by Jeffrey Vonk
Later that day a large green field contrasts its barren surroundings as I stumble upon a nursery for tomatoes, red peppers and some strange looking local vegetables, unfamiliar to me. Female laborers are wrapped up from head to toe. Studying their body types, I reckon they have to be young women. Only their eyes are visible and with those same eyes they are checking me out like an eagle scouting its prey. Needless to say I return the favor. Bearing in mind I haven’t seen a square inch of female skin for quite a while now. In this male dominated culture my interest in the opposite sex is noticed by one of the owners. On approach Awod introduces himself politely with a smile. He doesn’t hesitate to treat me to a guided tour through the fields. With his big nose, pockmarked face and grey beard, he is passionate about his work. During his verbal clarification of the growth process the girls and I are still checking each other out. Wondering what’s beneath all those layers of fabric I’m not desperate or sexually frustrated, but as a healthy young man it’s just nice to flirt about. You have to understand it’s not like in liberated societies where women can freely choose what they wear.
When friends of the owners arrive it is time for a cup of tea. And here is where it gets confusing, mainly because local customs differ almost as much as from town to town. At one place leaving a full glass on the table indicates this was your last one, in other places that it didn’t taste very good. It’s like a classified form of communication. Shaking your glass with the drinking of tea means this was your last cup, while drinking coffee it means you’d like another one. How can anyone remember all these specific acts? Subdued to trying out new things I especially find the coffee indescribably atrocious. We all know Arabic coffee is strong but this plainly tastes like dishwashing liquid! To their credit I am not a coffee drinker at all. As a way of not offending them I participate in their little tradition, however as soon as I find a second where they’re not paying attention I throw the coffee grounds between the tomato plants. Some of the men wear a traditional headscarf, one of them had a beautiful white garment almost reaching the ground, and yet another has a 7mm handgun in a brown leather holster on his belt. “This is for the stray dogs”, he assures me with a big smile when he sees me looking at it. Even with all my travels and myself coming from a country of narrow-minded prejudice I’m still not used to people openly carrying arms.
In the heat of day, while still gathered in the fields together, the gentlemen pursue me to come work for them. Since the salary is far below minimum wage their offer is graciously declined. A few weeks later I end up regretting this choice for several reasons. I think I really missed out on a great experience here. I do give in to their plea however of staying for the night. A mute Arabian prepares the unvaried dish of rice and chicken. Their home-grown veggies are outstandingly tasteful. Definitely no GMOs or disease fabricating Monsanto seeds. Apart from them trying to convert me we have an interesting and openhearted dialogue about politics and personal stuff. When the end of the day draws near my hospitable hosts have a huge surprise for me.
I know they have carefully listened to my stories when the mute, after being directed, pulls a motorcycle from underneath a tarp from behind the beige yurt. There’s no way this is real. It’s a Jialing! The same crappy brand of my Chinese bike that I had so many adventures with in Asia. While the men get down on their little rugs facing Mecca to heed the religious calling of the five pillars, I get the opportunity to drive their motorcycle through the tomato fields! With a setting sun behind the contours of distant mountains, rapidly turning the orange heaven into pink, my heart melts from the oh so recognizable sound of the engine and the smell of gasoline fumes, of which the molecules probably still reside in my pores. It’s one of those rare moments where I almost share tears of sheer happiness. Hardly ever have I felt more alive than I do now. Playfully crossing through the dirt, I realize that these may actually be the best years of my life. When it’s almost too dark to drive I even go for another round on a different bike. An old corroded Satar to be precise. Who knew that the sensation of riding an iron horse gives so much joie de vivre. I love it!
Having spent the night outdoors between vegetables I leave within the first rays of sunshine, already admirably dynamic for this hour. Every once in a while a shepherd crosses the road with a herd of underfed sheep and a handful of goats. A bundle of yurts on the horizon reveals nomadic tribes wandering these barren lands. It’s a privilege to get a taste of what their existence must be like. Shadows from sporadic shrubs on the roadside are taken advantage of by salesmen trying to pawn off fruit and nougat, stacked into wooden crates. When shrubs aren’t big enough a prismatic parasol does the trick, with a folding chair beneath providing the necessary relief. You can say what you want about these bearded ramblers but pretty much everyone I meet hands out free drinks and free food, ranging from tea to juice, from figs to apples or candy.
With a sunstroke provoking climate, I turn down nothing. Still, no matter how much enters my stomach my body remains somewhat powerless. For this reason, I agree to join Mohammed, a random stranger who just invited me to his home in the next upcoming village. And he intends to defy the challenge by driving us there on his dinky moped. It’s a preposterous sight, me with my backpack and walking sticks on the back, the overweight Muslim in the middle, and a huge just purchased watermelon on the front in a basket too small to carry it. You have to see it to believe it! Schlepping into the peripheries of the town of Sheikh Miskeen, I’m perplexed to find a century-old Orthodox church, not too big and not in the best possible state but still nice. Not having to walk for ten minutes I’m securely reveling with my boots skimming just above the road surface from off the little backseat. In doing so, I find the opportunity to keep my eyes peeled and soak up the local practices. Who could have known that they were shy years away from a battle that would leave no wall standing? But so far so good. Reaching Mo’s home I come to the conclusion that I’m making a habit out of getting invited by owners with the nicest houses in the neighborhood. I don’t know why this keeps happening to me. New window frames, snazzy wall plaster covering the exterior and in spite of serious water shortage Mo managed to create a decent garden. Before I’m allowed into the house he swiftly hides his wife in the kitchen, giving her clear instructions not to come out without his permission. I am not introduced to her nor do I ever catch a glimpse. Although this happens everywhere I go I can’t get used to it. It is totally bizarre in my western mind. Mo walks back and forth to the kitchen to collect the wonderful dishes his wife is making. In the living room the platters are diligently placed on the blue pile carpet on the floor. No one seems to have a table around here. I bet the first Syrian based Ikea is yet to be build.
While getting to know each other it turns out that my new friend is the proud owner of a few acres of farmland. Understandably it’s time for the two of us to get on the dinky moped again, this time without the watermelon in the front. He wishes to show me his self-made enterprise. Arriving at the scene he calls out for his workforce as he contrives coffee and tea. When everyone enters the fairly large open tent, functioning as a grubbing shack, I witness about forty eyebrows rising, and with it a look in their eyes that say where the hell did you get this one? Me and Mo being the only ones speaking English the situation is just a little bit uneasy, just a little.
During our absence from his house the concealed woman makes a five-star supper that I won’t forget easily. I’m constantly stressing: “Thank your wife from me!”, but there’s no way of telling if he actually does. We mainly discuss polarities about religion, faith and politics. He even shares very personal stories he hasn’t been able to tell his closest friends. Things such as the passing away of a child, not being able to make new ones, and contentions typical for a marriage. It is commonly expected here that certain things are meant to be kept to yourself. In my opinion these people are making it hard for themselves. Of all the things spoken of there’s something else I won’t easily forget. And that is the fact his wife will sleep alone in
bed tonight in a separate room while we are on mattresses on the floor in the living room. Un-freaking-believable.
When the trip proceeds, there are times when I get offered coffee ten times a day. If I would respond to all the requests I would still be there today. At other times there is nothing but endless forsaken landscapes. Overall, it’s getting harder to find shelter at night. In this militarized zone the sandy hills are fancied up by entrenched bunkers on either side of the road. Barren wastelands have a certain beauty to them. The overall vibes are gradually turning hostile but the simplicity of the bleakness is captivating. After roaming for a while in scorching heat a village appears on the horizon. A quick check proves it’s too small to be mentioned on my roadmap. Moving towards my new goal I am more or less six hundred feet away when my legs become elastic, straps of my backpack are cutting in my shoulders, and hunger and thirst cause me to give in to my exhaustion. I drop to the ground and can’t make one more step. The village is right there and I cannot reach it. Incredible heatwaves rob me of all my energy. Because I get completely ignored by the few cars that pass, it takes me at least two hours to gather enough strength to army crawl to the first shop, where I drown myself in ice cold revitalizing fruit juice. To regain my former level of vitality I rest for another hour in the shadow, relaxing on a plastic chair belonging to the store. Now that I am here anyway I also order a great tasting falafel sandwich and gather possible life-saving provisions for the road ahead.
Meeting a group of accommodating villagers in the vicinity they propose to take me to the next small town in their ragged BMW. Upholstery of the leather seats is torn to pieces with springs nearly sticking out. Cigarettes piled up in the ashtray spread intoxicating smells. Rusty scratches and dents on the exterior, the antenna broken off, and I’m willing to bet if you’d kick the bottom from the inside hard enough you will go straight through. Sounds great! Once there, it’s literally nothing more than one unpaved thoroughfare with a few side streets. This town is so small it doesn’t even have sidewalks. It goes straight from your front door into the dirt. They manage to find me a shelter for tonight in an abandoned storefront, or so I think. It starts out okay in a friendly atmosphere, in some sort of tavern we eat and drink all evening. Because of the language barrier I am mostly left alone sitting on my stool at the bar. When the hands of time herald midnight the unthinkable happens. Without mercy they kick me out onto the street! I’m just in time to gather my belongings before they lock the doors behind me. I guess someone had one drink too many, and it ain’t me! Now I have to find something else in a state where I should have been in dreamland already.
As hot as the days in the Syrian desert are, nights can be treacherously cold, close to freezing point. This is one of those nights. After I shake off a pack of stray dogs I realize everyone is sleeping at this late hour in this dead-end town. Wandering to the edge I find an abandoned wooden carriage with some cucumbers that someone apparently forgot. Not knowing who they belong to I make them mine. Too bad for the flies that are already laying eggs in the skin. For about an hour I scout the inky perimeter before the cold forces me to set up camp. Unfortunately, there is no camp to set up, the only thing I have is a slim thermo mat and the same not so good fleece blanket I’ve been dragging along since the beginning. A shallow hole is dug with a dead tree branch, rocks are piled up to prevent the now howling winds to penetrate, which it does anyway, even chilling the marrow in my bones. Around me are the shards of glass from smashed beer bottles, millions of stars in the black sky, dogs barking at a distance too close for comfort and I am left shivering uncontrollably all night without closing an eye. It’s one of those long wrecking episodes of sleep deprivation you will always remember.
A descending layer of warm air makes me perceive it has to be morning. Stinging eyes from fatigue, parched skin, my clothes dirty and wrinkled. With a thousand perils lying in wait I’m relieved to have survived this one. Gently lifting my head, I detect three kids climbing a barbed wire fence to check if I am dead or not. All they could see from the roadside was a partly hidden lifeless body. Now that they find me breathing they are happy to give me a small melon, just like that, and then they mysteriously vanish back into the desert. Some farmers that happen to pass by look envious at my gift as I start eating right away. This, together with half a cucumber injects just enough fuel to hit the road again. So there I go with my walking sticks through the world’s arena. Little did I know that today would have a giant trick up its sleeve, one of exponential proportions.
Torridness all around, as far as the eye can see nothing can quench my thirst. Only an endless prison of sand. As in previous days the sun heats up the earth rapidly. At one point when I am leaning on one of my sticks catching my breath I note a trail of dust afar. With the cloud getting longer and bigger I conclude that the object is coming my way, after assuming it’s a car I resume hiking. After all I am in dire need of water and provision. When the sound of the engine reaches my ears the object, indeed a car, is heading straight towards me. With notable velocity they pass me on the left and pull the breaks mere yards in front of me. Doors open and three Arab men jump out and grab me! Okay this isn’t happening, I think to myself. But it is. They drag me across and push me into the vehicle, with my backpack still on. In broad daylight I get kidnapped! It all happens in a split second. Before I fully grasp what’s going on I am already surrounded by the sunglass-wearing individuals and we are on the move. Where will they take me? What will they do to me? Who are they? Despite these nagging questions I remain surprisingly calm. In fact, I don’t think for a second about escaping or a counter attack. Jumping out of the car is not an option anyway with zero possibilities to hide on the plain. When I curiously ask what the hell this is all about, they remain silent, without turning their heads.
Once we arrive at a location we enter a small building in the middle of nowhere. As they are going through my stuff I’m seated on a chair at a desk. Except for a folder, an office lamp, and a ball point pen it is empty. In an unguarded moment I snatch the pen and quickly put it in my left pocket. In case things do turn ugly I now have a weapon to defend myself with. The things you learn from watching action movies. None of them speak proper English, but the reason for keeping me hostage becomes clear soon enough. They suspect I am an Israeli spy. Really? “A Dutch backpacker making his way through the desert on his own is suspicious to you?”, I ask in an agitated manner. Repeating the question in my head I realize I’m not helping my case. After hours of interrogation they switch to suspecting me to be an American spy. All this time they haven’t introduced themselves nor are they planning to do so. Trying to figure out what the deal is I do know they’re not amused about the missing SD card in my digital camera. The only place where they didn’t frisk me upon entering the facility is my left coast pocket, and guess where I’m hiding it? In fear of getting mugged or my camera somehow getting stolen I have the habit of separating the memory card from the device, which turns out to my luck today.
While noticeable aggravated, their hairy hands keep on searching through my luggage. Meanwhile I boast that my embassy expects me to report back to them daily, and that they are aware of my exact location. “They are probably already looking for me right now!” I try to mess with their minds to get out of this situation as fast as I can. It works. Immediately the atmosphere changes and I notice this gets under their skin. This is a strong indicator I’m most likely dealing with the Syrian Homeland Security. Actually, that is a big relief. Obviously, they don’t want any trouble with this foreign national. Since they can’t find the right evidence of how I crossed the border with Jordan we hop back into the car, early in the evening. Me and the three angry faces drive way out through the desert, even further as where they had plucked me from off the soil. Eventually they throw me out at a random spot never to be seen again. Hereby killing the opportunity for me to receive some kind of ration I was hoping for so badly. It seems like it will be another night with an empty stomach out in the cold. Som
etimes you are in the groove, other times you are in the gutter, yet at the end of the day always prevailing because what a crazy day of traveling this was!
Not long after I stumble upon a paved road. Slowly sloping its way upward traffic signs cease to exist. My reward for all these hardships is waiting for me on the other side of the ledge. From this viewpoint the massive oval valley reveals itself, with in it the two million inhabitants of Damascus! Wiping my dust-covered face clean, I am finally here, having walked the thousands of years old route, where many have gone before.
The sound of a car horn interrupts the moment of awe and orientation. Passersby make note of the Syrian flag tied to my backpack that I found along the way. Two flabby guys in a tin can on wheels pull over to start a conversation. I guess the city itself has to muster patience a little while longer, for I have rendered to their invitation and make my way to their home. Friends back home always wonder how I end up at people’s houses. Well this is how it goes: it just happens.
We exit the tin can into one of the suburbs, recognizable by the square sand-colored houses. Due to its low-rise features, it has this typical Arabic starkness. Upon inspection, by no means do the boys have their own space, as much as three whole households are stacked in the compound. All relatives though. An elderly lady observes me from head to toe before she stuffs me with food and recommends a few hours of sleep. These folks reckon that having a guest is an exceptionally serious business. Especially when it concerns a guest from another country. From the minute I arrive they are showboating the heck out of it. Decanters of delicious sweet tea, all sorts of fresh fruit, and the irretrievable dish of rice and chicken. The eldest towel-head, a sort of a chieftain, takes my dirty socks that I’ve been wearing for days and presses them firmly against his nose. Even before I get a chance to stop him he inhales deeply with his eyes closed. To this day I don’t know if that’s one of his suppressed sexual desires, or what, but the way he looks at me right after with that smirk on his face is disturbing to say the least! An additional bliss comes when he starts washing my dirty clothes with water and soap. After I take a shower, which they insisted I should get, I am hoisted in a spotless white robe. Why am I treated so courteous? For a second the crooked thought creeps up that they want me pure and fattened for the ritual slaughter awaiting me. Yet nothing can be further from the truth.
