Flow of Traffic

First off, I'm getting closer to caught up with real time.. I've been typing in my handwritten journals as I get the time to do so, but soon I'll be writing a little more 'live'. Also, thanks to all those who have said 'hi', I don't have most people's email addresses on my webmail so I can't reply personally. For those who want to know, my email address is mylastname.10@osu.edu

Anyhow, on with the tale...

So I was feeling a little irate about not being picked up at the airport and feeling a little ripped off by the porter. And, I wasn't entirely certain if I was being taken to where I wanted to go. The airport is a fair distance from town, so I got to see a bit of the countryside on the way. Mostly dirt, not much plant life. It was, as expected, very hot compared to the air conditioned airport, and the air was thick with dust and smog. As we approached town we passed through some of the poorer areas on the outskirts. Houses were made of plain cinder blocks, many with partial walls on at least one side. This scene went on for some time, so I asked the driver if most of the city looked like this, but he said no, the older parts were much better. This was the most conversation I was ready to muster in Arabic at the time.

The driver didn't appear to be concerned with the dividing lines on the freeway, and neither was anyone else. It felt like we were going pretty fast, so I looked at the speedometer - nearly 140 km/h. I didn't know how that translated to mph, but it was fast enough to be a little scary, particularly in the small, beat-up cab with all the windows rolled down, the driver smoking a cigarette as we fled down the freeway. He had a number of pictures taped on his dashboard. I looked for one of Mel Gibson as the Road Warrior, but they all appeared to be of his family. Sometimes another slower car would appear in the 'lane' we were using, and the driver would simply honk his horn at them a few times and they yielded to us. As we got into town the traffic got thicker and I found that this was the technique employed by all drivers in Damascus. The road from the airport had quickly turned into something like downtown streets, with sidewalks packed with people passing in front of shops of all varieties. The road itself was filled with taxis, buses, minivans with signs on them indicating their routes ('services', pronounced ser-VEE-ses, another kind of public transportation), and a small number of privately owned vehicles. There were also those insane enough to ride bicycles or walk within this mess. All of them flowed through the streets like blood cells in an artery, with no real lanes and few traffic controls. There were some roundabouts, like you might find in London, and very few intersections with traffic lights. Beige uniformed police with orange and white batons suggested the flow of traffic at the more complex junctions. (Though not so many with automatic weapons, as some sources had told me.)

The driver passed through all of this very efficiently. I was surprised to have not seen any wrecks, and so far (this was a week and a half ago) I have seen neither an accident nor a traffic jam. Its free market theory applied to traffic, and it works well. The only drawback is the constant honking of horns that drivers use to let each other know where they are. Its not an angry honk, like when someone cuts you off, its merely an indicator, a kind of collective sonar that skillful drivers use to keep from colliding with each other. Ok, sometimes its an angry honk. Its a very complex language, all spoken in rhythms created by the single tone of a car horn. I haven't seen a rental car agency in Damascus, and I don't think there ever would be one. But, this city is full of surprises for the foreign traveler, so that may exist as well. I just wouldn't recommend it to anyone who isn't a professional driver on the NASCAR circuit.

The driver turned into a dark alley I was certain was not intended for car traffic, but he was confident. It was barely wide enough to open the car doors on either side. The chaos of the city streets suddenly gave way to a much more tranquil setting. On either side of the alley on a raised deck were restaurant tables with candles on them, and people casually enjoying a meal. The car turned a corner and came to a stop in front of the well-lit open doorway to the lobby of the Hotel al-Majed.

"Welcome to Syria"

At first, when leaving the plane from Vienna, it was announced that we would all have to leave through the front door. After a bit the back door opened and some of us left through the back and got onto a shuttle bus. I never saw the rest of the passengers again.

The entry area in Damascus Airport is relatively small and police in beige uniforms are everywhere. I expected to see a representative from the University there. I wandered around, trying to look lost (not difficult), and hoped that someone would call out my name or that I would spot someone holding a sign with my name on it. Nothing. I was told that another student from the language program would be on my flight. I'm guessing the rest of the plane was taken to a different entry area, because I did not see any other American students there. Everyone around me did not look lost and appeared to know what they are doing.

I eventually gave up on finding the university rep and began the immigration process on my own. A sign led me to believe that I had to exchange my currency and obtain a receipt before getting in line to have my passport examined. I went to the line marked "Exchang" (sic) This line was only about eight people long when I queued up, but it took half an hour before my turn. When that time came, the uniformed man behind the window asked me why I was in the country and so forth, completely in Arabic. I didn't understand some of his questions and had to rephrase them back to him for clarification. I already had my cash and passport in hand, hoping to expedite the process. When he seemed content with my reasons for being there, I tried to hand him my forty dollars, but he would only take a twenty and my passport. He opened it up and flipped through it and started complaining angrily. A teenage boy behind me in line stepped in and began translating for me. While I thought I was in line to exchange money, I was in line to buy an entry visa, which was already stamped on my passport because I had bought it through the mail. Another man in line asked me "if you already have a visa, why did you come to exchange?" I told him I thought I was just exchanging money (which, it turns out, does indeed occur at the same window.) The teenager explained this to the man behind the window. He nodded with exasperation. I gave him my other twenty. He counted out some brightly colored bills and gave them, and my passport, back to me and waved me on.

After this I went to the immigration queue, which went much faster - until I came to the window. I answered the same questions as I did at the exchange, except this time I was being asked by two higher ranking military men who spoke some english. A third was called over and they had a discussion about me while examing my passport under an ultraviolet light. Suddenly they put a stamp on my passport and gave it back and waved their hand at me without looking. I hoped that meant I could go in, because I didn't want to try to walk past the guard at the gate if it didn't. But he let me pass, after having a look at my passport himself.

I found baggage claim, or at least an area on the floor where my suitcase was sitting. I grabbed it and headed out the door where I found, like in most airports, a number of people holding signs with names on them, none of them mine. I tried asking around "Jaamiat Dimashq?" but nobody was looking for me. I milled around for a while, which got me nowhere.

Taxi drivers began asking me "you need taxi?" I still held out hope that I would find the representative from the university, so I ignored them and wandered around. I dug the phone number of my contact person at the university and sought a phone. When I did, I couldn't even figure out how to dial the number correctly.

Finally a man holding a sign with somebody else's name on it asked me, in english, if I was from the oil company. I said no, and explained my problem. He looked at the number and dialed it on his cell phone and handed it to me. No answer, no voice mail. I told him I was supposed to go to the Hotel al-Majed but I didn't know what part of town that was in. He did, and explained to me how to go to a counter where I could reliably hire a cab.

I thanked him, and went to the counter. I paid 500 lira for a taxi, and was given a receipt with my destination writen on it. A porter came and picked up my bags, and I followed him out to the cab. The driver was still inside the airport doing whatever. The porter loaded my bags in the trunk and I got into the taxi. He offered me a Marlboro but I said "la, shukran."

He pointed towards the back of the car and said "this, money."
"What?"
"Money. Money. I bring bags. This, money. 500 lira."
"500 lira? That's what I gave the driver! I'm not giving you 500 lira."
"You must. That was for driver. You give me 500." He was very urgent, and leaning into the window of the car. The driver had come out at this point, but wasn't getting in. I knew that I would have to haggle and barter in some places in Syria, but at this point I didn't want to risk not getting to my hotel, and I wasn't sure if this was one of those situations, so I gave him the 500. I later would realize that this was about ten bucks, and learned that 50 lira would have been more than sufficient.

In a not-so-friendly manner he said "Welcome to Syria" and walked off. The driver got in, honked his horn at a few cars blocking our path, and we sped away.