You've been framed...

A selection of photographs that I shouldn't really have taken but did:

And off to India we go...

Sat here eating my very last Middle Eastern breakfast of cucumber, tomato, cheese, olives, jam, egg and bread (it's getting hard to feign interest in it) right before I catch the metro to the airport for my solo flight to India.

There's many stories to tell from the past five days but quite a lot of them involve a toilet so I won't bother you with them. However, there is a great one about another ridiculous hotel - ridulously filthy - which I'll recount when I arrive in India.

Scared. Wish me luck. Weeeeeee.......

The covert operation

We’ve finally arrived in Aleppo, Syria. A country where Facebook is illegal, the women are veiled, yet you can buy fluffy, pink nipple tassles in the street. A perfect combination some might say.

Let me tell you how we got here. After surrendering my broken camera baby to Murat the Mullah’s capable hands for a couple of weeks, we left the sumptuous gaiety of Akdeniz Otel, Adana, and ventured east towards Syria.

The Turkish border guard swept us through, no problems. I cynically wondered what would happen next... and then, during a toilet stop at the duty free shop between the Turkish and Syrian border posts, we hear a very strange noise indeed. Much like a thousand people furiously wrapping and un-wrapping Christmas presents. Surely not, it’s only June. And isn’t this a Muslim country?

We moved a little closer to investigate and spotted a darkened room at the end of the entrance hall (I say room in the loosest sense of the word: It was actually entirely made of cardboard).

A woman in full Syrian dress waddled out of the “door” towards us, walking as one would if one was hiding a sumo wrestling suit underneath a burqa, eminating an odd rustling sound. Curiosity wetted, we move closer and our eyes were met with a wondrous sight.

It was like a cigarette factory in rewind. Giant cartons of cigarette boxes lay across the room, with thirty, maybe forty, people frantically grabbing and taping single cigarette cartons, and even entire boxes, around their arms, legs and torsos, before replacing their clothes, picking up their luggage and casually strolling towards the Turkish border.

Brilliant. It literally made our day, as we stood there with our ice-creams and sun hats watching them execute the most ridiculously overt smuggling operation known to man. Although, it has to be said, we probably looked equally as ridiculous.

If Canon can't then nobody can

In my last entry I very nearly wrote: 'These things come in threes, I wonder what wıll go wrong next?' And yes. Yes. They do come in threes. And they appear to be gettıng progressively worse the higher the number.

My poor Canon baby has broken. My beautiful Canon baby. My well-behaved, well-travelled, shiny camera baby has been blinded by a vat of sanitiser. All life exhausted, just a ghostly black screen eyeing me with its idle nothingness.

I just had to leave the stupid black box under the watchful beard and tiny spanners of a mullah named Murat down some side alley ın Adana, disturbingly close to a street lined with rotting goat's heads. (I'm starting to regret that Adana Kebap.)



But let's forget about that shocking picture of my camera's intestines for just a second (pictures courtesy of Mr Breslaw)...

We stayed ın the most superbly pink hotel last night - Akdeniz Oteli. Do look it up if ever you fınd yourself in Adana. Barbıe would be truly spoiled wıth the coral-coloured wardrobes, pale pink walls, baby pink lace curtains and pink floral wallpaper border a la MumandDad'sbedroom circa-1989. The picture of cherubs kissing on the walls just about topped it off.

According to our Lonely Planet the hotel has recently been renovated and has handsome furnishings. We think this might be less about the delicate room furnishings and more a dubious euphemism for the abundance of prostitutes in the very special hall-of-mirrors hotel bar. Just found this on a more recent Lonely Planet web page.

A breakfast jam

Currently sat in ‘Ray’s Restaurant’ - the buffet car of the Mavı Express train to Adana. Great train by the way, we even have a fridge for our beer. Thing is, there appears to be a distinct lack of Ray. I don’t know where or who he is but I’m pretty sure he would have the skills to sort out this breakfast situation we have found ourselves in.

“Freestyle wha’? We no ‘freestyle’ breakfast, “ said the young waiter, who clearly was not Ray but was still wearing his bow-tie with pride. “We have jam wi‘ breakfast. Whole breakfast. Breakfast no. Jam no.”

“But I don‘t want olives or yellow cheese or boiled egg or coffee… just bread and jam and butter and fried egg,” said Aaron, jabbing at the pictures on the menu and looking more and more agitated by the second.

“Yes, wi’ breakfast. Whole breakfast. Only come together. You wan‘ breakfast?”

“No! I don’t. I want bread. Errrrrrr…ehmek?“

“Yes, ehmek,” replied the boy.

“Egg. Errrrrrr….“ said Aaron, scratching his head and poring over the Lonely Planet phrase book. “Ummmm, yumurta?”

“Ah,” said the boy. “Egg!”

“Yes! And jam for the bread?”

Brightly dressed cotton pickers and fields of white poppies passed the window as I held my breath.

“Wha’ jam?“ said the waiter, straightening his bow-tie. “No jam. Jam wi’ breakfast. Come together. You wan‘ breakfast yes?”

I won’t bore you with the rest of the fifteen-minute exchange. Aaron didn’t get his jam. Or butter. It took the Swiss guy behind us at least ten minutes to upgrade his small cup of tea to a large mug and the only Rays that appeared were sunrays - hoo-ray.