Middle East road trip: Road to Damascus in a £300 Ford Escort

The Raven brothers grab their car keys, road map, Middle East guidebook and head off on a journey that will take them to Damascus, Syria.

 

Road to Damascus in a £300 Ford Esort.

By Chris Raven

An open road, a set of wheels and absolutely no time limit is, for me, the ultimate freedom. In fact, I would rather go on a really really long road trip in a car without air-con across an uncomfortably hot desert with Uri Geller rattling on about how he can bend spoons with the power of his mind due to paranormal powers given to him by extraterrestrials, than spend two weeks on a package tour holiday in Fuerteventura and get dive bombed in a crowded swimming pool by a fat tourist with a beer belly. Living in a car can be a little uncomfortable at times, but once you’ve become used to a steering wheel wedged between your legs, permanent neck ache, backache, and the gas stove cuisine of tinned food, spaghetti and cheap chicken, the sensation of passing through foreign lands and peoples’ lives is hard to beat.

So, here I am in my £300 Ford Escort at sunrise parked up somewhere near to the Göreme Open Air Museum in the Cappadocia region of Turkey. My brother is snoring next to me in the passenger seat, his unwashed long hair resembling that of a shaggy dog curled up in front of the fire. I wind down the window and peer out across the bright orange desert.  The raw of a flame can be heard in the distance, and a yellow and blue hot air balloon rides the hot air currents and drifts slowly over the dry landscape with its strange volcanic mushroom-shaped rock formations named “fairy chimneys” sprouting out from the ground. Holes are dotted across the rocks where ancient civilizations have carved windows and doorways into these natural dwellings, and Byzantines have made chapels with paintings during the spread of Early Christianity.

My passion for road trips had been stirred at a young age with family camping holidays to the South of France.  There is nothing more exciting than catching a midnight ferry, and it has certainly inspired us to live like gypsies at least once a year and explore foreign lands by car. This time our transportation is a rusty Ford Escort that we’d bought from our mechanic friend for £300, and our chosen destination is Damascus in Syria. We launched ourselves on this journey from the traffic jam invested East Midlands in the UK and have driven through the Loire valley to the South of France via St Tropez and Monaco – onwards towards the archeological wonders of Pisa and the leaning Tower, across to the labyrinth of canals and winding narrow streets of Venice and then down the sunny Croatian coast, across into rainy Bosnia and Herzegovina to shrapnel covered Sarajevo where we slept on Sniper Alley, across the whole of Bulgaria and down through the centre of Turkey. It has been an amazing journey so far, with ever changing scenery that has been as beautiful as Fiona Butler’s naked bottom in the cheeky 1976 photo ‘Tennis Girl’ by Martin Elliott. I guess some might consider driving an old banger 3544 kilometers to Damascus is a teeny-weeny bit crazy, especially when the car has dodgy tracking and an engine that looks more like a heap of decaying scrap metal, but knowing the car will make it all the way there and back without any problems is, in my world, sooo missionary position. I’m sure Top Gear’s Mr Jezza C would agree. Our destination is the Middle East and I am not sure why. I caught a glimpse of the news a few days before we left, and five British men had been kidnapped in Iraq by a group calling themselves the Asaib al-Haq, or the Band of the Righteous, and the BBC journalist Alan Johnston was still making the headlines since his kidnapping by Gaza militants. For obvious reasons, this did worry us for a few minutes as Syria is precariously located between both Iraq and Israel. We drank beer in the garden and tapped our chins late into the night, contemplating whether a road trip to Syria was too dangerous.

‘Maybe we should drive to Finland instead,’ Si had suggested, with his head buried deep inside a world atlas.

‘No, we should drive to Syria and check it out,’ I’d replied, throwing a burger under the grill. ‘Let’s put these little ‘kidnapping concerns’ into the ’stop watching the news box’ and book the midnight ferry. After all, on the Foreign Office website it says Syria is a safe country with low crime. In fact, it’s probably where the terrorists go for their holidays.’ Cracking open another beer we’d both agreed to continue with our plans. The adventure was mapped out.

With the sun burning bright over the dry moonscape and my chicken noodle and bread breakfast now lying heavy in my stomach, I fire up the Escort and head south through the Cappadocia region. Si slots in one of his many mixed tapes into the cassette player and blasts out his Stone Roses, shoe gazing tracks. Before long we pass through the town of Nevşehir in the heart of Cappadocia and drive alongside a field full of yellow sunflowers on the D765 to the agricultural city of Nigde. The windows are down and there’s an open road in front of us as we cruise the High Taurus, a mountain range full to the brim with important chromium deposits and other minerals such as silver, copper, iron, lignite and zinc. It isn’t long before we turn left onto the E90 and pass through the large city of Adana and the blue waters of the Seyhan River reservoir. I spot a woman selling grapes at the roadside and I can’t resist pulling over and buying a bag. Adana produces great quantities of grapes and citrus fruits and also cotton, wheat, corn, soy bean and barley. Once outside the hustle and bustle of Adana, we begin to drive along the Mediterranean coast to the town of İskenderun at the foot of the Nur Mountains. We pull over in a lay by and cook a tin of meatballs and spaghetti on the gas stove, and afterwards I take the opportunity to grab a shave using the hot spaghetti water.

Around one o’clock in the afternoon we reach the small Yayladağı border checkpoint with Syria. It’s a gorgeous day and the mountain roads are captivating, although, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared by the thought of entering this Middle Eastern country. I’m absolutely terrified! Have we finally lost the plot? Sleeping in the car and doing long road trips is nothing new to us, but driving towards a war zone feels slightly insane. Maybe we should turn around and drive home. No one will care. What are we trying to prove? It’s been twelve days since I’ve read a newspaper and I begin to wonder if it might have been wise to check the current political situation in Syria before heading blindly for the border. Part of me was hoping the Escort would splutter its last breath and blow a gasket on the Mediterranean coast. At least that way we wouldn’t have to drive our banger to Damascus that’s a mere 466.46 miles from Baghdad and next door to one of the most dangerous countries on earth. Soldiers have been fighting hard in Iraq recently and Bush has ordered the deployment of 20,000 American troops in order to provide security to Baghdad and Al Anbar Province.

 

I mention my fears to Si, and he calms me with the knowledge that the President of Syria, Bashar al-Assad, opposed the 2003 invasion of Iraq and has good foreign relations with the United States and the European Union. Composing ourselves, we crawl over to the checkpoint and pull up alongside a border guard. He’s a friendly looking guy wearing glasses and a mustard coloured uniform. He leans forward and smiles at us before glancing into the back of the car. Apart from the sleeping bags, a torn road map and a few tins of Irish stew, there’s little of interest. He asks for our passports and quickly flicks to the visas, which we had obtained from the Syrian Embassy in London on route to Dover. He hands back our passports and asks to see the documents for the car. Si fumbles inside the glove box and pulls out a red folder full of tatty pieces of paper. He thumbs through the pages and whips out the Escort’s V5. He passes it over to the guard and with a frown he skim reads the front before handing it back.

‘Are you sure we don’t need some kind of Customs Certificate?’ Si mumbles, looking extremely nervous.

‘I don’t know. I think we just need car insurance or a Green Card thingy-me-bob.’

‘A Green Card thingy-me-bob?’

‘Yeah, but I did read on the internet about some certificate you can get from the Automobile Clubs and Touring Clubs, which is against a deposit of quarter of the current market value of the vehicle. I don’t think we need that, though.’

We both turn to the guard, and smile. He peers over his glasses and looks at us curiously.

‘We need insurance,’ Si smiles, tapping the steering wheel.

The guard indicates for us to open the boot of the car. We both climb out and Si quickly whips it open. The guard rummages through the pots and pans and junk that has accumulated over the past two weeks. He nods and tells us to close the boot. He points to a building on the right and informs us that we can get our car insurance from there. We thank him and I pull the car over to the side. Locking the doors, we walk into the building and into a dimly lit office with a bed against a wall where we are welcomed by a smartly dressed young guy sitting behind a messy desk. He smiles and shakes our hands. We tell him we need car insurance and in an instant he’s typing away on his old dusty computer and printing out some kind of form. The guy’s English is exceptionally good and from his appearance you can tell he has had a good education. I ask him if many tourists pass through this checkpoint, and he tells me they normally enter at the bigger one at Kargamış. I ask him what the situation is like in Syria at the moment and he just tells us not to worry. ‘This is not Iraq,’ he smiles, gathering all the relevant paperwork together. ‘Welcome to Syria.’ A huge weight is immediately lifted off our shoulders. I can see that this guy is genuine and really happy to see tourists visiting his country, and I wonder how much Syria’s economy has been affected by the lack of tourism as a result of the war. We chat to the guy for a while, and tell him about our trip overland from the UK. Si asks him about the massive influx of Iraqi refugees into Syria which had brought about rising prices and overcrowding, but he tells us most Syrians seem to have accepted more than a million of the refugees happily enough. We pay the costly US$150 for the two week car insurance and bid our friend goodbye.

After an hour of skipping into various customs buildings and having our passports checked and stamped, we jump in the car and pass through the first barrier. We’re told we need to take our documents into another office, which like all the others doesn’t look like it’s been decorated since the 1950’s. Two over weight guards sit slouched behind a wooden desk and a large bunch of electrical wires stick out of the wall directly above their heads. We wait patiently for them to figure out why all of the paperwork keeps blowing around the office. I point to the open window behind them and they all laugh and thank me for my help. Finally, after waiting for a long line of truckers to sneak piles of cash under the desk in a bid to bribe the officials into letting them transport their cargo over the border, our paperwork is stamped and we’re told we can go. Syria here we come!

We drive slowly down the winding mountain roads and keep our distance from the Syrian car in front. The landscape is surprisingly green here despite the soaring temperatures. I suddenly notice the petrol tank is low, so we go on the hunt for a filling station. You’d imagine this would be fairly straightforward in a country neighbouring such an oil rich nation as Iraq, but much to our frustration we can’t seem to find one. Gritting our teeth with each mile as the fuel gauge dips below the red, it’s not until we’re on the coast heading for Lattakia that we stumble across one. Pulling up beside a rusty petrol pump, an African guy wearing overalls walks over to the car. I fall into conversation with him and I find out he is from Nigeria. I tell him about our road trip and that we’ve driven all the way from England. He seems unhappy, and tells me he would love to go to London because they are racist here in Syria. He fills the tank to the top and I pay for the petrol, which works out at around 25p ($0.50) a litre (2007). That’s more like it! I give the guy a tip and wish him well. Back on the dusty road, it isn’t long before we reach the port town of Lattakia. In addition to serving as the biggest port in Syria, the city is bursting with ancient history, street cafes and pleasant beaches. We pull over and enjoy the ocean views. People walking past stop and study our number plate and GB sticker, a clear indication of how far we have driven. We’re now closer to Baghdad than Bucharest. We consider removing the GB sticker from the car, for fear of advertising our country of origin to unsavory people, but in the end we decide to risk it and continue to enjoy the fresh sea air. Journeying on, we leave Lattakia and drive south to Tartus along the Mediterranean Coast bordered by the Alawite Mountains. It’s a scruffy little town with the majority of the population ethnic Levantine Arab and about 3,000 people of Greek origin. The History of Tartus goes back to the 2nd millennium BC when it was founded as a Phoenician colony of Aradus. We take a stroll around the Old Town, but decide not to have a dip in the ocean or walk on the messy beach. I look out across the water and realize that a hundred miles across the ocean is the island of Cyprus. Here we are in the Middle East, a region of the world that has become synonymous in recent years with death and war, and a stone’s throw away in Ayia Napa there are thousands of Brits drinking beer and dancing to Lady GaGa. We continue south towards the Lebanese border as we head for the Crac des Chevaliers, a fortress that was one of the Crusader’s most important strongholds in the Middle East. Skimming above Lebanon we head westward on a four-lane highway before turning off through a lush green valley. A few minutes later we spy the Crac des Chevaliers on top of a high hill. It looks like a castle from a child’s imagination, with towers and turrets on top of a mountain reaching up into the clouds. Putting the Escort to the test, we pass a mosque and two donkeys and begin to climb a seriously steep hill through the town of al-Husn. Local people stop in their tracks and watch our beast of a car splutter and kangaroo. We eventually pull over at the side of the road to give the engine a rest. A group of kids riding bicycles crowd around us and look inside the car. They laugh at us before cycling away. An old man sits outside a little shop and waves. We wave back and take the opportunity to shot a few pictures. Driving further up the hill, a shepherd crosses the road with a flock of sheep and we turn left into the car park in front of the magnificent castle walls. The sun is slowly setting, so we decide to park up and spend the night here. We see a hotel a little further up the hill, and park the car looking out over the town below and the mountainous landscape that reaches out to the Lebanon.

As it grows dark, we decide to head inside the hotel and grab a bite to eat. We’re welcomed into the restaurant by a large man with a beard and his young son. The place is empty with the exception of a small group of German tourists. We sit by the window that looks out across the mountains and order lamb kebabs and a couple of bottles of beer. The guy asks us if we would like a room for the night, but we explain to him that we’ve got an early start and need to sleep in the car. We negotiate a price to use the shower and toilet facilities, and as a gesture of good will he throws a couple of clean towels into the deal. He tells us we are sixteen miles from the Lebanese border and only the other day machine gun fire could be heard in the distance. Thanking the owner, we eventually retire to the car exhausted from our journey and buzzing with excitement at the promise of reaching Damascus in the morning.

Waking at sunrise with a slight hangover, we grab our cameras and capture bright purple thistles and poppies growing beside the castle that’s drenched in orange light. A witness of many great battles and a World National Heritage site, it’s a magnificent piece of Limestone architecture built by Crusaders between the mid-12th and late 13th centuries and is one of the most important preserved medieval military castles in the world. The castle was built in order to control the so-called “Homs Gap”, the gateway to Syria, and it was through this passage that Syria communicated with the Mediterranean. After a few hours ducking and diving with our cameras around the old Crac, we grab some food and other supplies and head south through the desert on the legendary ‘Road to Damascus’. The term ‘The Road to Damascus’ was coined in the New Testament and refers to the conversion of Saul of Tarsus, later known as the Apostle Paul, to Christianity while travelling to Damascus to persecute Christians.  Today we refer to ‘A road to Damascus’ moment, or change, as an important point in someone’s life where a great change, or reversal, of ideas or beliefs occurs. All of a sudden a sign whips over our heads pointing to Baghdad, and I experience a similar reversal of ideas about what on earth we’re doing so close to Iraq! The desert landscape either side of the road stretches for miles into the distance; there are hills and small brick houses shimmering on the horizon. The heat is immense this morning. Cars and dirty trucks beep their horns and a man zooms by on a motorbike wearing a red and white keffiyeh, which flaps on top of his head. We pass a truck that has crashed into a derelict building, and moments later I swerve around a car parked up in the slow lane. For some reason the driver appears to think it’s safe to stop on the highway and have a little chat with his buddy walking along the hard shoulder. Pylons and hundreds of large billboards of the president are lined up along the highway. President Bashar al-Assad, trained in ophthalmology at the Western Eye Hospital in London, but his education was cut short due to his brother’s death and subsequent confirmation as President by an unopposed referendum in 2001. He was expected to bring a more liberal approach to the leadership than his father. He is married to Asma (Emma) Assad, née Akhras, a Syrian Sunni Muslim from Acton in west London who he met in England. I try to imagine the British Prime Minister Gordon Brown’s ugly mug stuck on hundreds of massive posters along the M1. If the traffic jams aren’t enough to cope with, seeing Mr B smiling at you as you crawl past would certainly turn you to drink. A blue road sign flashes over head with ‘Jordan Damascus’ on it in big white letters. We’re getting close now and the traffic is building up. Without warning, the front right tyre suddenly blows and I’m forced to swerve over onto the side of the highway. The traffic zooms dangerously past and, with military precision, we jump into action faster than a couple of dedicated F1 mechanics in the pits.

Within seconds we’re dripping with sweat in the 40oC heat and leaping back inside the car. Joining the heavy traffic I grab a towel and dab my face – the adrenalin is really starting to kick in now as a road sign for Beruit flashes past. Much to our relief we eventually hit the outskirts of Damascus and join the heaving traffic. People in vehicles either side of us smile and look at the car. They seem fascinated by the fact the steering wheel is on the other side. I’m nervous and feel uncomfortable with all of the attention. We’re hitting the capital of Syria, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, and our driving skills are being tested to the max. There are no rules and the pedestrians walk right in front of the car. We haven’t a clue where we’re going. Suddenly, a yellow taxi passes by and we’re surprised to see a young guy of Arabic appearance stick his head out of the taxi window and shout “Are you from England?” We know instantly he is from Manchester due to his strong Mancunian accent. We are absolutely dumb-founded. “Have you driven all the way?” he laughs, reaching out his hand. Before Si has had time to shake him by the hand the taxi pulls off and disappears into the chaos. We’re rendered speechless. Concentrating on finding a hotel, we turn down a very narrow street into the Old City. There’s hardly any room to make a mistake and if we do it’ll be goodbye to the wing mirrors. I feel like I’m in a scene from an Indiana Jones movie. We pass market stalls as we crawl through the ancient bazaar selling exotic herbs and spices, then weave around wooden carts piled high with colourful fruit and vegetables and see groups of men sitting in the shade drinking tea and smoking water pipes. Si maneuvers the car skillfully through the cobbled streets and we eventually find our way back onto the busy road leading through to the central part of the city. Clothing in Syria is very diverse, with men wearing traditional kuffiyahs, turbans, head wraps and others in modern suits or jeans and t-shirts. Short hair on women and long hair on men is equally uncommon, so my hippie brother stands out like a sore thumb. Arab women, some wearing long black garments called Abayah that covers them from their shoulders to their feet and others in full burqa, walk in groups along the pavement as they carry shopping and browse the market stalls. After driving around for an hour we eventually find a car park not too far from the Old Town. There’s a free space, so we grab it. Straight away a man with a grey moustache and baggy trousers runs over. He appears to be the car park attendant. We fall out of the car and try to ask him if it’s ok to park here for a couple of nights. He seems happy enough for us to leave it here. I feel completely overwhelmed that we’ve made it to Damascus. We’re sore, exhausted, hungry and ready for a lie down. Si takes the GB sticker off the back of the car while I offer the guy some money. He smiles and whips the cash out of my hand. Throwing our rucksacks over our shoulders we head off in search of a hotel. Shop owners and people in the street smile at us as we battle through the crowds. Our search for a hotel doesn’t start well, ok, so our budget is limited and the Carlton, Four Seasons and the Blue Tower are definitely off the list, but we get turned away from a couple of two star joints, who appear to either have a problem with foreigners or are suspicious of our bedraggled appearances. Continuing in our search, we eventually find a room in a hotel way above of our budget. It has a grand reception with a lot of glass and expensive lighting, lush sofas and rich looking Arabs sitting in the foyer who make me feel rather under dressed. We pay for two nights and head to the room.

Three hours later after a beautiful power sleep, a shower and a shave (using hot tap water not hot spaghetti water), I flick on the telly and watch an episode of the classic British sitcom ‘Open all Hours’ on Satellite, where it’s all fun and frolics in the small grocer’s shop in Balby. Arkwright traps his fingers in the till and tries desperately to get Nurse Gladys Emmanuel into bed, while Gr-Granville, the sad errand boy, falls off his bike and hopes someday he’ll fall in love and have a meaningful social life. Slipping on some clean clothes, I look out of the window at the city of Damascus below. Satellite dishes dominate the roofs of the buildings, and a huge banner of the president hangs down the side of a 20 storey office block. The sun begins to set, sparking off a haunting chorus of Muslim prayer which is broadcast from loud speakers from the many mosques across the city. We’re starving and ready to try some local Syrian cuisine, so heading out into the street we jump into a taxi and head for the Jabri House, which is supposed to be one of the most attractive restaurants in Damascus. Our friendly taxi driver nips through the city walls and squeezes through the maze of narrow back streets of the Old City near to the Ummayad Mosque and pulls up outside an old building. Inside the restaurant it’s busy with a great atmosphere, and the old Ottoman house, built in 1737, has traditional Damascene architecture and interior design. There’s a delightful courtyard, a stage to my right and a water fountain in the middle with tables full of people enjoying an evening out. A smartly dressed waiter in black leads us up the stairs to the second floor and shows us to a table on a balcony that over looks the courtyard below. We order grilled skewers of chicken with humus and peppers, plus a huge water pipe to smoke at the table and, because the restaurant doesn’t sell alcoholic drinks due to its close proximity to the mosque, two glasses of fresh orange juice. I peer over the balcony and watch a Syrian family taking photos of each other, and notice an attractive woman in a blue headscarf smoking a water pipe in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It all seems very liberal. The music kicks in and a live band begins to play a selection of traditional Syrian songs. People get up and dance. All of the problems surrounding this country are not on the minds of these happy people tonight.

With bellies bursting, we walk through the crowed narrow streets to the Christian Quarter of the Old City. Western faces begin to appear and we reach a square and the area where there are a few bars. We set up home in a bar cum club on the corner called Mar Mar. It’s very quiet, with people eating at tables inside and out. Claiming stools at the bar, we order a couple of pricey beers in celebration of our arrival to Damascus. Its one o’clock in the morning by the time the party people arrive and before you can say ‘dancing in Damascus’ the place is heaving with the young and fashionable. We drink, dance, make friends with a blonde couple from Belgium and chat to a guy in a sharp suit from Dubai, who’s smoking a cigar and babbling on about how rich he is. The funky Middle Eastern music is amazing and we stumble out of the place with empty wallets, but with big smiles across our faces.

The next morning I feel like my head is about to explode and taking advantage of the complimentary breakfast, we fall out of our beds and collapse in front of a bowl of cereal and a strong coffee. It doesn’t take us long to feel human again, and with our cameras ready for action we hit the Old Town. Grabbing money from a cash point, I get my trainers cleaned by a shoe shine kid, whose smile wins my business. He does a grand job, so I pay him kindly. I love the fast pace of this city and the cultural differences. It’s so exotic and you really do feel like you are on an adventure. I’m starting to get used to seeing a gun sticking out from the back of some guy’s jeans, and the women completely covered up. We arrive at the Al-Hamidiyah souk, which is the largest and the most central souk in Syria, located inside the old walled city next to the Citadel. The souk starts at Al-Thawra Street and ends at the Umayyad Mosque plaza. Shops line the street selling spices, tourist souvenirs, sticky Arab sweets, jewellery, mundane kitchen utensils, clothing and make-up. A man offers Si a pack of cheap white socks, and I’m surprised when he jabs his fingers into his pocket and hands the guy some cash. Si smiles at his new socks, and I imagine family members back home looking very disappointed when he gives them a pair of plain white socks each as a souvenir from the Middle East. We decide to buy everyone back home delicious spices instead. Arriving at the plaza, I’m stunned by the sight of the Umayyad Mosque, one of the largest and oldest mosques in the world which was completed in 715. The mosque holds a shrine which is said to contain the head of John the Baptist honored as a prophet by Muslims and Christians. We sit down and watch people going about their business, a group of children dance in the water fountain nearby and I take pictures of a UN soldier standing by his jeep. It all feels extremely safe here, but in the back of my mind I know there is always the threat of terrorism. I feel the same when I’m in London. We consider going to the car park and checking up on the car, but decide not to. Walking down a maze of streets, we buy some fresh double apple Shisha tobacco from a man who makes it himself in a room at the back of his shop. It’s a good gift for our friend Darell.

Joining a busy two lane road, we take photos of a statue of Saladin on horse back, a Kurdish Muslim who became the Sultan of Egypt and Syria. I later notice the statue is on the Syrian bank notes. Heading back to the hotel we walk past a newly constructed mosque on Sh al-Jumhuriyya. A kid covered in dust and wearing a red and white patterned kuffiyah sits on a wall and smokes a cigarette. I say hello and ask if I can take his picture. Jumping down from the wall he flicks his cigarette into this mouth and poses in front of the camera. For the rest of the afternoon and evening we enjoy the atmosphere around the hotel and use a small internet café nearby. We fall into conversation with the owner of the place and his friend from Iraq. Before I’ve logged into my Hotmail, we’re chatting to the other two guys using computers and we suddenly realise that in this small room there is someone from Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, America and Britain. Obviously, the main topic of conversation is politics, so I mumble something about Tony Blair and take a back seat. After the debate, we make our excuses and leave. It’s an early night.

Checking out of the hotel the next morning, we cross our fingers the car is still parked up where we left it. I’m relieved when I see the dirty blue rust bucket that has transported us all this way from the UK to the Middle East. The same man runs over and looks pleased at our return. He talks fast and points to the car and then at his chest, as if to suggest he has been watching the car 24/7. I give him some cash. We throw our bags into the boot and jump into the car. Our road trip to Damascus it seems has come to an end. Firing up the car we hurtle out of the city towards the highway – now all that is left for us to do is drive back home…