Individually Heather and I both have a knack for getting special treatment. Together we're dangerous.
Scene: Saturday night at Matise, one of Beirut's hottest bars. It's packed with beautiful people. Heather and I are both wearing jeans that haven't been properly washed in a while. I have a black T-shirt and leopard print high heels I bought in Australia for $15. Heather has a black cotton long-sleeve t-shirt and ecco sandals cushioned for comfort.
We enter pushing our way through the satiny dresses, long flowing gorgeous Arab hair, sultry cologne and dress shirts. We try to find an opening at the bar. Our neutral make-up and signature scent of au du deodorant isn't doing much to get us the attention we need. We walk around looking lost avoiding getting burned by the dangling cigarettes of other patrons too cool to care.
A man catches our eye and calls us to the steps behind the bar. He asks us what we want and it is ours. He tells us to stay. Normally we wouldn't be allowed here, but he's the purchasing manager for Matise as well as 14 other of Beirut's hottest bars and nightclubs. We've hit the proverbial jackpot. We're his guest for the rest of the evening.
After Matise we move to Cristal, Beirut's most exclusive reservations-only club. It's just around the corner, but the valet pulls up in our black Land Rover. We drive slowly about 100 meters with the windows down. Another car full of "friends" follows. One minute (maybe less). We get out and a different valet takes the car. This is apparently not a club you can walk up to. We go inside. The walls are black. The ceilings are high. Tables are tiered and a large crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It's nice although a bit of a cliche. Heather is in heaven with the free table snacks of carrot sticks and pistachio nuts. We have a drink and dance on the pleather benches (the Lebanese apparently don't believe in dance floors at dance clubs).
We leave ahead of the curve. Our host is not one to be caught tailing the in-crowd. On our way out a tall thin blondish woman is arguing with the bouncer. He won't let her in without a reservation. She claims she wants to show her Irish-looking boyfriend the club and that she was here last week with her modeling agency. She emphasizes that she is a model. When this does not work she claims this is racism and that she is being discriminated because of her blue eyes. A little tipsy from the free booze, I interject in the sweetest and most sincerely innocent tone, "No, you're not being discriminated against. You just don't have a reservation. I have blue eyes and was just inside...you just have to know the right people." At this the model started buttering up to me. Stick thin 1/2 Lebanese, 1/4 Brazilian, 1/4 Ukranian model in a minidress and staletos trying to get into a Beirut club by talking to me, chubby American in jeans and a t-shirt. Funny. Our Land Rover pulled up. She didn't get in.
The night ended at a quieter venue, somewhat of an underground bar owned by the uncle of our host. The blues played in the background and we chatted into the night with a host of interesting and cosmopolitan clientèle. Out of the crowds in this swanky and exclusive Hamra establishment we ushered out our night as Beirut's strangest looking VIPs.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tourism in the Toilet
500 toilets were placed on an open lot in Beirut. Large signs read "Isn't 15 years in the toilets enough?"* and advirtising a two week line-up of speakers, film and music events promoting peace. For the final event, there were about 200 Lebanese, 6 expats and two tourists (us) in attendance. Wanting more information about the event than we could gleem from the mostly Arabic information sheets, we sat down with a man who looked like he was "involved." A professor of law at the American University Beirut, he started with the typical questions, "Where are you from?" and "Are you working here in Beirut?" The answer to the latter typically raised curiosity at notch..."You are tourists?" In this case it evoked an even more impassioned response, "Why did you come to Lebanon? War could break out any day!" Phrased like this we realized that our typical answers fell short..."I've always wanted to visit Lebanon," "We came for the food," "We're only staying for two weeks." Writing this now, I realize how stupid this sounds. But what isn't stated is the numerous websites, travelers and Lebanese residents we consulted before entering the country. Our decision, however seemingly absurd, was a thoroughly calculated risk.There are other tourists in Lebanon too. We've met five and seen another five or ten. I suppose it's not your optimal holiday destination right now with large areas of the country inadvisable to travel ("the south" and "the east"). And of course, you will notice many holes in the photographic account of my visit to Lebanon as the soldiers standing guard at all major and minor city sights pop out to force-delete any pictures on ones camera. The upside is the visa is "on sale" down from $20 to enter the country to free and the food and the nightlife is unaffected. War or not, Beirut is still the Middle East's most vibrant city as they say.
*During the Civil War from 1975-1990 many Lebanese sought shelter in the center of their homes and apartments. This was often the bathroom, or toilet.
Tourism in the Toilet
500 toilets were placed on an open lot in Beirut. Large signs read "Isn't 15 years in the toilets enough?"Next Stop Lebanon
Aside from the pending civil war, Lebanon reminds me a lot of Northern California - urban cliffs rising out of the sea, lush green mountains an hours drive from Beirut, wine country and a love for culinary delights, a plethora of Mercedes and womens' shoulders. Christians, Muslims and Atheists...okay, no Jews, but...there are ecolodges, ski resorts, yoga centers, theaters, bars, nightclubs, karaoke, fashionistas, hippy intellectuals and political activists. Political activists is where we start to diverge.
Lebanon doesn't have a President. Instead it has tanks and barbed wire, propaganda posters with the faces of past and hopefully political leaders and an uncommonly strong police presence. "Police" may actually be too soft a word. We're not talking your friendly neighborhood K9 unit that makes PR appearances at community barbecues, but soldiers in full camouflage, large automatic weapons and tanks with cannons poised for battle pointing at the traffic passing by. Unlike the stray armory scattered around Jordan, Egypt and Syria, these weapons are around major landmarks as well as on seemingly innocuous back streets. They are strategically placed in case today is the day Lebanon's 30+ political factions take up arms. The core difference, I suppose, is that these shows of military strength are not shows, they are functional.
And the people not in camouflage? They are at restaurants enjoying Sunday brunch sipping coffee or at the clubs with cocktails. The are seemingly worrying more about their hair or getting the latest sunglasses than the big question of - WHEN? The streets are crowded (except for the ghost town-like downtown area that is more like what one would expect). Life goes on. Although, when asked it is on their mind. Most make few predictions, but say "They say it's going to be a hot summer." The same is probably true for Northern California, but the implications are slightly different.
Lebanon doesn't have a President. Instead it has tanks and barbed wire, propaganda posters with the faces of past and hopefully political leaders and an uncommonly strong police presence. "Police" may actually be too soft a word. We're not talking your friendly neighborhood K9 unit that makes PR appearances at community barbecues, but soldiers in full camouflage, large automatic weapons and tanks with cannons poised for battle pointing at the traffic passing by. Unlike the stray armory scattered around Jordan, Egypt and Syria, these weapons are around major landmarks as well as on seemingly innocuous back streets. They are strategically placed in case today is the day Lebanon's 30+ political factions take up arms. The core difference, I suppose, is that these shows of military strength are not shows, they are functional.
And the people not in camouflage? They are at restaurants enjoying Sunday brunch sipping coffee or at the clubs with cocktails. The are seemingly worrying more about their hair or getting the latest sunglasses than the big question of - WHEN? The streets are crowded (except for the ghost town-like downtown area that is more like what one would expect). Life goes on. Although, when asked it is on their mind. Most make few predictions, but say "They say it's going to be a hot summer." The same is probably true for Northern California, but the implications are slightly different.
The Rest of Syria
The eastern part of Syria where we were celebrities forced into using Arabic was really the highlight. What followed will likely go down in my memory as "the rest."
We spent a few days in Aleppo, Syria's business/trade center. It felt a lot like Damascus, Syria's governmental center. We explored the old city's cobbled streets and bustling souq (market), just as we had in Damascus, before leaving for Hama.
When we arrived in Hama, a town that boasts about its river powered water wheels, we discovered that the reason they boast about them is that they are the only thing special about the town. We took a long river walk around and spent the rest of the day getting our pictures taken being superimposed on mountain landscapes in photoshop. Add me holding a squirrel, Heather riding a fox, a few tropical birds flying around and copies of our eyes enlarged and slightly translucent overlooking the scene from the clouds. A later version had each of us popping out of eggshells in matching shirts. The whole endeavor was great fun. I'm sure our crazy images are being used as marketing materials somewhere in Syria.
From Hama we spent a day exploring Krak de Chivillers, a huge castle where we continued our obsession with photographs, snapping glamor shots with our own cameras and posing like Charlie's Angels in long stone corridors.
Our taxi to Krak had to return to Hama, but we wanted to go 45 minutes west to the coastal town of Tartous. We were told that if we stood by the road that a minibus would pick us up for a fare. Before a minibus arrived, however, an 18-wheeler carrying what we may have correctly understood as a load of bananas stopped. The ride was short, the road was major and the driver very friendly. We took the calculated risk and jumped aboard.
Tartous was a bit dirty - a rather unappealing touristy "beach" town. We played cards at a local coffee shop where we drew a rather large crowed of staring men smoking arguillas...the usual here in the Middle East. The highlight of Tartous was a small island 3km off the coast - Arward: population 1,500. The Lonely Planet described it as a glorified garbage dump (a description that had oddly attracted both Heather and I to the off-the-beaten path adventure). The description was a bit of an overstatement. There was trash, but no more than many other places in the developing world. We walked around exploring the narrow cobbled streets and the small ship building yards. A young woman sitting on her balcony invited us up to her second floor home. We sat drinking "fresh & cold" a.k.a. orange juice with her and her middle aged brother, making conversation about politics (her views, really, not ours) as well as her brother's various injuries collected on his many trips around the world as a professional boat captain. I was sorry we had already checked out of our hotel or we may have extended our time on the island. As it were, time was forgiving, but not ample. We needed to get to the border in time to ensure entrance to our next stop: Lebanon.
We spent a few days in Aleppo, Syria's business/trade center. It felt a lot like Damascus, Syria's governmental center. We explored the old city's cobbled streets and bustling souq (market), just as we had in Damascus, before leaving for Hama.
When we arrived in Hama, a town that boasts about its river powered water wheels, we discovered that the reason they boast about them is that they are the only thing special about the town. We took a long river walk around and spent the rest of the day getting our pictures taken being superimposed on mountain landscapes in photoshop. Add me holding a squirrel, Heather riding a fox, a few tropical birds flying around and copies of our eyes enlarged and slightly translucent overlooking the scene from the clouds. A later version had each of us popping out of eggshells in matching shirts. The whole endeavor was great fun. I'm sure our crazy images are being used as marketing materials somewhere in Syria.From Hama we spent a day exploring Krak de Chivillers, a huge castle where we continued our obsession with photographs, snapping glamor shots with our own cameras and posing like Charlie's Angels in long stone corridors.
Our taxi to Krak had to return to Hama, but we wanted to go 45 minutes west to the coastal town of Tartous. We were told that if we stood by the road that a minibus would pick us up for a fare. Before a minibus arrived, however, an 18-wheeler carrying what we may have correctly understood as a load of bananas stopped. The ride was short, the road was major and the driver very friendly. We took the calculated risk and jumped aboard.Tartous was a bit dirty - a rather unappealing touristy "beach" town. We played cards at a local coffee shop where we drew a rather large crowed of staring men smoking arguillas...the usual here in the Middle East. The highlight of Tartous was a small island 3km off the coast - Arward: population 1,500. The Lonely Planet described it as a glorified garbage dump (a description that had oddly attracted both Heather and I to the off-the-beaten path adventure). The description was a bit of an overstatement. There was trash, but no more than many other places in the developing world. We walked around exploring the narrow cobbled streets and the small ship building yards. A young woman sitting on her balcony invited us up to her second floor home. We sat drinking "fresh & cold" a.k.a. orange juice with her and her middle aged brother, making conversation about politics (her views, really, not ours) as well as her brother's various injuries collected on his many trips around the world as a professional boat captain. I was sorry we had already checked out of our hotel or we may have extended our time on the island. As it were, time was forgiving, but not ample. We needed to get to the border in time to ensure entrance to our next stop: Lebanon.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
On Demand
Dier ez-Zur, Syria. The sun had gone down in this rural city a few hours northwest of the Iraq border. We were wondering through the streets lined with shoe shops and sweets looking for sustenance - some hummus perhaps? It was 7:10pm and the restaurant we found was temporarily closed for cleaning (what?#@%!). They told us to come back in 1/2 hour. We wandered around the corner. Before us stood a movie theater. The movie playing, "Millions" (a 2004 release), was in English.
We walked inside. Four men sat in the lobby. "What time is the next showing?" we asked. "Seven" was the reply. I looked at my watch - 7:15pm.
"Now? What have we missed so far?"
"Now." I took the lack of expansion on the second part of the question as an indication of their English ability.
"How much?"
"60 Syrian Pounds." ($1.15)
"Okay. We're in."
We paid our money and pulled the curtains aside to enter the theater. No film. No audience. The lights dimmed. "I'm going to get some water, mai. I'll be right back." I ran outside as the film started.
The wheels (or reels) were in motion and couldn't be stopped in this comical scenario of a movie on demand that couldn't wait. The preview was for the movie we were about to see. I made it back in time for the feature film. There was a constant buzz from the audio system. The volume was a little low. I went back to ask them to turn it up. Half way through the movie colored flood lights illuminated the screen from below. The movie stopped. They changed reels. It began again...on demand, sort of.
We walked inside. Four men sat in the lobby. "What time is the next showing?" we asked. "Seven" was the reply. I looked at my watch - 7:15pm.
"Now? What have we missed so far?"
"Now." I took the lack of expansion on the second part of the question as an indication of their English ability.
"How much?"
"60 Syrian Pounds." ($1.15)
"Okay. We're in."
We paid our money and pulled the curtains aside to enter the theater. No film. No audience. The lights dimmed. "I'm going to get some water, mai. I'll be right back." I ran outside as the film started.
The wheels (or reels) were in motion and couldn't be stopped in this comical scenario of a movie on demand that couldn't wait. The preview was for the movie we were about to see. I made it back in time for the feature film. There was a constant buzz from the audio system. The volume was a little low. I went back to ask them to turn it up. Half way through the movie colored flood lights illuminated the screen from below. The movie stopped. They changed reels. It began again...on demand, sort of.
"Bush Bad"
If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me what it was like traveling as an American I could fund this trip...or at least a flashy dinner at the Sheraton. Truly, however, I've had few problems. Even in Vietnam I was warmly welcomed...until Syria.
In 2002 George W. Bush declared Syria as part of the infamous "Axis of Evil" (or "Beyond the Axis of Evil" specifically) grouping them with North Korea, Iran, Iraq, Cuba and Libya. Syria was thus labeled a friend of terrorism. Memories are not short here.
In the more isolated towns in Eastern Syria Heather and I are quite the attraction. Our blue eyes and broad smiles draw crowds to restaurants where people watch us eat. We are the subject of numerous camera phone captures and photo requests (one man stopped us on a bridge, took pictures of us with various bystanders and returned 15 minutes later to sell the photographs). People joke with us in broken English (if we are lucky) and our basic Arabic. They give us pastries. They invite us for bottomless cups of tea.
"What is your name?" ...smile
"What is your work?" ...smile
"Where do you come from?" ...screech
The room drops 10 degrees. Laughter tails off. Smiles turn slightly down while eyes inquire about my politics. Some leave it there and move to the next shop passing on the spectacle disgusted by my national origin. Others inquire outright or strongly state their opinion by saying "Bush bad" grimacing or clearly displaying a thumbs down. With my agreement the room slowly starts to loosen, things warm and then..."Tony Blair?" Discussing the complexities of politics is out. Simplicity is the way. "Blair Bad," I shake my head and crinkle my nose. Relief again.
Heather and I have discussed whether or not I should just say that I am Canadian - they'd never know. The problem is that they'd also never know laughter with an American, the kind and curious heart of an American, the human face of an American - all of which transcend policy and politics. That said, there have been times I've let Heather answer the "Where are you from?" question for "us."
In 2002 George W. Bush declared Syria as part of the infamous "Axis of Evil" (or "Beyond the Axis of Evil" specifically) grouping them with North Korea, Iran, Iraq, Cuba and Libya. Syria was thus labeled a friend of terrorism. Memories are not short here.
In the more isolated towns in Eastern Syria Heather and I are quite the attraction. Our blue eyes and broad smiles draw crowds to restaurants where people watch us eat. We are the subject of numerous camera phone captures and photo requests (one man stopped us on a bridge, took pictures of us with various bystanders and returned 15 minutes later to sell the photographs). People joke with us in broken English (if we are lucky) and our basic Arabic. They give us pastries. They invite us for bottomless cups of tea.
"What is your name?" ...smile
"What is your work?" ...smile
"Where do you come from?" ...screech
The room drops 10 degrees. Laughter tails off. Smiles turn slightly down while eyes inquire about my politics. Some leave it there and move to the next shop passing on the spectacle disgusted by my national origin. Others inquire outright or strongly state their opinion by saying "Bush bad" grimacing or clearly displaying a thumbs down. With my agreement the room slowly starts to loosen, things warm and then..."Tony Blair?" Discussing the complexities of politics is out. Simplicity is the way. "Blair Bad," I shake my head and crinkle my nose. Relief again.
Heather and I have discussed whether or not I should just say that I am Canadian - they'd never know. The problem is that they'd also never know laughter with an American, the kind and curious heart of an American, the human face of an American - all of which transcend policy and politics. That said, there have been times I've let Heather answer the "Where are you from?" question for "us."
Our Palmyra
Heather and I joke that we can't just have a "normal" tourist day. We try to do the "regular" thing and something always happens. Like at Palmyra...
Palmyra: Syria's biggest tourist sight. It's a 50 hectare area that was once an impressive Roman city. It's vastness is far surpassed by the laziness of tourists who casually stroll down the center colonnade, explore the most notable temple and quickly seek refuge in their air conditioned bus or hotel room. Heather and I opted for the road less traveled and it made all the difference...
A small path diverged in the desert heading towards Roman tombs ripe for exploring. We stopped for a brief water and date break and broke from the masses...well, all 5 tourists that had made it to the end of the colonnade. One, however, had stuck with us - a young local man who had been watching us from a short distance snapping photos of us on his phone with a smarmy smile.
As we started to descent down the slight hill towards the tombs we noticed the man was following us. Having our pictures taken was nothing new, but this man was slightly off. Both of us had a bad feeling. We debated turning back. Instead we stopped to let him pass hoping he would continue on. Five feet, 10, 15, stop. He stalled looking even more suspicious (there is little to pretend to be occupied by in the open desert.) We started again. He started again.
"Yalla! Go!" we said in Arabic and gestured to him to stay away. We asked which way he was going and indicated that we would go in the opposite direction to keep our separation. He went his way, we went ours. Unfortunately "his way" changed course and brought him back to us. We stood rigidly with unfriendly faces, "Imshi! Get Away!" we demanded using a more forceful Arabic term, "Imshi!" He smirked as he continued his path towards us. Seemingly pleased with the distress he had caused, he passed. We moved in the opposite direction continuing to watch behind us. It was over.
We thought about Nicole Vienneau, the 33 year old Canadian woman who went missing in Syria last year. Even at Syria's most frequented sight and in a pair we felt alone, threatened. What had this man's intentions been? What would have happened had we not been so strong? What would have happened had "we" been only one solo traveler? We were safe but thought we should tell someone about our experience. Before leaving we returned to the ticket office where the guides were congregated around the fan. We relayed our story and provided a description of the man.
"Wait 10 minutes." We thought they were getting the police. Instead, the ticket man returned with the assailant in tow. "Is this him?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, mia mia - 100%"
There were some quick and heated words exchanged and SLAP, the young man's head nearly spun around, more strong warnings and an apology followed. He was about to cry from the shame. We were about to cry from the shock.
The guides and the ticket man were quite proud of their show of strength and assured us that our stalker would not return to bother anyone. "Palmyra is safe," they repeated. "Everything okay now?"
We felt sick.
Palmyra: Syria's biggest tourist sight. It's a 50 hectare area that was once an impressive Roman city. It's vastness is far surpassed by the laziness of tourists who casually stroll down the center colonnade, explore the most notable temple and quickly seek refuge in their air conditioned bus or hotel room. Heather and I opted for the road less traveled and it made all the difference...
A small path diverged in the desert heading towards Roman tombs ripe for exploring. We stopped for a brief water and date break and broke from the masses...well, all 5 tourists that had made it to the end of the colonnade. One, however, had stuck with us - a young local man who had been watching us from a short distance snapping photos of us on his phone with a smarmy smile.
As we started to descent down the slight hill towards the tombs we noticed the man was following us. Having our pictures taken was nothing new, but this man was slightly off. Both of us had a bad feeling. We debated turning back. Instead we stopped to let him pass hoping he would continue on. Five feet, 10, 15, stop. He stalled looking even more suspicious (there is little to pretend to be occupied by in the open desert.) We started again. He started again.
"Yalla! Go!" we said in Arabic and gestured to him to stay away. We asked which way he was going and indicated that we would go in the opposite direction to keep our separation. He went his way, we went ours. Unfortunately "his way" changed course and brought him back to us. We stood rigidly with unfriendly faces, "Imshi! Get Away!" we demanded using a more forceful Arabic term, "Imshi!" He smirked as he continued his path towards us. Seemingly pleased with the distress he had caused, he passed. We moved in the opposite direction continuing to watch behind us. It was over.
We thought about Nicole Vienneau, the 33 year old Canadian woman who went missing in Syria last year. Even at Syria's most frequented sight and in a pair we felt alone, threatened. What had this man's intentions been? What would have happened had we not been so strong? What would have happened had "we" been only one solo traveler? We were safe but thought we should tell someone about our experience. Before leaving we returned to the ticket office where the guides were congregated around the fan. We relayed our story and provided a description of the man.
"Wait 10 minutes." We thought they were getting the police. Instead, the ticket man returned with the assailant in tow. "Is this him?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, mia mia - 100%"
There were some quick and heated words exchanged and SLAP, the young man's head nearly spun around, more strong warnings and an apology followed. He was about to cry from the shame. We were about to cry from the shock.
The guides and the ticket man were quite proud of their show of strength and assured us that our stalker would not return to bother anyone. "Palmyra is safe," they repeated. "Everything okay now?"
We felt sick.
My Syrian Cell Phone
In most countries I purchase a pre-paid sim card for my cell phone. This gives me a local number for safety, logistics and keeping in touch with local friends. Generally these cares are simply purchased - hand over the money, hand over the card. Just like chewing gum. I was a little bit shocked to find that Syria's MTN network required a copy of my passport and Syrian Visa as well as my fingerprints! Upon further investigation, turns out that many bombs in Syria are detonated remotely with cell phones. This is one card I won't be giving to someone as I exit the country. Yikes!
Fatima
As I sat waiting for my visa at the Syrian border people watching passed the time. Hundreds of visitors crossed by car and bus. Fatima was among them.
Fatima arrived in a large group of Saudi Arabian women covered from head to toe in flowing black burkahs. Some showed their face, others just their eyes - individuality noticeable through purses and trim on the black fabric that uniformally swept across the floor. They took the seats along the stark white wall. Fatima strategically sat next to me.
She was 12 years old. Her English was about as good as my Arabic, but I could tell that she was a firecracker. Her smile broadened when I said I was from America. "California?" she asked, her eyes bursting with questions she couldn't articulate but was dying to. She subtly, but strategically, lifted her skirt to expose the jeans she wore underneath and readjusted her tarhan showing the blond streaks she had proudly put in her hair. The other women kept their distance, but she relished every moment next to an American girl.
Conversation was difficult. She learned some English in school. She was on vacation in Syria. She like American music (or at least what she had heard of it). I gave her a chocolate. To my surprise instead of eating it she wrote something in Arabic on it to cement the memory. I hoped it wouldn't melt ruining not only her pocket but her souvenir of this meeting. Heather had a bracelet she decided she could part with. We gave it to Fatima in friendship and in hope that she might then part with the chocolate and avoid disaster and heartbreak. Her face glowed with excitement. Having already exhausted our vocabularies, "How old are you?" "What is your name?" "My name is..." we sat satisfied with our exchange and enjoyed the mutual excitement and curiousity that surrounded our friendship, however brief. She soon left with her bus, but ran back a few minutes later to say goodbye and give us a black leather bracelet adorned with bronze studs and crystal sparkles.
As Fatima left, Heather and I contemplated her fate. What would it be like to be born into her society with so much life? Fatima would not be content with handbags and trim. It was a sad thought, but this brief brush with the West could be a highlight in her life. I wish I had gotten her email or an address. I would have liked to continue to follow this remarkable girl as she found her way.
Fatima arrived in a large group of Saudi Arabian women covered from head to toe in flowing black burkahs. Some showed their face, others just their eyes - individuality noticeable through purses and trim on the black fabric that uniformally swept across the floor. They took the seats along the stark white wall. Fatima strategically sat next to me.
She was 12 years old. Her English was about as good as my Arabic, but I could tell that she was a firecracker. Her smile broadened when I said I was from America. "California?" she asked, her eyes bursting with questions she couldn't articulate but was dying to. She subtly, but strategically, lifted her skirt to expose the jeans she wore underneath and readjusted her tarhan showing the blond streaks she had proudly put in her hair. The other women kept their distance, but she relished every moment next to an American girl.Conversation was difficult. She learned some English in school. She was on vacation in Syria. She like American music (or at least what she had heard of it). I gave her a chocolate. To my surprise instead of eating it she wrote something in Arabic on it to cement the memory. I hoped it wouldn't melt ruining not only her pocket but her souvenir of this meeting. Heather had a bracelet she decided she could part with. We gave it to Fatima in friendship and in hope that she might then part with the chocolate and avoid disaster and heartbreak. Her face glowed with excitement. Having already exhausted our vocabularies, "How old are you?" "What is your name?" "My name is..." we sat satisfied with our exchange and enjoyed the mutual excitement and curiousity that surrounded our friendship, however brief. She soon left with her bus, but ran back a few minutes later to say goodbye and give us a black leather bracelet adorned with bronze studs and crystal sparkles.
As Fatima left, Heather and I contemplated her fate. What would it be like to be born into her society with so much life? Fatima would not be content with handbags and trim. It was a sad thought, but this brief brush with the West could be a highlight in her life. I wish I had gotten her email or an address. I would have liked to continue to follow this remarkable girl as she found her way.
From Jordan to Syria: The Visa
The guidebook and the Internet say that visas for Syria must be obtained *prior* to arrival and in one's home country. Visas will not be given at the borders. Anecdotally, however, there doesn't seem to be a huge problem...unless you are American.
I met some American students in Egypt who had tried at the border. They had success, but reported having to wait hours for a "full background check" to be completed. For some "hours" was five, for others it was eight, for one unfortunate one with curly hair, a pronounced nose and a Jewish last name it was 32 hours...but he got in, and so would I. I held my breath, brought plenty of water, a book and some nuts and hoped that my Anglo features, German surname and charming smile would cut my time to a minimum.
End Result: 3 hours 13 minutes
What was my secret?
- A generous helping of smiles and bubbly charisma
- The endearing yet strategic use of broken Arabic
- Having Canadian and Hong Kong citizens waiting for me
- Waiting seemingly patiently
- Displaying my newest gold pendant (Allah's name as written in the Koran)
- Passport stamps indicating my conscious avoidance of Israel when crossing to Egypt
- Subtle flirtation with the middle-aged administrator who after the visa was issued asked for my phone number...not for government purposes (men are men all over the world)
I met some American students in Egypt who had tried at the border. They had success, but reported having to wait hours for a "full background check" to be completed. For some "hours" was five, for others it was eight, for one unfortunate one with curly hair, a pronounced nose and a Jewish last name it was 32 hours...but he got in, and so would I. I held my breath, brought plenty of water, a book and some nuts and hoped that my Anglo features, German surname and charming smile would cut my time to a minimum.
End Result: 3 hours 13 minutes
What was my secret?
- A generous helping of smiles and bubbly charisma
- The endearing yet strategic use of broken Arabic
- Having Canadian and Hong Kong citizens waiting for me
- Waiting seemingly patiently
- Displaying my newest gold pendant (Allah's name as written in the Koran)
- Passport stamps indicating my conscious avoidance of Israel when crossing to Egypt
- Subtle flirtation with the middle-aged administrator who after the visa was issued asked for my phone number...not for government purposes (men are men all over the world)
Did Jesus Walk on Water?
My second trip to Jordan (en route to Syria) included my second trip to the Dead Sea, this time for a swim...or a float as it were. I had been warned: don't shave your legs before going in, keep your eyes well clear of the water, rinse off immediately to avoid an itchy few hours. The salt content is nothing to mess with.
The water is so salty that some cite the salination of the Dead Sea to explain how Jesus walked on water. I'm not sure if Jesus walked on water or no (the fact is rather irrelevant in the formation of my religious beliefs) but what I do know is that if he did, the Dead Sea's role in the whole event makes it more plausible.
Remember laying in the pool face up with your father's hand under your back? Relax, keep your body straight, float. None of this technical direction needed here. The salt acts as your water wings. Your bum feels as though there is a partially inflated innertube supporting it. Push down and you quickly pop back up. Hands in the air, feet in the air, doesn't matter. You are floating. No need to tread water. No need to doggie paddle. No need to worry...unless the salt gets in your eye or mouth. Just one drop will burn the taste buds off the tip of your tongue.
The water is so salty that some cite the salination of the Dead Sea to explain how Jesus walked on water. I'm not sure if Jesus walked on water or no (the fact is rather irrelevant in the formation of my religious beliefs) but what I do know is that if he did, the Dead Sea's role in the whole event makes it more plausible.
Remember laying in the pool face up with your father's hand under your back? Relax, keep your body straight, float. None of this technical direction needed here. The salt acts as your water wings. Your bum feels as though there is a partially inflated innertube supporting it. Push down and you quickly pop back up. Hands in the air, feet in the air, doesn't matter. You are floating. No need to tread water. No need to doggie paddle. No need to worry...unless the salt gets in your eye or mouth. Just one drop will burn the taste buds off the tip of your tongue.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
The "Travel Checklist"
It's easy to lose yourself in what I would like to call the "Travel Checklist." It is that helpful, yet terribly unhelpful list of "highlights" provided by Lonely Planet, Rough Guide, Forders or whatever guidebook you may be using. It is that list of scribbles your friend wrote down from their trip outlining what you "can't miss" on your trip. It is your preconceived notion of what you should be seeing that keeps you moving when you really should stay put and enjoy where you are.
One thing I've found in my journey is that the places I remember with the greatest fondness are not those one will find condensed into a text box. They often aren't called out on a glossy map. You won't find them in a picture book on a coffee table. The places I will remember with the greatest fondness are those places from which I will receive a letter every once in a while upon my return home, where I have friends...members of my global family. Flores, Perth, Amman, Siwa...
I see so many tourists who see the sights, but miss the country. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, but am apprehensive about returning to this way myself. It is the reality of eventually returning to a job and only 2 weeks of vacation that leaves little room for what I have come to know as travel. The days of adding 1/2 again the amount of time recommended by the Lonely Planet are limited (although not anytime soon "inshallah").
One thing I've found in my journey is that the places I remember with the greatest fondness are not those one will find condensed into a text box. They often aren't called out on a glossy map. You won't find them in a picture book on a coffee table. The places I will remember with the greatest fondness are those places from which I will receive a letter every once in a while upon my return home, where I have friends...members of my global family. Flores, Perth, Amman, Siwa...
I see so many tourists who see the sights, but miss the country. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, but am apprehensive about returning to this way myself. It is the reality of eventually returning to a job and only 2 weeks of vacation that leaves little room for what I have come to know as travel. The days of adding 1/2 again the amount of time recommended by the Lonely Planet are limited (although not anytime soon "inshallah").
My Literal Oasis
I was ready to leave Egypt. I had completed my "check-list" and felt there was little more to keep me in this country that had on too many occasions made me queasy (and not because of bad falafel). But not yet...one last stop and a final chance for a country that I was sure could offer more. Siwa - Egypt's most isolated desert oasis (still visited by tourists and travelers) less than 100km from the Libyan border.
Siwa saved Egypt.
I arrived in Siwa 10 hours after departing from Cairo by bus. The sun had gone down about an hour before and the streets had been lit up by warm orange lights shining onto the dusty road below. 4WDs passed infrequently as did donkey carts loaded with alfalfa. The people smiled and welcomed visitors as warmly as the street lamps appeared. I checked into a budget hotel with my latest travel buddy Heather (Canadian). We opened our guidebook and started to figure out what there was to see and how we should organize them.
The first day Heather and I made it our mission to lift our spirits by lifting the spirits of those in town. Siwa was small enough that the two of us could have an impact if we could coax a laugh or even a smile out of every person we interacted with. While we were very successful in this goal, we spent our first day in this dusty desert town without seeing anything recommended in the guidebook. By nightfall, however, we were more than pleased with Siwa and our first 24 hours and had a car booked out to a nearby lesser-visited oasis town of Qara for the next day.
Qara was okay. Our grandiose vision of a town so happy to see Westerners that they would roll out the food and celebrate with songs and smiles (as the guidebook suggested) was quickly dashed by small hands shoving local textiles and hand woven baskets in our faces and demands for "backsheesh" (or tip) at the sign of a camera. The children of the town had been trained to see $$$ in our blue eyes. We shook it off and enjoyed the day despite, joking around with our driver, Abdu.
By the end of the day Abdu was in love with us...well, me in particular. After returning we cleaned up and met for dinner. He was so handsome I thought he must be Siwa's biggest playa', but we just couldn't turn down the offer of a personal guide gratis for the duration of our stay...did I mention he was terribly handsome? The next day we would join his trip to the Western Desert's dunes and springs and stay the night in the desert.
One of the lucky gentlemen we had made laugh our first day in Siwa had also taken to Heather. Ahmed, was not quite as cute as Abdu, but made up for it by running 3 businesses and working for a local NGO by the very successful age of 26. He joined our excursion and along with 4 Sweedish girls, we set off on our desert double date. We visited Bir Waheed for a soak in the hot springs, splashed around in Cold Lake, visited a fossilized bed of seashells surrounded by dunes, sand boarded at sunset and set up camp before witnessing a spectacular moonrise.
We stayed in Siwa for one week and at last had to rip ourselves away to avoid getting stuck there permanently. It's the kind of place I could see myself realizing one day that I had been there 3 months under an expired Egyptian visa. As it was, we woke up only 7 days into our stay and realized we had barely scratched Siwa's surface visiting a mere fraction of what the guidebook recommended. Instead we had focused on the people, our friendships, the oasis atmosphere, smiles, the hot springs, the moonrises, the stars that lined the horizon and stretched densely across the night sky. Thank you, Siwa.
Siwa saved Egypt.
I arrived in Siwa 10 hours after departing from Cairo by bus. The sun had gone down about an hour before and the streets had been lit up by warm orange lights shining onto the dusty road below. 4WDs passed infrequently as did donkey carts loaded with alfalfa. The people smiled and welcomed visitors as warmly as the street lamps appeared. I checked into a budget hotel with my latest travel buddy Heather (Canadian). We opened our guidebook and started to figure out what there was to see and how we should organize them.
The first day Heather and I made it our mission to lift our spirits by lifting the spirits of those in town. Siwa was small enough that the two of us could have an impact if we could coax a laugh or even a smile out of every person we interacted with. While we were very successful in this goal, we spent our first day in this dusty desert town without seeing anything recommended in the guidebook. By nightfall, however, we were more than pleased with Siwa and our first 24 hours and had a car booked out to a nearby lesser-visited oasis town of Qara for the next day.
Qara was okay. Our grandiose vision of a town so happy to see Westerners that they would roll out the food and celebrate with songs and smiles (as the guidebook suggested) was quickly dashed by small hands shoving local textiles and hand woven baskets in our faces and demands for "backsheesh" (or tip) at the sign of a camera. The children of the town had been trained to see $$$ in our blue eyes. We shook it off and enjoyed the day despite, joking around with our driver, Abdu.
By the end of the day Abdu was in love with us...well, me in particular. After returning we cleaned up and met for dinner. He was so handsome I thought he must be Siwa's biggest playa', but we just couldn't turn down the offer of a personal guide gratis for the duration of our stay...did I mention he was terribly handsome? The next day we would join his trip to the Western Desert's dunes and springs and stay the night in the desert.
One of the lucky gentlemen we had made laugh our first day in Siwa had also taken to Heather. Ahmed, was not quite as cute as Abdu, but made up for it by running 3 businesses and working for a local NGO by the very successful age of 26. He joined our excursion and along with 4 Sweedish girls, we set off on our desert double date. We visited Bir Waheed for a soak in the hot springs, splashed around in Cold Lake, visited a fossilized bed of seashells surrounded by dunes, sand boarded at sunset and set up camp before witnessing a spectacular moonrise.
We stayed in Siwa for one week and at last had to rip ourselves away to avoid getting stuck there permanently. It's the kind of place I could see myself realizing one day that I had been there 3 months under an expired Egyptian visa. As it was, we woke up only 7 days into our stay and realized we had barely scratched Siwa's surface visiting a mere fraction of what the guidebook recommended. Instead we had focused on the people, our friendships, the oasis atmosphere, smiles, the hot springs, the moonrises, the stars that lined the horizon and stretched densely across the night sky. Thank you, Siwa.
It's a Shame About Egypt
Egypt has some of the most impressive sights I have ever seen. The pyramids, if you can believe it, are possibly the least so. The color and details in the tombs, the wealth of the pharaohs' belongings, the scientific feat of mummies, the sheer size of statues and hieroglyphic adorned columns mesmerize their audiences. Unfortunately the striking beauty and easy enjoyment ends at the gate where hundreds of aggressive vendors and scammers harass and hassle tourists by the bus load. 
Most people visit Egypt by organized tours - 42 people at a time. They swarm together through the sights as if on a timed game show, seeing only the "musts." Most dress inappropriately for a Muslim nation (shorts, t-shirts, spaghetti straps) and don't take the time to learn about the culture or figure out if they are being swindled and paying up to 6 times the appropriate price for items being sold on the tourist track. The quick money and lack of cultural respect has taken its toll and has trained a nation how to treat Westerners...similarly. Take, take, take.
The end result is that Egypt leaves one with a fondness that is overshadowed by discomfort and anger. Souvenirs are tainted by memories and feelings of manipulation and worse, possible friendships are marred with lingering questions of distrust. Egyptians take advantage and tourists take tours. The cycle continues.
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