The Last Plane Out

(note on recent postings: in order to catch up to where I am, I have added many of these recent posts all at once. Make sure you start reading where you left off, somewhere down the list, and not necessarily with the top, and most recent, post)

Salma Alatar. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with a heavy Arabic accent. She was also a taskmaster. The men around her were swimming in her wake. When she barked a command, men jumped. She was a ticket agent for Iraqi Airways, but it seemed that everyone in this airport bent before her will: security officers, gate agents, pilots & flight crews. They all did what she told them.

“Do you have space on this flight to Iraq?” I asked her. “Yes, we have space…” Now, I know she said a bunch of other things at that point, but due to several factors, including but not exclusive to my euphoric exhilaration at having been saved from this hell-hole, time slowed down and I did a little touch down dance in my mind. “Come with me,” she ordered. But the battle had only just begun.

I went through the security check. This last sentence is loaded. While the search is not much more invasive than your typical American airport, every time I went though it here in Damascus I needed to unload my packs. In short, I over-packed. They are heavy as all hell. The smaller one clips on the front of my torso, adding counter weight, which helps, but getting them on and taking them off are a serious chore for a desk-monkey who hasn’t exercised since 1996. I would estimate that, together, they’re 80 pounds worth of electronic equipment, batteries & clothes. Hauling them around is taxing my atrophied sinews. I know I am going to be sore in the next couple of days.

We got to the ticket counter and she asked for $250 American. I told her I have credit cards and travelers checks. “Cash only,” she spat. Well, to be fair, she probably didn’t spit it, but hearing those words at ant time these days just seems to add insult to injury. After some negotiation, she suggested going out to the change bank in the terminal to have them take either a credit card or my travelers’ check. I told her I already discovered they don’t take travelers’ checks. She said try a credit card, “Just tell them you’ll sign for it.” Huh? Whatever. I asked her who would change a travelers’ check. “In Damascus,” she said, “You don’t have time to get there before the plane leaves. We leave very soon.”

So I tried to do what she said. I picked up my bags again and lumbered though the security checkpoint to the main terminal.

She sent a man with me. He was apparently a part of the same security team who originally detained me earlier in the morning, but I did not remember him from then. Must be a day shift guy. Anyway, his role was clearly not to hinder me, but to help. There would be several times later that day when I had to approach the security checkpoint unescorted. When this happened, the gate guards, who for some reason all dress like Tony Soprano, would always make me wait while they called it in. This particular escort looked a lot like Vincent Price, so we’ll call him Vince. Vince was very good. Very helpful. He always found a way to convince the security personnel that I was not to be hindered too much.

Vince gestured toward the cash machine. “Huh?” I thought. I never know the pin codes for my credit cards. That’s what a guy has a cash card for. I tried it anyway. Didn’t work. So we went back though the security checkpoint again and back to Salma.

On to plan C. I was getting nervous. I asked Selma what happens if I cannot pay today, when is the next flight? She said it would be until the day after tomorrow. I blanched. The mere thought of having to spend another hour, let alone day, in this place made me nauseous. I had enough. I asked her to find a place nearby that would change travelers checks. And so she did. As I left, I saw that she had already booked me a spot. I took a quick photo of the ticket as it sat on the counter – just in case that was the closest I ever got to Iraq.

I immediately hopped into a cab and told the driver we were headed to the Hotel Elba, near the airport. The concierge there had told Salma, over the phone, that they could change travelers’ checks. Now, at this point, I need to clarify something. A friend had recently given me a magazine article detailing a reporters’ journey through crusader castles in Syria. The article began with, “I don’t mean to be racist, but Arabs are terrible drivers.” Clearly that writer was a sissy. When you need to be somewhere in 35 minutes that should normally take 55 minutes, you’d better damn well have an Arab driver. And mine was very good. Right before we left Salma called out, “We cannot keep the plane waiting for you. If we go, we go.”

Omar stepped on it. We got to the Hotel Elba. Nope. No cash. Only if you’re a guest at the hotel. Whatever. Boy did I whine. Still no dice. I was sure we were going to miss the plane, but unless we burned rubber. Once again, Omar proved his prowess as an amazingly effective driver. If 180 km/hr is fast, we were hitting for long intervals, but mostly it was how he was weaving in and out between the other cars, people, trucks and horse carts that impressed me.

We pulled up to a little storefront and Omar led me through to this little office in the back, where I met Khalid. He was a late 30s, early 40s-ish well-fed Syrian man with short, slicked back. I’m pretty certain he was the Don of East Damascus. I told him I needed $250 American in cash and whatever else in S£ to pay my lead-footed friend. He made a few calls. As he was doing so, I met his associate, a young man who spoke impeccable English (although he told me I was the first person he could use it on in 2 years). I learned all kinds of things about this guy, but to be honest, I am reluctant to post any of it publicly out of fear he will be identified. One of the revelations of this trip, I am finding, is that there are many other individuals whose agendas I am apparently interfering with. It makes them nervous. Lotta nervous people over here. But then there are also a lot of nefarious agendas. They go hand-in-hand.

Anyway, Khalid was able to help me out. It cost me $400 to get $250 in cash from this scoundrel. I couldn’t help admiring his guile. This guy was a real pirate. I liked him immediately. We hopped back into Omar’s car and he hit the afterburners.

Omar’s rusted out crate of a car hit speeds that I don’t think my in-line 6 would do. We squealed into the airport cab stand at 1:00 on the money and I ran for my life. Went through security. Again. I found Salma at the ticket counter and handed her the $250. “It’s OK, she said,” we still have some time. I late out a major sigh of relief. “So,” I said, “Do I have time to get my phone back?”

“The Escapade of the Irridium”, as I shall call it, it too lengthy, and it shall be cut due to time constraints, but suffice it to say that after no less than seven more passes through security, with all my luggage, I had my phone back.

By the time I got to the gate, it was 1:30 p.m. The flight had been scheduled to leave at 1:00. I went through yet another checkpoint where the guys wanted me to open my bag. The were curious about a hodgepodge of concentrated wiring in my bag which was showing up on the X-ray. It turned out to be my plastic Radio Shack bag full of power cords. I got to the door and there was a car waiting out there for me. The plane was waiting out on the tarmac. I climbed the steps and entered. I was sweaty, winded, exhausted, hungry, thirsty and relieved. I was the last man in on the last plane out.

As I was walking my bags down the aisle and finding an overhead bin, I heard what was reminiscent of a German drinking song (but in Arabic and to a tune sounding a hell of a lot like the Russian national anthem) coming from the back of the plane. As the din grew (more voices joined in), it became apparent that they were singing about me. The song ended and they all laughed. I sat down. The man across the aisle from me leaned over with a smile and said, “They are very happy you are here.” Ah, those Iraqis – such jokesters.

We took off on Wednesday at 1:45 p.m. local time, 4:45 a.m. Saint Paul time.