Category Archives: Cape to Cape

When 30C feels chilly

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Petra, Jordan

12 August 2013

Same driver today as yesterday. He’s good for a laugh and head through the suburbs of Amman to Madaba. St George’s church houses the 2000 year old mosaic depicting the Dead Sea, Jerusalem et al. Much smaller than I remember but now there’s an interesting information centre describing the mosaic.

A mosaic factory on the outskirts trains disabled people in the art of mosaics. The “positive” side is placed face down so you only see the negative side whilst work in progress. Then filled with cement and turned the right way up to show the smooth, finished article. Mt Nebo is a short drive away. It’s where Moses ascended to view the Promised Land.
My car had better not look like that!
My car had better not look like that!
Comments!
 
Sadly for him, if he came on a day like today he’d only see a lot of haze. Can just make out the Dead Sea but are told that on a good day Jerusalem can be seen. It’s a stunning view nevertheless. Race down the mountainside along twisting roads. Driver has to takes us to Petra then return to Amman. He’s clearly not wantng to be late back. It must be a 4,000ft drop as the Dead Sea is about 1,400ft BELOW sea level. It’s the lowest land based point on earth. Stopped at a checkpoint near the Israeli/Palestine border but as we’re British/South African we don’t pose a security threat so pass by the tank and wave to the bored looking soldiers – who wave back. It’s the highlight of their day. Driver explains that if we’d been female and good looking then we would have been stopped just so the soldiers could have a look. We’re neither. Race along the Dead Sea highway at 80-100mph.
Madaba mosaic
Madaba mosaic
 
Hardly any traffic so it’s minimal risk. Stop at a view point and told the rock pillar above is Lot’s wife who was turned into a pillar of salt. Not convinced by this but at least we have a leg stretch and we’re not flying at Mach 1 for a few minutes. It’s now 40C but as it’s dry air and not humid it’s bearable. This morning in Madaba it was 30C and it felt chilly. That’s acclimatisation for you. Reminds me of working in the tropics of Brasil where it got to the stage to thinking of putting on jumpers at night because it felt chilly….until we realised it was still 25C and what a bunch of wusses we were being. Turn off the Dead Sea highway to climb up into the mountains again. Climb. And climb. And climb. For a good hour as we ascend what must be 4,000ft. Stop at a cafe some way up for superb, but hazy, views across the valley and into Israel/Palestine. Driver refuses to say the word Israel and always refers to it as Palestine.
Street seller
Street seller
 
Soon racing at breakneck speed across the plateau before dropping down to Petra. It’s as though we’ve been driving a Grand Prix and thankful to arrive in one piece. Petra is much more developed now and not how I remember it. The park entrance is a brand new stone building rather than the wooden shack and smelly stables that used to pervade the welcome to Petra park. Much needed beer on the rooftop bar and a pretty decent glass of Jordanian wine watching the red hues of sunset colour Petra town as the muezzin bounces around the valley from minaret to minaret. The lights of houses forming like fireflies swarming the hillside whilst the crescent moon shines bright like a diamond in the sky. It’s all rather pleasant up here……but a bit chilly…..even at 30C.

I don’t know whether to suck or blow

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Amman, Jordan

11 August 2013

Travel the route from Amman to Irbid that I used to take whilst working here and it’s as I remember. Arrive Irbid and see the hospital to the east which was the construction project we worked on for three months. The driver enters Irbid and follows the route he thinks is right – he’s not been here for three years and we have no satnav. After a while we pass a row of butchers that I distinctly remember. The only reason being that in the morning on the way to work there were lots of goats and sheep bleating away, tethered outside. On the way back in the evening they were all hanging up, skinless but head still on ready for the grill. We drive towards the hospital. It’s the road to Iraq. We’re not particularly interested in going to Iraq. Realise we’re going the wrong way. “Is this the right way?” I enquire. Driver confesses he’s not sure so we do a U-ey and ask a police patrol parked up nearby. We’re not. Return to Irbid and promptly get lost again. The last time I did the trip to Um Quais from where we were staying in a zero star fleapit in Irbid, our English, alcoholic, colleague, who’d been living in Irbid far too long and had gone a bit native, picked us up. He’d clearly had a whisky. On that occasion we stopped on a deserted road to ask for directions and interrupted a drug deal. The next group of people we stopped to ask directions got out of their car weilding rifles. This was of the utmost concern. Until we realised they were only hunting. Um Quais is a Roman town and overlooks the Sea of Galilee and the Golan Heights.
Downtown Amman
Downtown Amman
 
Israel to my left. Syria in front of me. Literally across the valley. No gunshots though. One of my main memories of Jordan was watching the sunset over the Sea of Galilee but today it’s very hazy and we can only just see the Sea. On entering am given a cactus fruit to try. Like watermelon with lots of pips. Return to Jerash having decided to scrub a visit to Ajlun Castle as we’re running out of time. Jerash, for those that watched the Top Gear Middle East Christmas special, is where they drifted around an oblong “race track”. Well that’s the Hippodrome. In the ampitheatre a couple of musicians are playing drums and……bagpipes. Yes – Jordan’s native musical instrument. Entertained by famous Jordanian musical compositions namely, Scotland the Brave & Frere Jacques. I kid you not. But. I’ve been spoilt. I’ve been fortunate enough to visit Leptis Magna and Sabratha in Libya.
Sea of Galilee & Golan Heights from Um Quais
Sea of Galilee & Golan Heights from Um Quais
 
Once you’ve visited them Jerash pales into insignificance. Dinner at my favourite restaurant in Amman – Reem al Bawadi. We were regular visitors here in 2002 and it hasn’t changed. The inside hall is closed as it’s summer and everyone is seated outside either in open sided Bedouin tents or under the starry sky with a newly crescent moon. Huge tables laden with various meze, flatbreads and grilled meats. The man wandering about with a pewter jug of cardamon tea who announces his presence by clicking the little glass cups. Men with tins of charcoal to feed the hubbly bubbly smoking pipes. Back then, in 2002, the quote of the assignment has to go to my female colleague (and I know you’re reading this!) who, upon trying a hubbly bubbly pipe for the first time, innocently remarked, “I don’t know whether to suck or blow.”…………..then realised what she’d said……much male mirth.

It’s really nice

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Amman, Jordan

10 August 2013

Transfer to airport and in terminal building without being kidnapped. Yay. Queue for passport control. It. Takes. Ages. The officer is taking his time. Sloooowwww ggggooooiiinng. My turn and he wants to know where the pink exit slip is. I have no pink exit slip. He points in the direction of table yonder full of pink exit slips. Sod it. Fill in form and queue again. It. Takes. Ages. Two families of parents, grandparents, children each with passports and pink slips to check. It. Takes. Ages. Come on hurry up. One bloke behind me is tutting away. He’s impatient and jumps in front of a queue to my right to the disgust of those queuing for that booth. Cheeky sod.

 

A blue Red Sea

A blue Red Sea

 

Eventually. My passport is checked. Every. Single. Page. The Santa stamp comes in for extra scrutiny but nothing compared to the scrutiny of the North Cape sticker. It’s nothing official. Merely a silver sticker used by the souvenir shop to seal paper bags of souvenirs. It says, “This product is bought at the North Cape”. Stuck it in passport as a souvenir sticker. He brushes it with his fingers, admiringly, saying, “Is this an entry stamp?”……Er…….er……..ponder……..yes. “It’s really nice” admiring it again that fraction of a second too long and stroking it with his fingers again to suggest an entry stamp fetish. He’s weird.

Board flight and there’s a secondary bag search on the air bridge by Jordanian security who is the spitting image of the gay nurse off Corrie (you know….Sean’s boyfriend…..well he was the last time I watched). There are two air marshalls on board. My day sack is searched but he fails to spot the rather large holdall behind my back.

Sinai

Sinai

 

Incidentally, a bottle of water doesn’t pose a threat that I’ve brought in from landside……but it does in the UK and elsewhere. The last time I was on a Royal Jordanian flight the air marshalls signed in/out a firearm for the flight but I see no such thing today.

Take off and assume it’ll be a quick 30min hop over Syria. Oh no. We go from A to B – or should that be B(eirut) to A(mman) – via C, D, E, F & G. It takes an hour and a half avoiding Syrian and Israeli airspace. Fly down the coast to Sinai and turn over the Red Sea before travelling north to Amman. Green cedars of Lebanon morphing into brown, dusty, desert.

Obtain visa at the border and passport is stamped with “Contact the nearest police station within one month”. Ask if I really need to do this as I’m only here a few days. Am told no – only if here for longer than one month.

A to B via C, D, E, F & G

A to B via C, D, E, F & G

 

Then why doesn’t it say that? Remember having this problem when working here in 2002. A colleague was fined on exit for not having a police stamp in her passport. Had to promptly pop down the local police station for a stamp and entered a hell hole full of scallywags. Clearly there for something other than murder, rape or buggery, the Sergeant sat me down in his office (after all the scallywags were told to make way for the white man) and started saying “Beekam…..beekam…..” Thinking this was Arabic for something I shrugged away. He actually meant Beckham who had just broken his foot before the World Cup. Oh yes, I could write a brand new blog about my time in Jordan….the country….not the model…..obviously.

Am in Amman to meet a man. WAMC is joining me on the Jordan and Egypt sector. We’d met on the Trans Siberian a few years ago and has just flown in from Jo’burg. His wife’s not fancying this much of an adventure so shall see her when I reach Jo’burg.

Inshallah.

If they want you they’ll kidnap you in the hotel

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Beirut, Lebanon

9 August 2013

Boom, boom, boom. Went the beat of the bass. Room is under the 6th floor rooftop bar. It’s gone midnight. Victor Meldrew rings reception to complain about the noise as he has to be up early. Another room upgrade on top of the upgrade given at check-in. Shift my gear with the Night Manager who rings the new room’s doorbell, “Just to make sure”. Reminds me of the time when working on a hotel project in Frankfurt. The Hotel Technician had a Martini pass (anytime, any place, anywhere…for younger readers born after 1985) and showing us different room types. Ringing bell on each occasion just to make sure reception had given him vacant room numbers. We all piled into one room after no response from the door bell. The Hotel Technician. The Architect. The Structural Engineer. The M&E Engineer. Me. And quickly made a quick exit as we interrupted a couple getting acquainted on the bed. The schoolboy in us all left giggling at the Hotel Technician’s error. Woken at 0600hrs by the hotel alarm clock.
The only photo I could take at Jeita Grotto
The only photo I could take at Jeita Grotto
 
It’s unplugged sharpish to shut it up. It continues. It has to be the only hotel in the world that’s inserted back-up batteries. They’re prised out. Silence. Day trip to the “countryside” north of Beirut. Told the tower blocks along the mountainside and sea stretch all the way from Israel to Syria. There’s no separation between cities, towns and suburbs. It all blends into one continuous strip of shops, restaurants, hotels, tower blocks. Only 25mins to Jeita Grotto as we turn off the main dual carriageway that slinks snake like along the coast all the way to Syria. Once above the tower block line head into the interior. Like Cyprus’ Troodos Mountains as we climb up. Deep gorges with Cedar trees clinging to the sides. Driving around hair pin bends is pot luck as to whether we have a head on collision or not. Jeita surprisingly busy at this early hour – mainly buses of Bangladeshi blokes.
Teleferique to Our Lady
Teleferique to Our Lady
 
Cable car to the Upper Grotto is abnormal in that it doesn’t follow a loop. Instead it goes one way. Then reverses. In a gondola with a Nun and her Mum. There are two caverns. Upper is the first stop and there’s a big fuss about no photos and having to leave cameras and phones in lockers. When challenged tell security I have neither. I have big pockets. Full of concealed technology I enter. Wow, wow, wow. Not often is my breath taken away but this is spectacular. Flabbergasted by the enormity and scale of it. Super sized space larger than anything I’ve witnessed before. All carefully lit, it’s a photographer’s paradise. Except you can’t take photos. More voluminous than any cathedral. A walkway wends its way through the vast hall. Plenty of large scale stalagmites and stalagtites and associated formations. It’s like tripe dripping Dali-esque over the rocks in places.
Teleferique to Harissa - right to the top
Teleferique to Harissa – right to the top
 
One column looks like jellyfish in a vertical synchronised swim. Words cannot describe what I see. You’ll have to add to your bucket list. Climbing a good few flights of stairs to reach an upper level I feel I’ve not gained any height it’s that vast. Quite, quite spectacular. A road train takes you to the Lower grotto – the sort kids get at Skegness. Totally different experience. There’s an underground lake and an electric boat glides silently through the ice cold water. Uplit with blue and amber light (202 & 135 by the looks of things fellow lighting designers). The blue lights are in the water, projecting shimmering onto the cavern’s roof. Seem to glide effortlessly for quite some way before returning to the landing stage. Short drive to Harissa. Take the Teleferique to the top along with a short funicular ride to see Our Lady of Lebanon that sits atop a mountain about 2,000ft up.
Still going up
Still going up
 
Cracking views of the coast line and you realise how much development there is stretching from Israel to Syria. An interesting winery tour that lasts 2hrs culminating in the requisite wine tasting. Shown where they are also producing Arak. An aniseed firewater that a colleague and I once over indulged in whilst working in Jordan. I know you’re reading this and my thoughts are with you…..how bad we felt for the next two days! Their cellars date back to the 1930s and they retain 500 bottles of each vintage behind a locked door laden with spiders’ webs. It’s like something you would see off the Pirates of the Caribbean. Taste seven wines. I’ve drunk better and the oldest vintage we try is 1977 – which reminds me of the Del-boy Trotter scene along the lines of…….”I’ll have the Beaujolais…….er…..the ’77 vintage…” Receive a text telling that two Turkish Airline pilots have just been kidnapped in Beirut…..
Our Lady
Our Lady
 
Driver confirms it’s Hizbollah and goes on to say that they’ve only done it as the Turks will have detained a Hizbollah person and they want a swap. He explains that Hizbollah know where people are and that if they want you they’ll kidnap you in your hotel. Jolly good. Well that’s another sleepless night sorted then. Dropped off at the ancient town of Byblos and agree to meet driver on the other side. It’s a small port protected by a Crusader castle. It’s a nice place and wish I had slightly more time to explore and that it wasn’t quite so hot even in the late afternoon sun. The St John the Baptist church has a gang of lads preparing the church for a wedding with PA, lighting and flowers down the aisle. Must be the first church I’ve been in that’s air-conditioned. Slow going on the return to Beirut in Friday night traffic and receive two texts. One from the Ministry of Tourism and one from the British Embassy “Welcome to Lebanon. British national? In emergency call +961 1 960 800”. Quite how they got my number I’ll never know. Do Hizbollah have it as well??

Kids with guns

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Beirut, Lebanon

8 August 2013

It’s 1100hrs as I walk into central Beirut but something is wrong. Am the only Joe Public about. Do have company though. Every few hundred yards are a mix of private security personnel and armed military. Do they know something I don’t? Ramadan finished yesterday – someone had rung the “New Crescent Moon” hotline (there really is such a hotline as I read in the local paper) saying they’d spotted the new crescent moon. It seems a good wheeze – I bet they were just hungry. Eid starts and last night was party, party, party.

So, all of Beirut is hungover and haven’t got up yet or there’s going to be a terrorist attack that I haven’t been warned of. It’s like a scene from Vanilla Sky.
City streets
City streets
 
It’s eery. Could have a picnic on the main road through Beirut it’s that empty. Continue walking to the marina. Security on practically every street corner. Roads cordoned off with barriers and barbed wire. Stop at one military post to ask for directions. The soldier is very welcoming and speaks a little English and we have the craic. He tells me his name. I tell him mine. He introduces me to his fellow soldier. We’re all mates now. He shakes my hand as I leave and regrets it as it’s quite a strong handshake. A colleague calls me Crusher ‘cos of it. He laughs and makes me shake hands with his chum. They’re both laughing as I wave goodbye. Finding the marina, glad to discover people without assault rifles and a bit of normality. There’s a “beach club” adjacent – outdoor swimming pool, bars, music and sunloungers. One of many. Recommended to walk along the corniche to the Pigeon Rocks. It won’t take long I’m told. That’s as may be but in the heat and humidity it’s a long, hot, sweaty walk. Sea breeze takes the edge off the heat. Plenty of fisherman again and lads diving off the rocks. One brave soul actually dives from the corniche’s promenade to the sea some 30ft below narrowly avoiding the concrete foundations. A lone lad, about 10 years old, turns away from me to look at the sea.
Star's Square
Star’s Square
 
Shoved down the back of his shorts is a pistol. Real or fake? You never know in this city. This walk to the Pigeon Rocks is a lot further than had been made out and after an hour’s walk in the sizzling heat need to stop for food and water. Continue along the corniche and it’s clear I’m straying from the upmarlet end of Beirut and heading into the tower blocked suburbs – the sort you would see Hamas firing rockets from on the 6 o’clock news. More military vehicles patrolling the area – open sided jeeps, soldiers relaxing with rifles. Young family walk towards me. The three young lads have pistols. They’re toy pistols and ask Dad if they’ll have their photo taken. He willingly allows me to shoot…..at least it’s me shooting them and not the other way around. It’s not the best city in the world to have kids brandishing toy guns is it.
He's only just bigger than that rifle
He’s only just bigger than that rifle
 
Call me old fashioned…..but it isn’t…is it?! Pigeon Rocks are like a detached Durdle Door, Dorset. They’re just off the headland and a popular local sight. Men with Polaroids patrol the promenade printing people’s photos. Hail a taxi. Wanting to travel across the city to the National Museum and Hippodrome. Driver speaks no English but it’s OK I have a map. He’ll suss it out, surely. What is it with these foreigners and maps. I point where I want to go. Point where we are now. SImple. It’s like a foreigner turning up at Nottingham Market Square and pointing to Trent Bridge on the map. It’s all too difficult so a young couple are called over. They speak no English and they too can’t read a map of their city. Another bloke is called over. I’m pointing a major tourist attraction on the map. In the city centre. The man says, “Ah….Baalbeck.” Driver says, “Ah….Baalbeck?”. Baalbeck is miles away. It’s near Syria. It really is kidnap central. It’s not where I want to go. We try again. Eventually. They spout off in Arabic. Both acknowledging they’ve got it sussed. Jolly good. They look at me for confirmation. How the flip do I know – I don’t speak Arabic. Take my chance and give the thumbs up and off we go. Drive through the suburbs seeing tanks at road junctions.
Like a scene out of Vanilla Sky
Like a scene out of Vanilla Sky
 
Is this how it always is or just for Eid or just because of the current Middle East terror alert? Assume a combination of all three. Taxi drops me off outside the National Museum and buzzes off. Except the National Museum is closed for Eid (despite being told it would be open). Quick waltz around the block and find an armed soldier who delights is repeating the same directions in his limited English ad nauseum. Put the topic down and step away. Return to city centre in a clapped out Renault. It’s door won’t shut because the side bin fell off when I opened it to get out. Running repair required. Pass the military post I’d been chatting with earlier this morning. The soldier calls out and waves me over. He shakes my hand again. He’s loving it. Calls two other new soldiers over and waffles on in Arabic along the lines of “This is who I was telling you about”. We’re introduced and am now on first name terms. He motions that I’ve to shake hands with his new chums. Deliberately giving that little extra squeeze they nurse their hands when done. He’s laughing at them as it’s exactly what he did when we shook the first time. We’re all laughing and joking. I have new mates. See yet another kid with a toy rifle strapped across his back whilst riding his bike. It would look very real in the shadows of night time. What is it with this city and kids with guns?

You’ve come from the other side

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Beirut, Lebanon

7 August 2013

It’s roasting hot even at 1000hrs as I walk to the observatory tower in the heart of Nicosia. It’s actually the top floor of Debenhams. Great 360 views of Nicosia and surrounds. The mountains rise in the Turkish north with arid plains to the south. Those pesky Turks have painted a huge crescent flag on the mountain side just to rub it in. The old city of Nicosia is bounded by ancient walls forming a circular defence with arrow shaped battlements every 100m or so. Despite the height advantage of being 11 floors up you can’t see the division between north and south like you could between east and west in Berlin. Further investigation required.

Head to the Ledra Street crossing.

Those pesky Turks with a giant flag

Those pesky Turks with a giant flag

 

The Greeks just let you walk out along the flowerpotted no man’s land. The Turks take your details and stamp that white slip of paper (the one with the John Bull printing). I’m now in the Turkish north. 100m separating two pints of lager and a packet of crisps from mosques and minarets – the cultural change is noticeable. Wanting to walk the border line and explore. See sights of general decay and derelict buildings. It’s quite staggering walking along silent streets. It’s like the Mary Celeste. Deliberately find dead ends where I find concrete walls and barbed wire between buildings. Just like Berlin.

Everwhere are decaying buildings, derelict beyond repair. The only noise being the cicadas clicking away in the searing lunchtime heat. Mad dogs and Englishmen. Barbed wire, concrete walls and oil drums pop up sporadically between the empty buildings to prevent ingress/egress.

Nicosia looking south

Nicosia looking south

 

Come across a children’s play park. It’s desolate and bounded by chain link fence. Barbed wire atop. At the end of the deserted street is a green painted camoflage concrete machine gun outpost – it sticks out like a sore thumb in this brown and dusty environment. Cough as I approach so as not to surprise. Two soldiers pop up. Think they’re glad for company. Ask if it’s OK to enter the playground on account of all the signage saying it’s a military zone. They consent. Walk the perimeter chain link fence and barbed wire. I’m on top of one of the arrowheads of the old walled city. Below is Greek Cyprus and across the road, metres away, is a seemingly disused Greek concrete machine gun outpost. The proximity of it all reminds me of Vimy Ridge (WW1 battle ground in France).

A disused UN watchtower sits behind goal on a disused and decaying football pitch.

The old walled city of Nicosia

The old walled city of Nicosia

 

Brings a whole new meaning to “He shoots and he scores”. I’m frequently using the terms decay and disused for good reason. It’s what I see. Return to the Turkish soldiers to have a bit of craic and hand them my Greek map. The Turkish part of Nicosia is blank and says “Under Turkish occupation since 1974” but even so I have a rough idea of where I am. They take the map. It’s like watching the Chuckle Brothers. They haven’t a clue. They turn away from me such that I’m now looking over the soldiers’ shoulders. Wish I’d taken a photo it was so comical. They can’t even determine where they are let alone where the Ledra Palace crossing is – even though I’ve sort of sussed it…..Scout training you see. The map is the wrong way up – everyone knows maps are north at the top…..don’t they?

Pulling camera out in this no photographs zone pointing at them and saying “Can I take a photo?” but at the same time clicking away before they say no.

Flowerpot diplomacy

Flowerpot diplomacy

 

Determination…..opportunity…..

Find my way to the Ledra Palace crossing (as opposed to Ledra Street). No one about. I could just walk through the Turkish border unnoticed. But I’m not like that…..Find the border control having lunch. One has to stop eating to stamp me out. Ledra Palace Crossing is a vehicle crossing and probably the widest point of the UN Buffer Zone at about 200m. Halfway across is, bizarrely, a cafe. So there I am. Having a Coke in a UN Buffer Zone. In no man’s land. I am countryless.

Walk the remaining 100m to the Greek border. At last. My passport is checked. Well he takes it. Flicks through it. Suspicious of the Santa stamp from the Arctic Circle. Clearly too hot to query. Hands it back.

Take a service taxi to Larnaca airport picking up people through the suburbs of Nicosia splashed with bougainvillea colour.

Turkish Cyprus border

Turkish Cyprus border

 

Do the reverse when in Larnaca and eventually dropped off at the airport.

Go through the usual conversion of rucksack to holdall and daysack and check in for Beirut flight. Hand passport over. Have you any bags to check in. No. The width of my body hiding the 18kg bag behind my back. She flicks through the passport, “Have you been to Israel?”. No. Here’s your boarding pass. Just about to turn to leave when…..”Wait….wait……give me your passport.”. Hand passport over. She flicks. The Santa stamp isn’t of concern. It’s the northern Turkish Cyprus stamp that is.

“You’ve come from the other side.” she states. Yes…..and….?? You can’t fly to Beirut with this stamp. WTF?!??!?!?! FCO never said anything about that! Muppets. A superior is called over. Passport momentarily confiscated. Oh hells bells. This isn’t in the script.

Turkish Cyprus - decaying and derelict buildings

Turkish Cyprus – decaying and derelict buildings

 

She says he needs to ring someone. A phone call ensues. Travel to Beirut in jeopardy. Contingency plan kicks in. Will have to bypass and fly direct to Amman – there’s a flight twice a week from memory. Bugger. Was looking forward to Beirut. Heart pounding.

Suddenly. Hear “OK….OK…..OK….” from superior. Check in girl smiles. Things are looking up. Phone call finished. A quick conversation in a foreign language…..it’s all Greek to me. It’s OK. I’m not Syrian. The restriction only applies to Syrians. Sighs of relief are heaved. Getting too old for all this. Passport returned.

Considering we’re in the EU am expecting the full liquids in a bag rigmarole. But. No. Rucksack full of electronics and liquids pass through no problem and meet them the other side of X-ray. As I’m collecting my belongings hear the security interrogating the person next to me saying she has a wine opener (corkscrew) and liquids in her bag. She’s denying it. She has no such thing. Suddenly realise that he’s actually describing what’s in my bag and that he’s got the wrong bag to search. Time for a sharp exit and buzz off.

Board flight and find myself sitting next to some Lebanese lads who’ve obviously been partying in Aya Napa. One looks like Boris Becker and his mate is a fat Arabic George Michael. The contrast is surreal. Boris Becker has a whistle that he keeps whistling whilst on the aircraft. He’ll find it rammed down his throat by the time we land in Beirut.

Greeted by hotel transfer. He’s European looking. Ask if he’s actually Lebanese. He is. But his ancestors must be European. No. They’re from Egypt.

Have decided on a hotel transfer purely for safety reasons. Didn’t particularly want a local taxi that was going to take me to Kidnap Central.

Get me to the Greek

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Nicosia, Cyprus 

6 August 2013

Despite the train bed being nicely firm and comfortable, there’s just one problem. It’s 2ft too short. Have to sleep in the foetal position all night. Or rather, I have to rest in the foetal position as sleep is not something that really happens. Text from a friend in the early hours saying she can’t sleep – I know the feeling!

Seem to be racing along and the cabin is a lot quieter and smoother than the Russian trains. Train scheduled to arrive Adana 0725hrs. At 0720hrs we’ve been stationary in the middle of nowhere for 5mins so assume waiting fo signals to enter Adana. Find location on Google Maps and realise that Adana is some way away. Far away in fact.

Enroute to Adana

Enroute to Adana

Search for a guard and told “Big problem, big problem….may be ten….half ten”. What?!? I have a flight to catch. Eventually arrive an hour and a half late into Adana. Taxi driver looks like an extra from Planet of the Apes as we drive to the airport.

Actually have 2.5hrs to wait for flight so settle down for a decent omelette and bread and catching up on diary (remember I’m running two books!).

Rucksack converted to holdall and day sack and think I’ve managed to hide holdall behind my back as I check in. Told the maximum limit for cabin bag is 8kg. Yeah, yeah. Boarding pass collected, turn and walk a few yards when there’s a “Stop, stop”. He’s seen the holdall. My holdall is too big. It weighs 17-18kg and he laughs that I’ve tried to walk on with it. Relieved of holdall, wait for passport control and then enter the departure hall.

Adana - local transport

Adana – local transport

It’s exactly like Simferopol (come on, keep up).

Flight is one of those that as soon as you’ve taken off you start the descent. Land at Ercan in Turkish Cyprus. Taxi to Ledra Street crossing. The driver is the sort to accelerate, then brake….accelerate…..brake…..accelerate….brake….all the soddin’ way to Nicosia.

The FCO warn that as I’ve entered the island of Cyprus from northern Turkish Cyprus then southern Greek Cyprus could treat me as illegally entering and prevent me or fine me as I cross from the north into the southern sector of Nicosia. I’d emailed the British Embassy in Nicosia to ask for clarification, to be told, “Should be OK”.

Chosen the Ledra Street Crossing as being the one nearest the hotel the other side. Fill in a white piece of paper that the Turks have obviously been using their John Bull printing set on – name, nationality, passport number.

Busy airport, Adana

Busy airport, Adana

Join the queue of tourists and hand over passport and white piece of paper. The paper is stamped and I walk along the UN Buffer Zone that is no man’s land. Which is actually a street with flowerpots down the middle. It’s about 50-100 yards to Greek Cyprus. Getting ready to be arrested as an illegal immirant, getting ready with all those arguments, getting ready with EU freedom of movement treaties etc etc. Getting ready with “I’m a British Citizen”. Yes, getting ready. I have my passport ready to hand over. But am waved on by the Greek passport control with not so much as a look inside. IS THAT IT?! All the fuss the FCO were suggesting. A simple wave is all it takes to cross the border. How utterly boring. Disappointing even. Huh.

Walk the 10mins to the hotel through the back streets. It’s hot. Oh yes. It’s very hot. 38C even. Thankful for a nice cold air-conditioned room. And promptly fall asleep for a few hours. You’ll have realised by now, there’s a direct correlation between an overnight train and a good old afternoon nap. I have been travelling for 18hrs on little sleep…..that’s my excuse….what’s yours?

Not quite Turkish Delight

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Overnight train to Adana, Turkish Mediterranean Coast, Turkey

5 August 2013

An unscheduled day at leisure in Ankara. Was meant to be on the day train to Adana but for reasons outlined in the Istanbul blog I’m having to take the night train departing this evening. I really am the only guest in the hotel. It’s like a Scooby Doo hotel. I once had to put a colleague up in a hotel on the outskirts of Frankfurt (as there was a major Messe and no rooms available anywhere) which we nicknamed the Scooby Doo hotel for the pretty much the same reason. Except this hotel has electricity. Typical Turkish breakfast is laid out before me but spend the rest of the morning trying to eradicate beeswax from teeth and gums from the honey, which is….delicious.
Anitkabir - aerial view
Anitkabir – aerial view
  Anitkabir is the first port of call. Ataturk’s Mausoleum – he being the founding father of modern Turkey. Mausoleum stands at the head of three sides of colonnaded arcades. Slightly reminiscent of Nazi architecture or a set straight out of Indiana Jones. Armed guards stand on pedestals one hand behind their back resting on their bayonnets just in case any Japanese tourists decide to get leary. A local family have photos of their three children with one guard. The youngest is crawling all over the pedestal and the guard’s legs and handling the rifle (alarmingly close to the trigger) but the guard remains static. They depart. Look back to see the guard heave a huge sigh of relief and we give each other a knowing look. He grins. Inside the mausoleum it really is like an Indiana Jones set. High ceiling, wall mounted wrought iron torches, electrically lit, dark marble. Single sarcophogus sits centre at one end. The actual body being entombed 7m below.
Anitkabir
Anitkabir
 
Underneath the mausoleum building lies the War of Independence Museum. Full of Army recruits learning about their history by the looks of it. Quite extensive and a few panoramas with sound effects. Walk along the Avenue of Lions to the access road and ask security if I walk down will I be able to hail a taxi. Yes. Continue walking fifty yards and met by two more security. They ask if I’m after a taxi. Yes. Told to sit on a bench in the much needed shade of a tree. Few minutes later a taxi arrives. They’ve only radioed down to the security entrance on the main road to flag a taxi which has then been allowed up the driveway to pick me up. How great is that. Can you imagine that happening in the UK?  
Colonnaded arcarde
Colonnaded arcarde
 
Short hop to Ankamall shopping centre. Need some boot laces and biros. It’s like Nottingham’s Victoria Centre but without the asylum seekers. Not very busy and has the usual UK shops including an M&S. Visit Haci Bayrami Camii mosque – he being a Muslim saint who founded a dervish order. It’s 15th Century and seemingly a place of pilgrimage given the amount of people milling about including a long queue of women waiting to enter. The security guards use a concertina metal barricade to herd the masses in like cattle. Through the backstreets the buildings are very Alpine looking. It’s “old” Ankara being reconstructed but seems sterile just like Doha’s reconstructed souk. Taxi to hotel and the first taxi to try and rip me off. Told it’s TRL20. I say 10. He replies, “20….10…20…10…”. He gets 10. Find a small photography shop selling postcards so enter to buy one I’ve chosen from the outside stand. The owner says, “It’s OK…..on me”. Blimey – a free postcard (to the recipient – I’m spoiling you!). Post office is 300m down a steep hill and there’s a long queue when I arrive. I don’t do queueing. By a bit of motioning that all I want is a stamp a local shoves me to near the front of a queue and a young lady further allows me to take her place for a quick stamp. Judging by the state of the post office, I’m not convinced it will find it’s destination.
View from Mausoleum entrance
View from Mausoleum entrance
 
Steep climb up the hill the way I’ve just come and stop to buy a loaf of bread, cheese and crisps for dinner on the overnight train. There are three types of “Dairylea” on offer in the fridge and not knowing which is best pull all three out and place them on a counter and ask a fellow shopper which is best. She gives the thumbs up to one which I take. Arrive station an hour before departure and discover train is already at the platform and can board. Cabin has air-conditioning, wash hand basin, minibar (with water, cherry juice, chocolate and Twiglet things) and a pair of disposable slippers. Wash hand basin will be handy at 3am when I need a pee (too much information and you’re all going “Ugh – disgusting”). Train departs at 2005hrs and purchase a couple bottles of Efes beer and settle in for the night.
The youngest is now under control
The youngest is now under control
 
Dinner for one and a night at the movies. I know how to live. Spread “dinner” out on a pull out table. It’s only when the train breaks suddenly that the table rolls back into it’s recess scooping everything on it…off. Everything moves in slow motion and it’s like one of those arcade machines (I’m regressing to my youth in the 80s) you fed with 2 pence coins – you had to keep feeding the moving tray it until a coin pushed a load of other coins out into the winnings tray. Well it’s like that but with bread, Dairylea, crisps, cup of cold beer. Except it’s not a winnings tray. It’s the floor. I’ve not moved so fast for a while. Final night in Turkey. It’s surprised me how friendly everyone is, I’ve not been hassled, I feel very safe, I’ve not been ripped off – on the contrary, I’ve found people to be exceptionally generous. But, like Boxing Day, I’ve had my fill of Turkey. It’s all a bit “samey” and apart from Istanbul it’s not quite Turkish Delight.

It’s delicious….it’s delicious

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Ankara, Turkey

4 August 2013

0700hrs wake up and breakfast in the courtyard. I tell the bloke I have a transfer booked at 0800hrs. “Yes, yes, I know…..bus station…may be 5-10mins late because of traffic” (Yeah, yeah, a few minutes here and a few minutes there and it all starts to get a bit tight on times). He then proceeds to fill the entire table with plates of food nicely presented. Cold meats, roasted red peppers, various cheeses, harissa, bread, green & black olives with herbs, peeled buffalo tomato & cucumber, walnuts, dried apricot & fig, fresh orange juice and a nice milky coffee like your Nan used to make. It’s all rather pleasant and a good start to the day. It’s just me and the bloke – all the other guests are still asleep. It’s the same bloke that checks me out and asks if I’ve had anything from the minibar.
Outskirts of Bursa
Outskirts of Bursa
 
Only a bottle of water. “We’ll give you that on the house” he replies and tells me to wait in the entrance hall of this merchant’s house (which I’m told is about 150 years old). Shortly after 0800hrs a young lad enters and disappears to the courtyard. A few minutes later and by now it’s 0810hrs and having been told by the girl last night that it’ll take at least 30mins to the bus station but depends on traffic it could be one of those trips that gets a little bit tight for time. The bloke who’d served beakfast appears and says, “OK – let’s go” and promptly lugs my rucksack to his car. We speed through the city listening to the local Turkish radio station which isn’t quite Chris Evans’ Breakfast Show. Where is everyone. There’s not a soul about. The streets are bare and no traffic. I wish Nottingham was like this in rush hour! We speed towards the bus station in about 15mins but dread to think how long it would’ve taken had the traffic been as busy as last night.
Bored onboard bus
Bored onboard bus
 
Deposited outside and it’s yet another free transfer. This hotel is superb value for money!! I even feel compelled to write a review on Trip Advisor (which is where I discovered it in the first place). Inside the bus station is a semi-circle of desks numbered 1-32 which upon first glance I wonder if they are check-in desks. My bus departs platform 33 but don’t find desk 33. Do find the Kamilkoc desk and as I have 30mins to spare wander over just to check that my ticket is OK and that they will drop me off at the TCDD rail station. Without further question the clerk hands me a TRL5 (~£2) note and prints out a new ticket which is the bus direct to the TCDD rail station rather than the bus station I had. The bus departs 0830hrs. It’s now 0828hrs. Bloody ‘ell. Was going to have a coffee and catch up on the Daily Telegraph’s website for half an hour. A couple of strides to platform 49 and dump my bag in the hold.
Enroute to Ankara
Enroute to Ankara
 
Motion that I’m just going to buy a bottle of water for the journey and he motions to hurry up in that tapping your watch sort of way. Leg it to stall, buy water, leg it back and jump on as the doors close behind me. It’s a 2+2 seating arrangement rather than the 2+1 on the original bus I’d been booked on to and there’s not much leg room but it’s more comfortable than the Honningsvag-Rovaniemi bus! Attendant dishes out free cups of water and biscuits and I have to juggle that fine line between keeping hydrated and not wanting the loo every 30mins as we’re on a non-stop bus for 2.5hrs! The Alpine mountain scenery gives way to arid rolling plain with fields of gold that have recently been combined. The bus, surprisingly, has Wi-Fi so pass the journey listening to yesterday’s Anneka Rice Radio 2 show (she’s still got it) on the iplayer Radio app on my phone. This technology never ceases to amaze me.
Enroute to Ankara
Enroute to Ankara
 
Arrive Eskishir in just under 2hrs, a lot sooner than expected. It’s actually been quite a pleasant journey notwithstanding the lack of leg room. The seatback TV screens have a channel that show the driver’s view through the windscreen. As I’m at Eskishir rail station at 1030hrs, a lot earlier than anticipated, I find the ticket office to see if there’s a train to Ankara sooner than the 1245hrs. There is. At 1115hrs. Within 20seconds my ticket is changed without charge and handed over….not like the palaver we had yesterday! She also confirms that tomorrow’s day train is fully booked – just wanted to make sure. Have to pass security before boarding the high speed train – X-ray machine and body scanner. It seems a permanent fixture rather than a temporary arrangement for the current terror alert we’re encountering. Train is just like the German ICE and we whizz through the countryside at 250km/hr.
Caravanseri courtyard
Caravanseri courtyard
 
Hotel is a 16th century caravanseri with the courtyard now covered with a modern glazed atrium. Adjacent is a transport museum which is actually quite interesting and includes a flour mill from Braunschweig in Germany…..where I used to live. The citadel entrance is opposite the hotel. It’s a bit of a dump when I walk the “streets”. Derelict houses, manky cats, unmade roads, rubbish strewn about, shops selling weathered postcards that look about as old as the citadel. It’s like some sort of bombed out Balkan village you used to see on the news. Find the entrance to one of the fortresses in the city wall. Plenty of women selling their wares and crocheting handbags and other female stuff. Steep stone steps up onto the fortress walls and I steer clear of the vertical drop.
Citadel
Citadel
 
Great view of Ankara from the high point but not convinced that Ankara’s got with the tourist thing. How many people do you know have said, “Ooh we had a great weekend in Ankara…you must go”. Quite. Dinner in the hotel restaurant located in the transport museum. I’m the sole occupant. I assume because the sun hasn’t set yet. They’ll all come flooding in after sunset to feast after the fast. Except. No. They don’t. It’s just me and the waiter. He’s a dead ringer for Rowan Atkinson’s teenage Blackadder. His main phrase is “It’s delicious”. Everything on the menu is delicious. My choice of rack of lamb is delicious. My choice of red wine is delicious. The sparkling water – delicious. The warm bread and olive oil he delights in giving is…..delicious. In the covered courtyard of the caravanseri tapping away at this blog it suddently dawns on me that I am the only occupant of this hotel. There are no other guests. Spooky.

How big your shoe?

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Bursa, Turkey

3 August 2013

To set the scene. I’m in a candlelit courtyard tapping away at this blog. It feels like I’m in the 17th Century as having to type with a candle next to the keyboard. Wake up in a better frame of mind and checking out of hotel they take my rucksack for secure storage whilst I blitz the sights. I really need more time here to do it all justice but not helped by the faff from yesterday. Stay local to Sultanahmet and visit Aya Sophia and Topkapi Palace. Walking into Aya Sophia, I’m struck by the magnitude of the construction. Notwithstanding the huge scaffold tower that takes over a third of the building, it’s colossal. An amazing structure.
View from room....not bad eh
View from room….not bad eh
 
The Topkapi Palace is behind and I quickly visit as I have lunch to eat and a ferry to catch. The treasury reminds me of the Grune Gewolbe in Dresden with its stunning jewellery. As I enter the harem, a shifty looking local sidles up to me and says “How big your shoe?”. UK13/EUR47 I say. Wow says he. They’re big says he. Indeed they are say I and will be painful if you try to rob me. Final lunch in the hotel courtyard and retrieve bag from storage. Am told it’ll be out front so exit and wait for my taxi. The doorman says “Bursa?” Yes. “Ferry?” Yes. “Your taxi’s there, Sir”. But where’s my bag. “Your bag is in the boot, Sir”. Now that’s service and with that am waved off. Short wait before boarding the fast ferry to Bursa port. I’ve upgrade to Business Class for the grand sum of 33pence – one Turkish lira.
Aya Sophia
Aya Sophia
 
It takes 90mins across the Sea of Marmara past the vast quantities of container ships. Blue sky. Blue Sea. Nice and calm not like the horrific catamaran crossing I did last year from Poole to Cherbourg. That was rough. Greeted by hotel transfer to Bursa city 30mins away at high speed. Glad the hotel organised the transfer as a taxi would never have found the hotel. It’s down some side alleyways which come to a dead end and so narrow we have to squeeze out of the van doors. Driver insists on taking my rucksack but regrets it when he takes the load and hands me over to hotel owner. She confirms the night rate and I ask how much the transfer is. Nothing. It’s free. With our compliments. Wow. That is service. Bursa was the former Ottoman capital and sits in a valley surrounded by mountain ranges. Explore the old town. Everyone is seemingly out and about. Women sitting on carpets outside the mosque as the men pray inside. Chatter. Chatter. Chatter. As they do. Parts of the town look slightly Germanic/Alpine in places and reminds me of Campos de Jordao in Sao Paulo state, Brasil – an Alpine town in the tropics. Dinner in the candlelit courtyard (think old merchant’s house) and reading a news article about likely terrorist attacks in the Middle East this weekend when all of a sudden an explosion goes off near the hotel. As my mind is reading about bomb alerts and the like my heart skips a beat until I realise it’s a far too loud a firework going off in celebration. Phew.