Two unintelligible cultures

Peter looks at the peaceful look on my face. I'm under anaesthetic and the surgery was successful. Next to the bed, on the nightstand, is a plastic bag with on it the organ that's removed: a purple red balloon as big as a tomato. On the extreme point they knotted a black thread, that keeps the contents of the gallbladder inside.

I wake up and say something unintelligible. I look a bit hazy at Peter and fall asleep, wake up, say something unintelligible and fall asleep again. Then I wake up, look at him and say something unintelligible for a change.
"Good morning sweetheart, how are you feeling?" Peter asks me.
"Yes" is my answer and I'm gone again. Nice conversation, this.

Fifteen minutes later I'm really awake, a little bit. I'm cold and want to have an extra blanket. Peter shows me the little infected rascal. I'm not impressed by the monster, but do ask Peter to cut it open. I want to see what's in there. Peter doesn't feel right about it: cutting in something that belongs in his wife's body. I urge him, he cuts the gallbladder open and a disappointment awaits us: no stones to be seen, only a redbrown fluid.
Peter is really happy that I'm alive again, he'd like to dance, swim, run and cycle with me. Especially cycling, in this special world. However, that has to wait a little while.
In the afternoon I feel better and better. I almost feel no pain, although I do feel weak. Temperature and bloodpressure are measured every hour and the drip is changed regularly. Then Abdulsalaam and his wife Rowda come to visit me. We met Abdul when we were looking for storage for our bicycles and other stuff, in the period we thought we were going to go to the Netherlands. He works in Germany and spends his holiday in Syria, where his wife and children live. They give me a wonderful lilac-purple pyjama suit, according to the Syrian tradition of bringing sick people a gift when you visit them.

For Peter they brought along two stuffed eggplants and two bottles of ayran. Abdul is an orthodox Muslim. His wife - who's completely covered in black clothes - is not allowed to work outside the house and wears a complete veil. Other men are not allowed to catch a glimpse of her skin. The sisters and mother of Mohamed in Idleb always covered their hair when Peter entered the house, but he was allowed to see their faces. Some Muslim women don't wear any veil at all. Every Muslim seems to exercise his or her faith like they see fit. Abdul lives his faith in an orthodox way. Even his brothers have never seen his wife, not even during their wedding. Abdul has never seen his brothers' wives either, although they are his wife's sisters. This interpretation of the rules of the Koran is one of the most stringent. An unintelligible culture, to us.

The next day Abdul drops by spontaneously. I'm sleeping and Peter and Abdul go for a walk. Abdul hasn't left Syria just for economic reasons, but also for the corrupt culture in which the citizen always gets the worst. Today he shows Peter some signs of corruption. First they have a seat at a beanstand at a busy transitroad. The broad beans that are dark for cooking are served in bowls with a slice of lemon. The dips are salt, cumin and hot spices. Abdul teaches Peter how to bite the bean in half at one end and press and suck the contents in his mouth. It's delicious and healthy!
Abdul tells Peter to pay attention and watch the traffic cop on the other side of the road. The officer stops all the service-busses and trucks on the road. He walks towards the driver, who hangs his arm outside his window. In a flowing movement the officer's hand goes to the driver's hand and then to his pocket. Abdul exactly knows what being exchanged: 25 pounds, the equivalent of 45 Eurocent. The corrupt actions go on permanently, each driver knows what's expected and the officer puts at least 45 Euro in his pocket, every hour. Abdul tells that every traffic cop has to give his boss a certain amount of money every day, the boss has to give money to his boss. This goes on and on until the ministers-level.
If a driver doesn't want to pay he gets fined for one offence or the other that he committed or not. Bribing is cheaper. Syrians have to pay bribes for every government service. If you refuse to pay, you can forget about your permit or licence. Just like Abdul Peter has to laugh about the police officer that's so busy collecting money, but at the same time they detest the system. For Abdul this was reason enough to emigrate.

I'm doing very well. Peter plays himself: the forcing therapist with an enormous dislike of hospitals who wants to see me move as soon and much as possible. "Walk, bitch!" is his motto. The result is good: two days after the operation I'm allowed to leave the hospital. Peter doesn't want to be self-indulgent and admits that I worked very hard myself to recover as soon as possible.

Friday, the Sunday in Muslim-countries, we have an appointment at Abdul's house. At a florist we buy a bouquet of flowers where every Dutch florist would be very much ashamed of. Here it's ultra chic to present such a bunch of faded roses and carnations. The welcome is heart-warming. The house consists of two living quarters: one for the women where strange men are not allowed to enter. Strange is a very wide concept: every man except for the husband and the wife's own male children. The other quarter is for the men, where the lady of the house only goes when there are no strange men in the house. Abdul is very talkative: two houses from his there is a post of one of the many departments of the secret police. Here old-fashioned torture takes place. Criminals and political delinquents are tied to a cross, turned around and beaten on the soles of their feet with electricity wires. For the neighbourhood it's a burden: from their houses the children can watch people getting beaten up. Complaints didn't help: the windows are still wide open and the torture goes on.
Abdul has a hard time with the political regime of the country. When the old mister Assad died unexpectedly in 2000 his son Bashir was destined to become the next president. The legal minimum age for a president was 40 years, Bashir was only 34 at the time. Never before a law has changed so fast. The minimum age became 34 and Bashir 'won' the elections with 97% of the votes.

Rowda prepared a fantastic meal. Peter and I eat the meal in the man's room, together with Abdul and his two sons. Rowda eats her meal in the kitchen, together with her daughters. They urge us to use their great shower, built by Abdul with German parts. They know that we have to pay separately to take a shower in our hotel. Grateful we accept the offer and the tremendous hospitality of Abdul and Rowda.

During my recovery we visit the old mosques and churches in Homs. One week after the operation the stitches are removed and I'm officially declared healthy again. The next day we visit the Crac des Chevaliers, by minibus.

This castle is one of the biggest castles built by the crusaders in the 11th century. The crusaders built it on top of another fort, expanded and fortified it. It could hold a garrison of 2.000 men and was self sufficient for a period of five consecutive years. The enormous kitchens and storage cellars show what good organisers the crusaders were.

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Two weeks after arriving in Homs we leave again, by bicycle. It's a strange and wonderful sensation. The misery is over, I'm healthy again, and we're going for it!