The colorless morning we wrapped surprises under our duvet. It is not hot, Petra! Today we'll try to go to Damascus, Syria, and it is not won.
Indeed, as evidenced by the haunting tunes of the muezzin who for more than an hour, repeating loop that God is great, it's the first day of Eid, no one at the end of Ramadan that we celebrated in Zanzibar, but one that celebrates the testing of Abraham by God (which is great). Upon receipt of the hostel, we were told that the bus would pick us up at 7am with other travelers. Finally, we must wait until the bus station until past 8am, the time the van arrives and fills. The driver, seeing that three quarters of its passengers are foreigners, seeking to take advantage and wants the baggage surcharge. But to us, because we do more! We drive on roads which seem deserted, or maybe it stings a little too nose, I'm aching all the big ride of the day in the sandy ruins. First step: we arrive in Amman, the Jordanian capital. Clinging to the hillsides, the city returns the reflection of a dismal holiday. We need to take a taxi to get to another bus station where buses usually leave for Syria. The place looks abandoned, curtains lowered and traffic cleared. There are some big buses waiting, but nobody around to tell us. It falls on the employees of a transport company, but communication is struck between their basic English and our rudimentary Arabic. As it seems they are trying to bamboozle us, we start eating kebabs (also because we were hungry). 
server, beaming to see us eat our meat rolls, even change the TV channel, to spare us the prayers to the glory of God (which, despite everything, is great). It confirms that today, and for four consecutive days, there will as taxis to take us to Damascus. It bothers us because we had not really planned to spend 35 euros to go to the border. At the same time, we're not going to stay here until the end of Eid. Taxi drivers as we approach the twisted nose when we tell them we do not have Syrian visas. They argue that in a case like ours, the formalities last for hours. One of them finally agreed to take us to the border, where we manage to let us carry out our procedures and find other transportation. We left Amman on the same day, another road perfectly smooth, where signs indicate the direction to take to go to Lebanon or Iraq. We, we follow the arrow that "Syria." On both sides of the road, the scenery does not pay a tear over his fate arid. The driver talks to a third passenger, a small smiling man who turns out to be a customs officer. I think they speak for us, because at times they vote down unnecessarily, forgetting, however, not to point fingers.
At the border, the customs officer will take his position while the driver tells us the wickets where we must fulfill the formalities out of Jordan. The customs officer who stamps our passports ensure that we have tasted specialties meat of his country. We say yes to please him. We cross the no-man's-land by car, the beating heart and sweaty hands, because we're not sure you can get our visas and move on. 
Officially, Syria requires a French national who applies for a visa to France, but we read on forums that it is possible to get at the border. But Sandra and Julian met in episode 1, we were told they had been turned back, despite what we put everything on the account of their visit to Israel, the neighbor hated by the Syrians. Nevertheless we are not 100% sure. The hall where we present our Passport is quiet, there's not much worldwide. The customs officer asked us, wants to know why we do not have visas. Jeremiah explains briefly the situation. It makes us wait. I feel like an oral exam before, to give the false calm exchange, but within, unable to align two coherent ideas. The Customs reminds us, we ask for our occupations. As always, I respond: "Publisher" is the simplest. And as always, replied: "What's that?" Nobody knows this business. Define "I make books" certainly makes my interlocutors puzzled. For Jeremiah, it's easier and clearer: "Professor". Lucky, who returns so easily in a box! In any case, the customs official who comes to call his supervisor sees us as harmless and shows us the window where we can pay our visas, phew! God (You're so great), thank you, we'll go!
While we finalize our procedures, we propose to a man we convey to Damascus, this time for an amount more than reasonable. We accept ... to learn once they arrive in front of his car he wants us to both sit on the passenger seat at the front! I pissed myself, finding it dangerous and uncomfortable, if indeed we can only we actually install two on one seat. Luckily, the three additional passengers are proving to be a friendly family in Pakistan. The father agrees to put forward, with his 6 year old son on her lap. We realize chatting with them while they had already paid the taxi, without being aware that other passengers would make the journey with them. In business, all shots are allowed, as long as you keep smiling, is not it?
The trickster drops us right at the entrance of Damascus, where we have to take taxi from the third day. We arrived tired, feeling have spent too much money, but in the end, we are proud to have achieved what we set out early in the day. To celebrate, we offer a good meal served by pallbearers to smile a bit chilling. Jeremiah revels in sheep's testicles, while I drink a mushroom soup. Rice pudding for dessert! When the note arrived, it could cut off our appetite when we still had: here, they charge prices for paper towels in vinegar and raw vegetables served as input without having been asked (we, naïve from Jordan, we thought it was offered). Finally, it will, during the short time we'll go to Damascus. This will not stop us from other dishes we enjoy elsewhere, unfortunately still used by undertakers. But I will keep a memento of a fabulous soup of sour milk in sheep!
As in Damascus, the lady of the East, she will leave a strange memory. It must be said that during Eid, only a few shops keep open their storefront. For the rest, dead city. No traffic, very few people on the street. And God (which is great) it's cold! We feel we are starting to move north. 
While the tarmac is far from sparkling frost in the morning, but we lost the habit of We bundled up in our fleece to avoid the wind which sneaks sneaky by the neck. We took comfort in the sweet festive pastry with overstock their showcases. One of them has even planted a palm tree by assembling cookies filled with date paste. Fabulous!
We start to rest, because between Petra and the great day of transit, we feel like old punctured footballs after the World Cup. When we go to a cyber cafe to put blogs up to date, Jeremy discovers that blogspot is not accessible. The head of e, which has a trick to bypass the blockage, says that blogs are generally banned in Syria. This is the first time since the beginning of the journey that we are personally confronted with censorship. Ironically the next day, we find a bookstore open, in which the only book used in French is a San Antonio not pitched worms! One wonders how chuckling would react if he learned the bookseller the dirties contained in this book.
For the rest, we walk a little in the old town, now deserted alleys, sometimes crowded with people. We get lost on false as Cap'n Jeremiah always find the North. The strong silent passages we are uncomfortable, both seems quiet unusual. It must also be said that this part of the city seems to collapse on itself slowly, for lack of renovation. Arches support the facades, were prevented from falling walls, some houses lean dangerously. One almost wonders how long the bones of the ageless city will bear its weight. The light only rarely to brighten the shades of gray dominate. This area gives me the impression of a huge rock in which small rodents have dug their burrows and dens, as space is crowded with buildings and structures to support, and supports supports. Whole passages are are covered and the effect of internal streets.
is in the wider streets that focuses animation, with ephemera stores, sellers of sweets and strong-arm strength to experience their machines where you have Send a weight as high as possible on its vertical rails. We feel it's fair, people seem idle. Aimless walkers fun of anything, buy dolls and soft drinks. Sometimes, a procession led by turbaned men. Often, women covered with long black veil that they take with their teeth. Between the abandoned streets and those overflowing with people, we struggle to feel good. Under the porch of the famous Grand Mosque, is the rat race: too many believers want to pray. We renounce the visit.
The fourth and final day of Eid, we decide to continue our journey towards Turkey. Having just missed the 9:30 bus, we wait on a bench, until he arrives 10.30am. The bus station reminds those of Latin America, with their scheduled departures as clocks. 
Eyes are already a bit more elusive, more discreet smiles, we feel we are closer to Europe. People wear outfits more varied, and sometimes their eyes are blue. The bus takes us to trace Latakia on the highway without incident. On television, a Syrian soap opera that chronicles the escapades of a taxi driver. Still, I fall asleep.
The trip takes longer than we expected, and when we reach the town, the light is already Vespers. Yet it is barely 15 hours. But here, the clocks do not care about the rhythm of the sun, which rises yet not so late. Absurdity of modern life! Latakia is to be a great city even uglier than the bus deposited us far from the sea, which anyway seems overwhelmed by the shipyards. So we wanted to spend a quiet evening here, with walk around the Mediterranean, we do not finally packaged. We find no evil half a mobster who pocketed a fat commission to take us away, where parking a bus to Antakya, the first major city after the Turkish border. Much progress.
The journey, once again, is much slower than we had hoped. Passengers talking loudly, some smoke, while the bus windows are sealed. The air conditioning blows cold at first too, then too hot. All with a road and zigue zague which, in a landscape less and less informed. 
Before reaching the border, we stop outside a shop where Turkish passengers are full of huge boxes of biscuits and tea. It's a bit of duty free corner. At the customs, we end up with a group of Polish students in Erasmus they took advantage of Eid to leave Turkey and Syria to visit a bit. Customs officers make sure once again by a battery of questions that we are honest people who never set foot in Israel. It's an obsession! Then, the entry into Turkish territory, waiting for the customs officers who, well warm in their shelter, make us feel with their glasses of steaming tea and a generous box of Turkish delight, buffering our passports, we chat, shuddering with a biologist Lebanese who spent some time at Lyon. Antakya we reach early in the night. The bus station is far from everything, but the keeper of a tavern exchange our tickets last Syrian, indicates a rudimentary hotel located in the station and we prepare grilled sandwiches. The icing on the Turkish Delight, you get to buy bus tickets to Istanbul! It was not won since the end of this long weekend, they showed almost all full. Finally, we have a good mind to tell us too, that God is great!
0 comments:
Post a Comment