The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor Whitall
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like a Turkish version of the Wild West. I was half expecting a Santa Fe stagecoach to appear out of the gloom. What with the Americans running the nearby NATO base, it was a bit of a ‘rocking’ town. Muddy, potholed roads and the typical carefree attitude of Turkish drivers just added to the mix. Within the hour we were parked up on a rough patch of ground near Ceyhan.
“BANG, BANG, BANG, on the door. I was absolutely sound, but this was serious banging”
Sadly for us it was our last night as a gang. Tomorrow would be saying goodbye to Morrie, as he was off to Baghdad, the rest of us to various destinations further south. Taffy had clutch problems but was going to try and soldier on to the Mercedes agent in Damascus.
BANG, BANG, BANG, on the door. I was absolutely sound asleep, but this was serious banging, as in a daze I reached over to pull back the curtain and see a Polis sign out of the side window. Mick was already out of his cab.
‘We’ve got to move,’ he shouted. ‘The cops say it’s not safe to stay here, apparently there’s a restaurant about three Ks up the road.’
Bleary eyed, we followed the Polis car to his ‘safe’ parking area and almost before I could switch the engine off I was straight back onto the bunk.
Next thing I knew, it was daylight and Morrie was up and about, knocking on our cabs to say goodbye. He was off to Zakho and wanted to get through the border by tonight. I was more than grateful for his help and patience, and it had been a good week running together; hopefully we’d meet up again.
The rest of us decided to make a move as well and headed off towards Toprakkale, only for Bert to realise that now he’d got a slow puncture. As he was only carrying a boy’s load, about 6 tons, we topped up the air with a line stretched from the cab. If we could get to Iskenderun, maybe we could find a tyre repair shop.
On the southern outskirts of the town, there it was; the ubiquitous roadside shack that could repair anything you’d care to present them with. Not only did they repair his inner tube, but my own as well. I’m convinced that had they got a rubber tree they would have had a bash at making their own tyres! Watching these guys work, using the most basic of tools, was an eye-opener. They were so talented and inventive, they put our efforts to shame.
Now we were getting close to the border, I was starting to get concerned about an agent. There wasn’t one listed in my folder for Cilvegözü. The other guys said the same, we’d have to wait and see.
This couldn’t be it, could it! We were on a narrow country road, hardly wide enough for two vehicles to pass, and there ahead of us was a flimsy red and white barrier with an empty sentry box. Parking, we walked across the road to what appeared to be a temporary restaurant with a lean-to alongside. Glancing through the doorway, there was a uniformed officer sat at a desk. This appeared to be the customs post! Kapikule this most definitely wasn’t . . .
Beckoning us in, he asked for our papers, saying in broken English. ‘Halluf one hower finis.’
‘Yeah, right,’ whispered Bert, ‘and pigs might fly,’ making a snorting sound.
True to his word, in halluf one hower it was finis; there was our passport and paperwork on the desk, all stamped and signed.
‘Today as is spezzial holiday, is 200TL,’ he said, handing them back with a smile.
Ah, the land of baksheesh, a spezzial holiday indeed, and I’ll bet there’s no receipt! I’ve become a cynic already, still it’s a small price to pay for such prompt service and not a bad little earner for him! He checked each face against the passport photo and, picking up Bert’s, added a snorting sound of his own. I’ve never seen anyone colour up so quickly! The barrier lifted and we were through into no-man’s-land.
A 2 km drive under a ruined arch to ‘The Gates of the Wind’, Bab al-Hawa, and we were at the border with Syria. Our load carnets were not accepted as valid documentation here and I’m not sure whether it’s because Syria wasn’t party to the international TIR accord, or because it was still regarded as a ‘war zone’. Whatever the reason, all documents had to be translated into Arabic by our agent and transit duty paid as a percentage of the load’s value; in my case the equivalent of £100 in Syrian Pounds! Only then was temporary transit paperwork issued, which had to be handed in when exiting the country. One thing you rapidly learned was patience. There seemed to be no accounting for the length of time clearances took. I mean, it was half an hour back there at Cilvegözü, but here it was going to be a very long time. A meal and a few cold drinks in the restaurant had us all feeling maudlin and by the time we’d got our translated documents back it was too late to go anywhere. Oh well, it was an early night with Radio Luxembourg to lull me to sleep.
“One thing you rapidly learned was patience. There seemed to be no accounting for the length of time clearances took.”
With another sunbaked day in prospect, our convoy was back on the road at 7.30am, heading for Damascus. As we headed further south, the landscape, though not what you’d call proper desert, was becoming more and more devoid of vegetation. Here the soil had a deep red orange timbre and didn’t look too rich in nutrients. I couldn’t imagine crops being a very productive source of food in this hostile environment.
I’ve no idea why I stopped with the others in Damascus; they had business there, I didn’t. It’s strange isn’t it. Maybe it’s the human psyche. Some of us had been travelling together for over a week and formed a bond, so it felt quite normal that if one of the guys had to stop and do something, we all stopped. I’ve since realised this was a type of first trip nerves, where safety in numbers was the order of the day. Morrie was right; get up, shake hands and say goodbye!
Not getting any response from Mick or Bert in the morning, I left a message on their windscreens and headed out of town, glad to get away from the abysmal standard of driving displayed by the local residents. If this is what we’d have to put up with in this dusty and fly-infested part of the world, I’d better keep a weather eye out for myself. Daraa, Syria’s border crossing into Jordan, was about an hour down the road. Arriving into the bedlam of ancient battered old trucks, piled high with various types of fruit, I could see right away that driving here was definitely not a non-contact ‘sport’.
What a shambles! It was a case of everyone for themselves, as the idea of queuing was obviously alien to them. So with the thought that if you can’t beat them, join them, I eased my way forward, allowing no one to squeeze even a coat of paint into the gap between me and the vehicle in front. Allow one in and suddenly he had three mates that ‘needed’ to get in. After around 2 hours of verbal and physical ‘jousting’ with this herd of demented ex camel jockeys, I was finally near the front of the queue. Then, out of nowhere an ‘agent’, dressed in a white kaftan type of robe appeared by my door, asking for my papers. Who was he? I didn’t know him from Adam, but such was the chaotic situation going on around me, I passed them through the open window in total trustworthiness.
It was uncomfortably hot and I was starting to get a little concerned about my decision to hand over my passport and all my documents to a total stranger. Seriously contemplating going to look for him, there was a tap on the door. He was back, speaking in perfect BBC English.
‘When you return from Kuwait Mr Ivor, come to see me about the Arabic translation of your triptiques (carnet de passages), and I will complete your paperwork.’
“What a shambles! It was a case of everyone for themselves, as the idea of queuing was obviously alien to them.”
I certainly will, I thought, and with a ‘thank you’ I was off and heading across another stretch of no-man’s-land to Ramtha, the Jordanian border. Here I’d got a nominated agent, Mohammed el Katib, and finding his office, I was offered the prerequisite chi before he took my documents. He noted straight away that I’d not got a Saudi visa. ‘Now it is too late,’ he informed me. ‘It will all be completed in the morning.’
Outside, I slumped down against the concrete wall, rolled myself a perennial soother and took a deep drag. What the hell am I doing here? Perched against a grubby wall in