Syria
After my bus to Nusaybin arrived, my first thoughts were of money. The British Foreign and Commonwealth Office website had told me, startlingly, that I would find NO ATM's outside Damascus. Since I wouldn't be in Damascus for a while I had to get more money now before leaving the country. And I guessed (correctly as it turned out) that you can't change Turkish money in Syria. I was also inconvenienced by the fact that since it was a sunday - Turkey not being Islamic enough to shun the Constantinian contrivance - all the banks were closed. If I couldn't find a 'fly by night' currency trader I might have to wait until monday, or else reroute straight to Damascus, with the few dollars I had changed earlier.
Luckily, after withdrawing Turkish money, I found a place. A chaotic little room full of urgent people where I had to struggle hard not to freak out because of all the money flying around and my fear of either losing some or being ripped off. As it happens, I was ripped off, getting about 29 instead of 40 Syrian pounds for one Turkish Lira. I think, though, the rate may have been so bad because these currencies are not usually exchanged. Otherwise it was because they saw me coming, and I came. That said, the dollars I got were for a reasonable rate, so I'm not sure.
At the border, after getting my Turkish exit stamp, I was still uncertain I'd get through. I knew getting the exit stamp wouldn't matter if I couldn't since I had a multiple entry Turkish visa. Still, it would have looked strange to the Turks, returning so soon.
Crossing into the Syrian side, with the speech prepared by Oscar in hand, I quickly realised it would be useless. The Syrians spoke no Turkish, and no Turkish speakers were around. Anyway, after being ushered warmly into a soviet looking building and offered tea, I was soon introduced to the smiley Syrian who had been so impressed by me a few days ago, all because I am a teacher. Shortly, I was escorted into another room where I was seated opposite a very official looking senior officer, presumably in charge of the border checkpoint. If he had been scowling, or bereft of facial feature, instead of smiling and saying 'Welcome to Syria', I might have been worried.
Anyway, I had to wait while phonecalls were made and enquiries pursued. It was clear not many foreigners turn up at this isolated border, even fewer do without a visa. I had the distinct impression though they were just repeating the process they'd pursued the other day.
Yet again, fascination with my Christian name...and also with the names of my parents. Again, in their case, 'Michael' and 'Sylvia' were clearly adequate. Yet again, passionate confusion and questions about whether I was Irish becasue of the name of my country. I explained as best I could to the senior official, whose English was elementary but alive, that there is a bit of Ireland in the UK, but that that doesn't mean I'm Irish. It seemed this Irish perplexity was all that really worried them.
After paying fifty two dollars for the visa they let me go with more courtesies;..oh, after getting me to give all my details to yet another guy, a local police officer I think. I wrongly thought that might be it. As I strolled through customs I had my bag searched by an enormous man, also smiling and welcoming me. He asked me if I had anything 'unusual' in it. I panicked and wondered whether an old copy of 'Nuts' I'd acquired in Varna would count. Just tits and leg, and not even on most of the pages, but maybe it counts as pornography and would provoke his ire. As he picked it up I awkwardly explained that it was just a magazine and hoped he wouldn't see any nipple. When he did I said 'It's ok, you can have it if you like', supposing this might be a diplomatically crafty way of submitting to its confiscation. As it happens he said it was fine, stopped checking the bag and overlooked my smaller bag entirely before apologising(!)for searching at all.
Luckily, after withdrawing Turkish money, I found a place. A chaotic little room full of urgent people where I had to struggle hard not to freak out because of all the money flying around and my fear of either losing some or being ripped off. As it happens, I was ripped off, getting about 29 instead of 40 Syrian pounds for one Turkish Lira. I think, though, the rate may have been so bad because these currencies are not usually exchanged. Otherwise it was because they saw me coming, and I came. That said, the dollars I got were for a reasonable rate, so I'm not sure.
At the border, after getting my Turkish exit stamp, I was still uncertain I'd get through. I knew getting the exit stamp wouldn't matter if I couldn't since I had a multiple entry Turkish visa. Still, it would have looked strange to the Turks, returning so soon.
Crossing into the Syrian side, with the speech prepared by Oscar in hand, I quickly realised it would be useless. The Syrians spoke no Turkish, and no Turkish speakers were around. Anyway, after being ushered warmly into a soviet looking building and offered tea, I was soon introduced to the smiley Syrian who had been so impressed by me a few days ago, all because I am a teacher. Shortly, I was escorted into another room where I was seated opposite a very official looking senior officer, presumably in charge of the border checkpoint. If he had been scowling, or bereft of facial feature, instead of smiling and saying 'Welcome to Syria', I might have been worried.
Anyway, I had to wait while phonecalls were made and enquiries pursued. It was clear not many foreigners turn up at this isolated border, even fewer do without a visa. I had the distinct impression though they were just repeating the process they'd pursued the other day.
Yet again, fascination with my Christian name...and also with the names of my parents. Again, in their case, 'Michael' and 'Sylvia' were clearly adequate. Yet again, passionate confusion and questions about whether I was Irish becasue of the name of my country. I explained as best I could to the senior official, whose English was elementary but alive, that there is a bit of Ireland in the UK, but that that doesn't mean I'm Irish. It seemed this Irish perplexity was all that really worried them.
After paying fifty two dollars for the visa they let me go with more courtesies;..oh, after getting me to give all my details to yet another guy, a local police officer I think. I wrongly thought that might be it. As I strolled through customs I had my bag searched by an enormous man, also smiling and welcoming me. He asked me if I had anything 'unusual' in it. I panicked and wondered whether an old copy of 'Nuts' I'd acquired in Varna would count. Just tits and leg, and not even on most of the pages, but maybe it counts as pornography and would provoke his ire. As he picked it up I awkwardly explained that it was just a magazine and hoped he wouldn't see any nipple. When he did I said 'It's ok, you can have it if you like', supposing this might be a diplomatically crafty way of submitting to its confiscation. As it happens he said it was fine, stopped checking the bag and overlooked my smaller bag entirely before apologising(!)for searching at all.
Directed to the taxis and warned not to pay more than two dollars, I made my way to nearby Qamishle in search of lodgings.
3 comments:
As always, thanks for the interesting post.
No I did not get your email!! I can't believe you're in Syria! I definitely want to meet up. Call me on my mobile here: 0956548207.
WOW!
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