As this is the last day in Syria before I come home for Christmas I thought it would be fun to compile a list of the top 10 western indulgences which I’ve particularly missed over the last 3 months:
1 - Broadband. Definitely number one. Not being able to look up the national anthem of Paraguay at 3 o’clock in the morning has had a severely detrimental effect upon my general well-being. Alongside the lack of internet shopping and the inability to download anything.
2 - Facebook
3 - Free press and lack of governmental censorship
4 - Microwave
5 - Central heating
6 - Ability to flush loo paper
7 - Fresh semi-skimmed milk
8 - Sheets
9 - Opening hours
10 - Functional washing machine
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Is it really Christmas?
In England Christmas seems to start in October. Decorations go up; carols and cheesy Christmas pop songs are piped through supermarket PA systems. In muslim countries, for obvious reasons, Christmas preparations are far less invasive, almost to the extent of passing by unnoticed.
The other day, when we were walking about the old city, browsing the Aladdin’s caves which line Straight Street when, all of a sudden, I felt distinctly christmasy for no apparent reason at all. Apart from being wrapped snugly in scarves and coats against the bitter cold and the rather Dickensian orange glow of the street lights, there was little else to explain why the tune to 'Silent Night' was stuck in my head.
It turned out that we had ambled to within a few metres of the Christian quarter and that the medley of carols being played over a loudspeaker and rather familiar 'ho ho ho' emanating from a bearded gentleman standing on the side of the street was all part of the Christmas celebrations of a French Franciscan Convent. Not entirely expected, in a city where walks are usually serenaded by birdsong from a forest of minarets, but very welcome none the less!
The other day, when we were walking about the old city, browsing the Aladdin’s caves which line Straight Street when, all of a sudden, I felt distinctly christmasy for no apparent reason at all. Apart from being wrapped snugly in scarves and coats against the bitter cold and the rather Dickensian orange glow of the street lights, there was little else to explain why the tune to 'Silent Night' was stuck in my head.
It turned out that we had ambled to within a few metres of the Christian quarter and that the medley of carols being played over a loudspeaker and rather familiar 'ho ho ho' emanating from a bearded gentleman standing on the side of the street was all part of the Christmas celebrations of a French Franciscan Convent. Not entirely expected, in a city where walks are usually serenaded by birdsong from a forest of minarets, but very welcome none the less!
Saturday, 17 November 2007
Finding the club [part 1]
Last night I managed to build up the courage to attend the judo club which had been located for me by a Syrian friend. I left an hour early to give me sufficient time to try and find the it, get lost and then find a taxi. I found it 30 mins later, pretty much as I had remembered having scouted the area the previous week - tucked behind an industrial hub, void of any light, behind the breeze block walls of a run down sports club.
I passed through the gate and crossed the wasteland-cum-car-park between the street and the equally menacing concrete shack on which was written the name and function of the club in arabic (it crossed my mind at that point that I might still be able to use the language barrier as a get out clause). The lights were on inside and I could see, as I approached, a crowd of arab men lined up against one of the walls, dressed in white. This was definitely it, so I couldn't use 'no-one there' as an excuse either. I got to the steel door, looked down at the floor and took a deep breath while I tried to compose myself and put on my confident face.
The door opened.
They had evidently seen me coming and before I had even had time to take off my look of sheer terror I was ushered into the single room along whose rear wall were a thousand and one faces, staring back at me. I approached the coach - the only one not dressed in a white judo-gi, but royal blue - and said my well rehearsed lines of colloquial arabic: "Biddi afa'al judo" - I want to do judo. This was followed, predictably, by a completely unintelligible reply the duration of which I endured with blank expression, hoping to be struck down or swallowed up - i wasn't too fussed which.
The coach, who it turned out didn't speak a word of English, tried again and with the help of an interlocutor, who turned the coach's rapid dialect into something slightly more user-friendly, I found myself in a cubbyhole getting changed into my kit to the white noise of about thirty people of varying ages whispering among themselves while the session paused to wait for me. Standing in the small space under some stairs I went into autopilot: unpack gi, take off clothes, fold clothes, put in bag, unfold gi, trousers on, jacket on, belt tight.
With everything as it should be, I went back round the corner. The frenzied whispers were suddenly muted.
To be continued...
I passed through the gate and crossed the wasteland-cum-car-park between the street and the equally menacing concrete shack on which was written the name and function of the club in arabic (it crossed my mind at that point that I might still be able to use the language barrier as a get out clause). The lights were on inside and I could see, as I approached, a crowd of arab men lined up against one of the walls, dressed in white. This was definitely it, so I couldn't use 'no-one there' as an excuse either. I got to the steel door, looked down at the floor and took a deep breath while I tried to compose myself and put on my confident face.
The door opened.
They had evidently seen me coming and before I had even had time to take off my look of sheer terror I was ushered into the single room along whose rear wall were a thousand and one faces, staring back at me. I approached the coach - the only one not dressed in a white judo-gi, but royal blue - and said my well rehearsed lines of colloquial arabic: "Biddi afa'al judo" - I want to do judo. This was followed, predictably, by a completely unintelligible reply the duration of which I endured with blank expression, hoping to be struck down or swallowed up - i wasn't too fussed which.
The coach, who it turned out didn't speak a word of English, tried again and with the help of an interlocutor, who turned the coach's rapid dialect into something slightly more user-friendly, I found myself in a cubbyhole getting changed into my kit to the white noise of about thirty people of varying ages whispering among themselves while the session paused to wait for me. Standing in the small space under some stairs I went into autopilot: unpack gi, take off clothes, fold clothes, put in bag, unfold gi, trousers on, jacket on, belt tight.
With everything as it should be, I went back round the corner. The frenzied whispers were suddenly muted.
To be continued...
Monday, 27 August 2007
I know it's a cliché
"What's it like in Damascus?!" we all asked, excitedly, having just been given a list of possible destinations for our year abroad.
"Oh, God, look on the internet... there are absolutely thousands of blogs" replied my Arabic teacher, rolling her eyes and looking somewhat exasperated at having been reminded of the thousands of pages of Google results which the computer spews forth, turning her once organised desktop into a landfill site, every time she searches, on behalf of her students, those three little words - 'living in damascus'.
Yet the Oxford approach to the ominously titled 'year abroad', especially for the quirkier languages (Arabic being one of them), seems to differ somewhat from those experiences which have been so helpfully chronicled in the blogosphere.
It is this 'drop them in at the deep-end and see who can swim' attitude which I hope to capture, in all it's watery glory, if not for the benefit of some poor soul in the next century suffering under similar circumstances, then for my own, so that I can come back at the end of my time and see how far I've come.
Assuming I've not drowned, that is.
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