the official blog of aric s. queen
and I feel the need to point out,
that they’re not a good representation of all of the town,
which was actually quite pretty, with beaches and snowpeaks
and other things that you’d write on a brochure.
but for people, like myself, who adore textures and run-down buildings,
I could have stayed for weeks on end.
…
btw – went back to Damascus and spent a few days in the old city – the rest of the Syria photos are here.
it was evident as the old bus pulled around the corner,
a corner wayyyy up top on a mountain.
next to another mountain with snow.
snow – in Beirut? who knew.
I sure didn’t.
and then looking down, down, down to the coast
the downtown sticking out like an arrow into the Med.
gorgeous beaches in Beirut? nope – had no idea either.
I knew jokes, and news stories.
and other things that were sad.
but the evidence, things that were evident,
were up on that corner.
see, a few turns later, we started to descend.
my ears knew this before my eyes did.
about the 3rd switchback was a sign
‘portabello sandwich!!’ great – thanks Hardee’s.
[who knew, who knew]
but below the highlighted mushroom declaration was a little house,
a little old guard-post.
red, if I remember correctly.
with some holes. and lots of chipped paint.
burgers and bulletholes – welcome to Beirut.
they go out, my gosh, they go out a lot.
nice cars, good boobs and lips and other assorted purchases.
one big ‘fuck you’ to something somewhere, whatever they used to have
or might again someday.
men with hard faces guard the buildings they once cannoned.
boom! went the town. and then boom! went the industry.
explosion and commerce.
tragedy and the aftermath.
but through the haze, the expensive jazz clubs
and many, too many sunglasses for one person
hovers the reminder, right up there by that first turn,
that no matter the size of the capitalistic plaster,
there will always be a few spare scars,
of a small-pox called yesterday.
look, I’m not religious.
daddy’s a pastor, true.
I’m a Christian, true.
but don’t buy into the lifestyle that’s forced.
in fact, I happen to think the Man upstairs rolls His eye’s at his ‘followers’,
in church once-a-week, paying their 10% guilt fee.
this isn’t really about that.
what it is about is what I’d like, come the afterlife.
streets of gold, everlasting life – all fine and good,
don’t know many who’d turn that down
[although, I'm more of a platinum kindof girl]
this is about what I’d ask for.
give me an apartment with a crummy view,
that’s okay with me,
but what I’d like, what I’d ask
is for a look at what the places I’ve been able to see looked like.
at their prime.
ever think about that?
be it Europe or even the America’s.
my imagination runs wild at places like Palmyra [above].
walking the street, from the city entrance to the temple.
I can fill in the blanks to a point.
but man, to see who walked before me,
who’s house did I walk in and over?
did I choose to light up a cigarette in the ‘rough area’ of town?
things like this.
that, I’d enjoy.
‘I thought you were already on an adventure’ typed my friend Kris with her still-drunk fingers.
‘no, this is tourism’, I typed back, wishing my hands were in a country where beer was easy to find, ‘I pay money and get to see shit. I mean, an adventure‘.
see, I’ve had this idea for quite some time now.
eluded to it a few times when there was no money at all.
and it’s a good idea,
good enough for National Geographic to take note.
but in my heart-of-hearts, I don’t know if they’ll run with it.
it’s an adventure, I’m tellin’ ya, but it could be a hairy one.
hairy enough that Dad’s friend Mark has already emailed me a few times,
‘- can send his plane in case shit hits the fan’ and ‘grow your cajonies real big beforehand’ have been said to me.
so that should tell you it’s somethin’.
and I’m nervous, but that’s good.
I’m not nervous here – despite the propaganda I’ve grown up with.
adventure-nervous.
Scott pointed out a well-known author already took the same route,
which bummed me out a little, but realized it was hardly an original route to begin with.
it’s the way it’s done.
I’ll find out soon what’s what and will then elaborate more.
years ago, about 10 now, Symon and worked in Spain for 6 months.
down in the South, right across from Morocco.
it was at a pub where a lot of people had their holidays,
and we didn’t shut until the last person either threw-up, was beaten-in or stumbled out.
it was messy, but fun.
every morning, around 5am, when we would walk back to the taxi stand,
[the same taxi stand Symon would save my life at when I decided to man-up to a guy who ended up having a gun]
but before that, we’d hit the kebab stand.
this guy was magic,
and I’m pretty sure he was putting on top of the meat what we were selling under the table.
we lived for it.
chemical smiles, celebrity tips and kebabs.
that was our 1/2 year in Spain.
but I’ve recently found another.
I don’t want to say ‘replacement’ because too many memories come with the original,
but this guy here, in the little town of Hama, Syria, will forever have a place in my heart.
his kebabs are good, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing this.
the past 3 days I’ve eaten there 5 times.
it’s just about his, well, the way he goes about it.
the first time I went there, he jumped up from the back where he was counting money to help me.
the second he wasn’t there, I guess the counting went well.
the third time, he came out from his shack to talk to me,
and talk all about New York City.
see, this was a trick I learned in Turkey, as everyone has at least one family member in New York City.
can’t say the same about Oklahoma.
so we talked New York City.
oh, he wanted to go and ‘drive big car with big women’, but would tilt his head to one side and put a hand up as if to acknowledge that he would never have the pleasure of either.
the fourth he took the kebab out of the hand of one of his workers and did something magical – he made it, stuffing it full of chicken-goodness and the special yoghurt sauce and then [get this], he rolled the kebab around in the grease below the fire, threw a few squeezes of lemon on it and then stuck it into the flame, creating a caramelization of wonder and delight.
that was yesterday evening.
and then, tonight. I thought he was going to hug me across the cash-register when I told him that tomorrow I was heading to Damascus.
but I had to see him.
one last fling.
he took his time with this one.
same as last night, so much chicken he broke the first pita.
again with the grease and lemon.
he turned around to show it to me, I approved with a vertical thumb,
but he wasn’t done.
with his spare hand, he pointed to his eye and to me,
threw extra sauce on top.
and then piled it high with more chicken.
…
I’ve seen a lot of kebabs in my life, been eating an average of one-per-day for the past 3 weeks.
and I ain’t never seen anything like that.
so, if you ever find yourself in the middle of Syria.
visit the enchanting town of Hama.
next to the giant water wheels is a cobblestone bridge.
he’s in the shack right next to it.
just don’t expect the same kebab.
[and if you do get it, please don't tell me.]
it was India all over again.
that was the very first thing that popped into my head when I stepped out the door.
and into Aleppo, Syria.
mayhem. pure mayhem.
the kind that doesn’t care if you’re from there or not,
rich or tall.
horns, blaring so loudly and often, and no way of telling where they were coming from.
step out, but look both ways, son – there are no traffic rules,
but the man selling belts will help you find your way.
even if you don’t know where that is.
past the clock tower that was wrong,
and through the souq with soaps.
in-and-out of the imagination-inspiring castle,
and onto a street,
no, not onto a street – taken there…
by a man who wouldn’t allow me to pay
‘it helps me English’ with a kind smile.
and then into the peaceful maze,
the silent abyss,
of the back streets and alleyways that ended up in houses with tall walls.
quiet, it all went quiet.
it could be because of the tall walls.
or because chaos respects family.
men, heads resting on lime green sewing machines, dreaming of something tearing.
a woman! when one was seen, could see more of you than she, in her dark and hidden attire.
boys, no more than 8 years old, would walk by with circles of bread on their heads, feet so worn and calloused they looked like hands.
I followed them secretly to their way,
finding more and smaller passageways of arch and stone.
too quiet, too quaint.
in which window is the man from Dreamworks?
‘whaddya think? looks real, huh?’
but he never showed.
heads poked out,
but none that would ruin the labyrinth.
I bought a kebab and ate it before I returned to the mayhem.
it wouldn’t have tasted as good by then.
I’m filthy.
seriously.
and I stink.
’cause somewhere between here and the Med I lost my deodorant.
and I just haven’t picked any up.
I smell and I’m dirty.
from the photo, you might think that was one day’s doing.
it’s not.
I haven’t washed those over-sized sweats since I’ve started traveling.
and I’ve worn them everyday.
yes – what you’re thinking right now, ew.
ew is right.
but I got to the point where I stink and I’m dirty and I don’t mind it.
see, it rained yesterday.
and everyone was tip-toe tip-toeing over the puddles.
tip-toe tip-toe.
I just walked through.
I’m already dirty.
and I live in a dirty little motel room.
I stink and it stinks.
but I don’t mind.
you get to a point where you don’t care about what you look like.
and I’m at that point.
wait – does that sound like I’m depressed?
I’m not.
it’s liberating.
the homeless man who throws his feces at pigeons and preaches to pencils,
he’s free.
if his brown belt doesn’t match his black shoes, he’s okay with that.
and I’m okay with that.
I. am. here. to. see. some. shit.
that’s it. that’s all.
but I should probably shower.
oh, I’ve put off writing this.
it exhausts me just to think about it.
I’m going to do it in tiny little sentences.
if that’s ok.
cool.
my 2nd attempt at getting into Syria without having a visa in hand seemed like it was going to be easy.
’3, maybe 4 hours’ said the man at the first border crossing, who took more of a special interest in the ‘what is your job?’ question than any of the other 10.
the main checkpoint was insane – and keep in mind I used to live in China, so when I say ‘insane’ I mean ‘insane’.
8 windows, dozens of people, no one really taking much of an interest in what line they were told to be in.
I wrestled my way to the window and handed my passport over.
‘Syrian visa?’ asked a guy who will now be referred to as Mr. Mean.
‘no visa’ I said, trying hard to look like I had been wanting to visit Syria for 20 years now, ‘can I buy?’
I assumed the blue paper he threw at me had something to do with me acquiring a visa, although whatever he said to me in Arabic that had his fellow officers laughing didn’t exactly raise my hopes.
I sat down and started to enter all of the information they asked – name, father’s name, mother’s name, Syrian contact information, etc, when another man, we’ll call him Mr. Dense Mustache, told me to come through the door into the area where all of the police were sitting.
I was led to a small room, a very small room, one might even be so inclined to call it the ‘in-between’ room.
‘in-between what?’ another might ask.
well, there were 3 doors.
one led to the room I was just in, with all of the police.
the second door had a large sliding lock. and a small window that could only be opened from this side – it had to be a cell, but I was too scared to look.
the third opened into a room I would never see.
did I mention the room I was in was about 20′ x 20′?
it was.
and in it consisted of lockers for the police, one rolling chair, a small table with a stationary chair…and a rack that held 8 AK-47′s. I think they were AK-47′s, they didn’t have the clip in, but I think they were AK-47′s. even if they weren’t, they were large guns. unlocked. 4 feet from where I was told to sit.
I put my bag down, thought about getting comfortable with a book and my iPod or even my computer with my little movies, but there was no way I was going to be there that long – 3-4 hours? nothin’. I’d sit back, have a few cigarettes and be on my way.
‘pah’ I pah’d. pah to those silly American tourist who paid hundreds of dollars and mailed their passports to someplace unknown.
I was the traveler. I was seasoned. a seasoned traveler – that was me.
this was at 1.15p.
guys would walk in for a smoke break, offer me one, so I’d take it.
Mr. Mean came in and had a few words in Arabic once more, but didn’t offer me anything.
now, I should stop and point out that the average Middle Eastern man smokes about a pack, pack-and-a-half a day, which works out to about one every 30-minutes. there were about, what, 10 of them.
you do the math, it was a lot of smoking – I was able to ‘no thanks’ a few of them, but also wanted to make a good impression.
6 an hour, if I had to guess.
wow, okay, I’m drifting off and have yet to even get to the waiting.
can I paraphrase?
thanks.
3-4 hours must have passed, I made it a point not to ask the time, or to look at my iPod, which was still in my bag. I was better off not knowing. but I was hungry, and so I asked a third m…
ugh, this is boring me.
here it is, in very short points:
- after 5 hours, I asked for some food, knowing there was a little stand outside. after an hour, it came.
- no one was mean to me except Mr. Mean, who made it a point to bring in a friend each time he came in and ask me questions in Arabic. he started calling me ‘Aric-Tiger’, which I’m sure was some sort of Syrian joke. I played along and smiled.
- another man, we’ll call him ‘Mr. Stoic’ would bring in his phone every hour or so to SMS an ‘American lady’ he had met – I was asked to write the following 3 messages:
1. ‘why haven’t you sent me a message?’
[no response]
2. ‘you promised to write me every day, why haven’t you?’
[no response]
3. ‘you lied to me and I loved you’.
[I have no idea if that got a response, but he stopped coming in - I was more interested in what American spy was sleeping with border guards and passed the time coming up with an amazing short story but have since forgotten it.]
- I used the ‘bathroom’ once.
- I looked into the ‘cell’ and wished I wouldn’t have. whomever was there before me had been bleeding. there was a lot of writing on the walls in the same style which told me that said inmate had been there for a while. the cot was shredded.
- after 7 hours [I finally caved and started looking], a man came in and gave me a thumbs-up. followed by a ‘need fax from Damascus, only a few more hours’. I think I started crying on the inside.
…after 8 hours and 40 minutes, I was given a visa to enter.
8 hours. and 40 minutes.
imagine sitting at your desk for a full day, but not doing anything – and not in the ‘I played on Facebook all day’, I mean nothing. sitting there. not talking. making onesies once. eating once. smoking no less than 40 cigarettes – Middle Eastern cigarettes, mind you. surrounded by a language your don’t comprehend. next to a cell and guns. and Mr. Mean.
oh. yes – Mr. Mean. when I finally got up to cross over that beloved border, I said ‘goodbye’ to all the guys in Arabic [I did pick up the ole guide book to teach myself a handful of phrases] and they all said ‘bye’ back. except Mr. Mean, he kept on calling me ‘Aric-Tiger’ and I, deprived of everything, head full of atthispointIdon’tgiveafuck, I asked Mr. Dense Mustache what that meant.
‘tiger is strong. he says you strong. wait long time, very quiet. tiger is good’.
all I could offer was a weak smile.
I got in the only car that was waiting.
it ran out of gas 5 miles down the road.
while the driver would run back a mile or so to get some, my job was to keep hitchikers from getting into the car.
he brought it back, but it was in a plastic gallon jug, so he used a newspaper for a funnel.
and would, a few minutes later, use his gasoline-soaked hands to light a cigarette in the car.
the windows didn’t work, meaning it smelled of petrol and nicotine, the only thing that kept me from passing out was the thought of him catching us both on fire.
he would ask two times the already-ridiculously expensive price quoted to me by the police when we finally arrived to Aleepo.
we argued back-and-forth until I shouted ‘aayb!!!’, a word for women to use when being sexually harassed that I happened to remember from my book.
I checked into a dingy little motel with no heat and no windows.
bought a beer and a kebap.
took one bite and two sips and passed out.
‘silly American tourists….’
pah.
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