After days of Gurudwara Halwas (Sweet dish) in Nicosia, I longed to hit the road again. My Sardarji hosts informed me that Middle Eastern Airlines has resumed service to Beirut after a lull of political unrest. Sardarji’s network gave me a tip about Irish charter flights. During the tourist season, Aer Lingus, Irish Airways had a hopping charter from Dublin to Gatwick and then to Nicosia and Beirut. It was the cheapest way to get out of Cyprus.  

Like most of the Middle East, Cyprus had its problems. There was a civil war about five years ago when the UN force moved in. They divided the country into Turkish and Greek factions. The busy Nicosia airport sat in the buffer. It was abandoned on a day’s notice. I hear it has been lying useless since then for half a century. They had to open a new airport in Larnaca hastily. It still needed to be completed when I flew out. Aer Lingus used small-sized 737-200 jets to suit the runway. Most tourists got off at Larnaca. New passengers were charged less for the remaining leg to Beirut.  

On this flight, Aer Lingus even served complimentary Guinness, Ireland’s famous dark beer. I arrived in Beirut feeling a bit tipsy from a pint of Guinness. I presented the new passport obtained in Paris to help at the Israeli border weeks later. They casually flipped through the pages of Middle Eastern visas but ignored checking the Cyprus exit stamp on the old one. There was then a common stereotype in the West that most Indians were beggars. I was accustomed to undergoing thorough checks at the border. With alcohol in my blood, I didn’t even notice that I breezed through the immigration.   

The realities set in when I stepped outside of the terminal. I saw buildings damaged by shells all around. I suddenly realised that I was in the Middle of a civil war. The Guinness euphoria vanished. Now, I knew why immigration formalities were so relaxed. Tourists were not coming to an urban warfare. I started thinking about finding a bed without getting shot. Airport taxi drivers rip off everywhere but also help to find rooms. Half a dozen of them were around me. They were starving for touristique (tourists) anyway. We communicated with my half a dozen words in French. One dropped me off at a cheap pension near the city centre that was miraculously operating.         

The doorman asked to wait in the reception. I noticed another fellow on the couch. There was an easy way to guess a backpacker’s nationality. Backpack brands were different in different countries. He was carrying a Patagonia, an expensive US product. He was also watching my US-made Jansport pack. We both smiled and started in English. Dan arrived from Istanbul about an hour before. He was as naive as me. Just like myself, he chose Beirut because of the cheap fare. When the receptionist returned, we decided to book a double-bedded room. We both saved money and found a travel mate.          

The battle lines were clearly drawn in Cyprus. Lebanon was more complicated. Broadly, it was an extension of the thousand-year-old crusade. The Christians and the Muslims were fighting for a piece of Biblical land, about double the size of the New York metropolitan area. Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO) gained power in the 1970s and started firing rockets at Israel. In return, Israel attacked Lebanon. United Nations sent a peacekeeping force for an uneasy truce in 1979. I landed at Beirut International Airport sometime after it.          

There was no declared conflict when I arrived, but the fighting continued. Maronites, or the Syrian Christians, were united under the Kataeb party. They were fighting against the Muslims backed by Syria. On the sidelines, there was conflict between Sunnis and Shias. Syria, Israel, and PLO everyone wanted to fire rockets at others. Many buildings were damaged, but people were still living there. Dan assured me that our ground floor room was safer from missiles. The doorman chuckled. He said, “It is true, but if the building collapses, everyone on the ground floor dies.” Dan’s confidence faded away.            

Beirut was divided between the factions—the Christians in the East and the Muslims in the West. The businesses in the centre moved out to their respective sides. Rockets were the chosen artillery from each side. Our pension was near the Place des Martyrs (Martyrs’ Square), an open ground locals call El Burj.  It was once the town centre and fashionable, but everything was in ruins then. Like the airport in Nicosia, El Burj was the buffer between the factions. The doorman was resourcefully sadistic. He relished with a punch of French and English, “Since we are at the buffer, rockets go above our head and drop in the interior”. Dan was visibly assured, but then he continued with a smile, “However, one has a risk of sniper bullets in the buffer zone.” I hadn’t shown any obvious sign of fear so far. He probably didn’t like it. He told Dan, “Snipers won’t target you because of blond hair. They could identify you as a foreigner from afar. But this gentleman appears to be a Beiruti.” He gazed upon me and thoughtfully fingered his moustache. I remembered the martyr statue with bullet-ridden holes in the El Burj and shuddered. He probably became happy at our visible fear. He consoled, “We have survived through bad times for years. Insha Allah (God willing)! Why won’t you survive? Do carry your ID with you.” That was reassuring, and we went for an evening stroll in Beirut.                          

There were destroyed buildings here and there on Rue Weygand. Debris were left like hillocks. Amazingly, people were sitting in the cafe, and shops were open. The coffee culture was omnipresent. We entered a restaurant in a courtyard. Among the Arabic din, I could hear sporadic French words. They had a friendly vibe like anywhere else in the world. The waiter came forward, but we faced a language barrier. The manager who spoke English visited our table. We asked for his suggestion. He wondered how famished we were. And then joked, “Did you get a pita (flat bread) since last week?” Dan laughed noisily and said, “No”.     

So, he planned a full menu for us. In the meantime, we had coffee. The coffee culture in Beirut did not originate from their colonisers, France. It was the other way around. In the fifteenth century, Sufi holy men from Yemen brought coffee to Lebanon. By the sixteenth century, cafes had become a place for social meetings. Coffee was brewed like Arabic versions, boiled twice for a strong taste, and served in a small, handleless cup to be sipped slowly.

Dan started a chit-chat with Tony, the manager, who was probably happy to find tourists in his cafe after a time. He explained the details of coffee brewing. He claimed, “Saddam was once a coffee roaster at a place where he had worked earlier.” Saddam Hussain, President of Iraq, just came to power then. We were experienced travellers and knew that guides often spin tall tales. So, we laughed, but undeterred, Tony gave us the details. According to Tony, Saddam once worked as a head coffee roaster in Cafe Yunes, an old cafe in Hamra Avenue, Beirut. His boss in Cafe Yunes was a junior to Saddam. He became a promising politician, then. We didn’t know about the tragic end of him at the time.     

In the meantime, food was served to the table. It was a surprise at first glance. I had Hydrabadi Muslim roommates in graduate school. The meat was their staple food. They even added ground meat to lentils and called it by a fancy name—Halim. They made shorba (Gravy) with more onion and garlic. I had misconstrued that Islamic recipes were inclined toward meat and spices. I later learnt that it was only valid for India, where Mughlai recipes evolved. A noted Bengali author, Syed Muztaba, once joked that he didn’t care for the Taj Mahal because it couldn’t be eaten. However, Mughlai cuisine, a unique blend of spices and meat, was the pinnacle of the Indo-Saracenic culture.   

The waiter started the mezze service only with two tiny portions: tomato bits on greens and chickpeas with yoghurt. Tony assured us that more were coming from the kitchen. About a dozen items were served until the end on small plates similar to Spanish tapas. Almost half of the foods were purely vegetarian, like fried eggplant with sauce, cheese on flatbread, etc. Smoked fish and meatballs were among the non-veg. There was Knafeh (Pastry with cheese filling) and Meghli (rice pudding).  

Tony continued to educate us while we savoured the dishes. He told us that Meghli was a must when a boy was born in the family. This was my time to be surprised. In India, even the Hindus cooked payasam (rice pudding) when a boy was welcomed into the family. Rice flowers and spices such as cinnamon and caraway made it look brownish, like chocolate pudding. Crumbled pistachio nuts were sprinkled on the dish. Tony explained the cultural significance. The pudding’s brown hue represented the earth. The green pistachio seeds symbolised the young boy growing tall like a tree in the future. I realised I had crossed into the Eastern old world where everything held cultural significance. 

At the end of the dinner, Tony pitched a business offer. He could organise a service taxi at a concessional rate for sightseeing. We settled the rate for the next day. Tony assured us the car would be ready before our hotel the next morning. He offered a tip again. At our cost, one of his servers bought a bottle of Arak, Lebanon’s national drink, for the night.      

We started for Jbail the following morning. The Bible called it Gebel, but its Greek name was Byblos. I was excited because the word Bible was derived from it. The history of Byblos was like riding a time machine. There have been continuous settlements since the Stone Age. The Phoenicians built a large port here. Byblos established links with Egypt and Greece, influencing their architecture and culture. Papyrus from Egypt was exported to Byblos for transhipment to Greece. The Greek word for papyrus was bublos because of its import from Byblos. A book consisting of many pages was termed a biblion in Greek, from which the English word Bible originated.             

The port Byblos survived for centuries but under different conquerors. Alexander walked on its street. Crusaders fought with the Moors here. Finally, the Turks took over. The city gradually went into oblivion. Then, the French historian Ernest Renan began excavations in the 1850s. French scholars have been conducting Byblos research since then. We met one of them, Elyna, near the ruins.

We were aimlessly walking towards the ruins when Elyna spotted us. She was a French archaeologist doing postdoctoral research in Byblos in association with the American University of Beirut. She was a little older than us, about 30. She spent time in Oxford and was fluent in English. She was surprised to find tourists in troubled Lebanon. After hearing our stories, she only commented, “imbécile” (imbecile). From then on, she started friendly swearing at us. We laughed and returned profanity. I thought she was practising bad words in English.   

She started, “Hey, morons! Wish to know more about these ruins?” We readily agreed. She knew the ruins like her neighbourhood and started with confidence. We were amazed to see how archaeologists could deduce things from a little clue like Sherlock Homes. As a building professional, I especially enjoyed her points about construction, like making foundations on Roman ruins or maintaining the plumb of a tall tower.  

From the Saladin’s seizure, crusaders’ resistance to Greek and Egyptian trade and Semerian Gods were all infused in the stones. She talked about how the Sumerians developed writings for the first time and drew on dirt about the evolution of a few English alphabets from it. She was going back and forth for thousands of years. Her two-hour commentaries about conquerors like Amorites, Hyksos, Phenesians, and many other names mixed with her profanity saturated us.  

She guessed it and asked, “Shall we have lunch?” We all agreed. I remembered the Arak Tony arranged and took it out from my daypack. She exclaimed, “Fuck! You can’t have alcohol on site.” But then said, “Wait! Come with me.” She guided us to a street vendor and bought lamb shawarma. She directed me to pay for it and took Dan to a pastry shop. Dan purchased the pastries.

Then, she went to a fresh fruit vendor on the street and paid for the orange juice. Typically, orange juices were served in glasses, but she wanted four glasses together in a jar and some disposable plastic glasses. The vendor probably had difficulties with her accented Arabic. He was then hesitant to part away a plastic jar. However, the allure of a brunette became too strong, and he kindly lent a two-litre jar filled with crushed ice and four glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. She also took a pinch of crushed spices from him. We returned to the castle, where I had seen “No eating” signs earlier. She confidently said, “The guards won’t yell at me, I hope.” Dan couldn’t stop himself, “Why? Do you fuck them?” She returned solemnly, “No, the institute director fucks me, and they know it.”   

When we reached a secluded turn in the Crusaders’ castle, she ordered, “Take out that damn Arak, Quick! Jimmy!” I handed it over to Dan. She asked him to pour it into the orange juice jar. We mixed the cocktail, and she sprinkled some spices on the plastic glasses. We sat on stones and started enjoying the drink. The lunch was leisurely and fabulous. She then gave us a conducted tour of the Roman Theatre, Necropolis and medieval churches. Like in the morning, she hopped around among history, archaeology, and theology, spiced up with cockney profanity. It was a memorable day.                   

We visited her the next day at the American University of Beirut (AUB). She stayed in an all-girls hostel opposite the campus. Unlike in the States, men cannot enter an all-girls hostel. It was more like Kolkata, where I grew up. We met at the students’ cafeteria. AUB, more than one and a half centuries old, was a unique institute. It was based on American Liberal Arts College education. Liberal Arts education did not necessarily mean only arts but included all subjects. AUB was similar to prestigious US colleges like Swarthmore, Amherst, Wellesley, etc., but in Beirut, having more student admissions.      

Elyna escorted us to the century-old university museum, one of the best in the Middle East. She explained the rich collection there. The director was Dr Leila Badre, a world-famous archaeologist whom we met in a passage. Elyna introduced us, “Good morning, mam; these backpackers have lost their way to Beirut.” She smiled, “The end of bad times, then! Tourists are returning.” She continued with a twinkle in her eyes, “We historians always see war and peace together in excavations; it’s a cycle. I was never worried about the long-term prospects of Beirut, Elyna.” Then, she changed to a business tone and asked Elyna to see her after lunch.

There had been so much history for two days; it was overwhelming. Dan was a playboy type. He had been trying to flirt with Elyna since lunch yesterday. I was sure she noticed. Women never missed such things. Dan accusingly looked at Elyna, “You lied; you said you fuck the director.” She feigned surprise, “Are you a friend of George Washington, two hundred years old? Do you think two women can’t enjoy?” Then she broke into a burst of laughter, “No, I am not a dyke (Slang of a lesbian), but I am not going to sleep with you, Dan – Okay!” Dan’s hope of a bedroom adventure vanished. She then squeezed Dan’s shoulder affectionately.  

She said, “Let’s have lunch! I am brooding over a report and late on it. Director will fuck me after lunch”, and winked. She bought finger foods and coffee with her card and refused to take money. She said, “You are my guest in AUB; it’s an Arab land. I must follow the customs.” We had a long lunch over coffee, and then she bid, “au revoir (Goodbye in French)” at the cafeteria steps. She looked at Dan and said, “I wish you get a gorgeous chic, horny moron.” Dan was in a duelling mood and retorted, “Yup! How could I know you are a frigid bitch?” 

She laughed heartily, without malice. Her time for English profanity was over. Her tone changed subtly; she was serious. Elyna said slowly, “My research is not progressing; the director is giving pressure. I have no friends here with whom I could talk jovially. Trust me, I was tense. Then, I talked to you two like I do with friends in Paris. It was a great release of tension. I am sorry if I have hurt you.” Dan said something good, “Without you, we would not know much about Lebanon.” I smilingly added, “I could never imagine such a high-quality academic lecture with ten thousand motherfuckers in it.” She laughed, squeezed my shoulder, and silently mouthed, “Motherfucker”. We earned a parting kiss on the cheek and a hug but maintained the proper continental decorum.    

After visiting a few tourist traps in this troubled city, such as the national museum, we left Beirut in two days. Dan never confessed but started disliking the place after Elyna rejected his advances. I also wanted to push ahead because I had to reach Israel by a deadline. We walked to El Burj and hired a taxi to Cola junction, a bus stand on the outskirts. A service taxi took us to Damascus. The border guards checked my visa issued in Paris and my international student card issued in New York. They allowed me to go quickly.     

At Damascus, Dan asked the driver to take us to a cheap hotel, which he didn’t oblige but showed us how to get to Saahat-al-Chouhadha or Martyr’s Square. He said good hotels at reasonable rates could be found there since it was not the peak Haj season. We went hotel hunting with our pack at the back but, within an hour, found a traditional pension in an old building. I liked the place because it had a secluded courtyard where they served tea; we sat there, had Arabic coffee and read our paperbacks. By evening, we heard female voices with unmistakenly American accents. Two young gals with their day pack walked in, discussing their haggling in the souks.

Dan grinned and waved. He said, “How was the day?” No other verbal communication was needed, but his skin tone and accent told them that an American guy was inviting them. They settled at our table and ordered coffee. One of them checked me out, “You live here?” I tried an American accent and declared, “Once upon a time, in Calcutta, India, but now in the Windy City.” The plump one, Ruth, said, “You mean Chicago?” “Yep!” Thus, we became travel mates. They had a college mate from Aleppo, in North Syria. They spent a fortnight with her and arrived here a day early. They would fly out from Damascus in another ten days. So, they advised us about Syria and Damascus for the whole evening.

Damascus was an ancient town. The USIS library in Kolkata had a thirty-three-volume Encyclopedia Britannica, the only place I could put my fingers. Britannica said Beneras was India’s oldest continuously habited settlement, estimated to be well settled by 2000 BC. At that time, the great Pyramids of Giza were only five hundred years old. Harappa’s site at Mehrgarh near Quetta was six thousand BC, the earliest site in Indus civilisation, but these were abandoned thousands of years ago. In Damascus, they were talking about 9000 years of continuous settlement. As an Indian, I was always proud that Beneras was the oldest city in the world, but Damascus cleanly beat it by six thousand years.

We four were gossiping about our travel experiences in the evening while sipping coffee and dates in the hotel courtyard. I said, “I wish to find a Turkish bath for the Hammam experience, for which Damascus is so famous.” The girls came alive; their friend in Aleppeo took them to one and even arranged for masseurs. Dan chuckled, “Young male boys?” Cindy, the taller one, admonished, “Don’t be stupid. It is their religious thing, far away from any sex!”

I started, “Well, It is a Sunnah that is the Prophet’s teaching that everyone, male or female, should shave off their armpit and pubic hair every forty days. The rich do it in Hammams where barbers are available.” The girls were startled and exchanged glances that Dan didn’t miss. He asked if the two of them had done it. They remained silent for a second. Then Cindy nodded. She said, “It’s like the Brazilian wax but done with some strange chemicals, probably sugar syrups, but much cheaper than the States. It’s a weird feeling, though.” I said, “Then we must try to seduce you for that odd feeling.” Cindy made a face, “That’s a PJ (short of poor jokes), Jimmy.” She broke into a smile and said, “You bastard!” Then, I assumed it was not that PJ after all.

Dan teased, “And then the masseur gave you pleasure.” Before the girls reacted, I said, “Dan, you know nothing. It’s good they took off their panties in Aleppo, nearer the Turkish border, where they are not that conservative. In Cairo, the barber would have shaved off their clits!” Dan was going to protest something loud, but Cindy solemnly said, “FGM (she meant Female Genital Mutilation) is disgusting, but our friend Aiesha didn’t have it.”

Dan realised we were talking about things that he didn’t know. He said, “How do you know so much? Are you a Muslim, Jimmy?” I said, “Hell No, but let me warn you about something, Dan. Never ever try Brazilian wax in the Hammam as these two girls did; you know why, Dummy?” He was silent but attentive. “You are not circumcised, are you? The Prophet said it’s a must to circumcise. The barber may find it his pious duty to cut out your foreskin.” He exclaimed, “Hell with it! I am not going to the bath.” We all laughed. I said, “Come on! We will go, but you must wrap it around correctly with the loin cloth.”

I announced that a Pakistani friend, my graduate schoolmate, told me something interesting, “Lady scapers in places like Lahore or Karachi serve both males and females. She will respond to home calls, or clients can visit her clinics for waxing or shaving. If a male client gets a hard-on, she won’t flinch; she is a pro, and that’s routine in her line of work. They never touch the organ with bare hands but still could pull off a splendid cleanup job. Dan, would you try such a thing?” He said with a smile, “But you talked about circumcision.” I retorted, “Come to your senses, Dan! Hadish, their religious books never allowed a lady to circumcise.”

Later, I gave Dan a private gist about what Murad, my Pakistani friend, had told me. He was about five years senior, but we went to graduate school together. We didn’t have the same major but took the same classes. He was a Pathan who spoke Pashto, the Afghani language, at home. Afghans are generally fairly large-built bodies like Europeans, but he was frail like me. He got an exchange scholarship to study at the University of Engineering and Technology in Dacca, East Pakistan, now Bangla Desh. Initially, we gossiped in Urdu-Hindi, like most of the Indo Paki groups. Many of the engineering graduates of Pakistan had brothel experiences, which Indian students mostly lacked, I guessed.

When we were only two, he started speaking fluent Bengali in a Dacaai accent, which we call Bangaal in Kolkata; he picked up the language well during his four years of stay in Dhaka. Once, he asked me if I had been to Daulatdia, and I was blank. He said you missed something, Jimmy; it was near Gede, the Indian border, and the border guards in both countries would let you go quickly because they got commissions from the village. I knew Gede in the Nadia district but still needed to learn about Daulatdia. Murad continued; it was a large village, and the whole place was a brothel. You get fifteen-year-old girls, but they never shave down there. Murad was enlightening me. But I have been to Napier Road, and he continued. I asked if it was in Dacca. He laughed noisily. You fool, it is the red light district of Karachi. He observed that Pakistani girls were almost always shaved.

I knew he worked for a couple of years in Saudi Arabia. I asked what did you see there. Come on! Only Sheikhs can have girls there. We used to go to Damascus for fun. There was a Pakistani hotel where they fixed chicks in Jaramana, a suburb where taxis took us out. Those girls were trained like in Harem; what a job they did. Jimmy, you missed all the fun. How about the shaving? I asked. Well, You get both. Ask for a Coptic; they serve you a western-dressed one with a bush and everything. Ask for a Muslim, and you get cleaned, shaved, and wrapped under a burqa. Dan, would you like to find out about the Jaramana girls? Nope, He returned from deep thought. He murmured. I must seduce Cindy for that job. I laughed; that would be more satisfying. He laughed back, and cheaper, too, he opined.

On our fourth or fifth day, we were tired from sightseeing and took a rest. At noon, I was writing letters on my bed when Dan burst in. Get out of here, he ordered. I rolled my eyes and asked, “Where?”. He said, “Go to the Jaramana, to India, or hell.” He had urgency in his voice, “See, Cindy is horny, but she won’t do it in her bed. Ruth is out but might return anytime. Cindy can’t lock the room to keep Ruth out before asking her. Cindy would come in minutes.“  I took my daypack and climbed down to our favourite courtyard bench when he was pleading. I didn’t have time to wear the sneakers, but I had my flip-flops.

I was reading the Seven Pillars of Wisdom by Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia movie fame. Only after about ten minutes, Ruth, the plumpy girl, entered. She used a scarf to protect herself from the hot sun. It also maintained the local custom of covering heads in public. She retired to the bench and complained about the heat. I was relishing what would happen now. Where are the others? She asked. I smiled mysteriously and said unreachable now. She narrowed her eyes. I said, “I was on my bed; Dan barged in and demanded that he and Cindy need the room. Cindy was adamant that she couldn’t lock her room without your permission, so I walked out. I don’t know if she blushed from modesty or out of rage. Ruth asked, where is our room key? Go and check if it is kept unlocked. She returned from her room in five minutes with the room key.

She said, “Let’s go out to a souq.” She dropped the key at the reception. We exited to the pavement. I was on my flip-flop, which she noticed. She patted my shoulder, the first touch from her. She pointed to my feet and said, “Poor guy.” We found a soda fountain on the plaza and sat there. I asked about her choice from the menu card; she impatiently said, “Anything cold and sweet.” I ordered a Jallab, a fruity one made with grape juice, dates and rose water. I chose a mint lemonade for myself. It’s a freshly made lemonade but flavoured with grated mint leaves. We were chit-chatting, but she was often slipping into her thoughts. I knew she was angry at Cindy’s irresponsible action when travelling together far away from home.

I fell back to my thoughts. I was thinking of Freddie’s mantra. Firdousi, a Bombay IIT student and a senior in my graduate school, lectured us with his supply chain theory. How these Angrez (English) girls behave under dating stress. Ricardo’s economic theory floated into my mind. He said nations must act on comparative advantages. I was thinking about her comparative advantage now.

And, then, she possibly found one. She suddenly said, “How was your drink, Jimmy?” I said, “Okay.” She asked, “Let’s switch to check out.” In such a situation, courtesy demands we retain our straws. I was going to pick up my straw, but she didn’t wait. She snatched my glass and pushed her glass forward. She was sipping slowly, engrossed in her thoughts, watching the Damascus crowd walk past us. I was thinking about Ricardo’s comparative advantage theory and how she can use it. When our drinks were almost at the end. She asked, “Jimmy?” I said “Yes” and brushed my index finger over hers. On the busy pavement of Damascus, anything more would draw attention.

She blurted out, still looking at the glass, “Will you mind if I switch rooms and join you?” I said, “That would be great, Baby. Cindy should learn a lesson.” She looked up at me and lowered her gaze to the table. She slowly said, “Thank you so much, Jimmy.” She was a regular churchgoer, she said earlier. So, I started reciting a Christian prayer with a smiling face, “Glory be to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for sending a clean angel to this lonely brownie soul. Amen.” She noticed the word clean, made a face and hissed, “Stop it.” I smiled, “Praising the Lord is not a crime. She silently mouthed, “Fuck you.” I retorted, “We will soon find out.” She swore almost silently, “Bastard,” and I returned, “Bitch.” Swearing made her mood lighter. We strolled for some time on the avenue through souqs. Before entering the pension, I told her, “You should choose when to tell Cindy.” She said, “Leave that to me.” I knew that anyway

We found Dan and Cindy at the same table in the courtyard. The Girls ordered some local cocktail mix with Arak, Syria’s national spirit. Dan stuck to beer, and I ordered an ayran, flavoured buttermilk. Over a dinner of Fattoush and kibbeh (salad & meatballs), she had her share of revenge when she relished saying what we planned. Cindy was stunned and gasped. Dan was overwhelmed with surprise. On a toilet trip, he asked, “How could you pull it off.” I shrugged and asked, “How was that shaved thing?” It was a tingling feeling, “You will soon find out.” He laughed.

We made a whirlwind tour of ancient sites for the next five/six days. Damascus was full of these. Guidebooks claimed the Umayyad Mosque was a temple of Zeus worshipped by the Greeks; the Romans made it a temple of Jupiter. Byzantines built a church here for John the Baptist, where he was buried, but then a mosque was built in the same place. They pray next to the shrines of both John the Baptist and Hussein Ali, the grandson of the Prophet. Damascus had exciting place names, like a Street called Straight.  Biblical character Saul had his vision of Jesus here. A Seljug king built a bimari-stan, a hospital in the 12th century that still stands as a museum. They had seven gates on the city wall and survived since Roman times. Damascus was overwhelming.

One must freshen up from such a heavy dose of historical and religious sites. The girls went to souq shopping one morning, but I persuaded Dan to walk a kilometre to visit Malik al-Zahir Hammam, a thousand-year-old place. When we entered, we found the manager in the reception, probably called Malim in their lingo, spoke broken English. He showed a bank of lockers. We put our wallets there and returned the keys. He produced wristbands with fastened keys, and we wore the keys in our arms. A helper gave us the futa or the loin cloth. He even helped us to wrap it around. They had traditional wooden clogs to walk on the Hammam floor, but we chose plastic slippers. We walked into the hall and soaked in the architecture. We were back to the Arabian Nights. The vast dome overhead was pierced with holes covered with coloured glass; multi-coloured shafts of lights were washing the floor. The walls and floors were ornate marble mosaics, as in Roman times.  

A millennium ago, Crusaders came here for a bath where I was now. They had an essential attendant called mukeyyi in Hamams. His job was to scrub you down with a rough glove. One should lie spread-eagled on the cold marble floor when the mukeyyi rubbed with a goat leather rubber and scraped dead cells from the skin. I was told that rubbing had a refined technique to be passed from generation to generation and that most mukeyyis come from a particular village, Mazamia, near Damascus. We paid for the masseur who guided us to an alcove and performed a powerful message with intense stretching. It was like what they did at the wrestlers’ stand near Howrah Bridge, Kolkata, a short but invigorating experience.

When we returned, the girls were waiting for us. They were admiring some pigeons on the cornices of a neighbouring house when a young fellow asked them in English to come up to see the coop. As a natural precaution for girls, they didn’t enter the darkness of a large mansion but asked if they could also ask their travel mates to see the pigeons. The man told them to visit in the late afternoon when the pigeons would exercise. When I heard that, I cried with joy. I said, “What have you done, girls? I wish to kiss you.” Cindy said, “No, you don’t, but tell us one more of your Arabian Nights story.”

I said, “Pigeon keeping was a five-thousand-year-old hobby in the old world.” Dan said, “New York had pigeon lovers. I said, “Yes, Italians brought it up there, but Damascus was the worldwide capital of this hobby.” It would be a privilege to see someone’s coop here.” I continued, “Even I had pigeons in high school, and I can’t wait to check out that terrace.” Cindy said, “Oh!” She was assured and said, “This story at least didn’t end up with a shaving routine like his other stories.” We all laughed. I said, “You must know the man fell for your girlie charm to invite you to the coop.” Otherwise, they don’t allow unknown people for fear of evil eyes.

Dan objected to evil eyes, “He was spinning another tale again.” I pointed and said, “Watch out for the single piece of shoe hung on the hotel terrace. What do you think it was for?” They remained quiet. I continued, “That was for the fending off your Satanic evil eye. Cindy, you must throw your charm for the man.” Cindy made a face, but Ruth cautiously asked, “What should we do?” I said, “Keep smiling and ask small questions even if you are bored to death when I talk to him about pigeons.” Ruth replied, “Okay, we could do that for you.” Cindy warned, “Not for long, though.”

We went to the mansion; we saw the flocks in the sky. No one was in the open doorway, but we were hesitant to get in. A respectable lady in a traditional dress appeared and showed us the way in sign language, crossing a double courtyard and through dark, narrow stairs. The roof had a refreshing view of other terraces of the neighbourhood. Our man was tending his birds. He waved his hand and said “Hi” in a melodious tone. Hollywood TV serials were popular, and they knew the tone. He didn’t use the standard Arabic greeting “Salam Alaikum” for us, the ajnabiun (Foreigners). His birds were sweeping down to the terrace after flying exercises under his command. He ordered them ‘Haas, Haas’ with hand gestures. We waited till his three dozen birds were entering the coop in an orderly manner. The birds were trained just like in the circus.

Then, he guided us to the other side of the terrace, where he had his prized pigeons. There were two kinds of pigeon hobbyists, even in Kolkata. The first kind were the flyers, who tended their birds to fly twice daily, and the second kind had fancy-looking pigeons to spend time with on the terrace. In the Reg library, back in Chicago, while studying my travel path, I learned the term for the second kind of pigeon lover, which I also was in my school days. They were called hemimati in Arabic. I said in English that You are a big hemimati. At first, he didn’t understand my accent, But then he understood and warmly shook my hand.  

In the meantime, a man under the supervision of the lady brought traditional coffee, dates and baklava on a tray. She said something, and the pigeon lover said, “My mother was saying that I will only talk about birds but let the guests drink coffee at least.” He kept on talking about his birds. The names were altogether different from Indian breeds. They have names like Baghdadi, Rihani, Ablak, etc. The breeds were entirely different. I had never seen them before, and he explained the finer differences about his pigeon breeds and even allowed me to hold his birds in hand. As a hemimati, it was an exhilarating experience for me. After we returned to the street, Dan said, “The coffee was great, but you two pigeons bored us to death.” I retorted, “That’s how you earned the baklava dummy.”

The girls soon left one morning for their flight back home. Dan returned to my room, but we should hit the road again. I went to the poste restante desk in the main post office at Said al Jabri Avenue. Every large post office worldwide, including the Calcutta GPO, had such desks, which have become extinct in the connected world. They held letters, matched names with passports and distributed them. That day, I had a couple of letters from Chicago and one from home. Sometimes, they charged fees like in Damascus, but these were usually free in most countries. Dan went to the taxi stand to check out timetables for Amman, Jordan. We met in the courtyard during lunch. Dan reserved seats for us in an air-conditioned bus the day after tomorrow. The bus would take us to Darra, bordering Jordan. We were on the bus at the appointed time; it even had reclining seats. 

After about an hour on the bus, Dan started, “Jimmy, you know what? Cindy was utterly shocked that you could seduce Ruth so effortlessly. She knew Ruth as very traditional”. I replied, “Cindy missed a fundamental point. Ruth was in the Orient, absorbing oriental cuisine, hammams, and strange waxing, hearing about Arabian nights, harems and oriental ways of lovemaking routines. It was her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to taste an oriental, and she homed in fast. You might credit her for it”. Dan never thought in this line and nodded in agreement. I didn’t wish to talk more about it; I pushed the seat back and dozed off, which was usual on a long-distance bus.       

I was glad that I didn’t have to tell my little secret of Ruth, the fatso girl, to Dan. After she moved into Dan’s bed, we had little chit-chats, like how Cindy gasped when she dropped the bomb. Then she went to the toilet clutching her night dress. I returned to my daily diary, didn’t write a line, but thought about plumpy fantasies. When she came out with her pyjamas, I entered the toilet and quickly returned with expectations in my shorts and tees. I found her sitting on the bed, covering herself with the bedspread like a sleep sack. Something was not right. I gazed towards her with enquiring eyes. She asked, “Can I say something?” I gave her a small peck on her neck for assurance; she didn’t flinch, and I sat on my bed facing her.

She gravely started. “See, I am not a virgin and had occasional partners. I am ready to take full responsibility for what I did today.” She smiled silently and continued hesitantly, “I am prepared to pay the room rent.” She paused momentarily and said, “I would try how you wish me to play.” Then, she thoughtfully added, “Provided you give me your word that you are disease-free and take precautions. I said Dan left me a few Durex, US-made, extra lubed, but the plain ones, not the fancy pinheads. She nodded but remained quiet and cold.  

I looked into her eyes and teased her, “Do you feel you will only be turned on by a tall, lean, blond fellow like Dan.” She sharply returned, “Stop it, please. You are mature, and I am sure you will present memorable nights. Any considerate person could make a woman bodily satisfied.” But then she paused and became distant.          

Something revolted inside me; I knew what was coming. Ruth will now talk about the one-night stand, which she or her church didn’t approve of. She would say that she had never slept other than with her romantic partners since her teens and so forth. Freddie appeared in my brain cells. Don’t talk, you fool. Snatch away the bedspread and start biting her boobs. She is only pretending; treat these as her foreplay. Start licking her neck, you idiot. She didn’t move when you kissed her there. Did she? Make it look like a nonconsensual act so that she remains guilt-free later to keep her stupid missionary values intact. All her fancy words will vanish when she becomes horny; that’s your job – bastard, but I had to banish Freddie into my brain cells.     

I was probably getting angry, so I presumably yelled sorry, dear, I must realise my room rent. I won’t let you sleep tonight. Dan left three, two for the front and one for the rear; he would do the same to Cindy tonight. Did you know that? I stood up. Her eyes were more expansive now; she was possibly alarmed. I then solemnly said I am going to rape you now and halted for a moment for effect. I then added, but only in my mind, your bed will remain a sanctuary; nobody would surely touch you. Sex is only for fun, dear. I can’t hurt your feelings. You could sleep worry-free. I turned off the light and dived into my bed. She was still sitting like a Sphinx, using the bedspread as a sleep sack. I heard her faint murmur about a minute later; thank you so much, Jim. You absorbed my vanity and stupidity. It’s too bad I won’t see you again soon. Thank you! I fell asleep. We gossiped very late the next few nights. We talked about hordes of things and our schools, families and lives, lying in separate beds, but no thought of sex.

We reached Darra after four hours. Hundreds of trucks waited in long lines to cross the border at night when passenger traffic would be thin. Sometimes, it took them two days to complete the paperwork. I was walking in the crowd when I heard a familiar song, “Mehbooba, Mehbooba” (Beloved, beloved) from a super hit Bollywood movie “Sholay”. I walked towards its source and found it playing on a tape. Half a dozen truck drivers were cooking chapati (Indian flatbread) beside a truck. They carried everything, including bottled gas, in their vehicle. I started talking to them in Hindi, and they responded in Urdu. They were Pakistani long-haul drivers working in the Middle East. Dan didn’t realise it, but the presence of an Angrez (White man) raised our weight. They offered us hot chapati and an assortment of Achers (Pickles). I chose a mango pickle instead of chilli, which they loved. I was worried about Dan because of its spicey taste, but he managed wonderfully well.                           

Dan insisted that I ask them for a ride. I hesitated, but Altaf, my Pakistani host who spoke rudimentary English, watched me. I explained Dan’s request. He thought for a moment and said, “Sale log bahut harami (The guards are wicked).” He opined, “I cannot take you through the border. Guards will ask a million questions. But we will catch a nap at the Ramtha check post in Jordan. We would leave after Fazr e Namaz (Morning prayer). If you could locate my vehicle there, you can come with me. But you can easily book a seat on a bus from Ramtha.” I explained it to Dan. We chose to catch him in the early morning.  

Other drivers were also listening. Suddenly, one of them remembered something. Alarmed, he asked his helper, “Abe, baaz co pani diya kya? Ja jaldi dekh (Did you give water to the Falcon? Go now and check).” The word baaz, meaning falcon, rang a bell. I asked him if I could go with the helper. He hesitated momentarily, looked at Altaf for confirmation, and then nodded. Dan and I followed Ali, the helper.         

Falconry, or hunting with a bird of prey, has been a prized hobby in the Middle East since antiquity. Apparently, Pharaos enjoyed the game. Falcon mummies were common in royal graves. After the strength of Petrodollars, the hobby got a new lease on life, and the price of wild Falcons skyrocketed. Ali opened a container hatch, and we saw two birds in a cage. Their eyes are covered with leather patches to keep them calm. Ali explained that the birds didn’t flutter when blindfolded. It was soothing for them.  

Ali was from Panchgur district, Balochistan. Wealthy sheikhs zoomed into his homeland in winter to hunt with falcons. Ali had seen Falcon hunting and trapping since childhood and knew a thing or two about it. The Pakistani authorities allowed West Balochistan to be the royal hunting ground for Middle Eastern nobilities. They hunted bustards (not bastards) with their falcons. Bustards, a grazing bird, became rare. However, hunting licenses were still provided to Arab royal families. Ali and his mates supported those hunting parties with errands.     

I asked, “Where did you get these two falcons?” Ali said, “Trappers in Eastern Syria captured them. A truck driver delivered them to Damascus. His employer, the fleet owner, offers the birds as gifts to royalties. Birds were of the Siberian variety and expensive. Each might cost five thousand dollars.” It was a lot of money in those days. Ali would get a satisfying baksheesh (tip) when he could deliver. He said that sometimes birds might die from shock, but it never happened in his care.  

I asked if border guards could easily find this cage. He smiled, “This cage will not cross the border. I will pack the birds somewhere.” I asked how to pack it. His reply surprised me. He answered, “Mishri momi jaisa (like an Egyptian mummy).” He lectured, “There are captive breeding rookeries. But, offspring only look alike but are not suitable for hunting.” 

Like an expert ornithologist, he explained, “Captive-bred birds don’t know about hunger pangs. Food will be available if they fail. Their mothers haven’t taught them hunting. They have little instinct to kill. Farm-raised birds are docile. They may look good in the aviary but not fit in the wild. Wild Siberian birds are in high demand for the Sheikhs. Snow-covered steppe forced them to be extra skilled. They can’t afford to a miss a chance. Without this blindfold, you cannot imagine how deadly they are in the sky.”          

I realised that Ali was more than an ordinary helper; he was an expert Falcon handler of an international smuggling ring. Dan wanted to know how many birds he smuggled each year. Ali informed us that wild falcons were rare; he might transfer only half a dozen annually. Dan later said it was prudent not to cross the border in their trucks. They might have other contrabands, too.    

Years later, I toured the largest falcon hospital in the world in Abu Dhabi. Clients from all over the Middle East sent their falcons for talon and beak manicures. The birds have passports and travel first class with their handlers. Qatar Airlines served them fresh squirrel meat, their favourite. The tour guide lectured about the importance of Falconry in the Bedwin community. Falcons were the protein collectors for the Bedwins.

I asked about the difference between wild and farm-raised birds. The guide disagreed with Ali and claimed, “It’s a myth. Rookery birds could also be prized hunters. But there are qualitative differences between each bird, like the differeces among individual dogs. Some are more suited for a hunt.”  

The guide also defended Falcon hunting in Balochistan. He claimed, “Locals try to trap Falcons but never use firearms. Otherwise, they would hunt for food or trophy. It would have endangered the species. Only a few could be trapped, but the population remains safe.” The guide lectured, “How the birds are blindfolded, bandaged, and inserted in tubes for smuggling.” Then, I remembered Ali, who talked about the Egyptian falcon mummies.               

At dawn, we arrived at Ramtha by a service taxi. The trucks were crowded at the Ramtha checkpost. It was incredible that Dan spotted Altaf’s vehicle there, who picked us up in the backseat of his cabin. He assumed we would go with him to Amman, but we chose to get off at Jerash, which was hardly an hour’s ride. Dan wanted to hitchhike with Altaf because I was a good interpreter. Time passed swiftly, and he dropped us off at a truck stop. We found a service taxi to take us to Hadrian’s Gate, an entrance to the archaeological ruins. We needed breakfast and found a roadside eatery. My thirty-word Arabic vocabulary helped a little, but I noticed four boiled eggs sprinkled with tomatoes and basil in a light soup. I ordered that for us and showed them the toasts on the table.  

When the breakfasts were served, we discovered that these were not eggs but something similar to dollops of cream cheese. Dan and I started making jokes when a man from the adjacent table joined. He was an Egyptian tourist who spoke English. He ordered amlayta (Omelette) for us and then explained, “The cheese on your plate is the famous Labaneh Jarashiyeh (Labaneh of Jerash). Labneh is a Middle Eastern cheese, but Jerash is renowned for it. Thick yoghurt is strained in goatskin bags for hours to eliminate the whey and give it a creamy texture. Every family has their minor tweaks with the garnishes that make it distinctive. The one on your plate is garnished with olive oil, tomato, and thyme, but many other varieties exist. Tourists from Amman come here to taste such varieties.” At any rate, labneh cheese gels well with toast for a satisfying breakfast. The Egyptian friend reminded us about the Benhur movie and told us not to miss it in Jerash.                 

Jerash was a provincial capital in Roman times. The Bible referred to it as Decapolis, a conglomerate of ten cities. It was called the city of a thousand columns; hundreds were still dotted in ruins. Hadrian’s Gate was one of these. We bought entrance tickets at the visitors’ centre but ignored those massive columns. We excitedly reached the arena, a restored hippodrome. Jerashians recreated Roman racing chariots that we saw in the Hollywood blockbuster Benhur. They had competition races in seasons, but now a few have set up shops for tourists. Dan and I rode on two chariots.  

Without much ado, the trainers raised their whips, and it whistled through the air. The twin horses galloped, and I could barely grip the chariot for dear life. I realised Dan and I were merely appendages. The trainers were exercising their mounts and practising a race. The turns were like the Benhur movie. They didn’t slow down the horses, and I felt the chariot sliding sideways on course dart. Amazingly, it didn’t topple. The wind whizz past my face. Somehow, it felt like downhill skiing. Snow flurries were replaced by desert sand.      

After two such turns, the equestrians did the trick our Egyptian friend had warned before. A part of the track was kept bumpy, and they negotiated it at the same speed. The chariot flew above ground, the way Charlton Heston jumped over a failed chariot in Benhur. I was almost thrown out of the carriage. My only concern was then the end of the race, and it did. My trainer smiled through his moustache and uttered, “Good! Like it?” His confident manner assured me he was always in control and wanted to give a feel of what the Romans enjoyed. A day was not enough for the ruins. We loitered among columns and missed Elyna with her detailed lectures that mostly ended with “motherfucker morons.“

We were planning our next move, sitting in a cafe near our pension. By then, I had completed the book Seven Pillars of Wisdom by Lawrence of Arabia. Dan was then reading it. My views about Lawrence were only based on the Hollywood movie. His book reflected what he was, an Oxford researcher about Crusaders’ castles and a spy for the British crown. His sentences were short and crisp, as if he were reporting for the M16 files, but the lines drew pictures of the place.   

Lawrence didn’t have kind words for Indians. Dan teased me with lines like, “The Indians had proved novices on the road. . . . I had rashly understood that they were riders; but now, on good animals, and trying their best, they could average only thirty-five miles a day, a holiday for the rest of the party.”  I took the book and showed Dan the Azraq Castle pages, and we agreed.          

We arrived at Zarqa to change buses for route thirty and reached Azraq in the evening. There were only a few hotels, and we had to choose a better one. They fixed a tourist taxi to visit the desert castles the following day. We saw brilliant frescos in Qusayr (Fort) Amra but were surprised. The literature said these were twelve hundred years old and commissioned by a khalifa (King). Islam never permitted human figures, but the frescos were full of them. The frescoes depicted people engaging in activities such as playing and hunting and images of voluptuous women taking baths. Some scholars wrote these were by pagan tribes, and some blamed the naughty Khalifa, who was not truly Islamic. 

Then, the taxi took us to Qasr Al Azraq. Even the taxi driver knew about Lawrence. I was reading the lines about the castle entrance from the book, “The door was a poised slab of dressed basalt, a foot thick, turning on pivots of itself, socketed into threshold and lintel. It took a great effort to start swinging, and at the end went shut with a clang and crash which made tremble the west wall of the old castle.”   Without fanfare, the driver took us to the foot-thick door and even to the room where Lawrence lived. World War I history came alive after six decades. 

We headed south for Petra along the King’s Highway, a trade route through desert hills since antiquities. Our first stop was Madaba, a Christian-majority island in the Muslim world. The Byzantine church contained the largest mozaic in the world, depicting the King’s Highway in Biblical times. The tourist department marketed it as the oldest continuously used highway in the world. One of the famous mosaics was located in the Hippolytus Hall, depicting the naked goddess of love, Aphrodite, spanking the mischievous god of lust, winged Eros. We then reached Karak, a walled city of the Crusaders. There was a beautiful church there, but we spent most of our day exploring an underground market beneath the church.    

We were heading towards Wadi Musa, the site of Petra, on a tourist minibus. Petra always reminded me of that fateful opening statement in Appointment with Death, ‘You do see, don’t you, that she’s got to be killed?’ I began reading the classic by Agatha Christie on the bus again. I reached the line “and to Petra, ‘the rose-red city,’ that ancient place of heart-stopping beauty—but also of heart-stopping horror, for here sits the corpse of old Mrs Boynton, monstrous matriarch, loathed by one and all.“  Suddenly, a female voice disrupted my attention.

I was sitting on the aisle. A plumpy girl who must have noticed the cover of my book repeated in an unmistakably American accent, “You know, my name is Christie.” I was at a loss still surfacing from Agatha Christie’s plot. Dan from the window side returned, “Ah! There must be a Mrs Boynton travelling with us.“  We laughed at the joke. I found my wit and solemnly announced, “ Meet Dan, Daniel, who writes mystery novels.“  They remained silent, unable to catch the joke, but the companion girl smiled, “He is talking about Death in the Clouds.”  I nodded. Christie had a mystery writer character, Daniel, there. We became friends. 

They were a pack of six students from a college in the Midwest, four girls and two boys. They travelled on a fixed schedule in the holy land for about a month. Christie, the plumpy girl, was friendly, but I thought about the plumpy Ruth and said to myself, “No, Not again, man.“  Dan became lively again, and we booked at the same hotel in Petra. 

The following morning, we hiked to the site. The rock-cut temple entrances in Ajanta were made of dark grey stones, but the Petra was red rose. Otherwise, there were similarities. Petra was a mausoleum of the Nebateans, to be accessed by a narrow gorge. The tourist literature described Petra’s architecture as a ‘fusion of Hellenistic facades with traditional Nabataean rock-cut tombs.‘  However, the capping stone of the main tomb looked like a Kalash (water pot), often built on the top of Indian temples. I read in the Reg (Regenstine, a library in Chicago) that there was an Indian temple in Petra, but I could not locate it in such a vast complex.  

We spent two nights in Petra. On the second evening, we even attended a Bedouin Experience tour. It was like a stage show in a Bedouin camp. The following morning, I had to split with Dan. I was scheduled to attend voluntary work in a Kibbutz and must start towards Israel.  

Dan was not unhappy either. He would join the six-person team to Aqaba, a Red Sea resort with diving facilities. With seven individuals on the team, they reached the total capacity for service taxis, which meant the fare would be almost comparable to the minibus. We had a morning coffee together, exchanging addresses, but we knew we would never meet again. We had a warm handshake and went our separate ways.  

I boarded a tourist minibus and returned to Amman by King’s Highway. I walked along the sites in Amman downtown the following day. I had a heavy dose of Roman ruins and Crusader castles by the time and decided to rest a few days to write letters and update my journal.