Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972
When we reached the town of Silvegozu near the border crossing, we discovered that we would have to walk through the Turkish customs and passport control, then walk about five miles through “no-man's land”, to reach the Syrian customs and passport control. We also had to change some of our money into Syrian money. We did not have much in terms of British money, I knew, but I sensed that both Al and Keith were pleased that it was worth a lot more in these countries.
Al was carrying his rucksack and I had a great view from from the top of Al's head. I could see we were following a rough road with fields and hills on either side. There were people working in the fields and also some animals. There was no traffic on the road at all, until suddenly a small camper van appeared. It pulled up beside the two men and the driver leaned out and said hello, in English
"Hi, where you from, where you going?” asked the driver.
“Hello, we're from England and we're on our way to Baghdad,” said Al, “but we've got to get across Syria first.”
“We'll we're driving to Aleppo, then back, we're Aussies, good luck!”
“Any chance of a lift to the border?” asked Keith.
“Nope, sorry, we don't give lifts!” answered the driver.
“Well any chance of some water?” asked Keith – I knew both he and Al were thirsty as it was not very hot.
“OK,” said the driver, pouring two cups and handing one to each. “Sorry we don't have much left either.”
Keith and Al drank the water and gave back the cups, and without another word the “Aussies” drove off. “Man, I hope they're not typical fucking Aussies,” said Keith, “they could have fitted us in.”
So on we walked and within the hour we had reached the Syrian border post, completed formalities, bought a three-day visa, changed money, Turkish Lira into Syrian Pounds, and quickly found a lift in a truck going to Aleppo. Even though the truck driver spoke no English and neither Keith nor Al spoke his language he seemed far more friendly than the “Aussies”.
It was April 10, 1972. They had three days to hitch-hike across Syria to reach the Iraq border before their visa expired.
Aleppo did not seem to interest either Al or Keith and after a night in a cheap hostel dormitory and bread, fruit and black tea for breakfast, we were soon back on the road and then inside another truck going close to our next destination, Deir Ez Zur. Again the driver spoke no English. Keith said that the second most-widely spoken language here was German. Al said he had studied German in school but not been very interested and had failed the exam. Keith read from the Guide Book:
“Deir el Zur is a booming oil town in Eastern Syria on the Euphrates River. A few worthwhile attractions and the friendliness of the locals welcome those willing to go off the beaten track.
“While there may not be much in the way of tourist attractions, Deir el Zur stands out for me and other travellers I've talked to mostly because of its people.
"Getting to Deir el Zur is not for the faint of heart. Crossing the Syrian desert in summer or early fall is a painful experience even by bus. Few people will speak English and there isn't much in the way of tourist infrastructure. Once there, though, you will be welcomed by people of all ages with an eager "merhaba" and a curious "where you come from?"
The following day, Al and Keith hitch-hiked from Aleppo to Deir el Zur, a distance of 213 miles.
It was quite a long time before the duo had arrived in the city of Deir el Zur and found a small hotel.
To get inside they had to climb three broken steps.
The room was small but cosy and Al could see the sign of a large hotel from the window, obviously much more pricey – the Hotel Continental. The hotel we were now in did not seem to have a name, just a small wooden sign saying “Hotel”.
We also noticed that now most of the women were wearing black and covered their heads, some even their eyes, and almost all the men were dressed in typical Arab style gowns called Djellabas, of different colours. Some wore head scarves or turbans and most wore sandals. On the streets were stalls selling snacks such as falafel in bread, nuts and sweet cakes, others selling meat hanging from hooks, and fruits and vegetables. It was also much cleaner than most cities and for sure, people were smiling.
This was the last day of their Visa to cross Syria and Keith explained that they would have to leave early afternoon to try to get a lift to the border. If they were late they may have to pay a fine and they did not have enough money to do that. They could, however, take a stroll around the area near the hotel.
So after a cup of tea, the two decided to go out for a stroll, walking the streets just looking at the people. But it was not long before Keith said he wanted to go back to “get some kip,” and Al decided to stroll around on his own. He suddenly found the Tourist Office next to a small park. He went inside the tourist office only to find that the staff spoke no English and after trying a conversation in German he picked up a map and left. He strolled into the park and sat on a wooden bench to look at the map of the town.
It was only minutes before he was approached by a couple that said “Hi!” and he knew straight away that they were Americans. They seemed friendly enough and after a couple of minutes the guy produced a small “joint”. “Want to smoke some Turkish hash?”
Of course, Al wanted to do just that!
So they all sat about chatting and smoking the joint – I could sense that Al found the joint very strong. After about twenty minutes the Americans left and Al decided it was time to head back to his hotel. But where was it? He did not remember it having a name or the name of the street it was on – all he could remember was that it had some broken steps in front of the entrance.
So Al headed off up a street opposite the Tourist Office – at least, he muttered to himself, if it was the wrong street he could turn round and find the Tourist Office again.
It was the wrong street! Al did turn around and tried another street, then another street – he was stoned and lost!
Now he was back at the Tourist Office for the third time at least. He sat outside to rest and think and was then approached by a young Syrian man who said “Excuse me Sir, I think you are lost. I have seen you coming back here. Can I help?”
Al thanked him and said he could not remember where his small hotel was or the name – but that from the window he could see the sign for a larger hotel called 'The Continental.'
The Syrian man, who said his name was Mohammed, said he knew where that was and headed off chatting, with Al following. Suddenly in the distance, Al could see the sign and then, just as suddenly, he spotted an elderly Syrian man waving from an upstairs window. Al's eyes fell to the entrance, spotted the broken steps and the small 'hotel' sign and exclaimed, “That's it!” I felt he was relieved.
As soon as Al reached the room, Keith said, “Come on, we're late, I've arranged a lift to Iraq! They're going all the way to Baghdad. Where the heck you been anyway?”
“I got stoned and then got lost and couldn't remember where the hotel was or what it was called. I was walking up and down from the Tourist Office anyway, then I remembered the Continental sign and a guy offered help. I only knew it was our hotel 'cos of the broken step."
“Anyway man,” said Keith laughing, “stoned or not we gotta go.”
They had to walk to the outskirts of the City where there would be a convoy of trucks arranged by the hotel manager, waiting to pick them up and take them towards the border. That was no problem. The trucks were waiting and eagerly set off, with Al in one truck and Keith in another, about five trucks in all. The driver of our truck spoke no English and very few words of German, so Al settled down to try to read. The countryside was very brown and hilly, very dry looking but quite beautiful. Then Al tried to ask what time they would reach Baghdad. Al pointed to his watch. The man held up three fingers and Al became confused. They could not possibly reach Baghdad in three hours.
So after trying a few words in German, Al realised it would not take three hours but three days! He had to try to explain that they only had about 8 hours to get to the border and out of Syrian because their Visas would expire and he had no way of contacting Keith..
Al managed to explain and found out that it would be over 36 hours before they reached the border and that they were heading for Baghdad via a place called Mosul. They were in fact, back on the road going towards Aleppo.
A short while later, the driver pulled into an area by the side of the road where other trucks were parked, and our convoy stopped for a break. The break consisted of bread, fruit and meat, and a drink called “Ouzo”, an anise-flavoured alcohol that I had become familiar with back in Konstantino's barber shop. Al explained to Keith that they had a problem and were heading the wrong way and on a much longer route to the border. Somehow, he explained, much to Keith's surprise as he was oblivious to the problem, having been asleep, they would have to get back into Deir el Zur and find a lift to the border but it was now late afternoon and they had just 8 hours to get there. “Doesn't look good,” said Keith.
Al's friendly truck driver came over with another driver who spoke some English and after the problem was explained the man said “No Problem, I take you to truck stop in Deir el Zur then I find you good lift right way! But first we drink!”
They did not seem to worry about drink driving in Syria – at least these truck drivers didn't and before long, Al and Keith had both drank enough Ouzo and water mix to start laughing and staggering slightly. It was going to be an interesting evening getting to Iraq.
True to his word, the driver introduced Keith and Al to the new driver and they climbed aboard and were soon passed through Deir el Zur. They pulled up at another truckers' picnic spot and then merrily on their way towards Iraq in yet another truck. This one had a music player and the driver seemed very happy to have company even though only he knew very few words in English.
They went for about an hour along a road with increasingly more pot holes, and as it was beginning to get dark, stopped in a small village. The driver, another Mohammed, said that he would be stopping and pointed into the village, so Keith and Al said their goodbyes and shook hands, put on their rucksacks, with me all the time on Al's head, and walked through the village.
Everybody they passed started waving and shouting greetings with big broad smiles. Not just that though, they started following Keith and Al through the village and out the other side. Few spoke English. Most of the men wore Arab style dress and most of the children were bare-footed in virtual rags. We passed various shops, stalls and tea-houses, where men sitting in the street. There was not a woman to be seen. By the time we found a place to try to get another lift there was a party of about 30, mostly children, behind us and as soon as a vehicle came along and Keith and Al started waving their hand asking for a ride, all the children and adults started doing the same!
Keith said: “Aw man, we'll never get a lift like this. It looks like we're at the end of a long line of people wanting a lift too, man,” as he started trying to motion to some of them to move away. But as he waved them away they came closer.
Al laughed and said “I think that wave you're doing means 'come here'! I'll just go and tell them.”
Finally Al walked over to one of the adults and asked if anyone spoke English. He discovered by chance that he had chosen the village schoolteacher who did indeed understand. Al explained that we were in a hurry to reach the border and needed everyone to go away so we could try to get a ride.
“No problem,” said the schoolteacher as he walked away leaving everybody else standing there. I could sense the frustration in Al and could see it in Keith. I don't think the Ouzo was helping. Keith started walking further out of the village so Al picked up his bag and followed. The crowd, however, didn't.
As darkness fell and Keith and Al had walked onwards, they could see no lights ahead. There was no traffic on the road, there was nobody about. I don't think Keith or Al's mood was very good at that point.
Suddenly there was a car with no lights coming down the road behind them, honking the horn as if in a panic. It pulled up behind Keith and Al and the headlights went on. Two figures got out of the car and started walking towards them.
“Hello, hello, Sir,” said a voice, “we have come to take you to next village.” It was the village schoolteacher! He explained that the other man was his 'friend with car' and that they would be happy to take us some of the way on our journey.
The next village was about a ten minute slow drive away, carefully avoiding the many pot holes. It looked like it was going to be a long night. “We'll never get there by midnight,” said Al.
“No way man. We're fucked”, said Keith.
This was to become a pattern for the next few hours. They would arrive at one end of a village and walk through, gathering a crowd of followers along the way. In one place there must have been over 100 people, cheering!
From that point somebody would turn up to offer a lift in a whole variety of vehicles most of them new to me.
There were more trucks and another car, but also a horse and cart, a tractor and almost unbelievably, a motorbike with two men already on it. They sat, first the driver, then Al with his rucksack, then the other man and finally Keith with his rucksack hanging on at the back! We weaved in and out between the potholes for about twenty minutes and pulled into another village. The man said “Passport” and pointed further down the road, indicating with his fingers that we had to walk. “Al Bu Kamai,” he said.
It was now 10.30, according to Al, so he said “We've got time for a cup of tea and some food?
“There's a place there, look!”
Keith agreed.
The duo drank tea and ate some bread and cheese, some sweet cakes and headed back out of town towards 'Passports'. “I don't like the vibe here, man” said Keith, “that guy didn't seem like he wanted to serve us. Heavy, man. Let's just get across the border before anything bad happens.”
“I reckon so,” said Al, “I felt a bit paranoid in there, they didn't seem like the other people in the other villages. Maybe it's because they know we're leaving their country. It's not like we're big spenders!”
So they walked about a mile and arrived at the border with its passport and customs control. The border guard spoke English. “We are closed for the night, good evening,” he said, “you cannot go now.”
Keith and Al showed their passports and explained that they had a visa but it expired at midnight. The guard kept looking at me, I thought I would end up with a new owner tonight. Maybe he would ask for Al's hat before he let them go through!
“No problem,” said the guard, “you sleep here outside and in the morning I give you tea and then you go through, walk to Iraqi border.”
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