, grabbed Nisha's arm under his with both hands and started dragging him back to one of the shops. Entrepreneurship...
Speaking of entrepreneurship, crafts are the lifeblood of the city. Everyone is making something, even if it's something really simple. (Hyperbole alert. Don't point out the flaws in my prose logic, and I won't point out fingers into people's eyes. Thank you for your co-operation.) For example, there are more jewellers than bakeries (and there is no shortage of bakeries, either). Which makes for a strange situation where it is impossible to buy pure silver or gold, only the crafted pieces. You want a sheet of gold, for example for a tooth, probably the best way to go about it is to select a gold trinket and ask the jeweller to smelt it. And some things I find sorely missing in my oh-so-western Zagreb, where traders abound yet no-one makes anything at all. A a case in point: juice shops. Little businesses that at first glance appear to be fruit groceries, but in actuality sell freshly squeezed/pulped/shaken fruit. You have a yearning for a banana shake with a dash of strawberry? A 0.0% pina colada? (Ask a Croat to explain.) A glass of pomegranate juice? No problem! Even if English not spoken here, they will be very happy to try to play mime with you until you're satisfied with your virgin cocktail. Yummy! and Healthy! and Cheap!
Then we went to the Qasyun mountain (variously pronounced by Nina as Keshun, Kaysun and a sundry of other variations on theme, until she finally affirmed the correct name by walking on it), to see the ﺩﻤﺸﻖ panorama. Not a real mountain, more like a bump in the ground, but it is steep, and so one stands right next to the city, and no clouds or distance mar the view. What beautiful! How wow! Words do not do it justice: wait for the pictures, but even then I am not sure you can feel the sprawliness of the city beneath. Seeing all the green lights dotting the streets below, you can count the countless minarets throughout the city. We'll be going up again, to see what it looks like in the day — this was more for the sparkly plains effect, not for informativeness. After about ten minutes we finally made a tentative guess at the location of our apartment. And that only because it's very close to the "mountain", and has a mosque nearby.
English is fun. You know Chinglish and Engrish? Well, Syrians have their own variety. The first example was immediately after we landed. We received some forms we had to fill out to be allowed in the country, demanding our names, birthdates, syrian addresses and whatnot, and on the other side it said something like: Welcome to your country Syria. OMG, what have I signed, I asked myself, then reassured myself it was only a language glitch. But language glitches catch on my linguist ears, and I find them immensely funny, especially if they are printed on hand-outs like these, where every single foreigner is bound to see them. Literally. By law.
Then we were walking in the city, and we found a Technical Laundry. Wishes for Happy Juorney are extended from the side of a bus, and (to tie in with the topic of the day), most of the shops sport either Sale signs, or Sold signs, or both. They are apparently synonymous in this part of the world, and 30% SOLD! does not mean "You can browse on the left side, but the bit in the corner is private property now.".
And if you think 30% sale is great, think again: there are shops that advertise 20% 30% 40% 50% 60% 70% SALE SOLD. Some shops have price tags on their articles, but not all, and even if they do, they are the "non-sold" price, and you have to ask what the discount is for the thingy you're interested in. This shoe, two thousand ninety pound. For you, maybe two thousand hundred, yes?
Typed too much again. We'll be going to see the old city some time now, but there's more to be written. Next episode: more vehicular fascination. Some time, same channel.
2006-02-02
Food
It is traditional in my uncle's company that whenever someone gets a visit from home, they smuggle some food and drink in to treat the his fellow workers. So we had a feast. A feast, I say, because, whenever the subject of edibles comes up, my aunt flies into a cooking frenzy. Kitchen berserker. So when we started carrying into my uncle's office tray upon tray of ham, bacon, cheese, olives, cooked ham, sausage slices, bread and four different varieties of sweets, people were asking us where the bride and groom were, to congratulate them on the happy occasion.
The three of us young'uns didn't want to stay with the score of my uncle's co-workers, partly because they weren't our co-workers, but largely because we have just come from the place where such food is normal daily nutriment. I mean, every caterer will make exactly the same trays, albeit somewhat less homemade, and more evenly cut. Oh, and they probably wouldn't include the bacon, but as it's a very low-priority target for me, meh. So we opted out from the Croatian stuff-fest, having spent twenty minutes convincing my uncle that he does not need to leave the party to drive us back to our apartment. Come on, wait a bit more with the walking about, you don't yet know your way, what if you get lost, let me show you around some more first, fret, fret, fret... I mean, I'm thankful that he cares so much, but I am not really helpless, and neither is Nisha. I don't know about Nina, she claimed that she'd be lost in a second, but him and me have rather good orientation skills, and we have one of Gord's maps, which knows Damascus really really well. It should: we bought it a day after it was published.
So we convinced him we'd be fine, and escaped from the office building into a fine drizzle. Which reminds me! Last night we went to the office to try to send some pictures by mail, and it was blocked — company policy. The mail, not the office. As is my blog. So I'm stuck with the crappy connection from the apartment. Sigh. Anyway, what I wanted to describe is the Syrian method of cleaning floors: 1) get a pail of water, 2) go to the top floor, 3) spill the pail on the staircase. We were entering the building, and noticed a small stream on the steps, steadily widening as we got higher. Then my uncle explained about the cleaners.
Back to the topic. We got out, and realised all the catering we did made us really hungry by then, so we went to look for the place where my uncle said had these great local quasipizzas. Each one is the size of a spread palm, and each one costs 10 syrian pounds. Now: a hundred syrian pounds is about eleven Croatian kunas, or a bit less than 2 USD, which means each one is about 1 Kn.
People tell us most locals speak English or French, but not in my experience so far. Some people understand enough English to say "No speak English", but some adopt the default answer "Yes" for whatever they detect is a question in English. Which explains some of Nisha's conversations:
So I'm making do with my meager store of Arabic expressions. At the quasipizza store, it was like:
Then I gave up and just said one of each in Arabic. So we got a mixed bag full of pizzoids and calzonoids, and one little doughy package noone was sure about. The little package turned out to be the best of the lot, and probably cheapest too. We are still not sure what it was stuffed with, but our bet is on sour vine leaves. Not a very high bet, I'm not going high stakes on a piece of Syrian pastry, but still. Then we turned around and spotted some pancakes in a little shop on the other side of the street. We managed to gather from another foreign language learning opponent that they were filled with walnuts, so we bought three. He opened a valve and fired up a stove which I did not even notice until then because it was right behind me, almost singing my coat, and dropped the three little crêpe bundles into the hot oil inside. I had my reservations, but it was fingerlickingly delicious! The quasipizzas were a disappointment, I must say, after my uncle's propaganda, being way too greasy. The pancake, although containing more oil than a sunflower field, was too sweet for me to care: a little honey heaven.
The three of us young'uns didn't want to stay with the score of my uncle's co-workers, partly because they weren't our co-workers, but largely because we have just come from the place where such food is normal daily nutriment. I mean, every caterer will make exactly the same trays, albeit somewhat less homemade, and more evenly cut. Oh, and they probably wouldn't include the bacon, but as it's a very low-priority target for me, meh. So we opted out from the Croatian stuff-fest, having spent twenty minutes convincing my uncle that he does not need to leave the party to drive us back to our apartment. Come on, wait a bit more with the walking about, you don't yet know your way, what if you get lost, let me show you around some more first, fret, fret, fret... I mean, I'm thankful that he cares so much, but I am not really helpless, and neither is Nisha. I don't know about Nina, she claimed that she'd be lost in a second, but him and me have rather good orientation skills, and we have one of Gord's maps, which knows Damascus really really well. It should: we bought it a day after it was published.
So we convinced him we'd be fine, and escaped from the office building into a fine drizzle. Which reminds me! Last night we went to the office to try to send some pictures by mail, and it was blocked — company policy. The mail, not the office. As is my blog. So I'm stuck with the crappy connection from the apartment. Sigh. Anyway, what I wanted to describe is the Syrian method of cleaning floors: 1) get a pail of water, 2) go to the top floor, 3) spill the pail on the staircase. We were entering the building, and noticed a small stream on the steps, steadily widening as we got higher. Then my uncle explained about the cleaners.
Back to the topic. We got out, and realised all the catering we did made us really hungry by then, so we went to look for the place where my uncle said had these great local quasipizzas. Each one is the size of a spread palm, and each one costs 10 syrian pounds. Now: a hundred syrian pounds is about eleven Croatian kunas, or a bit less than 2 USD, which means each one is about 1 Kn.
People tell us most locals speak English or French, but not in my experience so far. Some people understand enough English to say "No speak English", but some adopt the default answer "Yes" for whatever they detect is a question in English. Which explains some of Nisha's conversations:
"ﻋﺮﺑﻲ ﻋﺮﺑﻲ ﻋﺮﺑﻲ"
"I'm sorry, do you speak English?"
"Yes!"
"How much is this?"
"ﻋﺮﺑﻲ ﻋﺮﺑﻲ ﻋﺮﺑﻲ"
So I'm making do with my meager store of Arabic expressions. At the quasipizza store, it was like:
"ﺗﺘﮑﻠﻢ ﺇﻧﺠﻠﻴﺰﻱ؟"
"ﻻ"
"ﺗﺘﮑﻠﻢ ﻓﺮﻧﺴﻰ؟"
"ﻻ — espanol little him"
Then I gave up and just said one of each in Arabic. So we got a mixed bag full of pizzoids and calzonoids, and one little doughy package noone was sure about. The little package turned out to be the best of the lot, and probably cheapest too. We are still not sure what it was stuffed with, but our bet is on sour vine leaves. Not a very high bet, I'm not going high stakes on a piece of Syrian pastry, but still. Then we turned around and spotted some pancakes in a little shop on the other side of the street. We managed to gather from another foreign language learning opponent that they were filled with walnuts, so we bought three. He opened a valve and fired up a stove which I did not even notice until then because it was right behind me, almost singing my coat, and dropped the three little crêpe bundles into the hot oil inside. I had my reservations, but it was fingerlickingly delicious! The quasipizzas were a disappointment, I must say, after my uncle's propaganda, being way too greasy. The pancake, although containing more oil than a sunflower field, was too sweet for me to care: a little honey heaven.
2006-02-01
The First Day Dawns
After a day's experience in Damascus, all I can say that this is a different world than the one I left yesterday. When we came to the apartment last night, I said, Oh my god, we're living in a penthouse! Nope, just a regular apartment, maybe a bit above average, but in no way extraordinary. What do you mean, in no way extraordinary? I could put my bed in this fridge! The only things in the apartment that aren't huge are the toilet and the bathroom. Oz would be decapitated before being able to take a leak (however, decapitation has unfortunate side-effect of springing more leaks, none of which would go where intended), because the ceiling is about 180 cm high. Apparently, Syrians build water tanks above their sanitary chambers, choosing architectural practicality over freedom from chiropractics.
I'm in Syria to visit my uncle. He works here, so he invited some family to keep him company for a while. So, here we are: my cousin Nina, her boyfriend Nisha, and me. All as touristy as a Japanese Disneyworld expedition. After a brief and mostly sleepless night (at least for me), we went out, guided by my uncle, to see the surroundings, so to speak. Spot the stores, suss out the sights, stuff like that. And almost immediately we became stunned by the local prices and trade practices. As you might have heard, haggling is not only advisable in a majority of stores, but even expected. If they spot a foreigner — and even if most of us can, more or less (me more than less) pass for local folk, our cover is blown to bits as soon as we engage our vocal cords — they up the prices, even tenfold in some stores. They know well the gullibility of tourists, and all Croatian readers will recognise the so-called "APP" principle in action. When they start wailing about the currently negotiated amount having reached their buying price, you can stop negotiating, being reasonably sure that you have agreed upon a price more-or-less fair to both parties.
Speaking of wailing, the mosques start up their audio gear five times a day to deliver quivery exhortations for people to come to pray. They're quite loud, and each one wails to his own tune. Or at least it appears so. Nina spent half a day asking for us to show her a mosque, and was not consoled one bit when we told her that we have passed at least ten of them, and some of them very closely. But they really are beautiful. Even if one of the most beautiful buildings had guards all around that considered camera-toting tourists as terrorists with cleverly disguised sniper guns.
And, speaking of parties, our one-day flatmates have told us about a night in town they had a couple of days ago. Maya was also visiting her Dad, just like we were here with our uncle, but her shift was done: after three weeks of Syrian life she was sad to be going home; after four months (if I calculated correctly), he was cheerfully doing the same. The briefing I wrote about in my last edition was largely given by her. She's a pretty blonde, and you can all stop right there with your sassy replies, she's happily boyfriended. Stoppit I say! (Sorry, Maya, you know how friends get...) Anyway: she said they went to see some bellydancers, along with her father's colleagues, dancing in a hotel.
It turns out, they are not really bellydancers; they have found themselves attending a slave auction. Thirtyish fourteenishyearolds that were mainly Iraqi refugees looking for a better life were parading and failing miserably at dancing, while the rich folk in the audience followed the local rich folk traditions by throwing bundles of money notes at them. I kid you not: bundles. Maya, being the only fair-haired one in the room attracted considerable attention, and when one father-son team finally after an hour and a half collected their courage, she too (and her father, and her food) was buried beneath a heap of pounds; she said there must have been $5000 there if there was a cent. She took quite a pleasure in not taking the proper and expected part in their traditions.
As I said, the prices are unbelievable. I want to shop until I drop, and no truer say hath ever been coint! (Warning: not for reuse — fake english here.) I have no idea what dark powers I shall have to invoke to pack my baggage two weeks hence. Anyway — those who wanted maps shall not be disapponted. The rock is still in the works, but I stay hopeful. I did not look at newsstands yet, but seeing what the lingerie stores carry, Cosmo copycats must have willing fashion victims even here. Beer, though? Mon, did you really think your wish through? We were in a hotel today, one of the oldest around, veryvery nice, and we sat down in this big lobby with fountains and flowers and vines and exquisitely made furniture. When the waiter came, Nina and me ordered freshly pulped orange juice, while the guys said they wanted a cold one. Upon hearing that, the waiter asked us to move to another table next to the bar. Booze segregation FTW! In general, alcoholic beverages are not available outside hotels and specialised foreign-goods stores, and most of them are imports anyway. So, Mon, care to reconsider? Would you like a silver bracelet instead? It should cost about the same...
I'm in Syria to visit my uncle. He works here, so he invited some family to keep him company for a while. So, here we are: my cousin Nina, her boyfriend Nisha, and me. All as touristy as a Japanese Disneyworld expedition. After a brief and mostly sleepless night (at least for me), we went out, guided by my uncle, to see the surroundings, so to speak. Spot the stores, suss out the sights, stuff like that. And almost immediately we became stunned by the local prices and trade practices. As you might have heard, haggling is not only advisable in a majority of stores, but even expected. If they spot a foreigner — and even if most of us can, more or less (me more than less) pass for local folk, our cover is blown to bits as soon as we engage our vocal cords — they up the prices, even tenfold in some stores. They know well the gullibility of tourists, and all Croatian readers will recognise the so-called "APP" principle in action. When they start wailing about the currently negotiated amount having reached their buying price, you can stop negotiating, being reasonably sure that you have agreed upon a price more-or-less fair to both parties.
Speaking of wailing, the mosques start up their audio gear five times a day to deliver quivery exhortations for people to come to pray. They're quite loud, and each one wails to his own tune. Or at least it appears so. Nina spent half a day asking for us to show her a mosque, and was not consoled one bit when we told her that we have passed at least ten of them, and some of them very closely. But they really are beautiful. Even if one of the most beautiful buildings had guards all around that considered camera-toting tourists as terrorists with cleverly disguised sniper guns.
And, speaking of parties, our one-day flatmates have told us about a night in town they had a couple of days ago. Maya was also visiting her Dad, just like we were here with our uncle, but her shift was done: after three weeks of Syrian life she was sad to be going home; after four months (if I calculated correctly), he was cheerfully doing the same. The briefing I wrote about in my last edition was largely given by her. She's a pretty blonde, and you can all stop right there with your sassy replies, she's happily boyfriended. Stoppit I say! (Sorry, Maya, you know how friends get...) Anyway: she said they went to see some bellydancers, along with her father's colleagues, dancing in a hotel.
It turns out, they are not really bellydancers; they have found themselves attending a slave auction. Thirtyish fourteenishyearolds that were mainly Iraqi refugees looking for a better life were parading and failing miserably at dancing, while the rich folk in the audience followed the local rich folk traditions by throwing bundles of money notes at them. I kid you not: bundles. Maya, being the only fair-haired one in the room attracted considerable attention, and when one father-son team finally after an hour and a half collected their courage, she too (and her father, and her food) was buried beneath a heap of pounds; she said there must have been $5000 there if there was a cent. She took quite a pleasure in not taking the proper and expected part in their traditions.
As I said, the prices are unbelievable. I want to shop until I drop, and no truer say hath ever been coint! (Warning: not for reuse — fake english here.) I have no idea what dark powers I shall have to invoke to pack my baggage two weeks hence. Anyway — those who wanted maps shall not be disapponted. The rock is still in the works, but I stay hopeful. I did not look at newsstands yet, but seeing what the lingerie stores carry, Cosmo copycats must have willing fashion victims even here. Beer, though? Mon, did you really think your wish through? We were in a hotel today, one of the oldest around, veryvery nice, and we sat down in this big lobby with fountains and flowers and vines and exquisitely made furniture. When the waiter came, Nina and me ordered freshly pulped orange juice, while the guys said they wanted a cold one. Upon hearing that, the waiter asked us to move to another table next to the bar. Booze segregation FTW! In general, alcoholic beverages are not available outside hotels and specialised foreign-goods stores, and most of them are imports anyway. So, Mon, care to reconsider? Would you like a silver bracelet instead? It should cost about the same...
Alive?
Alive, but barely. I.e. — connected. However, do not expect the usual web mycelium, since I have absolutely no patience to surf. The connection I'm on takes me back many years — I have waited over a minute for blogger.com home page to load. Not to mention, my DSL link has spoiled me rotten — using a modem is like... like... sewing with fishbone needles and agave threads. I was warned I would have to keep redialing, now being the evening, but I only had to suffer three numbers of Hard Beep before being let online.
We arrived in the evening, and already is my brain rife with impressions. We met some interesting people here, Croats on their last day here, so there was some extensive briefing going on. However, I will talk about that some other time. I want to talk about local traffic conditions — the little we saw in the evening.
When we got out of the airport, we climbed into our luxury automatic-transmission car and rode what seemed like a half-an-hour-long highway into the centre of Damascus. The highway was mostly empty at the beginning, and we were zooming at 110 kph through the leftmost lane, just next to the divider. I was riding in the back, looking around, taking a peek at the other cars. Now, I am no prodigy on the automotive field, my expertise is rather limited to discerning cars from trucks, but even I could see that some of the vehicles around me were very nice pieces of engineering, while others are wrecks-on-wheels. There were several times when we spied cars without any lights sitting in the right lane. Oh, wait, they're not sitting, they're actually moving! It took us half an hour at 110, I have no idea how much it takes them at 15. (Figuratively speaking, of course. I had some physics. I could calculate. I just don't want to.) Once we encountered a motorbike with two people on it, riding in our side of the street, just in the opposite direction from us. And even my single proficiency failed me, as more often than not people drove minivans, tricycles (no, a tricycle is something else; these are... umm... see? clueless!)
Oh, wait, did I say lanes? There aren't any. I mean, sure, the streets are marked (mostly; we did see a stretch that was as black as an unsmiling Nigerian, they probably repaired it then forgot to paint it), but noone pays any attention to that. Driving in Syria is an indigenous martial art. When we neared the city it was a car in two lanes, two cars in the same lane side by side, cars weaving around each other and shoving each other like people passing through a crowded corridor. I mean, if cars could concievably be driving in three lanes, they would be doing it here.
And they explained to us that the rules for the circular thingy (my erudition in all things traffic shows) were the opposite from ours. Whoever wants to get on the damn thing has priority; the people that are circling have to wait for them to cut in. However, when we were climbing up to one, a car zoomed by, cutting directly in front of us. Fortunately our driver had good reflexes, or my first night in Syria might have been the totality of my experience. He was not an European, he was Syrian, breaking their own damn rule.
Designated parking areas are wherever you leave your car, and in 30 minutes of driving around we saw three traffic signs. That is a quarter of the number of minarets we passed by. Which are beautiful, by the way, but no replacement for proper traffic regulation, IMHO.
They told us that we needed to have international licenses to drive here. I thank Goddess I don't have mine.
For the end: I am guilty of premature cheer. I have had to reconnect no less than six times (and dial about three times as much) to finish this entry. So there.
We arrived in the evening, and already is my brain rife with impressions. We met some interesting people here, Croats on their last day here, so there was some extensive briefing going on. However, I will talk about that some other time. I want to talk about local traffic conditions — the little we saw in the evening.
When we got out of the airport, we climbed into our luxury automatic-transmission car and rode what seemed like a half-an-hour-long highway into the centre of Damascus. The highway was mostly empty at the beginning, and we were zooming at 110 kph through the leftmost lane, just next to the divider. I was riding in the back, looking around, taking a peek at the other cars. Now, I am no prodigy on the automotive field, my expertise is rather limited to discerning cars from trucks, but even I could see that some of the vehicles around me were very nice pieces of engineering, while others are wrecks-on-wheels. There were several times when we spied cars without any lights sitting in the right lane. Oh, wait, they're not sitting, they're actually moving! It took us half an hour at 110, I have no idea how much it takes them at 15. (Figuratively speaking, of course. I had some physics. I could calculate. I just don't want to.) Once we encountered a motorbike with two people on it, riding in our side of the street, just in the opposite direction from us. And even my single proficiency failed me, as more often than not people drove minivans, tricycles (no, a tricycle is something else; these are... umm... see? clueless!)
Oh, wait, did I say lanes? There aren't any. I mean, sure, the streets are marked (mostly; we did see a stretch that was as black as an unsmiling Nigerian, they probably repaired it then forgot to paint it), but noone pays any attention to that. Driving in Syria is an indigenous martial art. When we neared the city it was a car in two lanes, two cars in the same lane side by side, cars weaving around each other and shoving each other like people passing through a crowded corridor. I mean, if cars could concievably be driving in three lanes, they would be doing it here.
And they explained to us that the rules for the circular thingy (my erudition in all things traffic shows) were the opposite from ours. Whoever wants to get on the damn thing has priority; the people that are circling have to wait for them to cut in. However, when we were climbing up to one, a car zoomed by, cutting directly in front of us. Fortunately our driver had good reflexes, or my first night in Syria might have been the totality of my experience. He was not an European, he was Syrian, breaking their own damn rule.
Designated parking areas are wherever you leave your car, and in 30 minutes of driving around we saw three traffic signs. That is a quarter of the number of minarets we passed by. Which are beautiful, by the way, but no replacement for proper traffic regulation, IMHO.
They told us that we needed to have international licenses to drive here. I thank Goddess I don't have mine.
For the end: I am guilty of premature cheer. I have had to reconnect no less than six times (and dial about three times as much) to finish this entry. So there.
2006-01-30
Flight Fright?
I don't have it. I don't understand people who do. I love planes. They're great! What's not to like? You get wherever you're going really quickly, you get fed, and if you're lucky, you get a small taste of the wacky rollercoaster tummy hop. (Should I trademark this? I am pretty sure this was an original description of a well-known phenomenon... Rollercoaster Tummy Hop™, how does that look?) All-inclusive, you know? Food, transportation and an amusement park ride, all rolled up into one. Reminds me of Kinder Surprises of my younger days...
Many people tell me they love to travel. Then they notice me staring at them with my your-insanity-beats-mine look, and almost inevitably they then ask, "Why, don't you love to travel?" Ô, le plus lamentable des êtres... If I did, would I be looking at you like that? I really don't get it. To be sure, I love being places, however, I'd rather skip actually going there. A teleporter is such a great idea. If I have to suffer an instance of me (yeah, you can tell I'm a programmer) being ripped to molecular shreds to avoid sitting for hours on end in an uncomfortable bus-conditioned seat (bus-conditioning is surely the antonym of air-conditioning), balancing boredom with nausea on a book's thin edge, so be it. I accept my fate gladly.
In my view, planes are the next best thing. They're awesome. And safe, too, despite what people think. You only hear about the planes that go down, never about the ones that get you home early. (A cynical person would draw some sort of cheap comparison to women. Thank Goddess I'm not like that.) In the same vein, even if something does happen, in the most unlikely event of bumping into something that should not have been there (like a jetbound pigeon, an errant fogheaded mountaintop or an explosive-deviced fundamentalist): not my fault. I didn't crash it, it's the guy in the front seat (or the late pigeon, or the dumb cliff, you get the drift). I can die cheerfully absolved of any guilt over my demise. What's not to love about planes?
What gives me the jitters now is the uncertainty about my destination. My own black ignorance. What is Damascus? I mean, when I was going to Budapest for a week on a business trip, I was fretting whether I would find my way around, but it was still okay, because it was an European city. Same as Zagreb, really, just rather more stocked in the Chinese restaurant department.
Damascus is a completely different culture. I can't even picture what the city is like. Will there be skyscrapers with lots of shiny glass? Will there be a mud house district? I have no clue. All I know is, it is supposed to be the "oldest continuously inhabited city in the world". Well, frankly, that does not tell me much. Neither of my expectations takes a hit from such description. I'm so in the dark. Would it hurt them to say something along the lines of "Damascus is a modern, bustling city, with a plethora of Internet cafés, and no mud houses at all"?
And, while I have absolutely nothing against the Arabs, I can't help but wonder if they will have anything against me. I speak English rather well. Arabic, not so much. Actually, I speak great, the several words I have at my disposal, then I'm done. I heard they don't like Americans. Great, I said, I speak with a somewhat Britishy accent. They hate Brits even worse, someone replied. So, I don't know. The reliability of my sources is at best questionable; however, I'll have to brush up my Balkan dialect if that's true...
Will I like the food? Will I be cold? Will I pack everything I need? Will the customs go without any hitches, or glitches? Will there be hand amputations undertaken on my account? Will I contract some bug that I will spread through my office and thus incur the murderous wrath a colleague has promised me if I bring him any African diarrheas? No idea, no idea, no idea... We'll see soon enough.
To take my mind (and consequently yours, as well) off my impending journey, let me share something truly moving (but do not blame me if you misunderstand my meaning here): the works of Rev Jesse Custer will leave no-one untouched. Mark my words.
Many people tell me they love to travel. Then they notice me staring at them with my your-insanity-beats-mine look, and almost inevitably they then ask, "Why, don't you love to travel?" Ô, le plus lamentable des êtres... If I did, would I be looking at you like that? I really don't get it. To be sure, I love being places, however, I'd rather skip actually going there. A teleporter is such a great idea. If I have to suffer an instance of me (yeah, you can tell I'm a programmer) being ripped to molecular shreds to avoid sitting for hours on end in an uncomfortable bus-conditioned seat (bus-conditioning is surely the antonym of air-conditioning), balancing boredom with nausea on a book's thin edge, so be it. I accept my fate gladly.
In my view, planes are the next best thing. They're awesome. And safe, too, despite what people think. You only hear about the planes that go down, never about the ones that get you home early. (A cynical person would draw some sort of cheap comparison to women. Thank Goddess I'm not like that.) In the same vein, even if something does happen, in the most unlikely event of bumping into something that should not have been there (like a jetbound pigeon, an errant fogheaded mountaintop or an explosive-deviced fundamentalist): not my fault. I didn't crash it, it's the guy in the front seat (or the late pigeon, or the dumb cliff, you get the drift). I can die cheerfully absolved of any guilt over my demise. What's not to love about planes?
What gives me the jitters now is the uncertainty about my destination. My own black ignorance. What is Damascus? I mean, when I was going to Budapest for a week on a business trip, I was fretting whether I would find my way around, but it was still okay, because it was an European city. Same as Zagreb, really, just rather more stocked in the Chinese restaurant department.
Damascus is a completely different culture. I can't even picture what the city is like. Will there be skyscrapers with lots of shiny glass? Will there be a mud house district? I have no clue. All I know is, it is supposed to be the "oldest continuously inhabited city in the world". Well, frankly, that does not tell me much. Neither of my expectations takes a hit from such description. I'm so in the dark. Would it hurt them to say something along the lines of "Damascus is a modern, bustling city, with a plethora of Internet cafés, and no mud houses at all"?
And, while I have absolutely nothing against the Arabs, I can't help but wonder if they will have anything against me. I speak English rather well. Arabic, not so much. Actually, I speak great, the several words I have at my disposal, then I'm done. I heard they don't like Americans. Great, I said, I speak with a somewhat Britishy accent. They hate Brits even worse, someone replied. So, I don't know. The reliability of my sources is at best questionable; however, I'll have to brush up my Balkan dialect if that's true...
Will I like the food? Will I be cold? Will I pack everything I need? Will the customs go without any hitches, or glitches? Will there be hand amputations undertaken on my account? Will I contract some bug that I will spread through my office and thus incur the murderous wrath a colleague has promised me if I bring him any African diarrheas? No idea, no idea, no idea... We'll see soon enough.
To take my mind (and consequently yours, as well) off my impending journey, let me share something truly moving (but do not blame me if you misunderstand my meaning here): the works of Rev Jesse Custer will leave no-one untouched. Mark my words.
2006-01-29
New Toys
A day after launching my very first blog. How exciting!
It isn't, really, but tell that to my id. Or inner child. Or whatever your particular branch of psychology decided to name it. Just wouldn't listen! It was all, "did any of my friends comment yet?"
It isn't, really, but tell that to my id. Or inner child. Or whatever your particular branch of psychology decided to name it. Just wouldn't listen! It was all, "did any of my friends comment yet?"
The day grew increasingly gone, when finally, I remembered that I have not actually given this link to anyone, my close friends included. The ones that are the reason for this blog's very existence. I wrote Mon about it while I was waiting for Jules and her boyfriend Oz to arrive, then they arrived and the notice got stuck fast in my gmail draftbox. The letter said:
Then, seeing as how I actually had some friends over, I mentioned how I had started a blog, but I did not give the URL. I do not know why. I might have forgotten. I might have thought that speaking in URLs is bound to make me an even bigger geek than... no, can't be it, they already know exactly how big a geek I am. There is a chance that I wanted them to be interested enough to ask me about it, and let the subtext carry my wish. However, the subtext that appeared was, seemingly, a puny weakling that could not even carry a vowel. Happens to me frequently, as I have come to realise. Another round of mails followed. The work which was due shortly stood ignored on my disk as I fretted about the things I might have forgotten this time.
But an hour later, there were still no comments. The hit tracker I installed did not even register one, after I told it not to count my own. My gmailbox remained steadfastly empty. I asked myself (as I'm sure you already noticed I tend to do), what would a typical blogger do in the situation like this?
Why, put it into his blog, of course.
Consequently, you are reading these as my thoughts for the day. Rather pointless. However, most things in life are. Which is how you can tell that this blog is Genuine™.
If in doubt:
You're the first one I'm telling, but you probably won't be the first one to know about it, since Jules and Oz are coming tonight...Actually, the letter said something involving a quite larger consonant count, but the gist was the same. Of course, the letter had to be rewritten, since the saved draft was too drafty, and had to be saved.
Then, seeing as how I actually had some friends over, I mentioned how I had started a blog, but I did not give the URL. I do not know why. I might have forgotten. I might have thought that speaking in URLs is bound to make me an even bigger geek than... no, can't be it, they already know exactly how big a geek I am. There is a chance that I wanted them to be interested enough to ask me about it, and let the subtext carry my wish. However, the subtext that appeared was, seemingly, a puny weakling that could not even carry a vowel. Happens to me frequently, as I have come to realise. Another round of mails followed. The work which was due shortly stood ignored on my disk as I fretted about the things I might have forgotten this time.
But an hour later, there were still no comments. The hit tracker I installed did not even register one, after I told it not to count my own. My gmailbox remained steadfastly empty. I asked myself (as I'm sure you already noticed I tend to do), what would a typical blogger do in the situation like this?
Why, put it into his blog, of course.
Consequently, you are reading these as my thoughts for the day. Rather pointless. However, most things in life are. Which is how you can tell that this blog is Genuine™.
If in doubt:
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Version: 3.1
GCS/SS/O d- s:+ a C++$ UL+ P++ L++ E-@ W++$
N+(-) o K w(--) !O M- !V PS+@ !PE Y+ PGP-(+)
t-@ 5+ X+ R@ tv+@ b+(++) !DI D- G e++ h r-- y+
------END GEEK CODE BLOCK------
2006-01-28
Succumbed
Okay. I made a blog. So shoot me.
Why?
I swore I'd never have a blog. I don't really have anything smart to say, and I hate the commitment it takes to think up new material all the time. Am I a professional entertainer, or a comedian for the Internet masses, I ask you? - as I asked myself. Nooo. Let Neil Gaimans and Pamela Andersons of the world write their blogs; me, I'll be happy in my lazy obscurity. (Oh, and — if you're reading this, Neil — sorry for the juxtaposition.)
However, faced with an impending trip to a place that might be considered "exotic", I figured - okay, time to publish. Primarily because otherwise all my friends will pester me one by one with their inevitable how-was-its, and I really don't wish to repeat myself three, or even four times.
Thus — a blog.
I believe an introduction is in order, for those of you who do not know me personally, and have stumbled onto this greary (green and dreary) place in error. I live in Zagreb, which is a capital of Croatia, which is an European country, and not a type of decorative pumpkin (as I have heard it answered once). The exotic land in question is Syria, not in Europe but also a country, and also extremely unpumpkinny, where I will be spending the next two weeks of my so-called life.
So check back, my faithfuls, during the following fortnight, where I shall be putting down my near-eastern سوريا thoughts and experiences, if I find an Internet connection. And if not, forget the whole thing — since I probably will not bother typing everything post-facto.
Why?
I swore I'd never have a blog. I don't really have anything smart to say, and I hate the commitment it takes to think up new material all the time. Am I a professional entertainer, or a comedian for the Internet masses, I ask you? - as I asked myself. Nooo. Let Neil Gaimans and Pamela Andersons of the world write their blogs; me, I'll be happy in my lazy obscurity. (Oh, and — if you're reading this, Neil — sorry for the juxtaposition.)
However, faced with an impending trip to a place that might be considered "exotic", I figured - okay, time to publish. Primarily because otherwise all my friends will pester me one by one with their inevitable how-was-its, and I really don't wish to repeat myself three, or even four times.
Thus — a blog.
I believe an introduction is in order, for those of you who do not know me personally, and have stumbled onto this greary (green and dreary) place in error. I live in Zagreb, which is a capital of Croatia, which is an European country, and not a type of decorative pumpkin (as I have heard it answered once). The exotic land in question is Syria, not in Europe but also a country, and also extremely unpumpkinny, where I will be spending the next two weeks of my so-called life.
So check back, my faithfuls, during the following fortnight, where I shall be putting down my near-eastern سوريا thoughts and experiences, if I find an Internet connection. And if not, forget the whole thing — since I probably will not bother typing everything post-facto.
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