Damascus, Syria, April 15, 2010

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The driver was an Arab with the expressionless face of a Russian, not angry, nor sad, not even bored, just blank. He drove with his foot to the floor, the white lines of the highway zipping by as we passed cars that seemed to stand still, even though they were moving along at a normal pace. We raced down the highway at 110 miles an hour in a Mercedes taxi, a Servees, a cab that went straight from one destination to another for a set rate. Faster, but more expensive than a bus, it cost me about 13 bucks to get from Amman, Jordan, to Damascus, Syria.

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A newly married young couple in the backseat waved a plastic bottle in my direction, an orange soft drink. I smiled and thanked them, and leaned back in my seat next to the driver. It was almost pure sugar, but wasn’t bad.

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At the border I waited in a fast-moving line for non-Jordanians and non-Syrians. The uniformed border guards   on the Syrian side looked more like army than police. Two of them sat at a small desk behind glass. Next to me in line, I saw a guy holding a passport, blue like an American one. I had not seen many Americans around. I had just asked him in English where he was from when he shifted his hands and I saw the passport was Iraqi. We looked at each other for an awkward second and he walked away.

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As I slid my passport to them the border guards perked up. I think that they saw me as a curiosity. “American,” they said, and nodded, like they were noticing a rare but expensive car on the road. Then they very formally welcomed me to Syria, first in Arabic, then in English. They flipped through the passport twice, ran the visa into a computer, and then the second guy flipped through it again while the first officer waited for the computer to spit something back. “What is your occupation?” I told them archaeologist and their faces went blank. They didn’t know what it was and I could not explain so they let it go rather than be embarrassed. They smiled a lot, but it was without mirth. I was relieved to hear the stamp bang on the passport.

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“Welcome to Syria,” the first officer   said again, and slid the passport under the glass to me. I found a place to change money, grabbed a cup of coffee on the other side of the station and got back in the cab. The young couple were waiting in the back already, and the driver flicked a still burning cigarette onto the asphalt, lit another one, and started the car. Law enforcement was as lax on the Syrian side as the Jordanian. We were again cruising along at between 100 and 110 miles an hour, this time cranking bizarre Middle Eastern music on the stereo.    

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In Damascus we pulled into a market area, people crossing in front of us under a washed out sun that made me squint. Everything was grey or brown or tan. I paid the cab driver and included a one Dinar tip, he tried to tell me that was too much but I gave him the right amount, paused a second, and then gave him the tip separately with my hand out and palm up. I gestured toward him to let him know that the extra was for him. He smiled and nodded, the only hint of expression I had seen on him all day, putting the bills into his pocket as he shook my hand. I stepped out of the cab, waved goodbye to the young couple and hoisted my backpack across my shoulder, heading to the main road. I knew how to say where I was going in Arabic, knew the words for the central train station, for hotel, and had its name, but which way was it? I had no idea where I was in relation to downtown. The people in the cab hadn’t spoken any English. Since I couldn’t ask them anything other than rudimentary questions in Arabic, I didn’t bother.

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I stepped out near the road and flagged down a cab and got in. I greeted him in Arabic and told him the name of the hotel where I was going to stay, trying to sound like I took this trip every day. That drew a blank look, then I said the name of the downtown area and train station, that got a knowing nod and he started driving. He was a kid, maybe twenty or so, and tall with curly hair and a very patchy attempt at a beard. He had green pennants with Arabic writing on them hanging in his cab; I guessed verses from the Koran. He was listening to some sort of Islamic chants that to me sounded mildly threatening. I looked between the seats to make sure that he really had turned the meter on. He had. I was on alert, I didn’t like that I was essentially at the mercy of this guy since I did not have a clue where I was in Damascus. Another American traveler I talked to in Jordan said that whenever you get into a car with a stranger it is an act of faith. I was reminded of that as we zigzagged between cars.

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I looked at street signs, but could not read the Arabic fast enough, plus I didn’t want to look too much like a dumb tourist, so I gave up trying. Instead, I acted like I knew exactly where I was going and sat back and looked bored. Maybe that way he wouldn’t be as likely to take me for a rip off ride around town. Sometimes if a cabbie knows you don’t know your way around, they’ll go the long way to make more money off of you. Instead, much more quickly than I had anticipated we stopped, and he turned around and started talking in Arabic, gesturing. I understood the words for “no,” “hotel,” “train station,” and “here.” I think he was saying that he didn’t know where the hotel was, but I saw the train station behind us, and I knew it was very close, so I said it was OK and looked at the meter. The ride was going to cost a couple of bucks, big deal. I gave him the amount and a little more, he flashed a fake smile that died on his lips, and as soon as I got out, he pulled away and was gone, Islamic chants drowned out by the sounds of central Damascus traffic.

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   I was in Syria.