Fowq Shway!

It’s hard to believe, but after looking at my calendar I realized I’ve been back in Syria for three weeks. One week was spent staying with an acquaintance from the summer that quickly became a friend, another in an apartment that fast proved uninhabitable, and the last few days in my new place, which I’m finding more and more disgusting as I spend time in it.  I’ve only had a few ‘oh, shit’ moments, mostly regarding moving back to the chaos that is Damascus but also a few scary and intense moments of home- and people-from-home-sickness.

But I’m happy to be back here. The process of culture and language learning has lost some of its luster since the summer, as every new experience does, but at the same time I’m finding that I enjoy the city much more now that I’m experiencing it as more of an insider rather than just a wide-eyed backpacker. I’m even starting to like Arabic pop music (about which I remember saying to a friend in Jordan, ‘you actually like this stuff?’). I’m discovering that Damascus isn’t really that boring of a city if you know where to go and you’ve got a few friends to accompany you. I think I’ll be happy here for the next year. I hope I will be, anyway.

My job is a challenge but it’s going well. The students expect a lot from the teachers here because they pay a lot of money to study at a place with a reputation for being better than almost every other language center in Damascus. Because of that we receive a few snobs who expect us to be miracle workers and scoff at us when we make simple mistakes like bringing the wrong listening CD to class. But most of my students are very sweet and fun. It’s quite a lot more work than I expected it to be, with lesson planning taking nearly an hour per each two hour lesson and even that amount of time not feeling adequate. As I get more comfortable in front of a classroom of students I think that time will decrease.

It’s very nice to be a working adult. As sold-out-to-adulthood as it sounds, I feel a little redeemed to finally have a paying job (and here’s the important part) in my field of study and, more importantly, enjoy it. We’ll see how long that feeling lasts. Already memories my now seemingly unreal journey start to nag on me. Luckily, being in the Middle East sets me in a pretty good location to travel once I make some money (of which I currently have frighteningly little left).

I’ll leave you with a language learning experience I had yesterday while taking the long walk up to my place. A boy, probably around 12, asked me in Arabic where I live.
‘Fowq shway,’ I responded, which basically means ‘Just up a little.’ At this point, he stopped, which is an Arab way to add emphasis to a comment or argument.
‘It’s fo not fowq,’ he all but commanded. ‘Fowq in English is something bad so don’t say that. Say fo.’ The letter qaaf in Arabic is usually replaced by a glottal stop in spoken or colloquial Arabic but it’s still considered correct to use it so I was a little bit annoyed to be corrected on something so petty.
‘Yeah, I know that most people say fo but it’s not wrong to say fowq in Arabic. It’s Arabic, not English so it’s ok to say it.’ Then I tried to reason with him, ‘it’s not even the same sound…’ I then proceeded to show him the difference between the f-bomb and the Arabic word for ‘up.’ He wasn’t convinced and even seemed a bit annoyed but suddenly told me where his father’s hummus shop was and promised anything I wanted would be free.

 

Minneapolis to Damascus

It’s strange to think that I’ve been in Syria for two weeks already. It’s been quite the whirlwind experience. To start, a six day journey in total, my experience traveling from Minneapolis to Damascus.

I left Minneapolis after my friend Mark’s wedding, which was a beautiful and extremely fun party. I said goodbye-for-a-year to Mark and his wife Kelly as he walked away from the reception holding a “Just Married” sign. It was a good night. After saying farewell to many more soon to be sorely missed friends the next morning, I left for Wisconsin for another friend’s wedding. The party was fantastic, I think a fitting way for me to say goodbye to friends yet again. My wonderful friends Maggie and Amber braved getting up at 7:30am the next morning to drive me to the Milwaukee airport for a flight to Cincinnati where I saw my parents for all too short of a night before flying to Istanbul the next day.

I arrived in the Byzantine capitol three days after I left Minneapolis extremely tired and jet lagged. My flight to a city in southern Turkey close to the Syrian border was at 6:20am the next morning; I was not pleased to find out that the only affordable shuttle I could take to the airport left at midnight. With nine months of budget travel fatalism on my shoulders (a resignation to the fact that I can control very little while traveling on the cheap), I trudged up the stairs to try to get some sleep before I left. Luckily, the rooftop dorm I was hoping to sleep in was full of Australians inexplicably hanging out on their beds during the middle of a beautiful day. I didn’t sleep. I did, however, get my hands on the best doner kebap sandwich in Turkey later that evening (only $3!).

I had to be shoved awake by the shuttle driver after arriving at the airport and then managed to nearly forget my baggage; one heart attack later I was banging on the side of the bus and screaming “my bag! Oh god my bag!” What followed for five hours was some incredibly uncomfortable waiting punctuated by a refreshing act of kindness by a Turkish woman who was on my shuttle. I was starving and no shop selling any real food was open at 3:30am. Her mom instincts must have kicked in and, sensing my hunger, she pulled out a bag of two bananas and three clementines and insisted I take it. A meal like that can make the difference between an incredible uncomfortable travel experience and a manageable one. I’ve said it before, but traveling in Turkey at times can be like riding a wave of kindness.

I arrived in Adana, Turkey at 7:30am and immediately set off to the bus station. I needed to make my way to Antakya, from where I could get a shared taxi to the border. In what proved to be a stroke of bad luck, I met a Syrian guy who convinced me that, rather than going through the main border crossing in the area, Bab Al-Hawa, going through the smaller, less-frequently used crossings would be faster. I followed his advice and made my way to a small town called Yayladagi by microbus. I thought it was only 1km (about a half mile) away from the Syrian border so when the microbus offered to take me the rest of the way for the relatively large sum of $7, I refused. I figured I could use a bit of exercise or, if that proved too difficult with 60 pounds of luggage strapped on my front and back, just get a ride from some nice Turk. In the end it was 6km (three miles) in the hot sun while carrying 60 lbs. No one picked me up. And I was walking on loose gravel. Naturally, I arrived at the border station about half an hour later exhausted, soaked in sweat, and relieved.

I expected to have to wait at the Syrian side of the border for my visa. Americans are supposed to get it from the Syrian embassy in DC, where it costs $130, but if you don’t mind waiting for a bit (usually 2-5 hours) at the border for permission from Damascus to give you the visa, it costs just $16. I walked up to the immigration and visa processing desk in Kassab, Syria and handed the officer my passport. “No visa?” he said. “No visa,” I said. I didn’t receive the next sentence well. “Go to Bab Al-Hawa.” The mudiir, the director of the crossing and the only one authorized to give Americans visas was sick that day. It was here that my drudgery was punctuated again by extraordinary kindness. On my way back through Turkish immigration (thank god for three month multiple entry visas) I was explaining my situation to the Turkish officer and a man from Antakya overheard me and offered a ride back to his city. He spoke a little bit of Arabic with a heavy Turkish accent and no English so our conversation was labored at best. With a stop for tea on the way, he took me all the way back to Antakya’s bus station and refused the money I offered to help pay for gas.

From the station I took a shared taxi to Bab Al-Hawa where, after a 45-minute long wait at the duty free shop while the other passengers bought ungodly amounts of cigarette cartons to smuggle into Syria, I waited for an exceptionally long 5 ½ hours for my visa. I arrived in Aleppo at about midnight and then in Damascus at about 4:30am. I got my job the next morning and spent the following days finding an apartment, preparing my lessons, and seeing friends from the summer.

It’s been a lively ride, but I’m happy to be back. My classes are going well and my Arabic surprisingly hasn’t gotten much worse after a month and a half long period of disuse. And best of all, it’s not 100 degrees Fahrenheit each and every day; it’s been hovering around a comfortable 80 degrees. More to come later.

 

Damascus, NYC, NJ, and Friends

I forgot to add this one on my last Syria update - a shot of the Omayyad mosque's door.

My friends Yesra and Nora outside a leather shoe shop in Damascus

My housemates and friends Kevin, Manar and I on our rooftop.

My landlord (right of me) and his friends, Damascus.

My wonderful cousin shooting the Statue of Liberty, New York.

View of NYC from Staten Island Ferry.

Grand Central Station.

Times Square

My wonderful cousin and the arabic sweets my Syrian landlord sent back with me.

My Great Aunt Katy and her shmorgasbord of pies.

The Burlakoffs

Olaf in his Halloween costume.

Olaf welcoming me home (I'm wearing his halloween costume).

Looking badass at my friend Mark's bachelor party

 

On My Way Home (For a Bit)

Tonight I start my 2 1/2 day journey to Istanbul, from where Lufthansa will take me home. It’s a strange thought, going home. I’ve become so used to being immersed in other cultures for the last nine months, used to being stared at (usually with friendly curiosity), used to being the ‘other.’ Upon arriving home, I’ll be just another local, another American. It will be nice not to stand out, not to have to work at being understood, but it will be strange. I can’t wait to see my family and friends, share stories, and catch up on life.

I’ll be home for six weeks before I return to my life in the Middle East, with a box of books and other various things I don’t need to take home waiting for me in my landlord’s shop. I’ll be putting up more photos and stories once I arrive home. Now I’m off to buy last minute gifts…

 

Homecoming Reflections

Nearing my return home (for a short time, at least), I’ve grown increasingly reflective on travels, the things I’ve seen and experienced, the people I’ve met, and the ways I’ve changed. With a sigh of premature nostalgia (premature because, God willing, my adventure is far from over), I often lose myself in my memories of the last 8 months, variously sublime, disgusting, tragic, and euphoric.

A dirty bus stop in a highway stop town in Laos, Thai pop music blaring, I’m sitting next to new friends from three different continents. ‘A tear drop on the face of eternity,’ the magnificent Taj Mahal illuminated by early morning’s sun. Tokyo, bright, shiny, and fast, I’m waiting at an Underground station, wondering at the world’s most polite metropolis. Bathing in the Ganges in Rishikesh, the icy shock of its holy water enveloping me. My backpack, becoming ever dirtier, stuck tightly on my lap, leaving me not more than a few inches to move my head from side to side – the only part of my body that I can move in a packed Indian bus on its way to Dharamsala. Thai food. The glass-encased monument in Phnom Phen’s killling fields, packed with human skulls, emanating the dull, gut-draining feeling of insane, unfathomable tragedy. Sunset on the island Ko Phayam, the vast pallete of colors dancing on the shallow surf, ships waiting in the distance to begin a long night of fishing. A nightclub at 3am in Olympos, Turkey, playing “get out” music – 80’s Turkish pop – while I’m dancing idiotically with friends that became my mini family for a short, precious two weeks. Yelling “happy new year china!” over and over and over with nearly drunk Tuk Tuk drivers outside of my guesthouse in Cambodia. A strangely comforting, expectedly apalling walk through a slum in Mumbai, where families worked together on production lines that make millions annually, supporting the ever-tottering livelihood of the slum’s residents. The rush of riding a motorcycle for the first time – on North India’s mountain roads. A heart-rending desire to comfort my Tibetan friend Wofso after he told me his tragic story – while knowing there’s nothing I can do to bring his parents, or his country, back. Countless hands outstretched in need and so often ignored on the advice of guidebooks and ‘development professionals’, the tearing feeling of never having done enough or even close to it. Dozens of books picked up from hostel exchange shelves and sidewalk sellers, some good, a few profoundly life-changing. Chilly February air stinging my eyes as I ascend the top of Poon Hill, where the majestic sight of the Annapurna Himalayas gives me a start as I realize I’m forgetting to breath.  Two holes in my ceiling, previously unnoticed in my guesthouse room in Delhi, from which I hear the soft but sure scratching of what must be massive rats above me. The Mekong river sliding by on a foggy morning. My first room with a TV in months, a night spend with an ordered-in dominoes pizza (in North India!) and crappy satellite movies, giving me a welcome break from the exhaustion of constant travel. Varanasi, its lights blurring slightly as I walk down the ghats observing the nightly ritual ablutions, all while cremation fires constantly burn in the distance. Paavo Lantto from Lapland (north Finland and Sweden) embarassingly singing ‘Tambourine Man’ to me in crowded bar on the Thai island of Ko Chang. Indian food. Settling down to stationary life again in Damascus and realizing how it feels to have a bed of my own. Loud Arabic pop music blaring in my ears, I’m dancing dabke with friends from all over the world on the top of Jebel Qassioun, the highest point in the city. And lastly, my reality for the two months, I’m sitting in class attempting to stay awake as Arabic grammar, vocabulary, and pronunciation wash over me, every once in a while sticking in my brain.

There are so many more, it’s fantastic.