In customs

I'm ın Customs. Some people are carpenters, some are singers, or computer programmers, or insurance agents; I'm in customs.

This is what I do, and I'm happy with it.

I've been in customs, for three hours and ten minutes (and 55...56...57 seconds), but who's counting, right?

I mean ... not me!


We arrived in Tasucu around six, then my whole life changed: we arrived in customs.

I've walked to and fro, to get a stamp on the passport, then to get a visa (I thought they were the same thing, but you learn something new every day), then to pay an 18YTL tax on the motorbike (it might have been a road-tax, or a processing tax, or a "your bike is orange" tax - I'm not sure, I don't speak the language).

Now, I'm waiting for the guy who ran away with my passport and motorbike registration to come back, hopefully with a new insurance.

I can't blame them (they're solving my insurance problem and I don't see anything wrong with that).

One more thing: on the ferry, I had a nice conversation with a 30-years-of-experience truck driver.

The conversation was interesting, in that he didn't speak English (nor Romanian, Italian or German for that matter), and I didn't speak Turkish.

Also, it was interesting as it was translated by Tarik, 19, who for some reason or another got it in his head that he would convert me to Islam, but I digress.

As a result of this conversation, I have a (theoretical for now) new route, that's supposed to be shorter by a couple of hundred kilometers, and have a better road.

I'm in no position to decide though, not until I get a local map, a good night's sleep, something to eat and a divine sign.

A burning bush will do :)