Day 51
Wednesday 17th December
Göreme, Turkey
Göreme is too hard to leave, the pair wants to explore more of this moonscape. They travel today to Derinkuyu, part of a network of many underground cities in the region that at one time housed 10,000 people. 85 metres and 8 floors below ground, it had been inhabited by Hittites, Romans and Byzantines and served as a fortress. Right at the bottom is a huge cruciform chamber that was Derinkuyu's cathedral. Above is a school with a dais overlooking stone benches and narrow passageways lead back up hundreds of stairs to the light.
Back in Göreme, most of the restaurants are empty; they are just nominally open for the handful of tourists in this off-season. The staff are glad to see customers because it means they can add wood to the stove and warm up. As ever, they want to chat, to find out where GP and the CB are from, what they are doing and to have some fun. The English, explains their waiter today, are normally "no good at making friendships - all they say is 'how much?'". They not stop to talk.". In a telling closing comment the waiter says "I won't take up any more of your time" which is an expression not heard since GP and the CB were in an office, and belongs entirely to this other world. Time here is communal and it is entirely unrelated to money.
The friendship part of any transaction in Turkey is crucial and it is futile to try to do anything without having partaken in a cup of çay, to explain how many children you have or do not have, and why not, whether you are married, how old you are etc.. "where you from?" is the opening gambit from strangers in the street who appear to be delighted that you have popped into Turkey to play.
This insistence on forming friendships makes things difficult an hour later for the Child Bride. With GP safely aloft above Göreme's valleys in a Microlite for an hour, she runs down the hill to the nice shirt shops to do some rapid and secret purchasing in advance of GP's birthday.
Having done her research out of the corner of one eye on frequent promenades past the shop in previous day she tries to close the deal in seconds before her absence from the cave is discovered. The shop owner is a bit disappointed when she agrees to the first price quoted and won't play the bargaining game. The faces get longer when she refuses çay, muttering some lame excuses about a secret present, "I have to get back to my cave before he finds out I have gone". When she walks past the next day with GP and averts her eyes to the shopkeepers cheerful waves, he presumably went and agreed with his friend in the restaurant - "these English, they don't know how to make friendships".
GP returns from his microlight flight and finds the CB as he left her, playing innocently with the cave cats. On the advice of the New Zealand travel consultant she then slips off to the Hammam to be pummelled and massaged to sleep.
Day 52
Thursday 18th December
Göreme, Turkey to Keyseri, Turkey
Today the pair will make their exit from Göreme. Warm farewells from Hassan and a sorrow that they are leaving an extraordinary place are soon behind them as they drive through a sunny, if chilly, Turkish landscape.
Keyseri proves to have a large sprawling industrial main road leading in. The first priority is lodgings, and with consummate skill the CB applies the ever decreasing circles technique and soon the pair have a room at the Hotel Capari.
Now the priority shifts to finding Umit Otokar Servisi, a Landrover specialist for Gordon's 6000 mile oil change. Mickandmissusmick have provided the details of the garage and directions ("I think it was left after the BP garage"). Gordon has been here before, on his first overland trip with them, when a similar route was followed. If Landrovers have thoughts and opinions* there would be a weary sigh and "I think you'll find its only left if you are coming from the other direction" muttered under the roar of the engine.** So they find a BP garage but not the turning. They ask the attendant, showing the address. They are ushered in to the filling station office, a phone call is made and çay appears and sign language ensues on the topic of Manchester United.
Miraculously a 1950s blue Landrover, rather beaten but sporting the Umit Otokar logo arrives and they are escorted to the workshop. It is a magnificent structure, almost a cathedral of Landrover maintenance. All of the Turkish Gendarme vehicles are maintained here, and comfortingly they are all Defender 110 derivatives like Gordon. The boss man takes a sign language outline of what needs to be done, and gives a cost and time estimate that would make English garages blanche. The pair are sat down (with çay) and the team purge Gordon.
Oils and filters are changed and a worn steering component is replaced. Since the water pump problem, a niggling squeak has been evident and GP and the crew bond over its solution. Eventually the boss man proudly presents GP with the solution. He holds in one hand the drive belt he has just removed and says in a thick accent "Landrover original" with a sneer and jettisons this into the rubbish. In the other hand he brandishes the wrapper from the new belt, he stands more upright and his chest swells, "Turkish Army" he says with pride. GP approves the replacement belt, followed by much hugging and shaking of hands. Two and a half hours of work and components are paid for, the hands of the team are shaken, and Gordon is back on the road to Hotel Capari.
A laundry is becoming a necessity (you can only wear clothes inside out a finite number of times). Luckily, over the road from the hotel the pair find a laundry. Arrangements are made with the proprietor, notwithstanding his total lack of English, the clothes will be ready at ten tomorrow. GP harbours some doubt about the reliability of this promise, but keeps his cynicism to himself.
A good day is rounded off as the CB goes to an opticians in search of a glasses case. One is produced, but the staff look offended when they try to pay and they are waved off with warmth and a free glasses case.
*debate about this is split strictly along gender lines.
**not to mention "do I have to go to Iran again? Been there done that. Africa anyone?"
Day 53
Friday 19th December
Keyseri, Turkey - Osmaniye, Turkey
At the appointed hour, Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride make their way to Mr. Denniz' laundry. Much to GP's astonishment it is complete at 10 o'clock. However, hitting the road will be another couple of hours away as they will need to sit down for a cup of çay and a sign language conversation with Mr Denniz first. He is a dapper man of about 50 and he wears an immaculately tailored, smoke grey, corduroy suit. He commends GP on his fine stature and appearance once he has found out GP's age. The pair are quizzed about their relationship and relative ages. Pictures of children, and in GP's case, grandchildren are exchanged. When it emerges that the CB is to be the second wife Mr Denniz's chest puffs out in admiration.
After many slaps on the back they can finally head off for Osmaniye. Gordon is like a new car; quiet and light to steer.
The pair goes out in search of a light snack for dinner. At a bakery a young lad, perhaps 17, shyly helps them to his wares before asking "Where you from?" When they say they are English, an impassioned look takes over his face; he draws himself up to full height, slams his fists down on the table and shouts "Alex Ferguson". An ecstatic listing of football clubs and players follows, and he will not countenance payment for the bread.
Day 54
Saturday 20th December
Osmaniye, Turkey - Aleppo, Syria
Today a new country calls. Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride stop in a small village to buy a picnic lunch and again it is impossible to pay for bread. Stopping just short of the border to eat lunch, they are somewhat alarmed by the purposeful approach of a border sentry who walks about a quarter of a mile carrying his AK 47 to tell them "you can not stop here". Abashed they make their way to the border.
Passports, visas, the Carnet de Passage have to be checked, examined, re-examined, stamped and finally given a signature. Travellers like the CB and GP are mixed in with a screaming rabble of lorry drivers and who all know what to do and think they should be dealt with first. GP is rescued from the rabble by a suited gentleman who takes him by the arm and steers him through the myriad of officials and offices. Nonetheless, two and a half hours and a small tip are lost, and dusk is approaching.
It is quickly apparent that Syria is not the home of safe driving. Of all the times for the fuse that feeds the horn to blow, this would have been low down on GP's choice list. 50 kilometres further down the road, the outskirts of Aleppo herald even worse to come. Cars, trucks, motor bikes, and especially taxis race in all directions. Space for one car in a traffic queue is rapidly occupied by 3. There is not a vehicle in sight without a dent, everyone sounds their horn at every opportunity (except Gordon whose fuse is blown), and they give no quarter.
Aleppo itself is a kind of medieval version of hell. In the darkened streets, as will later become apparent, power cuts are regular and all the street lights are out. At ground and basement level cubby hole shops and workshops with glooming interiors crowd each other. Above, in blackened buildings tattered canopies hang and filthy washing hangs out. The potholed streets are slushy with undrained rain and the air is musty and stale.
The pair try to navigate but there is absolutely no point of reference for them here. No river, landmarks don't stand out - or are meaningless to those from another culture - and the few signs are in another script. By now dazed and confused, GP takes a turning on instinct and drives into hotel quarter to the Hotel Faisal.
While the CB goes to investigate availability and parking, the GP tries to fend off a parking attendant modelled on Blakey from on the buses. Moved on 3 times GP is delighted when an English speaking local jumps into the passenger seat and offers to show him where to park. Assuming this guide has been organised by the CB, GP is happily directed through the one way system to the foyer of a very grand hotel with uniformed men outside.
The helpful guy explains he is half Czech and half Syrian, runs his own business and that reliable labour is his biggest problem. Every day he sacks 15 people and hires 15 more.
Meanwhile the CB has secured a room, and is standing outside the Hotel Faisal with its proprietor ready to guide him to a parking spot. She is confused to see Gordon disappear round a far corner in the wrong direction with two occupants. She points after him lamely. The proprietor of the Faisal takes to his heels and runs after him, catching him just before he takes his place in the glittering courtyard of a five star hotel and directs him back to the murky street outside the Faisal. In Syrian, the Czech Syrian and the proprietor clear up the misunderstanding. The identity of the "helpful" Czech Syrian is never revealed; he slips away into the gloom and adds to Syria's mystery.
The pavements are not much easier to navigate than the roads and at times the CB thinks it would be easier to deal with the stares if she covered her head. It is clearly not expected here though, and they go to a grand restaurant full of liberated young women on dates tossing their manes assertively while long suffering yuppie Syrian boys listen dutifully to them.
Day 55
Saturday 20th December
Osmaniye, Turkey - Aleppo, Syria
Despite the enthusiasm of its staff, the jaded and rather basic Faisal adds nothing to its charms by suffering yet another power cut in the morning. GP phones another hotel and reserves a room. Navigating the corridors and stairs of the Faisal in pitch darkness is like being on an Indiana Jones set. At reception the CB slips past the blank stares of bulky businessmen, lounging with their black shiny briefcases resting on their huge tunic-clad stomachs. GP queues in the gloom to pay the bill.
Out of the dark comes a figure on a crutch dragging a small holdall. He stands behind GP and with a thick accent enquires "where you from?" used to this by now, GP engages in chat. The next turn of conversation is unexpected. "I was in prison in Turkey, but I have escaped, that's how I broke my leg." "Oh," says GP. "Do you know Eric Morley?" asks the Turkish fugitive. "Well I know of him, but I have never met him." GP replies with growing concern over the direction of the conversation. "Good, good" is the only reply. Awareness of Eric Morely is enough to keep the man satisfied, but still GP makes a thin excuse about needing to load up and extricates himself.
Allowing sufficient time for the queue to clear, GP returns to the desk to pay. It is now deserted. A hotel employee eventually appears and calls for the cashier. When he gets no reply he goes and impatiently drags the cashier out of the toilet himself.
Aleppo is not made more attractive by daylight. A thick film of grey dust smothers everything. The cause of this is something that GP and CB ask many people about, but get no answer - all those asked dodge the question.
The traffic is unabated, and after an hour of driving the CB quite by chance announces she has seen a sign for the Hotel. A place to park is found in the back streets, and while GP protects the car, the CB goes off to book in. GP watches two urchins in the street who appear to be trying to make a rocket launcher out of a drain pipe and street rubbish.
The CB books them in and for only a few dollars more than the Faisal, the Mandaloun is a palace and a refuge. A stone palace with traditional décor and a huge light-filled courtyard, their room is a cosy stone cave with all mod cons, a spotless modern bathroom, and clean crisp white sheets.
Moving the car to the hotel parking space GP is comforted to note that the spirit of invention lives on in modern youth. The urchins have ignited the rubbish and are waving the inferno around on the end of the pipe.
They spend the afternoon around the ruins of the citadel of ancient Aleppo, moated and perched on a hill, within a heavily fortified wall, with requisite holes for pouring boiling oil through on invaders. The dust cloud is so thick at times that the sun is obscured, and the view not what it should be from the top, but it cannot detract from the grandeur of the castle.
Back at the Mandaloun party season is in swing. The ladies of Aleppo are out in their best frocks. It takes oodles of class to carry off slinky black dresses with cerise darts and plunging necklines, black stilettos as high as the sky, bounteous fur coats and heavily kholed eyes. These ladies have class by the truckload - their proud poise and shiny black locks cancel out any hint of the tacky. The alcohol is flowing and their ululation fills the air of the hotel long into the night.
Day 56
Monday 22nd December
Aleppo, Syria - Krac Des Chevalier, Syria
In the chaos of Aleppo somehow Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride must find a replacement fuse for Gordon's horn. This brings them back to the Faisal district, with its spare parts shops, and taking a punt, they head down 6 steep dingy steps from the pavement to a dirty cavern-like room. In the corner sits a man in overalls and woolly hat. Luckily he speaks English and they explain their predicament. This cavern is Aleppo's centre of production for complex industrial rubber seals, but he grasps their predicament with both hands and conducts them upstairs to another shop where a fuse is produced. Attempts to pay in this shop for the fuse are foiled and they are hurried back downstairs for a coffee and conversation.
Butros (which means Peter) is 48 years old and has been running his complex industrial rubber seal business since school, with a four year break in the army. The cave is his 'shop front' - the real business is done elsewhere but it is important to have a cave in Aleppo. He paints a picture of social harmony in Syria where Christians and Muslims live together happily - "No one asks you what you are". This he says is unlike Egypt where "If your church falls down, you cannot build another". He won't be drawn on the French, instead he quietly reaches for another Gitanes.
Butros quizzes them on their journey - and their religion, ages, marital status, children, grandchildren - and then ask what they will be doing for Christmas. They are vague, have no fixed plans, so he says, "If you are in Aleppo, you come to my house. You make Christmas with my family".
They then try to pay him for the fuse and he refuses; "you are my guest". Touched by the kindness, the hospitality and grateful to have had the fuse sorted so quickly, the CB & GP reluctantly say goodbye to their new friend and set off from Aleppo.
The highway from Aleppo is fast, and Gordon is running well. They turn off the highway. They are heading for the Crusader Fort at Krac Des Chevaliers. The last 15km of the road winds up a mountain side with villages along the way. The fort comes into view; an imposing structure, rising out of the hilltop.
In making their way they are assailed by a man who informs them that the castle is closed until the morning and ushers them into his empty restaurant. Here they are gathered up by his brother, a faintly chubby guy, resplendent in pink whose eyes gleam at the sight of customers and is quickly organising them. "You sit there, you", he clears space by the fire and decrees a mezze for their lunch. Soon he has filled the table before them and is regaling them with stories and a camp cackling laugh. He is also hovering critically as they eat, snatching the bread from their hands to demonstrate how it should be used to scoop up hummus. He is fiercely proud of his pomegranate sauce for potatoes - "the only one in Syria". Finally as they begin to leave he finds more food for them, stuffing fruit into their pockets "you take bananas".
A room is secured at Bebers Hotel on the next promontory from the castle and with direct views to it. There is a strong wind blowing and the temperature is freezing. Syrian power supplies again prove unreliable and the heating poor to negligible. The CB & GP, wrapped in blankets and wearing ski suits settle in for a very cold night.
Day 57
Tuesday 23rd December
Krak Des Chevaliers, Syria - Damascus, Syria
Krac Des Chevaliers was deemed by TE Lawrence to be the finest castle in the world, during the research that ultimately led him to play a critical intelligence role in the Middle East in the First World War. This castle dates from wars many years before, when the Crusaders established as a fortress in 1031. Perfectly preserved, it stands on the prow of a hill with a view to Suleiman's tower and to the Mediterranean sea to the west, to Homs in the east and the mountains of Lebanon to the south.
Down in the valley is the monastery. After years of frustrated assault on the castle, Sultan Beybar contemplated the fortress from here and found a secret passageway. This allowed him, in 1231, to bring his troops in clandestinely and take the castle without bloodshed, through the back door.
At the height of its success, 4,000 soldiers and 400 knights (with their own round table) lived here; men only, soldiers only. The castle had an outer and inner structure for defence and within, labyrinthine passageways, kitchens, wine stores, stables, grain stores. Mamet is the guide and brings to life the church/mosque by a haunting rendition of the call to prayer. Above the door is the plaque that Beybar had decorated with a plaque reading "worship as you wish". Mamet also enthusiastically demonstrates the cell used for executions.
The Child Bride and Grandpa Pete now head south to Damascus. A long straight motorway curves alongside the Lebanese border, flanked by the leaning trees of Syria - pine trees beaten by prevailing winds to an extreme angle. Trucks overloaded with 180 degrees of olive branches waving their fronds in the winds populate the road: afro lorries.
As they near Damascus the roadside begins to fill with more and more troops, demob happy, on their way home for Christmas. Damascus immediately feels more comfortable than Aleppo, calmer, cleaner, more affluent and more organised. Soon GP and the CB are checking into the hermetically sealed luxury world of the Four Seasons hotel. The hotel is hosting a wedding and the front is lined with flowers, the inside quivering with best chiffon dresses on dimpled skin. Gordon assumes his rightful place in the hotel garage next to a Corniche and swiftly becomes the darling of the concierges. GP and the CB will have to request access to him.