You Have Not a Leg to Stand On (12 page)

After a few days, we tore ourselves away from this enticing city and made our way to another lovely city, Beirut, the capital of the Lebanon. It's hardly possible to reconcile the city now and the city then. I haven't been back since we were there in 1965, but the newsreel footage and journalist-word-painting, depict it as a comparable hellhole. My father would describe to me the attractiveness, the interest, the pleasure that was Mogadishu in Somalia. Antique shops full of beautiful furniture, pictures, and jewellery, restaurants with all manner of food, one after another, along the seafront. Beirut became a similar contradiction.

Our campsite, called Aamchit, a mile or two north of the city, was beautifully positioned on a rocky outcrop on the edge of the Mediterranean. I've tried to look for it on Google Earth, but it no longer exists as a campsite, the position would now be too valuable. The facilities all beautifully clean, even hot water in the showers, and the restaurant serving delicious cheap food, making it unnecessary to prepare our own. Beirut itself was a beautiful vibrant, but calm city. We wandered about, stopping at street cafes whenever we wished, ambling through the old town, winding our way along narrow, fascinating little streets, filled with every manner of shops you can envisage. Every doorway offered a warm, friendly, smiling, welcoming face, inviting us in for a glass of tea and a chat. If we didn't want to buy anything, there was never any pressure to do so. They, in their turn, were amazed to hear we'd left Mombasa harbour and were driving all the way back from Kuwait to London. Other days we just stayed at our campsite, sunbathing on the flat-topped rocks and diving into the crystal clear, azure blue, Mediterranean Sea to cool off. Inevitably, if Honey ever made the mistake of swimming on her own, within a blink of an eye, as if from nowhere, a slinky motor launch would silently sidle alongside and she'd be invited aboard for a drink. All the well bronzed men, in their early forties, with black, greased-back hair, with a hint of grey at the temples, never seemed to mind very much when she accepted, but only if her friends could come aboard with her. Many a pleasant afternoon, after a Lebanese Mezze lunch, swilled down with a cold bottle of local dry white wine, was spent aboard very expensive motor launches. We visited all the places you'd expect should be visited; The Cedars of Lebanon, the ancient columns of Baalbek, Byblos, and further up the coast, beautiful long white beaches, nothing like it is today. The vineyards, the mountains, the Sea, Lebanon is such a beautiful country. Only three tiny months later, after the Six-day-War, did the illusion of calm, throughout the Middle East, begin to erupt into the seething caldron of hatred and destruction that is the whole of the Middle East today. We were caught up in the illusion of calm and stayed too long indulging in the tranquillity and ease of life in which we, so unexpectedly, found ourselves. Our indulgence was compounded by the two weeks of enforced quarantine on the two borders, into Jordan and Syria. We wouldn't pay for the mistake for another six weeks or so, when trying to cross the Austrian Alps on one of the highest, smallest passes, in six feet of snow. Our car had no heating, and was built for hot, African dusty roads! If we had known, I don't think we would have been able to tear ourselves away anyway. After all, everything we were doing, from the day we left Mombasa harbour, was a one-off, so all we experienced was to be savoured and made the very most of.

After a few more days we were ready to set forth. It felt as though we were leaving home, starting afresh. We drove north in the car which had been packed with all we might need for any more enforced lengthy stays at other border crossings. We reluctantly left the prettiest, warmest most pleasant people of all the countries we'd been through so far, and crossed the border back into Syria.

Without thinking about it, I'd done all the driving so far. It was never tiring because we never had to hurry to be anywhere in particular at any particular time. In retrospect, that whole trip, except for the last two days, from Hamburg to London, must have been the most trouble free four months I've ever had, for almost my entire life. Only now, as I write this in my seventy-first year, am I, once again, at peace in myself and in my surroundings. But getting here was to be a tortuous journey. A journey an awful lot of people throughout the world must despairingly, have to suffer. I've suddenly jumped a long way ahead. So back to driving, unhurriedly, through the villages of Syria, waving to smiling faces, stopping for coffees and our morning prepared lunches, there wasn't a worry in the world. How wrong we were and how terrifyingly different it is now. We stopped and pitched our tent in the friendly little city of Homs and then in Aleppo.

We're not shown, on any of the newsflashes on the television about the war in Syria, what the centres of the cities look like. If the devastation wrought upon the outskirts is anything to go by, those cities will have to be completely rebuilt. And I don't think that will happen in our lifetime. I suppose there must have been an undercurrent of unrest wherever we went, but as young travellers, we weren't aware of the awfulness that was to befall those lovely Middle Eastern countries, as we so contentedly meandered through them.

Honey had a contact in the British Embassy in Ankara in Turkey, so that was a vague goal. It took a few days of zigzagging about from the border with Syria, but we found ourselves arriving quite late one evening in the outskirts of Ankara. We tried to make it a rule not to arrive after dark at any destination and try to find somewhere to pitch our tent. But this time, as with quite a few other times, we were again looking for the campsite well after dark. Needless to say, we couldn't find it. Searching about, lost, we came across a deserted, derelict building site. We forced our way in through padlocked gates by taking one side off its hinges. We found an ideal spot on one of the concrete floors covered by the next floor up, so we didn't have to erect our little tent. We looked out on to a pool of darkness with street lights shining in the distance. The daylight would bring us the view. We rolled out our sleeping bags and after a satisfying Turkish type supper cooked on our two-burner gas cooker, we climbed into them and went out for the count.

When I think back, living in this modern comfort everyone expects today, it seems extraordinary we should have chosen to put ourselves through such discomfort without a second thought of the danger that might have befallen us. At no point, during the four months we were travelling, pitching our tent anywhere at the end of the day, did we think we might be in any sort of danger.

The early morning sunlight brought us a splendid view of a well laid-out park of trees, running in avenues between man-made lakes with bright green mown lawns flowing down to the water's edge. The whole city stretched out beyond. We silently stared out, open-mouthed. We looked at each other and smiled.

Honey's Ambassador invited us to dinner. All very smart, everything you'd expect from somebody in that position. Although it was only a relatively short time since we'd left our homes, we'd got used to the standard of living into which we'd put ourselves, due to our limited budget. So the difference between ‘us-and-them' was very accentuated and made for interesting discussion, not with them, but later on between ourselves. We told them about our beautiful view on waking up, but we refrained from telling them about our actual choice of living arrangements. The evening flowed along very smoothly, the conversation never flagged, they were, after all, real pros, entertaining is part of the brief. But by the end of the evening, when we shook hands to say goodbye, I think we left a very baffled couple.

I regret not visiting any of the little towns and villages along the Black Sea, but Honey had done a lot of reading about the ancient city of Ephesus so was eagerly awaiting our arrival there. In fact, ever since crossing the border into Turkey, she could hardly talk about anything else. So we wound our way south-west and, this time, arriving before darkness engulfed, we found the campsite.

I must say it was intriguing, no, much more than intriguing, staggering, or any other superlative you can come up with. How such a city could even be conceived such a long time ago, especially when now, with all our modern technology, we surround something like that, with dreadful concrete blocks. They have no merit, no sense of history, no design, nothing commendable in any way. It's as though we've taken a step into darkness and we're still falling. I suppose it could be said, that now, nearly fifty years later, our sense of design, in a very broad sense, is beginning to formulate itself again. We do sometimes build things of wonder. But not entire cities. I'm sure the people living in the Ephesus then, would have thought their city was something worthy of wonder.

There weren't many people wandering about. Looking at the photographs we took then, we were the only ones in them. While walking about within the whole site we couldn't say much to each other, there seemed to be an immense enveloping presence. Even back at the campsite, we quietly went about our duties, preparing and cooking our food, laying out the sleeping bags, washing and soundly sleeping, waking at the crack of dawn.

Istanbul. What a city. The sprawl around all cities wasn't so prominent a feature at that time. I don't really remember it spoiling the enjoyment and excitement of our arrival at such an historical, beautiful, yet modern and vibrant a city. The traffic wasn't too heavy, so we could easily dawdle about, without being hooted at too much, wondering at all the sites without worrying if we were lost, which of course we were.

The campsite turned out to be some miles from the city centre, but well laid-out with good amenities and a cheap restaurant. We settled in very easily and quickly and as was the norm by now, our fellow-travellers were immediately friendly and communicative, swapping stories and describing places they'd been. We were advised to dispense with the car for going in and out of the city, and instead to use the local yellow taxis, which were far more cost-effective. You'd stand on any main road and flag one down and if they had any room they'd stop and we'd squeeze in. We could then get out anywhere along their route, which depended on where the furthest passenger wanted to go; in turn our route might become the furthest, so we'd each have to pay accordingly.

There was so much to see and do. If we'd suddenly been given the opportunity to stay six months in or around that city, I think we'd have jumped at it. The Topkapi Palace, The Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, all so magnificent, majestic, astounding in their very concept. But the place we enjoyed the most, because of its vibrancy and essence of thrumming life, was the Grand Bazaar. It drew us back on a number of occasions. But the outstanding memory, apart from little trinkets we still have, were the great cauldrons of steaming Turkish peasant foods lined up along the walls of the entrance to the Bazaar. We were always hungry and so the tastes and smells and sheer deliciousness of the contents of those cauldrons, remain with me to this day. Tastes and smells are so evocative they take you back and forth in an instant.

Another time, in another life, my Sister and I were in Paris together, with no money. Not just a tiny amount of money, I mean no money and we didn't speak any useful French to get some work. It seemed our only option was to write home to say we were starving. I think my father would have said, ‘I've been starving hungry and I had no one to turn to, so let them work it out for themselves. My mother immediately sent us enough money to at least eat for a few days, and for me to get back to London. The smell of that plate of the cheapest food we could find, will be in my senses forever.

We weren't at that stage yet, but the very cheapest option always had to be the final choice. Sometimes it was very difficult to decide which of the cheapest options to choose, presuming we'd never be in this particular position again. So here, our choice was something the local residents took for granted. We hopped on to the ferry that ploughed up and down the Bosporus from the city to the Black Sea. We stayed on-board at each destination going back and forth three or four times. As long as we stayed on-board we didn't have to pay again. The ticket collector laughed, ‘Not you three again, but we like it that you like us so much.'

It was with heavy hearts we reluctantly began to realise we must be on the move again. Although we still had a long way to go, I think we all sensed, when leaving Istanbul, it would be the beginning of the end of our lackadaisical travelling. Packing up the car was a laborious business. It had never been a chore before, and it took the whole day. To give ourselves a bit of a lift, we decided to squeeze ourselves into one of those yellow cabs, and go back to the entrance to the Grand Bazaar. We'd have a delicious supper, one more time, from those steaming, bubbling cauldrons lined against the wall on the way in. There was never any chance of wine or even beer, a huge factor now, and bottled water had yet to flood into all our lives. The only thing we ever drank, away from our little tent, was scalding hot tea.

Early the following morning we shook hands with our fellow-travellers and wished each other well for the remainder of our journeys. Some had a long, long way to go, not planning to stop for another year or so.

For us though, crossing the Turkish border into Northern Greece was an emotional moment. We turned off the main road and drove to the top of a hill. I stopped the engine. We got out and silently stood, looking back at Turkey, and brought to mind all we'd done in only the past three months. Now, as I write this, fifty years later, trawling my memory banks, I cannot recall a harsh word ever spoken between us. And as far as C's parents were concerned, Honey was the most vigilant of chaperones.

How it was possible for the three of us to live so intimately, for more than three months, with not a harsh word spoken, in such a confined space for all that time, I really don't know. It's not as though we were the same in any way. Our backgrounds, our upbringings were all completely different. It might have been because we were so fond of one another, or it might have been for fear of the consequences of not getting along. Whichever it was, we stood quietly, leaning up against our faithful little Toyota Corona Estate, with hundreds of thousands of miles on the clock. We looked back into the misty haze of Turkey, and earlier, since leaving the port of Mombasa, and smiled at each other with a sense of achievement. Ideally, the whole trip should have ended here. Not that the possibility of doing so even entered our minds, but the Middle East and Europe are so different, each are separate entities to be appreciated in their own right.