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!

Safad's reign of soapy terror

It was an outrageous luxury, a treat, a frivolous expense that we'd spent 3 days trying to justify: A genuine Turkish bath. The Hamam. We've all seen it; Michael Palin getting smothered in clouds of bubbles, countless Blue Peter presenters having buckets of water thrown at them (a natural reaction. They get that a lot).

And here in the heart of Istanbul's ancient city is arguably the most famous bath house of them all, the Çemberlitas Hamam.

The impressive bath was built by the architect Sinan in 1584. My bathroom was built by Bob 'the builder' Smith in 2009. Both have heated floors. That, though, is where the similarity ends.

The first bonus, on descending the steps into the peaceful reception area was that the kids were half price (about a tenner each), which, given that Edie only visits the wet end of a bathroom about as often as Halley's Comet visits the inner solar system, made it reasonable value.

There are 3 options for patrons - for 35TL (£14) you can relax in the bathing area, lying on the heated marble platform and soaking up the calm for as long as you like. But you're washing yourself. No one's touching you. (In retrospect this sounds very appealing). For 55TL (£22) you get a sound soaping down, scrub, massage and wash from one of the Hamami attendants. For 95TL (£38) you get all that plus a half hour massage involving oils and a table.

We spent days deliberating which option we would choose. The leaflet was keen to stress that men and women each have their own identical bathing areas, but the level of nudity seemed a little vague. Guide books talked of 'taking a bikini', so at least I had that option. The Lonely Planet guide said that you should decide on whether to strip naked only after 'gauging the atmosphere', a phrase that became something of a running joke in our family in the build up to the event. 'Why oh why didn't I gauge the atmosphere?' we would joke, imagining the possible embarrassments that lay ahead.

Opting for something a cut above blue stripe 'value range' but not as lavish as 'taste the difference', we chose the 'mid price' option.

Touching had been given the green light.

And so we parted, Jill and the girls to their soapy spa paradise, and me, on my own, being shepherded to what appeared to be a tiny Butlins chalet.

This tiny box of a room had a slim door with frosted glass, just enough room for one three quarter size bed and a little table. I was instantly taken back to Butlins in Bognor, where I had 'gigged' as a Children's BBC (ahem) 'star' back in the 90s and they had put me up in a room almost identical. If the Hamami attendant had re-appeared with a big furry aardvark on his arm, I probably could have done a glittering 45 minute set. Momentarily disoriented, the man explained with the words "change" and "lock" that this was my cue to get my kit off and use this room as my 'locker'. He handed me a tiny 'petemal' printed cotton cloth about the size of generous hand towel and graciously took his leave, leaving me to ponder Today's Big Decision.

It was remarkably hard to 'gauge the atmosphere' from inside my Butlins chalet. In for a penny, I thought and stuffed my boxer shorts with the rest of my clothes in our instrument bag. (Yes, I really had visited the ancient Hamam carrying a ukulele, a squeezebox, a flute, sundry percussion instruments and a collapsed pop-up goal bearing our Beatnik Beatles signage. It was a busy day.)

Rather sheepishly, I made my way back out onto the landing area wrapped only in the briefest of cotton tea towels, and remembered that this raised gallery overlooked the busy reception one floor down. Clinging to the wall to avoid being gawped at from below I found the old 'change and lock' man who pointed me not to a wondrous glowing doorway billowing steam and golden sunlight from around its gilted edges, but back down the staircase to reception.

Courtie you fool! You could have been sipping coffee and eating Baklava in a charming cafe, but oh no, you just had to get your clothes off in public. Idiot.

I took a deep breath and descended the stairs, nodding politely to the anorak clad crowds gathering in the reception doorway to shelter from a blustery squall which had decided to break at that precise moment. Did I mention that God hates me?

"Afternoon" I said, as if I was in the queue at the post office, and continued towards a burly looking Turk who was beckoning me towards another door.

I knew from the pictures in the leaflet what to expect. The central domed room has a large raised circular marble platform in the middle, on which bathers sit or lie gazing up at the tiny glass holes in the dome which let daylight puncture the gloom like tiny stars. Around the edge are stone arches that lead to smaller bathing rooms in which you can scoop hot water in large copper dishes and sloosh yourself down with the kind of gay abandon that would normally lead to flooding the living room below.

As I felt the humidity hit me my eyes adjusted to the dim light. The leaflet had pictured a few svelte girls, artisticly lit, stretched out on the marble platform, but I knew from countless travel documentaries that the mens section would be occupied by one or two overwheight Turks and possibly a middle aged banker or two. Today, however, the Çemberlitas Hamam appeared to be hosting the wrap party for Elite Model Agency's 'World's Top Male Model' contest. Girls, you might be surprised to learn that we men, despite our bravado and gruff exterior, do actually notice how handsome/ugly, fit/fat other men are. You know that thing all women have that makes them hate Kiera Knightley? Well it's not that bad. But it's just an unconscious thing, probably deep in our tribal instincts, that reassures us that we fit in. Or, in my case, that I didn't. About 2 dozen twenty year old lads rippled about 2 dozen washboard stomachs as I entered the arena, tensing my love handles. I didn't know what to do. It was like walking into a house party on your own but there was no kitchen to flee to. I'd been handed a yellow plastic tag at reception which was to alert the attendants to the services that I'd paid for, but no one took it from me or seemed very interested, so I found a spot on the marble platform and shuffled uneasily into the middle to lie down.

The Elite Models were, like any bunch of lads in a slightly uneasy near-naked scenario, doing all they could to prove they weren't gay. If it hadn't meant exposing themselves, they'd have been flicking towels at each other (although I did actually witness this in the showers later). They were splashing water at each other, arching their wet backs on the marble to make fart noises, some were even playfully rubbing each others shoulders, laughing in a 'wouldn't it be funny if we really enjoyed this sort of thing' way. I don't think they realised they couldn't have looked more homo-erotic if they'd thrown on a Kenny Loggins track and started playing volleyball.

I wandered over to a vacant side room and had a sloosh. I tried to catch the eye of one of the wiry old men who was washing and scrubbing a man at the edge of the big platform, but there didn't seem to be a system to who got washed and when. I sat in the stone annexe surveying the central scene of joshing and hilarity and waited. I'd found my kitchen.

Soon, I was summoned by a mountain of a man to approach the platform. He was the shape of Obelix in the Asterix cartoons and a man of very few words. "Come" he ordered, so I did. "Lie", he pointed at the edge of the circular platform, so I did. Probably out of nervousness, I tried to strike up a conversation with him as he donned a scrubbing mit and started to rub me down.

"What is your name?" I asked. His stern face remained emotionless.

"Safad"

And that's where the conversation ended because he was leaning on my chest so hard I couldn't speak. I don't think Safad was much of a talker. I was just pondering how Safad sounded like the name of terrorist splinter group, when he removed the mitt, squeezed a cotton bag of soapy bubbles over me and started his own reign of terror. In becoming a Hamami, Safad had clearly sacrificed a sparkling career as a cage fighter. What started as a vigorous rub down developed into what Safad would later call a 'massage', although the War Crimes Committee at The Hague might have taken an altogether dimmer view.

We got off to a bad start. I was on my back and Safad was pushing his rivet-gun thumbs deep into my thighs causing me such considerable pain that I was clenching my teeth, squirming and shouting 'Argh' quite a lot. Then a random man came up and started arguing with Safad. He was in some sort of dispute over the colour of his white plastic tab, and was clearly venting his frustration in Turkish to the first person he could find who worked there. Safad was having none of it, and continued to pummel my deepest muscles while arguing with this bloke.

And then it happened. I burst out laughing. It was completely involuntary. The ridiculousness of the situation I was looking up at coincided with a surprising twinge of pain from Safad's evil hands and I started laughing. The random guy looked down at me, furious. Safad was unrelenting. This made me laugh even more. I was now in that horrible place I call a 'church laugh'. My dad's a vicar, so obviously I spent a lot of my childhood in church. I also spent a lot of my childhood in whispered conversations with mates during services and know the perils of getting trapped in a 'church laugh'. It's when something funny happens exactly at the moment when you mustn't laugh. When a congregation is at its most silent, contemplating some enormous tragedy like Ethiopian famine, or the untimely death of a much loved parishioner, that is when your entire body will be aching, bursting, throbbing to explode into laughter at some private joke only you and a friend are aware of. The fact you mustn't laugh, makes it all the funnier.

The angry man tried to continue venting his spleen at Safad, who continued to pummel ruthlessly while I laughed like a drain, helpless to the situation. It was horrible. Inside I was aware what an imbecile I looked, but I was out of control. The fact the angry man may have thought I was laughing at him just made me laugh even more. The fact I so desperately wanted to stop laughing just increased the hilarity. As the disgruntled customer stormed off Safad took my mirth as a sign that I wasn't taking his work seriously and stepped up his campaign.

Now on my stomach I took deep breaths and tried to get a grip, which is exactly what Safad was doing with my feet. He was pushing them so hard into the marble that I was squirming like a fish out or water trying to find a position where my bones wouldn't be crushed to dust. And still I giggled. What the hell was wrong with me? I considered that perhaps Safad had inflicted internal bleeding and I was experiencing the euphoria that is sometimes reported just prior to death. Please let it stop.

By the time he had pushed my shoulder blades almost through my chest to touch the marble beneath, I was actually banging my hand on the wet surface shouting "I submit".

He concluded his torture with a final wallop to my back and stood back, happy with a job well done. I tenderly picked myself up and looked around. A few of the Elite Models were glancing at me unimpressed. I knew I was getting picked last for volleyball.

After being shown to a second room for more soaping of hair and slooshing with gallons of water, Safad bid me goodbye with a vice like shake of my hand. "Massage good?" he asked.

"Yes" I replied. What else could I say? I wanted to say "No. You clearly have anger issues. You hurt me, and furthermore, you appeared to take considerable pleasure from inflicting pain. You are a very bad man, Safad." But he was much bigger than me.

"You tip good" he said.

"Of course" I said

"You look" he added, not letting go of my hand.

"You find"

"Yes, yes" I urged. "I will look for you when I'm changed." Dear God let me go.

Some bloody chance I thought as I made my way back, wrapped in dry towels, to my Butlins chalet. It was weird enough that I'd endured some sort of sadomasochistic humiliation. Paying my torturer for the pleasure?! What would that make it? Too flippin' wierd, that's what. I gingerly got changed and headed for the stairs back down to reception where a cool drink and glossy magazines would while away the minutes until the return of the girls. I swung around the bottom flight and who's standing at the foot of the stairs, hot and sweating with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp? Bloody Safad.

I pulled 10TL from my pocket and stuffed it into his volumous palm. I felt dirty. Which was ironic given where I'd just been.

And that's not the end of the story. That evening, while my shirt gaped open at the kneck, Edie said "Woah! What is that?" pointing at my chest. I looked in the mirror, and sure enough, she had reason to be alarmed. A large lump had appeared on my collar bone. It didn't hurt, but it certainly looked odd. Like all medical queries, I turned to Doctor Google for advice. What I was seeing, and what was making my entire family go 'eurgh', was my sterno-clavicular joint, where the clavical (collar bone) meets the sternum (big bone in the middle of your chest). It is held in place by ligaments and can sometimes dislocate forwards (or, rarely, backwards), usually as a result of car crashes or sports unjuries. Lots of people have visited their doctors with one clavical sticking out unsymmetrically with the opposite side only to be told 'live with it'. So I guess I will.

It is my special lump and I shall call it Safad's Trophy. He tried to break me, and medically, he did. But mentally, I'm a rock, and I fully expect to be able to bathe again in as little as a year or two.

Είναι όλους τους Έλληνες σε μένα

Asprovalta, east of Thessaloniki, Greece

Miles 4, 087

All 5 of us are sheltering from the rain in Penny. It's about 9am and the nearby beach resort of Asprovalta is doing its best to wake up. We stealth-camped on the sea front last night. The rain was lashing down as we arrived here having visited 2 local campsites that were closed, but as we gazed through the misting up windows at the churning Aegean Sea the sky cleared and we headed out on foot into the tiny seaside town. We've reached that stage in our journey where everything feels very 'out of season'. It started the night before we left Italy (the first time) and we stayed on a campsite where we were the only living souls apart from the owner. Now, not even weary owners greet us. Just chained gates and the ghosts of gleeful holiday makers long since departed. Even a lot of the hotels in touristy resorts like this one are closed. There are clues all around of how busy these places must be in the height of summer; shower points standing alone on the deserted beach, stacks of sun-loungers under tarpaulins, boarded up beach bars and brightly painted children's play areas left eerily desolate.

The locals are still here of course, and they have to eat, so one or two restaurants remain open. Last night, one was hosting a party, while its neighbour remained empty. The ghost town was instantly transformed when about 20 cars arrived pouring out smartly dressed family and friends from toddlers to pensioners. The balloons and clothing seemed to suggest this was a 'post wedding' party having waved off the happy couple. Next door's empty bar promised nothing more than those 3 syllables that have come to rule our lives. Free wifi.

While Jill emailed and researched Turkey I got chatting to a local man who was fascinated with the camper. He'd lived in North Carolina for 3 years (hence his effortless English) and recalled with fondness his own purchase of a massive American motorhome which he drove across the states several times. I gave him our website address, told him of our adventure and that we'd busked earlier that day in Thessaloniki, but the thing he seemed most impressed by was that five of us were sleeping in the confines of a VW T25.

It is a squeeze, I won't lie to you. But we're getting it down to a fine art. These days we don't even have to pop up the small tent to make storage. We stow all our luggage in the front underneath Edie's bunk, leaving the top bed (or 'upstairs' as we like to call it, despite the glaring absence of stairs) for Ella and Bethan while the bottom rock 'n' roll bed (that's a bench seat that flips down into a bed) for Jill and me. That might sound like 'hell in a tin box' (a phrase first coined by my wife on hearing I wanted to buy a campervan) but it's really not. Last night, for example, we strolled back from the bar, cooked some risotto, put the beds in order, settled down to watch a couple of episodes of Arrested Development (the brilliant US sitcom the girls have just discovered and downloaded from iTunes) before bidding each other "G'night" in our own tribute to the Waltons and falling asleep to the rhythm of the breaking waves.

Bliss. Stealth-camping can be great. And the price is right.

Mornings are trickier, I'll give you that. Blinking in the daylight you realise that people have got up and are getting on with their busy day. Commuters pass by on nearby roads. It's not quite as alarming as someone secretly moving your bed onto the centre of a busy roundabout on the A34 while you were sleeping, but if you imagine how waking up to that would feel, stealth-camping has the same unsettling edge.

Also, of course, everyone wants a wee, and if possible a shower. But if you can wait until the first coffee stop, or nip behind a tree, you get by. And you'd be amazed at the all-over-freshness you can achieve with baby wipes. (I'm sorry, were you eating?)

So here we are, about to set off on our mission to find a launderette somewhere between here and Turkey. First though, let me tell you about our Greek Gig busking in Thessaloniki.

To most Brits, and I include myself in this, Greece's second largest city after Athens, known as Thessalonika back home, is most famous as the airport destination you would fly to before being transferred to one of hundreds of package holiday hot spots. Halkidiki is the one which Jill and I graced with our presence back in '93. Brits were chasing the sun, Labour were in opposition and Take That were huge. It was a different time.

We explored the city properly over the last couple of days and really liked it. It can't compete with Athens for historical ruins, or even historical significance I suspect, but it has a thriving, young, energetic quality that's infectious. A maze of bustling backstreets twist amongst the occasional ancient arch or church and contain a myriad of interesting independent shops selling the kinds of things you don't really see anymore like vinyl records and coloured hair extensions (really, a whole shop of them). Even its 'posh end' seems understated. You barely notice shops like Louis Vuitton nestled among the chaos. It was really refreshing and different from any other city centre I know. It was also the venue for our busk yesterday.

The sea front was even busier than the day before, which was encouraging, but we were fighting a strong breeze which threatened to swallow what little volume we could create. We also found to our dismay that our Greek audience weren't half as smiley and curious as those in Italy or France. I don't know whether it was the language barrier, or whether we were just too quiet, but most people just walked past barely giving us a glance. Maybe it was the smell.

(We'd stayed at a proper camp site with showers the night before actually, so stop smirking)

The music, we hoped, would be universal, but the language barrier is definitely getting bigger. Dutch, French, Italian - you can see similarities to our own language. You learned enough over the years to hazard a guess. But Greek? It was funny when Ella first saw it written on a sign.

"They've got a triangle in it! And an M on its side! How are you supposed to say that?"

Today's blog title is a case in point. Go on, have a guess. What does it say? Be honest - it's scribble to you, isn't it? Of course you could always copy and paste it into Google Translate, but we didn't have that luxury when trying to explain our mission to baffled passers by. We stuck at it for a good half hour and I was surprised by the girls' determination to carry on, but we only raised €7, which seemed quite disheartening after the fun and buoyancy of Florence. One good thing was that we were featured on a local radio breakfast show. That's the morning DJ from Republic Radio, Algelidou Elena with her friend Samara pictured above. So a bit of media interest was good, even if the locals were immune to our charms. And as we all agreed afterwards, even a measly 7 Euros is 7 Euros UNICEF didn't have before we went out and made fools of ourselves. Every little helps.

Which reminds me, we need to find a supermarket. We're running out of baby wipes.

(Listen, you're the one reading this blog. If you don't want these gory details...)

A scary day

Miles 2,655

Somwhere south of Piacenza, north of Parma

I've got LOADS to tell you. When this adventure is written as a book it'll have well constructed themes, layers, story arcs, the works, but right now you're getting a day by day, blow by blow account of our lives, with all the unexpected twists and turns. Sorry if it seems a bit random.

Coming up, the Scary Churchyard Encounter, but first I have to tell you of The Great Turbo Conspiracy.

In order of events then, we left Alessandria to cheers, folk songs and a ticker tape send off from the locals...or at least that's how it felt in our heads. Over the past week we've been debating whether to continue our planned journey south to Rome or not. Of the entire route we''ve planned this was the only diversion off our most direct path - a dip down Italy's west coast via Genoa and Pisa, then back up the other side to get back on track at Venice. Two things are pursuading us to still make the journey south; the educational value of all that culture. (Jill's slightly worried that we may have a cultural wasteland ahead through the Balkans and Turkey compared to what's on offer in Rome. Obviously 'wasteland' is a bit strong - there's loads of historical culture to discover of course, but it's very spread out so you can see her point). The seconds thing is one of our friends, Abi, has been the first to try out the Post Restante system, sending us a letter to collect at one of Rome's main Post Offices. Whether we make it is still undecided, but we certainly knew we didn't want to head south to Genoa again, so headed east towards Parma.

We decided to take things very easy in Penny, even paying the toll to take the autostrada towards Parma - no steep hills, no stopping and starting, just a steady 55mph all the way. No dramas...until 20 minutes into the journey, when we felt the undeniable lurch of the engine stuttering. It was exactly the same symptom we'd experienced before we got stranded with a failed turbo. Were we imaginging it? No. It was doing it again. After 40 minutes the engine was losing power, just like before. 'A second turbo can't fail, surely'. I knew where these symptoms were leading and didn't fancy being stranded on the autostrada. Exiting somewhere near Pavia, I pushed the clutch in and the engine died just like before. Everything was the same. And, just as before, I could re-start the engine and it ran fine. I called Blue interrupting his busy morning at T&P Motors in Bodicote and with the entire contents of the boot unloaded to expose the engine bay (that's us in a layby pictured above) he talked me through some basic fault finding. He severely doubted it was the turbo failing. And that's when I found it. Air bubbles streaming through the fuel pipe. All the hose clips were tight, no crack to be found, but that was undoubtedly the problem. A stop at a VW garage in Pavia led to a very friendly man, Luigi, taking a look at her. I regret not taking his photo for you, but the girls insisted he looked like the Hugh Laurie character Gregory House. I was sure, therefore, that if the problem was a mystery, he'd get out his wipe board and a team of young hotshots in white coats would diagnose it after a few dead ends and wry witticisms.

In fact, they diagnosed it in 5 minutes. A blocked fuel filter. It had been new before we left England, but here's the theory - (if you're a fan of 'House' picture rushing 3D internal graphics illustrating this): The fuel tank is old, it has lots of dirt in it. Italian diesel is, compared to what we're used to at home, a bit rough. So much so in fact that I've since learned that Italian truckers make it the norm to use the standard fuel filter plus another 2 in line, just to stop their engines clogging. The dirty fuel blocks the filter (and I looked, it was full of dark brown sludge), the fuel pump sucks madly, not enough fuel comes through so inevitably tiny air bubbles will be pulled in from somewhere along the system because the pump is causing a vacuum. According to Luigi, the only long term solution is to replace the tank, but with regular filter changes and a careful eye on not running the tank down to the red line, we should be fine. Blue concurred with the theory, adding the fact that with the van sitting still for so long, all the rubbish in the diesel will have had time to settle which is why we got 20 minutes in before she started coughing, once the tank had been sloshed around. (He did also tell me how to clean the tank out but it's a big job requiring a ramp - I doubt I'll do it). The conclusion of all this woe is that

1) Yay! We've solved the problem and know how to fix it next time - I have the next filter ready and waiting.

2) Dohhh! We may have just replaced a perfectly good turbo unnecessarily.

It puts us in a tricky position as you can imagine, trying to argue this with the VW garage back in Alessandria. Did they mis-diagnose a faulty turbo? If so that cost us a huge stack of cash, not just in the new part and their labour but in the hostel costs of waiting 2 weeks for the repair. Was it really as simple as a €50 filter change? I've spoken to Brickwerks, the company we've returned the original turbo to (the old turbos are refurbished and sold) who will let us know if there's anything obvious wrong with it. If not, I guess we're facing a battle to convince the original VW garage that they owe us some recompense. At home, y'know, I relish these 'fights for justice'. But while travelling? And in a foreign language? My heart sinks at the thought of it. I'm calling them tomorrow. Let's reserve judgement.

Then, later that same day...

We drove away from Pavia, cautiously paranoid that Penny was on the verge of collapse, just waiting for another stutter, another random loss of power at high speed. But, of course, she was fine. Completely cured. We should have been thrilled but were actually cross that we may have been misled with a costly mistake back in Alessandria. We made Piacenza our destination and started keeping an eye out for campsites. After an hour of approaching, touring the city, and then leaving Piacenza without seeing a single sign bearing a tent it started to occur to us that for the first time on this trip we may be forced to do some 'guerrilla camping' - in other words, sleeping for free. I'm sure there's a proper word for this, like when they call the posh tents as music festivals 'glamping', from the words 'glamorous camping'. I'd love to merge 'gratis camping' to form 'gramping', but it sounds like a naughty game teenagers might play of sneaking up and goosing old grandads. "I'm bored, let's go out gramping!"

Police said Stanley Timmins, 70, was the victim of a drive-by gramping. "They came from no-where" said the plucky pensioner. "I didn't see them coming. But I certainly felt them. It's just not right."

Has anyone used 'framping', from 'free camping'? I'll Google it later and probably get 48 million references, but if not, consider it invented right here. So, as we scoured suburban wastelands and remote farm tracks in the fading light, hoping to do some framping (or even some gramping, if the opportunity arose) I remembered that in France they quite often provide free camper van car parks near ancient abbeys and the like. Italy also has these car parks - we just couldn't find one. So we headed for a castle that was listed on brown signs, like a tourist attraction, and it took us mile after mile into the countryside until we'd all but given up on it. In the end, it was just one of the many small castles, more a fortified courtyard really, that is now a private house. Next to it, however, was a church which had a rather attractive, secluded grassy parking area completely empty. Not for long.

We parked up behind the church and were far enough away from the road not to be too concerned about drawing attention to ourselves. Up popped the little 2 man tent, in went all the bags, and within half an hour all the beds were ready, mosquito nets up and we were, after almost 3 weeks in this country, finally eating some home cooked fresh pasta. Spirits were high as darkness descended and we sat out under the stars polishing off the last of our tea. There was now no chance of us being disturbed at this most remote of locations at 9pm on a Tuesday evening. We were all alone. Bats flitted overhead. A large owl swept through the trees. A car drew up on the road next to the church, someone got out and we heard its central locking blip.

Oh. Not entirely alone then. Next, lights went on in the church. "What's the vicar doing here at this time?" Jill hissed. "Don't worry", I reassured everyone, "he'll just be picking up a cassock or something and he'll be on his way".

Speculation was rife about what the priest's reaction would be to seeing a camper van plonked in his car park. To try and settle nerves I said "What would Reverend Ben do if he found a family camping next to the church?".

"That's not a fair comparison" Jill said. "He'd invite them for dinner". (If you've never met him, Reverend Ben is an extraordinary vicar. In a recent theological family discussion Bethan said she considered Reverend Ben to be the closest thing to God on Earth.)

Tense minutes passed waiting for danger to pass, but more church lights went on. Then a second car arrived next to the first. Again, they were out on the road and couldn't really see us too clearly. "He's called the cops" Ella said. In the dim moonlight one of the children saw a woman getting out. "She's going into the church". By now we were all sitting, huddling, almost, behind Penny. It's funny how in these situations, when you know you're being a bit naughty, you can't shake that childish instinct to hide. By now, Jill and the girls were getting increasingly fraught. "What if he's called backup, to forcibly eject us?" asked Jill, rationally. I remained in my chair, cup of cheap Prosecco in hand, confident that whoever was in the church would simply do whatever chore needed doing and leave.

"Go and talk to them" instructed Jill.

"What?"

"Go in and ask if it's OK to stay here."

"Why? That just gives them the opportunity to say 'no'. Much harder for them to come to us. Just sit tight." (Notice here, the calculating mind of a master criminal)

An icy stalemate.

Suddenly we were bathed in light. A car, no two cars swung into the car park."

"OK" I conceded. "This is not what we planned".

Rather embarrassingly, they parked next to us.

"Either you go and talk to them" spat Jill in a furious whisper, "or we're packing and leaving. Those are your choices."

As car doors opened in the darkness, the two youngest members of the family clung, whimpering, to Jill.

It was showtime.