Freelance Journalist

Well it would seem that by twelve today Syrian time, I will be the proud holder of an Iranian visa (Inshallah). After $175, seven days of sitting around waiting in Damascus, copious calls to Shiraz, lots of swearing, a plethora of visits to the embassy, a run in with the homesexual community of Syria in a hammam (Turkish Bath), a good drenching on my ‘roof mattress’, copious american university exchange students from Cairo, a damn good Canadian called Hans and an inspirational traveler from Japan named Kiyo….

…i may well be on my way to Tehran. Or at least i think so. Next post from Shiraz in three or four days time!

Its 4am and i am already awake, donning my boots in the barracks. I wear dark clothes as not to be spotted by the enemy, fill my Camelbak with water and check the map with a red torch. The Muslim call to prayer sends chills down my back as it rings across the valley, and i go outside to inspect my troops before the go. Marching proudly to the terrace I expect to find my crack troops waiting for me, but instead six sleepy Japanese tourists have assembled ‘so-so’ prepared. They are wearing their usual attire consisting mainly of natty Burberry trousers, dainty flip-flops and novelty sun visors. They have about a third of a bottle of water between them. I am now glad that i didn’t dig out some camouflage paint, but still am not so impressed with the preperation of my fellow bandits.

You probably guessed by now that i didn’t get involved in some filming of a third rate Hollywood movie on the war in Iraq. What is perhaps more surreal though is that six relatively wealthy tourists (by arab standards), feel sufficiently aggrieved with the entrance price to a world heritage site, that they can be seen trekking across the nearly Jebel (mountain) surrounding the Petra complex before the break of dawn to break in. But thats not all. The hills are alive with the whispers of French, polish and Japanese, as multiple companies of tourists risk life and limb, deep crevasses and rock slides to jump the gate. Those who fail will be taken to the police station, those who succeed save themselves over 20 euros. For me its all a spot more adventure, i take my Lawrence of Arabia persona to a new level of pompousness, turn on an Eton’esque drawl and appoint myself leader.

I couldn’t decide whether to leave my complaints about tourism in Jordan at that or whether i should write further about my grievances with the industry. I contemplated for my whole time in Jordan whether or not i would write a long complaint; its boring to read, nobody cares, but i feel it is something which has to be said. The attitude to tourism in Jordan is disgraceful, never have i been to a place where the government and 99% of ALL people are screwing every last penny out of you all the time. No its not unfair, and yes it is unique. I now consider myself to be reasonably traveled and expect top pay a premium most of the time for being relatively wealthy and western, but the Jordanians take the biscuit. The tourist board runs a racket, where tourism is an item you can package in a tour bus shaped box and charge the earth for. Many activities are highly limited if you try to visit on your own; god forbid you try and camp on a Jordanian national park campsite.

Meanwhile standards are very low, and the service is also of poor standard. For example visiting the beach will cost you 10JD (Around 8 pounds), but there is litter around, little running water in the showers and general a slack attitude. I wouldn’t pay that in England to visit the beach and don’t see why i would in Jordan. The people are also deluded about prices in Europe. They have somehow come to the conclusion that in the UK a bottle of water is around $3.50 and therefore they have a right to charge $3, this is verified as all of Amman’s street vendors have holidayed extensively in London; or so they claim. They then consider this to be good value seeing as you are saving $0.50. Regardless of whether i pay $3.50 for a bottle of water back home or not (i don’t, never have and never will), its not Europe, so cut the crap. Twice different service stations threaten to call the police, after trying to sell me 20-26 litres of petrol. The dispute is only defused after i point out my tank only holds 15litres. I’m not saying the Jordanians are bad people, they are very very very friendly and welcoming; they just screw you the whole time and so does the government. Its tiring and boring, and this sentiment was one shared by other travelers, not just me. Entry tax, expensive visas, national park permits, breathing tax, tax for the tax, tourist tax, road tax, import duty, duty tax, exit tax, vehicle exit tax and third party road insurance monopoly are all Jordanian government pastimes.

It’s six am in the morning. Many of you will remember the scene in ‘the Great Escape’ when a couple of the escapees turn around towards the small tunnel entrance and wave before running wildly off into the forest. Taking the lead i leave the small cave we hide in, like illegal immigrants at some French port. Leaving my Japanese conspirators to fend for themselves, i wave to them from the approach to the main siq (canyon) and pass the empty tourist police pillbox. Walking further and further into the canyon, I feel i am about to be caught at every turn and corner. The treasury appears rosy red in the dawn light from around the last bend. I have made it, I’m in heaven, I’m on my own. I’m in Petra.

Amman is a dusty, unappealing place at the best of times, but i had had an especially bad (interesting) day and so it was like reaching the gates of paradise. The drive from Lebanon had been long, tiresome and full of expensive interruptions, leaving me with a light wallet, a set of tired and smelly feet and generally a feeling of grievance towards the world.

Beirut in Lebanon is a funny old place as well. Arriving on the coastal highway from Tripoli in the North the traffic gradually increases, new and expensive cars overtake fast with music blaring and you could be forgiven for thinking you were in some sort of B-rate American film. There are every sort of American fast food outlet on the road in, including the large novelty drive through signs which seem so popular with our half-witted cousins. There are adverts for beer, none of the women cover their hair, the women are stunningly delicious and i feel like i am back in Europe with more sun shine, less rules and a few more tanks scattered around the roads.

The bike is making horrible noises. I am riding along with a concerto of scrapes and crunches as the chain slips and bounces on the swingarm;I am truly in trouble and begin to bargain with god about my bacon sandwich consumption for a miracle.  I really feel like i have messed up. There don’t seem to be any motorbikes on the road and that normally means no motorbike shops, which could be a real hassle. Using the ‘f-word’ around three hundred times, i groan and limp into Central Beirut when I am presented with a miracle. A brand new Ducati dealer sits amongst the car dealers and immediately i stop the bike, run inside and kiss the floor; my theatrics cost me a chip in my helmet paint, but i think its worth it.

I am greeted by Gilbert who appears to be the governor. He is a motocross supremo and is happy to help me. He douches me with water, tells me to get a grip and delivers me to his hotel with his Ferrari, promising to call Yamaha in the morning, get the parts, fit them for free and generally restore my faith in human kind. If i think i have problems i am mistaken. I enter the hotel room and am greeted by a Japanese chap who appears to be a tad depressed. He has not left the room for over a week and is hell bent on going back to Japan to buy a new bicycle. It has taken his two years to get to Beirut from Japan on his merry steed, only to have it pinched while checking out the hostel. He refuses to buy a new bike in Lebanon, nor have one shipped in and comes across as a total nutter.

The next day Gilbert sends one of his men to pick me up from his shop, takes me to a sparkling workshop full of beautiful cars, beautiful tools and importantly a lavish collection of motorbikes. He phones Yamaha, who he informs me are a bunch of pricks (although i assume this may be some sort of rivalry) and send me round there to pick up the parts. Meanwhile, his mechanic removes my old sprockets and chain in a flash with utmost precision and everything seems to be going sweetly. Arriving at Yamaha Beirut i begin to understand Gilbert’s sentiments. No. They don’t have the parts. No they don’t have the correct chain. No. I should have taken my swing arm off to remove my chain, its my fault that i had to grind it off. No. A difference of a few teeth on the gearing won’t make any problems. I am furious. They are fobbing me off with all manor of BS and i am seriously struggling to remain calm. The rude, arrogant manager begins to dig the knife in, claiming all manor of lies to try to relieve himself of any blame, suggesting a collection of lunatic remedies for my predicament. I lose my cool.

I am standing in Beirut screaming blue murder at Yamaha. I tell them they are a bunch of useless, good for nothing liars, i am sick of being fobbed off with rubbish by them. They have really pissed me off and its the first time in the trip i really feel like smashing someones face in. I tell them they should have just apologized for their mistake instead of trying to sell me the wrong thing, and tried to find a solution. The bike now sits with no chain, no text book way to repair the chain and a prospect of a long wait in Lebanon. The long and the short of it is that i am screwed and really wish i had sorted this problem before i left home. Gilbert calms me down on the phone and recalls me to the garage. He seems pleased that i relate to his problems with Yamaha, and begins to call his friends, associates and business partners to fix me up. Within no time at all and a few minutes, a DID O ring chain is produced at cost price, a spare link for the chain and the bike will limp to Jordan where I can get the parts I need. I don’t understand how i keep landing on my feet, but i feel someone is watching over me. Gilbert is my guardian angel.

Downtown Beirut is the sort of place which in Europe would be packed. The streets are pedestrianised, the restored achitechture fantastic and an excellent array of restaurants line the street. I rub my hands with glee, reading a number of times the reference to Beirut as ‘the party capital of the Middle East’ in my guidebook, picturing myself downing Arak among scantily clad Lebanese beauties. Yet there is no life here. Its a charade, the coffee houses and restaurants sit empty and you could be forgiven for thinking that you are in a ghost town. It would seem that since Hezbullah occupied the downtown area in a protest against the government, nearly two years ago, the people have stopped coming. Yet its not just the cafes and bars which are empty; so are the streets, so are the apartments. The city has been built before the people, its almost like they are waiting for some sort of big party to turn up. There are hotels upon hotels of the 5* variety, i don’t understand; there is nobody in them. Beirut is a big lie, everything is artificial. Upon reconsideration even the french style downtown, which was rebuild after the war is false, its been built like some sort of gleaming film set.

Leaving the Lebanon after a few days i decide to hot foot it to Amman in Jordan to fix up the bike. Its only been fixed temporarily and needs the parts. Crossing the Lebanese mountain border into Syria i need a quick transit to make it to Amman by night fall but stop for a quick wee between the border posts in no mans land. There is about 4/5km of mountain road between the two beaurocracies and sipping a bottle of water, i look around and there is nobody around. The mountains are beautiful and in my haste, i havn’t taken any photos this morning. Taking photos around borders is always a sensitive subject, but there is nothing of importance here and nobody around. As soon as the shutter goes click i am surrounded by Syrian soldiers who seem terribly cross. A corporal comes bounding down the valley bayonet fixed, screaming in arabic and snatches my Nikon from my arms. Sensing the anger in the jumped up little fourteen year old i begin my Lawrence of Arabia routine, i expect he will probably get a medal or a knighthood for catching the bad Brit so comply with him, begin to smile, make jokes, show him my passport and generally calm him down. The atmosphere changes immediately, as i see his adrenaline levels dropping but still i must see his officer. The next thing i know my camera has disappeared into the army base, my bike is impounded and i am driving around as a captive in a 4X4 in a far flung army base. I am driven from shed to shed, while a picture show plays in my mind of my bollocks being wired up to the mains. I am first shown to a Lieutenant who says ‘Welcome Welcome ‘ like all Syrians, but doesn’t know what to do with me. Then a Captain shows up and he doesn’t know what to do either. The Major seems perplexed as well, and i feel i could perhaps just sit in the officers mess and give a presentation on my road trip and perhaps a slide show.

Eventually i reach a Colonels desk (I know he must be important, because he never takes off his Ray Ban aviators) and he says ‘Welcome Welcome ‘. He doesn’t seem to care about me taking photos, instead he appears to be encouraging me to take more, but is very interested in all my things. He admires my camera, listens to my ipod, trys on my helmet and generally larks about. Its all very nice and i’m glad my family jewels aren’t for a zapping but i really need to get going. It has already cost me two hours of time, and now he appears to be laying on some sort of banquet for me, for my lunch. I make my excuses, and explain in sign language my problems with time. The Colonel although disappointed agrees with me, tapping his ‘Rolex’ knowingly; he decides he will settle for a race down the highway to the border post between me and his batman in his 4X4. I let him win and am soon heading south for Amman.

I arrive in the Jordanian capital over $250 lighter in paperwork for the day, tired and in a foul mood. I don’t like border crossings but they are all part of the trip. I am pleased to be here and quickly locate someone to repair the bike. Lawrence is heading for the south, Wadi Rum, Petra and the desert.

Pictures still to come, sorry. These internet cafes are a reet pain in the arse. And i’m Lazy.

I recently read an article on travel writing which clearly stated that nobody gives a hoot about your bowel movements while travelling. It doesn’t make for interesting reading, and why should anyone care that you lost fourteen stone in Cairo after drinking some of the Nile or spend a week touring the toilets of Tripoli. Yet i feel at this point it prudent, to mention that squatting on the squalid Syrian bowl, that my strong English pipes and gubbbins were feeling distinctly wishy washy for the first time.

A small cockroach is drowning in the festering shower as the florescent bulb hums miserably from the corner, emitting a dull blue glow. Pulling up my trousers, a Lebanese singer is wailing from the radio in my dormitory in Aleppo, Syria and stepping out on the street, despite being only 50km from Turkish soil the atmosphere is un mistakenly foreign and Arabic. The Hostel Springflower is  the most filthy and dilapidated place i have ever stayed in. It is also the only place i have ever chosen from the Lonely Planet guide which has been mentioned as a hostel to avoid; yet this only spurred my fascination with staying here, as I choose the $4 and less than five star ‘Roof Terrace Mattress’ from Usama the less than charming proprietor. I settle for the least dirty of the bare mattresses alongside brave Frenchman and a fellow English man; Sharif from Chiswick.

Taxis make up 90% of the traffic on the streets, horns blasting (a common theme it would seem from my posts so far), not a single one of them is complete, or does not have some sort of fibre glass patch and stitch attempt or a full set of head lamps. The souq is fascinating, gritty alive and real while camel meat festers in the sun. Meanwhile the ‘Inchallah’ school of driving has taken over. The men sport Kaftan’s walking in the street and are not as warm and friendly as their Turkish neighbors, there is a slight edginess here in comparison to Istanbul or a large city to the west. There is more dirt, more life here and the message is clear to me ‘Englishman, you are Welcome in my Syria. Welcome! Welcome! Welcome…and fuck George Bush’.