March 2017 | 161
Stage12
March 2017
In the evening I ' m invited to a CCSD party . The group are more like family than colleagues , and clearly care deeply for each other . Most have lost homes and loved ones , but the occasion is a happy ( if frustratingly sober ) one , filled with food , chain-smoking and communal singing and dancing . As a conga forms on the dance-floor , one young woman tells me about her escape from Syria . ' I hid in the car boot of a sheikh who was secretly helping the opposition ,' she says . ' He was taking a huge risk . Assad has killed all the opposition sheikhs .'
Later , to my horror , I am requested to sing an English song , and perplexingly find myself belting out that well-known Christian psalm ' I Will Survive '. Looking back , I ' m still not entirely sure how this came about – suffice to say that I , and the entire Syrian community , are unlikely to let it happen again anytime soon . I ' m here to build cultural bridges , I remind myself , not blow Gloria Gaynor-shaped holes in them .
Gaziantep proves so fascinating that I stay an extra two days and am forced to get a bus to Mersin , 300km away , in order to catch my ferry . Here , I stay with a half-German , 50-something , divorced food technology professor , N , whose current energies are heavily focused on creating purple dye from black carrots . She is dismayed by the rise in social conservatism among her students , she tells me . ' Women are more covered and the teaching is more religious than before . There ' s no mention at all of evolution .'
Since her divorce , N says she ' s experienced constant problems with men , who think she ' s ' fair game '. She ' s also had trouble with society more generally . ' Turks love visitors , but if you live here you have to fit in . As an atheist with lots of random cyclist guests , I don ' t fit the mould .'
It ' s a reminder that , as a mere passing hobo , my level of social insight will always be limited . I dip in and dip out , with no threat to custom or conformism . I cut deeper than the average Thomas Cook rubbernecker , perhaps , yet I ' m aware that much of what I see is performance ; a cloak of civility , where the ruts and rough edges are concealed .
On Dec 29 , I cycle 100km along the coast to Tasuçu – an easy , pleasant ride – where I pick up my ferry ticket to Tripoli , Lebanon . After enjoying a heartfelt valedictory kebab to say goodbye to a country I ' ve grown enormously fond of , I join about 30 people and their Kilamanjaro of luggage at the ferry office . We ' re then taken by truck to the dock , where we ' re herded through security into a series of prison-style compounds . My bike and panniers are waved through without checks ( terrorists take note ), and then my passport is confiscated by a guard . This to prevent those going to Syria from absconding in Lebanon , I learn . Instead , they will be driven directly to the border .
Lebanon ! Just eight hours later than scheduled