The taxi rides were my favorite experience during my trips to Syria. Hailing them on the street was almost a game of luck. I could get either a painfully bright yellow taxi – which usually meant it was in good condition – or I could be stuck with one that looks like it was colored yellow by crayon. For the sake of a more interesting story, I’ll assume I found one of the latter.

Putting my hand on the door handle, I could feel the small, sharp chips of paint coming off and leaving behind an uncomfortable crust. I place one leg into the car but I am stopped as a jagged edge of the door tears my shorts with a noticeable RIP. While I’m standing there struggling to detach myself from the metal trap which has now revealed a significant portion of my upper thigh, the driver pulls out a crushed carton of cigarettes from his pocket. Tick, tick…after the second try he successfully lights a stick. The pungent odor of cheap tobacco mixed with dirty taxi driver wafted into my face. I took whatever effort I had left and plopped into the strangely soggy cushion of the passenger seat. Was it filled with sheep guts? I sat there imagining that for a second.

After giving my destination and being met with an unexpected grunt, I glanced around at the cab which was clearly some sort of second home. There were white, crumpled tissues lying around next to the stick shift, which was quite literally sticky. A thick layer of settled dust covered both the clock and the fare, leaving me to guess that it was around ten in the morning and the ride should cost approximately a hundred lira.

Being a passenger in a Syrian taxi is a pretty scary experience. The driving is insane; lanes and stop signs do not exist. On this particular day, the route involved passing through a busy market. The sour smell of street litter entered the car. A bright motley of different colored fruits ranging from purple eggplants to yellow peppers decorated the wooden stands. “BATEEKH!” Each store owner was repetitively shouting his or her products. There were even horse-drawn platforms stacked with pyramids of fat, green watermelons. On each peak, one watermelon would be cut in half to illustrate the fresh and luscious red inside. Black seeds dotted the cross-sections in remarkable patterns. While I sat there taking in the experiences of being in a third-world country, the driver made his way sloppily through the crowds of people. He did not care the slightest bit as he slammed into covered women with his sideview mirror. At one point he collided so roughly with a bystander that the mirror bent inwards. The driver sounded a grunt at me, which I assumed was a request to fix his mirror. I heard the snap of a lighter; he had pulled out another cigarette.

We reached a traffic circle. I noticed Syria had a lot of them, something I’m not used to back at home. In the center there was a beautiful stone fountain spitting sparkling water in about thirty different directions. As for the cars, there was no traffic pattern or control at all. It’s not that there were no stop lights; they were everywhere. And there stood police officers in beige uniforms at every corner, swinging their batons and clutching their AK-47s. But with a simple bribery of fifty lira, any of your misdemeanors could be waived.

I finally arrived at my destination and waited to hear what price my driver would name. I also nervously asked what time it was, expecting a grunted response. Turns out it was really noon and my trip had actually cost me two hundred lira. I love Syria.