The boys leave for Istanbul 9:30 and Willie, Sammie and I head back for the border. We repeat all the procedures that we’ve performed less than 24 hours ago. At the Syrian border we join many others; intense, loud conversations with border officials; ‘bakshish’ (bribes), and suddenly smiles and all are well! Our turn – a big, unfriendly official takes time to study our passports; he finally looks up and asks Willie where our Turkish exit stamps are. We gave our new passports to enter and exit Turkey, but our old ones to enter Syria, since our visas are in the old ones. Not a good idea to have 2 passports! After a long conversation and explanation with the official Willie asks whether he can speak to someone else. Our passports are carried away and I have all these visions of being escorted out of Syria again. After half an hour another face appears with our passports, a long conversation in Arabic takes place; the next moment the unfriendly man looks up, smiles at Willie and says, “Mr William, what was your mother’s name?” More questions about our car follow and relief slowly trickles in after he hands our passports to the official who will give us the final stamp.
What a beautiful sound!
Next hurdle:
Our hearts sink when we stood in line for the vehicle inspection as we watch how they make people unpack all their belongings. I’m not exactly sure what they are looking for, but my guess is that people buy certain goods cheap in one country and then carry it across to sell in the other. As we watch it became very obvious that ‘Bakshish’ is the magic trick.
Our turn: We show the car’s passport to the custom’s official, he examines everything and waves us through – without ‘bakshish!’ One more stop where we have to show our passports for the last time and then at last! Entering Syria was like painful labor, literally and figuratively, because we are born into a different world from the very beginning.
Willie and I look at one another and with a sigh of relief Willie says, “So here we are in Syria, Mamma.”
What a beautiful sound!
Next hurdle:
Our hearts sink when we stood in line for the vehicle inspection as we watch how they make people unpack all their belongings. I’m not exactly sure what they are looking for, but my guess is that people buy certain goods cheap in one country and then carry it across to sell in the other. As we watch it became very obvious that ‘Bakshish’ is the magic trick.
Our turn: We show the car’s passport to the custom’s official, he examines everything and waves us through – without ‘bakshish!’ One more stop where we have to show our passports for the last time and then at last! Entering Syria was like painful labor, literally and figuratively, because we are born into a different world from the very beginning.
Willie and I look at one another and with a sigh of relief Willie says, “So here we are in Syria, Mamma.”
We have enough time to go to Aleppo, 45 minutes from the border. Aleppo, one of the oldest cities in Syria, was the trade centre for silks, spices and precious metals from the East headed for the Mediterranean. Best known for its covered souqs (markets) – a network of bustling passageways that cover 12 km (7 ½ miles) of winding, narrow alleys. We walk around and find a place to sit on one of the main pedestrian walkways, lined with street vendors on the one side and little cafè’s and stores on the other. A gentle charm exudes from the scene playing off before our eyes – small groups of women, very conservatively dressed – fully covered or veiled walk from vendor to vendor to inspect what they have to offer - anything from glasses to perfume to make-up to nuts to tea to shoes, clothes – virtually anything. Men and boys walk together, talk, drink tea and smoke; little children run around, laughing and playing. I don’t know if we were just tired after the border ordeal, but we have no desire to do anything else, but just watch. Willie buys us 2 delicious schwarmas for less than 2 euros and we return to our car, accompanied by a beautiful sunset..
We have way points of a camping site and arrive there after dark. We are greeted by a Dutch speaking woman from Belgium who is married to a Syrian - a very nice surprise to be able to communicate and to be understood.
3 am we had our first call to wake up – the neighbor’s insomniac rooster – every 15 minutes and 4:30 he was joined by the imam calling from the minaret. I woke up groggy, but with a name for our campsite: Shoot-a Roost-a Camp!
3 am we had our first call to wake up – the neighbor’s insomniac rooster – every 15 minutes and 4:30 he was joined by the imam calling from the minaret. I woke up groggy, but with a name for our campsite: Shoot-a Roost-a Camp!
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