Wasta

6 January 2009 – after midnight

Hamdallah, I have wasta on my side.

The best translation is "the hook up," -- it refers to the personal connections that get you good things or low prices. It seems all the money I paid Arabesk was well worth it.

Today was an exercise in getting things done, and having my hand held throughout was a huge bonus. First Ivan (another Arabesk man) and I went to the US Embassy, where I would have been turned away and missed my opportunity to get my letter had he not argued with the Syrian guard. Inside, my camera and phone were confiscated while I waited for about an hour to get an official letter that gives me American permission to study at the University. That done, we went to the University itself, where, apparently against all norms, I will be allowed to register. I also bypassed the arduous three hour entrance exam in lieu of a three minute conversation with a professor, who determined that I'll be in Level 3. This is going to make the next month difficult -- Level 3 will likely be over my head and I'm going to have to scramble to catch up, being both generally and three days behind.

Then it was off to the AIDs testing center, where a (hopefully?) clean needle was shoved into my unwashed arm and a vial of blood taken. I'll get my results tomorrow after class -- another skirt of traditional Jaame'a Damashq rules. If I have AIDs (highly unlikely), I'll have to leave the country in twenty-four hours. Fingers metaphorically crossed.

Formalities completed, we headed back to the Arabesk office. I bought a SIM card from the dingy upstairs office of some random bookstore known to my Arabesk guide, and a cell phone from one of the dozens of cell phone shops on every street. Total cost was SL2350 – roughly $50. (If you want to call me from outside Syria, my number is +963 967 244 947). Then, having reached a point of general antsy irritation with everything, I escaped for an hour to check the internet. Seems gmail, facebook, and blogging sites aren't blocked. [Edited a few days later to say: ...at this singular cafe. The other two I've been to since then definitely censor. I can edit the blog via blogger.com, but I can't view it because the url is officially .blogspot.com. Also, facebook's out here. I need to go back to the one from the first day.]

With nothing really for me to do with Arabesk, I went off on my own to explore a bit. I bought a schwarma sandwich from one of the many such food shops on the street -- schwarma is meat, usually chicken, that's presliced, arranged on a giant stick several feet long, then put on a vertical rotating spindle with a vertical burner on one side. The meat is sliced off as the spindle rotates and put into a pita with some mayonnaise and pickle. Schwarma is a classic across the Middle East and North Africa, but the sandwiches here are notably less greasy than those in Tunisia, likely due to the lack of a french fries in with the meat. Then I wandered around the Old City and the Souk Al-Hamedeia, and circumnavigated the huge and famous Amoree Mosque.

I received more attention on my own than I had before when I had been walking with Syrian men (hardly shocking). This will be something to write more about as my experience expands, but right now I am a little surprised at the amount of commentary directed at me. Granted, I stand out horribly -- there are very few Western-looking people around, and no one else with red hair. Granted also, I spent most of my time alone inside the souk, were venders try to grab your attention. But while the level of attention was certainly less than that of Morocco, it felt greater than that of Tunisia-- a few men followed me for a few steps calling, "Hello, hi, welcome, excuse me miss, hello..." while many others gave me curious looks , whistled, or said "Welcome" unbidden. Still, I felt completely safe, even when I took out my camera and became fully touristic for a bit. I'll have pictures in the days to follow, along with more eloquent observations in general -- right now I'm just trying to get my bearings and establish a routine.

I spent the evening eating pizza and smoking nargila (shisha, or hookah) with another American (who studies at Jaame'a Damashq and has lived all over Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan over the past five years), his girlfriend, and his good Syrian friend. He seems to know everyone, and I'm excited about being connected with the ex-pat and student community in Damascus. He told me that being able to get into the University after the registration deadline, much less three days after classes have started, is unheard of. Thank you, wasta.