now got a convoy of seven, with Morrie as our lead driver. His plan was to stop overnight at a town called Ceyhan, 25 miles the other side of Adana, but first we’d got to cross the Taurus mountain range that separates Anatolia from the Mediterranean. With the pass at around 7000 ft, it was going to be another long slow climb and it wasn’t much more than an hour before we could see the hazy outline of the mountains rising almost vertically out of the plateau in the distance. The closer we got, the taller and more formidable they looked, and this was taking into account we were already a good 2500 ft above sea level! As we passed through the village of Ulukişla, the road suddenly sharpened up and we were dropping right down the gearbox into a steady climb. The plateau we’d only recently left behind was rapidly shrinking into the distance below, giving us a spectacular view across the arid plain. This wasn’t a climb like Bolu, where the road was nice and wide. Nor was it like anything I’d ever come across back home. This was a road with millennia of history, a road that Paul of Tarsus might have walked 2000 years ago. It seemed to cling to the mountainside and was almost too narrow in places for trucks to safely pass. Other than the occasional marker post and tree holding on for dear life at the edge of the precipice, there was zero protection. The slightest error could easily end in disaster, and it was a very, very long way down!
The climb seemed never-ending and must have taken the best part of an hour and a half. Eventually we started to level out and pass the odd inhabited shack before entering the village of Pozanti. This is a place I definitely wouldn’t want to live. I mean, the village butcher was an open roadside stall, with meat hanging out for the passing trade. Can you imagine what that would be like with your two veg? The flavouring coming from the constant flow of heavy vehicles exhausting their diesel and petrol fumes, combined with the incessant dust and added fly flavour; that’s going to have a very individual taste!
“The climb seemed never-ending and must have taken the best part of an hour and a half.”
The drop down the other side took even longer. It’s a 70 km continual descent and with a heavy load, and drum brakes, too much braking would see the shoes glazed in next to no time. I was learning a whole new driving strategy on how to negotiate real mountains. Not a trip up Shap, however difficult that might be. This driving was so different to anything I could relate to. Low gear, frequent use of the feeble exhaust brake plus judicious use of the foot brake finally saw me down to the main east–west route along the Mediterranean coast.
The city of Adana, on the edge of the Seyhan Dam, was like a Turkish version of the Wild West. I was half expecting a Santa Fe stagecoach to appear out of the gloom. What with the Americans running the nearby NATO base, it was a bit of a ‘rocking’ town. Muddy, potholed roads and the typical carefree attitude of Turkish drivers just added to the mix. Within the hour we were parked up on a rough patch of ground near Ceyhan.
“BANG, BANG, BANG, on the door. I was absolutely sound, but this was serious banging”
Sadly for us it was our last night as a gang. Tomorrow would be saying goodbye to Morrie, as he was off to Baghdad, the rest of us to various destinations further south. Taffy had clutch problems but was going to try and soldier on to the Mercedes agent in Damascus.
BANG, BANG, BANG, on the door. I was absolutely sound asleep, but this was serious banging, as in a daze I reached over to pull back the curtain and see a Polis sign out of the side window. Mick was already out of his cab.
‘We’ve got to move,’ he shouted. ‘The cops say it’s not safe to stay here, apparently there’s a restaurant about three Ks up the road.’
Bleary eyed, we followed the Polis car to his ‘safe’ parking area and almost before I could switch the engine off I was straight back onto the bunk.
Next thing I knew, it was daylight and Morrie was up and about, knocking on our cabs to say goodbye. He was off to Zakho and wanted to get through the border by tonight. I was more than grateful for his help and patience, and it had been a good week running together; hopefully we’d meet up again.
The rest of us decided to make a move as well and headed off towards Toprakkale, only for Bert to realise that now he’d got a slow puncture. As he was only carrying a boy’s load, about 6 tons, we topped up the air with a line stretched from the cab. If we could get to Iskenderun, maybe we could find a tyre repair shop.
On the southern outskirts of the town, there it was; the ubiquitous roadside shack that could repair anything you’d care to present them with. Not only did they repair his inner tube, but my own as well. I’m convinced that had they got a rubber tree they would have had a bash at making their own tyres! Watching these guys work, using the most basic of tools, was an eye-opener. They were so talented and inventive, they put our efforts to shame.
Now we were getting close to the border, I was starting to get concerned about an agent. There wasn’t one listed in my folder for Cilvegözü. The other guys said the same, we’d have to wait and see.
This couldn’t be it, could it! We were on a narrow country road, hardly wide enough for two vehicles to pass, and there ahead of us was a flimsy red and white barrier with an empty sentry box. Parking, we walked across the road to what appeared to be a temporary restaurant with a lean-to alongside. Glancing through the doorway, there was a uniformed officer sat at a desk. This appeared to be the customs post! Kapikule this most definitely wasn’t . . .
Beckoning us in, he asked for our papers, saying in broken English. ‘Halluf one hower finis.’
‘Yeah, right,’ whispered Bert, ‘and pigs might fly,’ making a snorting sound.
True to his word, in halluf one hower it was finis; there was our passport and paperwork on the desk, all stamped and signed.
‘Today as is spezzial holiday, is 200TL,’ he said, handing them back with a smile.
Ah, the land of baksheesh, a spezzial holiday indeed, and I’ll bet there’s no receipt! I’ve become a cynic already, still it’s a small price to pay for such prompt service and not a bad little earner for him! He checked each face against the passport photo and, picking up Bert’s, added a snorting sound of his own. I’ve never seen anyone colour up so quickly! The barrier lifted and we were through into no-man’s-land.
A 2 km drive under a ruined arch to ‘The Gates of the Wind’, Bab al-Hawa, and we were at the border with Syria. Our load carnets were not accepted as valid documentation here and I’m not sure whether it’s because Syria wasn’t party to the international TIR accord, or because it was still regarded as a ‘war zone’. Whatever the reason, all documents had to be translated into Arabic by our agent and transit duty paid as a percentage of the load’s value; in my case the equivalent of £100 in Syrian Pounds! Only then was temporary transit paperwork issued, which had to be handed in when exiting the country. One thing you rapidly learned was patience. There seemed to be no accounting for the length of time clearances took. I mean, it was half an hour back there at Cilvegözü, but here it was going to be a very long time. A meal and a few cold drinks in the restaurant had us all feeling maudlin and by the time we’d got our translated documents back it was too late to go anywhere. Oh well, it was an early night with Radio Luxembourg to lull me to sleep.
“One thing you rapidly learned was patience. There seemed to be no accounting for the length of time clearances took.”
With another sunbaked day in prospect, our convoy was back on the road at 7.30am, heading for Damascus. As we headed further south, the landscape, though not what you’d call proper desert, was becoming more and more devoid of vegetation. Here the soil had a deep red orange timbre and didn’t look too rich in nutrients. I couldn’t imagine crops being a very productive source of food
