Andak al-yemeen!

So a while back my mom asked me to pick an object in Damascus which I thought symbolized daily life here, and I have discovered it. It was so obvious, in my face every day, it's a wonder it took me so long to realize it.

So, to back track a little, I'll start actually last summer, when I was in...another city. A joke among my friends there was that I relied on the "Arab buses" instead of the very well scheduled "regular bus" system. Whenever pressed on the issue, I would insist that the Palestinian buses just made more sense to me, to which my friends would burst out laughing: "The city buses have a map!" Which is fair--the Arab bus system does not, and would better be described as having, say, a general direction.

I know this might seem strange and perhaps frustrating to outsiders, but that is because they haven't learned to appreciate the beauty of organized chaos.

The Arab world has a little unique system of transportation I haven't seen in other parts, which I absolutely love, and it is called "al- service" ( pronounced in an arabic accent, so "sirfeez"). What is the service, you ask? You can see tons of services zipping in and out of traffic on any street in Damscus, sometimes literally jumping in the air as it flies over speed bumps and potholes. On the outside, it looks like just a dusty, battered mini van, and the inside is no more impressive: four worn and weary rows of fake leather seats, often times crammed with twice the amount of passengers expected. Sometimes the front seat has been decorated with lights and tinsel, sometimes it's converted into a portable shrine to the driver's preferred saint...

The idea of the service is wonderful in it's simplicity and fascinating as a social study. It works sort of like a bus--each van has a sign on top indicating its "route". The difference is that, while it follows the same general path, it will drop you off generally anywhere on the way. There are no "stops". And sometimes, if it's hot, the driver will turn around and just ask, "is anyone actually going to place X?" If not, he'll take a short cut. Technically, the service has no time schedule. That means that sometimes you will wait forever to find your line, while other days you literally see five in a row stacked up behind each other at the same traffic light. Yet, there is some timing you can always count on--I know for example that the second it turns 8:15, it will be impossible for me to catch a ride for another half hour on my service route. Arrive just a minute earlier, and you'll be on your way in no time. Why? I have no idea.

Services are much cheaper than taxis, and therefore the preferred mode of transport for average Syrians. Even the way you pay is indicative of society here. Each service has a sign pasted on it's windows saying a ride is 9 Lira. Here's the catch--I have never seen a 1 lira coin, meaning that in practice, you have to pay 10 Lira, and that's quietly become the accepted rate. What never ceases to fascinate me is the method of paying. You take your seat, no matter where it is, and at your leisure, you procure your 10 lira and hand it to the person in front of you, and the change will, person by person, make it up to the driver who somehow manages to fly around cars and over speed bumps, all while counting out exact change to hand back down through the line . And so it goes. And no one gets cheated--sometimes if you hand a particularly large bill, a passenger will take it upon him or herself to wait and collect other people's fares to make change on behalf of the driver--also never cheating.

Here's the thing--there are only two options for what's going on in the driver's head, both of which I think are equally impressive. Either he's actually keeping track of how much everyone who's getting in and out has paid...or, he just trusts us all. Which is it? Probably both, according to my Syrian friend Sami, who says some drivers really do count--one time a driver insisted that someone hadn't paid, everyone stared back indignantly, until it finally dawned on Sami that he was the one who'd forgotten!

Sami also says that some service routes have their own personality--you're more likely to hear Qur'an recitations on the Muhajireen or Rukin al-Deen lines, where the inhabitants are more conservative, as opposed to the raucous pop music on the lines around the outskirts of the city center. Some Syrians make fun of the line Sami takes back home to his Damascus suburb, because of its unusually quiet and reserved passengers.

The intricate service gesturing system service drivers reflects societal norms. For example, there is a complex system of hand gestures in Damascus for potential passengers to indicate how many of them intend to get on, before the driver reaches them and has to stop. If they want more than can fit, he'll raise his palm over his head--the gesture implies, "there's room on the roof", which of course actually means no.... But, like Syrians themselves, the idea of giving a direct "no" is too abrupt. And not nearly as fun! Women who get on a crowded service will sit on the floor, usually only to be ushered into a young man's former seat (what my feminist friends here call their "golden cage").

This method of transportation is what embodies everything I love and hate about Syria--the ridiculous irony of posted prices that everyone ignores and overlooks without a sigh, the complete trust in strangers sharing the fate of a van's backseat. But mostly, the flexible interpretation of a "system." Yes the service will eventually get you to downtown...but hey, sometimes people get thirsty, why not stop to grab a drink at the next stoplight?

I love how I still feel human, how this "system" avoids the oppressive structure of bureaucracy. Because when you ride a service, crammed in as you may be between someone's bulky groceries and a large woman's bottom seeping into your seat, I know any second I can call "Andak al-yemeen!" (let me out at the right). I hop out, and I've never felt so free.