Syria: Improvisation and the Kindness of Strangers
By Joel Hanson

Jarred awake by the menacing pre-dawn prayer call, I crawl out of bed in cell 17 of the decrepit Al Khayam Hotel in Homs (two hours north of Damascus) filled with hopeful anticipation. I arrived by bus the evening before in order to strategically position myself for a morning visit to Syria’s most well-preserved 12th-century castle: Crac de Chavaliers. The entire hotel, I discover, resembles a set in a David Fincher film—a fascinating case study in decay and neglect.

Now that I’m awake and shivering in the unheated room, the intrusive morning light exposes the full extent of the damage. Faded grey paint peels from the cement walls, the plastic garbage can in the corner of the room bears the remnants of the previous customer’s esurient nicotine habit, and the squat toilets of the adjacent bathroom reveal unmentionable horrors. Nevertheless, the sheets are clean and the room is a bargain at 300 Syrian pounds (about $6) a night.

A 15-minute taxi ride brings me to the Pullman Bus Station outside of town. A trio of men conducting random baggage searches waves me through the entrance. In the center of the room, another group of men from rival bus companies are fishing for paying customers. I mouth the words “Qalaat Al-Hosn” (Al-Hosn Castle) and one man directs me to a white minivan baking in the sun in the parking lot at the rear of the station. “Tartous, Tartous, Tartous.” Another man hollers the seaside destination to a steady stream of locals rushing past. But it’s an unusually quiet Saturday morning and the fish aren’t biting.

Syrians call these buses “meecro” or “serveese.”  Inside any city in Syria, a passenger can ride one across town for 5 Syrian Pounds (about 10 cents) or less. In between cities an hour or two apart, the price varies from 25 to 50 pounds. Provided you can deal with the vehicle’s cramped interior, don’t mind frequent stops, and aren’t following a rigid itinerary, a “service” is the most reasonable alternative to price gouging taxi drivers. But their timetables are determined by customer interest and vehicle availability. Thus, my wait inside the bus stretches to 70 minutes before it fills to its 10-person capacity and we’re on our way.

Once the driver clears the city limits, he gleefully guns the engine on the open highway, weaving through slower traffic like a man running from the cops or fulfilling a dying wish to be a Formula One race car driver. As he attempts to take the lead in his imaginary race, I notice the habitually brown, parched countryside has turned verdant and mountainous.

It also occurs to me that the sense of freedom many drivers worldwide encounter behind the wheel is more acutely experienced in Syria because it’s one of the few public spaces where no one obeys the rules and transgressions of malleable traffic laws are quickly forgotten.

Fortunately, the parlous voyage lasts only 30 minutes. At a fork in the highway, the driver calls out “Al-Hosn” and dumps me on the side of the road, 10 miles from my destination. “Yamin?” (Right?) I motion with my hand toward the right fork of the road. The driver nods and leaves me in a cloud of dusty roadside gravel.

I march on the left side of the road toward a half dozen men in suits and ties standing outside a black Mercedes. As I approach, I scan an intersecting road behind them for waiting taxis or another “service.”  The men don’t appear to notice me until I’m only a few feet from them.

“Bus?” I ask and one of the men points to a concrete shelter nearby. Across the street, an aging man in a taxi eyes my grey baseball cap and bulging black backpack and offers me a ride to Al-Hosn. “Is there a bus?” I ask, realizing how stupid my question is to a man with a car. “Mafi bus (No bus),” he responds. “Okay. Adish? (How much?)” I ask, unsure if Arabic is necessary. “Miah (100),” he replies as he sits down to rest, light a cigarette, and squint into the sun. I laugh at the inflated fare and wait for my intuition to make the next move. “Just walk,” a voice inside my head assures me. Without hesitating, I pack the plastic bag of clothes I’m carrying into my backpack and resume my march toward Al-Hosn.

I’ve never hitchhiked in my life so I’m undecided about the proper signal. I wave at the first three passing cars while wondering if an extended thumb is a transcultural symbol. Then, I simply extend my hand as though flagging down a taxi in Damascus. A balding man with wispy grey hair immediately pulls his black car to the side of the road and rolls down his window. “Al-Hosn?” I repeat the day’s code word and he motions for me to get in.

We introduce ourselves but, overwhelmed by gratitude, I forget his name immediately. He offers me a thin saucer of dried bread resting on his dashboard. I break off a piece, trying not to get crumbs on his cell phone underneath.

“I’m sorry. My English is very poor,” he replies to my first questions. But his command of the language is good enough for me to discover that he’s a veterinarian returning from a house call and that he lives in a predominantly Christian village about five miles from the Muslim village of Al-Hosn.

The next few minutes pass in silence as my attention shifts to the filmstrip of small town Syrian life passing by the window. Headscarves are absent on the women strolling about on their morning errands, so I know I’m in Christian country.

Religious segregation is the norm in almost every Syrian town so it’s no surprise that smaller rural communities are similarly divided. Once my new middle-aged friend discovers I’m American, he excitedly informs me, “My sons know English. They will go to America this year.” And then after a pause, he extends a polite invitation, “Would you like to come to my house for coffee? My sons can talk with you.”

Five hours of daylight remain and the day’s destination is near. But I eagerly accept his invitation with the inexplicable assurance that this unexpected detour—as similar ones have so many times in the past—will yield something far more intriguing than sightseeing.

We turn off the main road onto a narrow gravel side street. Just before he steps out of the car to open a black iron gate blocking the driveway, he says something that I assume is an attempt at greater intimacy.

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