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!