White Baboon

On our second day in Beirut, a bright Sunday morning, long before we knew how long we’d stay, Michael and I wandered on foot into the downtown area. After twenty minutes, we’d been stopped three times by security officers–told to stop taking pictures and asked about where we were headed. All of this happened along landscaped medians, yellow-lined roads, glass-walled banks and track-suited joggers. As Michael had remarked, apart from the tanks, it looked a lot like San Diego.

Taking an unintentional detour past block after block of gnarled barbed wire and barricades, we slowly realized that this must be Hezbollah.

Aha! The occupied warzone amidst a cosmopolitan city that all those travelers had been talking about. Soldiers were everywhere. Below we spied a tiny tent city, but left our cameras safely inside our bags. Cars zoomed by, picking up speed toward a kind of highway. But the sidewalk remained. So carefully, cautiously, we pressed on. Clearly, we were on the fringe of what made Lebanon such a clusterfuck of politics, pride and prejudice.

Finally, as we veered slightly left, a black beret stopped us. We told him we were heading for downtown. After a brief conversation with his officer and a lively discussion with us about Hollywood and George Michael, he sent us directly through what appeared to be an army camp of plywood planks, construction, armed militia and tents. So surreal, it looked a little like a movie set. Condoleeza Rice smiled down from a poster. Officers barely glanced at us. At a final checkpoint, our bags were skim-searched and abruptly, we entered a promenade of dusty shop windows and naked mannequins, boutiques which, since the Summer War of ‘06 no longer attracted enough customers to survive.

Soon a plaza of chrome and wicker chairs emerged. Hagen Daaz smiled with creamy scoops and I could see Virgin Records across a star-shaped burst of urban renewal. But several storefronts were merely glossy ghosts. Only a few strollers and toddlers wobbled across the cobblestone-ringed center while Sri Lankan nannies followed.

A lone roller-blader criss-crossed the clock-tower-centerpiece. But like a Rolex sold on a corner in Soho, the face was a fake facade, the inside dead with dysfunction. Mimicking Beirut, its hands refused to work together. Four coffee drinkers whispered. Armed soldiers—I saw four from where I then stood– paced within their spaces.We realize now that what we crossed through the remains of the opposition’s sit-in. Tents from last spring. Still there.

That’s why the camp had looked abandoned. It was. The guards, with the American Secretary of State watching over, worked for the Lebanese government and were in protection mode. But who did they think would attack? Syria? America? Hezbollah? Al Qaeda? Israel? We learned that depends on who you talk to.It was the strangest Sunday morning we’d had in a long time.We’re now struggling to collect just a coin-purse full of unbiased facts. To figure what the hell is going on, what side we’re supposed to be on and how we should feel as Americans.

Stay tuned.

(Photo by Michael)

Garret and his sister Esther, the Irish backpackers staying across the hall, were planning a trip to Golan Heights. I’d never heard of it—and I apologize. But as Garret ranted on like an action movie trailer about the special permission, bombshelled buildings and sledge-hammered sight of this strange buffer territory, I wasn’t enthused. Hadn’t we seen enough ruins?

Well. .It all started back in the 1967 when Syria lost a bunch of land called Golan Heights to Israel in the Six Day War. This pissed them off. So during the Yom Kippur War of 1973, Syria won back 450 sq km of Golan Heights, and a demilitarized, UN-supervised buffer zone began to keep the peace. But now Israel was pissed. Just before giving up Quinetra, a part of Golan Heights just lost back to Syria, they went through and systematically destroyed everything in sight, removing, as Lonely Planet put it “anything that could be unscrewed, unbolted or wrenched from its position.”

(Photo by Michael)

Then they bulldozed what was left. While some say it was revenge, and others claim it served to strengthen the security buffer, it wasn’t pretty. Syria, as you can imagine, now welcomes tourists to witness this act of destruction, just in case there was any doubt about which country was or is in the wrong.Most of Golan Heights–1,200 square kilometres of territory, manned by thousands of troops–is still under dispute. Neither countries seem interested in compromise.

That morning at the bus station, I realized I’d forgotten my passport, which could have been disastrous. But I was optimistic. We made it through two checkpoints where no one seemed to correctly compare the number of heads with the number of documents. And at our final threshhold, after a promise to take photos and patient smiles, we were in.Rain fell freely into the roofless shops of Quinetra’s main street as the five of us shuffled in an unintentionally staggered formation up and down the empty roads, each on our own private walk through the modern ruins of real conflict. Dirt-stained goats grazed in the weeds between garlic-colored stone and gravel. The walls and arches of a stone church appeared like so many we’d paid to see in the past. Climbing the dark, narrow, princess-style spiral of a crumbling minaret, there was a disturbing view of Quinetra’s mine-filled fields and the Israeli territory in the distance. But kilometers of gnarled barbed wire and our Syrian guide kept us on the right path.

Coming upon a kind of checkpoint, our tour was abruptly over. We stood for over an hour in the slanted rain waiting for a ride back to civilization. Soldiers came and went. Gold badged and bereted, some huddled in a small office. Others shot the shit inside a checkpoint station. Another was in charge of lifting the gate for incoming SUVs with “UN” in big, bold and black letters along the side. When encountered, they were timidly friendly, always interested. One little boy, age 10, accompanying his father, practiced his English by shouting to us with a high-toothed, rabbit smile.

Finally, piling into an army jeep with other fatigue-covered men, we rode back to our first interrogator and stood awkwardly in a two by two shelter. Plastic white deck chairs slid on a muddy, public-school tile floor while a red, cable-wrapped, deckless boom box chanted Arabic radio and a small stove dripped propane. An extra-strength candle, which looked a lot like a stick of dynamite had been lit and placed outside the window. Kalushnakavs hung on a row of nails. The guards were nothing but nice.Golan Heights was plenty disturbing, just as anticipated. I kept thinking–all this fighting and destruction over a little piece of land? But Michael reminded me that everything is relative. When your country is this small, a couple hundred kilometers matter more. Who am I to talk, anyway? Had the United States ever permanently lost any sizable land? No, it seemed like we’d had much more experience in taking it away from others.

I am still digesting.

1. Seeing a live and very unruly black ram led out of the cargo hold of a passenger bus.
2. Basking in the inspirational energy of a Ani Pierpont who just wrote Sinan Diaryz—a walking tour book of Istanbul’s Ottoman architecture. God, I miss American female bonding.
3. Watching Turkish woman avoid “regular” toilets in favor of the stand-up squat variety. But, I guess when you’ve been going touch-less you’re whole life, a plastic seat seems gross. (Yes, Christine, of course I’m hovering!)
4. Learning what a real supernova is.
5. Attempting to sink into the floor as a violent movie called “The Marine” began playing on a bus ride through Turkey.
6. Having a conversation about time machines with Michael over our umpteenth (Mom, this is your word!) donner kebab and ayran (something like buttermilk).
7. Time spent with Kirdir–the rug-selling, bike-renting, triathlon-coaching guy with a moustache.
8. Being served coffee, water, tea and cookies. On a bus. Does Greyhound do this?
9. The inescapable irony of having to explain that we were in the “Peace Corps”, to Turkish people, at this present time.
10. Joking with Sez, our second Turkish couchsurfing host, about the Seinfeld Soup Nazi.

We are on the fourth official day of Wanderlust or Bust (WOB), our tour through the Middle East and hopefully Africa.

Water Bottles Purchased: 9

Strange Bed Slept In: 3

Cloves Smoked: 1

Meals Eaten Which Have Included Lamb: 6

Kind Strangers Encountered: Too many to countTraveling. It’s a medicine of sorts. It cures that whole “When this happens, everything will be fine” concept. It rids our life of reasons to hurry. And this tr?p, espec?ally, slays the concept of a destination from all vision. Because we are traveling to TRAVEL. Every DAY is our destination, and every moment our purpose. (My hubby sneaks up on me to the right).In fact, we’ve realized our Lonely Planet Turkey book, which we ceremon?ously opened once inside our sleeper car, is not the precious guide I guarded so dearly. We are not so interested in mosques, ruins and baths. These things are for tourists and we are not tourists. Charming coastal towns, w?th cushions to while away the hours w?th wine are part of a vacation. And we are definitely not on vacation. We are looking to coin our own brand of ethnodiscovery. Information like bus times, simple Turkish terms, maps and hostel addresses can be cruc?al, but they are also largely outdated in a not yet three-year old tome. Chill Out Hostel, for example, checkitt out to the right, is not as promised (or threatened). It was pretty sticky on arrival. To our relief, the shower is no longer perched over the squat toilet, but to our chagrin, the price is now 20 lira per dorm bed as opposed to 12. The world is moving fast.We’ve been to Istanbul thrice before–enough that it feels a little like a third home. It is marinated in memories of our parents and friends. We can welcome with ease what it always has to offer: metrosexual men, fresh cheap mussels, headscarfed-wrapped skin and charismatic hospitality. Last night we visited Kafeka hookah room for a Bitburger beer, and chatted with our backgammon teacher from last spring. Good times.Boudreaux began purifying water this morning with our miniscule iodine tablets–this will not only keep us diarrhea free, but save us money as well. He also created a complex spreadsheet with our daily expenses, average expenditures and a cell with a fluctuating date, telling us exactly how much longer our trip can last based on the money we plan to spend and what we make along the way. It is a strategic game now–saving money. Saying no to one more beer, eating while stand?ng up, choosing the morning-breath flavored dorm over the private double room.On to the home of a 29-year old Turkish guy in Bursa, a town in Western Anatolia, via ferry and bus, for our first couchsurf?ng experience.

Check back soon. . .

When you think of Turkey what comes to mind? Prison? Constantinople? East Meets West? The toilets? Well. . .it sure seems more like P-R-I-D-E.I’ve never seen so many flags at once. Even after 9/11.

Turkey flies their red and white with side-of-a-building-sized gestures and in the strangest spots. Everywhere. Which, to be honest, makes everywhere feel just a little bit more festive. As if you might run into a pageant, parade, or cotton candy stand around the next corner.Thing is, I’m trying to picture, say, New York like this. A flag at Macys. Dozens more from East side apartment balconies. Stars and stripes down the Empire State Building. Strung in tiny triangles from telephone poles in the village. In the back window of taxis along fifth avenue. It’s probably Old Navy’s attempt to make the flag a fashion statement and the lack of support for the current administration, but this vision seems both impossible and cheesy. And American gets so much shit for being patriotic—especially from the Brits! We’ve got nothing on Turkey!

But the flags are only a beginning. Turks actually “scurry” to find someone who speaks English for us. They walk us to where we want to go. Invite us back to their place for beers. Carry our bags. Pay for our tickets. Give us extra tea. They are the most hospitable people we’ve ever encountered and we get thefeeling it’s because they are proud. They want us to leave their country andspread the love. Who are we to say no?

The most common site on the Syrian street. . .

Snowflakes in stone at the cathedralic ruins of St. Simeon, an eccentric monk who, after seeking seclusion and then attracting unwanted visitors to leer and peer, climbed and lived atop ever-higher pillars for years on end.

Smiling Syrian children waving at us from the back of a pickup truck. . .

The sheep run EXTREMELY fast in Syria. . .

We are now in Syria.Although there were stories or interrogations and bright overhead lights, none of that happened. But we had our own initiation–we were taken “hostage” by an overly hospitable border family for 36 hours in what we’ve come to call the Will of the Collective.It all started when “the girls” put us on a dolmush (a minibus) headed for Reyhanle, a Syrian-Turkey border town, with instructions that the family of their friend, Guler, would help us get on a bus to Syria. In Reyhanle, we were intercepted by a guy who we could only assume was the right one. Hussein led us away from the bus stop to his home, where we were served breakfast of bread, olives, jam, cheese and tea in a carpet picnic with the rest of his family staring in awe. It was 9:00 AM. Two hours later we learned that we would be sleeping there and tomorrow we’d go to Syria.

Mmmmhmmmm.

But this kindness killing was nothing new. And these days we were choosing the shabby, often neglected door marked “Time” over the hundreds of fancy French double doors marked “Money”. So it was okay.

Sort of.

The rest of the day, we were treated like a mix of celebrity, toddler and Christmas toy–never left alone. We were explained how to wash our hands, taught to dip our bread in our cheese and told that we definitely wanted another cup of tea. Hussein repeated to us in VERY minimal English, roughly every seven minutes (I say roughly because it felt like every four seconds), these three messages: 1) that we were all one–that Hussein’s father was our father, his sisters were our sisters, his brother our brother 2) that we would go tomorrow to Syria and 3) that all of us would chat via Windows Instant Messenger so we could continue these fulfilling conversations beyond today.

There was a village tour, a bread-making demonstration and a lot of Arabic music before it became apparent that I was to hang out in the girl’s bedroom with Fatmah, 25 and Selva, 19, and somehow find conversation even though neither of them spoke any English. Michael’s place was on the couch next to brother Ali, Hussein and their father or in the computer room, using the translation software to have very caveman-like conversations. That night I stayed with the girls and I’m still not sure where Michael slept. The next morning when we hugged in a relieved embrace, the show of affection was a spectacle. Luckily, they all thought it was really funny instead of really disrespecting.We finally made it across the border that day. Although the three men’s presence (there was no bus, we were forced to hire a taxi) helped hurry the border patrol along with their tapping fingers and Arabic jabber, we had no idea what they were explaining about our visit, our visa, anything–and we didn’t like that one bit. How, we thought, could it be possible that getting by in a foreign country could be so much more stressful WITH help than WITHOUT?But mostly, we are puzzled by what seemed, regardless of culture, a complete lack of respect for our own schedule or preferences. We were never asked if we wanted to stay over. We were told. And a few days ago, the hotel clerk, Ahmed, a nice guy who we’d become friends with over the past few nights of wine and conversation, did not invite us to his home to meet his family for dinner, he told us we would be going.Let’s be clear. I am very appreciative of this hospitality. But I’m still curious about its roots.In both Turkey and Syria, the dinner table is one big appetizer platter. Almost all food is communal. One or two water glasses serve a group of seven. Bedrooms, due to energy costs and space, are divided only between sexes. The idea of privacy. . .of the individual. . .is missing. These people assume that because we have no friends or family, we will be grateful for the “comfort” of a group. No matter what.

It is simply the Will of the Collective.

“We have fish. Very nice fish. I can cook for you with corn, wheat corn.”Fish sounds dreamy but is usually way beyond our budget. We exchange concerned glances.”How much?”"I make whole meal for $12 together. We have very nice wine here in Anamure.”"How much?”Ten lira for you”(Alcohol is a big splurge for us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a beer. We don’t say anything.)”We have breakfast here in morning.”"How much?”"Ummm, 3.5 Lira”(We consider. We just bargained the pension for 20 lira, down from 30, because we skipped breakfast and heat. Now he wants 7 lira for breakfast?)”You are American?”"Evet. Ben Americaleem,” we say in Turkish.”Because usually America my best customers, spend lots of money, (he pantomimes throwing money into the air). Where are you from? Homeless part of America?”"No,” we say, looking at each other and realizing just how cheap we’ve become. “We’re from Denver.”

Here’s what we had for lunch today in the souk (winding market).

It’s called Fuul and it’s a mix of beans, yogurt, oil, chickpeas and fresh coriander with sweet raw onion. Community water glass and pita bread included. Cost:30 Syrian Pounds (65 cents)

Other Syrian costs. . . .

Hotel Room: $10/night

Kikkoman Soy Sauce for Cooking: $1.50

Falafel & Egg Wrap: 50 cents

Small Bottle of Water: 30 cents

Hour of Internet: 95 cents

Syrian Times Newspaper (English): 10 cents

Large, Squeezed While You Watch Grenadine, Banana & Orange Juice: $1

Sheraton Christmas Lunch Buffet with Alcohol: $57 (Thanks Mom and Dad)

I look thrilled don’t I?Maybe I’m not into rocks. Maybe my history-obsessed friend Nicole drug me toward too many ruins when we backpacked in Greece. Maybe I’m just ignorant. But once you’ve seen a bunch of columns, you’ve already seen a few too many.This was a latrine. That was a slave quarters. Over here was where the Romans had sex.I actually DO like history. I adore antiques. I hear there are seven wonders worth seeing. The Acropolis was cool. So was St. Peters. I have romped through many a castle and monument with fascination. And I can honestly tell you that if I found a genie in a bottle I would go back in time.But a field of rubble and ruins, with sometimes English-translated facts that I will soon forget just doesn’t do it for me.When they unearth new treasures, new tombs, new teeth, I always think about what my husband once said after reading an article about recently discovered dinosaur bones:Put them with the rest.