Day 32 18 miles 10th April
Our guide, Mohammed meets us at 9.00am. He is a studious, in his early 60’s and is a man of few words. He has a script and we are required to keep to it. The ruins of Palmyra date from the early period after Christ and are spectacular. The site is extensive and in many areas largely intact, with temples, colonnades, shops and tombs, even an amphitheatre, all scattered over a landscape which blends into the honey coloured rock of the surrounding hills. We amble through Hadrian’s gate and along a 1.5k colonnaded street towards the main crossroads of the city. To the left is the forum, to the right the baths. Mohammed takes us through the familiar routine of pipe work, inscriptions in Greek and Aramaic, fragments of marble and distinction between Doric, Corinthian and….columns. There are few people about and we cross the road into the huge Temple of Bel. It is a similar size to the Omayed Mosque in Damascus and even in its fragmentary state is overwhelming. Nevertheless I feel a slight sense of disappointment as I realise how much of the central ruins have been reconstructed – is this a pastiche? Probably a bit unfair but this is a monument that carries an awesome reputation and I still haven’t quite got it. We say goodbye to the guide but return in the late afternoon. The world has changed. The site is completely empty of people and as the light slants in from the south west, the magic seeps into me. I sit high above the city, windswept atop the ruin of Diocletian’s military camp and see the shadows lengthen, column after column through this once mighty outpost of the Roman Empire. This was even a major entrepot on the Silk Road but unlike Aleppo could not maintain its role as the shifting sands moved trade to easier routes. The city died only slowly, but its poverty left a dowry for this 20/21 century world. Almost uniquely, a large city from ancient times lies ready to be reconstructed. Within a hundred years from now, Palmyra will be rebuilt; probably the only place on earth other than Pompeii where it will be possible to see Rome in its original splendour. That is why Palmyra is so different. If it is pastiche it is only a stepping stone to reconstruction. We leave Syria tomorrow.
Day 33 310 miles 11th April
Your correspondent is reporting in from a hotel in a dusty little town called Al Raqqah. We are safely, if not comfortably established in a 2 bedroom suite bedecked with neon and nylon at the strangely named Lazardhouse Hotel. It sounds a bit like that, I promise. We have driven across the desert north of Palmyra, through darkening clouds and sand filled winds. After a couple of hours alternating between tarmac and bone crunching gravel potholes, we see in the middle of empty desert, the walls of a city appearing. A cold beer stop? The walls are studded with defensive towers but irregular gaps, like broken teeth spoke of a ruined city – nothing alive today. Rasafa was abandoned in the 13th C. It had been founded by the Romans in a similar period to Palmyra and had become an important trading city for the Byzantine Empire. It had even propagated its own saint. Today, it is just walls and inside the skeleton of its great basilica. No memories, no carefully excavated buildings – just the haphazard, pockmarked diggings of tomb robbers chasing the booty from an earlier generation. This was a ruin in the raw. No coaches, no guidebooks, no easy explanations. Just another silk road city abandoned when its natural span was reached. Further north we reached the dam over the Euphrates which has created the Assad Lake and at a stroke solved the issue of generating capacity for Syria for the time being. Security is tight and for the fist time we are checked at a military guard post before we cross the dam. A few phone calls and we are through. We are now squarely in the cradle of the development of farming and the land around us has greened up in recognition. Now the goats are restricted to the road verges where the land belongs to all. In the desert, by contrast, flocks are scattered along with Bedouin tents wherever there is a prospect of sustenance.
Time for our lunch and things are not looking good. We drive down to the lake and see a sign which includes the word – restorant- there seems to be nothing there. But amazingly a beer appears, then meze, followed by grilled fish….a feast by the sweet water of Assad’s Lake. It takes us a contented couple of hours to reach the border with Turkey at Tel Abaid. We arrive at 4.30pm and of course it is closed. So 60 miles back to Al Raqqah and here we are in the Lazardhouse reminiscent of a Bournemouth boarding house of the 1950’s. Happily it was opposite the Karnak Hotel our original target from our Lonely Planet book which turns out to have been closed for the last couple of years and therefore unavailable to the passing tourist. I get the feeling that we are thin on the ground in this part of the country.
Day 34 108 miles 12th April
Today we pass through the border from the axis of evil to a trusted ally, member of NATO and prospective member of the EU. As expected the contrast between the two is dramatic and revealing. We arrive at the Syrian border to be greeted by the guards with apologetic smiles and handshakes. They remain embarrassed at having turned us away yesterday evening. We are ushered into the office and tea is instantly provided. Eventually a computer is fired up and our exit details input, then with smiles and handshakes all round we are sent down to the customs just in front of the border gate. For a moment, they seem to want us to drive straight through but I want my carnet signed out (prove that we have exported a car) so I demand attention. This causes flurry of excitement and action which includes a request that we open the boot and a question mark as to whether we have overrun our diesel voucher period. It blows over pretty quickly and there is no search and despite our bulging tanks including a couple of jerry cans straining their fixings on the roof, we sail off through the gate into Turkey. Interestingly the coiled barbed wire is on this side, Syrian defences would not have troubled a sheep. It doesn’t take Turkish customs long to realise that we have the potential to be an international smuggling gang. The plain clothed agent removes everything from the car, searches all the suitcases, checks that the car corresponds with its documents and then searches the underside. Down come the jerry cans and we are informed that we are not allowed to bring their contents into the country – about 40 litres of diesel. A spirited debate not involving us results in the cans going back on the roof and we are then waived through, with passports stamped and car import papers in our hands. The barrier is raised and we roll forward twenty yards and are faced with another barrier. Documents are checked, calls are made and we move forward, round a corner and meet another barrier – this one manned by armed military. Strangely one of the sentry’s addresses Jules in Russian, thereby showing an amazing ability to see through his urbane investment banking exterior directly to his Slavic roots. Alternatively, it might have been the Russian visa. We are waived through and as we cruise thirty kilometres up to Saniurfa passing several military barracks and a succession of polis cars and Jandamerie checkpoints.
We find the Harran Hotel a highly recommended 4* for £25 per night if you happen to be passing and wander up to the citadel from which Abraham was blasted by a giant spout of water which spared him immolation at he hands of King Nimrod, peeved by the prophet’s insistence on the creed of a single God. Happily, Abraham survived the fall from the Citadel and his touch down is permanently commemorated in rose gardens and two ponds stuffed with overweight carp in a park below.
Later, having established that the market here had little that would be of interest to weary travellers, the issue of dinner arises. We find that we have the Konya problem once more. Many restaurants – no booze, so it is back to the Harran and a restaurant that we share with small groups of raki drinking men – a crooner included. In many ways this is more foreign than Syria.
Day35 224 miles 13th April
A day of superlatives. We head off into the Taurus mountains to find the fabled Nemrut Dagi. We pass Septimius Severus’s bridge over the Euphrates and then climb up a precipitous semi-tarmaced road to 7,500 feet to a completely empty and barren car park with a small bar. From here it a 30 minute walk up to the monuments perched precariously just below the summit at 7,700ft. First we stride on confidently, but the last couple of hundred yards we edge along a very steep ridge of loose stone chips, with a threatening slab of almost melted snow above us. Then we come upon the Eastern Terrace. 40 feet square it stands like a stage looking out to the east, over snow capped peaks and valleys, flashing with dancing water, amidst the early green of the Anatolian spring below. Turn and face back into the mountain and directly below the pointed stone chip summit – barely 200ft above – stands a row of headless statues. Each is at least ten feet high and below each one, neatly aligned is a head. It is Easter Island moved to the heavens. It is difficult to describe the feeling of awe that is created by such an unexpected marvel of human imagination and strength. By defying the forces of gravity to this degree, King Antiochus sought to demonstrate that his small state of Commagene was a partner and equal to Rome and Parthia. Of all the monuments left in this ancient landscape, his is the one that has stood the test of time – hardly changed from the day that he called the labourers off this mountain peak. We circle round to the western platform across a couple f hundred yards of deep hard packed snow of the north facing slope and once again confront an astonishing scene of heads, perfectly carved – 10ft in height littered on their snow covered platform. As we start our unsteady descent, the clouds move in. This can be an unforgiving place for the unwary. Happily the bar serves beer and snacks are served, so after reprovisioning, we head back down to pick up the road to Diyarbakir, one hundred miles to the east. We travel through stunning scenery on good roads with the sun on our backs. The music is thumping, this is true road trip – and then the road just stops at a small jetty and we are brought back to earth. Happily a small ferry arrives after an hour and a half and we share the short crossing with several rather senile aggregate lorries, whose loading cause the ferry to dip and sway alarmingly. Off again and we climb up onto a barren rock strewn plateau for the final part of the run into Diyarbakir. This desolate area is a field of basalt rocks ejected from ancient volcanoes, which has left the land scarred and sad. This mood is reflected in the walls of Diyarbakir, high and basalt black. They surround the Old City and are a constant reminder that this place was at the centre of Kurdish resistance and the PKK. Until 10 years ago, the troubles were very real – up to 30,000 people were killed in the preceding 20 years. We were reminded of this later, high on the city wall when approached by an old Kurd, who establishing that we were British railed at our perfidiousness for overseeing the Treaty of Lausanne which established the modern borders of Turkey after the First World War. It was this event that failed to recognise the aspirations of the Kurds for a nation state. And all this was delivered in Kurdish or Turkish. It was easy to understand, given the passion and bitterness of our interlocutor.
Day 36 8 miles 14th April
We are staying in another historic hotel which is only just surviving on its reputation from better days. It is an old caravanserai, also built from the unpromising local basalt stone. The drabness is given relief by the use of white limestone for contrast, but the similarity of basalt to breeze block seems to be appropriate in an establishment so close in style to our Fawlty Towers. We have our joint worst meal of the trip in its beautiful faded courtyard. Waiters dash from place to place looking increasingly harassed as they attempt to serve the only three tables with guests from the forty or fifty which would represent capacity. The menu is proffered but it becomes clear that there are only two choices available. No one can be found who can translate one of the choices, so we are left with the “mixed grill” - the worst ever. Jules presumes that the evil smell from the kepab indicates that it is camel – I am equally convinced that the explanation is more sinister and don’t touch it. It gets stranger. Staff demand tips for the smallest service, nothing works and in this hotel of 50 rooms or more there are no guests. We become so desperate that the evening is spent planning a strategic retreat back to Istanbul for the weekend to recharge the batteries before Iran, but we are stymied by Easter and the influx of Brits who have filled all the hotels in our guidebook so we are left in the Marie Celeste and we are here for two nights. This, because the trusty Toyota needs a well deserved service, so off I go at 9.00am full of hope for an hour or so reading my book and then returning with a pristine vehicle. This is not to be, for contrary to the assurances of the UK garage that prepped the car, we have a wheel bearing problem. The mechanics clearly have not had the opportunity to work on an Amazon and there is considerable competition to be involved. At one point there are six mechanics and a supervisor on the job. It looks like the pits at Monaco. Despite this, it is a slow process because the bearings have to be stripped and repaired manually. I am invited to the works canteen which provides considerably better food than the hotel. For a moment, I am a local celebrity – analogous to arriving at Porsche Southampton in a 959. For five hours in the workshop including parts it comes to £125 and lunch is included. A bargain…well done Toyota. This evening and in desperation, we follow the advice of a fellow guest and try a restaurant in the new town near the university. Excellent and we both feel better after a trying day.
Day 37 240miles 15th April
We leave Diyarbakir and after visiting its 11th C bridge over the Tigris just outside the city walls, we head east again towards Van. By lunchtime, we have made it to a small town – Biklis and we buy a few provisions and head off for a picnic. It is high and cold here and there is plenty of snow on the ground. We cross a pass at 2400 metres and are stopped at one of the many military checkpoints. They seem most interested in the lorries travelling westward and we quickly get through. There are forty lorries waiting on the other side. The level of military activity is pretty intense. We pass at least a dozen armoured personnel carriers as we head over the mountains before Van as well as a series of military and Jandameri barracks. This area has a history of turmoil with the expulsion of the Armenians in the early part of the last century, problems with Kurdish independent movements in the 1980’s and 90’s and more recently, Islamic terrorism. The city itself is pretty unremarkable, but on a Saturday evening was bustling with shoppers and surprisingly they included quite a high proportion of younger, unveiled women. The world is clearly changing, even at this far, far eastern extremity of Turkey.
Day 38 138miles 16th April
A day of sightseeing around Van is planned. We decide to switch hotels and move from city centre to a lakeside spot, 10k out of town. So this evening I am writing the blog as the rain pours down and the wind whistles by. There are four key site in the area: the Rock and Castle of Van, the Hosap Castle built by the Kurds in the 17th C, the Uratean stronghold at Cavustepe dating from 700BC and the Island and Armenian church at Akdamar. First stop is the Rock and Castle of Van. As we approach, we find the road closed with a resurfacing gang at work – two at work and 9 or 10 performing the key function of observer. So we find a hole in the fence and climb up what appears to be a direct route. Eventually we make it having made a couple of false starts and a final scrabble up a very steep and unauthorised opening into the castle complex. Once there, great views over the Lake and the ruins of the old city, which was destroyed by the Turks after the First Word War. Next stop Guzelu and the Kurdish fort about 50 miles towards the Iranian border. The road is carrying a huge volume of lorries and we snake out into the rather grim hinterland south east of Van. Military activity is very evident and as we drive down into Guzelu, the Fort is in front of us on a rocky escarpment. Below is a scruffy village, teaming with lorries and soldiers and rows of sad shops and quick bite stops on either side. We buy some bread tomatoes and cucumber and zip up to the fort full of hope. It is closed. We wander around its high walls and it looks very inviting. We ask on our return to the village and are told to inquire of the military. The soldiers say we need special permission and it will take a month to come through. So that is that and we head to the Uratean site at Cavustepe which is back towards Van and is on a steep, narrow hill above the road, giving it control of a strategic pass towards Persia. There is no-one there and we wander through the shattered ruins on the crest of the hill looking out on flat plains leading to snow capped mountains, all around. We head up to Akdamar about 25 miles along the south shore of Lake Van. We rent a boat and head out 3K to the small island on which this Armenian gem from the 10thC sits. The sky is brooding and grey, but the wind has dropped – so no white caps. The church sits on a platform above the water surrounded by cherry trees which are in blossom. The exterior walls have a reddish hue and are covered in confident carving of scenes from the gospels. The island is so isolated, that despite the huge changes in the fortunes of the Armenians in this region, time has treated Akdamar well. Sadly, a restoration job has closed the interior to visitors, so we have to clamber back on to our boat and leave this lonely spot.