I’m taking a taxi from Amman to Damascus with the British engineer. The rest of our little group of six have parted ways. About 300 m from the border, the driver asks us to get out of the car. He pops off the seat back revealing a hidden compartment into which he stuffs cartons of cigarettes to smuggle across the border. He looks at me and touches his finger to his lips. We get back in and cross the border without incident - no wonder the fare was so cheap.
I almost get in trouble photgraphing a government building. Otherwise, I'm thoroughly enjoying this great city. I buy some brass souveniers at the souk and marvel at millenia-old winding side streets. The falafel sandwitches are different from those in Egypt and Jordan. They put pinkish pickled turnips in them.
