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!).

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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.