Day 21 Into the Desert

SYNOPSIS: A comfortable overland bus took me to Palmyra, where I met Ivan, the not so terrible, and got a Bedouin head massage in exchange for a German translation.FROM ROBBERS TO ECCENTRICS TO HEAD MASSAGING BEDOUINSIn the middle of the head massage I burst out laughing.  Seeing myself sitting in that backroom at a restaurant called “Pancake House” on Main Street of old Palmyra getting a head massage by a Bedouin, was just too far off!  Who could have imagined anything like it this morning, when the first news I had was not all good.There was Steve from Australia, another traveler at the Ghazal Hotel who ended up at my table for breakfast.  I had seen him in the hallway a couple of days ago and heard him complain about Damascus.   I could not figure out why he did not like the city as I find it welcoming, walkable, and fascinating.  I asked him about his plans for the day and he was “leaving to never ever return to this town!”  Why?  On top of his dislikes already, he got mugged last night!   He had taken a taxi to go to one of the famous viewing points to see Damascus after sunset; just that the taxi driver instead took him to a different mountain where four guys awaited him to strip him of all of his money.  As these things go, he had just recently gone to an ATM and gotten a few hundred dollars which instead of securely tugging away into his money belt, he was still carrying in his wallet.  He got the wallet back; the guys only took his money and left him stranded.The police chastised him for not knowing the taxi number which is written atop of every taxi cab, in Arabic…   But who pays attention to that?  I pondered the situation.  I had not yet taken a taxi alone at night, but that viewing point had been on my agenda.   I wonder if I as a woman am more or less vulnerable in this country.   Back home, of course, a single woman is a more likely target than a tall, strong, young man.  Here, I am not so sure.  Mugging is rare enough.  But touching a woman is almost unheard of.  Perhaps, as long as there are enough single guys walking around as good mugging targets, I am safe?  Well, I figured it was time to learn the Arabic numbers if nothing else.  This goes back to the good old hitch-hiker’s mentality which dictates not ever to get into a car unless you got the license plate memorized.I had a slightly bad feeling when I got into my taxi to the bus terminal. It was obvious that I was moving to a new destination and had everything I owned on and with me.  And now I cannot just trust a taxi driver in Damascus ever again.  What happened with Steve last night was too well organized to be a completely isolated incident.  But all went well.  The bus terminal – this is the third now that I got to know in Damascus – was another well organized, tightly controlled affair.  It is obvious, that overland bus travel is treated with the utmost care.  Everybody’s luggage is checked and every traveler has to walk through a metal detector.  In order to buy my ticket I had to show my passport.  Every passenger has a seat assigned; every ticket and name is checked by an attendant who collects the top sheet of a ticket duplicate.  Once the bus has left, a second attendant collects the second copy of the ticket.  I thought this was my receipt, but there is no receipt.  In this bus we got served snacks just like in an airplane:  The ride was 3 hours long and we got water twice, candy, and coffee!  How bizarre.  The bus was a first class overland bus and the best of it all – it was non-smoking!  If there is a non-smoking bus and a monastery that declares that smoking damages them, perhaps, there is hope after all?!The entire road between Damascus and Palmyra is a two lane highway traveled almost exclusively by these big overland buses, trucks, and a few private cars.  Traffic is sparse.  Along the road you see the occasional Bedouin dwelling.  I also saw an oil well, a cement factory, a couple of restaurants, a mosque, a tipped over truck, an agricultural research center and otherwise nothing.  Very stark, seemingly uninhabitable territory with sand and rocks as far as you can see.From the bus station in Palmyra I got picked up by an unmarked taxi right away, eager to take me to my hotel.  I carefully looked at the license plate before getting in and almost insulted the driver.  Competition in Palmyra is fierce.   After 9/11 business plummeted, yet hundreds of people in town live off tourism.    There is just not enough to go around.   Immediately, the driver tried to line me up for taxi services for days to come.   If he could, he would have camped out at the door steps of the hotel to make sure I will not leave without him.  I finally shook him off.I got to Palmyra just in time for the obligatory trip to the citadel which overlooks the valley and the ruins.  From there you must at least once observe the ruins for sunrise or sunset.  Indeed, it was beautiful and the weather – sun, blue sky with a red sunset, was perfect.  For the hour long climb up I took a taxi – once again I was harassed with offers for days of taxi services.  It is a very sad state of affairs for the locals.  Downward, I walked a steep path back into town.   It was a difficult walk, all on loose rubble.  This desert is harsh; sandy, rocky, and barren; walking on it brings that home even more than driving through it.In town I looked for a restaurant to eat and found the “Pancake House”.  Normally, I would have been turned off just by the American sounding name, but the ambiance was warm and the food advertised was all local, including Bedouin specialties.  So, I sat down and ate.  Half way into my dinner, an old man came in who sat at the table in front of me, facing me.  He spoke Arabic to the waiter who answered in English.  All of a sudden he switched to English and into a rant about Arabs who won’t speak Arabic to him no matter how hard he tries!  And so, we started a conversation across the two tables that lasted a good ½ hour until one of the waiters suggested we sit together.  And so we continued our conversation on the same table for another ½ hour.  This was Ivan.  He was different but he seemed not too terrible, so I suggested traveling together for a day.  More on him, tomorrow.In the meantime, the owner of the restaurant asked me if I was German and if I would translate some promotional materials for him.  How could I refuse?   In the middle of my translation project, he proposed a traditional Bedouin head massage in return.   Now that was an interesting trade.  And by now you know that I have to try just about anything that looks safe, so I accepted.  He told me that his grandfather was still a nomadic Bedouin living in a tent way out in the desert.  His father had settled the family in town, and so his recipes and some of the special services he has for his tourist clients are still very much imbued with the Bedouin spirit.  And that is how I ended up sitting in the backroom of his restaurant getting a Bedouin face massage.   It was not particularly exciting or wonderful, but the fact of getting it at all, was.  So, who would complain?The internet was down in town – there is only one place – so I had to head home without posting today.My room in the Palace Hotel – which really is just a very low end budget hotel, had a broken heater.  Since there are more empty rooms than the hotel knows what to do with, I was relocated to a room with a functioning heater and … you won’t believe it - a TV!  For the first time in three weeks I got CNN news.  I realized that if the world would fall apart around me, I would not have a clue unless it was happening in front of my eyes or unless somebody would tell me on the blog.   But nothing much seemed to have happened since I left.  Haiti is still the center story and there is a snow storm on the East Coast. How are you doing, Maria and Solveig?   Other than that, some football coach had an affair?  If that is enough to upset the world, we have come to a sad point.   And so I went to bed thinking how well off I have been lately, without the news.Good night.