It wasn't a surf trip. I knew this before we set off, but it was going to
be about 25,000km and nearly a year before I was going to catch up with my
boards that I'd left at a mates in Singapore, so I snuck one in. Of course I
did, it might not have been a surf trip but we were going through eighteen
countries to get from England to Australia and there was room in the car. I
wasn't expecting my first fix of saltwater to be such a drama though.
Ten countries ticked off and I was already hanging for a surf. We'd just
got to Syria after being kicked back by Iran and having to resort to plan B,
actually, having to invent plan B. We were fraught and a bit fed up. A fix of
sea air and all the associated positive ions was needed. They do have beaches
in Syria; they have a massive 60km of coastline that sits on the Med. So we set
off from Aleppo for what we thought would be an afternoon’s drive to the beach.
The motorway and its associated Deathrace2000 style driving got us to the foot
of the Mountains that parallel the coast with unexpected haste, but by the time
we traversed the winding roads we realised we were pushing it to get there
before dark. We should've stopped. It's always our rule not to drive at night
in a foreign country. It was pitch black when we got there.
Trying to find a free-camp to pop up a roof tent is a challenge in the
daytime but at night it makes it all that much harder. All we needed was access
onto a beach, we had four wheel drive. After much fruitless searching we at
last spotted a track heading down between the trees in the direction of the beach.
It was looking like a winner. But after 500m we come across a chain across it.
It's really not worth risking it so I slid the shift into reverse. This is
where it all went tits up.
Occasionally there are things that you see with your eyes that sometimes
your brain needs a moment to process. Some of them take your breath away for
all the right reasons, like seeing the Taj Mahal or Carroll's snap at Pipe in
'91, but a teenager in combats with cammo paint on his face and the biggest
machine gun he could possibly carry running at the car with the barrel pointing
straight at us shouting in Arabic at the top of his voice, was not one I want
to happen again. His teeth were the brightest thing about him being massively
illuminated by our two huge spotlights. His aim was firmly at my wife sat in
the passengers seat. Of course it was, we were in a Right hand drive
Landcruiser in a Left hand drive country. He thought she was
behind the wheel. He didn't even know she was a she. He couldn't see fuck all
'cos I was blinding him.
My brain was catching up now and I killed the lights and grabbed a torch
which I frantically played between my wife and I, the boy soldier hadn't
stopped screaming, more of them started appearing from the bushes all running,
all carrying guns, and all apparently in their teens. One of them was obviously
slightly more in charge than the rest and came to the passenger window. I tried
to point out that I was driving but they seemed happy hanging out near the
blonde blue eyed side. The original mini militia had calmed down a bit and I
tried at this point to say sorry and put the car in reverse. Bad move. Twelve
people screaming and pointing guns at us. I turned the engine off.
Whether or not Red Bull or the Bolivian government sponsor the Syrian army
is hard to call but that they had been partaking in one or the other in huge
quantities was a given. They were fucking wired, off their collective tit's,
not only on whatever they took to stay awake but also the adrenalin coursing
through them, delivered courtesy of two potential spies in their LandCruiser
trying to backdoor their army barracks. An hour later and their officer turns
up. He's twenty max and he's sweating, has palpitations and eyes bigger than
the supermoon. He agrees to look at our photos and seems to understand that
we're something he's probably never encountered before.. tourists. Another hour
of idle banter is a challenge with neither of us speaking each other’s language
but it doesn't deter him.
Eventually at about one o'clock in the morning we waved good bye to the
underage commandos and followed a rough sketch that the space Captain had drawn
us. It took us to a rocky beach that we could drive onto and park up with the
sound of a contented sea slapping at the rocks to lull us to sleep. But hang on
what's this, who are these two blokes that have come out of the dark and are
heading towards us. I'm not even friggin kidding. Plain clothed police. I asked
them for I.D., they showed me their guns. I believed them. It was obvious sleep
was still some way off. A protracted conversation and many mobile phone calls
later and they eventually conceded we were not providing laser targeting or
photographing anything. As dawn arrived they left and we slept, on the beach
with permission from the police. My wife cried uncontrollably with shock and
relief. I can't even think of the horrors she'd imagined might happen.
The sunrise soon convinced us it was time to move on and we packed up and
drove down the coast. Almost every kilometre along the whole 60km's was a
military installation of some kind. Rocket launchers permanently manned were
about every 3km. Not the nicest stretch of coast I've ever driven down if I'm
honest, but.. There was without a doubt a bit of wind swell. Around the next
bend a small bay opened out, a few families BBQ-ing in their chadors and
burkhars and me dusting off my board and jumping in to hit a little wedge in
the middle of the bay. It was tiny, it was gutless, it was onshore but by
fucking Christ it was surfing. Strange looks aside I had a blast and hoped I'd
surfed away enough of the last 24hrs for both of us.
