A frenchman in "before" Syria. 1.

July 3^rd, 2010.

Damascus.

I remember a micro-bus trip, a wait. One, two, maybe three hours waiting at Charles Hélou Bus station, my knees blocked by the next seat. I remember the hundred plus degrees heat. I remember the driver, a bastard with a dreadful mullet and a dumb cap.

Christophe and Christophe are sitting right next to me, my two friends and road buddies. They're growing impatient. They shouldn't. Just gonna get hot, that's what'll happen. You don't want that.

Later, we'll pass the border checkpoint. But first, the driver stops, and says, go to that change shop, change dollars. I say what? He says yep. I say I got euros, he looks about to cry. Says we can't cross into Syria without dollars. I figured it wasn't the official currency. Yet we drive to the checkpoint, and there all Hell is loose. Funny how the custom agents look cold and relaxed while every traveler tries to look in more hurry than the next, and tries to prove it by shouting and waving his hands. It's a jam anyhow. We stick our hands down in our pockets, just to make sure there's only our hands inside.

The damned driver sends us to pay a visa. He never wanted to understand that we already bought our visa back in Paris. When the custom agent looks at our receipt, he asks, ice in his voice, frowning a Gandalf-size eyebrow : « Why did you pay? You already have visa. » . Then he turns to the driver. More ice. He asks for his papers. The loud, annoying, shady mullet loses his panache right away. He looks at the agent, and he sees cell doors. We can't help but feel avenged.

No pictures from that part of the trip. I guess we were too tense and tired in the van, and for the checkpoint, there's a rule, an explicit one, enforced everywhere : YOU DON'T TAKE PICTURES AT CUSTOMS. And beware of uniforms. 

Later that day, we arrive in Damascus. Coming from Beirut, it's back to school. No more mini-skirts, no more young people driving around, blaring music, no more terraces, no more fun. Just smashing heat. The cop almost runs away, says « Arabyi » and doesn't even look at me when I ask for a direction.

We check in an aging hotel, and head to the Souq. The best we can. Dehydrated, still processing the long trip (long time only, the distance is nothing) from Beirut.

On the way, we find an oasis : an orange shop.

One of the two Chris. No doubt this shot of Vitamins will save him. 

There, damascenes stop, drink, chat and go. When in Damascus, do as the Damascenes. 

Note: At the time, I was street-photographing a lot from the chest, without looking. I thought it smart to shoot without being noticed. Hoping for the happy incident. Also, I was too shy. Shy photographers will shoot you in the back, too. 

PS : Only men here. At that point, it doesn't shock us. It will.