The Kindness of Strangers

Syria
By Colleen Friesen

The women are languid. The steaming marble baths are filled with the sweet scent of lilies and the amber glow of candles. I walk past the bathers, past the foggy glass walls, looking, hoping, for the next empty bath. Finally I am led to the last room. I slide back the clouded glass door and there is the tub.

It is chipped, cracked and filled with rocks and sand.

I wake up. And I remember. I’m on an iron cot in the middle of the Syrian desert. There have been no baths and there will be no baths. There are goats. And there is certainly no shortage of sheep. There are even rather Biblical looking shepherds.

But there are definitely no tubs to be found. We have been traveling on an open truck with nineteen others for just over a month and all I long for is to sink into the glory of deep hot water. The novelty of using an Evian water bottle and a washcloth while hunched behind a not-quite-large-enough rock has long ago lost its appeal.

London-based tour operator Encounter Overland billed this trip as a great adventure. Nine and a half weeks traveling from London to Cairo. Our big orange truck left London at the end of a blustery-cold March and roared across Europe in just over a week. We spent two wonderful weeks traveling down the coast of Turkey, exploring ruins and beaches and overwhelmed by the scent of orange blossoms and fields of crimson poppies.

Bedouins after teaching Colleen how to wear her scarf

It is now nearing the end of April and somewhere in that endless expanse of sand, we crossed the border and arrived in Syria. Syria – the word conjures a vague dread in my gut. What do I really know about Syria for heaven’s sakes? Aren’t the Syrians terrorists? Or at the very least, don’t they hate Westerners? The dream of last night is forgotten, blasted from my brain along with the endless noise and mayhem as we drive closer to Aleppo. The women are unknowable in their head-to-toe black drapings. The men sport red-and-white checked headcloths a lá Yasser Arafat. I feel like I’ve somehow tumbled headfirst into a National Geographic centerfold. Turkey was a huge contrast to Europe but this scene makes Turkey look positively European.

We enter the city. People begin yelling at us as we arrive in our conspicuous truck. Through the headache of horns, we finally understand what they are saying: “Welcome, Syria!” They smile and speak the only English most of them know. We have arrived in a land of gracious hospitality. The people we meet can’t welcome us enough. Everything I had imagined about the Middle East was wrong.
A few of us wander about trying to find a post office. We hold our little Arabic phrase books firmly in hand and I’m sure look as hopelessly lost as we truly are. We stop a man and show him the Arabic line that makes sense of what our mangled attempts at the language can not. “Aeynae akrab maektaeb baerid?”

“Aeywae,” he nods affirmatively, motioning us to follow.

We walk in a direction that we are all quite sure is taking us away from the post office. He stops beside a car that appears abandoned. It is covered in a faded automobile blanket. He gently removes the cloth, folds it in neat squares and ushers all four of us into the car. We drive for about 10 minutes over ruined roads. He smiles and nods. We smile and nod. The car stops. We are in front of the post office. Money is refused. Each hand is shaken and he is gone.

Later, in Damascus, a different group of us is lost yet again. This time we are looking for the museum. It has taken so long. It’s hot and we decide we need lunch. We approach a traffic cop directing traffic and point to the Arabic phrase, “Aenae gae aen.” This is after all, a rather pocket-sized phrase book and the best we can come up with is a rather limited sentence, saying, “I’m hungry.” His smile nearly splits his face as he answers with carefully enunciated syllables, “Would you like pizza?” He leaves his post and guides us to a painted plywood sign proclaiming “American-style Pizza.” To all our offers, Rashid’s replies and smiles are consistent. “No thank you. I am not hungry. No I don’t need anything to drink. Let me help you order.” He scrutinizes the bill when it comes, ensuring we’ve been charged correctly. He’s happy. And now it’s time to walk us to the museum.

The next morning we are leaving our compound, which has rather generously been called a campground. It is a beaten semi-grassy area with high walls and showers that work intermittently and where it is prudent to keep your sandals on while washing. We are looking for a bus or taxi to take us to the center of Damascus. There are seven of us and no bus in sight. A battered Toyota pick-up stops. The driver is smiling and waving. We point to the words for “city center.” Another driver stops. The first driver talks excitedly to him. We are motioned to wedge ourselves into available spaces. Loud Arabic is exchanged at every stop-light, and in between lights they veer perilously close through the heavy traffic with more excited exchanges. Once again, our money is viewed as an intrusion and is waved away. Bowing nods and handshakes are enough. We are deposited in the exact center of Damascus.

I have never been to a more hospitable land and I certainly have never met so many kind people in one place. Like the brochure promised, we truly had a grand adventure. I just wish I could have had a bath.