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The US and Syria have their political differences, but the drivers of Aleppo have nothing but love for their classic American cars, writes Oliver August
PHOTOGRAPHY JOHN REIFORD
I could hear him before I could see him. The low growl was menacing and, then, there it was, the shadow vast, blocking out my view in the wing mirror – a moon-blue 1968 Chrysler, its engine caged under a king-size hood. The great metallic beast had stopped behind me at a set of traffic lights by the Old City in Aleppo. I was driving a pigeon-chested rental, a Hyundai, one of the growing number of Korean economy cars in Syria. Never had a car felt smaller.
When the lights turned green, the Chrysler swayed to the left and slipped past me. I caught a glimpse of the driver – a friendly man, dressed in a suit, who was talking to a girl, wearing red, in the backseat – then he was gone. At least I thought so. Driving on through the faded one-way avenues of Aleppo – for centuries, the cosmopolitan haunt of adventurers, merchants, scientists and artists – I kept seeing him.
Or was that him? Could he have changed so quickly? Now it was no longer a blue car, but purple. Its hood had expanded, the chrome bumper was no longer dented and it no longer said Chrysler on the back. It said Buick. Then Pontiac.
I wasn’t so much following a ghost, as many ghosts. The city streets, colonial in their latticed elegance, but dry and brittle like the surrounding desert, were populated by automobile museum pieces of unmistakably American vintage. A rumbling ’58 Chevy, dust carefully wiped off the front windows; a paint-straining 1973 Dodge Dart, all muscle; an almost shy-seeming 1955 DeSoto pick-up truck, the poor country relation.
There were Bel Airs, Austins, Cadillacs – cars built for space travel. They had fins and grills and rocket-thruster tail-lights that might have taken them to the moon. They were painted in colours – maroon, beige, pink – nobody had worn since the Beach Boys, certainly not in combination.
I parked in a side street near the Baron Hotel and set out on foot. How would one get to drive such a vehicle? By asking, I hoped. I approached idling owners. Might they let me take the wheel for a few minutes? They seemed less than inclined to lend me a car that, in most cases, was built before they were born.
But they were chatty. Abu Ahmad, a bearded 38-year-old, praised the reliability of his AMC Rambler. “I have a big family,” he said. “I have four sons. Everyone can fit in.” Beside him, another man was measuring the car’s inside with his outstretched arms in an attempt to show me how much he appreciated the hulking size. “America – no problem,” he said, eventually. Never mind that the US government has imposed sanctions on Syria. “Bush bad, but cars good,” they agreed.
Across from Aleppo’s ancient clock tower, I asked another man if I could drive his car, a polished 1950 Buick Roadmaster. “Sure, sure, sure,” he said and recalled uncles and cousins who had driven it since the 1970s, but made no move to let me into the driver’s seat. When I asked again, he suggested visiting his store selling coffee beans and spices. He was parked right in front of it.
The answer was always the same – whether a Chevrolet, an Oldsmobile or a vintage Mercedes. But, mercifully, the owners liked to talk. The proliferation of American cars in Syria, they said, was a quirk of the socialist command economy. For decades, the import of cars had been prohibited to safeguard hard currency. Then, in 1994, the ban was lifted, but prohibitively high import taxes had more or less the same effect. There are some new cars in Syria today, but most people can’t afford them and, hence, anyone who has an old one hangs on to it for as long as possible.
A cottage industry of repair shops for vintage cars has grown up on the outskirts of most large cities. In Aleppo, the road leading to the main north-south highway is lined with men in overalls, who can take apart, clean and fix a carburettor that a Western mechanic would only consider replacing. Doors are welded to chassis where hinges have rusted; chrome is replaced with extravagant constructions made of fibre-glass; Syrian-made axles and Japanese engines are snugly fitted into what was once all-American. A specialist in upholstery caters to the more florid tastes of the region.
Making a potentially costly miscalculation, I asked one of the mechanics if I could buy an old Chevy or Dodge. I would save the money I was spending on the rental car for the week. The mechanic – he seemed to have more oil in his slicked-back hair than on his overall – assured me he could procure a vehicle for me. My own street cruiser at last.
The dream lasted the few seconds it took him to grab a pocket calculator and punch in a likely price. I had counted on spending a few hundred dollars and, at first, I thought his prices must be in Syrian lira. But, no, he meant 16,000 US dollars. For a 1977 Dodge Aspen. The roof was held down by a reinforced steel bar that ran the width of the back seat.
Other repair shops confirmed this was the going rate. Importing was even more expensive, they said. That’s why Syrians spent so lavishly on restoring their rust buckets.
Well, could I at least try out the 1977 Dodge Aspen? Take it for a test drive? Accompanied by Yasser, the mechanic with oily hair, I pulled into moderate afternoon traffic a few minutes later. The clutch on the Dodge responded with gun-barrel precision and, effortlessly, we passed into the fast lane, below minarets of an even older vintage.
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