Preparing to Bolt Damascus
I had been told by KLM Mohammed that a woman named Salma Alatar, with Iraqi Airways, could possibly sell me a charter ticket for 1 p.m. that afternoon (Tuesday) – which is why I spent the night at the airport. I wasn’t taking any chances that I’d not get on that plane. He gave me a phone number and said she could be reached at 9 a.m. and I could see if they have room. He said he did not know her personally, but that he had gotten his information from the Co-ordination office. I waited. It seemed forever. I was tired, greasy, disturbed and I really needed to brush my teeth.
I made a decision to give myself a little boost by getting semi-cleaned. First, I tried to change some money. All I had left of the cash was $12 American and a bunch of Euros. There was one change place in the airport. It was open 24 hours, but they did not take travelers' checks. Cash only. (A word to the wise: Always carry lots of cash when traveling abroad. I was trying to be responsible by bringing travelers checks and credit cards. Well, nobody takes that form of payment in Damascus – except for one guy whom I met. But I’ll cover him later.) So I unloaded ten dollars and bought a bottle of water from a man. “Welcome,” he said with a big smile.
Next, I found the men’s bathroom at the airport. You know how the best rest areas on the highway are always those first ones across the state line? A state always wants to look it’s best to those guests who are first arriving, right? Sort of a “first impressions” philosophy. Syria didn’t get that memo. Alice would have called it a “Scary bathroom.” And oh, it was. I was trying to think of a comparison to a really bad bathroom in Minnesota, but every other scary bathroom I could think of was a Taj Mahal compared to this one.
I brushed my teeth using a bottle of water I had purchased in Amsterdam. I wasn’t using the drinking water out of this place. I brushed them twice. A dozen men passed in and out of the bathroom while I was there. They were cleaning up in a unique way. There was plenty of soap at each sink and I realized that not a single man left the bathroom without washing thoroughly. I went upstairs again and saw a sign next to the stairs that said “Mosque ↓”. It wasn’t until then that I realized the men had been purifying themselves for prayer.
The third thing I did was go up and get myself some food at the café. The waiters mostly ignored me. I think it must have been because I sat at that same table for the most of the night while not buying anything. I had to flag him down several times to get his attention. I had just enough for another “Mandarin Cola” and a pizza, with barely enough left over, I suspected, for the critical phone call to Madame Salma at 9 a.m. I ended up ordering the pizza – if you could call it that. It was round, mostly bread, with some cheese on top, no tomato sauce a couple of green peppers thrown on top, with a single, pitted olive on each of the five slices. Yep, I counted right. Why did they cut a round pizza into five slices, you say? I don’t know, but I’ll bet they have a damn good reason. I was trying to enjoy the meal, but two of the bad cops had stationed themselves in the V.I.P. lounge of the airport (see last picture), which was above and surrounding the café in which I sat. They were continually glancing over the rail at me. I asked them if they wanted a slice. They ignored me.
Then I went to pay the bill (S£260, Syrian Pounds) and gave the guy S£320 – a good enough tip, I figured. I was doing my duty as a responsible representative of Americans abroad – or whatever. As I was getting ready to leave he comes to collect the payment. “No No No,” he says. “More money.” I pointed to the bill, “It says S£260.” “Yes, but you have cola and English cake.” Which was when I discovered that the peace offering from Luca Brasi at 3 a.m. was anything but. I got suckered into buying something I thought was a gift. Whatever. But the bill was now S£450, not S£260. Well, that was a problem, because I only had S£100 left, which I was hoping was enough for the phone call – but I wasn’t sure. I pulled the “Oh, um, yeah I need to change more money” line. He said, “No problem.” So I gave the change guy my last two dollars, got S£100 and made myself scarce. I was NOT giving up the opportunity to make this phone call and get the hell out of Syria. Anyway, there’s probably a Syrian arrest warrant out for me for not paying my bill. Maybe I shall, like the magi, return to my home country via another route.
I walked around the terminal to try to pass the time, but I felt constantly watched. I decided to keep to one spot so as not to unnecessarily expand my profile even more. When 9 a.m. finally rolled around I went to find a phone to call Salma Alatar. A gentleman showed me to the pay phone but I had no idea how to use it, and no one was offering their help. When I asked about change for coins to use the phone, a rather stout fellow with a red-checkered head scarf showed me a free phone in the “fax office”. Score! I try dialing the number but a recorded voice in Arabic, followed by English (thank God), told me that “this number is restricted from domestic and international calls.” I tried it again. Same result. A visit to the Co-ordination office yielded little but frightened glances from those who hang out there. “Salma not here.” Yeah, I can see that. “Come back in one hour, maybe Salma here.” God help me, more waiting. I sat on the benches and tried to sleep. I couldn’t. Back in the states, it was nearing 1 a.m. on the second sleepless night. The packs I was lugging around were getting heavier and heavier, and I was feeling pretty miserable.
I waited well past an hour just to be sure, and re-entered the Co-ordination office at 10:45 a.m., when the man there said, “Here! Salma here. Down in reception area.” I took off like a lightening bolt. When I entered the reception area, I asked for her by name. She was standing in the doorway like a delivering angel. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered how difficult it is to get into the reception area, and the fact that she happened to be right out there at that time (which never happens) was a serious stroke of luck. It was Tuesday morning, 11 a.m. in Damascus, 3 a.m. in Saint Paul.
I made a decision to give myself a little boost by getting semi-cleaned. First, I tried to change some money. All I had left of the cash was $12 American and a bunch of Euros. There was one change place in the airport. It was open 24 hours, but they did not take travelers' checks. Cash only. (A word to the wise: Always carry lots of cash when traveling abroad. I was trying to be responsible by bringing travelers checks and credit cards. Well, nobody takes that form of payment in Damascus – except for one guy whom I met. But I’ll cover him later.) So I unloaded ten dollars and bought a bottle of water from a man. “Welcome,” he said with a big smile.
Next, I found the men’s bathroom at the airport. You know how the best rest areas on the highway are always those first ones across the state line? A state always wants to look it’s best to those guests who are first arriving, right? Sort of a “first impressions” philosophy. Syria didn’t get that memo. Alice would have called it a “Scary bathroom.” And oh, it was. I was trying to think of a comparison to a really bad bathroom in Minnesota, but every other scary bathroom I could think of was a Taj Mahal compared to this one.
I brushed my teeth using a bottle of water I had purchased in Amsterdam. I wasn’t using the drinking water out of this place. I brushed them twice. A dozen men passed in and out of the bathroom while I was there. They were cleaning up in a unique way. There was plenty of soap at each sink and I realized that not a single man left the bathroom without washing thoroughly. I went upstairs again and saw a sign next to the stairs that said “Mosque ↓”. It wasn’t until then that I realized the men had been purifying themselves for prayer.
The third thing I did was go up and get myself some food at the café. The waiters mostly ignored me. I think it must have been because I sat at that same table for the most of the night while not buying anything. I had to flag him down several times to get his attention. I had just enough for another “Mandarin Cola” and a pizza, with barely enough left over, I suspected, for the critical phone call to Madame Salma at 9 a.m. I ended up ordering the pizza – if you could call it that. It was round, mostly bread, with some cheese on top, no tomato sauce a couple of green peppers thrown on top, with a single, pitted olive on each of the five slices. Yep, I counted right. Why did they cut a round pizza into five slices, you say? I don’t know, but I’ll bet they have a damn good reason. I was trying to enjoy the meal, but two of the bad cops had stationed themselves in the V.I.P. lounge of the airport (see last picture), which was above and surrounding the café in which I sat. They were continually glancing over the rail at me. I asked them if they wanted a slice. They ignored me.
Then I went to pay the bill (S£260, Syrian Pounds) and gave the guy S£320 – a good enough tip, I figured. I was doing my duty as a responsible representative of Americans abroad – or whatever. As I was getting ready to leave he comes to collect the payment. “No No No,” he says. “More money.” I pointed to the bill, “It says S£260.” “Yes, but you have cola and English cake.” Which was when I discovered that the peace offering from Luca Brasi at 3 a.m. was anything but. I got suckered into buying something I thought was a gift. Whatever. But the bill was now S£450, not S£260. Well, that was a problem, because I only had S£100 left, which I was hoping was enough for the phone call – but I wasn’t sure. I pulled the “Oh, um, yeah I need to change more money” line. He said, “No problem.” So I gave the change guy my last two dollars, got S£100 and made myself scarce. I was NOT giving up the opportunity to make this phone call and get the hell out of Syria. Anyway, there’s probably a Syrian arrest warrant out for me for not paying my bill. Maybe I shall, like the magi, return to my home country via another route.
I walked around the terminal to try to pass the time, but I felt constantly watched. I decided to keep to one spot so as not to unnecessarily expand my profile even more. When 9 a.m. finally rolled around I went to find a phone to call Salma Alatar. A gentleman showed me to the pay phone but I had no idea how to use it, and no one was offering their help. When I asked about change for coins to use the phone, a rather stout fellow with a red-checkered head scarf showed me a free phone in the “fax office”. Score! I try dialing the number but a recorded voice in Arabic, followed by English (thank God), told me that “this number is restricted from domestic and international calls.” I tried it again. Same result. A visit to the Co-ordination office yielded little but frightened glances from those who hang out there. “Salma not here.” Yeah, I can see that. “Come back in one hour, maybe Salma here.” God help me, more waiting. I sat on the benches and tried to sleep. I couldn’t. Back in the states, it was nearing 1 a.m. on the second sleepless night. The packs I was lugging around were getting heavier and heavier, and I was feeling pretty miserable.
I waited well past an hour just to be sure, and re-entered the Co-ordination office at 10:45 a.m., when the man there said, “Here! Salma here. Down in reception area.” I took off like a lightening bolt. When I entered the reception area, I asked for her by name. She was standing in the doorway like a delivering angel. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered how difficult it is to get into the reception area, and the fact that she happened to be right out there at that time (which never happens) was a serious stroke of luck. It was Tuesday morning, 11 a.m. in Damascus, 3 a.m. in Saint Paul.
posted by John Lesch at 6:25 AM
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