Fortunately, others in the crowd have seen the danger and quickly form two human cocoons: one closes around me, the other around my would-be assailant. Two of its stronger members pin the man's arms to his side, forcing him to drop the knife, which is large enough to have given Crocodile Dundee heart failure. After a few minutes my cocoon has moved me away from the scene, to a jeweller's shop close to the souq entrance.
The jeweller, after the situation is explained to him, arranges for that staple of Middle Eastern hospitality, a cup of tea, to be brought to me. His idea is evidently to calm me down. But now, removed from imminent danger of being slashed, I become brave and vociferous myself. Only after some quiet persuasion by an English-speaking member of the cocoon do I concede the pointlessness of calling in the police.
I'm only a short time in Aleppo but it is unthinkable not to drop in at the grand, colonial-era Baron Hotel, even if it doesn't offer the budget traveller best value.
Old photographs in the lounge room opposite the bar portray some of its most distinguished guests, most of whom stayed here when the French ran the show. The list includes Kemal Ataturk, Lady Mountbatten, Charles Lindbergh, Mr and Mrs Theodore Roosevelt, Sir Hugh Knutchbull-Hugessen (don't know who he was but obviously worthy of inclusion in the A-list on the strength of his name alone), Agatha Christie and Dame Freya Stark.
After dinner I share a convivial hour on the terrace with other remarkable, if less illustrious, company.
One of those present is an Australian woman in her mid-twenties who briefly manages to make me feel envious when she relates that just a month ago (when I would have been there if I'd judged it safe to go) she was in Yemen.
We all sit spellbound as she recounts how magnificent the tall houses of Sana'a were; what a friendly reception she got from the female stallholders in Aden's bazaar; and how everywhere she went she felt safe. She even had her own armed escort while journeying down the Hadramaut coast, the most lawless part of the country, where al-Qa'eda sympathisers and operatives walk around in broad daylight unmolested.
After the envy has subsided, what do I think of this? I cannot criticise her: she has taken a risk and arguably shown it to be exaggerated. But the question remains, if ten people follow her lead and only nine come back to tell the tale, where will I be?
DAY 316 (24 MARCH): QALA'AT AL-SAMAAN
The first time I met St Simeon, a fifth-century holy man, was years ago in the pages of the
Guinness Book of Records
. He is the man who, without even meaning to set a record, earned his place in history's Hall of Fame by sitting on top of a pillar for 36 years. And it is here, an hour by road west of Aleppo, that he did it.
After Simeon's death in AD 459, the biggest church in the Middle East was built around his sacred stele. In our age, when freak shows have largely crowded out the idea of pious devotion, I arrive expecting to see crass mass commercialisation of his âmemory'. However, I wander around the basilicas without once being disturbed by trinket touts. And, yes, there in a grassy field stands an indented marble stump, barely three metres high, which a nearby sign assures the world is where St Simeon of Stylites sat (âstylite' being the name for this singular form of worshipper).
Strangely for one who has been told he has an overdeveloped sense of the absurd, I come away with something approaching awe. Even if what the mystic was on about remains beyond my intellectual grasp, I can see that Simeon exemplifies pure dedication, an admirably steadfast refusal to be diverted from his goal.
But the convulsions that racked my life in 1990 and 1991 have freed me from the esteem in which I used to hold people who stick to a plan. History is littered with examples of sticking to plans, and many of them feature stacks of corpses: Gallipoli, the Somme, the Khmer Rouge plan to remake Cambodia and China's Cultural Revolution âall carried out with faultless dedication.
Beside these catastrophes, a mere travel plan seems an unlikely means of semaphoring Fate. But, where chance plays a part â and it was by chance I saw and answered an ad, with consequences that took me to Bahrain in 1990 â it is asking too much of Fortune to favour players who never fold their cards and walk away. Perseverance in a good cause is one thing; stubbornness in the face of unpleasant facts, merely a form of stupidity. This wisdom I have learnt at a cost.
Chapter 17
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCKING ON EUROPE'S DOOR
I have always depended on the kindness of strangers
.
TENNESSEE WILLIAMS
A S
TREETCAR
N
AMED
D
ESIRE
MARCH-JUNE 2002
It is said that we live in an age of specialists rather than Jacks and Jills of all trades, and the trend has now spilt over from the world of work to our leisure pursuits. The grab-bag term âtourism' has begun to split up into its own specialities: we now have eco-tourism, extreme tourism, even responsible tourism. (What does that mean? Staying at home?)
Having never felt comfortable with the term âtourist'âit smacks too much of the cocktail lounge at five-star hotels or the most expensive shoulder-slung video equipmentâit ill becomes me to suggest a new term. But there must be many people like myself who have found that, even though we fill our itineraries with places to see, it is the people we meet who endow us with our most cherished travel memories.
Perhaps travellers who defy the prophets of doom and venture to see the world as it is, who delve behind the lines and read between them, are a new breed of tourist, the pioneers of âhumanitourism' (for want of a better word).
TURKEY: 25 MARCHâ16 JUNE
Turkey marked the halfway point of my Eurasian crossing, the point at which I took my longest âtime out'âsix weeks to reflect on how far I had come, how far to go. It also marked the dawning of my awareness of why it is so satisfying to visit a country not just for its sights but for the experience of becoming acquainted with its people, however fleetingly, and the chance to understand how their view of the world differs from ours. Even where people are poor, you will find yourself reminded that in their appreciation of the good things in life they have a better sense of proportion than you, and that their concerns are real, not based on what might happen or might never happen.
Simply put, such travel can enlarge our view of what it means to be human. Each day filled with new insights, we can âexercise humanity', free to be our best selves but without the effort normally associated with being on our best behaviour. Free, most significantly, of the work-related stomach tightening, the family-based anxieties and the personal fears that drag us down.
Where Asia comes knocking at Europe's door, the result is not clashing cultures but a hybrid richness stemming from mixed soils. Modern Turks are Asians who want to be Europeans, or Muslims who, according to the great modern founder of their state, Kemal Ataturk, might have been better off as Christians.
I wonder if it isn't because Turks are a mass of living contradictions that so many visitors fall in love with this society at first sight. They are at once the least strict and hidebound of Muslims, and yet so proud of their heritage, reflected in the Islamic crescent on their national flag. And that's not surprising, given that in their glory days, from the 15th century to the 19th, the Ottoman Empire held sway all the way from Central Europe to North Africa, Mecca and beyond.
The yearning to be accepted as part of the civilised world was a driving force for Ataturk who (you will only upset Turks by reminding them) wasn't a Turk himself but a Macedonian born in Salonica, now part of Greece. Many believe modern Turkey wouldn't have come into being at all or survived as long as it has done but for Ataturk, despite his authoritarian stamp not exactly being a prescription for democracy.
Turks know how to enjoy the good life. Istanbul is one of the great cities of the world, and Efes beer is up there with the best. Yet, while they are wannabe Europeans, it is the Turks' very lack of sophistication (meant as a compliment) that many visitors find attractive. They are not slaves to the clock, and will while away the afternoon puffing on a hookah with you rather than strain themselves to keep appointments of dubious importance. The Turks are ever ready to welcome you into their richly carpeted homeland and make you feel as if you belong there. Before long, you will.
DAY 317 (25 MARCH): ANTAKYA
A cross-border bus link with Aleppo makes it the easiest thing in the world to get to Antakya (the ancient Antioch) but, once there, finding a ground-floor hotel room defeats me. For starters, the town is of modest size these days. Then I realise that obtaining Turkish lire is as big a challenge as finding a hotel, because without some I won't be able to pay for a room anyway. First things first.
In a country whose currency unit trades at a rate of 1.3 million to a single US dollar, an appearance on
Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?
would be an invitation to poverty. I'll need tens of millions but it is evening now and the banks have closed. As for ATMs, they are a foreign concept round here.
In these situations, while keeping a close eye on four items of baggageâwait a minute, one, two, three ⦠oh no, my sports bag is still on the bus! Everything is falling apart! Where was I? Oh yes, first things first.
With some help from observant bus passengers who see I can't make it alone over the step into the offices of the bus company that brought me here from Syria, I front the desk. After a couple of minutes' confusion I convey my troubles to the office manager who, luckily, is willing and able to help.
He phones the bus driver and, after an anxious wait, receives a call back to say that a bag matching the description I gave has been found and will be given to a taxidriver in the next town along from Antakya. A price is mentioned that sounds a bit hefty but this is no time for bargaining. I agree to terms, and check that off my mental list of worries.
An hour later the taxidriver arrives and reunites me with the bag, and by that timeâamazinglyâI hand him over enough millions to give him a brief spell of quiz-show fame.
How to get money when banks are closed? Well, I would have thought the US dollar spoke all languages but not in Antakya on a Sunday, let me tell you. If the owner of the only shop open in the vicinity of the bus park hadn't been a personal friend of the bank manager, and the manager hadn't agreed to open up the bank out of hours, that sports bag might be back in Syria by now.
Next priority being to book a seat on the earliest possible express coach to Istanbul, I find that most of the buses are full but cadge a seat on the 1.15. Good, I think, that will give me the night to restâit's been a long dayâand the morning to mosey around town.
Only after two hours' exploration do I discover the lack of suitable hotel rooms within wheeling distance of the bus station. More problems pile up. By this time, mid-evening, it has started rainingâ heavilyâand I'm soaked as well as unsheltered. I decide to park myself all night in the bus company's waiting room.
About 10 pm I'm called over to the ticket counter. The bus will be ready to board in an hour, I'm informed. Incredulous, I shake my head. How can that be? Slow, patient explanations are dispensed for the ignorant foreigner's sake. Turkey has adopted not only the Western workweek but also the Continental preference for the 24-hour clock. The bus I thought was leaving at 1.15 tomorrow afternoon departs at 1.15 in the morningâand it terminates at Ankara, forcing me to wait for a connection to Istanbul. But this is a good outcome, and I thank my lucky stars that I couldn't find a place to stay in Antakya.
DAY 318 (26 MARCH): ANATOLIA TO ISTANBUL
Last night's rain has given way to the first snowfall of this voyage. We are passing through the uplands of Anatolia, and even through the windowpane of a bus the sight is bracing, pure.
At 4.30 pm on this, the last day of my travel before calling a halt to the journey, our bus joins the peak-hour crawl across a bridge that takes me out of Asia, the continent where I have lived for the past eleven months. For the first time in five years I am in Europe. It is one of Istanbul's magical aspects, this fact that it straddles the continents, like a giant with one foot in the East and the other in the West. Here you experience the same type of intellectual thrill as you do standing on the Equator.
A helpful taxidriver (quite contrary to the type Istanbul has an unfortunate reputation for) says he knows just the hotel for me. As his small red sedan chugs up a slope in the backstreets of Sultanahmet, the tourist quarter, I suspect that this is one of those occasions when a hotel âtout' has taken me to a seedy establishment where the receptionist will slip him a commission for my custom and I will find out, too late, that I'm stuck in a âdive'. Instead I'm happily surprised to find that not only is the Albino (odd name, that, but my curiosity is dulled by travel weariness) a new-minted hotel, I am its very first guest. Owner Salim, rubicund and jolly, pours refreshing red tea into a tulip-stemmed glass (this is a fine Turkish tradition, may it never die) and in due course summons staff to raise me up a few steps to the lift.
Calling a stop near the midway point of the journey, at midnight on 26 March, will give me time not only to reflect on the experience but to map out the next few months' itinerary, taking me from Greece right through the Balkans to Central Europe. Until now I hadn't fixed on a place to spend this break but warm praise from a fellow bus passenger for a particular pension on the Mediterranean coast has persuaded me to head south in a couple of days. I will end up spending weeks at Koc Pension, in the fishing village of Ucagiz, so small and secluded no more than one in a thousand Turks has probably heard of it.
DAY 319 (27 MARCH): ISTANBUL
Arrangements are swiftly made for return-flight ticketing to Istanbul. After the hard work of travelling, the transition to a less demanding pace of life promises to be trouble-free.
Checking my travel budget, I find that the voyage thus far (including airfares) has cost US$15 001 or US$47 a day. My estimated spending was US$46 a day, so it gives me some satisfaction that, like a glider pilot, I have achieved a gentle landing after a ride that has had more than its share of turbulence.
DAY 320 (28 MARCH): ISTANBUL
On the way to the airport this morning my only thoughts are of the Mediterranean haven that awaits me. So, when the security officer on the other side of the metal detector at the departure terminalâwhose job it is to frisk meâsays âStand up', my jaw drops.
âI can't,' I say, torn between amusement and indignation.
âStand up,' he repeats robotically. Hands on tyres, I hoist myself to his chest height, to show that I'll comply with his instructions as far as I am able.
Evidently, the officer regards this as âa false move'. Urgently he radios for assistance, and while I'm settling back into my seat half a dozen officers appear from nowhere. Quickly surrounding me in a rugby scrum, they force me to move across to a nearby leather bench, away from the lengthening queue of presumably legitimate travellers.
Still in the huddle, I'm now addressedââbarked at' would be a better descriptionâby the officer clearly most senior in rank. âYour seat has not been inspected,' he bellows, pointing at my cushion.
Taking the hint, I transfer to the bench and offer up my new, mildly expensive Jay cushion. It hadn't occurred to me that this might be a suspicious article but by the way the chief receives itâtentatively, in contrast to his rough commandâit would not surprise me if his next step were to call in forensics experts, followed closely by the bomb squad. For a moment I think the chief is going to try ripping off the seat's protective plastic cover, wrecking my investment, exposing me to a recurrence of pressure sores and forcing me to miss my flight (for which I now hear the final boarding call).
âYou cannot go,' orders the chief and stalks off, flanked by a couple of his trusties while the others hover menacingly over me, lest I make a ârun' for it. Five anxious minutes later, the chief returns, accompanied by a fluent English-speaking woman who introduces herself as the customer relations officer for Turkish Airlines. Unapologetically she translates the news that my cushion is being returned to me and that I should have stood up when asked. I tell the goons through her that they need retraining but their response is as stony as ever.
Two days later I hear that Istanbul Customs officers have impounded a large quantity of heroin in what they are claiming is the biggest drugs bust of all time, or something to that effect. I begin to think of the incident in a kindlier light.
Drifting purposelessly through the next few weeks, I feel a quiet satisfaction in having ignored those well-meant but essentially hysterical calls to cancel my journey, or head for European pastures, in the aftermath of September 11. In these unsettled times, while taking sensible precautions against clear and present dangers, the best advice I can think of is to go
against
the media flow. Pack everything you might possibly need or want, but leave your preconceptions behind. The Middle East and Central Asia are surprisingly safe regions of a world that is overwhelmingly friendly. I know: I've been there.
DAY 319 (8 MAY): BACK TO ISTANBUL
As I resume my journey, another drive from the airport in another red taxi delivers me not to my old haunt the Albino but to, lo and behold, the Albion. Only six weeks in business, and already a kindly meant remark by some pedantic foreigner has reduced Salim's individualistically named hotel to one of a uniform bunch. Fortunately, the traditional service of red tea in a tulip-stemmed glass remains unchanged.
This morning at St Sophia I encounter the pleasure of being accorded
Ucretsiz
status. Any time this happens, it makes my day.
Ucretsiz
is one of the sweetest-sounding words in the Turkish tongue. It means âfree' and, although it never occurred to me that just being in a wheelchair should entitle me to a discount, I soon find that ticket-sellers in this country are just as likely to wave me through and stamp my pass
Ucretsiz
as they are to make me pay. Even those who charge sometimes insist on giving me a discount. Normally I refuse to be patronised; here I unbend and accept the consideration flowing my way.