Diary, 25th of July, 2009 - Svilengrad to Samsun, Turkey

Another hot, sweaty morning waking up in the tent after far-too-little sleep. This time, rather than dogs and trucks to raise us from our slumber, we woke to the sound of a passing horse drawn cart. And trucks. Always the trucks.

Once we'd given up fighting against consciousness we arose, pulled down the tent, packed the camping gear back into the Micra and drove down to the Turkish border, filling up the fuel tank on the way as Turkish petrol is quite possibly the most expensive in the world (and definitely the most expensive on this trip, including the UK. Big thankyou to the interwebs, you were right, again). With a full petrol tank, we exited Bulgaria and began our first visa-required entry.

The Turkish side of the border crossing had more stages than an outdoor music festival. First of all, we drove through a gate with what seemed to be IR cameras, to check whether we had the swine flu or some other horrible illness. Once we'd been verified healthy by the whiz-bang cameras, we proceeded to the next window, where we were informed to proceed to another window on foot to purchase our visas.

US$20 poorer each, we moved on to another window, where we purchased insurance for the Subprime Micra, lest we be involved in a traffic touchup. With our visas and 3rd party insurance purchased, we moved up to the customs stage, where after the customary (eheh) "are you carrying and drugs?" Q&A session and a very cursory look over the vehicle, we were waved along to passport control. A few minutes later, with our passports stamped we got back into the car and drove out, on the road to Istanbul.

At this point, we had no map, and no Turkish money. After stopping at a petrol station which had maps, but no credit card facilities, we decided to press on to Istanbul, and withdraw some cash and buy a map there. What could possibly go wrong?

The road was fantastic - something ridiculous like 4 almost perfectly smooth lanes each direction. We started to feel uneasy. Other than the stifling heat in the non-airconditioned Micra, things were just a little bit too good, a bit too easy. We started to suspect that we had fallen into a trap.

A little further down the road, our suspicions were confirmed. It was a trap, a toll-road! With nowhere left to go, we idled up to the toll gates like a couple of lambs to the slaughter. The driver of the car infront of us got out to talk to the man at the gate. I figured I may as well do the same, and lined up behind him. After what appeared to be a heated conversation, the man infront of me handed over some Turkish Lira in exchange for a green and orange card.

After considering fleeing to the car, turning around and heading back to Bulgaria, I approached the window and asked if I could pay by Mastercard, summoning all of my international charades and interpretive dancing skills. It worked! Immediately, the man behind the window's expression changed, and understanding perfectly my question, he replied "No."

Sickened by the thought of pulling out now, turning around defeated by a toll-booth, and allowing the UBS conspirators to get away with kidnapping the World Economy, I dug deep and summoned the courage that had allowed me to lead the STS-101 space mission, that pulled me through some truely torturous filming sessions for 'Home and Away', that I had been able to instill into Ricky Ponting and Shane Warne after the 2005 Ashes defeat - and asked if maybe they'd let us through for free this time. Pretty please?

Again, the reply was a polite but firm "No." Devastated, I knew that there was nothing else for it. I pulled out a wad of US dollars from my jeans, and asked if I could pay with them. After some furious punching away on the calculator, the man turned back toward me and showed me the readout. 26. I paid up and received an orange and green card like the man before me, and...


TO BE CONTINUED. (I'm tired and I want to go to bed).