The last month and a half, somewhat in order

4 February—A few minutes in Bosra, Syria (Pictures here!)

Bosra is a small town two hours south of Damascus celebrated for its impressive Roman amphitheatre. In a spur-of-the-moment trip, my friend P and I headed down via comfortable $2 tourist bus to spend the afternoon looking at 2000 year-old ruins. We didn’t get to the bus station until after 1PM, our bus didn’t leave until 2, and upon had only an hour and a half before our 6PM return bus trip. Unfortunately, the notable ampitheatre, displayed gratuitously on half a dozen posters in the bus station office, closes at 4PM. Oops. 

Nevertheless, P and I had fun wandering around old Roman houses. Syrian historical sites don’t have the same annoying regulations that plague so many ancient artifacts in the US or Europe in the name of “tourist safety” or “historical preservation”—my only faux pax came when I tried to climb over a wall that turned out to be someone’s house. We valiantly fended off eager would-be tour guides and happily scrambled around ancient walls and rooms that probably have deep sociological meaning to someone other than us. As the sun was setting the al-uwathen agharab ( اليوذن الغرب, which means “sunset prayer,” but really takes place before the sun sets so as to avoid the impression of sun worship) rang out and the ruins glowed gold.

P was after Roman coins, and after no success in the ruins themselves met a Bosrian man who just so happened to have lots of coins if we would only come back to his house. I tagged along to keep him company while he got ripped off, and ended up buying a necklace for $8, many times more than it was worth. By this point it was 5:40—we hurried back into town, caught our bus minutes before it left, and drove back in the dark to Damascus. 

7 February—I finally actually leave Damascus for a proper tourist trip. (Pictures here!)

I hate tourist trips. After my two weeks in Morocco, when my French program shut us in a bus and drove us around to tile and fabric shops in a misguided understanding of “cultural immersion,” and then, when my trek into the Sahara on camel ended up with my American friends and I sitting uncomfortably in a real Berber house, sheathed in plastic and fifteen feet square that housed two families, before going back to our “authentic” Berber tents full of blankets and comfort, I discovered that tourism makes me feel rich, elite, and separate. Of course, these things are more or less true in a relative sense, but it doesn’t mean I have to pursue activities that celebrate my rich elitism. 

However, I was rather impressed with the bare bones approach of my first trip with Arabesk. We set out at 7:30AM to visit a Crusader castle, a city with neat water wheels, and the ruins of Apamea. Most of the nine other foreigners on the bus with me had only just arrived in Syria, and I found myself being able to speak to the university and Damascus in general from experience—it’s hard to believe that I’ve been here two and a half months.

We drove for two hours, then up a winding road to Krak de Chevaliers. The castle is over 1000 years old and massive, with two distinct parts: an outer wall with 13 gates surround a complex inner fortress. Parts of the castle were built by the Muslims in the 11th century, but the castle was fully expanded and fortified in the 12th century by the Crusaders, who held it successfully against numerous attacks until they gave it up after a month of siege. We met our English-speaking tour guide out front and set off on a several-hour exploration of the major features of the Krak—unfortunately for my education, there were so many interesting staircases and rooms that I missed a lot of the history in exploring and taking photos. I want to go back on my own and really take advantage of my freedom to wander. [I did this last week. Details to follow.]

After Krak we drove for several more hours to Hama and ate lunch in a restaurant overlooking the Orontes River, then walked down to the river’s edge to visit the norias, giant wooden water wheels still used for irrigation. Their turning is supposed to make a mournful groaning for which the town is famous, but all wheels were silent that day and so we climbed over them a bit, peered into the disgusting water that flowed underneath them, and then got back onto the bus.

After going in circles a few times (literally—they like traffic circles here) while the driver figured out where to go, we were on the road to Apamea. We arrived around 4PM and started walking through the ruins with our second English-speaking tour guide. Apamea dates back to the second century BC, built by one of Alexander the Great’s generals and named after his wife. The town allegedly held 150,000 free citizens, which meant about 500,000 people total. It was damaged several times because of earthquakes, the last of which completely leveled the city. The main thoroughfare was rebuilt more recently, and covers at least a kilometer of ancient marketplace.

Once again I missed a lot of the history by going off to take pictures. By the time we reached the end of the rebuilt section of the ruins, it was already getting dark, but I got some really interesting photos taken with a slightly longer exposure time. After walking the full length of Apemea, we piled back into the bus and set out for Damascus. The drive was about three hours, and we stopped halfway for a break and some incredibly rich desserts that are a specialty of the region. They’re made by stretching and folding cheese until it forms a stretchy dough, then filling it with clotted cream and cutting them into bite-sized rolls. After a long day on the road we finally rolled back into town, and I eventually went to bed to start Level 4 in the morning.

8 February – 5 March—I take Level 4 at the University.

Level 4 was, in my opinion, easy, compared to Level 3, which makes the fact that I didn’t pass with as high a score as I would have liked mildly frustrating. My two teachers, Osama and Rawaya, were nowhere near as skilled as my Level 3 teachers, though Osama did grow on me as the course passed and had a knack for preparing interesting conversation topics that went beyond the [somewhat] boring book topics of: Syrian history, internet cafes, the environment and pollution, arab musical instruments, and employment troubles. But he didn’t so much teach as review, relying on us to first learn the material at home. 

Rawaya, on the other hand, holds a special place in my heart for being the single worst teacher I have ever encountered, and for having the most unpleasant personality of anyone employed in a field that requires at least feigning human emotion. She was simultaneously passive-aggressive, disdainful towards our inability to speak Arabic, and awkwardly confrontational; had no concept of the course as a whole; no ability to recognise that, for us, listening to recorded conversations in Arabic is actually quite difficult; and an almost magical ability to waste our time. Olaf and I skipped class one day, knowing that we were going to spend two hours reviewing the vocabulary we had already prepared at home and another two under the terminally frustrating lack of tutelage of Rawaya.

Some of my favourite moments with her include (all conversations taking place in Arabic, of course):

• Trying to explain the verb ‘to inherit’:

Rawaya: Does anyone here have a dead father? Anyone? Has anyone’s father died?

[Shocked silence blankets the classroom. After a moment I slowly raise my hand. She comes over to stand directly in front of me.]

Rawaya: So, your father is dead, yes?

Me: Uh. Yes.

Rawaya: [Turning to the class.] Okay. When her father died, my friend here inherited money from him.

[The shocked silence constructs a small house and moves in.]

Rawaya: [She comes back over to my personal space.] Did you inherit anything else from him? 

Me: ...

Rawaya: His eyes? His hair?

Me: ...an interest in political science?

Rawaya: Aha. [She turns to the class.] My friend here inherited both money and an interest in political science from her dead father.

[Shocked silence throws a party. My friends give me pitying looks.]

Rawaya: Let’s move on.

[I should note that I am very much at peace with my father’s death, and normally have no problems discussing either him or the situation that led to his death. But to have his death treated in such a callous and insensitive manner ended the brief hope I had had that Rawaya could possess any redeeming qualities.]

• Out of a general lack of interest in learning anyone’s names, Rawaya called everyone “my friend.” After a while, when it became apparent that Olaf was going to challenge her more than she was used to, she began to call him “Germany.” And expect him to respond. Once, he called her “Syria” back, after which she suddenly was blessed with the knowledge of his name. Others were not so bold, and she several times got away with calling the Japanese student “Asia.” 

• Rawaya, to explain the meaning of the verb ‘to influence’: “My thoughts are influenced by the writings of Hassah Nasrallah [the leader of Hizbollah].”

This on top of a daily barrage of finger snapping to get our attention, calling us lazy when we didn’t do her homework, and yelling “Good morning, hello!” when we did not immediately respond to her questions, made her four to six hours a week of instruction both dreadful and hilarious. You simultaneously couldn’t wait to see what she would do next and were filled with horror when she actually did it.

8 – 16 March—Matt R. visits!

This will get a more detailed writing soon, but until then, I was very happy to have one of my good friends from college visit for a week. We visited the magnificent ruins of Palmyra (where I got miserably sick far, far from any sort of bathroom), the much more conservative town of Aleppo, and the awesome Krak de Chevaliers, along with generally exploring Damascus and eating delicious food. 

15 March – now—Level 5

This level is much harder, but I can also appreciate how fulfilling it will be. Right now I am in a big upswing in Arabic, where I can feel myself tangibly advancing. I have reached a point of being generally conversant, even if it’s often broken. It’s exciting. But I am also mildly intimidated by the two presentations, each an hour, during which a partner and I both speak on prepared material and lead the class in discussion. I’m also not enthused about having six days of class in the third week to make up for Teacher’s Day today. But. I’m learning Arabic. I can speak Arabic. Yay.

9 April—I go to Berlin to visit Olaf.

Yay! 

Okay. I’ve spent four and a half hours in the internet cafe properly catching up on my internet life. I think I should go pursue some food and start studying irregular verb conjugations. Hooray.