My new digs
Trip Start
Feb 22, 2007
1
11
38
Trip End
Jul 19, 2008
Damascus,
Syria
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A definite selling point is the view from the large roof terrace where, on my second night in the house, I watched in unspoilt splendour a total lunar eclipse. From the roof you can see the two faces of Damascus. On one side is the sprawling modernity of the new city where at night the many lights of its buildings spread up in to the nearby mountainside, chasing the horizon as though themselves a constellation of stars. To the other side is the Old City from which the Umayyad Mosque and Citadel rise up and return unflinchingly one's gaze, and at night shine through the hushed darkness like a beacon of history defying the invasion of time.
The house too is well-placed within Damascus.
My new digs 1
I am within a five minute walk of the Umayyad Mosque that marks the very centre of the Old City, and from there I am within a five minute walk of Bab Touma, the Christian Quarter. The house is also within ten minutes walk of the relative modernity of the new city from where everything I may need - university, embassy, hospitals - are within a reasonable walk or a short bus ride. In the house live with me five other people. On my floor is a local Syrian guy (Rami), who has an upsettingly attractive Polish girlfriend; a Czech guy (Alda), who looks for all the world like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons; and a tremulous French girl (Farida) unconfident in her English and a beginner in Arabic. On the floor below live Jake, a gregarious Aussie guy with whom I've quickly become friends (though his pretty-boy looks and sporty physique could become a bane for me when out at bars and clubs!); and Melanie, a cute German girl chasing similar dreams to me upon similar whims.
The colourful landlord, Hossain, also spends much of his time in the house, making improvements to it or simply drinking coffee on the balcony with his friends. I've spent much of my time in their company and they're a nice bunch, and will be a rich source of Arabic conversation practice in the coming months. I hope the house stays as it is - people move from house to house with alarming regularity in Damascus it seems, and I get the impression the other tenants are less enamoured with their rooms than I - because it is a good balance of Western and Syrian, guys and girls.
My new digs 2
I am also in the very alien position of being the most accomplished Arabic speaker among the five Westerners of the house... though it says more about their status as beginners than about mine as an 'intermediate'. My room is on the top floor of the house and looks out on to a large balcony overlooking the open courtyard where a large orange tree grows, the fruit of which I can almost pick fresh from my window. In the mornings I sit out there with a book or my flashcards, a cup of sweet tea in hand, and bask under the warming rays of the early sun. Inside, my room shares the same garish pink as much of the house, but I have covered much of it with my now-inappropriate Yemeni mowez' (man-skirt), which make for elegant wall-hangings. In the corner of the room stands a traditional oil-burning fire; not the prettiest thing and fairly impractical, but full of character. Either side of it are sofas, one of which is of the traditional floor-cushion type that reminds me of the beautiful mafraj rooms of Yemen. In the still-cold evenings (though summer is almost upon this land), I sit on my mafraj sofa and nestle next to the warmth of the fire as its whirling sounds try their best to hypnotise me. In another corner lies my bed, which I'm assured is authentic Ottoman - kinda cool if so.
My room is apparently the king room - it is certainly the biggest and best of the house - and so Hossain started referring to me as the king of the house. Later, despite my protestations, he somehow became convinced I was from Yorkshire, and has subsequently taken to referring to me, mostly when drunk, as the King of Yorkshire. It's kind of ridiculous, but actually I secretly like this inapt title.
This house is by no means a paradise despite my (habitual) efforts to wax lyrical, and perhaps I will move on after my initial two-month rental agreement. It is an abode not suited to everyone, and those whose disposition has them clawing for the comforts and standards of the West whensoever they are parted from them would cringe in its presence. Yet, through time spent in the developing world, I have learnt to silence the neurotic instincts of cleanliness and routine that almost characterise my life in the West, to the extent that I now embrace the uncertainties, the unfamiliarity, and the discomforts of non-Western life until, after the enjoyably unpredictable chaos of the transition subsides, they become my new norm and I thrive in it. The transition period here is still upon me, and, from experience, I have learned to savour it.
