The Ban Bus

The road out of Alexandroupolis is easy with good signage to the border. On the edge of town we try to fill with fuel and find they are putting industrial diesel into the van and not super grade diesel.

“Stop” says Davor. “Pull it out, this is no good. Where is other gas station?”

The dodgy Joe pump monkey avoids eye contact and suggests there either isn’t one or he doesn’t know.

“Bullshit, let’s go, oh, can’t pay with credit card, of course not.”

As soon as we pulled onto the highway we spot a few other gas station signs up ahead. The service is different in the BP with a young guy who was studying and spoke excellent English. He couldn’t have been more helpful if he tried.

The highway led us to the inevitable border crossings. First we had to get out of Greece. This normally is not too hard as they are happy to see you go. We passed this point quickly. As we drove slowly across no mans land we chanted to each other “You must pay! You must pay!” It was beginning to become a joke as to who would be messed about the most, Canadian, Norwegian or Australian. We pulled up at the border and handed over the documents. The official immediately began to paw through mine with great interest. I’m starting to feel like some kind of exotic species. After awhile, he passed them back and said “You must pay!” Mette as a Norwegian was stung with a bill for 20 euro. Daniel and me paid 15 euro each as Australians where Davor hit the jackpot with his Canadian passport at 45 euros. Try and work that sliding scale out for visas, we can’t. The paper chase began. Davor headed off with our passports to an office and paid the money then walked back to the window we had begun at. When he returned he said we all needed to be seen back at that window. Off we went with passports in hand and I passed mine through the window.

“You look like a German” he said to me.
“And you look like an Australian to me” say I.

He laughs and tried to make a joke about New Zealanders and the Haka. I stare dumbly back at him. That rained on his BBQ. He stamps my passport and processes the rest. We go back to the car and feel all is done so drive to the exit barrier.

“No no, number 2, number 2,” says the official pointing at us. Now I could do my old border party trick here and give him a number 2 but Davor decides we are a stamp short and backs the car back into no mans land. What the hell was number 2? We had passed a lazy official in another booth as we drove in and I walked around the back and saw it had a number 2 over it. I hand him my passport and he asks for more and I have no idea what he wants. I start looking about his desk and figure it’s something to do with the car. He needs to process it into Turkey.

Davor comes back with the papers and soon we have an extra stamp. Back in the car and back to the exit. Our official here is finally satisfied and raises the boom. Another border bites the dust. We are on our way to Istanbul.

A few lyrics roll around my head “Take me back to Constantinople, no you can’t go back to Constantinople now it’s Istanbul not Constantinople now in this city nothing ever works, that’s no bodies business but the Turks……”

The drive into Turkey does seem different to being in Greece and it’s not just because of the ever present minarets spiking out of the towns. There is something else and I can’t put my finger on it as for all intensive purposes there is not much to distinguish it from Europe.

Driving into Istanbul is a nightmare at the best of times. Driving in peak hour traffic is no task for the faint hearted. But driving into Istanbul at peak hour with no maps, an insane GPS and an inaccurate address for the hotel makes for a colourful end to the day. We have absolutely no idea where the hotel is, central or suburban, no idea. The only thing we do know is it’s near a place called Taksim Square. Just as we left Alexandroupoli I found an aerial photo of Taksim Square but couldn’t pull back to get the proper location. I could see about a one square km area and the hotel was marked there in the NE corner of the square. At least this might help if we got close.

The traffic was very heavy and staying in a lane seems to be an alien concept here. If there are four lanes then why not go eight or nine across the highway and exiting is easy too, just spin the wheel and go for it. What could possibly go wrong? As far as we were concerned, under these circumstances, quite a lot could end up in the shape of a pear. Davor drove on valiantly, dodging many a near miss. The GPS babbled aimlessly and we wondered how we were to find this mythical square till Davor swung into a truck stop to ask the drivers. Truck drivers are the font of all road knowledge all over the world and although there was no common language they were happy to help.

The drivers arm cuts the air, ‘that way, that way,’ fingers came up, ‘three km or so,’ arm slashes right, ‘exit right,’ fingers to eyes then point up,’ look for the signs. Pointing up the driver said “Taksim, Taksim”. Look for the signs from there. On the road again.

The directions were good and after a few more than said km’s we exited at a sign marked to Taksim. The traffic became crazier and denser and a few more stops to ask confirmed we were on the right road. The feeling we were close swelled over us and I turned my computer on to find the aerial photo.

Trees on our left, maybe, and a roundabout with double lane road each side and one feeding off to our left, the feeling of Déjà Vu crept over us. A Metro sign flashed by, ‘Taksim’, we had made it! Damn it, we hadn’t as we were flushed in the one way system and right out the other side again into traffic carnage and the heart of a city that never stops. So near but yet, so far. We needed to do a U turn and do one fast before we were dragged across the river and the game begins again.

Davor finds a gap in the central fence and swings us about into the path of the opposite traffic mayhem. It worked and we were heading back in the right direction. Daniel was in the front so he was thrust my computer and he had to get us to the hotel. Failure would have meant certain death for him so a rare mental focus came over his countenance. The traffic was nasty with mystery number of lanes heading into one and turning left. A crescendo of horns belched forth from the mobile symphonies brass section as we tried for top right corner of the square. Davor was a man possessed as he jammed and squeezed the Ban Bus on and on till finally just ahead we could see a small sign, ‘Gezi Hotel’. We had made it.