by D. D. Mayers
After a few more days we were ready to set forth. It felt as though we were leaving home, starting afresh. We drove north in the car which had been packed with all we might need for any more enforced lengthy stays at other border crossings. We reluctantly left the prettiest, warmest most pleasant people of all the countries we’d been through so far, and crossed the border back into Syria.
Without thinking about it, I’d done all the driving so far. It was never tiring because we never had to hurry to be anywhere in particular at any particular time. In retrospect, that whole trip, except for the last two days, from Hamburg to London, must have been the most trouble free four months I’ve ever had, for almost my entire life. Only now, as I write this in my seventy-first year, am I, once again, at peace in myself and in my surroundings. But getting here was to be a tortuous journey. A journey an awful lot of people throughout the world must despairingly, have to suffer. I’ve suddenly jumped a long way ahead. So back to driving, unhurriedly, through the villages of Syria, waving to smiling faces, stopping for coffees and our morning prepared lunches, there wasn’t a worry in the world. How wrong we were and how terrifyingly different it is now. We stopped and pitched our tent in the friendly little city of Homs and then in Aleppo.
We’re not shown, on any of the newsflashes on the television about the war in Syria, what the centres of the cities look like. If the devastation wrought upon the outskirts is anything to go by, those cities will have to be completely rebuilt. And I don’t think that will happen in our lifetime. I suppose there must have been an undercurrent of unrest wherever we went, but as young travellers, we weren’t aware of the awfulness that was to befall those lovely Middle Eastern countries, as we so contentedly meandered through them.
Honey had a contact in the British Embassy in Ankara in Turkey, so that was a vague goal. It took a few days of zigzagging about from the border with Syria, but we found ourselves arriving quite late one evening in the outskirts of Ankara. We tried to make it a rule not to arrive after dark at any destination and try to find somewhere to pitch our tent. But this time, as with quite a few other times, we were again looking for the campsite well after dark. Needless to say, we couldn’t find it. Searching about, lost, we came across a deserted, derelict building site. We forced our way in through padlocked gates by taking one side off its hinges. We found an ideal spot on one of the concrete floors covered by the next floor up, so we didn’t have to erect our little tent. We looked out on to a pool of darkness with street lights shining in the distance. The daylight would bring us the view. We rolled out our sleeping bags and after a satisfying Turkish type supper cooked on our two-burner gas cooker, we climbed into them and went out for the count.
When I think back, living in this modern comfort everyone expects today, it seems extraordinary we should have chosen to put ourselves through such discomfort without a second thought of the danger that might have befallen us. At no point, during the four months we were travelling, pitching our tent anywhere at the end of the day, did we think we might be in any sort of danger.
The early morning sunlight brought us a splendid view of a well laid-out park of trees, running in avenues between man-made lakes with bright green mown lawns flowing down to the water’s edge. The whole city stretched out beyond. We silently stared out, open-mouthed. We looked at each other and smiled.
Honey’s Ambassador invited us to dinner. All very smart, everything you’d expect from somebody in that position. Although it was only a relatively short time since we’d left our homes, we’d got used to the standard of living into which we’d put ourselves, due to our limited budget. So the difference between ‘us-and-them’ was very accentuated and made for interesting discussion, not with them, but later on between ourselves. We told them about our beautiful view on waking up, but we refrained from telling them about our actual choice of living arrangements. The evening flowed along very smoothly, the conversation never flagged, they were, after all, real pros, entertaining is part of the brief. But by the end of the evening, when we shook hands to say goodbye, I think we left a very baffled couple.
I regret not visiting any of the little towns and villages along the Black Sea, but Honey had done a lot of reading about the ancient city of Ephesus so was eagerly awaiting our arrival there. In fact, ever since crossing the border into Turkey, she could hardly talk about anything else. So we wound our way south-west and, this time, arriving before darkness engulfed, we found the campsite.
I must say it was intriguing, no, much more than intriguing, staggering, or any other superlative you can come up with. How such a city could even be conceived such a long time ago, especially when now, with all our modern technology, we surround something like that, with dreadful concrete blocks. They have no merit, no sense of history, no design, nothing commendable in any way. It’s as though we’ve taken a step into darkness and we’re still falling. I suppose it could be said, that now, nearly fifty years later, our sense of design, in a very broad sense, is beginning to formulate itself again. We do sometimes build things of wonder. But not entire cities. I’m sure the people living in the Ephesus then, would have thought their city was something worthy of wonder.
There weren’t many people wandering about. Looking at the photographs we took then, we were the only ones in them. While walking about within the whole site we couldn’t say much to each other, there seemed to be an immense enveloping presence. Even back at the campsite, we quietly went about our duties, preparing and cooking our food, laying out the sleeping bags, washing and soundly sleeping, waking at the crack of dawn.
Istanbul. What a city. The sprawl around all cities wasn’t so prominent a feature at that time. I don’t really remember it spoiling the enjoyment and excitement of our arrival at such an historical, beautiful, yet modern and vibrant a city. The traffic wasn’t too heavy, so we could easily dawdle about, without being hooted at too much, wondering at all the sites without worrying if we were lost, which of course we were.
The campsite turned out to be some miles from the city centre, but well laid-out with good amenities and a cheap restaurant. We settled in very easily and quickly and as was the norm by now, our fellow-travellers were immediately friendly and communicative, swapping stories and describing places they’d been. We were advised to dispense with the car for going in and out of the city, and instead to use the local yellow taxis, which were far more cost-effective. You’d stand on any main road and flag one down and if they had any room they’d stop and we’d squeeze in. We could then get out anywhere along their route, which depended on where the furthest passenger wanted to go; in turn our route might become the furthest, so we’d each have to pay accordingly.
There was so much to see and do. If we’d suddenly been given the opportunity to stay six months in or around that city, I think we’d have jumped at it. The Topkapi Palace, The Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, all so magnificent, majestic, astounding in their very concept. But the place we enjoyed the most, because of its vibrancy and essence of thrumming life, was the Grand Bazaar. It drew us back on a number of occasions. But the outstanding memory, apart from little trinkets we still have, were the great cauldrons of steaming Turkish peasant foods lined up along the walls of the entrance to the Bazaar. We were always hungry and so the tastes and smells and sheer deliciousness of the contents of those cauldrons, remain with me to this day. Tastes and smells are so evocative they take you back and forth in an instant.
Another time, in another life, my Sister and I were in Paris together, with no money. Not just a tiny amount of money, I mean no money and we didn’t speak any useful French to get some work. It seemed our only option was to write home to say we were starving. I think my father would have said, ‘I’ve been starving hungry and I had no one to turn to, so let them work it out for themselves. My mother immediately sent us enough money to at least eat for a few days, and for me to get back to London. The smell of that plate of the cheapest food we could find,
will be in my senses forever.
We weren’t at that stage yet, but the very cheapest option always had to be the final choice. Sometimes it was very difficult to decide which of the cheapest options to choose, presuming we’d never be in this particular position again. So here, our choice was something the local residents took for granted. We hopped on to the ferry that ploughed up and down the Bosporus from the city to the Black Sea. We stayed on-board at each destination going back and forth three or four times. As long as we stayed on-board we didn’t have to pay again. The ticket collector laughed, ‘Not you three again, but we like it that you like us so much.’
It was with heavy hearts we reluctantly began to realise we must be on the move again. Although we still had a long way to go, I think we all sensed, when leaving Istanbul, it would be the beginning of the end of our lackadaisical travelling. Packing up the car was a laborious business. It had never been a chore before, and it took the whole day. To give ourselves a bit of a lift, we decided to squeeze ourselves into one of those yellow cabs, and go back to the entrance to the Grand Bazaar. We’d have a delicious supper, one more time, from those steaming, bubbling cauldrons lined against the wall on the way in. There was never any chance of wine or even beer, a huge factor now, and bottled water had yet to flood into all our lives. The only thing we ever drank, away from our little tent, was scalding hot tea.
Early the following morning we shook hands with our fellow-travellers and wished each other well for the remainder of our journeys. Some had a long, long way to go, not planning to stop for another year or so.
For us though, crossing the Turkish border into Northern Greece was an emotional moment. We turned off the main road and drove to the top of a hill. I stopped the engine. We got out and silently stood, looking back at Turkey, and brought to mind all we’d done in only the past three months. Now, as I write this, fifty years later, trawling my memory banks, I cannot recall a harsh word ever spoken between us. And as far as C’s parents were concerned, Honey was the most vigilant of chaperones.
How it was possible for the three of us to live so intimately, for more than three months, with not a harsh word spoken, in such a confined space for all that time, I really don’t know. It’s not as though we were the same in any way. Our backgrounds, our upbringings were all completely different. It might have been because we were so fond of one another, or it might have been for fear of the consequences of not getting along. Whichever it was, we stood quietly, leaning up against our faithful little Toyota Corona Estate, with hundreds of thousands of miles on the clock. We looked back into the misty haze of Turkey, and earlier, since leaving the port of Mombasa, and smiled at each other with a sense of achievement. Ideally, the whole trip should have ended here. Not that the possibility of doing so even entered our minds, but the Middle East and Europe are so different, each are separate entities to be appreciated in their own right.
It was now coming towards the end of November and Europe was definitely beginning to shroud itself with its winter blanket. We, on the other hand, had nothing of the sort. Even the poor car didn’t have any heating. It was only by chance when filling with petrol, the pump attendant casually asked, ‘Shall I top-up the antifreeze?’
I’m talking as though we were driving directly into Europe as it is now, but then, of course, we still had the immensity of Yugoslavia through which to wend our way. One day, after a very pleasant night stop, we drove down a little track off the main road, and into what once could have been an orchard, the ancient, gnarled trees were mesmerizingly beautiful. I turned off the engine. It was perfectly quiet and still. All the trees must have stood there for hundreds of years. They had a presence silently standing there in perfect stillness. We didn’t say anything. We slowly got out of the car and wandered about, gently touching the trunks with the palm of our hands, as though they were magnificent animals.
Just recently we were taken, by Gwynne (who so memorably had carried me out to the reef), into a game park in Tanzania. He stopped the Land Rover to let a herd of elephants cross the road in front of us. The herd must have been over a hundred strong. They slowly began to surround the car. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. We shouldn’t be here. One elephant stopped right next to my window. He slowly turned his head and looked at me. I caught his eye. We stared at one another. Through his huge, dense, black eye, perfectly surrounded with long beautiful eyelashes any woman would die for, it seemed as though I was looking through a window deep into his soul. Surely he must have heard my heart crashing against my ribs. Only seconds later he quietly turned away. The whole herd disregarding us, went about their business, pulling up great bunches of newly grown, long, lush green grass that springs to life after hard, heavy savannah rains.
Being there, in that orchard, with no one else around, among all those knowing old trees, was very similar, without the thumping heart, to being in the middle of that great herd of majestic elephants. An incredible sensation.
Later the following morning we stopped to fill the car with fuel and have a coffee. A man with the similar mission as ourselves, parked himself at our table and immediately launched into conversation as though he knew us. We were used to this sort of thing happening quite often because of the unerring magnet of my two girls. After a torrent of questions, in almost perfect English, he said, ‘Well, if you want my advice,’ for which we weren’t aware we’d asked, ‘you should take time to drive through Yugoslavia. Fairly soon, certainly in your lifetime, there will be a deadly eruption in that country that will change it forever. You might never have the chance to go there again.’ We didn’t know what to say, we just looked at him. It was the second time we’d been given almost exactly the same sort of information by the man I told you about earlier in Damascus. Only that had been about Israel and its war with its Arab neighbours.
He was absolutely correct in all respects. Yugoslavia no longer exists, it was a deadly, terrible eruption that tore the whole country apart, back into its original states before Tito artificially created Yugoslavia.
We took his advice to a certain degree, zigzagging away from our main route, taking a few extra days pitching our tent in farmers’ fields, briefly visiting the beautiful cities everyone’s heard about. Although we never felt unsafe, because of the warm welcome from practically everyone we met, and to which we’d grown accustomed wherever we travelled, we did have an awareness of an undercurrent of unrest here, that made us feel uncomfortable. From area to area, even though we didn’t understand anything spoken, there was a palpable difference in attitude. We should have known more, of course, but now we know the ignorance of youth is always astonishing.
We crossed the border into Austria at a point that lead us to the most direct route over the Alps, into Germany and straight on to the autobahn pointing north to Hamburg. This may sound straightforward, but crossing the Alps at that time of the year, through one of the smallest, highest passes on the map, perhaps wasn’t the best of decisions. We could clearly see all the heavy snow shrouding the mountains ahead, but we thought that as the pass was open, it was obviously passable. It was passable, but only for 4x4’s with studded tyres or chains and proper heating inside, whereas our poor little African car had nothing suitable for the vagaries ahead. Quite soon, on leaving the border, the road started to ascend. The snow quickly piled thicker and thicker on the side of the road. The road itself became white with un-melted snow. I stopped the car, ‘Perhaps we should stay on the main roads and take the tunnel under the mountains rather than climbing over the mountains.’ Surprisingly, both girls said, ‘No, no we’ve just driven through the whole of the Middle East and Turkey, we can’t let a little snow defeat us.’ I said, ‘If this is a little snow, what’s a lot of snow?’ They both said, ‘It’ll be exciting.’ The majority vote won. Very surprisingly, without much skidding about, we did make incredibly good headway. We were so proud of our sturdy little African car. Quite suddenly the road started to descend. We looked
at each other and laughed at our achievement. Too soon! I touched the brakes. No response. I touched them again. Still no response. A shaft of ice ran itself through the middle of my body. What can I do? I changed gear down to second, then again to first, the response was minimal. A stationary car was fast coming up ahead. What could I do? I couldn’t steer around it, into oncoming traffic, I couldn’t see beyond it. The only alternative was to crash the car into my side of the icy bank. The ice was so hard it wouldn’t let me in. The car ahead was looming closer and closer. I steered into the bank again. The noise of the bumper tearing against the ice was awful. I’d started to slow down. But not enough. I crashed into the car in front, bumper-to-bumper. I can still hear that noise now. The driver flung his door open, he descended on us, his face swollen purple with rage. I couldn’t get out, my door was jammed closed by the wall of ice on the left. My girls, meanwhile, were struck dumb with the horror of what was befalling us, so soon after laughing with pleasure, when reaching the top of the pass. It turned out there wasn’t much damage done, apart from dented bumpers, and the driver himself had had to do the same thing to stop his own car.
As luck would have it, a hundred yards ahead, on the right-hand side, was an inn. An Austrian Chalet Inn, with three feet of snow on the roof. We slid, like a crab, down the hill, as the queue of cars ahead cleared, and tentatively crept into the car park. How could there be a room in which to lay our weary heads? Not only was there a room, it had three separate beds with an enormous, puffed-up duvet on each. And better still, the night under these inviting duvets included a delicious supper with a carafe of wine. Also, our sturdy little African car was not forgotten. It was allowed into the barn, with the cows to keep it warm. It couldn’t feel more at home.
In the morning, the proprietors wouldn’t let us leave, to slide sideways down the rest of the pass. They ordered a huge 4x4 lorry, specially built for this particular purpose, to come and escort us down the remainder of the pass. With a great deal of kissing and shaking of hands, we bade our farewells. The driver of the lorry was a cheery chap who knew exactly what he was doing. He attached a tow rope to our rear axle, and the other end was attached to the front of his gigantic lorry with enormous studded balloon tires, to fix the lorry to any surface. With the power and size of that vehicle, I think he could have climbed a mountain face.