Posted 18 Nov 2008 — by sarah
Category Journeys
A minibus is the morning service to Aleppo for about eight of us.
Rusty barbed wire and shiny new razor wire appear as we get closer to the border. Forty Turkish lorries are queueing to get through customs checks.
We get through the Turkish side fine, then I start to worry about the Syrian side. I have my visa pasted firmly into my passport, stamped and signed. The sticking point is it’s a tourist visa and was tricky to get because they wanted to give me a journalist one. It has occupation written on it so I hope it works.
The Syrian immigration hall runs on a helpful triage system of ‘Syrian’, ‘Arab’ and ‘Foreign’. I make my best guess and choose ‘Foreign’.
Three military, one with pips, look at my passport for ages. They type something into the computer, then they call over someone else.
He picks up the computer keyboard and shakes out the dirt before fiddling with the one key that won’t depress properly.
They get a colleague to stamp my passport and I’m through, back onto the minibus and heading through the dust to Aleppo.
Posted 12 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
At the Syrian Embassy I ask to see the Ambassador.
‘About what?’
‘A visa. It’s coming from London.’
They tell me I must pay again in Budapest. They explain the thinking behind the charges applied to citizens from different countries.
‘Americans pay around sixty pounds because it’s a rich country.’
‘Maybe not for much longer’ I observe. Things start to go more smoothly. I hand over the money.
‘Visa ready in a moment – a moment and half an hour. It’s a Syrian expression.’
A moment and two hours later I leave, my passport resplendent with a pale blue border pass showing an image of the ruins at Palmyra.
Posted 11 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
On the train to Budapest, my phone lights up and switches to the T-mobile Hungary network. No one’s asked for my papers so it’s the only way I know for sure we’ve crossed the border.
A woman sits down opposite. Because her outfit is of shiny, black, synthetic fabric and round metal studs on jeans, boots and bag, I think how typically eastern European she looks.
We pass wind turbines, their blades disappearing into the mist at the highest point of their rotation.
T-mobile beeps through a text message. It’s the Syrians. I should be able to pick up my visa in Budapest.
Posted 31 Oct 2008 — by sarah
Category Journeys
My passport is with the Syrian Embassy. I have every faith and confidence it’ll be back in my hands by the time I’m standing at St Pancras station ready to board the Eurostar and track Damacus-wards. It is a worry though. I left it a bit late to apply.
But passports are only paper, a representation of a bigger system breathing away in the background – like money or blogs.