South to Syria

Night bus was mental – the thought of ‘saving time’ did not return good dividends. Won’t be doing that in a hurry again. To add insult to injury, the dude at the bus company gave a special price – I’m pretty pissed at being ripped off and powerless to do anything about.

Antakya passes in a blur – its getting warm and skies are blue and clear, but I’m delirious after getting next to no sleep on the bus. I’m really nervous about the upcoming entry into Syria – we don’t have a visa and need to blag it at the border. I’ve heard horror stories of 24 hour delays and administrative nightmares. We decide to do it on our own steam too – flagging the package bus direct to Aleppo, we get a combination of micro-bus, taxi and shanks pony to cross the border. It’s hot, and tough going with our fully loaded backpacks on. I know I’m backpacking, but carrying the bloody thing for an extended time in the hot sun is not my idea of a holiday.

We pass through both borders with relative ease – the Syrian border official takes an obsessive interest in every page of my passport, and I realize he’s checking for evidence of Israel entrance. Any traces of excursions there mean no entry to Syria. And the visa, cushioned by a large ‘baksheesh’ payment, is no issue either. By 5pm, we’re strolling the streets of Aleppo, the northern Syrian city. Its way more in your face than Turkey, and more than once I have to shoo off predatory men intent on harassing Steph. Although she’s wearing a headscarf, there’s more attention than either of us would like and memories of India come flooding back.

At the end of the street where we are staying, there’s a falafel stand and holy shit, it’s really really good. At 25 pence per ‘sandwich’, it’s easy to hook into at any time of the day, and by the end of our time in Aleppo, we are regulars. The souqs, or markets, are a labyrinthine collection of covered alleyways, passages and tunnels, and there’s a shop for anything you want to buy. At first, its difficult to see any order in the souq, but after a while I get used to the way things work, although I’m not so good at getting my head around Arabic.

After Turkey, Syria makes me feel like a rich man - we change our Turkish Lira for Syrian Pounds and get about 18,000 pounds - one English pound gets around 65 Syrian pounds. The hotel costs us 960 pounds per night, so I won't be rich for long...