Syria vs. Iran: Axis of Evil Showdown


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Middle East » Syria » South » Damascus
June 14th 2008
Published: June 19th 2008
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A few things about Damascus:
- Images of their fearless leader, Bashar al-Assad, everywhere. When I pick up a pistachio croissant in the morning, he’s looking far off into the distance in a bold striped suit. When I walk through the souqs, he’s smiling down at me in a top hat. When I go to the bathroom, he’s got his arms around other militant leaders.
- Everybody is smoking sheesha, seemingly more so than in Turkey. People sitting at cafes, smoking sheesha. Old men watching the football, smoking sheesha. Old women in leopard print burkas, smoking sheesha. Bored on a Tuesday? Smoking sheesha. Everybody. I wonder how many long distance runners Syria produces. I wonder if kissing a sheesha smoker is like smothering your face in blackberries, but I’m not in a rush to find out.
- Not from my own encounters with local males but what I hear from the guys, Syrian men don’t know the word “masturbation.” Here, they call it “sperming.” Example: “Dear Allah! That woman is so nice, I could sperm all over her.” They are also overly curious and in total awe of Western men who sleep with multiple women and don’t have to pay for them. Prostitution is huge here, apparently especially among Saudi men.
- Syrians love George Michael. They’ll be out pimpin in their cars through the streets of Damascus on a rockin Saturday night, blasting Careless Whisper or some Bryan Adams through rolled down windows. Bizarre.
- I’ve gotten better at swatting at flies on my face while asleep. I have finally had my first experience sleeping on a roof. The mattress is basically a cot, and you have about 12 people crammed on mattresses 3 inches apart on a dirty dirty rooftop. It wasn’t ideal, but they had run out of all other rooms except a private double, and after 5 nights with Howie and Victor somehow I believed staying with them would also help fend off the insects. I was pretty wrong, as I woke up to find ants crawling by my ears and probably all up in my hair. At least the calls to prayer at 4am didn’t wake me up.
- And if you ever want be lured into a false sense of security and then to get seriously violated as a female, go to a Syrian football match.

I decide to postpone Lebanon and stay in Damascus an extra night upon meeting Howie and Victor at the hostel when they tell me they plan on hitting up the Syria vs. Iran World Cup qualifying match. Howie (I should really introduce him as Howard as now both Victor and I call him Howie by default) is a 24-yr old Brit who has worked the past 2 years in finance and recently quit his job in NY, where his English accent has drawn us easy American girls like moths to a flame. He is cynical, bitter, and really funny - just how I like my Brits. He’s been on the road for 2 months now and has perfected pidgen English for communicating with locals. He is also a crucial part of my Damascus experience because without him I wouldn’t be able to find my way anywhere, he is like a human compass. He also loves to catch flies with his hands in his spare time. I like Howie, he stands at 6'3".

Victor is completely different, and he is much dirtier than Howie is (although I think they both change their clothes just as sparingly, but somehow Howie seems to carry it better.) He has been going commando in his dirty dirty sweatpants for the past I don’t know how many days because he as run out of underwear. He’s a Canadian football player, and while I like to completely stereotype him apparently I have him all wrong. I think he may be lying though, Julyer! He is 23, athletic, and also very funny. He is traveling in the area just a bit before heading to the West Bank to volunteer in July. He dressed up as Zoolander for Halloween last year and has lost like 20 pounds of muscle so far traveling. He is constantly being treated as an inferior when walking with us because for some reason locals mistake him as a fellow Syrian. And he hates it.

The guys are like a breath of fresh air for me in Syria and I seriously adore them both. Not only have I not spoken to any foreigners for the past few days in Syria, but I have been walking alone as a female during my entire time in the country so far. It is near impossible to just befriend locals here - most of the women are with husbands and don’t speak English anyways, and there is a chance that the men just want to dress you up as a bedouin bride and have sex with you. Walking between two guys - one tall and one built - in the streets gives such a different experience. I don’t worry at all, I don’t get grabbed and I don’t have to look around like a Russian spy every time in public. If any guy does make eyes at me, I just walk close enough behind Victor’s shoulder that I can smell his dirty track pants. Downside is as in Turkey with Amyn, I’m not offered as much free stuff, and it pretty much eliminates any chance of me meeting locals as the men will automatically speak primarily to Howard or Victor. Both Howard and Victor have been battling their digestive systems valiantly in Syria. Victor steals rolls of toilet paper. They both are in love with an Italian stallion rock-star named Marcello that they met in Hama, but when I meet Marcello in Damascus he doesn't seem like much more than the average puffy-haired Italian with a little more meat on him. I question both their tastes in women and general heterosexualities.

Back to the game. Entering the “stadium” all the men are groped by security while the women freely walk through. We sit down and being some of the very few foreigners or people who own their own breasts, are very clearly the center of attention. For all intensive purposes, there are basically no other women around, apparently Syrian women aren’t into football. If you can really call this matchup football, the Syrian team isn’t quite something to be proud of. I don’t really feel nervous or anything at the game, the guys in the crowd are very welcoming of us, and I don’t put on my long sleeved T over my tank top but perhaps I should have been more careful. I think seeing a bare shoulder is like a “sex movie” to them. All through the game the locals attempt to talk to us, wave to us from rows up and down, etc, it all seems very friendly. Near half-time though, for some reason the people we were with wanted to switch over to the Iran side. So we stood up for a few photo ops, and even then I could feel hands starting to grab me from behind and tugging my skirt down. Annoyed, I turned around with some choice expletives and pushed a few guys. The group started heading down the stadium to the exit, but Howie and I were held back with more locals wanting to take pictures with the giant blonde and the little Asian girl.

I don’t even know how many cell phones screens we are on now, but it was seriously like paparazzi. After we posed for some more pictures Howie and I tried to make it out to join the rest of the group, and thats when all the guys “descended on me like flies on meat.” Before I knew it I was being grabbed left and right, hands were going over my shoulders and hands grabbing my butt, some trying to make their way up my skirt, some trying to pull it down. It was seriously like a crowd of around 20 or 30 men, and us. Howie ends up HITTING a guy, I shout, and then soon the police flood the scene and we get escorted out. They bring us to another part of the stadium and apologize incessantly for the behavior to me. This whole time they are telling Victor to leave us alone because they think he is Syrian. I find this pretty amusing, Victor does not.

Syria loses 0-2.

That night after the game I discover there is a Norwegian guy named Kris in our room from outside of Oslo who had just came in from Tehran. He sleeps completely balls-out naked in the bed next to mine with nothing save a black plastic garbage bag over just the area immediately around his business. Syriusly.


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crowdcrowd
crowd

they all turn to pervs in about an hour
VictorVictor
Victor

instead of beer, you get tea at the games


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