Getting home from Georgia was not exactly straightforward. We had taken a ferry across the Black Sea to Georgia, from Odesa to Batumi, but on the way back we planned to travel through Turkey, then relax by the sea in Albania before the final stretch through Germany. It was supposed to be an easy transit leg, but problems always seem to arise.
Border crossing with complications
Turkey is clearly a country where you could spend a lot of time. The country has fantastic scenery and is packed with ancient history, but for now it was simply full speed ahead through Turkey.
It didn’t get off to a very good start. We were travelling with two Swedish cars, but we got separated in Georgia before the border and decided to drive separately and meet up again in Croatia instead. We were the last car to reach the Turkish border. We had talked to the Swedes beforehand about crossing the border, and everyone was absolutely sure it would be quick. Not so. We ended up waiting in line for about an hour before we got into the actual border station. There, Elin was ordered out of the car. She had to go through the checkpoint inside the border station, while I was to drive.
Polite, but firm at the border
The cars slowly make their way towards passport control. It is my turn, and the immigration officer asks for my passport, glances at it, and asks for a visa. “A visa?” I say, puzzled. “Norwegians don’t need a visa to enter Turkey, do they?” This was something we had discussed with the Swedes—that we did not need visas. The immigration officer stood his ground: I had to have a visa. I was equally adamant that it was unnecessary. Things like this happen from time to time, when a dispute arises with officials. Not so much in Europe, but in Africa it happens all the time. In Africa, it is because they want a small personal gratuity, but I certainly did not think that was the case here. When you find yourself in such a situation, it is important to stay calm. Speak slowly, be polite, and by all means do not get angry. The immigration officer spoke reasonably good English, and I was polite but firm, repeating that Turkey and Norway had visa-free travel, just like Sweden and the rest of the EU.
At last, I was allowed to drive into Turkey and found a place to park while waiting for Elin.
Cash is king
It took ages, but eventually Elin came walking over, accompanied by a police officer. We needed visas, the officer said; Swedes don’t. Slowly, it dawned on me that we actually knew that. After all, we had spent a weekend in Istanbul a few years ago, and on further reflection, we had had to buy visas upon arrival in Istanbul. Apparently, I had been a little too assertive and convincing at the checkpoint.
But why hadn’t Elin been able to buy a visa then, if it could be arranged right there and then? Because you had to pay in cash, either dollars, euros, or Turkish lira. Credit cards were out of the question, and we only had a few dollars and euros lying around. The police officer spoke decent English and was very polite and understanding, and could only apologize, but we had to go back to the nearest town in Georgia to withdraw cash. He also explained that the inspector who had let me in without a visa was newly qualified and would receive a serious reprimand, and would be lucky if he did not lose his job.
Dejectedly, I started the car and drove back towards Georgia. The police officer went ahead and escorted us through a checkpoint, so we did not have to wait in the queue from Turkey to Georgia. We were lucky enough to find an ATM just across the border, withdrew local currency, which we exchanged for dollars at one of the many money changers, and headed straight back to Turkey. Our good friend, the police officer, was waiting and ushered us through without us having to stand in line. So I would definitely like to praise the Turkish border crossing at Sarpi for its good service. And I will have to be self-critical and perhaps less presumptuous in the future.
Time to find a hotel
This border-crossing exercise had naturally taken a few hours. Our Swedish friends were far ahead, and it would soon be dark, so we decided to find a hotel in the first decent town we came across. The road was very good, with four lanes and moderate traffic. The Black Sea was always on our right. We drove through a few villages and small towns without seeing any hotels, when suddenly we entered a small town with several hotels lined up along the road. Hotels on the left side of the road, the sea on the other side.
We turned off and received a warm welcome at the first hotel we came across. It was a quiet tourist hotel without too many guests. After hauling our luggage up to the room on the fourth floor, we crossed the main road and found a restaurant overlooking the sea. This was evidently a small holiday town for Turks. There were no Westerners in sight. The restaurant had an excellent menu and many delicious fruit juices to drink. For the first time on this holiday, no wine with the meal. We were clearly in a conservative part of Turkey, and most of the women wore headscarves and were well covered.
Strange hotel guests
It wasn’t very tempting to sit in the restaurant drinking juice, so after dinner we went straight back to the hotel. We took the elevator up and turned into the corridor where our room was at the end of the hall. When we arrived and carried in our luggage, our corridor had been completely quiet, but now it was buzzing with life. And, strangely enough, the clientele consisted of young girls wearing heavy makeup, hot pants, and miniskirts. We reached our room; the door was open, and we looked inside. There were three scantily clad girls putting on makeup, and a slightly older woman who stayed more in the background.
It was obvious that the hotel had changed character while we were out eating. From a peaceful tourist hotel to a brothel. The lady in our room waved her arm, indicating that we had gone the wrong way. At that very moment, we realized it. We had gotten out of the elevator one floor too early.
Back in the room, we finally had our nightcap and went to bed early, exhausted after a long day. We reflected a little on the contrasts between the conservative restaurant and the evidently more uninhibited hotel we were staying at, and the possibility of a certain double standard. Then, as usual, I put in earplugs since I wake easily from noise, and fell asleep straight away.
Well-rested, I opened my eyes the next day and found myself staring straight into Elin’s pale face. She had been kept awake all night by loud disco music, screaming, moaning, showering, and banging on doors. We ate breakfast in silence alongside a couple of weary women.
Since I was the driver, it was a good thing I had slept well. Elin tends to nod off when we’re driving. The worse the road, the better she sleeps. It’s 1,600 kilometres from Georgia to Greece, and we sped along the excellent E70, looking forward to lazy days on the beach in Albania. The fastest route is via Istanbul and across the Bosporus Bridge, but since Istanbul is notorious for its traffic jams, we chose a more westerly route past the Sea of Marmara and took the ferry across the Dardanelles at Çardak.
After a couple of overnight stays in small towns along the way, we reached Cardak in the afternoon. The ferry across the Dardanelles was quickly over with hardly any waiting. It was actually a shame to spend so little time in this area, which is steeped in history—from Roman times and the First World War, with the Battle of Gallipoli, where England and France fought against the Ottoman Empire right here.
Lottery at passport control
It took quite some time to get into Turkey, but we thought getting out would surely be easy. We were very much mistaken.
The Turkish–Greek border crossing lay deserted, but was nevertheless marked by tight security. At passport control they had a lottery, and we won. Some stupid computer selected us for a full inspection, including an X-ray of the car. No one spoke English beyond a few words, but we understood that we had to empty the car of all our luggage. We did, and Elin was left sitting on the pavement in the blazing sun, in temperatures just under 40 degrees, surrounded by a pile of bags and loose belongings. I was escorted on to the X-ray machine, a large container some distance away. Using gestures and the few English words he knew, the customs officer explained that everything had to come out of the car. This included the entire interior fitting: drawers, shelves, and kitchen boxes bolted to the bodywork and chassis. Impossible, I explained, in the polite but firm tone I had adopted and used successfully before. It would take more than a day to unscrew everything and put it back again. It is difficult to argue when the person you are talking to does not speak the same language, so I do not know whether he understood—or wanted to understand—what I meant. But I understood him to mean that when they X-rayed the car, they had images of an empty vehicle to compare it with, to see whether there were any changes, such as hidden compartments. Therefore, everything had to come out. Full stop. I refused, still as politely as I could. Other cars that had also won the lottery arrived, were photographed, and drove on, while I sat in the shade watching. Every now and then, the customs officer came over to me, said a lot that I did not understand, and then disappeared again. And so the hours passed.
No, we’re not smuggling drugs
After a couple of hours, what everyone hopes for in such a situation happened: the other party got tired of it. The customs officer started looking under the car and inside cupboards and compartments. A couple of others joined him, and there was some heated discussion in Turkish. Then I was told to drive the car into the machine. I didn’t need to be asked twice. An image was taken, the customs officer studied it, then came over to me and asked what was underneath the car at the back. An extra diesel tank, I replied. Okay, he said. Then he fixed his eyes on me and suddenly asked, in fairly good English: “You’re not smuggling drugs, are you?” “We are not,” I replied, a little surprised by the question. “Good,” he said. “You can go.”}
I found Elin again with her new friend, a Swede who was stuck at the border station. Elin had, of course, started to wonder seriously where I had got to. Then she got talking to a Swede who said he had been there for two days, and that they had beds in the basement for those who could not get any further. This had not reassured Elin much. The Swede’s problem was that he had dual citizenship, Swedish and Macedonian. This had caused problems at passport control, and he had been held back when his bus continued on. The formalities had now been sorted out, but the problem was that he was not allowed to cross the border on foot. He had tried, but had been chased back by guards with machine guns. So he wondered whether he could ride with us. But our car only had two seats and the trunk was packed full, so it was difficult—and probably illegal. Inwardly, I must also admit that I wanted to get into Greece as quickly as possible without any further risk factors, in case the customs officer changed his mind.
More about Georgia and Armenia:
Green Georgia
Ferry over the Black Sea. A bureaucratic odyssey.
Caucasus with Car
Armenia
