Taksi!

So now things get interesting. Just under an hour ago, me and my rucksack got shoved out of a moving train onto the platform of a train station somewhere in South Western Turkey station into the late afternoon sun. Aleppo remains about 200km away, and with the train 3 hours late, I’m running out of time to get there before the end of the day. I’m proud to report though, that for the first time things are properly unfamiliar, unnerving, and require a decent amount of composure. Composure that I’m running short on, given that the children in the cabin next door continued to scream late into the night.

So, as you do, I stepped out into the late-afternoon sun in an unfamiliar city, without knowing a word of the language, beyond the word for bus station: ‘oto gar’, which I’d remembered thanks to it’s similarity to the French equivalent.

Flipping open my Syria Rough Guide (which I only had because the Lonely Planet wasn’t available), I realized how woefully under prepared I was. Woefully. The kind of woeful under preparedness that news anchors comment on when a couple of (always us British) tourists unwittingly get lost in the desert, or up a mountain or are found sky diving without parachutes.

All I knew, based on the A5 map in my pocket, was that Adana wasn’t close enough to the border yet. I needed to get to Antakya, the legendary city of Antioch, within the semi-legendary republic of Hatay (visited by Indiana Jones in Raiders), if I was going to be within striking distance of Alleppo by midnight.

As I pondered whether to ask a bystander for ‘Oto Gar’, ‘Hotel’ (keeping in mind that, as a foreigner they’d direct me to the $150 a night Hilton), or to put my Scout skills into practice and strike out into this city and see if I could find some clues, the answer arrived. A cab driver screeched up and hopped out. “Oto Gar? Oto Gar?” he said. I nodded eagerly at my rescuer. Shit- I was going to be screwed.

Screeching off, I rather naively reached for a seatbelt. He was clearly offended. “No need, no nid” he motioned, swerving across the lanes of traffic like an F1 driver. He started conversing in Turkish, evidently assuming that our previous exchanges in English had just been for fun. “My name Mustafa, you”.

“Ben”, I replied, a forcing a smile. “Halep?” he speculated. I nodded, having thought it wise to at least know the Turkish name for Aleppo. Racing down the carriageway, he paused, thought for a second, and taking both hands off the wheel, pulled out a tissue box, pointing at the back. I could just about make out ‘$250′ scrawled on it. I laughed.

“You take me all way to Halep?”, figuring that he might just get the gist, whilst feigning amusement that anyone would pay that much for a trip which, I’d been informed, should cost no more than $90, even if you were mad or desperate enough to do it in a taxi.

From what I could understand, last week a pair of Spaniards had paid that amount for the 7 hour trip to the border with this crazy taxi driver. I feigned a belly laugh- better to keep the guy onside, and to laugh at the expense of a fellow foreigner. “Oto Gar” I repeated, slowly and clearly; there was no way I was going on a similar ride, thanks.

With both hands, he handed back the tissue box and pen. “Adana, Alep” he repeated. It was tempting- guaranteed arrival this evening, when I couldn’t be sure if I could find a bus to take me to Antakya, let alone Aleppo. And a ride with this guy across the Syrian desert would certainly be an experience to write home to all of you about. I scrawled a number, 60 Euro. Vastly more than the coach ride would’ve cost, but the possible cost of the Adana Hilton.

Still driving down the middle of the dual carriageway, he wrote 80. Before I would give a firm reply, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be dumped off in some other, even more remote location. “Map” I said, pointing at the boot of the car, where my A5 map was located.

We swerved over onto the pavement, pulled out the map, and stood at the back of the car, my guidebook spread out across the back of the car as I pointed to the two locations, alternately. Adana, Allep, 60 Euro? I repeated. “No”. “Passport” “Passport Suriye”. From this I gathered that he’d be taking me as far as the Syrian border and leaving me there, which didn’t seem particularly attractive, particularly if they happened, for whatever reason, to dislike my Syrian visa.

I got cold feet. I was out, as Dragon Duncan Ballantyne would say, “yer lost me”. I wasn’t sure if it was the 7 hour ride through the desert, lack of seatbelts, the inability to communicate properly, exorbitant price or the uncertainty of the destination that did it for me, but there was just something not right about this guy. I was pretty sure, if nothing else, that my travel insurance didn’t cover people like him.

I shook my head. “Oto Gar” “Oto Gar” I repeated, and now intended to repeat until such time as I was safely there. He wasn’t happy. “Problem?” “Problem?” he repeated, sounding genuinely hurt and perplexed. I shrugged, “No problem”. “Koste?” He enquired. I shook my head, not wishing to re-open negotiations- when the coach journey I knew cost just 10 Euro, it wasn’t justifiable, simple as that.

After 5 minutes of Turkish remonstrations during which I thought he might just dump me in a ditch and drive off with my bag, we arrived at Adana Oto Gar. All I could do was shrug.

The said Oto Gar reminded me of the massive concrete Catholic cathedrals constructed in France in the 1960s, with a soaring roof housing kiosks of over 40 different coach companies. This, Maggie- is what real competition. “Halep?” “Antakya?” I asked around, eventually finding the appropriate window, along with a guy who spoke English.

One in 20 minutes, 14 Lira (6 pounds), 3 hour journey- a journey that would take me within about 80km of Aleppo. I wanted to hug the guy, as he took my money, handed the ticket, and then, me being a clearly witless foreigner (something at this stage I would readily admit to), even found a chaperone to take me to the waiting coach.

Air conditioned, spacious, free newspapers, TVs, coffee, drinks and a pair of attendants- airline style to ensure you’re kept comfortable. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m en route to Antakya.