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.

“Well, there’s a pleasant bus station, some nice skyscrapers….and your friends the Americans have a base there”, he chortled. This travel agent, one of many who lined the streets in tourist areas of Istanbul had a hastily-printed sign on his door: ‘Ask me, I know’. In this particular case evidently all he knew about Adana was that it was not somewhere worth going to. As I turned to go out the door, I flung back: “but it is easy to get to Halep (Aleppo), no?”

“Oh yes, my friend- many buses”

Any idea of times or access to a timetable? Of course not. Oh well, I’d have to wing it once I arrived. Worst case scenario, I’d heard, a taxi could do the 4 hour journey for about $90. Heading back onto the street, I could at least be reassured that whilst the ticket in my pocket took me nowhere, that nowhere was roughly near where I wanted to go.

And an American military base too, eh? Before any CIA agents reading this get interested, I had no intention of climbing any fences. However, a vague recollection of American nukes based in Turkey being involved in negotiations around the Cuban Missile crisis did spring to mind, as did an article I’d read just a few weeks ago about the US removing it’s nuclear weapons from the UK, leaving only those based in Turkey and the Eastern European countries it has bribed and coerced with aid.

So, if I’m guessing correctly, sometime tomorrow I’ll be passing the place from which, thousands of miles away, Armageddon could one day be unleashed, with hundreds of these things, I imagine, currently still pointed at Russia, China and a few other places. A brief point of interest, I suppose, if not quite the dramatic scenery one might wish for.

The scene in front of me is growing to be an increasingly familiar one, yet not entirely disagreeable. Train window to my left, compartment door to the right, sink and mirror in the right hand corner, desk/ cupboard in front of me, and seated in an arm chair which folds down into a ready-made bed. I have decided, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the way to travel. In terms of political aspirations, let’s just say Abe Lincoln and his campaign train had the right idea.

In terms of layout, my cabin in the Istanbul-Adana overnighter is exactly the same as those 24 hours I spent from Belgrade to Istanbul, albeit with a 50 year great leap forward. The sink is usable, there are power sockets, a restaurant car, and- get this, my very own fridge and thermostat.

Such exuberance makes the hostel where I’ve spent the past 4 nights look like a total dive (which is was, but a palace in comparison to the gloriously grubby Balkan express). To echo the phrases of my travel guide, what it lacks in character, it makes up for with a few of the creature comforts which, I’d imagine, will be missing in the kinds of places I’ll be staying in Syria.

Unfortunately though, the exhilarating exploits aboard the Serbian train are not to be repeated- a last minute and unexpected lack of any alcohol for sale at Hayderpassa station put paid to that one. Expecting no restaurant car, I however took the self-indulgent opportunity to go native. It’s bullshit of course- 90% of Istanbulites shop at the local supermarket like the one next to my hostel- but one particular ulterior motive of this trip has always been to play out my Orientalist, T.E. Lawrencesque fantasies.

What better way than to spend the morning roaming the Bazaar behaving like a discerning buyer of kilos of Pistachios, Dried Figs, Pistachio Lokum (Turkish delight), cheese, olives and bread?. It’s all very good, although I suspect it may necessitate a visit to the (shudder, although admittedly immaculate) squat at the rear of the carriage.

So I do, once again, find myself rattling through darkness, cocooned in my own private apartment, not 100% sure of where I’m going, but feeling unexpectedly relaxed and at ease. No night-time border crossings to worry about here either. Fingers crossed I’m on the right train though- having done my research, Istanbul-Adana forms part of the Berlin-Baghdad railway. Assuming the train stops where it’s supposed to, more on that tomorrow.

In this part of town, at least, you must say no. Quickly, firmly, clearly and without hesitation or consideration of sensibilities. Because everyone you meet wants to something, and everything, from a bystander’s help in finding the correct direction, to the water, has a price.

“Hello, how are you, where are you from?” is the first question, usually rattled off in a single monotone sentence, without pause. This question is the first test, for they will tailor the negotiations that involuntarily follow based on a finely tuned knowledge, accumulated over years, of the various habits of different nationalities. They will also, thanks to your naive response, now posses an intimate knowledge of your current emotional state and manipulate accordingly.

At this stage, an informed traveler will have arrived armed with knowledge of the Uzbek for ‘I do not speak Turkish’ and have walked away and carried on with what is likely to be a fantastic day in Istanbul.

For anyone foolish, or ballsy, enough to carry the conversation any further, the next question will always be “Where are you going, how long have you been in Istanbul, do you like it here?”, again all as a single uninterrupted sentence. All three questions are at the most basic level, different ways of asking “Would you like to be scammed?”.

Responding that you have just arrived this morning, translates roughly as “Come and get me, I was born yesterday”, whilst someone foolish enough to show any doubt whatsoever about their onward direction of travel, or to express any shortcomings or disappointments, immediately solicits offers of directions, recommendations, or anything else in their power to help rectify your stay.

Such hospitality is, of course, not to be sniffed at, and in places such as Syria, I am told, and when I was in Belgrade, may be welcomed with no trouble whatsoever.

Accommodate any such offers in tourist areas of Istanbul with anything but with firm and repeated ‘no thank yous’ however, and you run a high risk of finding yourself whisked into this man’s overpriced restaurant, having your shoes shined, boxes of Bosporus water labeled as designer perfume thrust into your hand, or being hauled into a shop to try on a pair of jeans….with payment for their trouble, in all cases demanded. You’re unlikely to be robbed, but remember that in tourist areas, it seems, hospitality is for sale.

To make such sweeping generalizations, of course, is unfair. 1/10 people who want to talk to you will be genuinely interested, and the conversations with them are likely to be goldmines of local information as well as offering hugely rewarding insights into what life, in the real world, is like for people in Turkey. Such conversations alone are good enough reason to treat everyone in the tourist areas with at least some degree of patience and civility. Otherwise, of course, you may as well have turned up in a pith helmet.

***

If a lunchtime stroll alongside the Hagia Sophia is enough to destroy your faith in the basic essence of human goodwill, the rest of Istanbul compensates, and in spades, as I’ll explain when I return in just a few weeks.