The Lada Legend: The Colonel Goes West - Part Three
Georgia went by in a flash. By mid-afternoon we had already reached the Black Sea and a took a hard left towards Batumi (southwest corner of Georgia). The road meandered its way through resort towns, up hills, and across valleys. It was rather picturesque. Eventually Batumi appeared in the distance. Our date with the Turkish border patrol was upon us.
Being relative greenhorns in the temporary vehicle import profession, our plan was to ask around to find out if we could get our car into Turkey. The first two men we came across proffered contrasting opinions:
"No way are you going to be able to get a thirty-year-old car into Turkey. They have rules!"
"I think they could do it. You can go down there and ask."
It all sounded so wonderful. We could knock on the door of the Turkish border complex, sit down for tea, and go through an evaluation of our car. Eventually, pleasantries would be exchanged, hands shook, and perhaps some crisp bills passed. Everyone would leave the room happy.
The Sarp border complex is set amongst stunning scenery. A backdrop of lush, forested mountains drop sharply towards the sea. Why anyone would want to build a busy border crossing there is beyond me. As you can see in the picture below, there isn't a lot of room to work with.
Our plan was to pull up to the complex, park, go on a fact-finding mission, and then decide what to do. As we pulled up, we realized just how busy the place was (although it was hard to determine who was there to cross into Turkey and who just to go to the beach that happened to be right there). Parking wasn't so much the problem; it was weaving your way through the snaking lines of cars.
What happened next was bizarre. I walked up to the one of the Georgian border guard booths and started asking questions. Here is how the conversation went down:
"Hi. I was wondering if I could take a 1980 Zhiguli 011 into Turkey?"
"Ya, sure. Passport please. Where is your car?" Hand the guy my passport.
"It's over there." I point. He stamps my passport and hands it back.
"Are these your friends? Give me their passports."
"Whoa. Easy there, pal. We have to go get gas. We'll be back.
Why he was so keen to stamp my passport, I will never know. Now I was officially checked out of Georgia, but driving back towards Batumi looking for gas.
We get back to the border crossing and just ahead there is a cop motioning us to pull up next to him. We do so, and he blurts out "Canada?" "Yes." "Come with us!" Apprently news of our arrival had spread like wildfire. Then this border guard comes cruising up on a segway. He asks again if we're from Canada. I nod. He tells us to follow him and takes us right to the front of the line. Everyone in the line starts honking and shouting, but then they see our car, and us, and back off--eventually resorting to laughter to deal with the situation.
Within seconds, four border guards surrounded us and shot rapid fair questions at me. Then the statements came. Most were along the lines of, "You're not going to be able to get this car into Turkey, so you should just turn around and go back the other way." On the contrarty, our iron resolve would have none of this crazy talk. We insisted that we be allowed to at least try. One of the guards said something along the lines of, "Be me guest," and motioned us forward. Another guard stamped the girls' passports and we were officially out of Georgia.
I will save the details of the Turkish border crossing for the next part. It is a story in and of itself.
Being relative greenhorns in the temporary vehicle import profession, our plan was to ask around to find out if we could get our car into Turkey. The first two men we came across proffered contrasting opinions:
"No way are you going to be able to get a thirty-year-old car into Turkey. They have rules!"
"I think they could do it. You can go down there and ask."
It all sounded so wonderful. We could knock on the door of the Turkish border complex, sit down for tea, and go through an evaluation of our car. Eventually, pleasantries would be exchanged, hands shook, and perhaps some crisp bills passed. Everyone would leave the room happy.
The Sarp border complex is set amongst stunning scenery. A backdrop of lush, forested mountains drop sharply towards the sea. Why anyone would want to build a busy border crossing there is beyond me. As you can see in the picture below, there isn't a lot of room to work with.
Our plan was to pull up to the complex, park, go on a fact-finding mission, and then decide what to do. As we pulled up, we realized just how busy the place was (although it was hard to determine who was there to cross into Turkey and who just to go to the beach that happened to be right there). Parking wasn't so much the problem; it was weaving your way through the snaking lines of cars.
What happened next was bizarre. I walked up to the one of the Georgian border guard booths and started asking questions. Here is how the conversation went down:
"Hi. I was wondering if I could take a 1980 Zhiguli 011 into Turkey?"
"Ya, sure. Passport please. Where is your car?" Hand the guy my passport.
"It's over there." I point. He stamps my passport and hands it back.
"Are these your friends? Give me their passports."
"Whoa. Easy there, pal. We have to go get gas. We'll be back.
Why he was so keen to stamp my passport, I will never know. Now I was officially checked out of Georgia, but driving back towards Batumi looking for gas.
We get back to the border crossing and just ahead there is a cop motioning us to pull up next to him. We do so, and he blurts out "Canada?" "Yes." "Come with us!" Apprently news of our arrival had spread like wildfire. Then this border guard comes cruising up on a segway. He asks again if we're from Canada. I nod. He tells us to follow him and takes us right to the front of the line. Everyone in the line starts honking and shouting, but then they see our car, and us, and back off--eventually resorting to laughter to deal with the situation.
Within seconds, four border guards surrounded us and shot rapid fair questions at me. Then the statements came. Most were along the lines of, "You're not going to be able to get this car into Turkey, so you should just turn around and go back the other way." On the contrarty, our iron resolve would have none of this crazy talk. We insisted that we be allowed to at least try. One of the guards said something along the lines of, "Be me guest," and motioned us forward. Another guard stamped the girls' passports and we were officially out of Georgia.
I will save the details of the Turkish border crossing for the next part. It is a story in and of itself.
posted by kent @ 5:33 p.m.
0
comments
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home