Turkey ... The Border Crossing

A short while after the Sofia debacle, the border appeared. Riding gingerly towards the border post, past numerous wagons that were lined up waiting their turn to cross, sparked what for me was becoming something of an enigma while travelling in this part of the world. Why were there always heaps of trucks waiting at the border, when I along with the other cars and buses are able to go straight to the front? It often occured, that the last hour or so's riding before hitting the border, it was a rarity to pass few if any trucks. And so too, would it be the same on the other side. You'd expect that we could overtake some trucks at least. But again it was proving to be a real rarity. The only explanation I can find, is that they're allowed through in convoy, either really early or late. One other possibility was that they were checked more thoroughy because of the possibility of contraband. It didn't seem to make much difference what time I arrived at the borders, there were always loads of lorries. And none of them ever seemed to go through. Anyone out there who knows the real reason? Answers on a post-card to ...

After being 'hit' for the cost of a green card at the Serbian border, decided to open my mind to the possibilty of other nasty surprises at this crossing. We were after all now at the outer limits of Europe. While Turkey remained a would-be EEC member, there were no guarantees. The Serbian beuracracy that raided my wallet could be viewed as a wake-up call, so fully intended to question everything twice, to try and ensure I don't fall foul of any scams. Things didn't start out too bad, and began working my way past a couple of border-post offices without too much difficulty.

It all changed though, when at the 3rd guard box, one of their number made me wait to have my luggage searched. I was directed to the side away from the queues of cars. Making some effort to be pro-active, took off the lids to both pannier boxes, removed the waterproof roll, dumped it on the deck and waited to find out if they wanted that opened too. By this time the sun was drilling holes in my skull, and when a border official started barking orders at me from a shady spot, found I was having to work hard to keep my patience. He continued his harrying tactics, but with some effort somehow managed to find my sense of humour again. Summoning my best smile, direct eye contact demanded his attention. Again he barked something in Turkish, so just raised my eyebrows and laughed back at him. An impatient hand-wave ... He was evidently telling me to open the panniers. Which I'd already done... It didn't look like he was going to make any effort to move, so walked over and squatted down right by the side of him and said, “Nice day for it ... eh?” This illicited a mumbled reply and prompted him to wander over to the bike, to discover I had in fact already complied with his request. Going through a mental list of apt Anglo-Saxon descriptions for this burlish chappie, kept me entertained and distracted from the by now oppressive heat. I finally decided on a nice simple 'Pillock', as I watched him going about his nosy business. I even asked him in a pleasant tone 'if he knew what a pillock was?' He largely ignored me and gave a cursory glance into one of the boxes, but grumbled something back in my direction. I continued to squat and stare, projecting my ability to wait him out. “GO!” accompanied another wave of the arm, and told me he'd finished playing his cat & mouse game. Just to make sure there was no mistake, I double checked by asking in a firm voice, “Customs finished?” He turned and pointed back to the guards box. “Moto papers”, which I guessed, meant I had to show them the bike's rego' document, for the 2nd time.

Hunting out the necessary piece of paper, put the lids back onto the panniers to stop any light-fingers helping themselves. Then wandered back to the guard-box for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Earlier in the process I'd been sent back to the previous station, to get the green-card (20 odd Euro's), and had also paid for the visa (another 12 Euro's), at that time they'd checked the rego' document too, so from what I could see everything had been checked and paid already. Again I prepared for another patient wait, but made sure I was blocking the door, so they couldn't ignore me as various uniformed and non-uniformed bodies filtered in and out. My turn eventually came, but instead of the rego' they asked for the passport, which duly received a stamp. Aha! Could this be my cue to go? Once more, experience tells me to check and double check, so immediatly ask the question. “Customs finished?” A clear affirmative comes back as a reply. And to really get confirmation, went straight to to the double-check using a mime of putting my passport into my pocket. A curt wave of his hand dismissed me. Right! 'That's good enough for me'. I'm off!

Something inside started to relax. The prospect of finally getting along my way, allowed the sensation of excessive heat to get through. I was glad to be packing up and would soon be moving, where the blessed wind could waft through the bike jacket vents and cool my by now over-heated body. With the thought that I'd soon get some relief, took my time to make sure all was packed securely. Just as I was mounting, another guy marched up with an officious manner. “Passport!” He demands. Big mistake mate, I thought. After playing their game for the past couple of hours, was in no mood to be delayed further. Not having any uniform or anything else obvious to identify him as an official, this guy was gonna wear it ... “Who are you?” I demanded, swinging my leg off of the bike to confront him. Two steps closer and I was in his face, right arm swivelling behind to get my passport out, and shove down his throat if necessary. He got the point as he was now back-peddling saying “Passport stamp?” in a weakening tone. By now have my document wallet in my hand in the act of extracting my passport with a flourish, ready to stick it under his nose. I go on and let-fly. “It's been stamped, checked, double-checked as have my bike papers, so before I let you have my passport, I want to know who the bloody hell you are?” The demand's firm enough for him to know I'm well p*ssed and mean business. Making off towards the guard's box, I beckoned him with a heavy-weight frown to follow. At which point he decides he's had enough. As I stare back with laser-like intensity, he veers off towards some nearby cars, saying “Okay ... You go!”, as his parting shot. Walking back to the bike I seem to have misplaced the relaxed approach, and ride off in a huff, explatatives about him being a 'Jumped up little Pr*ck' emenating from my helmet ...

I soon forget my annoyance and am glad to moving again. Air movement doing it's job and helping to bring my temper down, to be replaced by happy thoughts once more. A quick ETA calculation and the realisation hits me, that I can make Bandirma that night. It's not only expected that I'll meet up with my travel partner Bjorn there, but it also means a few days break and a chance to eat sleep and drink, as well as catch up with my emails. The thought cheers me further.