As the conductor blows his whistle, the white and blue carriages of the Taurus Express pull out of Haydarpasa station on the Asian side of Istanbul. People are frantically trying to board the moving train carrying boxes and bags of purchases from the city’s Grand Bazaar. Friends and families continue their emotional farewells for right along the platforms. As I look out the window I am full of excitement.
The thought of 37 hours on a train with no restaurant on board and only one drop-toilet in a cupboard at the end of the carriage would once have filled me with dread. Now I can’t wait.
Instead of the second-hand microwaves and reels of electric cable brought on board by the family in the next-door cabin, my purchases from the souks are two days supply of food and drink and a lot of Turkish Delight. From Mr Mohammed’s smile, the sleeping-car’s porter, maid and butler, I can only assume he is welcoming us on board. My return smile when he shows me the small room with a flushing toilet at the other end of the carriage hopefully told him how grateful I was!
Instead of the second-hand microwaves and reels of electric cable brought on board by the family in the next-door cabin, my purchases from the souks are two days supply of food and drink and a lot of Turkish Delight. From Mr Mohammed’s smile, the sleeping-car’s porter, maid and butler, I can only assume he is welcoming us on board. My return smile when he shows me the small room with a flushing toilet at the other end of the carriage hopefully told him how grateful I was! Formerly part of the London to Baghdad railway line, the Taurus Express crosses Turkey to Gaziantep in the south-east and once a week an additional sleeping-car continues across the Syrian border to Aleppo. Leaving the early morning hustle and bustle of Istanbul behind, the train follows the edge of the Bosphorus, a floating car-park of oil tankers and container ships waiting to head further inland to the Black Sea. Passing through the steep valleys and rocky landscapes of the Taurus Mountains, the train finally reaches an arid plateau deep in Turkey’s interior. A day later, the Express climbs away from the expansive plains crossing into the Syrian hills, dotted with olive groves.
On each carriage is a board telling us of the Turkish stations we’d be stopping at. Before even reaching the first unpronounceable station, we’d stopped at 5 more tongue twisters that weren’t even mentioned. Some of the minor stations, nothing more than a shed or kiosk and no platform, looked to be in the middle of nowhere with not a town or village to be seen. As people jump on and off at each one, I can’t help but wonder where they could be going.
On each carriage is a board telling us of the Turkish stations we’d be stopping at. Before even reaching the first unpronounceable station, we’d stopped at 5 more tongue twisters that weren’t even mentioned. Some of the minor stations, nothing more than a shed or kiosk and no platform, looked to be in the middle of nowhere with not a town or village to be seen. As people jump on and off at each one, I can’t help but wonder where they could be going.
As the train finally pulled into Aleppo, 37 hours after leaving Istanbul, I had the same exhilaration of arriving somewhere new that Agatha must have felt when first stepping onto that platform. In fact it is on the platform in Aleppo station where Murder on the Orient Express opens. Following in her footsteps, I stayed at the famous Baron Hotel where Christie wrote much of the book. After opening in 1909 the Baron Hotel became one of the most famous hotels in the Middle East and although it has evidently seen better days, the evocative atmosphere and smell takes you back to a by-gone day.
Aleppo is a fascinating town full of authentic Middle Eastern character. The labyrinthine souks are a warren of different smells. Running underground from the citadel in the city centre, I’d been warned that the best way to navigate them was to head downhill. Somehow vans, motorbikes with sidecars and even donkeys and carts all share the narrow passageways and steer their way around the maze. Passing everything from silver to spices, eventually the subterranean tunnels emerge onto a busy street and it’s easy to forget the hidden network that exists where days are spent trading goods and wares
To explore the rest of what Syria has to offer I hired a driver and guide. Heading south of Aleppo I stopped at Crac des Chevaliers near the industrial city of Homs. Perched high on a
hill outcrop with panoramic views into Lebanon and to the Mediterranean, it is the best preserved Crusader castle in the world. I could easily imagine the soldiers looking out across the plains watching for the enemy. Following the signposts for Baghdad, my guide brought me to the oasis town of Palmyra in the middle of the desert. Now a principal producer of date palms, it was once an important Roman city located on strategic trading routes with the East. The temples and columns are very much part of the town, even passing alongside them on the main road into today’s Palmyra. Exploring the temples and ruins on a spitting camel was marginally more bearable in the still intense evening heat than on foot but it remains difficult to imagine the vast scale of the city at its heyday.Syria’s capital city seems more cosmopolitan than Aleppo and I found the contrast of Islamic dress and Western clothing more apparent. The narrow winding streets are slightly wider and the grander souk is predominantly above ground. In order to enter the Umayyad Mosque in the heart of Damascus, I was given a hooded robe covering me from head to foot and removed my shoes. Although much hotter under an extra layer, it felt like an invisibility cloak and gave me more freedom to discreetly explore the mosque bare-foot. The stuffy temperatures inside the mosque made me understand why so many pray outside in the building’s shadows. The intricately carved wooden archways with ceramic tiles and gold paintwork set around the marble-floored courtyard provide the perfect refuge from the sun’s glare.
After spending 10 days with some of the most hospitable and welcoming people I’ve met, it’s easy to understand how Agatha Christie fell in love with a train journey and also a country. For me, travelling is not just about where I’m going but how to get there. Crossing the border into Syria, I felt a real sense of satisfaction that I’d almost accomplished the journey and found the destination to be friendly and exciting. It seems that whilst George Bush branded Syria part of the ‘axis of evil’, global peace could be modelled on the Syrians themselves. From waiters to taxi drivers and market traders, the most common greeting heard in broken English is ‘You are welcome in our country. Thank you very much’. 
