We were approaching Adana when I woke up. The train had rocked me to sleep and now, lying in the gap between dream and reality, I felt like I was swaying in a hammock. Every thirty to forty minutes, the train would grind to a sudden, juddering halt. After a while I got used to it and it stopped bothering me.
At around noon we got to the Turkish border and we all piled off the train, blinking in the bright sunlight. I had my passport stamped by a man who regarded me with such suspicion that I actually felt guilty without knowing why. It is a peculiarity of the Turkish land borders that the guards always make you feel like a smuggler or a criminal. In general that's true of all borders, but I always feel particularly suspect around the Turks. As a side note, it interested me in Istanbul and throughout the country that Turks seem to really only have two "looks". The appearance of the men folk fits into a Venn diagram between two extremes - power metaller and sex offender. Either they have the long hair, goatee and face of a veteran headbanger or the shifty eyes and lugubriously groomed oiliness of a serial perpetrator. Occasionally, hybrids appear to startling effect.
Anyway, so after I got back on the train I started chatting to a chubby affable Iraqi named Saad. Saad was a very interesting guy. He lived in Mosul and was on his way home via Syria where, he said, he had some business. What business would be made clear to me later, over some Turkish delight.
We stood talking on the landing between carriages. Saad had just, as the train pulled in, been released from Turkish custody. When he got to the border, they had arrested him. His crime was that a suspected terrorist also named Saad was supposedly at large in Turkey. Before you get an image in your mind, let me describe Saad to you. He was a very cheerful, plump man with a neatly trimmed beard and twinkling eyes. He was a doctor of herbal medicine and, in Iraq, presents a television program on Arabic satellite that teaches people how to treat their relatives with herbs and grasses. He also is a card-carrying member of the Association of Free Prisoners, the organisation that looks after civilians wrongfully imprisoned by Saddam. He and his brother had been taken into custody by Saddam before the war and his brother was murdered. He is single and lives alone. He showed me a wedge of Iraqi money and told me that when he tried to change it in Turkey, they accused him of being a money launderer and refused to touch the cash. He was on his way to spend a week or so in Syria before getting the bus to Mosul. Given the rare opportunity to talk to an Iraqi who actually still lives there, I picked his brains.
He told me that although Mosul is still a bit dangerous and Iraq on the whole is in the toilet, he would never move away.
"It is my country," he said. "I love my country."
I asked him whether he thought it was worse with Saddam or the Americans. That was when he told me about his brother and showed me his various cards and memberships. He said that it was essentially six of one, half a dozen of the other. Under Saddam, everyone lived in fear of Saddam, people disappeared and nobody felt safe. Now, he said, people live in fear of the American troops and the militias, people disappeared and nobody felt safe. Under Saddam, the border situation was less strict, but other than that life in Mosul at least was not qualitatively that much worse. Obviously, he wasn't from Baghdad, but rather a region of the country that functions largely as an autonomous entity anyway and is touted as a beacon of stability in Iraq. Saad also explained that the borders are shut by the Americans to keep out Europeans in particular because the prevailing wisdom is that anyone who is crazy enough to come to Iraq voluntarily is clearly going to help "the insurgents". It was strange talking to Saad about the war in his country because he did not seem either angry about the invasion or happy about the American presence. The only time he was not happy and smiling was when he mentioned his brother's murder at the hands of Saddam's goons, at which point he choked up slightly and we shared a silence until he was okay to continue.
We arrived at the Syrian border and all clambered down. The Syrians were very friendly. The guard who took my passport looked at my photo, then at my face and just laughed. My passport photo, like all the new biometric pictures, is of me not smiling. Now, honestly evaluating myself, I can say that when I don't smile in photographs, I look like either a murderer or a rapist depending on the lighting. The Syrian guard looked at my picture again, then looked at me and made a mock serious face. He walked away laughing.
The system for entering Syria could only have been invented by a country with rife unemployment. There were six guards, each of whom handled one phase of the entry procedure. First, we were herded into the waiting room and asked to sit down. Then, after a few minutes, we were given blue entry/exit cards. Five minutes later, after many smiles and solicitous hand movements, I managed to get a pen from one of the guards. After filling out the form, it is submitted to one guard whose job seemed to consist of leaning back in his chair, checking his mobile for texts and randomly asking people to sit down, although not everyone and not with any discernable pattern. He looked at the form and then handed it to another guard who stood behind him. This guard leaned over the desk and, after a cursory examination, stamped my card. I asked if that was it. The sitting guard told me to sit down and checked his mobile. The cards, one by one, were passed to the four guards who sat in booths to one side of the room. The windows for the booths faced out onto the waiting area and the benches ran along the length of them, so in order to talk to a guard behind the glass you had to lean over whoever was sitting down. Names were called at random or, more commonly, the passport under current examination would be held up to the glass and one of us would have to fetch the person who matched the photo. Then the guard would ask one or two questions (in my case they were "Where do you stay in Syria?" and "What do your job in home?"). When satisfied, he would motion for us to be seated and then, five or ten minutes later, another guard at another window would call out a name and the procedure would be repeated.
At around noon we got to the Turkish border and we all piled off the train, blinking in the bright sunlight. I had my passport stamped by a man who regarded me with such suspicion that I actually felt guilty without knowing why. It is a peculiarity of the Turkish land borders that the guards always make you feel like a smuggler or a criminal. In general that's true of all borders, but I always feel particularly suspect around the Turks. As a side note, it interested me in Istanbul and throughout the country that Turks seem to really only have two "looks". The appearance of the men folk fits into a Venn diagram between two extremes - power metaller and sex offender. Either they have the long hair, goatee and face of a veteran headbanger or the shifty eyes and lugubriously groomed oiliness of a serial perpetrator. Occasionally, hybrids appear to startling effect.
Anyway, so after I got back on the train I started chatting to a chubby affable Iraqi named Saad. Saad was a very interesting guy. He lived in Mosul and was on his way home via Syria where, he said, he had some business. What business would be made clear to me later, over some Turkish delight.
We stood talking on the landing between carriages. Saad had just, as the train pulled in, been released from Turkish custody. When he got to the border, they had arrested him. His crime was that a suspected terrorist also named Saad was supposedly at large in Turkey. Before you get an image in your mind, let me describe Saad to you. He was a very cheerful, plump man with a neatly trimmed beard and twinkling eyes. He was a doctor of herbal medicine and, in Iraq, presents a television program on Arabic satellite that teaches people how to treat their relatives with herbs and grasses. He also is a card-carrying member of the Association of Free Prisoners, the organisation that looks after civilians wrongfully imprisoned by Saddam. He and his brother had been taken into custody by Saddam before the war and his brother was murdered. He is single and lives alone. He showed me a wedge of Iraqi money and told me that when he tried to change it in Turkey, they accused him of being a money launderer and refused to touch the cash. He was on his way to spend a week or so in Syria before getting the bus to Mosul. Given the rare opportunity to talk to an Iraqi who actually still lives there, I picked his brains.
He told me that although Mosul is still a bit dangerous and Iraq on the whole is in the toilet, he would never move away.
"It is my country," he said. "I love my country."
I asked him whether he thought it was worse with Saddam or the Americans. That was when he told me about his brother and showed me his various cards and memberships. He said that it was essentially six of one, half a dozen of the other. Under Saddam, everyone lived in fear of Saddam, people disappeared and nobody felt safe. Now, he said, people live in fear of the American troops and the militias, people disappeared and nobody felt safe. Under Saddam, the border situation was less strict, but other than that life in Mosul at least was not qualitatively that much worse. Obviously, he wasn't from Baghdad, but rather a region of the country that functions largely as an autonomous entity anyway and is touted as a beacon of stability in Iraq. Saad also explained that the borders are shut by the Americans to keep out Europeans in particular because the prevailing wisdom is that anyone who is crazy enough to come to Iraq voluntarily is clearly going to help "the insurgents". It was strange talking to Saad about the war in his country because he did not seem either angry about the invasion or happy about the American presence. The only time he was not happy and smiling was when he mentioned his brother's murder at the hands of Saddam's goons, at which point he choked up slightly and we shared a silence until he was okay to continue.
We arrived at the Syrian border and all clambered down. The Syrians were very friendly. The guard who took my passport looked at my photo, then at my face and just laughed. My passport photo, like all the new biometric pictures, is of me not smiling. Now, honestly evaluating myself, I can say that when I don't smile in photographs, I look like either a murderer or a rapist depending on the lighting. The Syrian guard looked at my picture again, then looked at me and made a mock serious face. He walked away laughing.
The system for entering Syria could only have been invented by a country with rife unemployment. There were six guards, each of whom handled one phase of the entry procedure. First, we were herded into the waiting room and asked to sit down. Then, after a few minutes, we were given blue entry/exit cards. Five minutes later, after many smiles and solicitous hand movements, I managed to get a pen from one of the guards. After filling out the form, it is submitted to one guard whose job seemed to consist of leaning back in his chair, checking his mobile for texts and randomly asking people to sit down, although not everyone and not with any discernable pattern. He looked at the form and then handed it to another guard who stood behind him. This guard leaned over the desk and, after a cursory examination, stamped my card. I asked if that was it. The sitting guard told me to sit down and checked his mobile. The cards, one by one, were passed to the four guards who sat in booths to one side of the room. The windows for the booths faced out onto the waiting area and the benches ran along the length of them, so in order to talk to a guard behind the glass you had to lean over whoever was sitting down. Names were called at random or, more commonly, the passport under current examination would be held up to the glass and one of us would have to fetch the person who matched the photo. Then the guard would ask one or two questions (in my case they were "Where do you stay in Syria?" and "What do your job in home?"). When satisfied, he would motion for us to be seated and then, five or ten minutes later, another guard at another window would call out a name and the procedure would be repeated.
When my name was called for the third or fourth time I stood up, threw my arms wide and shouted "Here I am!" The guard behind the window grinned and said "You are like king, no?" After that, I was given my passport in record time and waited outside for the rest of us to shuffle out. In total, crossing the Syrian border took just over two hours.
Later on, back on the train, I stopped by Saad's cabin to say hello. He insisted that I come in and share some Turkish delight with him. I sat down on the bed next to him and he pressed gooey treats into my hand. No, not those kind of treats you sick freaks.
I asked him how long he would stay in Aleppo. He said he would only stay long enough to change his Iraqi money and then he would go to Damascus. I asked him why he wouldn't stay in Aleppo. He smiled at me and said that there was no sex in Aleppo but plenty in Damascus. I was surprised at the idea that Damascus would be a sex tourism hot spot, so I asked him what he meant by sex.
Saad explained to me that in Damascus, at the offices of the television channel he worked for, he could have sex with the Bedouin cleaning lady. In certain areas of Damascus, cleaning lady is a euphemism for hooker. Saad, clearly feeling a bit defensive, told me that he wasn't doing anything wrong. I told him I agreed. He said that many men look down on other Muslims who go to prostitutes, but to him it was logical. As a single, portly middle-aged man, where else would he get some action? I asked him if there were hookers in Iraq. Apparently, before the war there was a bustling skin trade in Iraq, but after the invasion all the hookers left.
"The war," Saad said sadly, "was the end of sex in Iraq."
That was why he was going to Damascus. Cherchez-la-femme. He gave me the universal "know-what-I'm-sayin'" look and gripped my hand, laughing. I laughed with him and he forced me to eat more Turkish delight, which, while delicious, ceases to be delightful very quickly after the first few mouthfuls.
I went back to my cabin, laid down on the bed and watched the Syrian scenery roll by. After all the mental images of unforgiving wilderness and Middle Eastern sandy desert, it was a refreshing surprise to find that the north of Syria is incredibly verdant. Orchards of olive trees, fields of wheat, cabbage and other crops that I didn't recognise by sight flew past.
I began to get the impression that the weekly train from Istanbul was some sort of free cinema for the farmers. Every bend and straightway of the track was lined with farmers, shepherds and children watching and waving to the train. There were several boys we passed who threw stones at the train, but apart from them, everyone was welcoming and good-natured. Apart from one old farmer who came out of his hut, saw his daughter (not older than four or five) waving at the train and promptly gripped her ear and started beating her. We passed out of sight as he started to drag her towards the house. Nice guy.
Over the course of the 30-odd hour journey from Istanbul, the passengers in the two sleeping cars (myslef included) had bonded and, when we finally began pulling in through the filthy and ramshackle suburbs of Aleppo (Haleb to locals), resolved to share taxis to a hotel together.
Disembarking at Aleppo train station at night is a very surreal experience. There were no other trains at the station and the platforms were completely deserted. Half the columns were fractured and broken. There was white paint spilled all over the ground and even up the walls and, in one particular feat, over the arch above the stairs to the tunnel.
We all bundled into taxis and headed for the Hotel Al Gawaher, chosen on the basis of an excellent reputation and very reasonable prices. Arriving at the hotel, the first inconvenience struck. There were ten of us and seven beds left in the entire hotel. We had arrived on the eve of Yom Shahid, Martyrs' Day. Kind of like Veterans' Day but with more suicide. Because it was a national holiday the following day, the hotel was almost completely full. Ahmad, the manager, came down to reception and began sorting us out. Ahmad was very soft-spoken, very patient and extremely nice. As I was to learn later by hanging out with him, he was also incredibly funny and very generous. And, like all the people I've met so far, he had a lot of stories to tell.
After shuffling beds and room configurations around for half an hour or so, everyone had been given a bed except for myself, an English girl named Laura and a tall, loud and very funny guy named Amir. Ahmad decided that he would give Laura his own room in the hotel and that left Amir and me. He showed us the roof. I was all over the roof like white on rice. The roof terrace looked out over the city of Aleppo, lights twinkling, music blaring, cars honking. I pitched my tent on the roof, securing it to the sofas that lined the sides of the terrace. Amir decided that he would sleep on the roof too. Presto, problem solved.
After getting squared away, we all went for a falafel which turned out to be a very complex procedure. The amount of effort that goes into choosing a bar or restaurant in London is the same amount of attention that is applied to selecting a falafel vendor. Spaced all over Aleppo, as I'm sure they are in the rest of Syria, each falafel vendor has his own recipes, his own mixture of vegetables and sauces and every combination is a hit with someone. Ahmad recommended a place but, when we asked someone on the street where it was, he looked at the name on the piece of card with something akin to indignation.
"You want to eat here?"
"Why, isn't it a restaurant?"
"It's a restaurant."
"So it's bad?"
At this point, our new friend, Fawaz, made the Arabic shoo-fly hand gesture that means "forget about it".
"So where should we go?"
Fawaz and his friend went into a lengthy and heated confab and then agreed on a suitable location. Then, in a perfect illustration of why Syrian hospitality is to the world what Everest is to a molehill, Fawaz and his friend walked us two kilometres across town to what they considered to be the best in town. Although obviously my falafel palate has yet to develop sufficiently, I have to say that it was pretty special. Falafel in Syria is fried in a doughnut shape and crumbled into a pitta bread along with fresh tomato, cucumber and garlic sauce. This appears to be the base. The one we had that night also included fresh mint, fresh parsley and a dash of chilli. All for the whopping price of 30 Syrian pounds, which is less than 50 euro cents, around 35p. That even appears to be in the higher price bracket, since I have enjoyed equally rocking falafage for as low as 15 Syrian, which is about 15p. Awesome. After hoovering up my falafel, the two Danish girls in the group, who, against my advice, didn't put "cartoonist" down as their occupation on their entry forms, found a Syrian pizza place right next door to the falafel joint. Syrian pizza is the same as normal pizza but comes in personal 4-inch mini-pizza form rather than slices. While they were selecting, I hovered out front looking at the drinks. The guy inside the pizzeria behind the counter shouted at me. I looked up. He was motioning for me to come in. I walked into the pizza place. He pointed at one of the pizzas, fresh out of the oven. I signalled that I was full and couldn't possibly eat any more. He pushed the pizza across the counter so that it was several inches closer to me in a surprisingly pimp-like manner. Again, I showed him my swollen gut and professed to be completely complete. He said "Halas" (Arabic for "enough" or "finished"), wrapped the pizza in a sheet of paper, grabbed my wrist and stuck it in my hand. He motioned for me to eat it. I shook my head. He gave me a Look. Anyone that has ever received or witnessed Middle Eastern hospitality knows the Look. It says "I will not stop insisting, even if you cry like a little bitch". I took a bite of the pizza. It was good. Suddenly, I didn't feel so full. I wolfed down the rest of it and rubbed my belly while licking my lips, performing the mime of "oh wow that was good, thank you" that works in foreign countries as well as at dinner with deaf grandmothers. After wiping my mouth and throwing away the wrapper, I rubbed my middle and index fingers against my thumb. The man behind the counter gave me a look of absolute shock and shooed me away with his hands. I asked again and he smiled at me and shook his head. Free pizza. Amazing.
Afterwards, Amir got a bottle of vodka and we all sat on the roof and did the traveller chat thing. I fell asleep in my tent listening to the low, soothing hum of Aleppo's traffic and the giggling of tipsy travellers.
I asked him how long he would stay in Aleppo. He said he would only stay long enough to change his Iraqi money and then he would go to Damascus. I asked him why he wouldn't stay in Aleppo. He smiled at me and said that there was no sex in Aleppo but plenty in Damascus. I was surprised at the idea that Damascus would be a sex tourism hot spot, so I asked him what he meant by sex.
Saad explained to me that in Damascus, at the offices of the television channel he worked for, he could have sex with the Bedouin cleaning lady. In certain areas of Damascus, cleaning lady is a euphemism for hooker. Saad, clearly feeling a bit defensive, told me that he wasn't doing anything wrong. I told him I agreed. He said that many men look down on other Muslims who go to prostitutes, but to him it was logical. As a single, portly middle-aged man, where else would he get some action? I asked him if there were hookers in Iraq. Apparently, before the war there was a bustling skin trade in Iraq, but after the invasion all the hookers left.
"The war," Saad said sadly, "was the end of sex in Iraq."
That was why he was going to Damascus. Cherchez-la-femme. He gave me the universal "know-what-I'm-sayin'" look and gripped my hand, laughing. I laughed with him and he forced me to eat more Turkish delight, which, while delicious, ceases to be delightful very quickly after the first few mouthfuls.
I went back to my cabin, laid down on the bed and watched the Syrian scenery roll by. After all the mental images of unforgiving wilderness and Middle Eastern sandy desert, it was a refreshing surprise to find that the north of Syria is incredibly verdant. Orchards of olive trees, fields of wheat, cabbage and other crops that I didn't recognise by sight flew past.
I began to get the impression that the weekly train from Istanbul was some sort of free cinema for the farmers. Every bend and straightway of the track was lined with farmers, shepherds and children watching and waving to the train. There were several boys we passed who threw stones at the train, but apart from them, everyone was welcoming and good-natured. Apart from one old farmer who came out of his hut, saw his daughter (not older than four or five) waving at the train and promptly gripped her ear and started beating her. We passed out of sight as he started to drag her towards the house. Nice guy.Over the course of the 30-odd hour journey from Istanbul, the passengers in the two sleeping cars (myslef included) had bonded and, when we finally began pulling in through the filthy and ramshackle suburbs of Aleppo (Haleb to locals), resolved to share taxis to a hotel together.
Disembarking at Aleppo train station at night is a very surreal experience. There were no other trains at the station and the platforms were completely deserted. Half the columns were fractured and broken. There was white paint spilled all over the ground and even up the walls and, in one particular feat, over the arch above the stairs to the tunnel.
We all bundled into taxis and headed for the Hotel Al Gawaher, chosen on the basis of an excellent reputation and very reasonable prices. Arriving at the hotel, the first inconvenience struck. There were ten of us and seven beds left in the entire hotel. We had arrived on the eve of Yom Shahid, Martyrs' Day. Kind of like Veterans' Day but with more suicide. Because it was a national holiday the following day, the hotel was almost completely full. Ahmad, the manager, came down to reception and began sorting us out. Ahmad was very soft-spoken, very patient and extremely nice. As I was to learn later by hanging out with him, he was also incredibly funny and very generous. And, like all the people I've met so far, he had a lot of stories to tell.
After shuffling beds and room configurations around for half an hour or so, everyone had been given a bed except for myself, an English girl named Laura and a tall, loud and very funny guy named Amir. Ahmad decided that he would give Laura his own room in the hotel and that left Amir and me. He showed us the roof. I was all over the roof like white on rice. The roof terrace looked out over the city of Aleppo, lights twinkling, music blaring, cars honking. I pitched my tent on the roof, securing it to the sofas that lined the sides of the terrace. Amir decided that he would sleep on the roof too. Presto, problem solved.
After getting squared away, we all went for a falafel which turned out to be a very complex procedure. The amount of effort that goes into choosing a bar or restaurant in London is the same amount of attention that is applied to selecting a falafel vendor. Spaced all over Aleppo, as I'm sure they are in the rest of Syria, each falafel vendor has his own recipes, his own mixture of vegetables and sauces and every combination is a hit with someone. Ahmad recommended a place but, when we asked someone on the street where it was, he looked at the name on the piece of card with something akin to indignation.
"You want to eat here?"
"Why, isn't it a restaurant?"
"It's a restaurant."
"So it's bad?"
At this point, our new friend, Fawaz, made the Arabic shoo-fly hand gesture that means "forget about it".
"So where should we go?"
Fawaz and his friend went into a lengthy and heated confab and then agreed on a suitable location. Then, in a perfect illustration of why Syrian hospitality is to the world what Everest is to a molehill, Fawaz and his friend walked us two kilometres across town to what they considered to be the best in town. Although obviously my falafel palate has yet to develop sufficiently, I have to say that it was pretty special. Falafel in Syria is fried in a doughnut shape and crumbled into a pitta bread along with fresh tomato, cucumber and garlic sauce. This appears to be the base. The one we had that night also included fresh mint, fresh parsley and a dash of chilli. All for the whopping price of 30 Syrian pounds, which is less than 50 euro cents, around 35p. That even appears to be in the higher price bracket, since I have enjoyed equally rocking falafage for as low as 15 Syrian, which is about 15p. Awesome. After hoovering up my falafel, the two Danish girls in the group, who, against my advice, didn't put "cartoonist" down as their occupation on their entry forms, found a Syrian pizza place right next door to the falafel joint. Syrian pizza is the same as normal pizza but comes in personal 4-inch mini-pizza form rather than slices. While they were selecting, I hovered out front looking at the drinks. The guy inside the pizzeria behind the counter shouted at me. I looked up. He was motioning for me to come in. I walked into the pizza place. He pointed at one of the pizzas, fresh out of the oven. I signalled that I was full and couldn't possibly eat any more. He pushed the pizza across the counter so that it was several inches closer to me in a surprisingly pimp-like manner. Again, I showed him my swollen gut and professed to be completely complete. He said "Halas" (Arabic for "enough" or "finished"), wrapped the pizza in a sheet of paper, grabbed my wrist and stuck it in my hand. He motioned for me to eat it. I shook my head. He gave me a Look. Anyone that has ever received or witnessed Middle Eastern hospitality knows the Look. It says "I will not stop insisting, even if you cry like a little bitch". I took a bite of the pizza. It was good. Suddenly, I didn't feel so full. I wolfed down the rest of it and rubbed my belly while licking my lips, performing the mime of "oh wow that was good, thank you" that works in foreign countries as well as at dinner with deaf grandmothers. After wiping my mouth and throwing away the wrapper, I rubbed my middle and index fingers against my thumb. The man behind the counter gave me a look of absolute shock and shooed me away with his hands. I asked again and he smiled at me and shook his head. Free pizza. Amazing.
Afterwards, Amir got a bottle of vodka and we all sat on the roof and did the traveller chat thing. I fell asleep in my tent listening to the low, soothing hum of Aleppo's traffic and the giggling of tipsy travellers.
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