Chapter 4 - On to the Greek / Turkish border
I then returned by taxi to Eceabat and took a local bus to Kesan, 20L. My bus was a 40 seater but less than half full. I sat in the middle of the bus by myself on a window seat. We passed a couple of large army bases and at the second one, the bus picked up two soldiers.
One sat up front next to the young courier but the other guy looked around at the spare seats and sat down next to me.
One item I had read in Frommer’s Travel Guide was; Turks don’t chew gum, as we in the West, they eat peanuts. So I had bought a small packet of peanuts - (when in Rome).
This soldier began a conversation with me, which as it was in Turkish was somewhat one sided. Suddenly he offered me a peanut from a pack he had been holding. I took one, then thinking I should at least be sociable, offered him some of mine. He then began grinning and became extremely animated.
I became quite uncomfortable at this point, as I was unsure if the exchange of peanuts between males had some special social significance – like; did it mean we were now betrothed or something?
The young courier had been watching all this and noticed my extreme discomfort. He stalked down the aisle, roundly abused the soldier and made him go sit up front next to his colleague. Three cheers for Turkish bus couriers.
* * * *
At Kesan I boarded another bus which took me to the small town of Ipsala on the Turkish/Greek border, en route to Alexandroupoli in Greece. In fact the bus terminated about 10 km from the border.
The only transport available to get to the border was a clapped out VW Kombi already carrying locals, most nursing chickens and baskets on their laps. The fare, I was told by the grinning driver and inevitable courier, was 20L. Once again I knew I was being ripped off by the Turks.
No way were the locals paying 20L. It only cost me 5L to come all the way from Kesan. By now it was about 8 pm and getting dark. It wouldn’t be smart to walk 10k at night in this strange land, so I paid, under duress and sat right up the back in one of 3 spare seats.
We had travelled along the narrow dirt road for about 10 minutes when we came upon a hitchhiker - a tall lanky American (as it turned out) with a huge backpack, thumbing a lift. The bus stopped and picked him up. The American was given a lift - no charge.
The driver and courier both looked around at me and started laughing. The poor American lad saw me and walked up and asked if he could sit next to me. I was in a particularly foul mood by this time and most ungraciously snarled: “Piss off.”
He sat down next to a woman nursing chickens.
* * * *
The bus stopped at the border and everyone disembarked. When I emerged I found the border in fact was a deep dry riverbed spanned by a wooden bridge about 100 metres long. The light was fading and it reminded me of a scene out of one of those old B-grade spy movies I watched as a kid.
On the Turkish side were a number of wooden buildings and half a dozen tanks. A large number of Turkish soldiers were standing around.
On the far side of the bridge, guarding Greece, was a single Greek soldier wearing white stockings and a white pleated skirt. He solemnly stood at attention holding what looked like an old Lee-Enfield .303 rifle.
I quickly looked around for the Turkish immigration office but couldn’t see it. So bugger it, I started walking across the bridge. I was about halfway over when a jeep driven by a Turkish sergeant roared past me, turned and blocked my way. A lieutenant was standing up beside the driver with his arm casually draped over a 50 calibre machine gun mounted on the jeep.
“Did you get your passport stamped?” asked the lieutenant in quite good English.
“No – I couldn’t find the passport office.”
“Back,” he pointed and they marched me back to the Turkish side. I was taken to a small building tucked down a narrow alley. “In there!”
Inside were a couple of men on the far side of a wooden counter, engaged in conversation and drinking coffee. I stood there for about 20 minutes while they totally ignored me. Then one guy waved me over, took my passport, stamped it and handed it back without uttering a word.
I walked back across the bridge. The Greek soldier didn’t even blink as I nodded to him. The Greek immigration centre was a long large steel shed all lit up, as it was now quite dark - no moon.
I was quickly processed and stood around trying to find a bus to Alexandroupoli.
A short guy in civilian clothes walked over to me and I asked him when can I get a bus. He informed me there were no buses until tomorrow morning. I then asked if I could sleep here in the shed as it was getting quite cold outside.
“No, sorry you can’t stay inside. Where have you come from?”
I told him from Istanbul, via the Gallipoli peninsular. He became quite interested and asked if I had seen any army units. I twigged this guy must be connected to Greek Intelligence and as I had no love for the Turks and thought the longer I engaged him in conversation, the longer it would be until I had to go outside in the cold.
So I gave him a detailed description of the army camps I had passed. He then told me;
“Every evening the Turks would start their tank engines on the other side of the river and run them all night. - Just to unnerve us.” I nodded sagely.
“The trouble with Greece being a democracy,” he explained, “if the Turks decided to declare war on us, it would take about a week for our parliament to meet and decide what to do. By that time the Turkish tanks would be in Athens.” I nodded again.
He stood thoughtfully for a few minutes then just wandered off. As no one was ordering me to go outside I decided I would just try and remain inconspicuous (and warm) inside.
Of course what should happen next was my former travelling companion, the lanky young American lad, walks up and says, “We are not allowed to stay inside.”
“I know.”
“It’s very cold outside.”
“I know.”
Then very graciously he declared, “I have a pup tent and a single sleeping bag. If you like you can sleep outside with me.”
Me, very ungraciously said, “Piss off.” and walked away.
* * * *
About half an hour later I noticed a commotion over near the entrance. Another VW van was surrounded by Greek officials carrying on an animated conversation, in Greek, with a big, tall, blond guy. The blond guy noticed me and walked over. “Exchuse me, do you speeek Hinglish?”
“Yes.”
“Can you ‘elp me. I am from German. My friend and me (he gestured to a shadowy figure in the van), we are taking birds from Turkey to German.”
“The feathered kind?”
“Ya, ya, we have no trouble in Turkey, but it is illegal to bring birds into Greece. But we were told if we pay them some money, they will let us through. But they don’t understand my German, and my Hinglish, she is not so good. Can you ‘elp me?”
“Are you going through Alexandroupoli?”
“Ya, of course.”
“If you give me a lift I’ll go talk to them.”
“Good, good,” said the German, nodding.
I walked over and began explaining to the Greek customs people. I thought I’d better do a good job or I could end up in jail along with the Germans. In the end everything was settled amicably.
The German got in the driver’s seat and started the van engine. I walked around to the passenger door, but it was locked. I tapped on the window. The German looked straight through me, put the van in gear and started to drive off.
Suddenly out of no-where, my little Greek Intelligence friend stepped into the van headlights with his hand raised and yelled in loud voice “Stop! Didn’t you offer this gentleman a lift to Alexandroupoli!”
I was flabbergasted. How did he know that? I was sure no one was anywhere near me when I was talking to the German. Anyway the German shrugged his shoulders, reached over and unlocked the passenger door.
I climbed in and spent an uncomfortable couple of hours watching the driver and particularly his shadowy mate sitting in the back seat. The birds must have been in the crates stacked in the back - probably sedated. They didn’t say ‘boo to a goose’.
We reached Alexandroupoli without incident as day was breaking.
* * * * *
9 May 1975, Friday - overcast, rain
Had an orange for breakfast at Alexandroupoli. Caught the bus to Thessaloniki at 8:45 am. I sat next to a fat Greek and his wife, who offered me two biscuits. We stopped at Kavala - I saw a fort on a hill. Bread (3 days old) for lunch.
Cars were decorated with flowers and many people having picnics - another bloody Greek holiday - no banks open.
Saw an impressive Stone Lion on the Strimon River 60 km west of Kavala. It dates back to Hellenistic times. (The word ‘Hellenistic’ I’m told, comes from the word ‘Hellazein’, which means ‘to speak Greek or identify with the Greeks.’ The period lasted from the death of Alexander in 323 B.C. until 31 B.C., when Roman troops conquered the last of the territories that the Macedonian king had once ruled.)
Arrived at Thessaloniki 3:15 pm. All the banks are closed. Stayed at Hotel Patera, 9 Drachma (D). Looked for food - no bread left. Only have 8D left in cash.
10 May 1975, Saturday - fine, warm
Up at 5:00 am and walk to Thessaloniki bus depot to go to Corfu. At first they wouldn’t take me. I saw the boss. Cashed US $10 travellers cheque and Stg £5 note. Boss gave me the last seat.
They then packed an extra five people in the aisle of the bus.
Chatted with a young Greek girl in her final year at Law school. It was a long trip. Some people on the bus were sick.
Went past Mount Olympus. Had lunch at a small alpine village called Votonossion. Took boat to Corfu. No one speaks English. Got taxi to Hostel 80D. Hostel cost 35D. Dinner was shish kebab and Greek salad.
11 May 1975, Sunday - fine, sunny
Corfu ferry - leaving for Brindisi
Up at 5:00 am, cold shower. Met two Swedish girls at the bus stop. No buses until 9:00 am, so we took a taxi 10D, to Corfu wharf. Bought ticket to Brindisi in Italy.
While standing on the wharf waiting to board the ferry to Brindisi, I met an elderly couple, Melville and Effie from Adelaide. Melville had just retired from Telstra and they were travelling through Europe.
As we are talking, a motorised trolley loaded with luggage drove slowly past . The driver tells me I can throw on my red shoulder bag - save carrying it. What a great idea. I toss it on top. The trolley heads off and drives up the ramp of the car ferry.
Shortly after a loud siren sounds.
“That’s our ferry Duncan. Time to depart to Brindisi.” advised Melville. They walk off toward another ferry I hadn’t noticed, moored on the far side of the wharf.
“Hey, wait a minute! My bag is on this other ferry. What’s going on?”
“That ferry goes to Piraeus. We thought you must be going to Athens.” said Melville over his shoulder.
Bloody hell - I have to get my bag back. I tear off toward the second ferry. It is a car ferry and the bags were deposited inside the hold. As I go to run the car ramp an official in a uniform tells me I can’t come on board. I show him my ticket and he points to the other ferry and says: “You go that one.”
The Brindisi ferry blows its siren again. I haven’t got time to argue so I duck around the guard and race up the car ramp. He yells out and runs after me. There are a few cars parked inside but I see an enormous pile of luggage at the far end of the hold. As I run toward it I see my red bag right on top. I scramble up the hill of suitcases and bags and grab my trusty shoulder bag.
Below is the guard, now with a couple of his mates, waiting for me. I literally slide down the heap of luggage and my former career in Rugby League comes in handy as I sidestep, duck and weave between them and hair-off back to the entrance.
I make it outside and down onto the wharf. Head back, arms pumping, still running like mad, I head for the Brindisi ferry, which is just about to caste off.
A great cheer goes up from some of the Brindisi passengers leaning on the gunwales watching the action as I scamper up the last remaining boarding ramp. What I didn’t know was the guards had stopped chasing me as soon as I left their boat. Dopey bloody Australian.
Postscript
Later that day I reached Brindisi and using my pre-purchased Eurail Pass boarded a train for Rome. Over the next few weeks I travelled by train through much of Europe.
I reached London on the 1st June 1975. My subsequent travels were not as dramatic as those through Turkey and Greece, for which I was grateful.
However none of my future travels could compare with the satisfaction of accomplishing my personal pilgrimage to Anzac Cove and Lone Pine.