I wrote this story in 2003 after our 8 month round-the-world trip. I edited it a little from the original, but I think it's still pretty good--Nick Hotel Guy: That's so cool!
Nick: C'mon Jenna, just do it—she'll remember you!
Nick: Pleeasse!
The hotel receptionist and I were egging Jenna on, hoping to tap into
the risky areas of her soul and push away her nervousness; to
essentially coax her into doing this. It was hard for her, but think
about it, we would be mingling with some locals instead of that boring
Belgian lady and her mom. Or that crazy British chick and her subdued
Irish boyfriend who talk about their potty problems all the time.
Anyway, it would take our minds off our falafel induced stomach churns
and maybe be a peaceful respite from the heat, which we had yet to
find, even in our near windowless air conditioned room, which
sheltered us from all the culture outside. Please do it, Jenna!
Jenna and I had discussed calling her distant relatives before
arriving in Syria, but it's so much easier to talk about it when
you're 1 month and 1000 miles away from actually performing the deed.
Plus, we had no idea where they lived in Syria, and we didn't even
know these people. Did they know us? Not me, for sure, but Jenna's mom
says that she met Lena when Jenna was a kid, but Jenna doesn't
remember. What kind of relative is this anyway? OK—here goes--Jenna's
brother Scott married a Syrian girl named Lena whose mom is named
Violet whose sister is also called Lena and Lena lives in Syria. Got
that? Kinda like a great aunt in law or something.
I guess I should explain the circumstances of our situation. Syria is
a tough country to travel in—well, it was for us, anyway. We had spent
the last four days in Aleppo, and now Hama, both big cities. The heat,
the dust, the curious stares from every local, and the lack of things
to do that didn't involve old stones was wearing us down. Also, the
huge knot of sickness in the belly—we were on bottled water diets due
to something we ate. Our instinct was to rush through the country, to
get somewhere relaxing and enjoyable, and the thought of achieving
this in Syria didn't seem so easy. So needless to say Jenna was
reluctant to call after receiving an email from her mom in Oregon with
this distant relative Lena's phone number on it. With a hairy eyeball
thrown my direction our brave girl nodded her head at the
receptionist, who dialed the number for her and thrusted the phone
into Jenna's hand. Here ya go! "Hello, Lena?" Silence. Silence. "No,
this is Jenna." Big sigh…she doesn't speak English. The phone is
thrusted back to the receptionist who speaks arabic to Lena for a
minute or two. Hang up. OK, great! Lets look at a map to see where
they live.
Turns out "The Village" that Lena lives in is 50 miles west of Hama,
near a small town called Talk-alakh. Easy, says the receptionist, who
we look at questionably, knowing that nothing is "easy" in Syria. Lena
will be expecting us the next day. Jenna had said 5 words to this
lady, who still doesn't know who we are, and we are invited out to her
place tomorrow. Then Jenna has a brain fart—what if she thinks that I
am Lena, her niece, the closer relative who would actually have more
reason to visit her? "Oh don't worry", I say. I always say that, and
it never once has eased Jenna's mind, so Jenna is back on email,
hoping to have someone ask Violet to call her sister before we arrive,
so as to explain the situation. Well, we've committed to this now. I
can already see that this will be an adventure, because we can only
find Talkalekh(I'll use different spelling for this town because every
map and every sign has a different spelling, so shall I!) on the map
and not this "village". Well, lets just get out there and we'll see
how it goes. It's an adventure before it begins! Here is the plan—we
need to take a bus to Homs (45 mins south), then get a bus to
Talkalekh(another hour or so west) and then we will get another bus to
The Village. No probs, right?
That evening we befriended (for the second night in two days) 
a guy
named Mohammed. He was a friendly, old guy who spoke English very
well. We had pizza (universal food!) with him and he took me for a
classic arabic shave, complete with head massage with the intensity of
a religious ritual. Anyway, the morning of our journey out to "The
Village", Mohammed agreed to show us where the bus station was in
Hama. He led us through the crowded, dusty streets, our packs and the
sun weighing us down with every step. The next scene was a common
occurrence throughout the middle east—you walk in (an obvious tourist)
through the gates of the bus station and at least 10 men
congregate(more like collect like flies) around you and yell "where
you go, where you go" in the loudest voices possible, all in different
pitches and tones. I had learned to take this in stride and yell at
the same volume or louder, our destination—this time "HOMS"!!! "Over
here, over here" one guy would say as he grabbed you or your bags or
both and started to speed-walk off in the direction of a bus. You just
have to trust these guys. This particular bus was a mini-bus. Not a
new mini-bus, mind you, but what they would call a well used mini bus,
or what I would call a little death box. "Nice" I said to Jenna as we
noticed that there were only 3 people in it—plenty of room for us and
our bags. "We no go til full, sir" the driver said. Damn. You gotta
understand that each mini bus is owned privately so they want to cram
as many people in each bus as possible to make the most money
possible. We claim our seats (Jenna against the window and me in the
middle seat) and find room for our bags where our feet should go(no
trunk or storage area or anything like that) and wait until it is
full. A group of 8 or so military kids are standing by the mini bus
and start to get in. There's no way they can all get in, I whispered
to Jenna. But of course they did.
There are around 12 people in a 8 person mini bus at this point and we
take off. Of course, there is no such thing as air con when you pay 20
cents for a 45 minute bus journey, so we open the window. At 11am on
this particular day, according to Jenna's little plastic
thermometer/compass thingy on her pack, it was over 100 degrees
outside and with the window open it felt like a blast furnace. It's so
hot we had to close the window!! In this situation sweat appears in
places you had never sweated before—runs down the legs, down the back
of the head, and down the palms of the hands. The local military kids
seem comfortable and start chatting to us, which took our mind off
things---"you in army in USA?" Stuff like that. Seems they are going
for a 10 day camping trip out in the desert—these guys are hardcore.
We could barely walk down the street during the day, let alone be out
in the desert. Soon after all these kids got off the bus, we arrived
at Homs' bus station, greeted by the usual rag tag group of "helpers",
I guess you would call them. This time I am screaming "TALKALAKH!!"
and the routine of a man grabbing the bags and you and taking you to a
bus is underway. The crazy thing is that you never ever know if you
are on the right bus, you just hope and pray that you are.
This bus was bigger, but just as dingy—a rusted shell that pukes out
all kinds of cough inducing fumes, just like all the others. It was a
small bus still, but at least there was an aisle and baggage holders
above the seats. This would have been great if it were not completely
packed full of people. What a bunch these were—old women completely
covered in black except for the face, young babies, kids, farmers,
city business men, hip young women—quite a cross section. ALL STARING
AT US AND SMILING. We are probably two times the size of these people
and could not find room to step over the bags of flour, suitcases,
and chicken baskets in the aisle. With encouragement from a guy in the
back, who kindly made his wife hold both the kids on her small lap, I
made it over these obstacles, dropped my bag on the sacks of flour,
and crammed my big body into the corner, folding one knee into my
chest as best I could, and wedging my left leg under the guy next to
me's feet. But where's Jenna? Oh there she is, beyond the hurdles I
crossed over, finding respite from a man who let her have his seat. We
give each other looks that say—"this is crazy," or was that "what the
hell have we gotten ourselves into"? I'm not sure. It's funny how we
almost expect to not have to go through this kind of thing because we
aren't used to it, but this is all a learning experience and is part
of their culture, so it almost makes it bearable. Almost, but not
quite.
The bus begins moving now, but we still don't know if we are on the
right bus—we completely trusted that guy who hurried us to this bus.
That handy thermometer/compass thingy on Jenna's pack comes in use
once again—at least we know we are supposed to go west. It seems the
whole bus is wondering what we are doing here—they keep turning around
and smiling, mysteriously whispering to the person next to them, and
laughing. What are they laughing about—do I have that "I am probably
on the wrong bus going somewhere in western Syria that no westerner
has ever been before why are they looking at me like that this is
insane we should have paid the extra $1.50 for a taxi" look on my
face? I must, because for the duration of this bus ride, that's all
that happened. The stereo was blasting the latest in arabic pop and
all I could do was look out the window at the passing countryside. How
was Jenna doing? Her face is out the window too, so she must be
feeling about the same.
Slowly, people trickle out of the bus. It was pretty entertaining,
actually--to signal the driver that you want off, these guys tap coins
against the side paneling and the driver stops. The guy collecting the
money came to me at one point and wanted payment. We were well versed
in this system of feeling like you are paying double as a tourist, and
I actually looked at what the guy in front of me paid, and we probably
paid at least 30 cents more than him. I am such a cheapass. Hey—it's a
principle thing. Everyone is overly polite, even through the language
barrier, so it was hard to complain… like I would anyway.
Although we were indeed going west, we were still unsure if we were on
the right bus, even when we were the last two people on the bus and
the driver looked at us with a grumpy eye as he pulled up to a
fountain -- "Talkhalakh!". Well, he said it's the right place so it
must be—the only thing we saw were some old, broken buildings, some
guys standing around, and a lone convenience store. First things
first—bee line for that store for some water. As I walked in and
purchased the beloved nectar, I couldn't help but feel the eyes of the
locals. What would I think if an arab couple showed up in my small
little town in the middle of America—guess I would be staring too. We
sat on the curb near our bags, sharing the water and slowly we become
surrounded by the locals. "Where you go? Where you go?" they say, and
all I can do is point to this 
little piece of paper that the hotel guy
wrote the town in arabic on. "The Village" I say, and a large, well
dressed business guy pushes through the crowd. "So where are you
going, my friend?" in perfect English!! So we are immediate friends.
We explain where we want to go. This guy finds us a taxi and tells us
how much—"200 Syrian Pounds". The taxi driver looks at us with shiny
large dollar sign sin his eyes—"please please come in my taxi 200
pounds is ten times more than a local would pay but please please ride
in my taxi I need the money". Before we know it we are in this taxi.
Based on the bus rides being 30 syrian pounds, this village better be
far away, I say to myself…what a cheap ass I am. 50 Syrian pounds to a
dollar. 4 bucks in Syria goes a long way usually…this better be a long
ride goddamnnit. Haha As I am stewing over this, we are passing slowly
up some hills through gorgeous countryside in this taxi. Brown, yes,
but hills! And trees! And nice homes! And grapes everywhere!! This was
a Syria we hadn't seen and didn't know existed.
"The Village", which we find to be called Amar, is a collection of
narrow, windy streets on the side of hillside near the crusader castle
Krak De Chevliers. It is so beautiful, we were gobsmacked. It seemed
very European to us, with the quaint little houses, the beautiful
flowers, cobblestone and picturesque setting. Was this Syria still?
Turns out that Amar is quite popular with European travelers, and
based on the choice of the two hotels in town, they must be rich. One 
big Hyatt-like hotel dominates the hillside. One look at that thing,
and even in Syria, we would never be able to afford that. A smaller,
older, whitewashed hotel is down farther on the slope…we'll have to
try that one. This place is deserted. We bid the taxi driver and our
200 pounds goodbye and knock on the door. We are pretty exhausted by
this time and just want to get in a room, so we hardly have enough
energy to barter for the room—450 Pounds. A lot more than we had been
paying (200 pounds) for small, dirty hotels, so we are splurging. And
the lady running the place spoke great English!!! Wonder what she
thought of us standing there at her doorstep in the middle of a
Tuesday afternoon. Upon arrival in our room, we are sitting pretty.
Our room overlooks the pool(a pool!?!?!). We take a well deserved
break and head down to ask the hotel lady if we could borrow her phone
to call Lena. That's why we are here, right? We almost forgot. "Lena
and Khirfon?" She says."Lena is my husbands cousin!" Crazy! Seems
everyone is related in this town. So, graciously, she calls Lena and
explains where we are and they turn up a couple hours later. Luckily,
her sister Violet, in Oregon, had called and explained who we were, so
it wasn't terribly uncomfortable—in fact, we had a great time
visiting.
The next day, after touring through the Crusader castle, we had a
wonderful lunch (feast more like) at Lena's house. She really busted
out—mjudra, humus, falafel, homemade pita bread, chicken, fresh picked
grapes and other fruit, and even Cheer Up, Syria's version of 7-Up.
Even though the language barrier we communicated very well-Lena
understands English OK but can't speak it too well. Even with our
recent stomach troubles we easily wolfed down this delicious grub.
After lunch there just so happened to be a party at the hotel and most
of the whole village was there. It was cool talking with people who
had lived all over—Pennsylvania, Trinidad, and Oregon even. Sure got a
different perspective of how they lived and we realized that they are
people just like us. They were so friendly and accommodating—we really
appreciated it after the effort to get there. They enjoy travelling
and family and were really down to earth and fun—something we needed
to see out of a Syria that up to this point was hard going on us.
Leaving Amar was difficult and easy. Difficult in that we really
wanted to stay longer and easy in that we had the hotel's driver take
us back to Homs, where we hopped on a big air con bus into Damascus.
On the way we stopped at his home and he treated us to some tea and
introduced us to his family and dogs and chickens…a really cool guy
who spoke no English. I hope that I would do the same for someone as
foreign as we were.
It’s official, though, we are parents. We go to parties with non-parents and they think you have been a parent all your life—“you can’t drink”, or, “you have to leave early”, or “what do you do for fun?” Stuff like that. Like we are, and always have been, boring. To others, we seem mature (you have to be to have a baby, right?)—sure, we are aware of the situations we bring Mayzie into, but I can definitely still relate to a non-parent.
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