Crossing Jordan- the Syrian/ Jordanian Border adventure

I woke up early in the morning in my extravagant $10 a night hotel room, easily the highest price I paid for Syrian accommodations. Upon venturing outside, I was accosted by a red-head, let’s call him Rooster, who insisted that I take his cab.
“I want breakfast,” I told him, “Maybe later. Talk to me in an hour.”
Twenty minutes went by when he approached me again. “I’m not ready dude, back off.”
Rooster waited for me to finish eating and followed me to my hotel, anxious for my fare. Honestly, this is one of the rare times in all my travels that I have felt concerned for my safety. While money is scarce in Syria, and everybody is eager to serve a tourist flush with cash, he was trying waaayyyyyy too hard to get me into his cab. It was just one of those moments you have to use your intuition, and back away from the situation as coolly as possible.
I walked into my hotel, explained to the owner that Rooster was making me very uncomfortable, and would he be so kind to inform him that I won’t be using his services. This served the dual purpose of ridding myself of The Rooster, and also letting him know that the locals know who he is.
A friend of the owner’s showed up to drive me to the bus station. We stopped at Palmyra’s only currency exchange, which made your local DMV look like it operated with the efficiency of a Japanese assembly line. With only three people ahead of me, it took over a half hour to exchange $100.
Now, the exchange rate for Syrian pounds to US dollars is 45-1. Add to the mix that each bill is a different color from the other, AND, that the government is in the process of replacing all their old money with newly colored bills, with the ensuing rainbow of cash you get, a rocket scientist would have a hard time figuring out what he’s actually holding. As I traded most of my US dollars for 50 Jordanian Dinars ($70 US) I decided it would be prudent to tuck that quite valuable bill away into a special fold of my fanny pack, out of reach of possible contamination by the lowly Syrian Pound.

(the view of the surrounding mountains from a cliff in Petra, Jordan)

An uneventful four and a half hour bus ride landed me back in Damascus, where I had to transfer to bus terminal on the other side of town to continue my journey into Jordan.
The cabbies see me, and their eyes go wide, as I have far more “rip-off equity” than the locals, and everyone’s fighting over my fare (not ‘fair’.) Some went as far as to grab my suitcase from me without me so much as asking to insure my patronage.
“Put it down!” I order in a tone understood in any language.
A green-eyed cabbie is the only one who speaks any English, thus I choose to ride with him. He looks 50, which means he’s probably mid thirties. People age much more quickly in the Middle East.
A pleasant ride, we get to the bus station. He asks me for 200 pounds more than what we agreed upon, telling me that we had to go out of the way for the extra stop we made to get some food. It’s par for the course. I’m running out of Syrian pounds, but I have enough for the bus, and odds are I won’t ever be back here. I give him the big tip.
I go into the terminal and somehow communicate that I need a ticket to Amman. Syrians grab my suitcase and tell me in very broken English that they will make sure to get me on my bus. “Please putdown my suitcase.” They don’t understand. I lack the energy to argue any more. Upon getting to the bus they naturally demand money. I don’t have enough cash or patience left for this shakedown. “No,” I state, “go away.”
“We make sure you get on bus!” they argue.
“I didn’t ask you for help.”
“We help you! We don’t understand!”
At that point a diminutive young Syrian, Badr, stepped forward to help translate. I ended up giving away sixty cents, which by Syrian standards, is a decent tip, but they were expecting far more and clearly let me know just how discontented they were. I dragged my belongings onto the bus, tired of the continual haggling.

The Trip To Amman
Badr sits down beside me. The bus is relatively empty, and normally I’d have moved to an empty seat without a word, but as he had helped me, and it was obvious he wanted to converse, I stayed put.
Badr shyly practices his English, completely unsure of himself, getting frustrated when he doesn’t know a word.
Turns out he is part Russian, and is of the Catholic faith. I ask him whether it is ever a problem in a country that is over 90% Islamic.
“Yes,” he replies, “sometimes people get violent with me because I am.”.
It was around 10:30 PM that we finally hit the Jordanian border. Badr and I get out of the bus and walk into immigration. Having traveled for the last 11 hours just get to this point. I prayed that immigration would go smoothly.  That of course was a joke.

You’re more likely to win the mega-millions than to have an uneventful border crossing in the Middle East. The Syrian/Jordanian border was a mess. Long lines of Arabs moving slower than glaciers, people waving their passports near the front of the line, trying to get their ticket out of Syria stamped by the disgruntled government worker whose sandwich break coincides perfectly with your arrival to the front of the line, giving you the option of waiting for his return (estimated at between two and twenty days,) or starting over at the back of a new line where they have an amusement park ride style sign stating, “from this point: two weeks to the front.”
Two weeks later, my passport finally stamped, I am told to get into another line to pay a 500 pound exit tax. Oh no, do I even have that much left? I check. 400, 450 … fuck, I am 50 pounds short. Badr offers to give me the money. I don’t want his money, but I’m not sure I have an option. Let me see, I might have it somewhere, I look in my fanny pack. Success, a fifty! YES! Everything always works out for me! I pay them with my rainbow of cash, happy to Finally be done with the Syrian side at least.
We walk back to the bus, where we wait for the Jordanian guard to search our bags. “You had better hope they don’t search you,” warns Badr, “If they find your computer we will be here all night while they pour through the data and make a copy of the hard drive.”
We get lucky. We walk to Jordanian immigration. They have separate lines for foreign and Arab passports. Out of a thousand people there, I am the only Caucasian. I am done in five minutes. They stamp my passport and give me what I was a told was a 15 day visa. Great. I wait for Badr. Half an hour, forty-five minutes, an hour … Lord … He finally finishes , we get back to our bus. Our driver is upset with the time it has taken. Three hours to cross the border.
At that moment it dons on me: That extra 50 bill I so “luckily” found in my fanny-pack to pay the exit-tax out of Syria, was in fact the 50 Jordanian Dinars ($70 US) versus the $1 in Syrian Pounds it should have been. Everything always works out for me. I have to laugh- at least that border guard will be eating well tonight. Maybe he’ll even offer up a toast in honor. Hopefully he doesn’t use a word worse than “moron.”

Falconeering in the Desert (Syria)

Falconeering

The desert is unusually busy this time of year, every twenty miles or so you can find an outpost of falconers, poor Syrians hoping to catch the world’s fastest bird, which they will in turn sell to Arab sheiks for prices occasionally reaching seven figures.
Haji too has falcon dreams. In eight years of coming to the desert he has caught one bird, which he sold for $9,000.
So how does one catch this rare feathered treasure, who’s only pier in aerial combat might be an F-14 fighter jet? With bait. When the Syrians see a falcon overhead, they release a pigeon, a tasty morsel for this bird of prey. But the pigeon has a trap on its back that that ensnares the falcon’s talons, forcing it to land where the bird is, at least in their dreams, scooped up by the locals for a big pay day.
We stop by a band of falconers, check out the video below to see how they equip the bird. Haji is seen briefly with the cigarette …


Smoking and Dental Plans in Syria
Speaking of cigarettes, I estimate that about 85% of people in the Middle East smoke, which means that what few remaining teeth most Arabs have are yellow and stained. Most Syrians make the British Book O’ Smiles look like a children’s fairy tale. It is rare to find a full set of teeth here.

The Trip Home
We drive through a sand storm. Haji shakes his head thinking of all his friends still in the desert less fortunate than us. We drive for hours, staring at the vast expanse of empty space around us. Even the German jokes have subsided as Annie sleeps in the back.
The sky looks threatening, but it doesn’t seem to be another sandstorm. “Those look like rain clouds,” I remark to Haji.
“Let us pray,” he responds.
An hour later it starts to drizzle, turning into intermittent showers. It is the first rain they have had all year. “Allah ahkbar,” (God is great) I smile at Haji.
“Allah ahkabr,” Haji responds with joy in his heart, “With the sand wet, perhaps we might go a few days without a sand storm. Maybe there will be more vegetation for our Bedouin friends and their sheep.”
“Let us pray,” I respond.
As I see it, the environment in the Middle East seems to be a lost cause. With sparse resources, huge families, a fast growing population, and seemingly zero environmental consciousness the Middle East had better start harmonizing with Mother Nature, or life will surely get worse there. Already river beds are becoming parched, water scarcer, and pollution blankets the entire region.
It’s not that I think the rest of us are doing well managing the world’s resources, it’s that the Middle East is probably most emblematic of the crucible mankind is putting the environment through.
Eventually we got back to Palmyra. Annie and Lars decided to head to head out onto the first buses to their respective Syrian destinations. I decided to hang out in town for the rest of the afternoon. As it turns out, I went to sleep, and didn’t wake up til long after the last bus had left. It looks like my trip to Jordan would have to wait a day.

Sunset in Syrian desert

Mass and Musical Slaughter of Small Birds in the Syrian Desert

6:30 AM: The silence of the desert is broken by operatic quality songbirds, accompanied harmoniously, that is if you are a weapons manufacturer, by an orchestra of gun shots. We wake instantly, bearing witness to the slaughtering of mass number of our feathered friends, a pre-recorded track of birds chirping meant to attract what little life there was (past tense) in the desert to its demise. The dead birds will be sold at market for food, the slaughtering is relentless. The longer it goes on, the more uncomfortable we get.

Haji is still asleep, hung over from his night of drinking. I shake him gently wanting to leave, he’s unresponsive.
“You guys want to go too, right?” I ask Annie and Lars. They nod. I ask Annie how to say “Get up now!” in German.
“Stehen Sie jetzt aufI,” I yell over Haji, hoping to replicate the same warmth of the average German, or Nazi SS Officer, whichever is greater. Annie and Lars shake their heads, in disbelief of my total lack of shame or manners. “Stehen Sie jetzt aufI!!” I command again, but Haji remains unresponsive.
“Stop using my beautiful language like that,” Annie complains.
“Stehen Sie jetzt aufI Haji!!” I shout once more. Slowly the blanket is lifted, Haji looks at me with bewilderment. “Richard, are you crazy?” he asks.
“Just teasing the German,” I respond.
“Oh,” smiles Haji, pulling the blankets back over his head. I wait a beat.
“Stehen Sie jetzt aufI!!!!”
Annie groans. Haji chuckles under the blanket.

You see, poor Annie was getting pummeled continually from all sides, the only girl amongst three, maturity wise pre-adolescent men, each with a third degree black belt in teasing. A typical joke went something like this- after smashing a fly, I look up and proudly state, “Now we have all killed something. Lars shot a deer, Haji has killed a rabbit, I just swatted a fly, and Annie, well … Annie is German.”
We teased Annie non-stop. She had no idea just how nationalistic she was until we got done with her.
Haji told her, “English is good for business, Italian is good for romance, French is good for poetry, German is good for giving orders, but Arabic, Arabic is good for all.” Annie was not a fan, especially as a journalist, that we were making fun of her harsh sounding mother tongue, but let’s face it, Haji was right.
Eventually Haji got up, and after, what was for me, an overly leisure breakfast, we left the Syrians to finish destroying their environment. I suppose we all have to earn a living …

Camels in the Syrian desert

Caught Dead In A Syrian Sandstorm!

Dry hills of Syria

After saying our good byes to our Bedouin friends, we continued our journey, driving even deeper into the desert; that is if “deeper” was even possible. At some point when digging to the center of the earth, you start to come out the other side, of course, in this case, that other side was the Iraqi border.

Looking for a good place to camp for the night, the horizon seems to be getting darker, but those aren't low lying rain clouds. Haji, explains, “Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourself, we’re about to be caught in a sandstorm.”
Of course, this was new and exciting for yours truly, who ventured outside the car to see the sand storm up close.

(See the sand storm as we saw it in the middle of the desert)

Moments after we cut filming, a deluge of sand nearly blows us away. Strong winds whipping sand around like shrapnel, your body instinctively positioning itself in a fetal position attempting to limit damage to vital organs. The storm rages for several minutes around us. When it ends, sand is everywhere, in our noses, ears, throats, underpants… even cameras …
Annie’s Nikon has stopped working, sand has penetrated her lens despite her best efforts to protect her baby. She wipes it down, hoping to fix it.
Lars and I, though the experience itself was not exactly pleasant, feel emboldened and alive having survived what we just did. Haji suggests we get back to the car and look for a place to camp, as he would not be surprised if the next sand storm would be far stronger, and longer.
“How long can sand storms last,” I naively ask.
“Days,” answers Haji, with an air of morbid seriousness about our situation.

We get back in the car and start driving, seemingly aimlessly. Haji announces another storm will be arriving, we must find shelter. Ten minutes later it descends upon us, the dark clouds of sand blotting out the setting sun entirely. The wind howls, the swirling sand under its command makes visibility a joke, forming icy spears of high velocity shrapnel, denting the sides of our beleaguered car.
I laugh somehow. Annie starts to freak out- the fear of death. She wills herself to maintain some sense of control. At first it seems fun to tease her about it, an art which Lars, Haji, and I have attained black belt status. I start to feel sorry for Annie, barely able to continue keep up her Germanic stiffness, let alone her composure.
“Don’t fight against it Annie,” I explain in a calm voice, “there’s really nothing we can do. If we die, we die, it’s not that big a deal, just rest peacefully in the Now, that’s all we have.”
I feel Annie’s hands around my neck. She wants to choke me, despite my helpful intentions. Apparently I would make a terrible bereavement counselor.

Annie H and Lars Buckholder- not Haji

Haji apologizes, and tells us we likely won’t be spending the night under the desert stars. He knows of a place we can stay.
We drive around for an hour, relying on our guide's knowledge of the desert and experience. Eventually we find it, a small government owned building with a well, set-up to help the Nomadic Bedouin people survive.
Haji knows all the men here, there isn’t a large contingent of people, even in the Middle East, who want to spend their whole lives in this desolate tract of sand.
A strapping man greets us, shaking our hands, and offers the standard welcoming Arab gift of overly sweetened tea. We sit inside a very modest structure, hoping that the storm will pass.
Eventually the sands die down, though it takes several hours. By now it is pitch dark, the only lights coming from our structure and the few stars not hidden by the remaining sand clouds. Haji announces it is time to prepare dinner.
Over a fire we grill chicken and vegetables. It tastes fantastic, I could a eat a ton of this stuff, and I come close to the mark. We dine with the caretaker of the well, and his nephews, who have been hunting in the surrounding desert. A half-hour into dinner, a small truck pulls up. They know the driver and greet him as a brother.
His eyes go wide at the site of Annie. A white woman in these parts is an unheard of prize. His heavy flirtation becomes more aggressive as he consumes more shots of the hard liquor everyone except for me is drinking. He excuses himself. I feel uncomfortable, I ask Haji where he is going. “To get something to give you a proper greeting,” Haji reveals, chuckling.
I ask who the guy is. He's described as the village idiot, who no matter how long he has been out in the desert, can never find his way, getting lost every time.
Moments later the idiot reappears with a loaded shotgun. I ease away. He points it at the sky and fires three times. Then silence. No one’s dead, I’m half-surprised.
This is an Arab tradition for welcoming guests of honor. You can tell me all you want about embracing other cultures, I find this custom absolutely idiotic. Aside of the potential accident of having a drunk discharge a loaded fire-arm, those bullets have to land somewhere.
He continues his flirtation with Annie. Lars and I both remark to Haji that the idiot should take it down a notch. To her credit, Annie’s doing a marvelous job of staying friendly, without giving way. Eventually it gets too much for me. I don’t really want to insult the idiot with the gun, I just want Haji to intervene, which he finally does, in a calm, friendly way.
We eat in peace for a few minutes before the idiot starts up again. It’s not like he’s touching her inappropriately, it’s the energy of a stupid, horny drunk man, who hasn’t been around a woman, much less an exotic one, for years, and can barely contain his predatory instincts. Haji assures me he would never harm a soul.
Almost on cue, in an effort to impress Annie with his “power” he picks up his shotgun and points it at the sky. Lars is more okay with this than I am with it, but then again, Lars has been drinking. I hide behind whatever cover I could find. The Arab men take the idiot’s gun away, and wrap it in its cloth holder. We finish dinner in relative peace.
We’re sleeping outside, Haji makes the beds, blankets over ancient mattresses covering the desert floor. Forget bed bugs, we’re checking these babies for scorpions. We stay awake for hours, chatting, explaining our dreams, what brought us here. For me, it was partly an ex-girlfriend who I found out only a few months before had moved back to Europe and hung herself. Someone who you would look at, speak to, and say, “Oh my God, she is amazing.”
I look around, the calm, dark sky, the ocean of sand surrounding us. There isn’t a noise to be heard for miles, aside of maybe my heart beating as I think of her. Memories often seem like a dream. Did they even really take place? Perhaps this moment is a dream. Perhaps this is a moment of "Inception." I look around. I see no top spinning.

Desolate hills of Syria

Meet The Terrorists- Deep in the Syrian Desert

Haji picked us from our campground in the early morning, driving an old, enclosed, red pick-up truck. He had equipped the rear with blankets and pillows to make comfortable seating for Annie and Lars, who willingly agreed to sit in the back as I was taller. We climbed in and quickly departed, drawing closer each mile to the Iraqi border.
An hour later we rolled up to the last outpost of civilization, the last chance to fill up on gas, water up, or purchase a snack. The paved road ceased its existence. It was like we were explorers from the days when the earth was flat, and had arrived at the edge of the world. We took the plunge, falling into the abyss of the Syrian desert, 4 x 4ing over the sands.
There are a few shrubs, these aren’t dunes of Merzugga in Morocco where any form of vegetation has to overcome insurmountable odds to exist, but you surely won't find a mango tree here.

Mid East Environmentalism
Haji quenches his thirst with our most valuable commodity, rolls down his window and tosses out the plastic bottle, a gift for the desert. Instantly he has three environmentalists yammering in his ear, voicing our displeasure over his actions, Annie leading the prosecution.
Haji chuckles, and offers the following contrite apology: “Annie, I am truly sorry, I promise that next time, you won’t see me do it.”
That’s one thing about Arabia, environmentally, it is a disaster zone. Trash is strewn everywhere, recycling is a foreign word, and pollution, especially in the bigger cities, makes breathing the most difficult of chores. Environmental consciousness is nearly non-existent here.

camels in desert

We pass a heard of camels, which used to transport the nomadic Bedouin people across the desert, now having been replaced for those purposes by trucks. There are few, if any, wild camels left, all are owned by the Bedouins, and are actually highly valuable, with the cheapest camel selling for $1,500, the most expensive have sold for millions of dollars to Arab sheiks. I guess all that oil money has to be spent on something.

The Bedouins
We haven’t seen another car or person in the 80 miles we are into the desert, when we happen upon a Bedouin tent. Haji takes us inside.

Bedouin mother and her children

These nomadic people live their entire lives in the desert. Their tents stand erect with the support of only wooden poles stuck deep into the ground. They don't have enough carpets to cover the entire desert floor they sleep on. The tent covers were made of hand spun, woven goat hair and wool, at least partially protecting its occupants from the super heated desert sun in the summer, the harsh winds and the daily sandstorms it brings, and the often chilly winters.
Their income is entirely almost based on their sheep, and the milk, wool, and meat they provide. Each head of sheep is worth about $300. The sheep graze on what little vegetation the desert offers, once they have consumed one area, they must move on. It hasn’t rained all year, and the vegetation is now extremely sparse. It is a harsh life for our hosts.

Bedouin children

We are actually the first white people they have ever laid eyes upon. It is exceedingly rare to receive visitors this far into the desert, let alone tourists. They eye us with curiosity as Haji attempts translations, enabling some communications between the West and this deep desert Arab culture.
The children eye me warily, used to seeing maybe one or two outsiders per year, much less an alien with white skin. In the end, fear is swept away by the energy of fun.


(Watch as I ingratiate myself to the Bedouin children in this video by playing Monster with them.)

Culture Clash- The High five

(Watch Rich introduce the high-five to his Beduoin friends as they teach me various games they played to pass the long days in the desert.)

You want to prejudge people? Any of the men look exactly like an Al Queda terrorist in any video I have seen, but I found had nothing to fear here, though we three, rich white people were the only ones without guns. These people are just trying to make living, scraping by on the meager possessions they owned out in the middle of nowhere, in one of the harshest environments on earth.
Their minds hadn’t been poisoned with radical, "us versus the West, kill anyone who disagrees with us Islam," but rather they were gracious hosts, even slaughtering one of their valuable sheep, and cooking it over an open fire to fill our stomachs.
The more I travel, the more I realize just how alike people are in all corners of the globe, everyone wants to make a living, feed their families, be loved, and have fun. What more in life do you really need?

Next: Near death, caught in a Syrian sandstorm

Kill Me, I'm American - Life in the Syrian desert + cartoons of Mohammed

I’m sure if you ever venture to the Middle East, you’ll find Arab culture to be overwhelmingly inviting. Enter any house, and the poorest family will lay out their best wares for you. There exists a general warmth and hospitality here that would humble most Westerners.
In Los Angeles, the prevailing attitude is “what can you do for me?” In Syria it’s, “Who are you? Tell me about yourself.” They really want to take the time to get to know you.
The average Syrian earns about $150 a month. Though beggars certainly exist, the majority of the population takes pride in being self sufficient, and as any just about any tourist has more money than all but the wealthiest of Syrians, you are seen much like a bee views a brightly colored flower.

Syrian children

But you don’t have to worry about being robbed of your proverbial pollen. Like the bee, they always want to provide you a service, or at least sell you something. I had one guy who persistently tried to sell me a headdress, and I told him that I didn’t want it, but that I would give him the money anyways. He refused. The challenge is, there are so many bees, and so few flowers. (it is the desert after all)

ruins of ancient Rome in Palmyra, Syria

I hadn't shaved in days. Walking through town I come across an old fashioned barber pole, probably imported here from the US in the year 1950. I enter the time warp; the interior matches. Two regulars sit on old leather stools, smoking cigarettes and reading the local newspaper, there just to pass the hot Syrian day. They speak no English, we communicate through sign language while the proprietor chuckles at our attempted communication while trimming a young boy’s hair. The warmth and laughter we share is genuine and mutual, though we don’t understand more a single spoken word of the conversation.
Now it’s my turn. The proud Arab barber sharpens his razor and goes to work. He is meticulous, pouring over every single detail, gelling my hair into shape as an added bonus, away from the listless mass I usually leave it in. He takes the blade to my neck. Like 99.9% percent of the Arab world, he’s not Al Qaeda.
He proudly displays his work, and charges me $4 for the shave, undoubtedly more than he would charge a local. I really don’t mind, I am happy to pay him for his excellent work, to share my pollen with him. I’m sure he’ll be able to make more honey with it than I would.
(me having my picture taken while I video Syrian kids playing with my other camera)

We walk through the remains of an ancient Roman town, which lies between the edge of Palmyra and our camp. I imagine how it looked at the time of Christ; bustling with soldiers, priests, and slaves, erecting these stone structures in the middle of the desert, an outpost for the great Roman Empire. Today, they lie in ruins.

Check out my view of some of the ruins.

For $10 a tour guide shows us where the Romans used to sacrifice animals to the Gods, where they laid their tables, and prayed. He shows us hidden artistic treasures of the ruins that would otherwise would be nearly impossible to notice. I can’t be sure he’s not making most of this up, but it sounds pretty good.

Meet Haji
Nearby the ruins is a restaurant with a camel out front. Like most businesses in this small town, it too has it regulars. Meet the big man on campus, Haji. His real name is Ahmed, but his parents went on a pilgrimage to Mecca when he was a child, which in the Islamic faith is called a “haj,” his friends all called him Haji. The name stuck.

Haji is in the middle smoking a cigarette, sadly this is the best picture I have of him

Haji was once a wealthy businessman, having lived in Romania and Hungary. He lost all he had worked for and saved during an Eastern European currency crisis, and came back to his hometown of Palmyra, where today he works jobs in construction and hopes to turn his building into a hotel, to meet, what he hopes, will be rising tourist demand.
He invites us back to his home. Haji is 43, and has two children with a woman twenty years younger than him. In Syria, men call the shots, and women dutifully obeys. Like any good father, it is immediately evident how much he loves his children.
Me, Annie, and Lars sit around talking to him. I ask him questions about what life is like here. Haji, having lived abroad, speaks by far the best English of any Syrian I have met.
“What do you think about Americans,” I ask.
“One of the things that hurts the most is that Americans know nothing about us. To them we are from another planet, like we were aliens,” states Haji, a look of sadness resting upon on his face, “The Europeans educate themselves on everything, I wish the American people would be more open minded towards us.”
“What about Israel?”
“It should not exist, but it does. That conflict will never be resolved. There is too much hatred on both sides,” replies Haji.
He laments the Iraq war and how it decimated Syria’s tourism industry, with the collective world fear created of traveling to Arab lands.
Haji, describes the sights and sounds of American fighters jets soaring over Syrian airspace at the onset of the war. He was working for a US construction company at the time, and an American pulled him aside, and asked Haji if he felt like killing him, if there was anything to fear. Haji’s reply was, “What could I possibly have against you. I work with you, I consider you a friend.”
Haji’s responses are largely measured, those of an affable man. That is til I ask him what he thinks about the Danish the cartoonist who created a cartoon with a depiction of the Prophet Mohammed (a strict taboo in Islam.)
A micro-expression of anger flashes across his face, then rather than try to hide his feelings the expression gains strength, and is finally expressed in words. “I tell you Richard, if I would find this cartoonist, I would kill him.”
Whoa. Strong words. At least he’s not trying to hide his feelings. I have a big challenge with human beings who assimilate some dogmatic rule into their identity, and a violation of this rule, could be considered grounds for murder.
“Would you kill me Haji, if I were to draw a stick figure and call it ‘Mohammed’?”
Haji laughs, “I know you Richard, you wouldn’t do such a thing.” … The sub-text is an undeniable warning.
“Do Arab people support Al Quaeda?”
“No, absolutely not. Our religion strictly forbids the killing of innocent people.”
“What about American soldiers?”
“That is a different story,” Haji answers.
He then offers to take us for a day and overnight excursion into the vast nothingness of the Syrian desert, alone with Haji, the harsh desert sun and wind, and the occasional hunter, toting his machine guns. With all we have been discussing, how could I possibly say no?

Story continues-- Meeting the "terrorists of Syria" deep in the desert

The Desert Oasis of Palmyra, Syria- this way to Baghdad

This Way To Baghdad

We climbed into the “mini-bus, ” 15 people inside plus luggage, which, when you do math, comes out to about 7.8 people per seat. I stood, hunched over the entire way, praying that our driver would at least manage to avoid one or two of Syria’s famed potholes, which have been known to swallow full grown elephants.
The harrowing, deeply uncomfortable, ten minute ride to the Damascus bus station complete, and miraculously still breathing, we purchased tickets for the four hour ride to Palmyra, where ruins of an ancient Roman city are still being excavated.
We drive through the desert. Sandy, dusty, and when the wind kicks up here, watch out, as the ensuing sand storms have buried many an unlucky traveler alive, that is assuming they survived the onslaught of sand shrapnel being propelled at speeds faster than light.

Perhaps even more chilling was the sight of "Baghdad" on a road sign, and the knowledge of just how close we were to the Iraqi border, to the chaos my own country helped spawn.

green sign- Baghdad straight ahead!! Hooray!

Palmyra’s bus station is actually a couple miles outside the city limits. Imagine travelling from some distant galaxy through the vast nothingness of space to visit earth, and being dropped off on the moon. We were lucky there was a space shuttle to take us the rest of the way.

a date palm with more dates than you could ever eat!

A half mile outside the town’s opposite border, lies a Bedouin campground. Honestly, we could not have made a better choice of a place to stay. Drawing from a nearby, and rapidly disappearing, reservoir, drip irrigation has allowed the blossoming of a garden, a green island in this sea of sand.

With the owners keeping in lock-step with rightfully famous Arab hospitality standards, a massive ancient Roman wall sheltering us from the wind, pomegranate, date palm, and olives trees providing us fresh fruit and shade from the desert sun, a Bedouin tent to keep us warm at night, and of all things, a swimming pool to help stave off heat stroke, this place was as magical as Syria gets.

Our lush oasis campground in the backdrop of Roman ruins. (1:58)

Arab citadel atop the mount

the sun sets on the hills of the Syrian desert

A giant castle built in the late 1600’s sits atop a mountain. Perish the thought of ever conquering the citadel, it’s hard enough to make the treacherous walk up the steep hill. To gain access inside, you’d have to overcome a twenty-foot wide waterless moat with a hundred feet drop in case you didn't make the jump. Enemy soldiers should just announce their intention to chill out and watch the sunset to avoid being fired upon; at least it worked for us.
From atop the mountain, a panoramic view-- the oasis area, clashing with the harsh and barren desert which surrounds it on all sides, only a few precious drops of water keeping the army of green from being swallowed whole; the nearby town of Palmyra, and the red sun disappearing behind the Western hills.

See our view, post sunset (48 seconds long)

Annie, Rich Birecki, and Lars Burkholder atop the mountain

We stayed there a good forty minutes after sunset admiring the vista, and the peaceful, uncomplicated nature of the countryside. Entering into the tranquility of the meditative moment, I begin to wonder whether I am dreaming. Why we so often think every little challenge to be such a monstrous, life-threatening problem. Nothing seems real here, nothing seems important. Call it growth, that’s the way I like it.

Metal Israeli Flag on the Ground in the Middle of the Old City- Damascus, Syria (desecrate or not)

To Desecrate The Israeli Flag

The Old City of Damascus is basically a huge bazaar, the center under a canopy like dome, dead by day, hopping at night. Walking around the area, one cannot help but feel a sense of antiquity, as if life might not have been all that different centuries ago.

I guess it's a rare place where Caucasians (both sentient and insentient) are not the standard of beauty.

The Grand Mosque of Damascus

We arrive at the Grand Mosque of Damascus. It’s impossible to miss; in the Old City, all paths lead to this proverbial Rome. Originally constructed as a Christian Cathedral dedicated to John the Baptist, its origins are still reflected in the décor, a beautiful blend of Christian and Muslim sensibilities.

Inside Syria's most famous Mosque

Outside Damscus's grand mosque

To gain entry we rent robes to cover our bare legs, as most of us were wearing shorts. The courtyard is beautiful and spacious. Iranian Shiite Pilgrims line-up at the tomb of Husayn, grandson of the prophet Mohammed, all extremely eager to place their hands on this holy shrine. We stay there, admiring the beauty of the place, watching worshipers stream in and out of the Mosque for forty minutes, before resuming our exploration of the Old City.

The Trodden Israeli Flag
Amidst the crowded street, we happen upon a metal Israeli flag prominently displayed on the ground. In fairness to the Syrian people, other than some aggressive shopkeepers trying to sell their wares, tourists rarely get hassled. The exception would be if you try to avoid stepping on the Israeli flag.
Mohammed: “What, you like Israel?!”
Me: “Umm—“
Mohammed: “If you don’t step on that flag, we’re going to shoot you.”
Me: “Ummm—“
Mohammed: “NOW!”

metal Israeli flag on ground in Damsus (well worn)

While I believe symbols only have the power people give them, I take issue with the energy behind the flag's placement, and the thought process of those choosing to step on it; both are hateful and divisive.

On the other hand … if I were to step on the flag and post the picture ... I went through a quick pros and con list —
Pro—I gain a billion new fans through the Arab world
Con—I really piss off about 10 million people.
"I said NOW!"
Pro-- I don't get shot.

People often perceive disrespect towards chosen symbols in the same manner they might a direct physical assault, and react as such. That's the challenge with the limited identity most human beings ascribe to themselves.
One act of hatred met in kind amplifies dissonance, making it easier to respond with violence, leading to war.
The counterpoint of this is compassion which directly counters the waves of negativity. Hatred cannot long exist in the presence of love.
I chose to walk around the flag; thankfully the bullet missed.

The Christian Quarter
We continued to the Christian Quarter, where we were promised Western style nightclubs which turned out in reality to deserted bars, albeit selling alcohol, a hard to find commodity in most Muslim countries. We purchased some beers, sipping on our cans atop mushroom shaped stools in a park, exchanging our travel stories, as we watched the ebb and flow of Syrian life carry on around us.

mushroom stools in the park

We arrive back to hostel in the wee hours of the morning. as I silently ascend the stairs to my cot on the roof, my first incredibly busy twenty fours in Syria now complete. I lay down and quickly begin to dream of a world where hatred is met by compassion and love.
I slept like a baby.

The journey continues in the desert of Syria- a town called Palmyra



Really good online sitcom!!

Damascus, Syria- - Dating, Israel, and the Mukhabrat under a Dictator

Damascus, Syria
Upon waking, I discovered that Annie had already gone her merry way, and not wishing to interfere with any day’s plans that my gracious hosts might have, I thought I would take off myself, but as I was walking out the door, I was called back to partake in a breakfast consisting of hummus and pita-bread.
Tim, and his roommate Adrian, both having been in Damascus for about a year studying Arabic, I began inquiring as to the ins and outs of the country.

A family of five children is considered small in Syria, with most parents having seven or eight.
The most important thing in any young Syrian’s life is to land themselves a good spouse. Neither Adrian or Tim has, or is likely to have, a Syrian girlfriend, nor would any male foreigner ever be likely to successfully court a Syrian girl because the mere rumor of her impropriety would greatly affect her chances of landing the best mate.
A young Syrian girl would never even bring a boy over to her house or apartment who is merely a friend, because of the potential damage to both her own, and her family’s reputation, such an action might cause.
The same does not hold true for Syrian men, as I met several who had Western girlfriends.

minaret of Syria's most famous Mosque

When I spoke of my planned trip and mentioned that I was planning to also visit Lebanon, Jordan, and Israel— they let out a collective gasp.
“What?” I asked, slightly startled.
“Never say that word.”
“Israel?”
Immediately they made the zip-it sign, sliding their index finger horizontally across their closed lips. “You can call it a code name, we call it Disneyland. You never mention that word here unless you have something negative to say about it.” … A word with one approved context. For the duration of my Syrian adventure, I employed the term ‘Disneyland.’

Another thing you absolutely DO NOT do is to criticize the government. In fact, Tim told me that he once tried to pay Bashir Assad (Syria’s current dictator who inherited rule when his father died) a sort of compliment, stating, “Assad has done a decent job opening the country up.” The group he was conversing with suddenly became very uncomfortable, as the statement implied that Assad’s father had not done an exemplary job keeping the country open.
Why would such a seemingly innocuous statement make other Syrians uncomfortable? One word, the Mukhabarat- the Syrian secret police. In an effort to stay in power, (and avoid decapitation) most dictatorial regimes have massive spy networks, and Syrian sets the modern day bar. Its citizens have no idea who might be keeping tabs on them, so the topic of government is strictly off-limits, especially since, if they bring you in for questioning, it isn’t usually pleasant.
Here is a joke the Syrians have about the Mukhabarat that goes something like this:
“One day, the three greatest intelligence services in the world got together to see who was the best of the best. They released three foxes into the wilderness, and whoever was first to catch one, would earn the trophy.
So the Americans using their spy satellites and infrared technology catch their fox in twenty minutes.
The Russians, using a network of informants they set-up through the forest, catch their fox shortly after.
Both intelligence services, proud of their times, are waiting in the middle of the forest exchanging pleasantries. An hour passes, and they finally ask, “Where the hell are the Syrians?” So they go searching, and a few minutes later find a rabbit, tied to a tree, and the Mukhabarat are whipping it, yelling, “Admit you’re a fox! Admit you’re a fox!”

Tim and Adrian say hi to the folks back home. See, I don't make everything up! :)

Downtown Damascus on an unusually clear day

Thanking my hosts for their hospitality, I gathered my luggage and began my walk down the steep hill. I happened upon a cabbie washing his car, a doting father taking pleasure in sprinkling his young daughter with cool water on this hot day. A smile on my face, I asked him if I could get a ride to Egypt Air where I was told I would find a tour guide, and a cheap hotel nearby.
Finding nothing but travel agents, I went outside, and ran into three Belgian guys, Kristof, Simon, and Deiter who were on an adventure of their own. They too were looking for a hotel, and I asked if they mind me tagging along.
Eventually we came upon a hostel which had beds on the roof for $4 a night. Though certainly not as comfortable as the hotel I had booked, it was way cheaper, plus these guys seemed super cool. With the ability to cancel my $75 a night reservation, I decided to opt for the hostel. Fantastic decision. In the past, frankly, I was making too much money to try something like this, but recently, my income has dried up faster than a Middle Eastern riverbed.
The truth is, staying in hostels is really the way to go if you are willing to put up with the lack of comfort, as you are going to meet like-minded adventurers traveling for the experience, not just to see the immediate attractions/lay on the beach as most tourists do.
I have to give these guys props. You think I travel a lot; they purchased a car, and are driving from Belgium, through the Europe, through the Middle East, then to Egypt, and will complete their seven month journey at Cape Horn in South Africa, having driven a treacherous journey through all of Eastern Africa, including areas where, for safety reasons, if someone stands in front of your car trying to get you to stop, you blare your horn and if he doesn’t move you run him over. (otherwise your car will be jacked, and you likely will meet Reaper, Grim)

The Damascus crew: from left to right-- Rich, Dieter, Kristof, Lars, Annie, and Simon

Sitting in the hostel chatting with them, who do you think walks in? Lo and behold, Smokestack Annie. It turns out that most foreigners frequent this area of Damascus, so running into her again wasn’t totally random. Introducing Annie to my new friends, and adding a fellow American, a twenty-three year old from Portland named Lars to our group, we set out to explore the Old City of Damascus …

The Matrix of Syria

The Matrix Of Syria

Have you ever felt like the powers that be: the media, the political elite, the big corporations, are trying to blind you from the truth. You can’t see it, or really intellectualize it, but it’s there- like an itch in your mind that won’t go away. And that feeling, that itch, finally pulls you somewhere so you can rip off those rose colored glasses they have you looking through, and see what lies beyond the collective world view of your culture …

sunrise over the Syrian desert

I decided to go to Syria for two reasons.
1. My travel agent (Basel, who is Syrian), urged me to go.
2. I’m game

Many of you who knew of my plans also added “Crazy.”
At first I paid no heed to your numerous warnings, but shortly before I was set to leave, an idiot preacher in Florida threatened a Koran burning ceremony, in what was no doubt an effort to fill the cultural divide left by the events of 9/11 with peace, love, and understanding. The State Department subsequently cautioned against any unnecessary travel to the Middle East, my Mom begged me to cancel, assuring me of Mother’s intuition, my adopted brother, Chad, told me to be careful because I would surely be a target, and a Jewish friend assured me I would be killed if I went.

It is not common feeling for me, but I have to admit, I felt a twinge of anxiety boarding my aircraft, but that was probably more a function of the tiny propeller plane being seemingly constructed out of balsa wood.
Transferring in Romania, I ran into a platoon of US Marines on their way to Afghanistan for a tour of duty. I’m struck by the thought that not all these eighteen and nineteen year olds will return, and their steadfast belief that in sacrificing themselves, their minds, and their bodies, they are protecting their fellow citizens. I yearn for public figures to serve with as much honor as these brave soldiers.
I wished them God’s speed, and made a vow that I would do my best to bring some understanding between the US of A, and our implacable enemies of the Middle East (or so most Americans believe) with the goal that my son will never have to protect his country by handling a rifle, but rather by further cultivating the bonds of mutual understanding between peoples that helps make acts of violence and warfare nearly impossible.

The only other person transferring with me to Syria from my tiny plane was another American, who was currently living in Damascus studying Arabic, named Tim, and after a pleasant conversation through the flight, as our plane began its descent at 2 AM local time, I explained to him that my hotel reservation was for the next day, and I wasn’t exactly sure where I would spend the night, and if he was game and had room, I wouldn’t mind spending a few hours of sleep in his apartment. He readily agreed, and I now had a place to stay in big bad Syria. Maybe I travel too much by the seat of my pants, who knows.
Getting through immigration in the Middle East is another story though. I passed (or tried to pass) through five borders, and none of them went exactly smoothly. (Massive understatement as you will find out when I get to Israel) Waiting in line, I couldn’t comprehend why in the world it was taking so long. There were only five people ahead of me, but they were spending twenty minutes a person. The thought came, “And I’m American …”
Well, my turn finally arrived, and I walked calmly to the counter, and handed the immigration official my passport. My visa, (which by the way, costs Americans $141, a big FU from the Syrian government to the US of A, as they only charge the European Union $35) was immediately located by Agent Smith. He gazed at it for a minute, attempting to determine whether I had counterfeited it, then dubiously looked up at me, and asks, “You’re American?”
'That’s what my passport says,' I wanted to reply. Instead came an obedient, “Yes sir.”
He then proceeded to examine my passport with a magnifying glass for a full twenty minutes. He would start in the front, look through every page, turn it back over, and sift through it again and again, spending a good minute pouring over each page.
My suspicion that he was looking for anything to do with Israel was confirmed when, finally finished to what was his current satisfaction, he questioned, “Have you ever been to Israel?”
Not yet … “No sir, I have never been there.”
“Are you Israeli?”
“No. I am American.” (That’s what my passport fucking says!) Tim told me later that if you have an Israeli stamp on your passport, God himself could not get you into Syria, and they’re not helping you with your plane ticket home.

Metal Israeli flag on ground in Damascus. If you step around it, you might be hassled

Then he proceeds to ask me my address in Syria, to which I was exceedingly grateful that I had booked a hotel for the next day, because I think he might have been in the mood to send me back to America if I hadn’t. After casting me dubious looks on every follow-up answer I gave him, like when he asked why I came to Syria; “To assassinate Bashir Ashad,” he finally stamped my passport and let me through.

one of the ubiquitous photos of Bashir Asad, Syria's dictator

It was now 4 AM, and all foreigners were escorted to another room to wait for customs to search our bags. (In case we were smuggling any Israeli flags into the country and didn’t have a burn permit yet I guess.) I saw a European girl smoking a cigarette, and asked her whether she got the fifth degree as well. She was from Germany, her name Annie, and this smokestack would become a companion for the rest of my trip through Syria.
Tim had waited for me to clear customs, and since he was letting me stay with him, I offered to pay for the cab ride into the city of Damascus. I asked Annie if she wanted join us, she wasn’t sure, she had planned to find a hostel. Look, I just met Tim on the plane, it’s 4 AM, ride with us to Damascus. She cocked her head from side to side, and finally agreed. Tim, as if on cue, being a gracious host, offered to let Annie crash at his pad. She took some convincing (believe it or not) but finally agreed, and we were off.
Unfortunately, a fan belt was broken, and to combat his overheating engine, our cabbie would pull over every single kilometer, trying to reset the fan/let the motor cool. Every kilometer. I suppose if we had further to go, it wouldn’t have been nearly as amusing. Then again, I doubt he was laughing at all.
Finally, we reached Tim’s apartment, where I quickly fell into a deep, four hour slumber.
Waking up the next morning, gazing out the balcony window from atop a steep hill, overlooking smoggy Damascus below, I felt a bit like Alice, having just tumbled down the rabbit hole of Syriana.
Now it’s your turn. You take the blue pill, you forget you ever read this, you wake up in your bed, and you believe whatever you want to believe about the Middle East. You take the red pill, you follow this blog over the next week, and I show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember, all I’m offering is the truth.

(the Red Pill offer -- Damascus Syria, Dating, Israel, and the Mukhabrat under a Dictator)