Lots of guns out last night, pistols, a rifle, and plenty of strong Arak, a dangerous mix, I took the bullets out when Lukman, the mad Kurd I’m drinking with, started putting the gun to my head. We had a deal; whoever has the gun cannot have the holster that holds the bullets. So I had the holster and he had the gun. I awoke this morning reaching for water to drink the dry Arak morning mouth off and found the silver Colt 45 on the edge of my pillow pointing at my head. Against the wall is the Magnum rifle. Boys and their toys, Syria, like all good dictatorships, feels like the safest place in the world, through fear they keep the lid on life in case it gets out of hand. I look around for the bullet holster and cannot see it anywhere, then I notice that it is firmly lodged back in the gun which is laid there staring at me.
Tag: Arak
Nightcap
“What’s that word again?” Lukman asks as the night draws to a close and the Arak finally makes its appearance, “Nightcap” I tell him. He laughs and pours the final drink of the evening. “Nightcap… I love that word.”
I have been having regular nightcaps with Karen the American woman I’m staying with in Damascus, we sit on her terrace and have a last local aniseed drink in the dusty early hours.
Karen talks easily of a life of travel, her conversation flows seamlessly between subject topic and tale, she pauses only for a puff on her fag and a slug of her Arak. She reminds me of Gina Rowlands the fantastic actress in John Cassavetes films. Sometimes I find it hard to keep up with her comical rants but she does keep me thoroughly entertained.
Her conversation moves from sadness to anger as she recounts tortured tales with ‘The fucking donkey’; a relationship with a local Syrian guy who took her 25k savings. “The bastard stole my money.” “Even his own family has disowned him” she rants… lighting another fag.
It is 3am and the street below is busy, filled with a noisy mix of car horns and people shouting, the dusty warm air helps keep me focused but my eyes start to open and close as the warming Arak takes hold.
Soon my glass is empty and it is time for bed.
Karen continues talking unaware that my eyes are closed. Tonight with the Arak and without her glasses on everything has become a blur.
Park life
So here I am, it has finally happened, I am sitting on a park bench on my own drinking Arak, ‘Down and out in Damascus’. Actually it is very beautiful, the park is off the tourist souk and Straight Street which runs through the heart of the old city and lies between the Christian quarter (hence the ease and openness with drinking alcohol in public) and the astonishing Jewish quarter which lies just behind us.
These days most of the properties in the Jewish quarter are empty – empty, deserted, and abandoned by Jews fleeing to Israel I assume but a local tells me not… “They went to seek their fortune in New York” he says.
Since the ‘smoking ban’ came in the park has become even more popular, here people are free to smoke and drink in public. I watch a mix of young lovers cuddling, some old ladies chatting and looking up at the stars, and a gang of youngsters getting drunk on the super strong 14% beer sold in the local store… I’ve taken to drinking ‘Arak’ – the local booze, a mind blowing 55% proof – it makes you see the world in a different way! The Arak makes me not want to move (unlike most other alcohol which generally has quite the opposite effect), but I must, because tonight I have been invited to an Iraqi wedding.
I am very curious to see the district of Damascus which is home to up to 2 million Iraqi’s who fled their new found ‘freedom and democracy’ in Iraq for safety in Assad’s Syrian ‘dictatorship’. How funny the world really is. But the Arak has taken hold of me and I simply cannot move.
By chance I meet an Iraqi who is also drinking in the park, a well dressed and dignified man who had left Kirkuk in the north of Iraq after the fall of Saddam, “They not only killed our leader but they killed our country” he says, “We had everything under Saddam; as long as you didn’t threaten him you could be free!”
Here this man survives on rent sent from property he still owns in Kirkuk. Fleeing the destruction that followed the fall of Saddam he managed to get his wife and 3 kids to Canada but failed somehow to get there himself. He recounts a bizarre story in which he spent 15,000 dollars on a round-the-world-trip that was supposed to take him from Syria, to Cuba, from Cuba to Mexico, from Mexico over the border to America and from America over the border to Canada.
But, he only got as far as Cuba; he didn’t speak Spanish or English and found himself stranded there for a week unable to move on. Defeated, he returned and now drinks beer and eats nuts in the park waiting for his wife to make the application through a lawyer in Canada. “It is only a matter of time” he says, “but my main aim was to get them there and give them a chance in life”. I sit and watch this man and think to myself that it is indeed a man’s world. There is so much negativity written about the role of men in the Middle East but here is one shining example of a man prepared to sacrifice his lot for the women in his life.
Alas, I do not have his strength, and for now the Iraqi district must wait, I cannot make it to the wedding, the Arak has me completely under its spell and I am unable to move away from this beautiful Damascus park… so I continue to sit with this stranger, listening to his stories, and wondering.
Back to Arabia
It’s the Arab world again; I’m almost there but not quite, I’ve booked a dangerously cheap ticket on an unknown airline, Syrian Arab Airways… I love an adventure and a bargain so what the heck.
I call to pay for the ticket but they don’t accept credit cards ‘cash only’ comes the reply and I fly tomorrow. They will accept a bank-transfer but require the paying-in slip faxed as proof of payment, but I don’t have a fax, I ask if I can scan and email them the paying-in slip but they say they can’t receive emails. I begin to wonder if they have any computers.
This is a slow step back to the Arab world. Fortunately my bank is very understanding, not only did they include my request for a veggie meal but they also faxed the paying-in slip for me. Finally, my ticket is secured, but what about my flight?
Bizarrely… the airline that could not receive any emails – email me my ‘e-ticket’.
The recorded announcement on Syrian Arab Airways says that all flights (just 2 a week) leave from Terminal 2 at Heathrow but, when I arrive I discover that they actually leave from Terminal 4. “That is an old message” I am told by a member of staff.
At check-in I watch a fat Syrian man who is 8 kilos over on his luggage; the airline is trying to make him pay. He is dancing around stroking the face of the manager, he kisses his hand and head, strokes his face and manages to have his fine reduced by 5 kilos. My observations are preparing me for my step-back into Arabia.
At check-in I am told there is no veggie meal, “It takes 4 days to order”. Before booking I’d checked twice to make sure that they served vegetarian food and had a complimentary bar with booze, this was confirmed twice, now I face a flight without any food. Well at least I can have a drink I think to myself… so I go and get a sandwich to take on board.
As I enter the aircraft I ask again, just in case, about the veggie meals, “No worries sir, we have plenty” – I am both confused and delighted by the reply. I make myself comfortable in my broken seat with no front table and a broken foot rest. The plane has a musty old smell to it, with décor to suit. No bright Virgin colours here, or the tight restrictive leather seats, these ones are twice as big and twice as dirty and feel real and comfy.
My veggie meal arrives – it is great. An Asian curry of lentils and salad. Then shock, horror, no booze on the drinks trolley. I ask the Arabic air-hostess for “wine with the meal?” She looks to her boss on the other end of the trolley, he says “Sorry no wine”, but his answer didn’t feel absolute; it was as though he couldn’t quite be bothered…
Then I notice a couple of men chatting whilst another member of crew brings them what looks to me like whisky on the rocks. I stop the man, “Can I get a whisky?” “Sure sir”. A whisky on the rocks arrives covered in a paper towel. Later I make my way into Business class, an area just as tatty as economy class apart from the dirty curtains that divide us. “Is there any wine?” I ask? “Wine… I will need to ask…” the hostess says I need to ask at the back, I tell her the man has already refused me, she takes the phone and makes what looks like a concerted effort to fix this problem and I go back to my seat. A few moments pass and the trolley arrives full of cheap nasty fake soft drinks, I feel a hand coming over my shoulder with a bottle of wine wrapped in paper towel from the man who’d refused me originally. “Would you like ice with it sir?” “Why not” I reply.
This is the Arab world, a place that seems full of rules, but in reality everything is negotiable, you have to navigate your way through it whilst never accepting anything at face value. You will always get to where you’re going but not always in the way you intended. If you are prepared for this then you are ready to hit the Arab world.
The landing of this shabby plane was one of the smoothest I’ve ever experienced. On-time we all disembark leaving London and the ‘free west’ behind us and walking excitedly into Syria, a closed dictatorship and part of George W Bush’s infamous Axis of Evil. My cab takes me to Straight Street, the Christian quarter of old Damascus, where I meet Karen an American woman living and working here and whom I will be staying with. She is with hundreds of others who are all outside and who are all drinking openly in the park, beer, wine, Arak, you name it… Music thumps out from a nearby disco. “Welcome back to Syria” Karen says, offering me a choice of beers from her carry-out bag.
My Arabic wedding
I couldn’t face going out tonight. I was dying for a shit but couldn’t go. I needed time to contemplate on a proper sitting-up toilet not a hole in ground. You can’t read the newspaper squatting… and it is easy (or it is for me) to miss, making things real messy. Plus, as my hummus belly grows I am finding it more and more painful to squat for long periods. So I haven’t “been” today and would rather stay in but Nizam’s uncle has invited us to a rather special wedding party kicking off at midnight!
We enter the flamboyant affair to see a dance floor filled with grown men dancing together. Holding hands kissing hugging, it was a real camp event in the Syrian city of Aleppo.
We’d left Damascus behind. Nizam’s uncle had invited us to a rich man’s wedding. Set around a swimming pool filmed by a multi-camera crew it was a bizarre scene. A child aged 12 was operating the crane over a dance floor where men, and I mean only men, were dancing. “Where are the women?” I asked Nizam’s uncle, “Next door, they party separate to men”. “Why?” I ask, “Isn’t it boring without women?” “No. Men enjoy their own company”. I’ve only just got used to socialising without drink and now I’m not allowed to see women either! This is the ultimate male dominant society.
I looked around the vast room. Men were holding hands hugging kissing, dancing, eating fruit, drinking coke, smoking water-pipes – they seem to be having fun. I was having fun but couldn’t help thinking a few women and a bottle of scotch would spice things up a bit. Nizam confides later that many of the men enjoy each other company in a more intimate way but it must be kept under wraps here. He also mentions that others are probably nipping round the back to drink alcohol. “Let’s join them!” I plead. Nizam adds that his dad used to keep a glass of whiskey or arak under the table at parties until his uncle caught him. He told him he would never sit with him if he ever drank in his presence again. As we are with his uncle tonight we decide that we had better behave.
I watch Nizam’s uncle dance with his son, I think of his wife and daughters doing the same next door. It’s a funny family event when the family is separated based on their sex. It’s strange that homosexuality isn’t tolerated here yet it feels like such a gay society. I watch a butch man take to the centre of the dance floor shaking his worry beads above his head and wriggling his ass as those around him cheer in excitement.
Later, a man walks on to the stage interrupting the band, he greets the guests by name and they in turn push handfuls of cash into his hands. I ask Nizam what is going on,“The money is for him, he keeps it as he is hosting the party”, Nizam says. A water-pipe boy comes running past, “Hey there’s a fight on the dance floor”, I look over and see the groom fighting someone. Nizam’s uncle quickly gets his son out of the way and I see the 12 year old crane operator making a run for it. Nizam is also in the thick of the action trying to pull the groom away, then I see a silver gun swing in the air, I follow Nizam’s gaze and see another gun pushed into the side of someone, is the groom going to kill someone on his wedding night I wonder to myself?
But I’m not hanging round to find out. I make a run for it grabbing Nizam as I go. “Surely having a few women here would prevent this aggression” I say. “No it would make it worse” Nizam jokes as we run for cover.
Not long after I find myself squatting in the toilet, sweating but selfishly relieved, someone could have died tonight but at least the excitement has cured my constipation.