The road to Syria

You might not have heard from me for a long time. Maybe you did. But now, at last, I've got something to tell you.

I'm travelling again. After an amazing trip last year through Europe, the Caucasus, Central Asia, Siberia, Russia and a lot more of Europe I had to get back to school for three months, split up by a short trip to Russia and Ukraine, before I could continue my real life again. And now I am. Better said: I AM. Right now I'm on a two months trip to Syria and Jordan. After I'll return to my hollow existence for one month. But then... Just more travelling up to January. That is, if everything goes according to plan. As if I have a plan. Probably not having a plan is the best thing I can do for now. Just go with the flow. That's how I want to live.

The road to Syria was as short as I expected. I guessed it could be done in seven days. Now you might think that it shouldn't take more than ten hours, to go from the Netherlands to Syria. By plane, yes. But hitch-hiking, or more internationally by 'autostop', it takes about a week. If you take your time. I bet it could be done in about five days if you would really push your luck and don't bother sleeping at night. But I took the long way, driving with a Macedonian guy from Nurnberg in Germany to his capital Skopje. We didn't take the easy way though. He was importing his car from Belgium out of the European Union into Balkanian Macedonia. After crossing Austria and Slovenia the Croats didn't want to let us in because of his transit license plate. They insisted we had to enter Serbia from Hungary. Nothing could be done to avoid this, so of we went. I guided my driver through lovely southern Hungary, till we reached the border crossing point. We got blasted. The Hungarians didn't want to let us out... We tried twice at the first site, went to another crossing to find out it was closed and then, on our way to the third one nearby Szeged, a storm came up causing a tree to fall down right before our vehicle. With the tail between our legs (is that a Dutch expression?) we returned to ground zero. Next morning the storm had cleared. We arrived at the third border crossing, bribed ourselves out of the European Union into Serbia and drove off to his homeland.
There he bought me two big tasty hamburgers before he left me under the bridge downtown. I stayed in Macedonia for a mere 24 hours, being hosted by a couple who had picked me up from some gas station late at night. In Bulgaria I crossed the southern mountain range, in Istanbul I visited a friend and nearby Ankara an employee from the petrolstation offered me his car to spend the night in. After a few hours of Capadocia I made my way to Antiochia, where a family at the mediterranean helped me out, feeding me with olives and Middle Eastern bread; a good introduction to Syria.

The first two days in Syria were amazing. The people are incredibly hospitable. The first night I just said 'good evening' to a man walking along the street in his village. A few minutes later I found myself served in his house, entertained by the masculine part of the family and enjoyed with internet connection; one of the main necessities in life. In my life at least. They invited me to return to them the next day, but when I intended after a daytrip to some ancient Roman villages the man on the motorcycle, who drove me to the highway, changed my mind. I stayed at his place instead, meeting his family and his traditions. Once again Syrian hospitality surrounded me. These people are great.

In Aleppo I visited my first refugee camp. That's why I travelled to this region in the first place: to visit Palestinian refugees. So I took a taxi to the right busstop, got ripped of, jumped in the bus and went out of town. After a kilometer or two of cultivated land the minibus drove through a gate with a Syrian and a Palestinian flag painted above it. Inside were more flags and pro-Palestinian signs. For a moment I wondered: 'why did I come here?' but this I found out soon. After passing the 'camp' by bus I walked back to the outermost street, which I turned in. At the end of the street two man were drinking their precious and highly sugarated tea. After having a chat with them one of them let his son bring me to an English speaking guy. His aunts served me a good meal before we went out to have a tour around the camp. It was quite a pleasure to be there. I would say it's a cosy place. Children were playing soccer in the streets. Families, couples and groups of friends walked and took a rest in what they call their park, around the railroad, which they use as their mainpath. Virtually all of them have been refugees for all their lifes, waiting for the moment of return to a country they only heard of on school, from their parents and grandparents and from the banners spread around the camp.
That's rather peculiar. Posters and banners are ubiquitous. These people, just as hospitable as the Turkish and the Syrians (and I can assure you: that is very hospitable,) live their lives in a district overshadowed by texts like "The sun rises from the arms of resistance" and other pro-agressive texts. What a contrast! How can this problem ever be solved? Will I live long enough to find out? Or will it be eternal?

I hope to get deeper insight in this issue soonish.


Enjoy everything you're doing. Let me know about it, if you're up to!

Email to friends, May 2010