I got rejected.
but I’ll write about that in a few days, as it’s a post I think some can benefit from…you know, because so many of you kept hounding me about tips for getting the much-disputed Syrian visa at the border.
sheesh.
this is about something else.
a sadomasochist-type of travel enjoyment.
the big things don’t move me – despite what the photos may show. the Taj, the Great Wall, Eiffel Tower etc – nothin’. I might have already mentioned that previously. but they don’t. I doubt they move you – maybe in the sense of ‘I really made it!’ but that’s more masturbatory than it is moving.
I also just used ‘sadomasochist’ and ‘masturbatory’ in the same post.
go web-hits go!
anyway.
I woke up and ate the previous night’s leftover baklava for breakfast and then headed to the bus station. I wanted to peek at Harran’s famous ‘beehive houses’ before heading down to the Syrian border to cross over. I saw the houses, took a few snaps, continued to be unmoved by things like this and jumped in another taxi with another guy named ‘Mustafa’. we listened to Billy Idol and smoked too much and enjoyed the boring 16km drive to the border – I took a video, but it was even too boring to post.
I got there and was mobbed by money-changers and guys with bad teeth and big eyebrows offering to sort my visa out for me – I told them to ‘wait’ as sometimes these guys are needed and walked to the tiny Turkish police guardhouse – he would need to make sure I had a Turkish visa in there before letting me proceed. I have since forgotten his name and am sorry for that, but he was unbelievably nice for someone who had an mp5 semi-automatic sub-machine gun in his hand. he walked me over to the office and explained to the other two officers my situation:
I had no Syrian visa, and needed to get one. which could pose to be a problem as officially, you can only get them from your embassy back home…but I’ll leave all of this out and keep it for the other post.
long story short – I didn’t get it. got rejected. not allowed in Syria – at least that way.
you’d think this sucks, right? an hour spent in their office, $20 given to Mustafa for the ride, out in the middle of nowhere…
but it didn’t.
this is what I dig.
it was now, officially…an adventure.
never mind the great places I got to see from the comfort of our rental car and hotels with wireless… this was traveling.
I got a rush. being told no – I got a rush.
weird.
the officers made it a point to tell me ‘Turkey – no problem. Syria – problem.’ and shook my hand a few times to reiterate this.
I walked out, past the nice armed guard who waved back with his unarmed hand and out into the dirty little area that consisted of two shacks, two taxis and a lot of shady men. I asked how much the taxi was back to where I came from and the price quoted doubled that of Mustafa’s. both of them. they knew I had to get back, they knew I wasn’t getting into Syria [word travels fast in a group of 8] and they knew I had to pay it. I tried to bargain them down a little and they wouldn’t budge.
nothin’ – I could do absolutely nothin’.
this was going to be an expensive trip for nothin’.
poop.
then I heard a shout behind me in Turkish.
and then the same voice yelled ‘halo! tourist!’.
it was the nice armed guard.
he waved me over and shouted at the taxi drivers – I don’t know what it was, but am guessing it wasn’t nice…armed border guards can usually get away with that sort of thing.
he led me into his little guard shack and motioned for me to sit down in the chair that even a garage sale would have scoffed at.
and then gave me an orange, with a cigarette.
not being one who enjoys upsetting people with weapons, I lit up and started peeling – still not sure what I was doing in there.
he turned his back and started typing on his computer.
I had nowhere to go and even if I did, I wasn’t moving.
maybe he just wanted the company.
type-type-type.
the Vitamin C and Camel Light fought a war of Biblical proportions on my tongue, yet I refused to admit it.
‘come!’ he said, ashing on the floor and pointing to the computer screen.
it was up on Google’s translator:
‘araç sizin için urfa gider’ – a car will come for you and go to Urfa.
shit.
okay, I just paid Mustafa $20 from a closer town, so now I have an officer of the law who’s country I’m not from telling me a car will come get me and take me 56 kilometers farther than I was going?
I couldn’t afford this.
but nor could I argue.
‘how much?’ I said, swallowing hard and then wishing I hadn’t.
‘no!’ he said, his fingers emphatically typing again:
‘özgür’…
‘free’.
I smiled and he smiled and we shook hands and then sat down to eat and smoke some more – it was making me sick, but I didn’t care. some tea was brought in and he scoffed at my attempts to pay for that as well.
a few minutes later, a taxi pulled up coming from Syria – he walked out, told the couple in the back to ‘move over’ [I'm guessing] and had a few words with the driver – it wasn’t a conversation, it was an order.
I was to be taken back to town [72 kilometers] and I was not to pay any money.
‘no money!’ he said again, as I made my way out of his little checkpoint shack.
I went to shake his hand again and he shook it, grabbing my forearm with his left hand and pulling me closer. I went for a hug and he went for the Turkish move of touching each side of his forehead to each side of mine – I had only seen this done with close friends and family members – never with a foreigner.
but he did it anyway, opened my door and waved goodbye once more.
I threw on my iPod and daydreamed about one day, having a powerful position in some company and him coming in for an interview and me, being clean-shaven, asking ‘you don’t remember me, do you?’ and him probably saying ‘no’ and me explaining who I was and the impact he had on me and giving him an overpaid position for life…silly, I know, but that’s how my heart felt.
the ‘couple’ who was forced to share their cab with a cheap traveler with excellent connections happened to be coming back from their wedding in Syria, where he was from. and I was crashing their ride home. I felt bad, but still was reeling from the wonderful start of the adventure, so probably not as bad as I should have.
they smiled and I smiled and made as big of a deal out of their wedding photos as one can not knowing the language.
[read: lots of 'oh's!' and thumbs ups]
as we drove, I saw him point to one of their gifts in the back and the new bride bought it out. they opened it and then opened the cellophane and gave me one of whatever was in there.
the newlyweds gave the American some of the food given to them as a gift.
me, the guy who wasn’t paying.
I ate it and loved it and mean that as it trumped my previous snack and the gesture it was given in.
we were all dropped off at some dusty lifeless intersection usually reserved for Coen Brother’s films and within 5 minutes a bus came and the groom whistled for it to stop – I helped them by carrying their huge bag full of flatbread and that made me feel nice. they laughed and it made me feel even nicer.
we all got on the bus and he paid for the 3 of us, not hearing of my attempts to pay him back.
I got out at the bus station and shook his hand, touching my forehead and heart – I’d seen this done before and then simply waved to the lady, as I still wasn’t sure how the whole ‘touching/not-touching’ thing goes for us and them.
bought a bus ticket for another town, one rumored to be more fruitful when it came to getting into Syria.
but secretly hoped for another mishap. another failed attempt.
and another adventure with the strangers who make it so.
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