The Privileged Pilgrim

 Sometimes when I travel I'm not entirely sure of where I'm going to sleep, but this sentiment is usually constrained to finding a hotel in a defined place. Today, not even the place is not defined.

After a final, white knuckled ride from the Syrian border to Antakya, I do know one thing. I have spent the last eight hours in a cab to travel 120km and I just want to get out of this vehicle. Lodging is a secondary priority, and  I know that now that I am in Antakya, I have a few cards to play.

At the beginning of the day, my wide eyed goal was to be here in the early afternoon, so that I could get a bus to Adana, at which point I would book a flight back to Istanbul. In the waning hours of the Antioch day it appears my goal will not be reached.

Nonetheless, I grab my (non heroin filled)  bags and the cab driver points me in the direction of the bus terminal. I am accompanied by the very beautiful and very young Russian lady who had joined us at the Turkish border. She had been denied entry into Syria due to a lack of a visa, and she is not happy about it.

I explain to her that there has been a changing of the guard at whatever department grants visa's to travellers, and the Syrian government had cracked down on issuing visa's at the border. Having done my research prior to travelling, this was not the first time I had heard this story.

As we walk towards the bus station I advise her that if she wants to get a visa for Syria, she should go to Ankara and apply there. Graciously, she offers to help me translate in my quest for a ticket to Adana as she speaks four languages.

I hesitate for a moment, and in that moment I realise that I am really missing the company of women, and I don't mean that in a sexual way. I mean it in a social sense. As much as I enjoyed her company, I decline her offer while imagining her running for Putin's job in about twenty years and winning.

We arrive at the "bus station", shake hands, and part ways as I again lament the fact that I am not younger, richer, and better looking.

The bus station is really a strip mall of private bus companies, each with their own storefront. Almost all are closed, but I find one open. I expect to be told that there is nothing until tomorrow, but the man points me to a closed office and says they have one more shuttle to Adana.

He tells me to come back in one hour and they will be open. Perfect.

I haven't eaten since breakfast at  The Baron Hotel this morning, and I am famished. In addition, Antakya is a beautiful place, and I am grateful to have one last hour here. Dragging my luggage through town, I am definitely an object of attention.

I find a nice little Mom and Pop fast food joint and stuff myself on chicken, rice, and salad as the locals look on. I make my way to the bus office which is now open and buy a ticket to Adana. Much to my surprise, I am actually going to make it back to Adana tonight.

I load my luggage on the bus and climb aboard. As we pull out into the Turkish night, it dawns on me for the first time today that I will probably never see Syria again. This saddens me, but I quickly understand as we roll through the now dark Levant that the real cause of the tears running down my cheek is the joyous recognition that I was deeply blessed to see Syria at all.

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Over The Borderline

Upon my return to Aleppo, I find myself in a taxi heading to The Baron Hotel. As we approach the hotel we stop at an intersection with police directing traffic.

I realise that my seatbelt is not on, and I hasten to strap myself in, but the female end is broken, so I hold it in place, giving the illusion of compliance. The driver looks over at me and says "Don't worry about police, I am police".

In a place like Syria, I have no reason to doubt him.

He asks me where I'm going and I explain that my plan is to pass through the Syrian frontier back into Turkey via Antakya. I have some vague plan to get a bus, but I also know that buses along this route are not common. He offers me a lift for $60, 120 km across the border to Antakya.

I consider briefly, then accept, thinking that hiring a private driver who is a cop speaks to my need for convenience and safety. Not to mention a wakeup call delayed by four hours. I accept and we arrange

The concierge at The Baron asks if I need a ride to Antakya, and I explain that I have already booked a ride and I have the first twinge that I have chosen too quickly..

My driver shows up promptly the following morning, and I am initially buoyed. We drive through the streets of Aleppo, and I briefly think that we are on our way, but it is not to be, and I begin to feel like I am in the opening of a great movie that I wish I wasn't in.

We switch cars. We switch drivers. I sit in the car with my luggage in the trunk for about half an hour. As I sit in the new car, the trunk is opened and closed several times. The thing is that when you sit in a car while the trunk is being opened it is impossible to see what is going on in said trunk, but it is possible to feel it.

I begin to imagine that my bag is being stuffed with Iranian heroin, bound for the Turkish market or any other number of nefarious schemes that end with me being sentenced to life in a far flung gulag while my family exhausts all their holdings in a vein attempt to free me or I get shot in the head in some obscure field.

My travel paranoia meter is going off like never before, and it only gets more redline as I am joined by a new driver and a fellow passenger, neither of whom speak English.

And what better place for a paranoid traveler in a police state to make a last stop prior to departure than a police station?  Even better, we pick up two more people at the police station. We all report to the local authorities that we are leaving the jurisdiction. In defence of the Syrian police and border officials that I dealt with, they were all kind, polite, professional, and vigilant.

As me and four non english speaking dudes head out into the remote Syrian countryside the driver offers a cigarette and we all accept. I wait about half an hour and do the same. No one accepts.

I've traveled to a lot of places, but I have never seen my original intentions go so far awry, and I don't mind telling you that I am deeply worried due to my complete lack of control. This is a moment where I have nothing to rely on but my faith in others.

We pull over somewhere in a remote area and the trunk opens again. While I cannot see,I can feel things being unloaded. Heavy things. By now I am pretty convinced that it is a key part for the secret nuclear program between North Korea, Syria ,and Iran. (google it!)

However, I feel a little better that we have unloaded some cargo as we head out. At least about for about 83 seconds, at which point the driver realises that he has forgotten to drop off something (possibly the enriched uranium).

We drive on towards the border and the countryside is stark and beautiful and I revel in the fact of how "real" everything is, while reminding myself that it is moments like these that are the reason that I travel. I may be scared, but I am very much alive.

As we pull up to the border I quietly take a very, very, deep breath


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Otogar? Brrrrr! Otogar?Brrrrr!

My guess is that you have never tried to flag a cab in Antakya at 6 am, and up until this moment, neither had I.

My early departure requires a 5:30 am wakeup call, and I sleep fitfully in chronic fear of missing the bus combined with traffic noise that makes me feel as if I am camping on the interstate.

Not surprisingly, language barriers abound the further I move away from tourist friendly Istanbul and Selcuk. At this point the word "hello" is no longer a greeting, it is a question. As I get into the cab, I am entirely dependent on one word. Otogar.

Otogar is the Turkish word for bus station, and it is the only bullet I have in my  linguistic chamber. The dilemma is that most of the people in this part of Turkey speak Arabic. In fact, Antakya was once part of Syria, and briefly prior to WW2 it was a Monaco-esque city state.

And, as previously mentioned, there is a great deal more history here, all of which I have missed.

As I enter the cab, I ask "Hello?". A friendly nod but no verbal response. Ok, time for question number two. Otogar? He nods and I hop in, however, unknown to me, Antakya has more than one Otogar. We begin a game of charades as he tries to help me through my linguistic ignorance.

He indicates an upward slope and I nod ambivalently, recalling that the terminal was at an elevation. We hit the road, neither of us quite certain that we are going to the correct place.

As we drive, the cabbie tries to speak to me in Arabic. Clueless, I nod in agreement. At a red light he turns to me and says "Brrrrrr" Now as a Canadian, that is a language I understand. "Brrrrr", I reply.

At the next stop, he puts on his gloves and shows them to me, as if to emphasize the gravity of our climate emergency.

"Brrr", he says.

"Brrrrr", I reply. I wrap my arms around myself for emphasis, while thinking to myself that this guy should never visit Canada in the winter.

We arrive at the bus station.

"Otogar?" he asks.

"Otogar!", I reply, giving him the thumbs up. I pay my fare with a nice tip and step out into the slightly chilly Antakya bus station morning.

Next stop Syria, Insha'Allah

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Oops.....

Image by Arbo Moosberg via Flickr
Honestly, I don't know how it happened, but it is probably the worst mistake I have ever made as a traveler. I guess I was too fixated on entering Syria and I only recognized Antakya as a gateway into Syria, a place where I could crash for a night en route to Aleppo, Syria.

As I get off the bus, I feel that things have changed. While, I may not be in Syria I feel that I am now in The Middle East. As is my habit, I refuse cabbies, as I breathe in my new environment while breathing out smoke..

Again, I have no hotel booked here. My faint hope was finding a bus in to Syria, but it is not to be until tomorrow. No matter, as it is very beautiful around here.



So I resign myself to crashing for the night in Antakya.. I find a taxi and explain my needs through the language barrier. I begin to understand that language is going to be a huge issue from here on in, but I am lucky as my cabbie takes me to a nice hotel at a fair price.

I check in, change some cash and head out in search of food. As I walk around, I notice how beautiful this place is, nestled in the mountains with the beautiful ancient canal flowing through the middle of this picturesque locale.

The thing is that I only spent one night here, completely oblivious to the fact that I am in an ancient capital and trading centre known as Antioch. This place is rich with history, and I have not appreciated one iota of it.

As far as being a world traveler, Antioch is my Homer Simpson moment.

D'oh.

On to Syria tomorrow.


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