I
left off in Aqaba, Jordan about to board a 15-passenger van with a bunch of Palestinians and Ahmad, a half-Jordanian half-Indonesian. It was Thursday evening, a full day of traveling (and mostly waiting around in Nuweiba) after I left Cairo Wednesday night.
Third Leg: Aqaba to the Jordanian/Syrian Border: Across JordanAhmad had taken a shine to me early on. He was the first one of that group to approach me waiting for the ferry in Nuweiba. He manuvered to sit next to me on the ferry and invited me to his sister's wedding and to stay with him in Amman. He would have liked to have been my protector during the crush to get on the ferry if not for Bilal's superior size and assertiveness. He did accept my decline of the wedding invitation the first couple times, and I had told them all I already had a boyfriend (not entirely true), but Ahmad was undaunted. "Get off with me in Amman" he said. "No, I want to go to Syria." Ok, he shrugged, and I thought the matter had been settled before we even set off.
Low on cash, I asked the driver if we could stop at an ATM in Amman so I could get my share (we had to stop in Amman for Ahman anyway). Sure, mafii mushkila, I was told. No problem. So we loaded into the van. Ahmad was out-manuevered, and had to sit up in front next to the driver, while I was in the second seat wedged between Bilal and another man. So as not to appear partial or raise any one's hopes, I simply sat in the back and let them work out the rest of the seating arrangement. Ahmad did not look happy up in front.
A half-hour into the journey, pitch-black now, we heard several thumps as the shit piled and tied onto the roof of the van slipped and fell onto the road. We pulled over and a couple guys ran back down the road to retrieve their shit. Everyone accounted for their possesions (my backpack had been in my lap). Some one was missing a suitcase. The driver put the car in reverse on the road, paying no mind as another car, going the correct, forward direction, swerved not to hit us, honking and cursing. We felt the car roll over something. It was the suitcase. It was added to the retied pile on the roof and we were on our way once again.
Apparently not exhausted earlier, the talk turned once again to dating, American style. They wanted to know what Americans did when they dated, how much boys and girls hung out, if they could really hang out and just be friends like some of them are in the movies. Sure, I said, aren't we all just friends? This drew laughter, and Bilal assured me he thought of me as his sister.
The questions continued. "You have a boyfriend?" "Do all Americans have sex with their boyfriends?" "Would you marry an Arab man?" "What do you think of Arab men?" "Would you marry a black man?" When I said, why not, I've dated black men, my answer was met with shock. "How could you be with a black man?"
Bilal was particulary emphatic on this point: "I could marry an American or European girl, but not a black one." Well buddy, that's your hangup. No one in Cairo had any trouble hitting on (or proposing) to Mariama, one of my supremely sexy roommates. Bilal much preferred my answer to "Do you drink alcohol?" I reminded them that I was Christian (that's a yes). "So do we! Do you smoke hash?" Sorry, shisha bas, but then I was then regaled with stories of their partying out in the desert with copious amounts of booze and hash. "Next time you're in Cairo, you should come with us!" Sure, why not?
During our conversations, we had also been listening to the driver's tapes. Songs we all knew elicited cheers, as did my ability to sing part of Nancy Ajram songs. Then the tape changed to Sami Youssef, a British Muslim who sings all relgious songs about Islam. The mood became much more somber. In one song, Sami sang in English, Arabic, Turkish, French. "That's because everyone should come to Islam. He's trying to reach everyone." The men started talking about their faiths (note: all Fatah supporters - Bilal even had a portrait of Yasser Arafat in a locket necklace) and asking me about mine. "You should cover up more. I don't mind the way you dress, but it's not what I say. It's what God says. He says women should wear hijab."
"Doesn't He also say you shouldn't drink?"
"Yanii, no one's a perfect Muslim."
Inside Amman, I heard Ahmad speaking with the driver (in Arabic naturally) about how I was to be let out with him. "No, I'm going to the border." I said in Arabic. Ahmad told me "No, it's okay" in English and then he reiterated to the driver how I was going to get off with him in Amman in Arabic. "No. I'm not going to Amman. I just need an ATM but I'm going to the border."
"Yes," Ahmad said in English, "don't worry. You will go to Syria." Then again, to the driver (who didn't speak English) about how I was going to get off with him in Amman. "Ana afhimak!" I yelled, I understand you! "wa iyeeza arouh lihudoud souriya. Mish liAmman!" The other guys started yelling back on my behalf, while Ahmad kept trying to reassure me in English, then talking to the driver in Arabic. The driver pulled over to a police officer. I was told to get out and talk to him.
"Miss, do you want to get down from the car in Amman?" He asked (in English). Ahman ran over and tried to talk to the police officer, who waved him away. "He says you want to get down in Amman?"
"No, I want to get down at the Syrian border." The officer told the driver, and we all got back in the van, Ahmad pouting. At his house he got out, asked if I was sure I didn't want to stay with him. Fucking definitely, buddy. So on we went to the border. Before we left Amman I kept asking to stop at an ATM, when I realized the driver didn't know what one is. I explained about the machines, from banks, you put in a card, they give you money. "mafii mushkila" he said. There's some near the border.
It was very late, so I dozed off on Bilal, who told me it was okay because I was his sister. We pulled up to the border past 4:30am. It was very desolate, unlike Lebanon-Syria. No dutyfree. The driver asked for my share of the cab money. Where's the ATM? He wouldn't let me leave the van's side, afraid I would run off without paying, so he held onto my backpack for collateral while I searched for cash. The border guards led me to the one bank, where they woke up a man sleeping inside, who got me a cash advance on my credit card. I ran back to the cab, paid, said goodbye and posed for pics with the guys, got my backpack, and proceeded to go through Jordanian customs.
Fourth Leg: Jordanian/Syrian Border to DamascusThe Syrian side of the border was a good kilometer or two away, and I had no transportation other than my feet. But the border officials decided to help me out, and had me wait outside with a guard. We chatted in Arabic, until he told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world and then I waited a little farther away form him. The officials coerced the next person crossing the border to take me to the Syrian side. "He will not charge you." So, hello strange man, thanks for letting me into your car.
This man was insane. The border officials introduced us, and then he told me to run! to the car. The officials had no reaction to his hustle, so I ran afterwards. He got in the car and tore off. We were going over 120 km on a badly maitained road. We got air on a bump and slammed down hard. The man only laughed in my direction like
isn't this fun? and kept going. He offered to take me into Damascus, but for a high price. Plus, I like living, and I don't know how long I would have lasted in that car. At Syrian immigration, he ran in. I walked.
This time, it was perfectly smooth, took only a few minutes. "Have you ever been to Israel?" The border official asked. No, I replied. "Why not?" He asked. "Ana bakrah Israel," I said, finally getting something out of that song. He laughed. I was in, but I didn't have a ride. I was told there would be a bus coming through at 8am I could join. It was almost 6am. Sounds good, so sat down and got out my copied pages from the Lonely Planet and few tourist brochures there at the border and set about making an itinery.
I wasn't waiting long when a man came up to me. "You need a ride?" I assured him I was fine, I was just waiting for the bus. He asked me several times. "Look, my family is outside, you can come with us." So okay, I walked out to his car, where his wife, son, and their every earthly possession were loaded into a car. There didn't seem to be any place to sit, but he insisted, so his wife and I shared the front seat. She was young, maybe a few years older than I and massively pregnant. His 15-year-son from his first marriage (wife dead) sat in the back. They were moving from Saudi Arabia back to Syria. The wife and I moved so that she sat on my lap, more room for her belly, but she still didn't look happy about her husband's generosity. I told her I could just talk the bus, no problem, but she insisted now too. Damn that Arab hospitality - can't refuse tea or a free ride with a pregnant lady on your lap.
We stopped at their place South of Damascus, and I helped unload their stuff from the car. There was a marital spat that I really hope was from the stress of such a long roadtrip and not the passenger they had picked up on the last stretch. He ran down to the car, told me it was only her moods from the pregnancy, and drove me into Damascus. He wanted to know all about my travels and studies, so we talked. In Damascus, he accidently ended up in the old city and almost hit a man on a bike. He asked if I was hungry, and I said no, so he stopped in the middle of traffic to run out and grab some zataar for me.
Finally, we pulled up in front of al-Haramayn, the backpacker's staple. "Ahlan wasahlan!" he said, and took off again. It was 10am Friday morning - I had left Cairo Wednesday night - but I had finally made it.
