Two weeks in the Middle East = months worth of experiences

Posted on by August 17, 2011

     Been away only two weeks but it feels like forever. That is a good thing about travel: you get more bang for your buck than staying at home (i.e. it feels like you are really living.) If I had to go home tomorrow it will feel like I have been away for months because I have seen and experienced so much in this time. Deep.
     I have been in Syria’s two main cities on the Mediterranean Sea, Tartus and now Lattakia. Did you know Syria is on the Mediterranean? (Did you like that question? Since my website is one long lecture and my blog is all about me, me, ME, I am now instead attempting to engage with readers. Good idea or not? Another question!)
     Lonely Planet emphasizes that Lattakia (also spelled “Latakia”, but I am going with LP’s version) is less conservative than the rest of the country. The easiest way for me to measure these things is how it relates to women. Here I notice less women on the street wearing headscarves, more women smoking water pipes, and no women whatsoever at a soccer game I attended.
     I can hardly blame them regarding the soccer. I barely tolerated the cold cement stadium seats and the men tightly packed together, chain-smoking as if there’s no tomorrow. Plus, I had to listen to the guy behind me cough up phlegm for 90 minutes, which is no longer my idea of a good time. I don’t think the stadium toilet facilities pictured here are going to get women to come either. So, Dear Reader, what should Syrian first division soccer teams do to encourage women to attend the games?
     (Maybe engaging the readers is overrated.)me at the stadiumsoccer fans     Notice—I know it is hard not to—the giant pictures of President Assad (in the middle), his father and little brother, the despot-in-training? They are EVERYWHERE in this country. They even have Assad’s likeness as sunshields on the rear windows of cars, and you can bet I am taking pictures of them for a later blog post. Why hasn’t every dictator thought of that?

The Virus Internet Cafe!      The Virus Internet Cafe, the best seat in town! (Felt comfy; $1/hour.)

     Taking tea with Mihai from Romania on Arwad island off of Tartus. Strange to be under some shipbuilding with roosters pecking around. Lots of people around here speak a little Romanian since sailors make shipping stops in Romania or do shipbuilding there.

sunset over the mediterranean

Krak des Chevaliers ticket prices etched in marble

     Prices in Syria aren't written in stone---oh, wait, sometimes they are. Entrance fees engraved in marble at the fantastic Krak des Chevaliers castle. 150 Syrian pounds = $3.25

Learning Arabic—Piece of cake! (cough)

Posted on by January 27, 2011

     I’m determined to learn a little Arabic every day. As with any language, locals appreciate the effort even though I am sometimes chided, “That’s Egyptian Arabic!” Habibi, if you can understand me, I don’t care what kind of Arabic it is!
     Dutch people have an unfair advantage to speak Arabic since they already have the throat-clearing and strangulation sounds. (Is it any coincidence that Mentos, a soothing candy, is Dutch? I think not.)
     Arabic, like Chinese, is fun to try and speak since it is such an expressive language that can be spoken with flair. The greatest thing is watching two people argue as their hand gestures are fantastic to observe, but often (also like Chinese) you can’t tell if they are really angry since they speak so loudly and boisterously naturally.
     I would love to take an Arabic class and really make the effort, as daunting a tongue it is. Accordingly, I hear Yemen is lovely in springtime.     The Hotel Raffoul in Tartus. My occupation was for 2 days without path (46 Syrian pounds = $1)

Extreme diarrhea in Hama—a fond look back

Posted on by January 24, 2011

Pumped up to be at the Cairo!


     My last time in the city of Hama, the owner of the Cairo Hotel warned me not to eat at any of the falafel stands lining the main street because they were unhygenic. I took the advice with a grain of salt, not seeing what the big deal was, and of course I became sicker than sick with a brutal case of gastroenteritis. Despite my foolishness, the hotel owner, a pharmacist, was very helpful. He got me medicine plus a doctor who made a house call for only $6(!)
     I am back in the Cairo, and nowadays restaurant standards are higher, the nephew of the owner assures me. I eat falafel with impunity.
     When was I last in Syria? Let me put it this way: at the time the prized possessions in my backpack were my Walkman with an Indigo Girls cassette and a red instamatic camera called a Snappy Tomato.
     Actually, my very first time in Syria was a stopover in Damascus airport from a Syrian Arab Airways flight. In the transit area we passengers had a nice view of the baggage workers on the tarmac crush our luggage to try and get it all into the cargo hold in one container. Two guys held each others’ arms for balance while they jumped up and down on all of our bags as if they were stomping grapes while we could only watch in horror.
     Speaking of luggage, I am breaking two of my own packing rules, one being that I brought too much, and two, I am wearing jeans, which I declare I have worn nearly every single day and which have acquired a certain piquant ripeness. I’m carrying nearly 30lbs, but over the next couple of weeks I will shed a second pair of shoes and other clothes I brought. I can’t help it. Amman and Damascus are cold at night! I didn’t even bring the right cold weather stuff. Bracing winds mercilessly blow through all the holes in my shoes and my thin jacket, rendering me a quivering wreck. I should have upgraded my gear before I left.
     My pet peeve about laundry is that places charge by the piece when they wash by the load. There. I said it. I feel better already.

     Look at this photo above of one of Hama’s famous waterwheels. It’s almost tourist brochure worthy, but then look below at the same picture taken farther back. An old man nearby apologized to me about “the color of the water.” The color?! You can’t even see the water for all the garbage on top.


Palmyra ruins vs. my hotel ruins

Posted on by January 22, 2011

pancakes

          In this case I haven't visited Palmyra twice.

     It’s a three hour bus ride to the desert oasis of Palmyra. It’s a pilgrimage all travelers make for the well-preserved, large scale ruins of the ancient city. I’m not much of a ruins guy—you should see my ex-wife (rimshot!)—but Palmyra is something special. It’s something special despite the motorcycles zooming around, the piles of camel dung and the persistent postcard sellers.
     There’s also a 500 Syrian pound entrance fee. That’s about $11, triple what I was expecting. I paused for thought at the discovery of this but the ticket seller was unsympathetic. “Petra (in Jordan) is $70!” he growled, and then someone sidled up to whisper in my ear, “Here is better.”
     $70 for Petra is scandalous, but that is an argument for another day. It is worth it, especially if you are already in the region, but what does that have to do with Palmyra and Syria? Of course, I paid. I came, I paid, I enjoyed.
     Below is what at first glance appears to be a Chinese tour group, but I see right through them. It’s really a team of entrepreneurs and engineers posing as a tour group, scheming to build their own Palmyra where admission will be only $10.50. (Can you tell I’m tired?)chinese tourists
     There are still archaelogical discoveries in Palmyra, most notable was a Polish group in 2005 that found the remains of a church. That was coincidentally the same year my hotel room was last cleaned. I am in wreck of a cheap dive made worse by the fact that I failed to bargain. It was a temporary bout of insanity. I can’t think of anything good to say about it. Even the key works on the room next to mine, and vice-versa, which is one reason why I always lock my bag even inside my “locked” room. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I miss my mommy.

     Took me only five hours to do these photos with the self-timer:

palmyra desert

Amman and Damascus—two different animals

Posted on by January 21, 2011

     I took a Jordanian service taxi to Syria, which is a regular car that leaves when it has four passengers. It costs a little bit more, but sometimes The Dromomaniac is worth it. At the border, between the checkpoints, our driver got dinged $50 by a Syrian guard for not wearing a seatbelt. Not wearing a seatbelt! Normally there are cobwebs on the seatbelts. He was livid. I would be livid. He shot out of the car and loudly protested, but that was that. A fellow passenger surmised that this was retribution over Jordan’s 2-1 victory over Syria in yesterday’s Asian Cup soccer match, but I thought that was a stretch.
     At Syrian immigration they checked every single page of my passport twice, presumably looking for evidence of a visit to Israel. Syria won’t allow anyone in that has been there; it’s one of the questions on the visa application. In Amman I met a young American who got his visa despite having an Egyptian exit stamp to Israel that everyone knows, but I think he’s in for a rude awakening when he actually tries to enter Syria.
Welcome to Syria!
     Last time I was here there was King Hussein of Jordan and President Hafez Assad of Syria, but now there are their sons, King Abdullah and Bashar Assad. In Jordan there are plenty of posters and billboards honoring the leaders, but in Syria they take the hagiography up a notch with monuments and concrete monoliths every few km on highway. It’s amazing to see.
     Damascus!
     Amman feels like a quaint village compared to Damascus, which is better in that they honk their horns less than here. I say you can quickly and easily measure the level of a society’s civility by how much they honk their horns, but in any case this is very exciting. There is an amazing energy here. I am just on the edge of the enormous old town and bustling doesn’t begin to describe it.

Syrian menu

     You can't make me choose between sheep's testicles, freekeh with meat, and Jew's mallow.

Things you wouldn’t expect to find in Jordan

Posted on by January 20, 2011

Black Sambo

     Politically incorrect foodstuffs


     We're all pretty happy to be in Jordan


Amelie
     Above is a mural from a swank film library in Amman courtest of the government suddenly throwing money into developing a film industry. The guy running the bottom floor library studied engineering and has a side business in painting ostrich eggs, but his real passion is for film, so he dropped everything to do it and network himself into the burgeoning community. Makes for a diverse resume at least.
Jordanian dinar

     It's interesting that on the back of a Jordanian banknote is Jerusalem, isn't it?

madaba mosaic
     Madaba, just southwest of Amman, is known for it’s many ancient mosaics, and they promote themselves as the only place in the world with a mosaic school (that is, if you don’t include the West San Jose Senior Citizens Macrame and Mosaic Club, but let’s not challenge every single claim, shall we?) A bubbly female Jordanian student invited me into their classroom to watch how it’s done. It’s a very cool, laborious process that I wish my mosaic-loving mother could see. jesus mosaic
al hashem restaurant     I can’t resist another photo of Al Hashem’s silky smooth hummus. A secret ingredient is the bowl on the lower left, a liquidy lemon, pepper (and vinegar?) concoction drizzled on top.
     I seem to get charged less to eat there if I bring girls from the hostel with me.

     The only thing I am down on about Jordanians is a severe lack of covering their mouths when they cough, and with all the dusty air and incessant smoking, they’re coughing a lot. I have a feeling this won’t be exclusively Jordanian behavior as I travel around the region.
     I had a great time in Amman. It’s undulating topography is part of its charm. From the Citadel in any direction the city stretches far into the horizon and because it seems to have been built entirely on hills and valleys, there’s hardly a flat, straight street to be seen.
     Syria tomorrow!

In search of Big Fatty

Posted on by January 19, 2011

     Last century I was in Jordan and all my photos from my entire Middle East trip were destroyed at the airport when I flew out from Israel—I mean, occupied Palestine. I had a big argument with the staff and one thing led to another, and all my film was destroyed. I’m still not over it.
     Anyway, I distinctly remember Amman having the biggest shawerma (also spelled “shawarma” in some skinnier, roasted-meat-on-a-vertical-spit places) I had ever seen. I dubbed it Big Fatty. It was as tall and as big as me. Guys were on ladders putting the meat on top, it was so big. I told everyone at the hostel about Big Fatty and they didn’t believe it, so I paid for a taxi to bring everyone out there, and they were duly impressed.
     Had to see it again. I got the address from my old journal book, confirmed on the CouchSurfing Jordan group about its existence, and made my way out to Reem Shawerma on 2nd Circle.
     I was disappointed. It wasn’t so big, maybe the size of a dwarf. Did I catch it on a bad day? Did my memory deceive me?
shawerma shawarma
     More satisfying was a visit to Al Hashem restaurant, a hole in the wall that none other than King Abdullah patronized with his wife. It’s very impressive that a head of state would eat in such a humble establishment. Pictured below is flat bread, felafel, fuul (mashed fava beans slow-cooked in spices) and velvety smooth hummus that has some olive oil vigorously drenched on it Mario Batali-style. This is about $3.
felafel, hummus, and fuul

sugar cane juice

     Honestly, I had 15 glasses BEFORE I saw this sign.


     A French girl from the hostel and I went to King Abdullah mosque together, one of the only mosques that infidels can visit, but it has some surprisingly shoddy craftsmanship. Tiles shouldn’t be coming off a 25 year old roof that is a showcase mosque for your king. And I think it’s wrong to pay to enter a house of worship.
     We didn’t see a ticket office but an old man hanging around let us in. He asked for a tip afterward and we gave a few dollars to him. He asked where I was from and when I said “America”, he smiled and gave me back the money. I resisted but he insisted. I tried to ask why, but we couldn’t communicate well and he drifted away. The French girl was flabbergasted. An American getting such treatment?

     The demonstrations and coup in Tunisia are news here. Even last week in southern Jordan there were riots from disgruntled youth about the government. In the Arab world it seems like any action always begins after Friday prayers, so Friday morning I asked the hostel manager, “Anything to see today? Riots? Fighting?” I knew he was the man to ask because although the hostel TV gets hundreds of channels, he watches American wrestling.
     But nothing was on, just 1000 people marching in the streets, protesting against rising prices

The Redemptive Power of Hostels—and Knives Chau!  

Posted on by January 21, 2011

     I was originally going to title this, “I Hate Traveling”.   After 28 hours of airports and airplanes, I was a little punchy after arriving in Amman, Jordan.
     I flew San Francisco-Los Angeles-London-Amman for $589 one way on United and bmi, the LAX-London sector a codeshare with no less than 11 other airlines.   I didn’t have to use my fake onward ticket that I had printed out and ready to deceive.  
     Two quick travel theory notes: I’m not crazy about $589, but I did accrue 8000 Star Alliance frequent flier miles, and Bangkok-Tokyo is only 10,000, or a domestic one-way regional USA ticket can be 7500, so that does have value. I might have been able to fly for about $560 on another carrier that wasn’t affiliated with a major alliance, but the $30 savings aren’t worth it.
     I showed considerable restraint in refraining from grabbing the microphone at the check-in counter to lecture the 17 people on the waiting list to upgrade to business class that upgrading is always a waste of money and/or miles and never a good idea, as I explain on the bottom of this page.   It’s the kinder, gentler me.
     Two more tangents: I saw two well-done movies on the plane: “The Social Network” and “Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World”.   The weak ending of “Pilgrim” didn’t sully the rest of it, of which the first 15 minutes are a cinematic tour de force and blew me away.   The name “Knives Chau” still kills me.
     I always say that if you take a long intercontinental flight, go look in the bathroom mirror just before arrival, that is what you will look like in 5 years. Tack on a second intercontinental flight and make it 10. I don’t see myself aging well.

tourist police

          If the Jordanians think that visitors find the tourist police soothing, they have miscalculated.

     A Palestinian guy on the airport bus to town warned me, “All taxi drivers are thieves!”, and then smiled pleasantly as I was dropped off into a throng of taxi drivers in a quiet part of Amman. At midnight. I employed my only bargaining tactic, which is walking away at their first offer, and I found a guy willing to get into his car and come to me.   It doesn’t sound like much of a concession in the realm of haggling, but in my experience is. I wasn’t so soothed, though, when he left me in another quiet place downtown and vaguely motioned that the Farah Hotel was just up a narrow street that he couldn’t drive to. I was alone on this poorly lit and eerie side street, wondering what I had gotten myself into, but then saw three other travelers and followed them to freedom.
     The Farah Hotel looked more promising than the Cliff that I wrote about last week, but I got no hot water until the morning, a cold dorm room with an uncomfortable bed, less than clean sheets, a squeaky bunk bed frame and a snorer below me. As I tossed and turned and suffered, I could only scheme to find an imam the next day to issue a fatwa on the death of the snorer.
     I get some emails and comments asking me about the loneliness and trepidation of traveling alone, and I always say that if you are alone it is easier to meet people to go for a meal or do daytrips, and this is where it can be great to stay at a hostel. At breakfast I got an offer to join a group of five other solo travelers to the famed ruin city of Jerash. I am glad I accepted. It was a great way for me to get reacquainted with Jordan, pick up some travel tips, and meet new and interesting people. Easy.
     Also consider that I am in my 40’s. When I was a traveler in my 20’s I looked down on older travelers like me, and yet here these kind young punks let me join them. One day together and now we are all best friends forever—even if we don’t know each others’ names.   Plus, the snorer below me is a great guy from Portland who runs an eBay business and is graciously letting me pester him about. I am even leaning towards calling off the fatwa.
     Jerash is one of the great cities of ancient Rome, a large area of ruins 50km northeast of Amman. Costs $11.50 to enter, which made me pause—in my first 24 hours in Jordan I spent $75, including the $30 visa. Ouch!—but it was quite impressive.  
Jerash temple tops
     We went a further 20km away to Ajloun to inspect its formidable fort against the Crusades. I guessed that it was built in the 1980’s, but it turned out to be the 12th century.
     Last thing: in the hostel I met an Indonesian(!) getting her physics PhD(!!) in Berlin(!!!) named Ponky Ivo(!!!!) Ponky Ivo!!!!!   You don’t meet people named Ponky Ivo by staying at home, and if that isn’t reason enough to travel, I don’t know what is.
     I might pay $50 to see a movie starring Ponky Ivo and Knives Chau.

     My first dinner of mansaf, lamb and rice with a savory yogurt sauce. $8--a delicious splurge.

Leaving home (is like preparing to be executed)

Posted on by January 10, 2011

     The time has come. It’s time to go. Again. Tomorrow (1/11/11 at 1pm—yes!) I fly one-way to Jordan, then to Syria and Lebanon, and then somewhere warmer. This has the looks of another big around-the-world trip. I’m not sure how many times I have been around the world (7 or 8?), but in the beginning I think less about where I’m going than about what I am leaving behind until I am plopped down somewhere exotic, in this case, Amman, Jordan.

Death for Drug Traffickers in Malaysia

     Not exactly applicable, but I like this poster anyway

     I am making the same preparations as if I am going to The Other Side. I put some thought into my last meal, the last exotic foods I will enjoy before I go into the great unknown, I say goodbye to loved ones, tell them how to handle my mail and business affairs, and assure them everything will be OK.
     I sold some things. I sold a vintage amplifier and guitar pedal to buy my plane ticket, but in a perfect world I’d like to eliminate the middleman and just exchange them directly to CheapOair.com for a ticket (and is there a less-inspiring website name than CheapOair.com?)
     I will blog regularly. I won’t be held back by slow connections and banned websites in places like Syria, and I will post updates on Facebook and Twitter if you prefer to follow that way.
     What do I have to do to get a lot of readers other than offering free ice cream? My promise is that my blog won’t be boring, today’s post notwithstanding, so please tell everyone you have ever met to check it out, too. If you have opinions about what I should or shouldn’t write about, I am all ears, and as always, I like getting emails or comments about anything at all.
     If I am not successful in getting bumped from my flight, catch you next time in the Middle East!

In the Kingdom of Kent

Posted on by January 15, 2011

     I am in the San Francisco Bay Area in the town of Kentfield, exactly on Kent Avenue, and tomorrow I will go up the street to Kent Woodlands, then to Kent Road which leads to Kent Trail and Kent Lake. My kind of place!
     I left home a couple of days ago. My parents drove me to the Amtrak station, en route passing a casino near their town built on alleged sacred Indian ground that must be full of slot machines and craps tables in order to honor their ancestors. It’s called Chukchansi, but my parents are unable to pronounce that correctly so they say “Chukanski”, making me think there was a heretofore unknown tribe of Polish Indians that took a wrong turn at Bialystok and found themselves in Central California.
     I am a big fan of rail and I like patronizing Amtrak, but hearing everyone’s cell phones constantly go off and loudly yakking rankles me. I need to change my attitude if I want to be in the right traveling mindset.

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