Humps, bumps & blowfish

Aqaba

Miles - 6, 792

We arrived in the dust blown desert settlement of Wadi Rum after dark, having been delayed by our Big Bus vs Penny clash earlier. We set up the van in 'sleeping mode' in the car park, stowing all the bags in the front seats below Edie's hammock bunk and folding down the top and bottom beds. Back in England, before we left, we had bought the 'Edie bunk' on the off chance that we may have to all squeeze in the van 'once in a while'. Now, this is our most regular sleeping arrangement. Even if we do happen to be at a proper campsite our 2 berth 'pop up' tent is more often used for baggage storage than sleeping in. It's amazing how quickly the concept of all five of us sleeping like sardines in a can has gone from 'slightly alarming' to 'run of the mill'. We just get on with it now.

Still in slight shock after the crunch, we treated ourselves to a meal out at the restaurant next door to our car park home. In fact, we had 2 meals and shared it out between 5, as the limited choice (barbecued chicken or lamb) was more than compensated for by the portion size which we'd spied others eating. The variety of food on offer to diners has narrowed significantly since southern Turkey. From Ankara, through Syria all the way to Aqaba on the southern Red Sea coast of Jordan, everyone eats kebabs. Skewers of 'chicken or meat' (that'll be lamb) are dusted in spices and barbecued, served with flatbread, humous, salad and olives in a million different truck stops, cafes, take-aways and restaurants in hundreds of towns and villages. No one ever deviates. No one ever wakes up in the morning and says "You know what'd be nice tonight? I'm in the mood for a curry." Why would they? There's a story that Kentucky Fried Chicken opened a branch in Syria. Its opening day was much fanfared in the press and business was brisk, yet within a month it was empty and forced to close. Locals, even Arab kids hungry for a taste of 'The West' couldn't understand why a portion of chicken and fries cost about 5 quid, when that would buy a whole chicken plus enough humous and flatbread for a family at any other restaurant. KFC bringing chicken to Arabs was presumably the result of several focus group meetings in a glass air conditioned Head Office at which no-one used the phrase 'coals to Newcastle'.

Our plan was to spend a couple of nights in Wadi Rum before driving the 50 kilometres further south to Aqaba where we would get Penny's dent repaired and arrange shipping to get her to India. We woke at about 7 and spilled out of the van to go and make use of the campsite next door's loos. A 'stealth wee' in someone else's toilet block is all part of the fun of camping for free. If you're feeling confident you can even have a 'stealth shower', at which point you're probably ready to turn pro., buy a VW and travel the world.

Our late arrival the night before rewarded us with a gob-smacking view to wake up to. We were in a desert! This was Lawrence of Arabia country! The very desert where the British officer galvanized the Arabs to fight the Turks from here all the way to Damascus. There were huge, red, mountainous rocks towering behind us, and ahead were miles of orange sand, more even bigger rock formations, and camels. And that's what we'd come for. While I was scouting the tiny desert village, like one of those 'one horse town' prospector settlements in old cowboy films, for some breakfast and to get the lowdown on the current rate for renting 5 camels, Jill met  a man. She does this. It's a gift. None of us mind. After all, it's how Daniel The Trucker came into our lives*.

Saleh was wearing classic Arabian robes, headscarf and sandals, plus, oddly, a leather bomber jacket. Well, this was November. The temperature would only reach 35°C today. He had offered Jill a deal on some camels, but also a 4x4 tour of the desert to see the ruins of a Beduin outpost known as Lawrence's House, some massive sand dunes to climb and a couple of cool rocks to clamber up. I negotiated his fee down to something below 3 figures and he was ours for the day. He first insisted we come over to his house to have tea with his wife and meet his kids.

"Go on, go on!" he urged, pointing it out across the sand. "I will meet you there with camels." When we walked into his back yard a young boy of about 7 and girl about 9 greeted us and went to call their mum. An old lady dressed in black robes, grandma I assume, smiled and waved from the corner as a man in front of her expertly butchered a goat, strung up by its hind quarters with some wire flex. Smiling, I took the girls over to say hello. This was Eid week, so goats were being eaten everywhere. The man smiled, stopped for a moment and went to shake my hand, but realising is was covered in blood stopped himself and laughed. Ella pointed at the pile of bloated internal organs slumped on the dusty floor and Edie noticed the depacitated goats head, staring vacantly at Bethan a few feet away. Bethan was strangely quiet.

Saleh's wife appeared clutching a young toddler and smiling broadly. "Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in." We sat in their living room on cushions arranged around the walls. The large room had no furniture at all, but a huge rug at its centre, cushions around every wall punctuated by camel seats to lean on and a central ceiling fan to alleviate the heat. The walls and ceiling were painted in vibrant symmetrical patterns forming borders around the ceiling and around pictures on the wall. A large flower had been painted around the ceiling fan. It was a very cheery room, and soon the children were showing our girls their toys while we drank sweet rosemary infused tea.

When Saleh arrived he joined us for tea and when I commented on the impressive butchery in the yard he invited us to join them for dinner. I was only making conversation, honest. Regular readers may guess what happened next. I was just about to politely decline when Jill said "We'd love to". The girls and I exchanged a glance. I knew what they were thinking. They'd met the menu face to face.

Putting such concerns behind us, we went to meet our camels. As anyone who's ridden a camel will know, the real drama is when the camel stands up or kneels down, so there was a chorus of "whooa"s "aaargh"s and general hilarity as we were each catapulted skywards by our desert steeds. We then began our steady plod to Lawrence Spring (you're noticing a theme with these desert landmarks) about an hour from town. Each camel was initially led by a boy from the village, but soon they handed us the reigns and precisely nothing changed. It was a gesture to make us feel in control, but the truth was those camels did that route all the time and any thoughts of galloping off into the horizon to raise an Arab army and defeat the Ottoman empire would have been futile, so T.E. Lawrence would have had no luck with these. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, but brilliant fun, especially for the girls, and we all discovered muscles we didn't know we had somewhere on our inner thighs.

We met Saleh in his old Toyota Landcruiser (this place runs on them - no other 4x4 at all, just bullet proof old Toyotas) at Lawrence Spring which doesn't actually have a spring any more, but does boast a tree, so there must be water underground somewhere. The next few hours were spent touring the Wadi Rum desert sitting in the back of his open 'pick up', stopping here and there to see and explore. We were so glad we'd paid to do more than just get the camels to Lawrence Spring. From the car, you could see how close to the village that was - you had barely scratched the surface of the vastness of this desert. We climbed and then ran down colossal sand dunes in huge flying leaps, climbed steep rock faces to stand on natural bridges formed between pillars of sandstone and saw carved drawings of camels at old trading posts dating back a thousand years. As we hurtled back towards the village, the wind whipping our headscarves, the sun finally dipping low enough to be pleasant and give the desert a terracotta glow, we all agreed it may have been the best £40 we'd spent.

"Where you sleeping tonight?" asked Saleh, back at his house.

"In the car park again. It's free."

He shook his head. "You don't want to sleep in desert?"

We explained that we'd looked into it but decided to spend our money on camels instead, but he was having none of it. He said he only had a few tourists staying at his camp that night, and if we wanted to join them we'd be very welcome.

"You must sleep in the desert. You can eat dinner out there, we'll have a barbecue, then sleep in a tent, some breakfast in the morning cooked on the fire..."

It did sound great. We agreed to pay him something, but it was about a third of the going rate.

"Please, I must insist," whispered Saleh, "don't talk about the money with the other guests. They are paying full price."

Our lips were sealed.

And so we found ourselves sharing barbecued chicken (never did find out what happened to that goat) under the stars with Saleh and his kids, Manuel, a Spanish geologist, John, an American language student and Javier, a Spanish voluntary worker who had spent 6 months on a UNICEF project. A few more guests arrived later, but we were all in bed (sorry, 'on mat') by 9 o'clock, exhausted. The highlight was when Ella got up at 4am to go to the loo. Well, that in itself wasn't the highlight. It woke me, which allowed me to leave the tent, grab a seat and gaze at the stars for half an hour. Before bed the bright moon had washed out the sky, rather disappointingly, but now it had disappeared beyond the horizon and the sky was black, and littered with stars. To see the night sky from a desert is something I've always wanted to do, and I wasn't disappointed. The complete lack of light pollution makes the view breathtaking. In the first 30 seconds of sitting out on the sand I saw 2 shooting stars. I cursed my lack of astronomical knowledge, only being able to identify The Plough (flipped almost upside down compared to  our normal view) and Orion. I saw Jupiter, of course, but also the dim red flicker I assumed was Mars, not seen yet this year, and a total of 5 shooting stars.

We returned to dented Penny after a campfire brekky of freshly made flatbreads and an egg dish we christened 'scramlette' - halfway between scrambled egg and omlette. Our clothes smelled of smoke and we had sand in every crevice, but we were happy. In Aqaba, the temperature hit 38°C and we camped 100 metres from the Red Sea and as we couldn't raise Osama on the phone (the C.I.A. have the same problem), we clung to the shade and relaxed for a day or two. Osama, you'll recall, is the benevolent businessman who stepped in to try and resolve the Big Bus vs Penny incident by assuring us he would get her repaired in Aqaba. I tried not to get stressed about the fact that he was not answering his mobile for 3 days, and as a distraction agreed (once the packed beach had emptied of Eid holiday makers) to take Ella and Beth snorkelling. We covered up, as is the custom (even the men wear shirts in the sea) and armed with the snorkels and masks bought way back in Croatia stepped cautiously into the Red Sea. Hardly anyone else was around, the sea was fantastically clear, but all that seemed to be underfoot were pebbles and the occasional piece of litter. We soon got beyond pebbles onto smoother sand and were up to our waists, plunging our masks under water to survey the seascape. Then Ella yelled "AT HOOVED!" through her snorkel. 

"What?" we all pulled our heads up.

"That moved! Down there!" she panted, pointing at my feet. 

I pushed my head under again. Even under the water I could hear Ella scream "Daddy you're standing on it!!"

I danced my crazy sandals up like a marine version of Bez from the Happy Mondays and tried to tread water in about 4 foot of sea (almost impossible) before panic gave way to logic and I simply swam on my belly facing the sea bed below. And sure enough, I'd disturbed a panther ray about 30cm from wing tip to wing tip. Its 2 tiny black pebble eyes were all that gave it away under the sand, until eventually, disgruntled at my flapping it rose majestically and swam underneath me. You can imagine the excitement gushing from us when we regrouped above the surface. We ventured further and had all but given up the ray as a lone visitor to these shores when we spotted several black spotted puffer fish, each the size of a man's fist, their tiny wispy fins propelling their bulbous bodies gently along. Soon, we were out of our depth, both literally and metaphorically. The coral reef was still quite a way out, according to a local boy we met out there, and the girls said the 2 things guaranteed to get an ill equipped nervous father out of the sea:

"A ray and a puffer fish! This close to the shore!" said Bethan. "Imagine what else is out there!"

Then Ella said "Can we get out? I think I've been stung."

We'd observed the 'spotter's boards' on the beach and knew the Red Sea was rich in life including sharks and jellyfish, so the thought of a gently floating school of jellies soon propelled us racing back to the shore. I won.

"That was amazing!" I shouted, finding my feet again.

"That was scary!" replied the girls.

"Yes it was." I agreed. "Let's go back and tell the others. I'm done in the sea. I'm not going any further without a wet suit and someone who knows what they're doing."

I never claimed to be Steve Irwin. But I learned from his ray-related folly.

A black spotted puffer fish, yesterday

Finally, on Sunday, we tracked down Osama at his hotel in Aqaba. He was the perfect gentleman, offering us tea and juice, explaining that he'd been in the desert for 3 days and promising to get Penny repaired as quickly as possible. He told the fascinating tale of how The Captain's Restaurant had been opened by his father in the 1980s with just 12 seats. Now, the seafood restaurant is arguably the best in Aqaba (yes they do more than just kebabs) and has spawned a newly built luxury hotel next door. Osama and his brother Rafiq had helped in the restaurant as boys and now run 2 hotels and 2 restaurants for the family firm. We learned how Osama had studied for 3 years in Rome, how he had endeavoured to change local people's minds about working in the service trade from one of shame to one of pride. He shared 10% of all profits on top of the wages he paid in an attempt to empower the staff.

"Are attitudes changing?" Jill asked.

"Yes, of course. But I can't do it alone. You can't clap with one hand", he said with a smile. He trained locals while he paid them (something they weren't used to) and was proud that his head chef was from Aqaba. Then he said that he would not be pursuing the bus driver for the money to repair Penny.

"I believe that punishment with words is more effective than financial punishment." he explained. "I know these drivers, and he will already feel bad enough about what happened. I don't want his money." He talked over tea about the charity project he was involved in working with children from Aqaba and neighbouring Eilat in Israel to show them that a peaceful future could be achieved. He took a football team of kids from both cities to enter a tournament in Italy and he glowed with pride that they had beaten several Italian teams. He was, in short, a gentle, polite, humanitarian. Undoubtedly he had a razor sharp business mind, but he never for a moment betrayed any ulterior motive than to do well for his family and help his fellow man.

His assistant, Ahmed, guided me to a workshop deep in the maze of Aqaba's ramshackle industrial quarter where a group of men looked at Penny's injury and assured me (through Ahmed as they spoke no English) that they could fix her by 6 o'clock tomorrow evening. I endeavoured to explain to the boss that I had the paint codes, duly obtained from Blue back in Bodicote, and handed him a Beatnik Beatles card with the codes written on the back. As he tucked the card in his breast pocket and said "OK, OK" shaking me by the hand, I just knew he'd never look at that card. He didn't even understand the Latin alphabet, so how could I expect him to read "Ford Diamond White - Yellower Shade" or "VW Jasmine Yellow". By now, I'd counted myself lucky to get her straightened out so quickly, as the shipping agent we'd found said they needed her by 8am on Tuesday. Osama put us up in a lovely suite with 5 beds and, true to their word, Penny was ready to collect by 5.30 on the Monday evening. In the dark I could see she was straight again, the colour match was almost irrelevant and would have to wait until sunlight dawned anyway. I thanked the men profusely, thanked Ahmed and finally paraded the whole family down to see Osama for a final goodbye. He had extended us probably the most generous gesture we had received. The accident had literally nothing to do with him, yet he stepped in and sorted it entirely at his own expense. To mix my world religions somewhat, good karma surely awaits.

And so, in the light of day, we packed Penny to be shipped, sorted our own clothes to backpack for 3 weeks in India and observed with a smile the 'almost the same' yellow panel where Penny's dent had been. The metal is impressively straight, the boot closes again and unless you were looking for it, you probably wouldn't notice the colour difference. But my favourite part is the drip. I doubt our mechanic Blue, or the original paint sprayer John, could have lived with a drip on the bodywork, but to us it's a battle scar. A reminder of this remarkable few days and the generous smiling people we've found ourselves sharing tea and tales with.

Now, Penny's in a sealed container, destination Mumbai. We're flying to Delhi and will spend the 3 weeks shipping time backpacking on India's railways down towards Mumbai to collect her just in time for Christmas. Travelling without Penny requires a whole new mindset, and we agonised about carrying our instruments, but all agreed that though it would be great to use the 3 weeks as good 'press opportunity' time, it's just too much to carry on foot. Instead, we'll try and rustle up some publicity like we did in Piacenza, Italy (where we didn't use our instruments) and leave the busking 'til Mumbai. A festive busk is on the horizon. (Would Indians know Fairytale Of New York wasn't a Beatles song? I've got the uke chords for it somewhere.)

Next time we speak, I'll be having curry for breakfast! Does life get any better?

* Curious new readers can read that episode here - http://beatnikbeatles.blogspot.com/2010/09/go-with-flo.html

The Road To Damascus Experience

Damascus

Miles - 6,274

I blame Hama. It was Hama that clinched it. It Hama'd the nail in the coffin. Every time we enter a new country, alongside the thrill and expectation of new peoples and lands to be discovered, we have the added excitement of pondering where in that country we should busk. It was, after all, our mission to busk The Beatles in every country we travelled through around the world. A tall order, sure, but it's good to have a goal. Ever since entering Syria, though, the mood in the band had not been good. I was sensing a simmering reticence to performing on the street.

"There's no way we're busking here. Forget it." Jill had said in Aleppo.

"No way!" echoed Ella and Beth.

"Just because we haven't seen anyone doing anything like that, and just because we saw several police officers run after a man trying to sell towels doesn't make it illegal." I argued weakly.

"They held a couple for questioning a few weeks ago for using a laptop in a campsite!"

"Yes, but..."

"For 8 hours! The military police were called and they had to get a translator and everything! Read their account on this blog! They were only trying to download their digital camera photos!"

"Welllll, they say they were, Jill. Who's to say they weren't involved in illegal international trafficking? Of towels, for example. They're clearly pretty hot on that here."

But it was Hama that lost me the battle. Our journey from Aleppo to Damascus was broken by a stop. Hama time. (80s pop reference, baggy trousered rap fans). 

Hama is a town famous for its large water wheels and not much else. I thought they were very cool, and I think the girls would have done too, had they not been constantly distracted by hoards of locals wanting to touch them. Apparently, the engineering marvel of using waterwheels of a massive diameter, not to generate power as is usually the case, but simply to transfer gallons of water in buckets from a river up to an aquaduct some 20 metres higher up, thus allowing gravity to then supply fresh water to the town, is a wonder that wears thin after a few hundred years. A family of westerners, therefore, is like the circus coming to town.

We braved the town, all 4 girls wrapped in headscarves and behind shades, for about an hour before their patience deserted them. I had to remove them from the scene for the safety of the locals. Back in the sanctuary of a rather dingy hostel room, I reluctantly agreed; preaching All You Need Is Love through the power of a haphazardly played ukulele would at best, get us arrested, at worst, be the overture to a sacrificial slaughter. The very idea that we would make any money was laughable, and we'd already been advised that mentioning a connection with a charity was to be avoided as it always leads to angry questions about 'converting people'. Brow beaten and ever so slightly depressed, we resolved to keep our heads down and press on south, or, as Jill put it "Get the hell out of this God forsaken country as fast as humanly possible." She was still on the fence, then.

We all felt sorry for Jill, as it was her birthday in 2 days and she'd been very excited about spending it in Damascus. Now, however, her birthday treat of 2 nights in a luxury 2 star hotel was slashed to 1 night at her insistence as she just wanted to get to Jordan asap.

So we took the road to Damascus. If you've ever read the Biblical story of Saul's blinding vision and his 'road to Damascus' experience that saw him change his name to Paul and convert to follow Christ, you may have wondered what the road that has become synonymous with anyone having a dawning realisation, an utter life changing experience or a complete U turn in thinking actually looks like.

Here it is.

Obviously it's not all like that. Some of it looks like this.

Domestic rubbish doesn't get collected in Syria. It's expected that people will burn it. But lighting a fire in your dustbin every week must be a total bind, so lots of people just throw it out of the window when driving down a busy dual carriage way. Job done. Thus, the entire 2 hour drive from Hama to The Oldest City In The World was taken through a corridor of trash. The trees growing at that impossible angle is due to the prevailing wind, not an atomic bomb that's just detonated slightly out of camera shot. (Although a nuclear explosion might in fact be the quickest way of sprucing this area up.)

Our mood lifted in Damascus as we camped on the outskirts and shared the tiny site with our South African travelling buddies Neil & Silvie, who'd been there 2 days and were moving on tomorrow. It's amazing how good we all felt, them included, just being able to talk to other people who were having similar experiences. It wasn't just us! What a nice feeling! Silvie had had a row with a dishonest fruit seller too! Hooray! She had been groped by a nasty old man. Brilliant! Neil had nearly had a fight with a lecherous slimeball. Terrific! When everyone realises that everyone else is miserable too, somehow morale increases. (I've worked at companies who embrace this management method).

The next day was Jill's birthday. We had all made cards and they all made us laugh. I'd done the usual Have I Got News For You caption schtick with a picture of the Syrian President I'd bought in a petrol station, but it was Edie's that had tears rolling down Jill's cheeks: "Who'd have thought it? 42! Well, you know the famous saying - 42 is the new 22!" It was so upbeat and chipper we somehow found it hysterical.

And things went from good to better. We got into Damascus, dumped our bags at the Orient Gate (2 stars awarded when it was in fact a different hotel several years ago - but they keep 'em up for old time's sake) and headed out looking every inch the lost tourists holding a map upside down. A woman who spoke good English approached us.

"Can I help? You are looking for somewhere?"

I confess, the girls and I rolled our eyes at each other. That's all we need - another pestering local who'll want paying. Jill told her we were going to the old city. The woman looked at the map, but couldn't really get her bearings from it.

"I'll walk with you. It's not far."

Ker-ching

And so she strode ahead, leading the way and chatting with Jill all the time. The girls and I trailed behind exchanging worried whispers about where this might be leading, both literally and metaphorically. By the time we'd reached the walls of the old city Jill and the mystery tour guide were getting on like a house on fire.

"This is Ennas" she said introducing us properly. "She's a student at the university, studying English."

We all said hello politely and started to doubt our earlier snap judgement. She insisted she take us to the best entrance to the souk, weaving us through busy streets, deftly palming off street traders and expertly taking Edie by the hand when she wanted to stop traffic. My word - she's a pro. I'd taken weeks to discover The Power Of Edie, this girl knew it instinctively. When we mentioned that we still hadn't eaten or drunk anything that day, she led us not to any old cafe, but a good 10 minutes weaving through the old Christian quarter of the city to find a cafe she knew was very good. She spoke to them in Arabic, they knew her, and when we asked that she stay to have a drink with us she said no, she had to get to work. She swapped email addresses with Jill and left. We all sat at a table, stunned. A bit sheepish, too, but also relieved. Syria was redeeming herself. Ennas told Jill that she'd been studying English for 4 years, but that she'd never met a foreign family. Never! Can you imagine that? Suddenly I could understand why she was so keen to give up an hour of her time to chat and learn and ask questions, but she hadn't ever come across as needy or suffocating like the overzealous goons who leapt in our faces in previous towns. She was gracious, polite and genuinely generous with her time.

The day had got off to a cracking start and Jill called the shots from then on. Whatever she wanted, went. A museum on the history of Arabic calligraphy? "Yippee!" shouted the kids.

"Would you lot mind if we went inside the Great Mosque?" she'd ask.

"Just try and stop us!" we would yell.

We even found a shop selling the ultimate birthday food - jelly.

We window shopped in the souk which even I loved because its history is groovy: It used to be a Roman avenue leading to the Jupiter Temple, which then became a Christian cathedral, and then the Muslim mosque it is today, and the corrugated black arched roof still lets pin shafts of sunlight through hundreds of bullet holes from an uprising against the French in 1925. Coool! (You can see this and other pics in our Syria photo album now online at www.beatnikbeatles.com - the 'Here, There & Everywhere' page.)

Also, because Damascus is huge and well used to international visitors, no one stared, pointed, spat (oh, yeah, we really have been spat at) or even batted an eye at us. Even the souk sellers weren't pushy. It was a joy. We went back into the old city that evening for some food and knew its twisty wiggly back streets like natives, and as we wearily navigated our way through its ancient labyrinth back to bed we all admitted we loved this ancient city and would definitely come back. 

Ennas and Damascus had redeemed Syria in our eyes. We had experienced a complete U turn in our thinking. Perhaps that litter strewn highway had worked its magic after all.

Bent border back-handers? You cannot be Syrias.

First, apologies if you're a regular reader for the recent 'radio silence'. I discovered that as well as banning Facebook, the Syrian Government doesn't want anyone blogging. Any website with 'blog' in the title is blocked by The Webmaster (not Spiderman's evil nemesis, an actual job title within Syria's paranoid halls of power). I was the subject of a blog blockage. Now, a week later, we're in Jordan where I can 'publish and be damned', rather than Syria where you can 'publish and be jailed.'

So, I've got some catching up to do. This blog was written after our rather harrowing and stressful day trying to enter Syria. I had a pretty low opinion of the place, especially after the friendliness of Turkey, but things do improve and later blogs get happier. Honest.

Aleppo, Syria

Miles - 5,930

I have to tell you about our border crossing from Turkey into Syria yesterday. Now before you think 'oh yawn, another border crossing. Wasn't there a YouTube video I wanted to watch with a dog dressed as a super hero?', stick with me.

It's a story of bribery, corruption and child exploitation. (I was responsible for that last one). It also features a breathtaking performance by The World's Worst Liar, a woman who also holds the coveted title of Girl Least Likely To Be Snapped Up As An MI5 Spook, and the equally prestigious Last Person On Earth You Would Choose As A Drug Trafficking Mule. 

But more on my wife in just a moment.

To put the events of the day into context I must first furnish you with some essential facts about getting into Syria.

1) They are deeply suspicious of journalists, broadcasters and writers.

2) (Oh, that's the end of the list of essential facts.)

That one piece of information is vital in the understanding of how yesterday's events unfolded. 

In applying for a visa, you are required to provide evidence of your employment in the form of a letter on headed paper from your employer. I had a letter from BFBS confirming who I was and what I did, but all the evidence seemed to suggest that putting 'radio presenter' and 'British Forces' on a Syrian visa application would be like putting 'Name: Bin Laden, Osama' on your USA visa form. In fact, technically, I'm employed by my own limited company, so I simply created a headed letter from Simantics Ltd. and put my job title as Commercials/Promotions. Well, I did have to create a promo trail for my show every day, so it wasn't a lie. Just 'selective truth'. (The temptation to put 'Golan Heights' when the form asks 'Occupation' was enormous, but I don't think Syria has a sense of humour about Israel where that's concerned.)

Jill, however, is as honest as the day is long. Midsummer's day on the North Pole. So she dutifully included her letter from the BBC which stated she was on a career break. You could look at this as a positive thing because it was an official letter saying she didn't work for the BBC. Surely that's a good thing, right?

3 days after submitting our visa applications online and posting the supporting paperwork from Ankara, my phone rang.

"Hello this is the Syrian Embassy, can I speak to Jillian Moody please?"

The helpful staff at the London visa office were concerned about Jill's BBC connection. They said we would face a long delay unless we resubmitted Jill's application removing all references to the BBC. For 'Occupation' just put 'Year of leave' and include a covering letter simply saying 'I have left my job and am unemployed'. The irony that this was Syria's own visa office telling us to be (ahem) 'economical with the truth' wasn't lost on us. And so a new application was submitted, and sure enough our brightly coloured visas stuck inside our passports bear the words 'Occupation: Commercials' for me and 'Year of leave' for Jill.

And so, with Penny washed and tidied (for the customs inspection) we arrived like a new pin at the exit border from Turkey. The process of leaving Turkey is almost as tortuous as getting in to Syria, so we were braced for lots of queueing at small windows getting passports stamped. As we approached, the first uniformed official, gun slung casually across his hip waved us to a halt. Jill wound down the passenger window and handed him our passports. He smiled at the girls in the back and did a quick head count.

"Five?" he asked.

"Yes, five." Jill replied.

"What you do?"

"Wha...I'm sorry?!" flustered Jill, like he'd asked her bra size.

"Sorry." smiled the guard, apologising for his English. "I mean where from?"

"Oh, er..."

"England!" I shouted helpfully, leaving Jill's crimson glow to fully blossom.

He handed the passports back and waved us on.

"Wow, mummy, you're really red!" came voices from the back seats.

"I thought he was on to me!" she panted, like a top spy who's just survived almost being rumbled at the Russian Ambassador's cocktail party.

"Good job you're so calm under pressure," I said "otherwise I don't think we'd have got away with it."

It was clear the next 3 hours would be no picnic.

An hour later, we were finally released from Turkey to drive the 100 yards of no-man's land and knock on Syria's door. On parking our understated yellow camper van outside the immigration building we were greeted by a cheerful chap with a round face who said he worked for the Government tourist office. It was as if he'd seen us coming. I shall call him Mr Benn. He looked absolutely nothing like the 2 dimensional fancy dress loving animated character of the same name, but his boss (who we shall meet in a moment) looked exactly like the fancy dress shopkeeper in the cult 70s pre-school programme, so for the sake of the story...

Mr Benn, who called everyone 'my friend' and thought the word 'hello' meant 'goodbye', assured us that he would make the complicated processes of form filling, tax paying, insurance buying etc. a breeze.

"You go first to this counter, get 2 stamps in the passport, then come and find me in my office. Go! Go! Hello, hello."

This first counter was where a humourless uniformed officer peruses your passport and, despite the fact that you've clearly been vetted at great length by the Syrian Embassy to gain a visitor's visa, takes it upon himself to conduct further interviews.

"Where are you from?" he asked suspiciously, looking at the page in my passport that says I'm from the UK.

"England" I say with smile.

"Where are you going?"

"Well, I was considering the Amazon delta, or possibly the Great Barrier Reef, but as I'm standing at the entrance to Syria being interviewed by a Syrian whose sole purpose in life is to let people into Syria I'm going to answer...Syria"

...is what I wanted to say.

"Syria" is what I actually said, and even that sounded a bit sarcastic. To compensate for my tone, Jill pushed Edie up to the counter. It is now well known in our family that Edie is currency. It drove Ella and Beth mad for a while, but now it's just funny. Need to push into a lane of busy traffic? Not a hope. Get Edie to wave at a driver - straight in. Literally every single day since somewhere in the middle of Turkey she has been kissed, stroked or had her hair ruffled. People love her. So we use her.

As she rested her chin on the counter the officer smiled at her. Bingo.

"What is your name?"

"Edie"

"You like football?"

"Liverpool"

The man laughed. (We get that a lot). Then, he dropped the smile and turned to me.

"What do you do?" he asked icily.

Here we go I thought. He can smell 'media' on us.

"Commercials" I replied, following the script helpfully printed in my passport by the Syrian visa office.

He looked confused.

"Like adverts. Promotions. Radio adverts."

"Don't say radio" I heard a panicked whisper in my ear. It was Jill, chillaxed as ever.

"You know. Adverts." I concluded. He still looked clueless.

"You reporter? Generalist?"

"I think, my good man, you mean journalist" would have been the correct thing to say, but to belittle the immigration officer is to open the door to a world of pain, rubber gloves and internal inspections. So I told myself not to get distracted by what a cool job a 'Generalist' must have, generalising about stuff all day - 'How was work darling?' 'Not bad. Made some fairly broad statements about women not being able to read maps and men being terrible listeners.' 

I just said "No."

I sensed the very mention of 'reporter' had increased Jill's heart rate to that of a frightened field mouse, and as the officer wandered off to stamp the passports I turned to give her a supportive smile. She was smiling too, but the teeth were clenched and by the distant look in her eyes I knew she'd gone to her happy place.

Then Haakim leaned over for a chat. You haven't met him yet but he's been standing next to this whole scene at his own glass window getting his own affairs dealt with. (All these exciting characters! And we haven't even got to the magical shop keeper yet!). Haakim informed me that he was a truck driver. I doubted this because, as any long time reader of this blog will know, truck drivers are slim, blonde and look like H from Steps, but I let it go. He was returning to his home just outside Damascus and insisted I have his phone number so that I might call him when we reach the city. I know what you're thinking - How, Sim? How do you do it? What can I say? 2 in 2 months. Truckers love me.

Just then the starchy immigration officer returned to hand all our passports back to me, but when he saw Haakim chatting to me his mood darkened again. He spoke to my new friend in Arabic, and then Haakim started asking me questions, and then suddenly he didn't seem quite as friendly as I had first thought.

"What are you doing here? What work?" he asked, trying to stay jovial.

"I'm not working. We're on holiday." (Friends of mine will know how much that pained me. 'It's not a holiday' became my mantra before the trip.)

"What do you do, at home?"

Oh Lord, this again. And then "What does your wife do?"

By this point I had the passports duly stamped and Jill was dragging the kids away. I kept smiling and answering his questions - "She doesn't work. Unemployed." - but got the feeling that somehow I was digging deeper every second and the pack (for that's what these men were now) was turning on me. I extricated myself with a smile and a shrug and a jaunty wave. It's the English way.

"Well that was weird" I started to explain to Jill as we walked away at a quickening pace, but before I could get any further, as if by magic, a shop keeper appeared.

A stocky gentleman in his late 50s with a small moustache and spectacles introduced himself as Mr Benn's colleague from the Tourist Office. Then, with Mr Benn eagerly clucking alongside him, they ushered us into their tiny office. The shop keeper explained that he would be able to get our Carnet for the van stamped much quicker than if we joined the queue, and also that he could nip into the office to get the insurance and tax, saving us waiting with the crowds outside. First though, a couple of questions. 

I knew what was coming.

Anyone who has driven into Syria hasn't done so without first reading a hundred internet accounts of what to expect. That way, of course, information is shared. It's what the internet is good at (and why countries like Syria don't like it). I knew, therefore, that Syria charges 100 US dollars 'diesel tax' if you enter the country in a diesel vehicle. And then a further $100 for every week you're in the country. I also knew that lots of people lied about what fuel their vehicle used, to avoid this expense. I had texted Neil & Silvie our South African friends the day before as they had already crossed into Syria, to ask if he'd paid the tax on his diesel Land Cruiser. No, he replied, they didn't even check the V5. Just say benzine and you save 100 bucks.

"Is the van diesel or benzine?" asked the shop keeper.

"Benzine" I lied.

"Good" he said, "because it's expensive to have a diesel."

"Really?" I shrugged, as if I hadn't spent weeks researching these facts.

As he left to get our paperwork seen to, Mister Ben started to point out some of Syria's beauty spots to Jill as displayed on several curly posters. Edie leaned over and said to me "Daddy, did you say the van was not a diesel?"

Mr Benn seemed to momentarily lose his thread.

"That's right darling, diesel be brilliant places to visit, won't they?" I pronounced unconvincingly. We really are hopeless at subterfuge.

That's when Mr Benn first brought up The Tip.

"If you are happy with the work my friend has done you may give him tip" he said with a smile. "But only if you are happy." he added, as if I had a choice. Sigh. And I had thought that this assistance was part of their job as employees of Syria's tourist office. How naive.

5 minutes later, when the shopkeeper returned with the completed paperwork, rather than just getting on with the process of getting us across the border he settled back in his chair and wanted to chat. He was hopeless at small talk, but he clearly had to build up to some big question or other.

"How old are you?" he asked me.

I was so thrown, I actually forgot the answer. I think he realised that rather than charming small talk he had just come across as insane, so cut to the chase.

"What is it that you do for a job?" he asked with a smile.

Oh my goodness! They're all in it together!

Eventually satisfied with my answer, and failing to see the relief in my face that he'd not started grilling Jill on the same subject, he moved on.

"You come with me now. Just you." He ushered me out of the room.

This is it. They won't be happy until they've given me a good pumping in the debriefing room.

Mr Benn, the shopkeeper and I walked a few yards from the office, where the shopkeeper explained that he didn't like to talk money in front of the family.

Ah. The Tip.

I nodded knowingly and slipped each chap a crisp 200SP note (about £2.70). This was clearly an insult.

"We normally get 50 dollars" said the shopkeeper.

I must have looked alarmed because he then started to justify his overheads.

"There is the customs chief. He wants his money. He will wave you through if you're with us. Maybe $35?"

Funnily enough, he knew I had $35 in my wallet as he'd given it to me in change after buying the insurance. I gave him a 1000SP note (£13.50) for them to share, but I could tell that behind their smiles they were less than impressed.

I was just explaining all this to Jill and the girls as we waited in the queue of cars to get past customs, when Mr Benn appeared.

"You will soon be through. I have spoken to the chief. He will open the door of the van, just for the cameras, then you will be on your way. OK? Hello."

And he was off. Ahead, several cars were being emptied of their contents. The queue was going to take a while.

Then he was back again. "My friend" he added, "Are you sure this is benzine? I can hear the noise of the engine."

"It's very old!" I shouted. "I bit rattley!"

He seemed convinced. Jill was not.

"We should never have lied. I'd have paid 60 quid not to have this stress."

The customs official, as per the drill, opened the door, said hello to the girls, closed the door and waved us on our way.

In the hubbub of people around us, as the barrier lifted, we heard a voice shouting.

Oh God what now?

Jill, I swear, was about to hold out her wrists to be shackled shouting "I'm a journalist and it's a diesel! A diesel I tell you! It's a fair cop!" when a face appeared at the window. It was Haakim.

"You call me tomorrow! I'll be waiting!"

"We're not actually in Damascus tomorrow" I explained as we crept forwards, "but I've got your number! Thank you!" I shouted as we picked up speed.

"I'll be waiting!" he hollered in my rear view mirror.

"Drive! Drive! Drive!" shouted Jill.

And we did. One journalist, one generalist, 3 kids and a rattly old VW.

DIEEEEEESELLLLL!