Damascus - or, rather, the Damascus Airport

I landed in Syria at 1:00 a.m. local time. Almost nobody speaks English here, which is a bit more authentic than your run of the mill tourist trap. Damascus: not a tourist trap. Saul of Tarsus was knocked off his horse outside the city walls here. He was never quite normal again, and the rest is history.

My story involves getting off the KLM plane onto the jetway, which smelled pungently of urine. But hey, a lot of things smell like urine right? I tried to find the connections desk to see if I could catch a hop into Iraq – without going through customs. I couldn’t even find that. So I went through passport control and customs and tried to find the ticket counters, er, I should say, ticket counter, singular. Yeah, there’s only one – for Syrian Airlines.

The place wasn’t exactly buzzing at 1:30 a.m. When I asked the lone employee how I get to Iraq via air, he looked at me funny. “American?” he asked. “Yes.” He then mumbled what I am certain was a string of Arabic profanity and looked at me with concern in his eyes. “No, sir. Syria no fly to Iraq. Try office.” He then gestured toward the stairs. I walked up a dank stairway with cracked terrazzo floors and peeling paint. There was one office that looked like it had life (the “Co-ordination office”), but I was hesitant to burst in and ask Syrian officials how an American books passage to Iraq. I went to the second floor and there was another office open. Too many open leads to risk planting poison pills with a lot of people. So, I, um, ahem, opted for the more discrete route. The comedy in this characterization will be revealed later.

I decided my first priority was to get the BGAN up and running. After that, I decided, I would book a room and catch up on my sleep (my body clock still said 7:45 p.m. on my second day…with no nappie time) and find out about my passage tomorrow when Syria was awake. So I went to what I thought was a discrete corner of the parking lot, but not too far from civilization – just in case there were any lovable rogues sniffing about. I took a furtive glance about, sat my arse on the cold concrete curb, powered up my equipment and called Gino.

I was still getting the same ppp protocol error on the terminal software. It couldn’t find the correct APN code. I care more about APN codes now than anything else. So after about 45 minutes of the same error message with Gino scratching his head, I figured I would call it a night. Cabbies kept coming up to me and asking if I needed a ride. Well, that’s what I presumed they were saying. I couldn’t understand a damn word. The only word I did get was “Sheraton.” Plus, I was freezing my ass off out there (it was -1˚C, 31˚F), but one cannot get a signal indoors (where it’s warm) with the BGAN. I was just trying to connect the APN one more time and Gino was telling me that he was going to check into a few more options, when I saw the four men in long black coats approaching me across the parking lot. And that is where my first adventure begins.

A big guy offered his hand (I quickly dubbed him “Luca Brasi”). “Hello!” (big smiles all around) Would you come with us please? Of course, it wasn’t a request. Now, in a situation like this, you have to know your limits. What you can do. What you can’t. What you’re willing to give up, and where you draw your line. I don’t care if your adversaries are insurgents, terrorists, U.S. Customs Officials, the IRS, Somali pirates or college financial aid officers, everyone has his or her line where it becomes much less worthwhile, or profitable, to pursue a given agenda. And these guys were all bureaucrats! While it wouldn’t be a piece of cake, I was still relatively confident of my positioning, because I knew what I was probably going to have to give up.

My last statement to Gino was, “Ahhhhhh Gino, man, I think I gotta go here. I’m being summoned.” He said, “What? OK.” I hung up. I think he heard the guys in the background. Five’ll get you ten he’s already cashed in my equipment deposit.

I knew what gave me away – yammering away on a satellite phone at 2 a.m. in the parking lot of Assad’s airport. They no likie da mobile phonie. So I immediately offered cooperation. I powered down the equipment and began packing it away to accompany them when I heard shouting. Two men with AK-47s were running toward us. This was going to be interesting. While I suspected the men initially detaining me were with airport security or customs or civilian police, I knew they sure shit weren’t going to be as hell-bent on interrupting my agenda as these zealots with the Kalashnikovs. A shouting match ensued between the two groups. Whose prize would I be?

After several chest thumping displays on both sides, a half-dozen static-laced commands through walkie-talkies, and some pathetic face-saving measures (it’s so fun to watch the body language when you don’t know the verbiage) the secret police won out over the army guys. Yes, this was a good thing. This was an official setting at an airport where it would be tough to cover up chicanery. Police are trained to think for themselves, make independent assessments in the field. With the Army guys I would have sat around in town for several days while someone filled out forms in triplicate to cover their ass, or so their brass could make the call. If we were on a one-lane road between Tadmur and Al Qamishli, I might have taken my chances with the Army boys, but we weren’t. Here my luck was better with the folks who could make an instant decision at 2 a.m. I tried my best Jedi mind trick, “These are not the droids you’re looking for,” but I didn’t have any droids, and I was not a Jedi yet.

They escorted me back to a very dirty office at the back of the terminal. The guy who initially escorted me, “Luca Brasi,” was very cordial. He, of course, was “good cop.” When I got to the office I met all the bad cops – and a couple more good ones. There were five men in the room when I arrived. They had been waiting for me. As they discussed my fate in Arabic, more men filed in. It was getting crowded. They asked for my passport. I could tell they were surprised to see the valid visa obtained only three days ago (score another one for Connie Warhol). They asked to see the phone. I looked toward the back of the office and I saw a door to another room in back. I hoped they’d not bid me go back there. They kept the door to the hallway open. More men came in, all yammering in Arabic. I was apparently the talk of the terminal. So much for my clever plan of discretion. At it’s height I counted fifteen men in a room that should reasonably hold no more than ten. There’s that space thing again. Another “good cop” (I dubbed this one “Chachi”) asked me most of the questions. He tried to tell me most of the fuss was over my phone, but I could see some of the guys eyeing my laptop and BGAN terminal suspiciously. Here, my lack of Arabic, and their lack of adequate English, provided a buffer. They sought to determine if the BGAN was for the phone. “Is it with phone?!” while holding the BGAN and pointing to the Irridium phone. “No,” I insisted, “It’s for the computer. I’m a writer.” Technically all correct. After an hour of back and forth and more men filing in and out to gape at the prisoner, a guy with a blue KLM badge showed up. He could speak a little better English. His name was Mohammed. I later learned that of the 11 men who were there most of the time, 7 of them were named Mohammed. I guess I wont complain about having such a common name anymore.

After a long while, KLM Mohammed said they were taking my phone. “It is prevented in Syria!” I feigned protest, but I knew this was the least I was going to have to give up. He said I could pick it up from customs when got on my return flight. This would not be good, especially seeing as I’ve not made a successful BGAN connection yet. I’d still need to troubleshoot it over the phone with Gino, and there was no indoor phone from where I could get decent signal on the BGAN to simultaneously debug the software.

I was escorted by a phalanx of bad cops down a long hallway and to a door with old orange paint and black marker graffiti. Someone pounded on the door and shouted. It was answered by the Syrian version of Lurch (the Addams’ Family butler). “You rang?”

It was the kind of evidence room you’d have guessed they have in a country like this. There were metal shelves holding haphazardly-tossed video game boxes, perfume bottles and tattered luggage. I even saw a crusader-era spiked helmet with a chain-mail visor. I guess they have Arabic renaissance festivals over here. There was a dirty mattress splayed out in front of the desk. That was the makeshift bench where Lurch indicated I should sit. I got the creepy feeling he had been napping there when we arrived.

Four men bade me place my bags on the desk. I did, and one guy, “Linus,” took the phone, my laptop, and the BGAN and stacked them on the desk while they all watched Lurch fill out a form. That’s when I drew my line.

“No way,” I said. “You’re not taking my computer. That’s what I write with. That’s why I am here. Forget it.” They stared at me. “Give me all my shit back,” I said, “I’ll go wait past customs until I can get the first flight out of this country.” They all started arguing. Then Linus packpedaled. “OK OK OK!” he said, “Just the phone, yes? Just the phone. Is all OK?” He then proceeded to argue with one of the bad cops while I put the computer and the BGAN back in my bag. The whole scene reminded me of being kicked out of a bar back in college, “Yeah, I’ll leave! And I’ll tell all my friends about this place!”

Then KLM Mohammed came in with some good news. He could put me on a 7 a.m. to Istanbul, from where I could catch another flight to Van or Batman or some city in eastern Turkey (a shorter hop to northern Iraq) or there was a 1 p.m. charter flight to Baghdad. Bonus! Things were looking up. Istanbul was a fall back option because the layovers, etc. could take another 36 to 48 hours out of my schedule, but main-lining it to Baghdad would be an acceptable alternative to Mosul or Kirkuk. Mohammed got all this information from the “Co-ordination office” – the first seedy office I looked at when venturing up the stairs from the Syrian Airlines “ticket counter.” Mohammed gave me the phone number of a woman named “Salma” who booked the charters for Iraqi Airlines. I could all her at 9 a.m., he said, and she may be able to sell me a ticket. It was 4 a.m. Damascus time.

I opted to wait around the airport. I was getting on that flight. But I still had 9 hours to kill. I walked back to the main terminal area with KLM Mohammed, who let us take a picture together. Then I charged up my best guile and waltzed back into the security office. They were all surprised to see me back, I guess. But I wanted a photo with my captors, damnit. One of the bad cops kept saying “No, sorry. No sorry” over and over while Luca Brasi argued with him. They weren’t giving any pictures. Luca walked me back to the café area, all the while repeating, “Sorry. Sorry Sorry. Sorry…” He bought me an “English Cake” and a “Mandarin Cola” which should probably be sued by Pepsi for trademark infringement. The good news is it didn’t taste anything like Pepsi. ‘Twas a dead ringer for Royal Crown Cola, though. Ahh, the memories.

So here I sit, in a very cool looking café, longing for sleep – but only for pragmatic reasons as I am still somewhat running on excitement and adrenaline – waiting for business to open at Iraqi Airlines. It’s starting to get light outside, and I cannot wait to brush my god-awful fuzzy teeth.

Written at 6:30 a.m. (Tuesday) Damsacus, 10:30 p.m. (Monday) Saint Paul