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...