Friday morning we're supposed to run a mini marathon (4 km) to promote voluntarism in Syria (I imagine they don't know what that means here). Friday with Muslims is equal to our (Lord's) Sunday, while Saturday in Syria is like ours. The very staunch Muslim countries like Libya and the United Arab Emirates, and probably Iran as well, have Thursday and Friday off in order to have enough time for preparations for Friday midday prayer, the most important one in the week. And Friday at eight in the morning we're supposed to run on the streets of Damascus. (Half an hour later the outside temperature is about 7°C.) And after, like two British girls from the English Department enthusiastically promoted, we're going directly to a party, all sweaty and out of breath, where we'll mingle with the locals (they’re searching for promotion victims among them as well). That's probably a good thing also because otherwise it's hard to find locals.
Oops, I went to close the apartment door, since the outside temperature dropped to the room temperature of 14°C and I have to stop warming up the flat through the open door (I manage to raise the temperature inside from ten to fifteen degrees with the heater).
Anyway, I'm still considering whether it's really worth waking up early and sweating over a measly, scanty, shameful four kilometres, especially with these temperatures. The idea reminds me of seventh grade ofgrammar school, when our teacher Željko made us run in the school yard in October at 7.10am. And I don't know what got into the girls that they think going to a party all sweaty is such a swell idea. And it's going to be FRIDAY! The day when I have to drive my horses to the field (they found some nice fields for me)! I'm still thinking about it.
They ask me about global connections here. When uncle al-Asad was still alive, there was no internet and no mobile phones. At that time the more progressive were secretly establishing international data calls and were getting on-line through Jordanian and Lebanese ISPs. Hideously expensive! Then papa Hafez kicked the bucket, the Lord suddenly took him, and in year 2000 his sixth seven-year presidential mandate finished prematurely. When the Lord invited him to his kingdoma couple of years earlier his brothers nearly slaughtered one another to get the succession. But he pulled a good one on them, he stood up and chased them all away. His older son liked to dedicate his time to fast cars too much, so he went to the happy hunting ground as well. That only left his other son, Bashar, Dr. Bashar that was pulled out of the United Kingdom (he studied medicine there). The nation elected him with 97% of votes. The nation is fond of him. Bashar is a good man. Now they have two mobile networks (Syriatel and 94 – I couldn't find a single operator in Europe that had a contract with the latter), and the owner of both is the same man, that also has shares in Syrian Airlines, he's also the Syrian representative of TunisAir and Royal Jordanian, but apparently what comes to the public is actually the smaller part of the whole story. They also have a provider of internet services. There's quite enough of cyber cafés here now and the mobile phone industry is flourishing: housings, shining diodes, favourite melodies, butterflies,wallpapers, the newest phones with polyphonic ringtones and colour screens... Why are you laughing, are things any different back home??!!
And if you want to be cool you have to have the silhouette of the president on the rear window of your car, one with sunglasses, apparently it helps when you're cutting into the other column. It says: “if you don't let me pass, watch it, I've got connections.” I suggest we start sticking pictures of mastiffs, like our President’s, on the boot.
People ask what there is to eat here. Today I'll stick to a Syrian specialty, shawarma. Let me describe it for you: The thing is pretty similar to the Turkish Döner Kebab (translation: rotating food) or the Greek gyros. They spread mayonnaise on round, unleavened Arabian bread, put some pickled gherkins on top, and on top of that pieces of meat, mostly chicken, from the roundabout. It's all together rolled up and then grilled some more and after that they wrap it up tightly in paper and serve it. Yummy! Of course, you don't get pork here but despite the Muslim commandments alcohol is widely accessible, but not abused. Only in Ramadan, the month of fast, access to alcohol is subject to certain restrictions.
In search of gourmet photo material I had to take photos from all visual angles of a month-old white Mercedes C 230, 1998, automatic full option, 67000 km, belonging to Ismail, the owner of a perfume store in the next street. He paid 15500 USD in Lebanon for it. Tomorrow I'll stop by at his place with a cable so we'll download the pictures to his Toshiba. And the man even speaks literary Arabic! Excellent!
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