Damascene grumble, part one
September 4, 2007
Traffic by Souk Al Hamidieh, Damascus.
To all my readers, friends, critics, and everyone who’s asked, complained, or rejoiced at the scarcity of my blogging recently (including the cyber stalkers who have a rather unhealthy obsession with my Middle East writings), I’m going to disappoint the latter and announce that I’m back by popular demand, and I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. The English like to say “mustn’t grumble.” Like hell I mustn’t: I personally must, and I will. And not just about politics and economics.
Maybe it’s the heat, but lately everything in Damascus has taken gargantuan proportions, which means that while the positive is pleasantly overbearing, the negative has become unbearable. Take the jasmine plant teasing us from my mother’s living room window, making a worn cliché even more so: in the evenings especially, as night falls and the heat subsides, the scent of jasmine whiffing in with the breeze is so intoxicating it’s ridiculous. You can’t get more Damascene and more sensual than that.
But the less aromatic aspects are also there in full force, making molehills seem like mountains. I’ve been in Syria for 3 weeks, and I still haven’t gotten over the speed with which changes have taken place in the 8 months that I’ve been away. Many things had been improving slowly over the past few years, but the current situation is simply unreal in its dimensions and time frames. My friend Syrian Brit wrote a very pertinent post about his visit to Damascus, a post with which I mostly agreed, and which I wished I could have written had I been as energetic and timely as he is. As I slowly come out of my blogging lethargy, I will try to write more about a number of these issues and more, including many which I had mentioned in my briefing paper, and which need elaboration and vivid examples since they pertain to real life experiences, and aren’t just analysis. But hold your horses.
In the meantime, I must write about the driving. The maddening driving. So maddening in fact that I have begun to reconsider my position on capital punishment. As self-appointed plaintiff, judge, jury and executioner of the road, I find myself this close to sentencing to death (naturally commuted to a long sentence at the last moment) the numerous jerks cutting me off for absolutely no reason other than to gain seven and a half meters in rush hour - or rush hours, rather, as everyone seems to be constantly rushing off somewhere, probably to go smoke some arguileh (about which I will grumble below), endangering everyone’s life in the process, treating these Damascene roads as the training circuit of Evel Knievel … without the driving skills.
That’s the worst part: most Syrians think they’re the best drivers in the world, and that they invented the word “shattara.” The better (or bigger, or more expensive) the car, the worse the driver, the more pompous the attitude, the more adamant the “I own the road” behavior, the more unjustifiable the incompetence. Like the guy in the monstrous black thing with mirror windows today in Sheikh Saad, bullying mere pedestrians and intimidating every other car while his inferiority complex and compensation fixation (in Vienna, we all get to Freudian symbolism sooner or later) were being soothed by the roar of his vulgar Hummer.
Most Syrian drivers not only drive like jerks, but they terrorize everyone around them forcing them to adhere to their road rules, or to get the hell out of their way. A couple of days ago, standing still at a red traffic light in Youssef Azmeh square, I saw a man in a van honking regularly like a maniac (a bit like the typing of Jack Nicholson in The Shining, only louder), advancing slowly behind the car stopped right next to me - so much so that the harried driver of the car started driving off even though the light was still red, as the madman continued his pursuit. That’s a real war on terror we need to fight.
I get flashed and honked and stared at (and probably cursed) for driving within the speed limit (especially with a baby on board), on roads like Autostrade Mezzeh. What makes it even worse is that I can imagine the thought process in all these maniacs’ little speed-possessed brains: “it’s a woman driving, with the seatbelt on, in her actual lane, “slowly” – typical, she should stay at home and leave cars to us.” Sometimes, I relish my short-lived power and their impotence, as they are stuck behind me as I drive 60 kph … but all too often they overtake me from the right and roar off to the urgent business of smoking an arguileh (did I mention I would be discussing this below?) or of liberating the Golan (with so many army licenses out there) or of solving the latest foreign affairs gaffe (a lot of diplomatic plates behaving irresponsibly out there … and that’s because they’re being driven by actual “responsibles” and their spouses and kids. Fact. Don’t ask me for more details.) In the meantime, most real diplomats seem to be left cowering in the relative safety of their homes. In Yafour. But I digress.
Syrians are driving worse and worse every day, and mind you, I haven’t even been out of greater Damascus since I got here. Most roads, especially outside the city, potholes and other surprises included, are quite simply a death trap. Except, of course, for the road leading up to the People’s Palace, a road which wouldn’t look out of place in Switzerland. Tree lined, gorgeous curves, smooth asphalt, every streetlight working, lanes clearly delineated, wide enough for six lanes but reserved for four generous ones. Yes, it’s an actual Damascene road now open to the mere public (who, may I remind you, technically own the above-mentioned palace) since a major throughway to Dummar has been closed temporarily. As we drive through the perfect example of what is achievable when the will is there, we are basically eating biscuits. Back to bread soon.
But lest this post begins to sound like a rant against male Syrian drivers, which admittedly it does so far, I wish I could explain to you what it feels like to be stuck behind, near, or opposite a woman driver wearing the strictest of hijabs (and sometimes more), under huge sunglasses, and with gloves that probably aren’t doing much for manoeuvrability (given they’re not leather driving gloves and actually serve an entirely different purpose), as she tries to steer her car somewhere. Imagine the view when the car is filled with miscellaneous people advising her. Imagine the thoughts crossing her mind when she sees you staring in resigned disbelief, probably summoning curses you’ve never even heard of to punish the infidel women driving practically naked (you call a t-shirt proper covering?) and who are clearly bimbos (just ask most men).
You’ll tell me it’s always been like that. Indeed. But there’s also recently been a huge increase in cars on Damascene roads (refugees, summer visitors, new Syrian registrations) without the necessary counterbalance of infrastructure improvement, road widening and repairing, parking, or even proper traffic light management. There is a roundabout in front of Shami hospital, with one major road coming down from Dummar, through the roundabout, continuing to Nehru road or to Mezzeh, or turning left to Malki. It is simply one of the most dangerous roads in Damascus, and I now prefer to face Omayad Square rather than risk the nerve-wrecking dash (or worse, the wait … as the others honk and flash helpfully behind you), because coming from Dummar, you’ve been going downhill from some time, having picked up even more speed than should be legal, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to stop or even slow down to allow some measly fellow drivers to cross in front of you.
Every day, there are horrific accidents there. And all they need – ALL THEY NEED! – is to put in a traffic light a few hundred meters up, so the Dummar road maniacs slow down, and so the traffic is regulated and the people coming from Malki or Muhajerin can drive 20 meters without risking their life. But who has time for planning or improving infrastructure? We’re busy being steadfast in the face of aggression. And if you only knew how in love most people were these days. But let’s not digress again.
If I were in charge, and boy do I have plans for if I were in charge (and don’t listen to my husband who calls me the ultimate dictator, for there will eventually be place for freedom after I’ve whipped them all into shape), I would strip the driving licenses off everyone, put them all through a new test (those who didn’t face the firing squad), install the points system, arm traffic policemen with whips and electric stun guns to use liberally when they get no respect … and they never do.
Case in point: yours truly. A couple of weeks ago, I took the baby to one of the numerous Damascene gardens in my area. I parked, got out of the car, opened the trunk, got the pram out, and as I was opening it and getting my daughter out of her car seat, this policeman comes and says: “Where are you going?” To which I answer furiously: “And you waited until now to tell me I can’t park?” He answers calmly, nicely: “I didn’t say you can’t park, I just asked where you’re going.” Me, my tone of voice increasingly defiant, angry: “It’s none of your business where I’m going. Either I can park or I can’t. And either you start putting proper signs or …” He tries again: “It’s not permitted to park.” So I start packing the pram again, really annoyed. He says, to ease my frustration: “Do you know who lives here? The xxx ambassador!” I look at him, unimpressed, and with my utmost restraint respond sarcastically: “Tsharrafna.”
Now frankly, would I have this conversation with any other cop in the world? Not where I live, at least. But while they get no respect, they’re often nice people, just trying to get by. A few days ago, I parked downtown in front of a bus stop (come on, when was the last bus you saw stopping at the stop?), barely squeezing in between two other cars. Just as I had settled the baby in her sling carrier, a nice policeman asks: “Are you going to be long, Madame?” See, it’s all in the tone. “Just 10 minutes please, I need to pick up something.” Which was true, although technically it was a lie since I was picking up something which I had yet to find and buy. A DVD for my daughter, if you must know, and a few other movies. (For 50 Syrian pounds each. Is it my fault? How else am I going to watch The Yacoubian Building and the brand new Simpsons movie which I missed in London? Give me a break.) Being the nice, mostly honest person I am, returning to the car less than 20 minutes later (the people in Bahsa are so nice, it simply takes longer to buy things), I thanked the policeman and smiled at him. He smiled backed. How many people do that to him?
Smiles are certainly in short supply on the roads of Damascus these days. Every guy thinks he’s been sent by God to rule these roads, and he’s not about to grant right of passage to desperate and frankly suicidal pedestrians (who are even crazier and more irresponsible than drivers, believing the burden of care lies on everyone else but them) or to other drivers who have the misfortune of needing to change lanes. In fact, hardly anyone in Damascus seems to change lanes purposely; indicators being for wimps, and honks being for real men, superior drivers clearly feel it is not necessary to signal intentions to turn or move, even when leaving a parking space and engaging into traffic, and harassed drivers are eventually chased into a different lane. Even in two or three-lane streets, there is always at least a fourth line, and inevitably, a fifth column. How are the cops ever going to tame these rebels without a cause, these self-baptized Maradonas who can only reach their goal with the gracious hand of God?
In a country where the regime focused on a different kind of security, citizens were left with a strong fear of badly dressed mukhabarat, but not of uniformed officers. Most drivers know how to escape a reprimand or a fine. Except for the poor Micro drivers who are the easiest prey, and who end up driving like even bigger maniacs to make up for the humiliation they endure at the hands of traffic police, who have no other way to boost the measly salaries that hardly get them past the 15th of the month. The other victims are the equally unruly taxi drivers who, since they drive all day, really do think they drive better than everyone else, and that we’ve had an easy ride for too long, and that it’s perfectly acceptable to refuse your compatriots as you park in front of malls, cafés, restaurants, waiting for the Iraqi and the Gulf ladies to come out, and charging them 300 and 400 Syrian pounds for a trip that normally costs 30.
Alas, Syrian hospitality is not what it used to be, but then these are the strangest of times. In fact, Syrian hospitality has taken a serious turn for the worse, in my opinion, with the instant barrages being set up in every corner of town.
Now I must grumble about smoking. (Feel free to stop reading in despair.) The smoking has reached the point of the absurd. Young and old, modern and conservative, secular and religious, male and female, morning and night, hot and cold, work and play, everyone is smoking the arguileh (water pipe). In every café I enter, I scan the sometimes huge rooms, in a desperate hope that someone, somewhere, has not succumbed to this disgusting habit, in vain. A wall of heavily scented smoke hits you when you enter – or rather as you turn around, because I will be damned if I put my 13-month daughter through this suffocating hell.
I am not even asking for non-smoking cafés, or not even for non-smoking sections in cafés (although that would be a marked improvement). Please, just a sign that says: “Smoking optional.” (And since we’re fantasizing, another sign that says “Photos optional.”)
I am told there are now companies which deliver ready-to-smoke arguilehs! Dial-a-smoke. One call, and lit arguilehs with spare “naras” (lit coals) will be at your door faster than a pizza. In my mind, even though I recognize that I might be unfair, I have come to identify things like arguileh smoking with superficiality and emptiness, and I hypocritically forget my “live and let live” motto as I turn increasingly intolerant of such meaningless, vain, empty fads, which roam equally vain places.
Rotana Café is now “the best” café with “the best” terrace and “the best” view in Damascus, I’m told. Excellent; everyone knows I love a nice cup of coffee in a nice environment with a nice view. See for yourself here. Except nobody told me I would be greeted by some 73 persons in “cool” uniforms at strategic places the moment I entered the Rotana building. Or is it just me who finds it incredibly annoying, and incredibly unnecessary? Ahlein Madame, I am welcomed. Ahlein, I manage to answer the first few times. Ahlein Madame. Uh-huh, I respond the next 7 times. And so on until we reach purgatory on the first floor: on one side, a lounge with music blaring out from huge screens, and on the other, the damn wall of smoke, with table after table of people clearly thinking they’re incredibly cool, turning towards the door to see who else is cool. We left, and I was so annoyed by the superficiality of Rotana that I complained about that café for about 3 days.
Art House was somewhat superficial too (valet parking was really unnecessary given the place was right in front of the entrance), but it was refreshing and its style was subdued (even with its contrived art-déco look mixed with the huge pieces of the old mill now serving as furniture) so I forgave it immediately. The old mill has become a boutique hotel with a great terrace for having coffee, and an even better roof terrace for having dinner upstairs. The only problem, of course, is that it’s become the hangout of the pompous people who think they own the roads. And they probably do.
In fact, it’s probably now easier than ever to spot the difference between the haves and the have-nots. Since the "infitah" (which I'll be discussing soon), the gap has never been bigger, and never been clearer. You can’t miss the haves through their sheer vulgarity, aggressivity and selfishness, and you can’t miss the have-nots through their sheer numbers and impotence. But that will be the subject of another post. After this initial rant, we will need to get back into the specifics of our unique social market economy.
