The road from Damascus
In January I went from Damascus to London by land, covering Syria, Turkey, Greece, Macedonia, Serbia, Croatia, Hungary, Austria, Germany, and France. Most of it was by train, apart from one 200km bit which I did by bus, taxi, and dodgy smuggler man, so technically this covers the term “road trip”.

I was trying to leave Aleppo in the north of Syria, but the train had been cancelled for the foreseeable future and no-one could tell me where the bus station was (Asking tourist information where the station was, the assistant replied “ask someone”, when I mentioned I was asking her, she said “I don’t know, just follow a bus”. Hmmmm, all bus signs are in Arabic and Aleppo is a big city). After getting on the wrong bus and going to some rundown neighbourhood, I decided to get a cab to the border of Turkey and cross the border on foot.

Not knowing how long the no man’s land between the countries were, I asked the border guard, he asked if I would like a lift so flagged down the next car, and told the driver to take me where he was going, to Antakya. I think the guard’s machine gun may have helped sway the argument. The driver was called Jusef, he spoke no English, I spoke no Turkish or Arabic, so I had no idea where we were going or if he was going to bum me into submission. I was a tad concerned when he gave the Turkish border control guards a present, and the customs officers did have a GOOD look at his car, but found nothing. Strangely my bag was left alone.

Once through we drove to Antakya, where he pulls up at a petrol station. Well, by petrol station I mean a concrete bunker with a kid with a watering can full of petrol. He reverses into a garage, points for me to get out, the takes me into this bunker, where I sit at a big wooden table with an old Turkish matriarch, who just stares at me. And stares, and stares. Some other people come in, they stare too. My ringpiece was already getting twitchy, as this wasn’t mentioned in the Rough Guide. I’m wondering what Jusef is up to, he’s locked himself in the garage with his car, and my bag. After about 30 minutes he comes back, points to the car and off we drive to the bus station. Strangely the car smells of petrol, so I’m guessing he was smuggling petrol through as it’s dirt cheap in Syria, or there was something in my bag. My stuff was all there when I checked, so I was ok. Sorry for being suspicious, Jusef!

But hey, I made it, I didn’t die (unless I’m a ghost, woooooo), and if you get the chance, go to Syria, it’s amazing. Ok, don’t go now unless you like getting shot.
( gadjie, Sun 17 Jul 2011, 14:24, Reply)