Damascus

I needed Damascus to decompress. Parking myself in a guesthouse, I intended to chill for only a few days and head on toward Jordan. Things change...

I ended up meeting an English girl named Leonie who had studied in Damascus before and was coming back to see friends and brush up on her Arabic. She was kind enough to invite me out to meet her friends at a cultural center in Yarmouk, the largest Palestinian camp in Syria. The center was run by local Palestinian volunteers and was non-political. Because of this, they refused funding from any Palestinian political factions and were forced to run on nearly nothing other than the good will of its volunteers. I was introduced to a really kind man named Deeb and he invited us to break Ramadan fast the next day with his family.

That was a meal to remember. The next day we were driven to the far outskirts of Damascus to a park marking the boundary between concrete apartment buildings and rural countryside. As the sun set, we prepared food with Deeb's approximately 20 family members and played a card game called Abu Foul.
*important note: Palestinians cheat at cards

After a hilarious few minutes watching the brothers try to get the coals going, the meat was on the grill and the call to prayer was blasted from the minarets. We feasted. One of Deeb's brother in laws made me eat a piece of raw sheep liver. Other than that it was all quite delicious. After the first round of food, a few people got together and played music (Oud, tambourine and tabla). Then horrible Arabic children's pop music was blasted and some kids came out in animal costumes and became to dance with all the children. As entertaining as it was, my ears were about to start bleeding, so Deeb and I took a seat in the far corner of the park while Leonie fended for herself among the relatives. The conversation was one of the best of my trip. I was deeply inspired by Deeb's commitment to peaceful means of helping his fellow Palestinians. I couldn't help it but I had to ask about Hamas. What did he think of them, and was their leadership really based in Yarmouk?

-Hamas is like a relative that you really don't like because he is a bad person but he is still family."
-Why is he bad?
-They advocate violence and employ former criminals to act as enforcers. And though they point to Fatah and the Palestinian Authority's corruption, they are equally as corrupt.
-I know the leadership is based in Damascus, are they in Yarmouk?
-You want to see Hamas? Go to Mezze (the richest district of Damascus). That's were they are.
-Really? (This really surprised me)
-Think about it, they get all this funding from radical religious governments and they have no way of getting it into Gaza so they spend it on themselves here.

We moved back to the family and grabbed Leonie for a little walk up the road before coming back for more food. Finally after 2:00 am the party was over and we returned to the guesthouse.

I was planning to get moving after some exploration of the old city but I one night I met a French girl who in turn met the head of the Health Department of the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) and we went to meet him at his work the next day. Adam, a Sudanese man for had worked for Borders without Borders for a decade, was relatively new to the UN scene. He was now overseeing the health support for Iraqi refugees in Syria (of which there are 2 million). Everything sounded wonderful. They received decent free health care and were given living stipends. Many thousands were being granted asylum in the US and Europe.

Leaving, more than slightly optimistic about the situation, we next to a nearby shop and bought drinks (even though it was Ramadan) and relaxed for a few moments. After some time, an older woman missing her legs came up to the shop in a wheel chair. I help her get what she needed and paid for it for her. She thanked me and began asking me questions in Arabic and telling me about herself. She was a Shia Iraqi from Najaf (or was it Karbala?) and she had lost her legs in a car bombing. The same explosion claimed the lives of her three sons. I wished her all the peace and luck I could with my limited Arabic and gave her 100 Syrian pounds (a little more than 2 dollars). Caroline and I walked away and I felt like I was being torn apart. We hit a park and I asked to sit for a second.

I wept.

This woman's suffering was a result of my country's foreign policy. I faced it; as an American for a moment and then as just a human being.

Lebanon in Fragments (part 3)

Alright here it goes...

After a failed attempt at teaching a Lebanese girl how to ride my bicycle (my fault not hers), a great swimming trip up the coast and some more general insanity, I left Beirut. Pedaling up the windy road crossing the Mount Lebanon range, I was drenched in sweat. The general stickiness was amplified by the humidity. Near the top (after some stunning views) I hit some low clouds. Quite suddenly I was cold for the first time in months and loved it. The clouds/fog became quite thick and soon my visibility was limited to less than 50 feet. I accidently ended up on a small road though some eerily quiet towns. Stopping for a drink from my water bottle, the fog temporarily lightened and I found myself in front of a Scooby Doo style abandoned mansion. Getting higher and higher I ended up stopping to chat with some Greek Orthodox guys who, after some offers of tea and biscuits and a pleasant discussion about the mountains, launched into a tirade against the Shia and Hizbollah. I finally reached the top and after accepting a free water bottle and bread from some Indian migrants who were delighted that I knew three words of Hindi and I began my descent to the Bekaa Valley. Quickly emerging from the mists I was greeted by a specacular view of the valley and the Anti-Lebanon Mountain Range. Stopping for food in a small town on my way to Zahle, I met Khalid who insisted that I come break Ramadan fast with his family at sunset (this quickly transformed into an invitation to stay a few nights).

The town was Sunni Muslim and I was asked what I believed. I said I didn't really know (usually you just say whatever is convenient because these matters are rarely up for debate). I went into some details about my philosophy and how I try to live my life. They were positively delighted.

"You're almost a Muslim!"

I was taken for a late night invitation to sweets at Khalid's father's friend's house. The man was incredibly fascinated by my trip and my knowledge of Islam. Though Khalid spoke decent English, the man brought out his daughter, who studied English and computer science, to act as a translator. At first glance I could tell that the family was very conservative. She wore a traditional black hijab and long, loose dress. covering all but her face and hands. The girl acted very professionally as if she was a translator for a business meeting. Half way through, she paused and her father explained that I had ridden a bicycle here from Georgia. Her otherwise serious face cracked a huge smile. That moment made all the suffering of pedalling up the mountains earlier that day worth it.

I agreed to fast and perform Salaat (prayer) with them the next day. We woke at 4:00, finished eating before 4:24 went to pray at the mosque right away and then talked witht the Sheikhs in the mosque. They were so intrigued by this curious American that they invited Khalid and I to sleep the rest of the morning in the mosque and then speak with them after. Six more hours of sleep and I was already hungry. Ramadan is cruel to a cyclist, especially if that cyclist has just come over a mountain range and needs nutrients. We chatted with the Sheikhs for a few hours, during which we discussed Islamic philosophy, Quranic Arabic and, most excitedly, Lebanese food. After a little time on the internet and a few hours helping Khalid at his volunteer program teaching young Muslim Children about the Quran and playing games (like Christian Bible School) I laid on the balcony, miserably willing the sun to set. I think the volume of food I consumed that night was taken by the family as a compliment to their cooking abilities and hospitality. Khalid's mother smiled and piled more and more food on my plate. After the last prayer at the mosque Khalid gave me a traditional robe and a Quran with the promise that I keep thinking and trying to understand the world.

I left for Syria with a bundle of food from Khalid's family. In the next town I had to borrow a few tools from a mechanic to adjust my seat and realized that in 3km the population had become solidly Christian. I passed through what appeared to be another Palestinian camp while racing a young boy with his bicycle I came to the city of Aanjar (with it's massive Armenian population) and bought some drinks at a road side vendor. After paying, I began chatting to the guy in my horrible Arabic and told him I was headed for Damascus. "I'm from Damascus!" he cried in Arabic and reached into his cash box to return the money I paid him for the drinks. "Ahlan wa sahlan!" (the welcome I had heard thousands of times.

The haul from the Lebanese border post to the Syrian side was long and hot. Arriving at the Syrian immigration controls I met another American also waiting for a visa (Americans wait 4-8 hours for a mysterious "fax from Damascus"). We feasted on the food Khalid gave me and enjoyed a welcome rest. Welcomed by the familiar face of President Bashar I rode afew more hours and, suddenly, I was in Damascus.

Disneyland

In Irbid, Jordan just a few hours ride from the Jordan River.

Almost 2 weeks behind. But here I finally have easy access to this website (it is blocked in Syria so I could only occaisonly find ways around it) and I can admit that I started this trip with an 11 day stay in Israel before flying to Georgia (a fact that would have gotten me deported or imprisoned in Lebanon and Syria). While in Syria, Israel was codenamed "Disneyland," leading to rather confusing talk of Mickey, Minnie, Space Mountain, Mouseketeers and Disneyland security.

I am about two weeks behind in this report.

Will eventually catch up but I think I am going to ride hard for Nazareth, Disneyland today and find a net cafe there. The journey is coming to an end.

Lebanon in Fragments (part 2)

I ended up staying 5 more nights in a suburb of Beirut. I had met some very friendly people in Aleppo weeks earlier who invited me to stay with them. Being at their apartment I felt somewhat normal again. It is amazing how comforting and relaxing doing dishes can be. I was also lucky to meet their flatmate, an incredibly intelligent Lebanese Shia girl, who was willing to teach me about her city and show me the southern suburbs. The southern part of Beirut is mostly Shia and most recently famous for being heavily bombarded by the Israelis during the 2006 conflict. I spent a day on my own cycling through the maze of block apartments and noted the yellow and green everywhere. Yellow for Hizbullah and Green for Amal. Yet unlike the image portrayed by the western media, this area is not patrolled by fundamentalist warriors enforcing a strict interpretation of Islam. Other than the flags, the only evidence of Hizbullah are the men directing traffic, collecting donations or overseeing the rebuilding of buildings destroyed by Israeli strikes. Though they are widely believed to be the most powerful force in Lebanon (the military is almost entirely absent from the Shia areas), they don't seem to feel the need to constantly flex their muscle. And as far as the enforcement of strict islamic principles, I saw people eating and smoking during Ramadan, and stores selling sexy clothing for women. Even being American, I was greeted by many friendly people. Hmmm...

The next day, I was taken through a bit more of Dahieh (the southern suburb) and then to Sabra and Shatila. The names intimidated me. For anyone familiar with the history, or for those who have seen the film "Waltz with Bashir," you know that these Palestinian refugee camps were the site of the Palestinian massacres at the hands of Israeli supported Phalange militias in retribution for the assassination of Bashir Gemayel, Lebanese president and Phalange leader.

It was the first day of Ramadan and Maya drove us up to the Sabra market. We parked and entered a bustling street lined with shops. Sabra is now home to many many Syrians and Iraqis in addition to the Palestinians and is no longer an official camp. We ducked down a side street and slowly entered Shatila. This extremely dense camp houses over 12,000 refugees. Wandering the filthy narrow concrete alleys felt more like slums from the Indian subcontinent rather than the Middle East. Though not the worst conditions I had seen, it was still quite miserable and I could not keep two things out of my mind: the images I had seen in my studies of slaughtered palestinians in the camps and I could not stop pondering the history that had caused this camp to exist at all. Down one small alley, past some old Hamas posters, I spotted something hop in the stagnant puddle we were crossing. A baby frog. How did it get there? For anyone thinking about the situation from a distance it must have been quite strange: an semi-agnostic American man of partially jewish ancestry and a Lebanese Shia woman laughing, bent over, trying to get a picture of a baby frog in a puddle in a Palestinian refugee camp on the first day of Ramadan after they had been secretly drinking some water. That this moment could happen at all gives me hope.

We left the camp after a few short hours. The only startling moment for me had been went we hit an intersection of alleys and we came across a man sporting a machine gun. I looked at Maya and she seemed unworried so I was relaxed. Then she abruptly stopped for a few moments and I caught a glimpse of uncertainty on her face and she uttered "Oh... its a real gun..." I skipped a few breaths. But then we just continued forward and walked by. Later, driving away from the camp I realized how these years of seeing horrible conditions and the need to be stoic had desensitized me to all this. I felt a little sick that I did not feel more. But this did not last long. It came, and not in any small way. Suddenly, emotionally overwhelmed, my shell cracked.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked me and reached out to touch the back of my neck.
"Yes," I lied.

(to be continued later in part 3)

Lebanon in Fragments (part 1)

First post in a while. This may seem a bit scattered because I wrote different parts at different times.

Part 1:

I am in Beirut...

I feel so confused.

I arrived at the Syrian/Lebanese frontier in the early afternoon on the last day of my Syrian visa. After the Syrians let me go I crossed the small bridge to the Lebanese side. This crossing, over a small river by the sea, reminded me of my crossing from Mauritania to Senegal a few years ago. Well I suppose the Lebanese side felt more like West Africa. The Syrians were surprisingly composed and relatively orderly. Crossing the bridge brought me into a border post of razorwire, commandos, potholes, French language and Mercedes.

When I finally passed the border, I drove hard for Tripoli (Tarablus). Ahead I could see the green mountains rising near the sea. For a moment everything looked idyllic. But closer examination revealed brutal reality. The entire countryside was coated in debris; both food wrappers and abandoned industrial materials. The fancy cars heading for the border did not seem to fit with the poor rural houses they zoomed past. Before I knew it I was suddenly cycling past a Palestinian refugee camp (the site of the 2007 battles). The shacks on the beach reminded me more of the slums of Dakar, Senegal than anything I imagined to be Lebanese. Hitting my first large town was equally as jarring; many people were dressed in quite sharp clothing and there were more advertisements than I saw in the whole of Syria, yet the road needed repair and many buildings looked abandoned.

I entered the jungle of bulletscarred buildings that is Tripoli through a series of military checkpoints. My first impression was of a city under occupation. I reached my hotel after a ride through a confusing blend of designer clothing shops and crumbling buildings. Once I had showered, I came out to the balcony to a crackling sound similar to gunfire. I tried in my best Arabic to ask what it was but could not understand the response other that it was "good." I took to the streets and discovered a large wedding party down tucked behind some French colonial buildings. The bride and groom were just getting into their convertible porsche, while drummers in traditional Arabic dress played over the noise created by others setting off fireworks.

(This post was interrupted. Now I'm in the Bekaa Valley a week later.)

Alright... back to Tripoli. There I met a Norwegian political scientist/sociologist who explained to me much of the political situation in the north. She was reseaching Sunni mobilization in the city (Tripoli is mostly Sunni while the surrounding areas are mostly Maronite and Greek Orthodox Christians). We took a day to escape from the humidity of the coast and went up into the mountains looming over the city. Lebanon is quite stunning from the giant Virgin Mary statue high above Ehden.

I passed a few more days in the region exploring, meeting friendly locals and repairing a broken bicycle spoke. With the bike rideable again, I set off down the coast. This was quite possibly the strangest cycle day I have ever had. Abandoned contruction projects and chic stores, stunning coastline and industrial mining, mansions and shacks, headscarves and sexy bikinis. Huh? And this was after just maybe 20kms. I passed a field of high grass near Byblos (Jbail). I noticed turrets poking out of the vegetation and realized that it was a field of abandoned tanks and armoured personel carriers by a military base. Ten minutes later I was in jetset Byblos eavesdropping on some rich French people complaining about their lives and their yachts while I grabbed a shwarma. An hour later and I was invited in by a Maronite Christian family for a meal. We talked in a hastily invented English/French/Arabic creole as we sat by the sea. I napped on their couch for an hour and woke to more food and an invitation to stay for the night. As we ate the conversation turned to politics and religion which at first was fine. Then a deep gash in Lebanese society again reared its ugly head. "The Muslims are no good" Damnit, I really was in no mood for intolerance. The old man went off on the Muslims, specifically the Palestinians and the Shia Lebanese. As he spewed hatred I examined the tattoos on his arms and pieced together the story. The guy was a Phalangist militiaman during the civil war.

I backed out of the invitation to stay the night, explaining how I misunderstood because I needed to meet a friend in Beirut that night. Cycling away with a package of food and cold water bottles prepared by the old woman, I was deeply saddened. This sadness turned to a feeling of sickness as I passed Jounieh and into Beirut. I don't think I have ever before seen such a disgusting and blatant gap between rich and poor. Well actually I probably have but what makes Lebanon feel different is that it is not a small elite but rather a large group of super wealthy that seem to disregard the rest of the country. I suppose I am just frustrated right now and can't really make a coherent comment on the situation.

Anyway, after passing through a small part of Jounieh where everything was written in Russian and signs for Moldovan travel agencies and "Super Night Clubs" outnumbered all other advertisements I came towards the outskirts of Beirut. I was immediately repulsed by the city (though I loved it deeply by the time I left a week later). Seeing advertisements for alcohol showing a woman saying "plastic surgery made me fabulous" pretty much summed up the initial superficial vibe the bulletridden city presented.

Having survived the drivers, I grabbed a cheap dorm bed and relaxed. Lebanese drivers have to be the worst I have ever encountered outside India. Its not that they driver just badly, they driver as if they don't want to live. You see crazy driving tactics elsewhere but I have never seen so many accidents on the roads. Entering Beirut, I was passed by motorcycles pulling wheelies while weaving in and out of traffic like the beginning of the movie Akira. What compounds the problem is that Lebanese tend to drive huge, gas guzzling vehicles that take up a lot of space on the road. I had one sweet moment of payback for the bad drivers. One woman came up behind me in a brand new Mercedes on a narrow street and began honking. Instead of wait 15 second for the street to widen, she tried to push passed me. She brushed me with the entire length of her car. Unfortunately for her, I was still carrying the ixeace from Georgia and, with a sound like nails on a chalkboard, it left a long scrape down the entire length of her expensive vehicle.

The next day I wandered from East (Christian) Beirut to the West (Sunni) part. The downtown is oddly immaculate while a short walk takes you to the largest monument of the civil war: the Holiday Inn. This hulking skeleton towers over much of Beirut. It seems that nearly every square foot has at least a single bullet hole.

(Fuck it's really hard to write with children screaming and everyone coming up to ask you questions and look over your shoulder. Plus it's Ramadan and I haven't eaten since before sunrise at 4:25 and its now 4:00 which is incredibly difficult considering I biked over a mountain range yesterday so I am obviously a bit cranky.)

That night was quite nice. I met up with two French girls and a Lebanese guy I met in Aleppo and stayed with them .

(Post interrupted again)

Wow I am way behind. I am in Damascus now. I'll go ahead and post this as part 1 and write the rest in part 2.

Syria Part 3 - Like cycling in an armpit

I am speeding through these posts trying to catch up to my present location (Tripoli, Lebanon) so I may update these later to add more.

Hama - Homs short 50km ride to Syria's 3rd largest city. Rather uneventful.

From Homs I pulled a really long day to the coast. The Syrian scenery really redeemed itself on that leg. Half way to the coastal city of Tartus, I made a detour for Krak De Chevaliers (Qa'alat al-Hosn). This crusader castle was quite spectacular. Unfortunately the road up the mountain was the steepest I have seen on the trip. Half way up, in the scorching heat, a motorcycle stopped and threw me a rope. Why not? Towed 2km uphill I made it to the Krak and enjoyed the spectacular view. After the heat of the day had passed, I carried on to reach the Mediterranean for the tail end of sunset. Oh God, the humidity!!!!!!! Hence the title of the post: like cycling in an armpit. It was (and still is in Tripoli) a most miserable combination of heat and humidity (and trash covered coastline). But Tartus was kind to me. I was invited to a Greek Orthodox choir performance for the assumption of the Virgin Mary and most surprising for me I met someone I knew! When I started my cycling trip over 2 years ago from Turkey to Vietnam, I stayed the first night at my friend Paola's apartment on her flatmate Daniele's floor. Well there in Tartus I spotted him again. Small world, no?

Syria Part 2 - Marriage arrangements and nostril-waxing

The road from Aleppo to Hama was quite tough. I had planned to do this leg in two days but due to general lack of any kind of shade on the way, I pumped it out in one, only stopping to visit some Byzantine ruins on the way. Outside these ruins I met a man who stopped me for tea. When he discovered my age (21), he became quite excited. My Arabic is horrible but I did understand that his brother had a daughter who was 16 and would make a good wife. He pulled out a picture of his brother's family and pointed to a woman in full black coverings with only eyes exposed. For all I knew there could be a man under all that covering, so I felt it was ridiculous that he was showing me this.

"Jameela jidan (very beautiful)" I said as a joke. He didn't get it.
"Oh yes very very beautiful."

Hama was exactly what I needed. I was wrecked the night I arrived and slept soundly out on a roof mattress (until the dozen mosques surrounding the hotel went off at 4:00 am!).

A woman from New Zealand who didn't know much about Islam asked me, "What are they saying during the calls?" I was curious to know what she thought they were saying. She responded, "Something like, alright everyone it's time to tell God you love him, he's feeling insecure... AGAIN..." I shouldn't have laughed.

At the hotel I met another traveler on two wheels, except she had an engine. Ania was riding a motorcycle from Poland to Jordan and back. We spent a day together wandering the city and enjoying Arab hospitality. I had to go for a shave and out of curiousity she joined me. It all started quite normal until they shaved president Bashar's signature mustache on me. I felt a little bad about making them cut it off, but it was just too ridiculous. From there it got more and more bizarre, as next came a face scrub with a bizarre humidifier, a mud mask, and then they slathered some green crap just about my beardline. Then they stuck two cottonswabs in the same gunk and shoved them up my nose. At this point I thought they were just making fun of me. I tried to express my concern but I got the reply, "No, no it's Italian." Still trying unsuccessfuly to figure out what this was I got my answer from a swift tug on the cottonswabs in my nose and the resulting pain. Wax. Then, to add insult to injury, they spiked my hair and sprayed on a silver layer. I looked like a hip Syrian and have never felt more ridiculous.

A half kilometer of walking later, I found a man with a hose to spray the silver out of my hair and Ania and I moved on to the next objective: to find wine. Unfortunately it was Sunday so all the Christian shops were closed (Syria is 10% Christian) but the Syrians came through again and found us a bottle of Lebanese wine. Covertly drinking on top of the citadel and looking down on the peaceful city, I could not help but think how fast things can change. Just 27 years ago, large parts of the city were obliterated by the Syrian government to crush the Muslim Brotherhood and 10,000 people died.