The backdrop for our story this evening (depending on your time zone) is not the mouldy minarets of Istanbul, and our yarn is not one of a börek binge across the Balkans, for once. No, no. This harrowing tale takes place in the desert, and involves mostly falafel (and a mediocre chicken dinner one time). Listen (read) closely (at an optimal viewing distance) as I shock and awe you with the mother of all my journeys in...
(1/3 of) The Axis of Evil!
It all started something like this:
Aaron: Hey, Nisha, for semester break, wanna go someplace kinda scary and backwards?
Nisha: Sure! How about France?
Aaron: Nah, too far away. How about Syria?
Nisha: Well.... Ok. But I'm warning you that I'm going to lose my passport at least once, and probably lots of other things like money and credit cards, which will more than likely make our trip far more stressful than is necessary.
Aaron: I know, that's why I've invited you.
With that, Aaron packed up a few pairs of clean underwear, his now-outdated "I don't like Bush either" t-shirt, kissed his very, very angry girlfriend goodbye, grabbed Nisha and jumped on a slow train from Istanbul that wound its way southeast, across Anatolia and over the Taurus Mountains, pausing briefly in Adana for some kebap and spicy beet juice, and eventually arriving in the Middle East (gasp!), where Aaron was prepared to risk life, limb and head in order to prove to himself once and for all that America and her government are profoundly and irrevocably full of shit.What he didn't expect to find was a bunch of pot-smoking bisexual chicks dancing the tango on a mountain at midnight. Needless to say, he was pleasantly surprised.
Let's take a moment here to give some background... See, what you have to understand here is that during Aaron's formative years, he briefly fell madly in love with a Syrian girl. And then her sister... who, coincidentally, was also a Syrian girl. Unfortunately, the first would only let him kiss her if he put a razor blade in his mouth, and the second wouldn't let him put a razor blade anywhere near her mouth, so he got confused and began a lifelong string of unsuccessful relationships with women, characterized by an unhappy mix of sadomasochism and algophobia.
Thus, it should come as no surprise that the Syrian sisters' stories of female repression, family members being imprisoned and tortured for ideological reasons, and life constantly under the discriminating eye of the secret police caused young Aaron to fantasize about that faraway land, Syria, for his entire adolescence and young adulthood. 15 years later, here he finally was, poised at Bab al-Hawa, the Door to the Wind, the entrance into الجمهورية العربية السورية, the country of his worst dreams and best nightmares.
Now, you'd think that with George Bush Jr. calling Syria "evil", they'd be a bit reluctant to let Americans in their borders, wouldn't you? Well, you'd be right. When Aaron flashed his American passport at the border, conspicuously bereft of visa, the border guards all just shook their heads and told him to sit down. And wait. For an indeterminate period of time.
In fact, Aaron became the focus of a kind of game for one border guard in particular, who would sit behind the counter, smoke cigarettes and drink tea, and occasionally stand up and wildly beckon Aaron to come, as if his visa were ready. As soon as Aaron jumped up and took a couple of hasty steps forward, the guard would laugh, take a big gulp of tea, and shake his head dismissively. After a couple of hours, when the border guard realized that Aaron would, without fail, fall for this EVERY SINGLE TIME, he eventually grew tired of it and started looking at a porn magazine.
Nisha, on the other hand, had no problem getting a visa. She just walked up, black as the night sky (on a clear night, when there's a full moon, and lots of street lights in the general vicinity... or maybe a football stadium...) flashed her Trinidadian passport, and the border guards went, "Ah, Africa! Ok, no problem" and gave her a visa. It was only when Nisha, being the sweetheart she is, tried to draw a map of her country to entertain the friendly policemen, that they went, "wait, that's not Africa!" and snatched the visa back, leaving us both sitting on the bench, watching our favorite border guard drink his tea and snicker at us. All day.
7 1/2 hours of Syrian coffee and hopelessness later, night fell, and Aaron and Nisha were still on the bench. So, Aaron decided to try a new tactic. He found the biggest, meanest, nastiest looking border guard of all, walked up to the glass, stuck out his lower lip and made a puppy dog face. The fat man's stern visage broke. He smiled at Aaron, nodded his head, and picked up the telephone. Within minutes, Aaron and Nisha's passports were being stamped, and they were ushered into a private car and whisked away to exotic Aleppo. At night. With no Syrian money. And nowhere to stay.
Fortunately, Aaron often reads travel literature instead of working, and so was able to produce the name of the Hotel Baron, internationally famous for being so bad that Lawrence of Arabia didn't pay the bill, which has ironically become such a point of pride that they've framed and displayed the unpaid bill in the lobby. Well, it turns out that Lawrence had decent taste, and after becoming intimately acquainted with the hotel bar, Nisha and Aaron extricated themselves from the premises and stumbled into the tautologically named Tourist Hotel.
The first thing you notice about the Middle East is how Middle Easty it is. I mean, lots of people remark they've gone to New York or L.A. and been surprised to find that it's EXACTLY as they saw it on TV. Which makes sense because, of course, TV never lies. So, recalling the thousands of videos of Middle Eastern nations that Aaron has seen on Fox news, Aaron wasn't at all surprised to see dust, palm trees, white blocky apartment buildings, dirty men wearing turbans and posters of sunglassed generals waving at the people. In fact, he was only surprised to see himself in the middle of it.Now, although Nisha understandably stood out like a sore, black thumb, Aaron was more worried about what the locals would say when he admitted to being American, for as ashamed as Aaron perpetually is of his birthplace, he vowed upon leaving it that he would never lie about his heritage. Thus, when a smiling Arab selling fried meat inside fried bread dipped in boiling fry-oil asked Nisha, "Where are you from?", Aaron steeled himself. When Nisha repiled "Trinidad", the man exhibited a puzzled look, put his hand over his heart and said, "welcome in Syria!"
Next, the man turned to Aaron and repeated the question. What should Aaron do? Pretend he doesn't understand English? Beg forgiveness? Shout "!Bush أنا أكره" and run? I mean, he didn't want to be kidnapped and decapitated on the first day! He hadn't even tried the falafel yet! With an audible swallow, he looked the Arab directly in the eyes and evenly stated, "America". Shock stole into the Arab's face, but was quickly replaced by a warm smile, and when the man placed his hand over his chest, this time he bowed and uttered the words, "you are MORE than welcome in Syria!"
You see, my brainwashed buddies, you have been LIED TO. Syrians don't hate Americans. They LOVE Americans. Every single person that Aaron met in Syria LOVED that he was from America. He got the royal treatment. He was scarcely able to pay for anything, from coffee, to food, to chocolate cake. They didn't hate him because he was free (he's not). They didn't hate him because he was rich (he's not). They loved to see him in their country because he was proof that Americans aren't all oil-hungry, racist, hyper-religious, capitalist pigs. They loved him because he confirmed universal humanity. They loved him because his white skin and fresh smile, right there in the dirtiest, poorest neighborhood Aaron had ever seen in his life, meant that there was hope - hope that we wouldn't all eventually just kill each other in a chaotic mass of intolerance and misunderstanding. And Aaron loved them all too.
Except the fucking taxi drivers.
See, the taxi drivers in Syria REALLY don't want to use the meters. They'll argue and argue about price, but will very rarely just flip the fucking meter on, no matter how many times you ask. This is because taxis, like the price of petrol, are laughably cheap. If they can squeeze 20 more Syrian pounds out of you, their seven children can each get their very own spoonful of hummus that evening. In fact, if you get in a taxi anywhere in Syria and ask to go to the bus stop, they'll ask "where are you going?". When you confusedly reply "the bus stop," they'll reply, "yeah, but where are you GOING?" Once you tell them your destination, which may be totally across the entire country, they'll insist that they drive you there personally, no matter how long it takes, for less than you'd pay for a taxi from JFK Airport into Manhattan.
Despite a barrage of smiles, pleas, and eventually curses (wow, that sounds a lot like the stages of most of Aaron's relationships), Aaron insisted on traveling by train to Damascus, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, the City of Jasmine, the City that Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) spied from the mountaintop and proclaimed to be heaven on Earth. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but it was still pretty cool. Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) had a pretty good eye, he did.
See, Damascus is where Aaron met Rana and Rahja, two cool chicks living in the shadow of subjugation. They met in a smoky little bar in the Christian district, whence the young ladies whisked Aaron across the crumbling city, from secret shops in the souks to vine-lined cafes full of shisha smoke. On the top of a mountain, under the light of a haloed moon, Aaron and Rahja danced the tango like there was no tomorrow... until approximately 11:45, when Rahja announced she had to go home. After a winding minibus trip down the mountain, Rahja smiled goodbye and told Aaron to be careful, because the minibus driver was high on cough syrup and was considering stabbing him and taking his money. Aaron smiled, kissed Rahja's cheek, and ran.
From Damascus, Aaron and Nisha headed east into the desert, 150 km from the Iraqi border (yes, Aaron tried to convince Nisha to go all the way. No, she wouldn't go. Yes, Aaron is glad about that now), to the ancient ruins of Palmyria, still home to thousands of Bedouins.
Ah, the Bedouins... The peaceful, nomadic Bedouins. These paragons of a forgotten culture come from a simpler time. A time before the world moved on. A time when people's spirits weren't soiled with modern evils like money, technology, or mortgages... O, who hasn't dreamed of embarking on a trek across the desert on your camel, sharing a fire with your friends in the evenings, greeting fellow nomads with a hearty "As-Salāmu `Alaykum!" What a life that would be!Of course, even your average Bedouin needs a double cheeseburger every now and then, and unfortunately, McDonalds won't supersize your meal for a handful of camel-bone beads. Th
us, to feed their repressed need for things like transistor radios and the occasional night out drinking and whoring, they will follow you and bother you and they will never ever ever stop until you buy some of their thrice-damned necklaces. And I say some because if you only buy one or two, another 14-year-old boy will come and say that you've shamed him and ultimately yourself by not buying his necklaces and instead buying his friends'. And then dozens will appear and follow you across the desert, circling and crowding you and alternating between scowling and sulking while shaking headscarves and camel-hair bracelets and all kinds of SHIT at you that you don't want in your face. Just buy it all, my friends; save yourself the trouble. They make nice presents, and even Ahmed's gotta get a leg over every now and then.
Now, Palmyria itself... A 4000-year-old city built on the only oasis in the Syrian desert. An oasis that is, as our tour guide explained while he tore his clothes and wailed at the evils of the white man and their fat women and little yapping dogs, being drained to service the five-star hotel on the outskirts of town. Nisha and Aaron instead stayed in a Bedouin hotel, which made no sense at all to Aaron because Bedouins are supposed to be nomads, but was still pretty cool for like 8 bucks a night.After a quick camel tour around the ancient ruins at dawn, Aaron and Nisha's desert escapade was about to end, and the pair saw themselves heading back north to comparative civilization and the aforementioned angry girlfriend, who was to meet them in Aleppo. The three, reunited again, pranced about the city, stalked a group of Erasmus students, and reveled in the Middle Eastern mystique of it all. Until the Sheraton incident...
It was the last night in Syria. The three were in the restaurant of the Sheraton hotel, enjoying arak (Syrian Rakı - they just put the syllables in the wrong order) and imported cigarettes (Alhamra, the Syrian brand, literally tastes like smoking slightly damp straw pulled from a dung heap). Suddenly, a well-dressed, clean-shaven young Arab popped over to their table and asked for a light. When they produced one, he invited the three to his table for a drink with his friend. They were day traders, apparently, making thousands by day, spending thousands by night - cool, suave, Westernized. After a week and a half of meeting some of the most genuine, honest people our heros had ever met, they were prepared to believe them. Until one of them accosted Aaron's girlfriend in the toilet.
Well, tried to, anyways. She darted out of the toilet, came back to the table and said she'd wait outside. Thinking that she'd fallen ill, Aaron followed her out, where he found her crying. After she had reluctantly explained to Aaron what had happened, he moved to storm inside with the intention of confronting the forked-tongued devil, but she held his sleeve, pleading "please don't cause a scene, please!"
Now, Aaron isn't generally one to make a scene with normal people (you don't count, taxi drivers!), and this time was no exception. While the damsel in distress (and as he would later discover, dementia) sat with Nisha, drunkenly bawling her eyes out and unnerving everyone around, screaming about Arabs and how terrible they are, Aaron called the man from the lobby (he had given his phone number) and demanded an apology, which the man gave without hesitation. The matter was sufficiently taken care of. Or so Aaron thought.
When he returned to the table of woe, he whispered, "it's ok honey, there's no problem anymore. The bad man has gone." However, the security guards were eying him strangely. "Honey, please calm down," Aaron continued, while she screamed, bawled, cried, shrieked, and generally annoyed everyone within earshot. Finally, a well-groomed young man wearing a uniform approached our hero and asked him what had happened. After Aaron explained, the man asked, "so why did you hit her?"
Wait, what the fuck?
Yes, that's right dear readers, for protecting his girlfrend's honor in the most civilized and pacifistic of ways, Aaron was accused of assaulting a woman in the Middle East. He denied it, of course, and they brought the security guard who "saw" it over to shake his head disgustedly at Aaron. Aaron implored his girlfriend, "please tell them that I didn't hit you!", but she was too busy blubbering and blabbering incoherently to save her boyfriend from a Syrian death squad. Finally, after nigh 10 minutes of furious denial, Aaron said to the manager, "but why would I hit my girlfriend?"
"Oh, wait, she's your girlfriend?" he questioned, surprised.
"Yes, she's my girlfriend!"
"Oh, well, ok then, why didn't you say that?" he muttered, apparently satisfied, and escorted the three out the back door.
See, their only concern had been that Aaron had hit a guest. What he did with his own "property" was of little concern to them. Now this was the Syria Aaron had expected.
Thus, the next morning, it was with a mixure of sadness and relief that the three sped down the Syrian highway, zigzagged through the border traffic, and arrived in southeastern Turkey yet again. Their journey would lead them back across Anatolia, where they would hear the legend of the Lake-That-Kills-You-When-You-Swim-In-It-On-Tuesdays, learn how to roll their own sarma, and finally come to accept that the best way to get what you want is to be a whiny bitch.But I'm getting carpal tunnel, so you'll just have to wait.
