May 11, 2004Hammam hammam (doo doo doo doo doo)I'm taking things more slowly these past two days. Yesterday, I took a day trip to Bosra to visit the Roman ampitheatre and citadel built around it. Arriving at the bus station I had just missed a bus to Bosra, and so had to take a bus first to Deraa. From there I transferred to a minivan that took me to the door of the citadel. The temperatures had topped 100 degrees F, and a hot wind was blowing across the plains. Inside the rock walls of the castle, however, it was cool.I walked around the interiors of the building and then climbed a set of stairs up to walk the walls. Turning a corner and walking through a small arch I emerged atop an awesome 15,000 seat ampitheater. The theatre at Bosra is a rarity in and of itself, for the fact that it is one of the few free-standing Roman ampitheatres. It is immense. From the top rows I looked down at the tiny children who were playing on the procenium. I then walked down through the rows upon rows of seats to look back up at the rows that seemed to stretch on forever. From the citadel, I wandered to the edge of the old town, but the day being so hot and dry I decided to flag down the next minivan to Deraa to make my way back. At Deraa I had just missed an air-con bus back to Damascus, and was put on a local bus that waited another half hour before departing. As it chugged along the highway, picking up and dropping off passengers along the way I fell asleep. Some 50 kilometers from the city, the bus stopped and the conductor had the remaining passengers transfer to a minivan parked by the side of the road. Once in Damascus, the van stopped at a station. "Baramke?" I asked. A man said no, and then told me to wait. He stepped out into the street and waved down a passing minivan and put me on it. I thanked him and soon arrived at the main southern terminal in Damascus. This morning I slept late. After a light breakfast at the hotel, I made my way to the Hammam Nureddin in the heart of the old quarter. Known as one of the finest baths in Damascus, I was prepared to be pampered. After surrendering my valuables to the front desk and my clothes to man standing atop a raised sitting area, I was dressed in a towel and sent into the baths. An attendant gave me a bar of soap and a scrub, placing the price tag of the sticker on my chest. He pointed to the sticker and waved his finger back and forth in front of me. I told him I wouldn't take it off; he smiled. Then he directed me to the steam room. I sat sweating in the steam room for some minutes, timing myself by watching the other patrons. The marble floors were warm, and soon I made my way into the smaller hotter room where the steam originates. It was wonderful breathing the humid air after the past few hot dry days in the desert. From there I went back to the cool room where the attendant took off the sticker on my chest and told me to wait. A man waiting with me asked where I was from. After I told him I was Chinese he told me he was Iraqi. He now lives in Canada, after emigrating in 1991. I asked him why he left, and he replied, "Saddam. It's a good question," he said. "And a good answer," was my response. He now imports cars to Iraq. He's currently on a business trip where he plans to visit his family in Najaf. He tells me his immediate family is in Canada, and when I ask him about his wife, he tells me they met in Canada, but that she is an Iraqi. "It's the culture," he tells me. He wanted to marry someone the same culture, and I told him I understood. He asked me, and I said that even though I live in America I would be more predisposed to marry someone Asian, at least, if not Chinese. I ask him if his children had ever visited Iraq and he said they had a few years back. Did they like it? "It was hot," he said. "They didn't like it." I ask him if he will move his parents to Canada and he shrugs. "It depends on how things go," he tells me. "If things get better." Soon the attendant returned and directed me to a smaller room where a man scrubbed and bathed me. He slapped my stomach to let me know when to turn over and dragged me by the legs when he wanted to reposition me. From there it was to the massage room where a large man rubbed me down with hot water and oils. Then it was back into the steam room with my soap and scrub to wash a final time. An hour or so after I had first entered the steam bath I was back in the main vaulted sitting area. The attendant asked if I wanted tea. He draped me in towels, tieing one around my head and placing another over my legs after I had sat. A waiter brought tea and a glass of water. I sat and enjoyed the surroundings. An Arabic tape played off in a corner. Other people sat draped in towels around the room. A Palestinian man asked me where I was from. We chatted about our jobs and about America. He had emigrated to California but then returned. He didn't like the states. "It was okay," he said. "Too big." I said it was difficult if one didn't have a community, and he agreed. "A community!" He lives now in a smaller town in the West Bank where he works as a computer engineer. He is in Damascus on vacation, but he tells me he feels that once you've seen one of these cities you've seen them all. To a certain extent, he's right, but I feel each still has things to offer. He tells me that they don't have places like this hammam in the West Bank, and he seems to savour the moment. Then he tells me a joke: In Arabic, the words for "What for?" are ming xing xu, he tells me. So an Arab man and a Chinese man are sitting waiting for a bus and the Arabic man turns to the Chinese man and asks him his name. "Ming Xing Xu," the Chinese man tells him. "What for?" the Arab man replies. "I just want to know your name!" When he leaves he wishes me a good trip. I wish him likewise and relish the moments after my steam bath and massage. I towel myself off and change. At the cashier, a man pours me a shot of coffee, and another rings me up. The entire experience has cost me just under six dollars. When I emerge back into the covered souk, I feel a changed man. The Palestinian man had told me of a khan being renovated just two doors down. "It's through a small door; they'll let you in to look," and after searching for a little while I find the Khan As'sad Pacha. The building is pristine. A stage and lights are set up and I wonder what event is being hosted there. The striped designs are sharp, and the open space let me admire the architecture free from wares lining what might otherwise be shops. It's an impressive building, an immense space. Fresh from my relaxing late morning, I linger in the khan. I am practically alone, and the stone feels cool after the hot baths. I am going to miss Damascus. Posted by eku at May 11, 2004 1:33 PM | ||||