Looking Back

So, I've reached the end of the line, the journey's terminus. The boats are docked, the planes are grounded, all ships tied to the quay. It seems more than a little strange that after more than 15 months of travel, the end has finally arrived. From the arid deserts of the African Interior to the exposed peaks of the highest mountains in the world; from a peaceful Scottish riverbank to the buzz and excitement of a neon Manhattan skyline; from the snow of the Middle East to the heat of Eastern Europe; the contrasts have been startling, as well as amazing.

It has been a real mixture of people and places, sights, sounds and smells. There has been the entire spectrum of emotions and thoughts. Travelling can be hard sometimes. It may be churlish to suggest that backpacking is not like a holiday brochure, that some days are very hard and some experiences very difficult to accept. But that is the truth. You are well and truly taken out of your comfort zone. No day on the road is ever the same. Amidst a complete lack of routine, your mind does somersaults as you take in all that surrounds you. There are alien cultures to negotiate,flies, stifling heat and other weather extremes. There is poverty, dirt and decay. People get sick, and they die. It is as straightforward as that.

There are people who have to labour through these adversities every day of their lives, and such realities are not simply a passing observation to them. It's these people and the thoughts they convey that I take away with me in my mind far more than anything else. The mindset is to take what is given to them and make the most of it everyday. To smile and be positive, and be grateful for being alive, no matter how hard that life is.

It is always the easier question to ask: "What was the best thing you saw?" It's completely understandable, and a question I have asked more than once myself. Nowadays, hopefully being a little wiser, and certainly a little older, I think a more pertinent (if slightly harder question) retrospectively and introspectively is: "What did you take from your time away?" So, I take away the contentment of those I have encountered. Contentment is the word that this trip has gifted me. It is not simple people who revel in the small delights of life, but rather people who understand that the delights of life should be simple- happy never to be hungry, thirsty or sick. I am fortunate to have met amazing people who have taught me this lesson.

I finish by thanking all the people I met along the way- all my fellow travellers, and mostly the local people. Every person I met, to some degree, shaped my time away and it would not have been the same without you all. To the tiny few of them now reading this, I wish you a happiness and a contentment in your future life adventures. Make the most of the time afforded to you, and lose yourself in the marvel and wonderment of life's great experiences, both big and small.

JRX

The earth is warm next to my ear, Insect noise is all that I hear, A magic trick makes the world disappear, The skies are dark, they're dark but they're clear.

A distant motorcade and suddenly there's joy, The snow and ticker tape blurs all my senses numb, It's like the finish line where everything just ends, The crack of radios seems close enough to touch.

Cold water cleaning my wounds, A sad parade with a single balloon, I'm done with this, I'm counting to ten, Bluest seas run into them

I feel like I am watching everything from space, And in a minute I'll hear my name and I'll wake, I think the finish line's a good place we could start, Take a deep breath, take in all that you could want...

GL

Lingering on the Edge

The last day, once more. Last night was tremendous. It was a night of no room mates, no snoring, no call prayer, just sleep and peace. I feel great for it today. A lot of this trip has been combating the cold- not bitter cold by any means, simply a cold that made things, at times, simply uncomfortable. It seems uncharacteristic of this trip to finish in warmth. I'm not complaining.

I enjoy a really relaxing breakfast with the owners (I'm the only guest), before a wander along the old Byzantium streets towards the shores of the Mediterranean for one last time. I pass the early morning sun worshippers all sitting in the light, enjoying a breakfast on the outer tables of hotels or tavernas, or strolling along the old town ramparts. I take a seat near one of the old cannons, looking down on to the azure waters below me- it's quite a drop. A singular fishing boat navigates its way slowly along the shore heading towards the harbour I visited yesterday. I enjoy a moment in the sun. Its a chance to reflect in the present on the many memories I will take with me from this journey- the people, the towns, the steps back in time, the laughter and the silence.

My farewell to the owners is brief, as I sling on my backpack for one last time, and make my way out the door. I follow the tramlines, once more, to the Airport bus station on the main shopping street. A friendly driver helps me heave it in the back. I take a seat, and breath a sigh. Looking at the steadying stream of tourists, sometimes it's easy to spot the difference between the new arrivals and the one's who have been here a while. Observing some of the newbies, I cast my mind back to the start of my trip several weeks ago, and remember my expectations, thoughts and plans. There is always an ambivalence to these moments- part of me feels like it was an age ago and another part feels like I'm only really just beginning, just as it actually all concludes. I rest my head against the window. The suns shines in on what looks like will be a glorious spring day. I take in my last views of the city as we exit and join the highway for what transpires to be a short journey.

When we pull up at the Airport, I enter a very airy, modern building. It seems to encapsulate all that is new and modern about this country. The campaigns and discussions about Turkey's possible entry into the European Union as Europe's first predominantly Muslim state will continue to wage. For me now, I'm left with the thought that Turkey manages to pull off this almost contradictory balance of reaching for a more secular future, whilst holding on to the spiritual beliefs of the past. Visiting this country has reminded me of trips from days gone past. Everytime I enter the Islamic world, I almost immediately get the soft scent of apple shesha pipes hanging in the air. It's happened before. It happened this time. Inshallah, or God willing, it happen again. Smelling that sweet, reminiscent fragrance makes me feel safe and content. It brings about a feeling of being somewhere exotic. It also creates a feeling of being completely alive.

Ski and Surf

I'm awakened after a night of intermittent sleep by a security guard who seems to be trying to smarten the place up a bit by getting me to sit up in my chair. I was sort of expecting this to happen, but hoped it would be slightly later than 6am.


By a miracle, I happen to sleep a while longer sitting up, before making my way into Antalya on a exceptionally crowded local bus. I show the bus driver the address I'm trying to locate, but he's too content shouting at everyone to keep moving down the bus. I ask for assistance from the man sitting next to me. He asks the lady behind. Despite the address being central ( and in Turkish), everybody looks as confused as I do. The lady behind disembarks and tells me, in very stilted English to follow her. We walk to her beachfront law firm office and find the pension phone number online. A quick thank-you and a slow seaside tram ride later, I find myself at the gates of the old Byzantium part of the city. From there, I wander around the alleyways, sifting my way through a host of shops, and hotels. Success! I enter the Oasis pension and am greeted by the friendly owners and their big slavering dog. It's a lovely clean, fresh, quiet place that will only serve as my home for tonight.


I gratefully, and finally, dump off my bag and head out to explore what is a lively, modern looking city. I'm afforded a fine view from the old town peninsula right across the bay to one part of the modern, and much more high rise newer part of Antalya. It really is quite spectacular. There's a clear view of the rows of hotels and tourist hubs that span along the pebble beach. They only travel so far and nature reclaims some authority on the opposite, and eyecatching headland of the other side of the cove. Behind all of this lies a range of amazing sharp rising mountains, most of their peaks covered in dazzling white. They offer a stark contrast to the brilliant aquatic blue of the ocean. I'm later told that there are all year round ski resorts in the high ground, so if the mood takes you, you can ski in the summer days and relax on the beach in the summer evenings. Still gazing at the view, I make my way down towards the old marina, which serves as a refuge for tourist pleasure boats, and working fishing vessels alike. I watch the fisherman fixing and adjusting their nets, before walking over to dark wooden, varnished tourist cruise ships. These open deck vessels are all trying to take advantage of early season tourism, a tout or two standing nearby on the shore, explaining why their boat is better than everyone else's.

I enjoy watching some fishermen cast their big white floats out at the entrance to the harbour, all hoping to catch their tea for the day. I make my way back along the quay, where one of the pleasure boats offers me a deal not to be missed. I hope on board and end up chatting to a couple of ladies across from the Midlands on a golfing holiday at a nearby resort. They're here to swipe their sticks as often as possible, but today is a rest day, and a chance to take in the sights. One of the ladies, a retired teacher from New Zealand says she would love to do the whole backpacking thing, but lacks the confidence to give it a try. "Do what I do, and rely on the good spirit of local people to help you out when you most need it. It will always get you through", is the best thing I can offer her.

We make our way tightly along the rocky coast towards the new part of town, observing small waterfalls cascading into the clear seas. We see fisherman, who have somehow scrambled down to the waterline from the cliff tops above. We turn around and head back to the harbour, thus completing a short, yet enjoyable excursion. Feet safely back on Terra Firma, I follow the tramlines along the city's main seafront and take in the westernised shopping boutiques and arcades. Here you can visit official Levis, Quiksilver, Adidas, Abercrombie & Fitch and Nike stores. I walk the length of the seafront, ending up on the main shingle beach. With the sun still out and the weather warm, I can't resist dipping my foot in the sea( has to be done as often as possible, surely?) Today is another day where I have observed a destination during a very quiet period of the year. So many places on this journey will appear almost like a different place in the months to follow. For now, I see a few couples embodying the notions of love's young dream and a gang of school boys communicating in the universal language of schoolboys- kicking each other up the backside as hard and as often as possible.


I make my stroll back towards the old town. The day has now clouded over. The light is changing and the sky has become very dramatic looking. I can still make out the vapour trails of jets making their way back to a cold Europe. It reminds me that my flight home tomorrow is fast approaching. So, opportunities to take in the sunshine of today are fast disappearing. I suddenly realise I am the only person I have seen today in shorts. Not even the Germans had their's on.

Showered and changed back at Oasis, I take an evening stroll through the multitude of lanes and closes in the old town. Traffic is certainly limited here, and the quietness of the air is seldom punctuated, usually by the nearby mosque's call to prayer. I attempt to find a bar with enough of an atmosphere for a final drink and maybe even some music, but on a chilly February evening everywhere is quiet, and I make a premature return to the pension. I sit in and discuss online gambling with the owner, as he gambles online. He loves football. He loves gambling. It's been a very long and tiring day, but also a most enjoyable one.

The Long and Winding Road

An old new country today. I am returning back to Turkey, for the final chapter in my journey. I'm content with what I've seen in Aleppo, so I set my alarm early and make my way to the new, nearby international bus station. It's 4.45am when I wander through its gates in the darkness. Ticket in hand, I rumble up the stairs and find my seat on a very empty looking bus. I drift off on my Thermarest 3000 travel pillow...

The attendant wakes me all too quickly in order to complete border formalities at both sides. Syria's one of these countries where, even at land crossings, you have to pay to leave. It's all a bit daft, akin to going to a disco for a boogie and a drink, and paying the bouncer on the way out. Our final check in the proceedings is the Turkish baggage search. "You better not have any tea! It's like having heroin!!", declares one fellow passengers as our bags are searched. This is principally because (like most things) Syrian Tea is so much cheaper and the Turks don't like to see it enter the country. Thankfully, I don't. Don't have much of anything really.

Changing buses in Antakya, what turns out to be a marathon bus journey gets under way. It isn't helped by the frequent roadside stops for passengers or food breaks in the middle of nowhere. The journey starts off expediently enough driving through a city which boasts impressively wide avenues and open parks. The architecture here is decidedly different to that of Syria. It's more modern, a lot less concrete in style, and far more colourful, with contrasts of pastel and primary colours.

The journey continues and I sleep, converse and read. My neighbour is a Syrian called Salah, who speaks fluent English, having lived in London for 18 months. He's a cake maker by trade and specialises in weddings and family occasions. He proudly shows me his best creations on his Sony Vaio. I also get to see images of his father's visit to London and their taking in of the London Eye in the rain. By now, our journey's landscape has changed and the roads have become more windy, pinned in by imposing rock faces. Although we are closely following the Southern Mediterranean coast of the country, we barely get to see it as our path takes us to higher more rural settings. We sometimes drop down to sea level and, for stretches, we pass orange and lemon groves and Mediterranean styled houses once more, all located in around conspicuous, sandy coves. It all feels a world away from the behemoths of Bodrum and Antalya. Eventually, the night arrives and we lose sight of everything. The bus gently rocks us about as we wind and climb, wind and descend.

I use this time to tentatively discuss Syria's issues with Sallah. I ask him what the big difference is between Turkey and Syria. "Government", he declares succinctly. " Our President studied in the UK and took home the language, but, somewhere along the way, he left the freedom." I have often been reticent to discuss such topics, for fear of putting people in awkward positions and upsetting the proverbial "Orange cart". The worst that would result for me in such a situation would probably be having to leave the country. But, what for the Syrian?? I don't intend to paint an unfair picture of Syria or perpetuate an imaginary climate of fear. However, people can't express themselves or make choices like in your average western nation, and there is a collective unhappiness about it.

I've often wondered what people in Syria think about foreign travellers like me who just breeze into a country and say how wonderful everything is, simply to drift out again after a few days or weeks like the tide. I guess we should all be careful even when we are paying what we consider to be compliments. I'm sure locals must look at us westerners and see people who take concepts of democratic freedom, and economic choice almost completely for granted. If they though less of us for it, I can't say I've noticed. Salah wants a very different future for his country, after having tasted the idylls of another part of the world. For now, he must focus his efforts on his adopted homeland of the UK and the court battle he is currently involved in attempting to extend his work visa and remain in London.

It's been a long journey today, and, by the time we pull into our terminus, it's 1.30am- 16 hours since we left Aleppo. Just like the very first night of my journey back in Greece, I am resigned to not having a clue where I am (other than the bus station) or more importantly, where I am going. I decide to bed down on the most comfortable looking metal bench in the quietest part of yet another large, modern looking bus station. I'll consider my options tomorrow in the cold light of day.

The Seven Thrillers of Wisdom

The hostel is eerily quiet this morning. Stepping outside it, the surrounding streets are eerily quiet too. Then I remember- Saturday morning. Very little happens on Saturday morning. Wandering the fine, large gardens of the city centre, I fend off all the shoe shine boys and take in all the relaxed people moving around at weekend pace. Some take photos, some sit and smoke on the benches, others walk around with a takeaway breakfast. It's a lovely sunny morning after the rain of the previous night.

I'm not in the correct frame of mind for the battling in the Souk today, even if things will start slowly and not ever get up to its normal frenetic pace. I walk on to the newer part of the city to experience what modern day Aleppo has to offer. There, I receive considerable help in posting some long overdue postcards. One man cannot direct me to a post office, so he takes me to a Syrian Airlines office which might sell stamps. It doesn't, so the airlines staff write me a small note detailing an address in Arabic. An old man with a stoop and a walking stick overhears my plight as he hobbles past and he offers to take me their personally. I figure the destination must be near. I figure wrong. We battle our way through busying streets and ruthless traffic, never mentioning a word to one another. We arrive at the post office. The old man ambles off into the distance with my thanks, his part having been played. This post office would be the post office which doesn't sell stamps. Fortunately, an employee leads me to a nearby branch which does. I enjoy a quick chat with a blind postcard seller, write my cards, stick on the stamps, and then walk back to post them at the branch I was just at! Job complete. It turned into a bit of a saga in the end, but a great way to meet new people and experience local help. I could have sworn I heard some "Lord of the Rings" music at one point. The assistance I received today is just how many people are here. If they can understand you, the will surely help you as best they can.

During the post card episode, I received a tip off for the next thing on my list: Live EPL soccer. Following my failure to locate it last time I was here, I had little faith in being successful. Of course, I had been looking in the wrong place previously. Every self respecting fan now knows where to find such things: The Cinema! Cinema street offers a few options. I dodge the dodgy looking films and follow a small stream of youths making their way to one of the smaller screens. Yes! They have football scarves and tops on. I have cracked it. I speedily pay my cover charge to the man loitering outside and we all cram in to a small, dingy looking place. The strong, acrid smell of cigarette smoke pervades everything. The air is thick with it, but at least it masks the almost overpowering smell coming from the attached toilets. Nobody ever said international soccer chasing was ever going to be glamorous, or enjoyable, come to think of it, as disappointment follows. Incidentally Syria is going all European on us now by introducing a smoking ban in public places. Quite how it will work considering it's prevalence throughout all stratas of society is anyone's guess. What for the future of the Nargilha??

The Baron Hotel is but a short trot away from my hostel. It is here that T.E Lawrence frequented when he lived in the region all those years ago. It is a bit dusty looking nowadays, but still manages to retain a certain charm. A fragment of it looks new, but, for the most part, it all gives a feel that this is how things have appeared for decades. The history of the place is very much unavoidable as Lawrence memorabilia, such as a signed hotel bill can be found on the walls. Other signs from the past include original "White Horse" whisky signs and hand crafted paintings detailing days gone by. An old B.A.C.C positioned near the bar reminds me that my flight home is fast approaching. I enjoy a beer, listening to a group of young privileged sounding gap year Brits playing cards at a nearby table. Other than that, the place remains empty until I make my way out, passing some new patrons in the doorway. Everyone talks of Lawrence- Lawrence of Arabia.

Take The Train, Hear The Strain

I'm joined by the only other tourist on my hotel today (and maybe the only other one in Lattakia right now). Sebastian is a young, German beekeeper and cuts quite a striking figure. He wears a thick, grey Jalaba and rounded glasses, smokes fine German cheroots, and keeps a pocket watch and a fountain pen in his breast pocket should necessity deem their requirement. I think Sebastian was probably born about 100 years too late.

Last night, we loosely arranged to go to the Qualat and go there we do today. The easier option of taxi to the distant bus station is followed by a micro bus to the nearest town of Al Haffa. There, we negotiate a ride up and down the winding, veering roads towards the castle itself. With all three of us squeezed on the motorbike, it's a bit of a labour ascending, and a bit of an experience descending- closing your eyes offers the only refuge. It doesn't help that our driver is slightly crazed either. He particularly enjoys shouting : "Mr! Mr! Good, Good?!", as we sweep around corners. Downhill is when he is at his most enthusiastic. We get our first view of our destination from a nearby hilltop, separated from it by a very steep ravine, which the three adventurers rapidly descend and then climb. Looking across at the fortress of rock and faded green, you could be forgiven for thinking you weren't in the Middle East, as the wind begins to pick up, bringing the rain clouds ever nearer. It's certainly hard to imagine that 700 odd years ago, a group of religious fanatics swept their away across Europe all the way here in the name of a Christian God, attempting to reclaim the Holy lands. They were ultimately undone by their Nemesis. A man in whose castle I know stand: Saladdin.

The castle itself is nowhere near as well preserved as Krak, but the location is rather spectacular- a must for anyone's Syrian itinerary. There are several large, stout mains towers and an equally eye catching mosque all waiting to be explored. The new arrival of flowers poke through the rocky ground, small blobs of life on an otherwise colourless day. We leave our motorbike rider at the bottom of the walls making our way up the main steps to the entrance hall. Inside it, we take a quick seat next to the custodians and warm our hands by his fire in the gloom. We spend the afternoon individually scrambling around the deserted remnants, occasionally bumping into solely Arabic tourists.

The longer you stay in Arabia, the more you notice the variety of differences and subtleties between its wide ranging populations. The people I pass now are very darkly, and conservatively dressed men, and my guess of Saudi Arabia/ Gulf States proves correct.

We meet up with our driver once we've finished our self guided tour and "enjoy" more of the same adrenalin filled fun on the way back to the nearby town. An uneventful microbus journey sees us back in the city. It's been a real whistle stop tour of Lattakia from the moment I arrived. I contemplate it all as I stand on the station platform awaiting my 15.40 train back to Aleppo. The train pulls out bang on time. We make our way through an agricultural greenscape I haven't yet experienced in this country- all ploughed fields and orchards and olive groves. It all turns into a very pleasant journey once the winner of "Syria's loudest kid competition" takes a breather and catches some sleep. He was up against some pretty stiff competition to hold on to that title, let me tell you, and that was just in our train carriage this evening. Light turns to dark, and the peaceful lands disappear from view.

pull up in the friendly city of Aleppo once more in the early hours of evening, where a very helpful passenger (also a railways engineer) directs me towards the bustling centre. As we walk, he informs me just how much better the train is than the coach service. Although not disappointed with the latter, I must confess to him being quite correct. I should have used it more often than I have done. First class for £1!

Arriving in the Spring Flower hostel of days gone by, I know I have come full circle in this country. The first face I see as I stagger up the steep narrow steps is Korean Richard. It's music to my ears as he says he is just cooking a huge bowl of a Korean noodle dish, and I should join him. Food and a beer and bed follows.

I'm Looking For The Donkey Rides

Goodbyes are said today, as I make my towards the final part of my Syrian saga. I guess that there is always a balance to be had between mixing with the locals, and mixing with your fellow travellers. I believe the former is one of the main reasons in being somewhere, and the latter provides an insight into a variety of cultures and attitudes from around the world. You can glean all sorts of ideas and information from your roommates and friends, creating new ideas on what to see next. Both sets of people have been tremendous on this journey, and, for now, there's plenty still to see in this country.

I return to the coast for the first time in a while, to the city of Lattakia in North western Syria. It will be my first experience of the Mediterranean on this trip. Having just arrived here on my bus, I'm called over by a busy looking traffic policeman to his isolated spot in the middle of a rush of vehicles. We discuss my accommodation options and he hails me a cab. The driver of it is a wily old seadog who has spent many years on the high seas travelling around the world. He tells me of some of the ports he visited and how he would love to still be working as a cook in the merchant navy. Sadly for him, the maritime company went bust and he, like many others lost his job. Like other places in the world I have visited the job of taxi driver, though not very appealing, at least offers him the chance of a regular wage.

Safely arrived at the hotel, I make my usual bid for rural freedom in the form of Ugarit, a nearby town along the coast from the city centre. This place is famous for French archaeologists discovering the oldest examples of a written alphabet. As the rules of global archaeology seem to dictate, you need to go to Europe to view the priceless pieces- this time to Paris. The really kind hearted woman at the ticket office gives me a quick lowdown on the site and its history, and I even get a quick peak of some areas I shouldn't really see. The place is empty, devoid of the coachloads of tours which will frequent this place in the summer months.

The afternoon is passing me by, so I leave to walk the quieter stretch of the coastline back towards the city, and enjoy the sea from there. It transpires to be a good idea. I enjoy a zesty glass of juice picked from the fruits of the nearby orange, lemon, and grapefruit groves. The area has a distinctly agricultural feel to it. It's very pleasant walking along the rural backwaters, and before I know it, I'm invited in to enjoy a nice glass of Matte with some relaxed looking mechanics. I make my way along the shore, watching the locals in their customary clothes walking along the beach and drinking in the nearby bars and cafes. I meet a local family out for some sunshine and proceed to have a skimming competition with the young girl, before we attempt to find some unusual shells.

Leaving the shore, I wander back up to the nearby road and arrive at a nearby shop just in time for sunset. The owner craftily has a pelican perched outside the shop in order to bring in the punters, and he's more than happy to snap me with it. I enjoy a beer outside with the owner and his friend. Everywhere in Syria, I am met with "welcome" in these situations. People are always keen to hear where you are from, and what opinions you have of their country. I feel a number of these people are very conscious of the image that is portrayed of countries like Syria in the media of the western world. It's an image very much misrepresentative of the masses. I have found the vast majority of people in Arabic countries to be most friendly and hospitable. I believe their culture is partly based on these principles. It is often the case that such dialogues are not exactly fluent due to the language barrier, but we get by and some level of understanding is usually reached. Hopefully during these conversations I haven't blazed a devastating trail of confusion and misunderstanding everywhere I've been.

I must confess that, aesthetically, Lattakia has been a real let down. I had imagined a city with an industrial heart, and a laidback touristic waterfront. Well, I'm afraid the waterfront is also industrial. There are containers and warehouses and an extremely busy road exactly where I imagine the pedestrian walkways, candy floss shops and "kiss me quick" hat stalls should be. I'm told this place gets very busy with visitors in the summer months but I'm not entirely sure where the people go when they arrive. I think the town planners must have been on the funny tea when the city was designed.

One place I can see as busy is the main swanky, westernised street more commonly known as "Amerikana Street". It holds many of the city's fancy boutiques stores, shops and restaurants. Here you will find the stylish and the wealthy, driving their big off road vehicles, and being dropped off outside their favourite bars and eateries. These cars have to squeeze their way through the masses of young people hanging outside on the street talking and smoking, keen to be inside the places they now hang about, but probably lacking the funds to do so. The streets are full and the premises look mostly empty. Perhaps this is indicative of the nation itself, a microcosm of the bigger picture.

I wander along the heaving streets on this Friday night back to my hotel in a quieter lane. The owner happens to be one of the most aggrieved people I think I have ever met. I don't think he can find enjoyment in anything, though his arguments clearly indicate a man who blames the government for much of his woes. Many people have alluded to such a sentiment, though this chap is a very vocal extreme. I think he could disagree with his own shadow. I manage a quick argue of my own with him before I trot off to bed for an early night. The hotel is empty.