Blacksmith, Gaziantep bazaar.

BIG

The problem with having two days with no internet access and thus the inability to post on Blipfoto, is that you accumulate too many interesting stories to succinctly lay them all down on the blog.

I'll the set the scene here, before I decide which story to unravel to you, dear readers. True to shabby hotel form, the wifi connection in my room was about as strong as Mel Gibson's scottish accent. So I had to meander away to find a cafe.

I am now sat in said cafe, sipping on some tea, but my writing is being constantly interrupted by the curious patron who wants to see all the coins I've amassed on my travels. I feel him lurking behind me now, as I type.

Even though I'm not there anymore, I think I'll go with the story of crossing the Iraq border. Yes, I'll do that.

So, the fastest way (there is actually no quick way to cross this border) to get back into Turkey is by share-taxis all the way. I made it safely to the border town of Zakho, having had a soundtrack provided by an old, Kurdish man in the front seat who sang at the top of his voice. It was very atmospheric for me, but seemingly annoying to everyone else.

From there I hopped in a taxi that was going to Silopi on the Turkish side, near the border with Syria (which, by the way, is practically just a river with a few towers...). In any normal circumstances a drive to Silopi should take about 20 minutes, but my frontier sejour lasted five hours. All on the Iraqi side, of course.

The sun absolutely pelted through the taxi's windscreen and down onto me as I tried to ration the last trickles of water which was, by now, warmer than the bottom of a cup of tea.

Nothing moved north. Trucks came piling by, bound for the oilfields near Kirkuk and further south and their fumes oozed through the open window of the passenger seat, adding to the stifling heat.

Finally we inched forward. My two acquaintances (no older than me) starting fidgeting about, shoving black packages deep under the seats. They broke open massive cartons of Marlboros and started hiding the individual packets in all the nooks and crannies of the taxi- only after I flatly refused to let them use my bag- no matter how many no problem! no problem!s they could offer me.

It is a flipping problem! After four hours (at this point) all I want is a flipping smooth border crossing, and to not be detained, or something, by the Iraqi police.

It seemed as though everyone was doing it, though, right in front of the Turkish border. The bridge between the two countries was absolutely littered with cardboard boxes and people were all over the place, shoving things down into the depths of their car.

Perhaps if they didn't do that, I'd be in Turkey already, I thought.

I sat near the Turkish declarations and watched the driver (again, the same age as me) try to charm the police as they rummaged through the taxi. Seconds later he came zooming round with a beaming grin on his face and when I got in he laughed heartily and shouted, "WELCOME TO TURKEY"!!

About bloody time, too.