Jacob Resneck’s

BROOKLYN, New York — Capital of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, Amman is just over a three hour drive from Syria’s capital Damascus. Both countries operate and maintain a fleet of comfortable air-conditioned buses that are efficient and inexpensive. Or you can take the train, which is even cheaper. Most Syrians give the train a wide berth. I decided to investigate.
Connecting Jordan in Syria is the Hadjez Railway. A twisted narrow-gauge stretch of track through some pretty unspectacular scenery, the railway was built by the Ottomans more than a hundred years ago as part of a project to connect Istanbul with Mecca. The ‘Sick of Man of Europe’ fell before the project was ever completed, and what track was lain in present-day Saudi Arabia has long been abandoned.
These days there is a twice-weekly service connecting Jordan and Syria’s capital cities. A mere eleven hours’ journey, as soon as I saw my train I knew I’d be treated to a little ‘living history.’
At 6:30 a.m., I took a taxi out to the dusty Khaddam station on the outskirts of Damascus. At the end of the yard sat the train; an archaic Romanian diesel behemoth, idling beside scuttled wooden boxcars deteriorating from rot. The single passenger car had every one of its windows jammed open, not a pane of glass remained. Wooden benches passed for seats, and the WC … we don’t speak of the WC.
A family pulled up to the train in a miniature Japanese minivan, and proceeded to load its contents onto the single flatcar behind the locomotive and the passenger car. Behind the passenger car, three boxcars made up the freight portion were locked securely (I checked). So I shelled out the last of my Syrian money ($4USD) for the journey.
There is no buffet service or water on the train and for that I was grateful. For it was the third day of Ramadan and I didn’t want to be tempted during my fast.
I’d already succumbed to weakness once before; I was invited into a house and served lunch by a Christian family in a small village. There’s no polite way to turn down such hospitality and besides I was hungry. Though I’m not a Muslim, I hoped to show a little more willpower. The past couple days I’d done just fine and was feeling confident. No food, no water, no cigarettes until sundown. I was amazed how many ‘Muslims’ were still smoking. They’d offer me one and I’d say, “La, Ramadan!” and try and make them look ashamed. Some were, others shrugged as if to say, “Hey, I’m an addict – what can I do?”
The Romanian locomotive growled and we set off, bouncing down the track, rolling through the southern industrial slums of Damascus. The children of the neighborhoods all ran out to greet the train, waving and grinning broadly at our passing. When they caught sight of me, a pale westerner with a bandana around his face like a train robber, their excitement
seemed to reach a crescendo. They were courteous enough not to throw rocks. The track was in bad repair and we bounced, jostled, shimmied, and scraped our way south, never exceeding 25 mph.
****
A few hours later, we stopped and a man boarded, shouting at me in emphatic Arabic that I needed to get off the train. I was skeptical, but finally acquiesced. There was a bus parked outside, and he said I needed to board it. Some of the railworkers
were on the bus, so I gave in.
I struck up conversation with a worker, who upon learning of my nationality wanted nothing more than to talk about his favorite bands: The Eagles, Michael Bolton, George Michael, and other Titans of Pop. When I was finally able to steer the conversation to the railroad, it got interesting. He had just returned from a month-long trip to China, to see the new trains the government was buying to replace the old Eastern European engines.
“These trains, they are from Romania,” he explained.
“The factory is– is–” he gestured wildly, “not open,
but–”
“Closed? Shut?” I ventured.
“Yes, shut. So we get no parts. We make them ourselves,” he said, leaning in close to tell me a
secret, “but that’s no good.”
He was excited, he said, because he was about to travel to “Czechoslovakia” for six months for a train driving course.
After about ten miles or so, we hit the next town to meet the train again. Why did they pull me off the train to just put me back on? “It’s better for you — more comfortable,” he said. The few other passengers glowered at me when I reboarded. I couldn’t blame ‘em.
****
Approaching the last town in Syria, I looked out the window and lo and behold there were at least 40 sunburned British trainspotters. Railfans, in American parlance. Or foamers, as freight riders derisively call ‘em. (Their unabashed enthusiasm for all things “train” causes them to salivate Uncontrollably – hence the term “foamer”). We pulled into the depot, and I spotted several 19th century steam engines, which appeared to be in good running order.
I got off the train, greeted by pandemonium of railworkers, passengers, foamers, and curious passersby. There was an open market in full-swing on the edge of the yard, and it was spilling over into depot. We pulled up next to a Jordanian train, which true to the Kingdom’s political alliances, was powered by two General Electric diesel-electric locomotives of ’70s vintage. The trains summarized their respective country’s Cold War stance pretty effectively.
Chatting to the Brits, I learned that they’d chartered the steam engine from Amman to Damascus. They were crawling all over the place, snapping pictures. Even waving me out of the way, so I wouldn’t spoil their shot. Damn foamers. I saw one of them almost get hit by the Romanian engine as it was pulling out, but a good blast of the horn got the guy outta’ the way
at the last minute.
We boarded the Jordanian train, and we were off, doing a healthy 30 mph — quite an improvement. As the afternoon wore on, I was getting pretty hungry and plenty thirsty. At about sundown, we pulled into a small Jordanian city and I was desperate for chow.
Jumping off the train, hoping to find a quick snack somewhere, the railworkers yelled out to me to sit down at a table on the platform. I did and a platter of chicken sautéed in onions, tomatoes, and cumin appeared. A man stuffed bread into our hands, and the meal began. Ramadan being the Holy Month, you’d expect some kind of ceremony for iftar (the breaking of the fast), but people don’t seem to be too bothered with such ritual. A blast of fireworks from the nearby Mosque tells you the sun is down, and you shovel food into your face.
After sweet tea was served to us, we relaxed with our full bellies. A sliver moon hung over the station, darkness falls quickly in the desert. I got a Swiss chocolate bar out of my bag that a Swiss woman had given me the day before and handed out pieces. The Arab Nation has a big sweet tooth (yet most people seem to have all their teeth – unlike some English-speaking countries I’ve lived in), and the chocolate was gone in a second.
After about 30 minutes of rest, we climbed back on the train and rolled towards Amman. Back inside, I was feeling like I knew the rail workers a little better, so I asked the conductor if I could sit in the rear locomotive with him. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, and I nodded yes. We jumped across the coupling and went inside. At crossings, he would blow the whistle and even let me have a go at it. I was cursing because my camera was out of batteries. Whose gonna believe that I got to ride in the unit of a Jordanian train? No one.
***
After a day-and-a-half of Jordanian hospitality with a couple of good friends of mine, I boarded an Airbus and twelve little hours later I was back in God’s country.
I could write about the Evangelical Christian (or Fundies, as we would call Christian fundamentalists growing up) tour group that made up 80 percent of the flight from Amman, and all of their inane nattering, but I’d rather let them speak in their own words:

(all overheard on the flight)

“Where’s Jesse Helms when ya need him?” (reaction to some foreign policy story in the International Herald Tribune)

“… Oh, we didn’t go inside any Mosques [in Jordan] –- after all, we already got ourselves an Islamic Community Center in our town…”

“Oh, I don’t know. It was all pre-paid. Ya know, I like to get as much pre-paid stuff as I possibly can.” (In answer to a question about costs in Jordan)

And on and on and on…

Jaco out

J. Rizla in Amman contributed to this report

DAMASCUS, Syria — While in Aleppo I had the pleasure to meet Syria’s “shadow tourism minister” a 24-year-old university student named Hassan.
While the Syrian government fails to counter the Bush administration’s characterization of a rogue state terrorist training ground and other nonsense, Mr. Hassan spends hours on the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree chat board extolling the virtues of Syrian tourism. I had contacted him a few weeks ago and we arranged to go for a walking tour, gratis, through the ancient city.
He took me up to the citadel, an ancient fortress, and to a medieval lunatic asylum that looked a lot more humane than its modern counterparts. It was adorned with water fountains — not for dunking heads in as I postulated — but because the sound of running water is soothing, he explained.
Later on we went to the university to cruise for chicks. We met his innumerable friends and I got to engage in the Syrian young-person’s favorite past-time of shyly making eyes with females at other tables. Romantically, Syrian youth have to move slowly, with kissing only permitted after you’re engaged, it was explained to me.
****
In the last dispatch, I was extolling the virtues of crossing Syrian streets. While walking along a busy street, Hassan and I were discussing the traffic hazards in the city. Along for the stroll was Bashir, a young Syrian who through disciplined self-elocution lessons, sounds like a broadcaster from BBC World Service when he speaks. Also was soft-spoken Abdul, whose family now lives in Chicago following his father’s release from prison following a 25-year stint as a political prisoner.
Hassan was telling me that in the past year, as many as 10 people have been killed in traffic accidents in his village, about 30 clicks from Aleppo. Just then, we heard the sickening screech of tires and a loud crunch. I swiveled to look as a car was peeling away and saw a man down on the pavement.
I ran over to him, he was writhing in shock, blood fountaining out of his head. He was trying to get up, but his left leg hung at an unnatural angle. I spun around and started to block traffic, while trying to tell the guy not to stay down. I wasn’t sure if it was just his leg or was in his death throes.
Hassan screamed for an ambulance, but when a taxi pulled up, began to lift him into the back.
“Don’t move him!” I cried, “wait for the ambulance!”
“No ambulance!” Hassan yelled, “or maybe one in an hour - no time!”
With the help of a passerby, they loaded the man in the backseat.
“You’re coming with me,” the taxi driver told Hassan. “Otherwise the police will blame me!”
“Follow us in another taxi!” Hassan commanded.
It was the middle of rush hour and it took us 20 minutes to hail another cab. We arrived at the university hospital, where there was the usual throng of grieving relatives orbiting the entrance just like any ER.
We muscled our way through the throng and past the guard. It was a dingy place, but looked sterile enough. Faded wooden paneling from the 1960s reminding me of my high school were the decor. We found Hassan with the man in the radiology room. His head was bandaged and his leg swollen huge, but they’d given him a shot for the pain.
“My leg! I can’t feel my leg! Is it with Allah?” He cried. Hassan explained to him that he’d gotten a local anasthetic. He was puzzled by my presence. I think I was the first person he saw after he got hit.
“I speak little English,” he told me. But his shock made it hard for him to say more. We took turns sitting with him waiting for his family to arrive. I looked at the graffiti over the X-Ray machine.
Manchester United
“U.S.A. Under Attack”
There had been a power failure, while the lights and fans worked, the X-Ray machine was down until further notice. Every few minutes the radiologist would come in and check the machine, but it was still dead.
The man kept muttering in Arabic how thankful he was to me, and I was trying to explain to him that it was Hassan, not me, that had gotten himself soaked in blood lifting him into the taxi.
This police arrived and took a description of the car. I was relieved when they showed me no interest.
His family arrived. The women in long black robes with only their faces showing. His wife/sister/aunt/mother figure saw the bandage on his head and wailed in grief. The doctor explained that his head wound didn’t seem serious and it was only his leg that appeared broken.
We filed out of there. I was thankful of being able to get the Syrian hospital experience in without injuring myself.
Look both ways, people.
****
That evening I traveled with Hassan’s friend Mahmoud to a village about an hour’s drive outside of Aleppo. His family cooked me a lavish meal and we went and smoked argileh (tobacco water pipe - really) on the village’s main street. A crowd of young men joined us. To most of them, I was the first American they’d ever met in the flesh. We discussed everything from small talk to geopolitics and I think it was good for them to have a face (mine) to associate with aggressive US foreign policy.
The next morning, Mahmoud and I got a taxi driver to take us out to the “Dead Cities” which are impressive 7th century ruins from a series of cities that were abandonded after the Crusades. After an hour’s scramble, I got my usual “marble fatigue” and was ready to return.
After hearty goodbyes, I got the bus to Palmyra, some of the most complete Roman ruins. The town funtioned mostly on tourism and it was the first time I encountered aggressive panhandling by five-year-olds in Syria. Marble fatigue soon set in, and I was off to Damascus — the capital.
Standing in line at a food stall near the old city, a well-dressed man struck up conversation with me.
“This food - I don’t know what it is, either.”
The cook was ladeling garbanzo beans into bowls.
“I think it is fool (beans), they’re good,” I said.
The man introduced himself as a gynecologists from Baghdad. He was on his way to Egypt to see about moving his family and practice there since things were so chaotic in Iraq.
“Here - we are friends,” he told me as he treated me to a bowl of hot fool. “But in Iraq - it would be different.” I was catching his drift.
I asked him who he thought was behind all of the suicide bombings that were targeting poor shi’ites. His answer was not untypical — I’d heard it many times from others in the Middle East.
“It is not Iraqis. It is CIA, Mossad, they do this in Iraq. You know about al-Basrah?”
He was referring to the capture of two disguised British soldiers who were allegedly planting explosives. They were arrested by Iraqi police and imprisoned. A British tank barged through the prison walls, freeing them. This sparked days of violent anti-British demonstrations in the city.
I asked him if the US troops left tomorrow - would this be a good thing? An Iraqi lawyer I’d met in Tartus, Syria, had told me that while he hated the occupation, he feared the consequences of a sudden withdrawal.
“Yes, it would be a good thing,” he said matter-of-factly.
Would there be civil war? I asked.
“Look, I am sunna. My father was shi’a. My wife is shi’a. We don’t have these differences, it is the Americans that want to make these differences,” he said.
I told him about the Iraqi lawyer I’d spoken to.
“There are many agents,” he muttered darkly. “They travel around and speak like this, how good the occupation is.” His comments betrayed how little Iraqis trust their fellow countrymen these days.
But what was the purpose of the war? The oil?
“It was not oil,” he said. “Because Saddam gave away oil for free. There are religious people, they want to destroy the dome of the rock in Jerusalem. It’s in the first book of the Bible, the Torah.”
Very few people believe in this kind of nonsense, I said, knowing that that isn’t completely true.
“Maybe,” he said. “But the people in power these days - they do.”
I’d rather think of the whole murderous adventure as a bloody get-richer-quicker scheme, and not a Amargeddonists’ doomsday plot. Because, the latter, I told him, is just too terrifying to consider.

Jaco out