Image by PanARMENIAN_Photo via FlickrAs I approach the Syrian border in to Turkey at Bab al-Hawa a Zen calm comes over me. I'm in a ramshckle vehicle with four people, none of whom speak English, and I'm pretty sure that at least one person in the vehicle is a member of the police.
As the car slows at the Syrian side of the border, I quietly hum Que Sera Sera to myself. At the border we all get out of the car and go to the trunk, where we are asked to identify our bags and open them.
My Zen fades as I open my bag. The dude with the big gun takes a cursory glance and directs me to the kiosk, where I present my documents.
I think to myself as I exit Syria, "any idiot can get out of a country, it is getting in to the next one that can be tricky". Welcome to no mans land, the place where one is out, but not yet in. However, I am encourged by the lads in the car. The one redeeming feature of being in no mans land is the opportunity to shop Duty Free, and my fellow passengers pile into the store with a zeal beyond anything I have seen so far on this trip.
An invitation to shop is proffered, but I decline, choosing to step out of the vehicle and drink in my desolate mountain surroundings. I drench myself in the hypnotic timeless beige beauty, I consider taking a picture, but my camera is big and my instincts tell me that this border installation might not be the wisest place for a photo-op.
Nonetheless, it is striking and beautiful.
The lads return from shopping, and by the look of their purchases, I'm starting to think that these are my kind of people. Nothing but booze and cigarettes.
We approach the Turkish border and I remember why Lonely Planet says to take the early bus. The lineup is longer than The Beatles Revolution #9 played at 16rpm (take that Dennis Miller).
Everything from here forward is speculation and an example of the folly that can strike a traveler when traveling under dubious circumstances. Due to language barriers, I cannot confirm anything other than the fact that the Turkish border officials did allow me to cross. Eventually.
I think that the first mistake came when my driver was ordered to jump the cue by someone in the back seat. Jumping the cue involved getting away from the commercial vehicle line by driving backwards, then squuezing into the regular passenger line. I'm pretty sure that cutting the line is a practice reviled worldwide, and I'm even more certain that there are a great deal of cameras at this particular border.
As I said, the Turkish authorities did allow me in and they were polite and kind. Even better, the entry visa that I paid double the going rate for in Istanbul allows for re-entry. I just saved sixty bucks unexpectedly. (Turkey has punitive visa rates for Canadians, due to the official recognition by the Stephen Harper government of an "Armenian genocide"). I take no sides, but this is why people from Canada pay twice as much as Americans for a Turkish entry visa.
While its all well and good that I am in Turkey, I was kind of hoping that the car and driver might come along with me. I'm pretty sure that due to our attempted cue jumping we have been banished to the dreaded "truck line".
And the reason that the truck line is dreaded is because every truck must go through a giant garage like xray machine that takes ten minutes to scan one semi trailer. There is a set of lights and when it goes green, the gate opens and then the door opens and dude drives his truck in. Then the driver gets the hell out. There are radiation signs everywhere and the whole process takes ten to twenty minutes per truck.
And I'm in a car, and I'm in this line. Better yet the truckers are furious that we are here, but the driver has been given his marching orders.Because we are through the border, we are now trying to cut in to the truck line. Two line cuts in one day is a record for me.
My hopes to get to Adana by nightfall dissipate along with my fascination for the countryside of this border crossing as the hours pile up. However, there is no shortage of drama unfolding before me. Serious fights threaten to break out amongst the truckers as they jockey for position. I step back and avoid the fray as peacemakers intervene.
I spy another cab in the same boat and share a silent laugh with some fellow travelers as we glance across the interminable wait.
In a comic moment I watch a swamper jump up and down on goods piled high on the roof of a truck so as to meet the vehicle height requirement. Others climb up and join in, and a cheer goes up when the truck clears the gate.
Eventually I am asked to remove my luggage, so that our car can be radiated. By this point the two police station passengers have bailed out, angrily refusing to pay the agreed fare. I briefly consider walking through the final checkpoint, but I have another 50km ahead, and no idea what lays on the other side.
It occurs to me that like it or not, it is best to stick with the devil I know.
The car gets scanned, my luggage goes back in the trunk as the carrot of departure is dangled yet again. The driver and his buddy disappear and reappear, hunting sporadically for documentation in the glove compartment.
As I enter my fifth hour at this now godforsaken dump, we finally move in to yet another line. I don't know who recorded the song "The Final Countdown", but it is running through my mind as we try to cut yet another line.
Finally we reach and clear the last gate, but a border official comes running out of yet another kiosk, and orders us to the side. We pull over, and more documents are produced. The border guard returns to his kiosk as I think to myself "I've had enough of this shit", and apparently my driver and his buddy are thinking the same thought.
Suddenly, an air of conspiracy permeates the car and despite the language barrier, I am fully cognizant. Dude in the backseat is looking back at the kiosk, waiting for the guard to be distracted, and when he is, he gives the "go" signal to the driver.
As we peel out, I think to myself "this sh*t is f*cked up".
I wait for the sirens to come up behind us, but they never do.
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