Al-Hassake
Despite feeling ill, due probably to the new bacteria and the quantity of food I was fed last night, I forced myself to walk around Qamishle, the most interesting area of which was the souq. Apart from this, and all the churches Stephen showed me, there doesn't seem to be much in Qamishle. Or if there is, I didn't see it. So I hung out a fair deal at the internet cafe, where I was surprised to meet two German girls, one of whom had a Syrian mother from this town. I think they were more surprised to see me, though.
Some advice for the lavatorially unadventurous. I have discovered that if avoiding the spartan squat regime is a keen concern, and you don't want to hang out at posh western hotels, check out the internet cafes. Competence with the English langauge is not the only quality of the technologically advanced; their internet cafes have a higher chance than most places of providing thrones. Are they a sign of 'progressiveness' then, amongst the hip and the young I wonder?
As it happens, while in China for three weeks, I worked hard to avoid indigenous toilets and was almost entirely successful. But the following year in India I had no choice but to succumb and conform. As may not surprise some, getting used to them is not that hard. Today in Eastern Turkey and Syria, it bothers me less and less. Still, that doesn't mean I won't jump at a throne if the chance arises. My problem with them has nothing to do with worries about hygiene, or any aversion to the possibly imagined indignity of the position, or the lack of paper, but the particular fact that I'm as unsupple as hell and have legs resenting anything even vaguely gymnastic. Even as a child, it was uncomfortable for me to sit cross- legged in school assembly and I've never been able to touch my toes. In my formerly Buddhist moments, it was painful to meditate in the customary position for more than half and hour and I couldn't get into the lotus position at all.
Anyway, enough of such grubby, yet relevant, subterranean matters. Onto something differently disagreeable. At lunchtime I walked to the bus stop Stephen had pointed out. Hot, ill, generally irritated, I knew that by paying eight dollars (400 Syrian pounds) for an eighty km journey to Al-Hassake I was being ripped off but didn't realise until later by quite how much. I just wanted to get on with it. I wanted to tell myself it was expensive because I was alone in the bus and that the journey was therefore private. But then he picked up other people going the same way and I saw them paying about 1 dollar each, or less. When he bought petrol, presumably filling the tank, he paid 3 dollars (150 S-pounds). Later someone confirmed I'd been overcharged eightfold.
I was annoyed, in fact I was angry for hours afterwards in one of those afternoon ruining ways. It wasn't just the money, although to a degree it was since I've been trying to travel on a budget, considering that I'm not earning but only haemoragging money. I was angry for having been a mug. But also I was angry that he had deliberatly exploited and overcharged me because I am a foreigner; because he thought (correctly in this case) that he could get away with it, given my ignorance of market values. Can it not understandably be thought that such treatment, is not only inhospitable but racist?
Hey, hey, ok, ok, I'll hold my horses. I suppose, on the other hand I can't blame him for trying, given that Syrians earn so little and that what must look like Walking Gold Mines don't come waltzing into dusty Syrian towns everyday. He was not to know I was expecting to pay what the locals do, or that my Mine is humble (questions of relativity aside). Formal economic thought about the free wheeling market would no doubt spring to his defence thus: 'You asked for a price, he offered you one and you were free to turn it down or argue the price down. In fact I did - he wanted 500 S.pounds originally. In addition, it is the responsibility of both sides to be informed about correct market prices.' That's the thing about economic logic. Its impregnability, its inviolability, is as pronounced as its inhumanity.
His punishing me for my ignorance and exploiting the fact of the limited transport alternatives to Hassake, barring taxis, didn't charm me, in any case. I felt I'd been treated as an object - which is precisely how he had treated me..and with a smile on his face, too. Still, I know I can't personally blame him that much. The economic system, of which he and I inescapably form a part, objectifies everything everywhere so what's so different about me and now. Expecting human feelings to enter the dynamic of money is naieve, no doubt. And less loftily, I'm not stupid enough not to realise that many all over the world would also have wanted to 'take me for a ride' in more senses than one.
In Al -Hassake I took a taxi, unripped off, keen to have learnt my lesson, to the church of the Assyrian Orthodox Archbishop, Stephen's friend. Not being in, I tried to find a hotel.
I hadn't expected Syria to be the first place yet where I'd have trouble finding a room. After two failed attempts I finally found a room with the help of a Kurdish taxi driver who made a point of expressing, while smiling, his opinion of Arabs, whom he considers stupid.
As in my previous pad, I got a refrigerator, along with a TV, this time with BBC World! Yet again as in the last place, although I had these luxuries I didn't have a private bathroom - not that I really care about them. Air conditioning is always the only really important thing. Next in importance, because of my length, is the bed, that its long enough and not blocked by anything at the feet end.
Al-Hassake is bigger and more Kurdish than Qamishle, but it also has quite a few churches. Again, with no guide book, no tourist infrastructure, and little on wikipedia about the town, I didn't find much. It had a larger souq, however, where I got my now ripping Urfean trousers sewn up by a very Caucasian looking guy, more accustomed to mending shoes. I also bought another pair of trousers -stylish, dark blue, a little on the long side but comfortable. I needed to because I saw no men wearing shorts and I didn't want to offend anyone unnecessarily. Stephen had said it would be ok, but I still felt, wrongly or rightly, that I would feel awkward if I wore my shorts.
Regarding clothes, all the women I saw, except the Germans, were totally covered, except for their hands and face. A striking act of defiance against the logic of the sun, commendable at least for its resolve. None of the women seemed approachable for a chat, nor did any approach me (except some to beg for money); nor did any smile at me and I got the message, as I'd already gathered from my reading, that Islamic women in the Arabic sphere do not expect to have to interact with random men such as I. Not that I minded though. I was hardly here for the women. In ways moreover it's intriguing to experience the often gentle machismo of the men-only social scene. Perhaps things would be different in Damascus, or further west.
His siesta now over I thought I'd try and visit the Archbishop even though it was now too late to stay. But then, I'd suspected Stephen's idea of the openness of the Church to guests might have been different from the reality. After a short wait, I was ushered into his large study by his assistant. The Archbishop, in long black robes, was wearing a large black egg shaped hat. He was working at his laptop. Welcoming me warmly and motioning me to sit I felt I had to justify my presence, especially since he seemed busy. So I told him about Stephen, whose name he smiled at and was pleased to hear about. I wasn't sure what else to say, realising suddenly I'd come for no reason at all. Luckily, he took the initiative and asked chatty questions about my life and trip. Certainly, a numinous graciousness collected around him. It was impressive how I felt he was giving me his full attention while simultaneously working on his computer and receiving messages from his assistant. Suddenly, an English woman walked in. Like I, she was also 'from' Cambridge, though she was a student, here on her holiday in Al-Hassake to teach Assyrian children English.
Sensing, rightly or wrongly, that I should go, I mentioned as he walked me to the door that my brother is a vicar in The Anglican Church and that my Grandfather was a Bishop. He smiled and said he'd been a guest of Lambeth palace a couple of years ago. Its not everyday you get to exchange Ecclesiastical gossip with an Archbishop, especially in the desert lands of the Middle East.
Some advice for the lavatorially unadventurous. I have discovered that if avoiding the spartan squat regime is a keen concern, and you don't want to hang out at posh western hotels, check out the internet cafes. Competence with the English langauge is not the only quality of the technologically advanced; their internet cafes have a higher chance than most places of providing thrones. Are they a sign of 'progressiveness' then, amongst the hip and the young I wonder?
As it happens, while in China for three weeks, I worked hard to avoid indigenous toilets and was almost entirely successful. But the following year in India I had no choice but to succumb and conform. As may not surprise some, getting used to them is not that hard. Today in Eastern Turkey and Syria, it bothers me less and less. Still, that doesn't mean I won't jump at a throne if the chance arises. My problem with them has nothing to do with worries about hygiene, or any aversion to the possibly imagined indignity of the position, or the lack of paper, but the particular fact that I'm as unsupple as hell and have legs resenting anything even vaguely gymnastic. Even as a child, it was uncomfortable for me to sit cross- legged in school assembly and I've never been able to touch my toes. In my formerly Buddhist moments, it was painful to meditate in the customary position for more than half and hour and I couldn't get into the lotus position at all.
Anyway, enough of such grubby, yet relevant, subterranean matters. Onto something differently disagreeable. At lunchtime I walked to the bus stop Stephen had pointed out. Hot, ill, generally irritated, I knew that by paying eight dollars (400 Syrian pounds) for an eighty km journey to Al-Hassake I was being ripped off but didn't realise until later by quite how much. I just wanted to get on with it. I wanted to tell myself it was expensive because I was alone in the bus and that the journey was therefore private. But then he picked up other people going the same way and I saw them paying about 1 dollar each, or less. When he bought petrol, presumably filling the tank, he paid 3 dollars (150 S-pounds). Later someone confirmed I'd been overcharged eightfold.
I was annoyed, in fact I was angry for hours afterwards in one of those afternoon ruining ways. It wasn't just the money, although to a degree it was since I've been trying to travel on a budget, considering that I'm not earning but only haemoragging money. I was angry for having been a mug. But also I was angry that he had deliberatly exploited and overcharged me because I am a foreigner; because he thought (correctly in this case) that he could get away with it, given my ignorance of market values. Can it not understandably be thought that such treatment, is not only inhospitable but racist?
Hey, hey, ok, ok, I'll hold my horses. I suppose, on the other hand I can't blame him for trying, given that Syrians earn so little and that what must look like Walking Gold Mines don't come waltzing into dusty Syrian towns everyday. He was not to know I was expecting to pay what the locals do, or that my Mine is humble (questions of relativity aside). Formal economic thought about the free wheeling market would no doubt spring to his defence thus: 'You asked for a price, he offered you one and you were free to turn it down or argue the price down. In fact I did - he wanted 500 S.pounds originally. In addition, it is the responsibility of both sides to be informed about correct market prices.' That's the thing about economic logic. Its impregnability, its inviolability, is as pronounced as its inhumanity.
His punishing me for my ignorance and exploiting the fact of the limited transport alternatives to Hassake, barring taxis, didn't charm me, in any case. I felt I'd been treated as an object - which is precisely how he had treated me..and with a smile on his face, too. Still, I know I can't personally blame him that much. The economic system, of which he and I inescapably form a part, objectifies everything everywhere so what's so different about me and now. Expecting human feelings to enter the dynamic of money is naieve, no doubt. And less loftily, I'm not stupid enough not to realise that many all over the world would also have wanted to 'take me for a ride' in more senses than one.
In Al -Hassake I took a taxi, unripped off, keen to have learnt my lesson, to the church of the Assyrian Orthodox Archbishop, Stephen's friend. Not being in, I tried to find a hotel.
I hadn't expected Syria to be the first place yet where I'd have trouble finding a room. After two failed attempts I finally found a room with the help of a Kurdish taxi driver who made a point of expressing, while smiling, his opinion of Arabs, whom he considers stupid.
As in my previous pad, I got a refrigerator, along with a TV, this time with BBC World! Yet again as in the last place, although I had these luxuries I didn't have a private bathroom - not that I really care about them. Air conditioning is always the only really important thing. Next in importance, because of my length, is the bed, that its long enough and not blocked by anything at the feet end.
Al-Hassake is bigger and more Kurdish than Qamishle, but it also has quite a few churches. Again, with no guide book, no tourist infrastructure, and little on wikipedia about the town, I didn't find much. It had a larger souq, however, where I got my now ripping Urfean trousers sewn up by a very Caucasian looking guy, more accustomed to mending shoes. I also bought another pair of trousers -stylish, dark blue, a little on the long side but comfortable. I needed to because I saw no men wearing shorts and I didn't want to offend anyone unnecessarily. Stephen had said it would be ok, but I still felt, wrongly or rightly, that I would feel awkward if I wore my shorts.
Regarding clothes, all the women I saw, except the Germans, were totally covered, except for their hands and face. A striking act of defiance against the logic of the sun, commendable at least for its resolve. None of the women seemed approachable for a chat, nor did any approach me (except some to beg for money); nor did any smile at me and I got the message, as I'd already gathered from my reading, that Islamic women in the Arabic sphere do not expect to have to interact with random men such as I. Not that I minded though. I was hardly here for the women. In ways moreover it's intriguing to experience the often gentle machismo of the men-only social scene. Perhaps things would be different in Damascus, or further west.
His siesta now over I thought I'd try and visit the Archbishop even though it was now too late to stay. But then, I'd suspected Stephen's idea of the openness of the Church to guests might have been different from the reality. After a short wait, I was ushered into his large study by his assistant. The Archbishop, in long black robes, was wearing a large black egg shaped hat. He was working at his laptop. Welcoming me warmly and motioning me to sit I felt I had to justify my presence, especially since he seemed busy. So I told him about Stephen, whose name he smiled at and was pleased to hear about. I wasn't sure what else to say, realising suddenly I'd come for no reason at all. Luckily, he took the initiative and asked chatty questions about my life and trip. Certainly, a numinous graciousness collected around him. It was impressive how I felt he was giving me his full attention while simultaneously working on his computer and receiving messages from his assistant. Suddenly, an English woman walked in. Like I, she was also 'from' Cambridge, though she was a student, here on her holiday in Al-Hassake to teach Assyrian children English.
Sensing, rightly or wrongly, that I should go, I mentioned as he walked me to the door that my brother is a vicar in The Anglican Church and that my Grandfather was a Bishop. He smiled and said he'd been a guest of Lambeth palace a couple of years ago. Its not everyday you get to exchange Ecclesiastical gossip with an Archbishop, especially in the desert lands of the Middle East.
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