The Road From Damascus

I leave Al Rabie Hotel bound for the bus station, hoping that with the help of the few Arabic phrases I have scrawled in my exercise book, I will arrive safely at the Riad Hotel in Hama sometime before midday. The sky has clouded over in the night, and the gorgeous light that had bathed the ancient city on my second night in Damascus, is now obscured by the thick cover.

'Mahattat al Baas' I say to the man who brandishes his keys at me when I reach the end of the alley way. He wants 150SP and I say, 'Miyya', firmly, to which he agrees. Its 50SP less than he asked, and probably still 50SP more than it should be, but I am happy to have walked straight into a ride, rather than having to stand by the side of the road with my cumbersome luggage, looking like fresh tourist meat, which wouldn't be too far from the truth.

I throw my gear in the back seat and jump in with it.

'Where you going?' asks my driver, and I reply, 'Hama'.

'Why not take taxi? More comfortable. Radio, talking. Murfi Mushkil. Baas, Mushkil'.'

I'm less concerned about the 'mushkil' (problems) I might encounter on the bus, whose trajectory and destination will be clearly (well, in arabic at any rate) stated on the ticket, and starting to worry about my choice of taxi driver. He's friendly enough, but I'm getting an odd vibe. Concern really sets in when he pulls up on the side of the road and opens the front passenger door saying emphatically, 'Here, you sit here'.

I'm not even thinking when I jump out and relocate up front. He's stopped in the middle of a busy highway and I just want him to keep driving. The sooner I get to the station, the better.

'Attakalim Arabie?' he asks me, and I reply, 'Shway, shway.' A little is generous in describing my proficiency in his language.

The driver proceeds to give me a language lesson, which consists of him pointing at parts of his body (and later mine) and getting me to repeat the words. It's all in good fun, and I'm not too bothered by his poking at my thigh and shoulder but when he starts pointing at his crotch, telling me the arabic word and asking me to say it in English I've had enough.

'Mahattat al Baas'. I repeat, but the driver isn't convinced and tries to bargain with me.

'I drive you to Hama, comfortable, taxi, murfi mushkil, 4000SP'

'La' I reply, over and over as the price lowers and lowers going even below what I will be paying for the bus, but he isn't convincing me. There's no way I want to stay in this cab any longer than is necessary.

'Wayn al Mahattat al Baas?', I say. 'Dimishq, Mahattat al Baas 7 kilometer!'. I want him to know that I'm no fool, and that I can see from his tachometer that we must have passed the station by now.

He continues to argue with me, and I keep repeating my few Arabic sentences.

Eventually, he finds a place to do a U-Turn and I am relieved. We must now be headed for the station.

A few minutes later he pulls up. There are a few buses parked in the dust, but I'm not completely sure this is the right place.

'Wayn il Maqutab Tazakar?' I ask, and he corrects the emphasis on the word for 'ticket, gesturing to the right of the cab.

I figure I'll take my chances so I hand over a 100 pound note, grab my gear and wave good bye to show there are no hard feelings.

Finally, I'm on my way.