A collection of observations I

Saturday, 24 January 2009—1PM

1. My favourite part of every morning is squeegeeing the floor of the bathroom after my shower. My second favourite part is that my host mom usually makes me breakfast on a tray while I’m showering, consisting of hot Turkish coffee and cream cheese-and-pita sandwiches. It’s lovely.

2. Living with a family can be awkward—living with a family that speaks fast ‘aamia (العامية, which is the general word for local dialect. It differs, sometimes widely, from the made-up standardised Arabic that I learn at university, called foos-ha, الفصحى) and has loud arguments that I can’t understand is even more awkward. Everyone speaks loudly and ends every phrase with the equivalent of the rise in tone you use to make a statement sentence into a question. I’m also starting to get the idea that they talk about me while I’m sitting there, likely under the (not incorrect) impression that I cannot follow the train of conversation.

   I wish I could communicate with them on deeper topics than how I am doing and what I’m going to do tonight (and how, yes, I’ll be back before curfew), but my Arabic, and especially my ‘aamia, is just not up to par. So I show up to meals, give them my laundry on Thursdays, help clean in Saturdays, and occasionally have coffee or dance parties in the living room, but I still feel pretty separated from them.

3. In that train of thought, I think nothing I have done to insult my family so far tops my inability, last night, to eat loads of intestines stuffed with rice. This is unfortunate of me, since they made about ten kilos of stuffed intestines and were talking last night about what to do with it all since I wasn’t going to eat it (as if I could have eaten my weight in intestines). In my defense, I had an intestine. It was not bad. I will probably be eating more all week. But before the intestine they gave me a bowl of nameless internal organs. It sort of ruined appetite. I will eat almost anything, but I have a mental block against eating internal organs. It all reminds me of biology class.

4. There are three spheres of life in Damascus: the private, the public, and the shared public. The private life is very important and very clean. The buildings may look shabby in the photos, the windows may be broken as you climb the stairs up to a certain apartment, but once you reach the door and the domain of the family, everything becomes immaculate. Homes are well-organised and well-maintained, full of comfortable couches and modern technology.

   The public, on the other hand, is a mess. Abandoned lots full of garbage, crumbling buildings apparently maintained by no one, and a general layer of dirt over most everything reflect a less careful attention the overall image. But the shared public sphere—by which I generally mean roads and high-traffic public spaces—is equally clean, if not in the same immaculately-new way of the private sphere. Garbage collection is incredible. There are hundreds, probably thousands, of men employed in sweeping up the streets and collecting trash from the thousands of public trash cans that line the streets. Street cleaners (the trucks) traverse the city at night. The smallest back alley in the farthest corner of the Old City will be pristine come nightfall. Beyond the government program, even, shop keepers are constantly sweeping up cigarette butts and other small trash from in front of their shops.

5. The state of Damascian taxi drivers is roughly fifty-fifty: half will treat you well, run on the adad (meter), and give you change, and the other half will not. Travelling from the German House to my house around midnight every night for the past two weeks has been a study in personalities. The ride, on the adad, is maybe SL25 ($0.50). I’ve resigned myself to giving 50, since a tiny fraction of taxi drivers will go on the adad at night. Some people I can argue down from 150 or 100, but most nights I’ll pass on at least one taxi because the driver refuses to give me a fair price.

   I’m told by my male friends that I shouldn’t even have to bargain at the beginning of the ride—theoretically, I should be able to give them what I think the ride is worth and they have to accept it (if it’s actually reasonable). I’m also told that if trouble happens, the Syrian people and the police side with the passenger (because usually the passenger is in the right). But for taxis at night by myself, I am more wary, and generally establish the price before I get in.

   Yesterday afternoon I had a man who claimed that the price was higher on Fridays and almost refused to give me change for my 50 (the ride was 26 on the adad)—in the end he begrudgingly gave me 10. Another night I had a Kurdish man ask me about travelling in Canada, and then try to get me to run away with him to Canada, where apparently he would pay and I would speak. Another night ago I got in without negotiating the price; after the five minutes it took to get to my house, I offered 20 (in Arabic). He responded, “5 and 20,” which some twisted French part of my brain took to mean “50 and 20.” (Higher French numbers are compounded, with 70 being 60-10 and 80 literally meaning “four 20s.”) I gave him an exasperated look and said “50,” which he gladly took. A second after I climbed out I realised my mistake. Oh well.

   But they can also be very nice. A couple of weeks ago, before I knew my way around, I was trying to get to the German House using the name of a bab (باب, door) located nearby. I had a map of Damascus—in Arabic!—that listed the name of the door, along with the names of the streets. I figured, with my foolish attachment to the power of maps, that it would be easy. Ha. The first taxi driver didn’t know the bab, but was willing to give it a try—for 100. I passed. The second driver didn’t know where it was either, but was willing to go on the adad. Off we went. Along the way we stopped and asked at least ten different people on the side of the road—none of whom knew the location of the bab, even after looking at the map. We went into the Old City. We went back out of the Old City. We drove left. We drove right. At one point we even drove in reverse down a one-way street. After a half hour I finally reached where I wanted to be, and gave him 100 for his trouble. And never asked to go to that bab ever, ever again.

6. Loads of people here ask me if I’m German, which I find very strange. The reactions to learning that I’m American are either, “Welcome!” or “Hm.” (Or, occasionally, “You must be an Israeli spy! Let me yell at you for a while.”)

7. Turkish coffee is everywhere and wonderful. It’s made in special mental pots with long handles in which you mix finely ground coffee beans directly with the water. You bring the water to a boil, then let it foam up and cool off several times. It’s usually served in shot-glass sized cups, some with handles, some without. Because the beans are mixed with the water, they settle out of the drinkable part and form a thick sludge that makes up the last 1/4 to 1/8 of the coffee. When you have to chew your sip of coffee, you know you’re done. I get coffee with everything—in the morning, after meals, between meals, at cafes, and on breaks between class at school.

8. Lunch is soon. More intestines. Mm. Who doesn’t love a good digestive tract in the afternoon.