Whirlwind Trip: Part Two

~ At the border between Lebanon and Damascus we disembarked from our minivan (the first I've seen in the Middle East), left it parked haphazardly in what I suppose you'd call a parking lot - though not one single car or truck was lined up parallel to another. I was baffled how we'd ever get out again.

We walked up the steps to the government building to deal with the exit officials and came upon a sea of people all crammed up against booths where bored-looking security guys sat and processed the passports as slow as they could manage.

When we found the foreigners' booth we discovered the crowds were actually separated by gate-type things you'd find in the lines to rides at Canada's Wonderland. It was amazing to find some form of order!

Our excitement was short lived. People budded in with their friends and for whatever reason the guy doing our line disappeared and the 15 of us were left wondering if we should continue to wait or jump into another line? The line beside us was moving, but we weren't getting anywhere.

Our driver came over to check on us and when he discovered we weren't moving and our security desk guy had left he gestured to the second line and yelled, "Go up to the front!"

We looked at the two guys in line ahead of us with sympathy and fought our Canadian urge to stick to queue ettiquette and squished past them to the front where we stuck our passports in the face of the second security guy, ignoring the protests of the men behind us.

Miraculously, and not very fairly, the guy looked up, saw us two women standing there, looked at our passports and threw the one he had in his hand back to the man waiting in line and took ours instead.

"You are Canadians? Welcome," he said and went to work processing our exit papers, ignoring the indignant huff of the man who just had his passport tossed back.

I thought for sure we'd get beat up by the angry mob behind us as soon as we got into the parking lot. I was scared to turn around. But I bet we had just done every line-hating Arab proud! We ignored that queue just like the best of them.

~ Driving through Syria to Damascus was like being back in Jordan. The rolling hills had become sparse of trees and rock and sand once again dominated the landscape. Buildings and houses were back to the square, white stone architecture and I said goodbye to the intricate European-inspired designs we had just left behind in Beirut.

~ We were told not to talk politics anywhere in public in Syria. We were assured the Syrians were not as happy to discuss world and regional issues with foreigners, unlike their Lebanese counterparts.

~ We spent most of our time exploring the Old City, or getting lost on purpose, I should say. Regardless of any map you may have or intentions to stick to a route, it's impossible to know where you're going once you're inside those Roman walls. The narrow cobblestoned streets twist and curve and lead you in all directions until you start to feel like you're inside some giant labyrinth. It was a bit of a thrill to not know what you'd find around the next corner and whether you'd ever find your way out again!

~ Interestingly enough, excavations in the city have shown that Damascus was inhabited as early 8,000 or 10,000 BC causing many to believe it is the oldest inhabited city in the world.

~ At the Ummayad Mosque we were required to take off our shoes and don giant tan-coloured cloaks and hoods, even though our arms and legs were already covered and we had brought our own head coverings. Nope, it's the stinky oversized cloak for the foreigners!

We laughed at how much we resembled Jedi Knights from Star Wars and I had the brilliant idea of posing for a photograph while pretending to hold a light sabre in my hand. Later on I did a little photoshop magic and we ended up looking like pretty authentic Star Wars characters, light sabre and all! I'm refraining from posting the image though, so as to not offend anyone (you know - Star Wars in a mosque?). If you want to see the photo - email me.

The grand mosque was beautiful and is apparently one of the largest and oldest in the world. Inside there's a shrine that is said to house the head of John the Baptist, who was honoured by both Muslims and Christians. People would walk up to it, kiss their hand and touch the glass around what looked like a giant tomb. I couldn't help but wonder if there really was a head in there? Can't someone just check? Do an X-ray? It was an impressive shrine, nontheless. Head or no head.

~ By the time we were in Damascus we had learned how to order food at Arabic restaurants and how to eat it. Order lots of different mezzeh (like fattoush, tabouleh and dips) and then pick a couple of main dishes to share. Pick food up with your hands. Dip your pita right into the bowl of hummus or mutabbal - don't spoon it onto your plate.

But because we had been used to eating out with other people we didn't realize we would still get the same huge portions and have tons of leftovers and be stuffed to the brim. In Damascus though, things were so cheap that even the largest feast was pleasantly affordable. Wish it were like that everywhere!

~ Getting back to Amman was a chore. We were jostled around at the Damascus bus station and taxi centre where, after we got out of our hotel cab, some Trailer Park Boys Bubbles look-a-like asked us if we were headed to Amman, grabbed our luggage and began hurrying off with it at an alarming pace. We had to jog to keep up.

Turned out he was just helping us get to the Amman taxis, but of course requested a tip for his services.

Once at the taxis we were immediately swarmed by drivers trying to get our business. One security guard came over and told me he needed to see in my suitcase. What for? I wondered... we're leaving the country. It's the Jordanian security guys that should care what's in my bags, not you!

So I started to flip the lock but then a young driver decided he was claiming us as his fare and snatched my luggage out of my hands before I could barely do the lock up again! The security guard waved me away, apparently no longer concerned about my luggage.

Next thing I knew, our bags were in the trunk of a huge boat of a car (Cheryl turned to me and said "Dukes of Hazzard, here we come!") and the driver was walking away into a building with our passports in his hand. Desperate not to lose track of the precious documents, Cheryl sped off after him while I watched our belongings.

Once we assured he was not making illegal copies for all his cousins, we were on our way with two women and a man in the back seat and poor Cheryl squished between me and the driver in the front - with no back rest to lean on.

We stopped about four different times at different buildings once we reached the border. They had to search the car and search our luggage. We had to go through customs. We had to get our exit and entry stamps. They had to check our visas.

The whole business took us an extra hour and a half - the end of which all of us passengers ended up waiting around in a parking lot while our driver dealt with some customs agents for a good 45 minutes. When he didn't come back after half an hour I said perhaps he had been thrown in jail.

We did see him talking with a friend at the Duty Free who was stuffing cigarette packs into his socks. I'm sure it's happened.

Finally we cruised through the last check point and the last security official leafed through our passports. He bent down to peer into the car and looked from the photos to us girls sitting in the front seat.

"Grassy? Shirley? Welcome to Jordan."

It was good to be back.