I’m in the wrong business, but I am in Syria!

The bloke sitting opposite was one of the dodgiest, slimiest looking operators that I’d ever laid eyes on. I’d already been to the foreign exchange and done everything in my power to avoid the situation – so I’d thought – but their operation was much too clever for that. Fortunately (in a twisted way) luck favoured us both that day and had brought us face to face quickly over the negotiating table in the agent’s non-descript office. It was stupefyingly absurd that you couldn’t pay for a Syrian visa at the Syrian border with Syrian currency, and I wanted nothing more than to beat some sense into the border officers. But as stubborn as I can be sometimes, to carry on about that in my current situation would only have been counter-productive. I simply had to acknowledge that I was putty in my friend’s hands, and play along if I ever wanted to make it past border control.

In a previous episode, the bus trip from Nidge the day before had been pretty straight-forward and fairly uneventful. It was the usual fantastic service you would expect to receive from a Turkish bus company and for the last leg of the trip between Iskenderun and Antakya, I actually the only person left on the bus! So it was first class service as I was dropped off right in the heart of the last big Turkish city that I would see. I cycled down into the centre from the bus terminal, not before giving one of the biggest ‘are you serious?’ looks to a taxi driver who desperately tried to get my business despite the fact I was cycling away from the bus on a fully loaded bike. It was a pretty good downhill ride and the time of day was perfect for taking some photos, just as the sun was setting behind me.

I wouldn’t stay in town this evening – I planned on hitting the road fairly promptly and getting as close to the Turkey/Syria border as possible. I hadn’t done any cycling all day so was feeling fresh anyway. Before I left, I quickly ducked into a foreign exchange office to grab around 6,000 Syrian pounds. I know it sounds like a lot but really it’s about a hundred bucks. Probably enough to get me my Syrian visa and last a few days depending on accommodation costs. With the darkness encroaching, I set a cracking pace along a semi-major road, which was in surprisingly good condition for Turkey. About an hour and a half later, it was getting a bit too dangerous to continue with all the trucks and cars blinding me with their high-beam lights. So I pulled over to the side where the Turks were doing some major road duplication works, found a smooth bit of ground where they had yet to lay new bitumen, curled up and went to sleep. I was woken up a couple of times in the night by what sounded like gunshots, and also some barking dogs. But this time thankfully they didn’t come anywhere near (though I’m half convinced they were actually barking in my direction, even though in my ditch there’s no way they could have seen me).

When I woke up the next morning, I took a look around and realised that the road that I’d slept next to was literally about 100m from the Syrian border! I could see the barbed wire and in the distance along the fence in both directions, guard towers. The town that I had heard music from the night before (as I was drifting off to sleep) was not even Turkish, which surprised me how close you can get, yet be so far. There was still no guarantee that I would even get in since the ‘official’ government line is that they don’t issue visas on the border, even though everything I’d read on the Internet stated the contrary. Regardless of being able to virtually touch the fence had I wanted to, I was still some 40km from the actual border crossing point, and so I hit the frog and toad fresh from a pretty good night’s sleep considering I was outside on the ground. I swung past the small town of Reyhanli to grab brekkie and post a few Turkish postcards (who will be the lucky recipients this time?) and was making great progress towards the border.

A few kilometres out, I noticed the first line of trucks backed up along the side of the road, and then further down they were parked in two lanes. I’ve never seen anything like it before, there must have been hundreds of trucks of all description, and they’d been waiting to cross the border for a good while by the looks of things! All the drivers were outside, most sitting with other drivers on the road on makeshift stools, drinking chai tea and all of them waving to me as I sped past. I had to stop and take a photo – no matter that I’d read about the poor line of trucks waiting for their cargo to be cleared to cross the border, to see it is quite amazing. Some looked like they’d even been camping over night! The other person I cycled past was a bloke trying to flog me ‘black market’ currency exchange. I yelled out that I was fine thanks, having loaded up on Syrian pounds, I had plenty to cover the visa cost and didn’t need to rely on his dubious exchange rate which I’m sure many people are forced to accept because they have no choice. I finally past the last of the trucks (or the very first in actual fact) and saw the big Turkish checkpoint ahead. Even if I was dicked around to the max, surely I would still be in Aleppo before dark, I’d had pretty good going. And so I cycled up to the first set of gates. Which were closed. Hang on, closed???

“Computer problems” the police officer informed me. Nobody was coming in or out of Turkey until the connection was fixed, and it would be around 2-3pm before that happened at the earliest. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. The nearest open checkpoint was 120km away near Antakya (where I’d just come from the night before) and without a car, I was stuck here for up to five hours with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs, or maybe read a bit of Tom Clancy. What a bloody waste of a day, and now I might not make it to Aleppo before nightfall. Gaagh! I parked my bike up against a wall literally two metres from the gate and waited, wondering what kind of government Turkey is that it has installed a computer system capable of such a monumental f*ck up. Eventually, bus after bus from Antakya arrived on the scene, oblivious to the problem that they would encounter. Hundreds of people began spilling out of the buses and gathering in a scrum around the closed gates, trying to find out what the hell was going on. Suddenly I felt that I might have an inkling of what it would be like to be a refugee – in just a small way. I mean, I wasn’t exactly fleeing from persecution and getting into Syria wasn’t life or death for me, but certainly it was a crappy feeling knowing that even if I wanted to get out of Turkey right now, the door was closed. And so I read a good hundred pages of Tom Clancy as I watched people come and go. Most cars had the good sense to just turn around. Buses had no choice but to wait, and new trucks were adding to the already 3km long line of heavy vehicles parked along the side of the road.

It didn’t take long for some budding entrepreneur to arrive on scene, hauling a shoddy cart made of wooden slats, fencing wire and bicycle wheels, with a beach umbrella poking out the top. He was making a small fortune selling chai teas, ice creams and snacks to the people hanging around in the thirty odd degrees heat. At least I was there early enough to grab a seat in the shade, and fortunately had stocked up on drinks at the discount supermarket in the previous town. Then the inevitable happened when dozens of people waiting at the gate needed to quite urgently find a toilet, and so the borders were opened a tiny bit to allow a constant stream of people to relieve themselves.

The hours wore on – I must have been waiting for about two and a half, to three hours by this stage – and suddenly the people on the buses started making a bit of noise and people seemed to be getting through the gate. I couldn’t really figure out what was going on because there were still plenty of other people waiting. Eventually I managed to get hold of a police officer and asked whether I could get through, pointing to the people who were being stamped and walking off into the distance. “What bus you on?” I was asked, and I shook my head and pointed to my bicycle, making pedalling motions with my feet to help explain my situation. “Oh, bisklet! Where are you from?” and so the questions came, friendly and with genuine interest, not of the border inquisitive type. The two police officers then had a quick conversation in Turkish, turned to me and said, “you with bicycle, no problem here, you go straight through now.”

Turns out the problem had affected the vehicle registration system only. No vehicles could get through, but they could still stamp passports. The people who were being processed were bus passengers walking through the Turkish border towards the duty free centre where there was food, shopping, toilets and air conditioning – they could wait for their respective buses in relative comfort. With no bicycle registration necessary, I could have gone through hours ago, but nobody had thought to mention it. Well, it could have been worse – it would have been a nightmare had the gates opened for all-and-sundry, and I was fighting with bus drivers, lorry drivers and every Tom, Dick and Harry to get to the front of the line. As it was, the next 5km or so of road to the Syrian border checkpoint was all but deserted. A three lane highway with absolutely no traffic, except the handful of pedestrians that were walking the distance.

It was here that I began to sweat a little bit. This was crunch time for the trip – the only visa I was worried about getting was this one. The official line of the Syrian government is that visas are not issued at the border, however everything I’d read on the Internet had suggested otherwise. It was going to cost me a small fortune – nearly 50% of my entire Syrian budget! – but it was an expense I would gladly pay as it meant I was home and hose then to getting through to Jordan and then overland on to Egypt. Still, I was a little unsure how it would all go, and as a result was sweating a little bit. I could put that down to cycling in the heat if anybody asked, but the bottom line was that I was trying to get into a country that was officially on the ‘travel advisory list’ for being a suspected terrorist training ground, and if the Syrian government didn’t like the look of me, I’d be sent back to Turkey where I would have to buy another bloody visa even though I’d left only an hour before. Fingers crossed, I would soon find out what the fate of my trip would be.

As it was, I nearly cycled right past the whole bloody border control without anybody stopping me. I actually had to ask a group of army guys who were sitting down in the shade having a drink, if they wanted to see my passport before I got any kind of reaction. They said “no worries, you have visa stamp?” to which I shook my head, and then I was casually pointed over to the big sand coloured administration building that I’d cycled past. I was parking my bike thinking that things were a bit odd, then I remembered that the Syrians are probably having a very relaxed day on behalf of the Turks. The entire area was a ghost town and there was literally nobody around. Apart from officials and army officers, for the time that I was at the border checkpoint, I saw only one other person (a traveller like me) trying to get through. It was very surreal, and I figured this would either definitely work in favour of catching up lost time, or it was give them more time to ask questions. But as it turned out, lady luck was with me that day.

There was no line at the ‘foreigners without visa’ desk. I spoke to the manager on duty and though he didn’t speak English, there was a huge set of English written instructions above the counter that explained the process. For a government that doesn’t officially grant visas at the border, they were remarkably well setup to do so. I was asked a few cursory questions, mainly where am I going. I did well to avoid the unspeakable country ‘Israel’ which would have denied me entry immediately, suggesting that I was planning on cycling to Aleppo and Damascus and on to Amman, leaving it at that. Satisfied and not really too worried in anycase, I was given a note and told to go to the bank to get US dollars. I went to the ‘bank’ counter, located in the same building, just about 50m further down the hall where I was again the only person in line and was served immediately. My visa –being Australian – was going to cost me US$95. I then started to explain that I didn’t have US dollars, but I’d already exchanged money into Syrian pounds so didn’t need an exchange service. It was a little unclear what I needed to get from the bank teller, and I spent a futile few minutes going back and forth in conversation, insisting I didn’t need to exchange money. Could I just pay in local currency please?

At this point, the local ‘travel agent’ representative steps in to ‘save’ you. I was easy picking – there was nobody else to pick as the building was empty. He took me to the side of the bank counter and explained things to me. “You see my friend, the bank will only accept currency for your visa, but not just any currency. They only accept US dollars, or UK pounds, or in your case since you are Australian, you can pay for your visa in Australian dollars.” But that’s absurd, I replied. “You mean to tell me that I can’t pay for a Syrian visa in the local currency? That’s absolutely ridiculous.” I wondered had I had US dollars by chance, would they have told me that these were no longer accepted either, forcing me into a currency exchange? Or what if I had been of South African nationality – would they have accepted Rands? The situation was totally out of control and contrary to all the advice I’d read on the Internet. Sometimes you just can’t do enough research, and now I was at the mercy of whatever forex rates this greaseball wanted to offer me. And so I had no choice in the matter and was lead to a seat in his office where we sat down to ‘discuss my dilemma’.

“You see, I’m not allowed to do this but we don’t tell the bank teller that we are having this discussion, and you never mention that we swapped money. You tell him that you actually ‘found’ the correct currency, maybe it was in your bag some place? Then everything will be ok, he will ask you for maybe $95, you get your stamp and no problems getting into Syria.” My initial thoughts were bullshit you’re a travel agent. That’s cover for your full time job of running a black market currency exchange in this office and I’ll bet everybody here is in on the game. They’ll be getting a nice slice of whatever commission or baksheesh you manage to get out of me, and the dozens of others who come through here every day and fall into your greasy hands. I have to admit, he was nice enough, but he had played the game so often, it hardly a fair playing ground. There was nothing around to tell me I wasn’t going to get ripped off and so I had to trust him and the figures he showed me on a little calculator on the coffee table in front of me.

“How much Syrian money do you have on you” he finally asked, and there was no way I was going to tell him that I actually had 6,000 SP on me, let along show him. I had not actually even thought to divide my money into two locations because I hadn’t anticipated this scenario. Opening my wallet to him would show him that I had more than enough and then he could take me for an easy ride. “I have 4000 SP, which is what I read on the Internet that is what the visa should cost.” The price of the visa had gone up, apparently. “You need 4700 SP to get US$100, you do not have enough my friend. What else do you have?” Well, at least I knew the asking price now. It was 700 more than I thought, but that was realistically only another £10. I tried to make up the difference with some Turkish money that I had, but there wasn’t enough, and so I pretended to rifle through the large wad of Syrian currency – it was a rather large wad I must say – and ‘found’ an extra thousand which would be enough. “Great my friend, this will get you into Syria, but I will also need something for my friend in the back office, and also, please don’t forget about me, my friend, for helping you today.” In other words, whatever rate I’d been given, didn’t include a ‘tip’. And so he wandered off, leaving me in my thoughts. Very briefly, I was yearning for the comfort and ease of the European border-free Schengen zone. But then surely it would be all the more rewarding once I actually got into Syria simply for the difficulty faced in getting through, right?

He came back a few minutes later with a nice, crisp US$100 bill. First of those I’d ever had, and I also only had about 5 minutes to savour it. Then I suggested that he might like a tip in Turkish lire, since I had no use for it anymore. I offered him a 20 lire note, about 10€ value. “But this is not worth 10€ in Syria my friend, in Turkey yes, but it is not so valued here. Perhaps an extra 10 lire would be fair?” I didn’t understand how that could possibly be the case – forex is forex in my opinion. I was kicking myself for being in this situation in the first place, and just wanted to get the hell out of his office and through the checkpoint. If I was going to give him the 20, I might as well have given him the 30. He knew I had it as I’d previously offered it. He was good. So I said just take it, and then he came across as a little embarrassed. “My friend, if you don’t think what service I have provided is worthwhile, then please don’t tip me, I will understand.” But this was all part of the act, and I’m sure that had I not tipped him, the rules of the game would have changed to make things a little more difficult. I still needed a payment slip and a couple of stamps in my passport. “Thank you my friend, and please, remember. We did not make this transaction, will cause big trouble for us both if you tell people. Please don’t mention me to the police or anyone, and good luck. You have everything you need now my friend, but please secret business, yes?”

First in line again, I was back at the bank teller. For somebody who wanted his immediate business kept on the quiet, he certainly did hang quite close to the bank counter to oversee the stamping of the payment slip. And as I walked away from the ‘bank’ he followed me again to reassure me that I was virtually in Syria now. Just hand this slip to the police officer and he will give you stamp. And the police officer did this with very little fuss. In fact there was so little to do in the office that day, that a total of five police officers stood around the terminal checking out what was going on. They were having a good laugh at something, there were many smiles my way and winks and nods. Everyone was being very kind and friendly I had to admin – a far cry from the shambles (and possibly hours long wait) that I was originally expecting. There wasn’t even any paperwork for me to fill out. They just asked me what I did for a job, where I was going, and that was it. The rest of the information was read from my passport , then I got two huge stamps and was waved goodbye. Thanks for coming to Syria, enjoy your stay. Sensational!

OK, so it had cost me a little bit of cash, and to be honest, none of it was a real hassle. I’d had visions of possibly waiting for hours whilst documents were faxed back and forth. There are many horror stories on the net, especially for Americans who wait 6-7 hours on occasion. But I was in and out in less than 45 minutes. Gotta be happy with that! I remember thinking how during the past couple of weeks in Turkey, people seemed to be stinging for cash from left right and centre, mostly as soon as you dropped your guard. At least this time I was expecting to get ripped off at the border. An entire half of my Syrian budget had been allocated to the simple act of purchasing visas, paying departure taxes and the like. The other half would last me over a week – Syria was that cheap once you got in, apparently! And this was confirmed by my slimy friend who followed me outside once I’d been stamped. I guess it was a part of the ‘service’ for tipping him generously. He made sure that all my stamps were in order. “You need at least two different stamps, please let me check sometimes they do miss one.” He also wanted to assure me that even though the visas did not come cheap, “Syria once you are inside is extraordinarily cheap , my friend.” He went on about converting how much petrol you could buy in Syria with US$1 for example. And I have to admit, he was right. Syria was about a third of the price for anything and everything. $1 would buy you a litre of petrol perhaps in Turkey. It would buy you a gallon in Syria. “And the food is cheap, drinks only 25 SP, meals in restaurants only $3 my friend. You will find it very likable!” And then he saw my bike and we had a chat about that. He noticed the GPS unit on the handlebars and the luggage on the back. “Your computer there… Put that in your bag and do not show it. Do not let the police officers see it or they may ask questions or something else. You know, cycle maybe 1km, 2km up the road, then pull over and you can put it back on. But for now, please you should hide it I advise.” And so I did. And the police officer who did eventually check my passport again didn’t blink once at my passing through, besides the usual comment of “where are you from? Australia! By bicycle? Wow!” Sometimes I don’t even bother correcting them, it’s funny to let them think that I have cycled all the way from Sydney to the Middle East.

And so I was in Syria – cycling through a desert! The change in scenery compared even to the Turkish side of the border was incredible. It was like the Australian outback in a way. In all, a whole lot of nothing. But I was here, happy and going to make it to Aleppo well before dark! With a few hours to kill on the road, I was thinking about the whole operation, and how realistically every single person who worked in that government/police building must be in on the whole currency exchange gig. The amount of money they must make on the side would be extraordinary. I was only one person and had probably put around 25€ in their pockets alone. On a normal day when the borders weren’t locked up in computer meltdown, I imagine that there would be dozens, if not hundreds of tourists probably stuck in a similar situation. Many needing to resort to some backdoor currency conversion of some description. Yep, no wonder nobody is in a hurry to change the system for the ‘better’. I think I’m definitely in the wrong business!

Additional: Later on I would check the exchange rates on the Internet. Turns out that I did receive a very favourable rate at the border after all! So he hadn’t taken much of a cut, and that made the little tip at the end probably deserving. So there you go, the border experience with Syria… thumbs up for many reasons! Not least because you haven’t REALLY travelled until you’ve been through the wringer at some 3rd world border crossing. Well, I like to think so!

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