Ubi Boni Ibi Patria: Cigarettes smuggling in Anatolia

The plan was simple and cost-effective. I was supposed to buy the ticket for a daily bus line connecting Urumié (Iran), with Van (Turkey).

After I bought the ticket, a young bus driver checked it and showed me my car. Right next to it, there was another bus from the same company. The bus, belonging to the same company, was slightly bigger; it had some people on board and a A4 paper on the front window declaring the final destination: Van.

Passengers had pale and plain faces. They seemed like they were looking at me in a odd way, though they were probably just starring at an undefined point out of the window. You are free to take the backpack with you on board, he told me. I thanked him and took the stairs to jump in.

The bus was empty and dark, all curtains closed. Seats were covered with plastic caps, as if they were never really used. Not so strange, I thought; it's off season, they probably don't have so many people traveling on a touristic summer route in winter. I spent some time choosing a seat, and finally realized it wasn't so important anyway: being the only passenger I would have been able to move whenever and wherever I wanted.

I sat in the line right after the central door of the bus, right behind the tall chest used as small table and water bottles container, my backpack laying on the seats on the other side of the aisle. I don't know Persian, while the driver and his friends don't speak any English. It didn't really matter, as I was planning to hide in a corner and work out a few pictures with my laptop rather than starting a real conversation.

During the trip, a few things started going wrong. We were stopping more often than expected, and driver's friends were changing too frequently. I was impeded to open the curtains, except for my part of the window. Unfortunately, when we reached the border my suspects were fully confirmed. My "companions" first demonstrated to be in extremely friendly relations with border guards, then almost started a fight knives-out style with a couple of Turkish crooks.

After we left the No men's land to enter Turkey, the game turned out to be tougher than expected. I discovered the hard way that Eastern Turkey is a highly militarized area. Our bus was stopped ans searched by soldiers and policemen at every checkpoint, that is to say every 50 km.

At one stop, I even risked to be involved in the crime for they bribed a Sergeant, but apparently not the Captain. The latter came up on board, while at the very end of the bus the Sergeant was asking to me "This is your, isn't it?!". What was supposed to be my stuff, was a square bulky box covered with thin black lucid plastic bag. My denial was stopped by a couple of flicks on my shoulder from my trip mates and a blink from the Sergeant.

Ii suddenly struck me. They used my presence on board to explain their trafficking. I was their cover: a dumb, lonely, probably mad tourist to distract and wheedle border guards. I had no intention to declare that that stuff was my stuff, but I wasn't in the condition to screw up their business, if I wanted to reach Van safe.

The Captain was now on board, no time for thinking further. A glance in his eyes let me understand he's surprised of finding a foreigner in the middle of nowhere, alone, in winter. I try to play the "Italian card". It's a very effective and simple tactic. Basically, it involves showing immediately the passport and finding the most natural way for him to discover you're Italian.

Inexplicably, the only fact of being Italian usually convince the counterpart you're an harmless, naive, friendly human being. We started chatting, according to the usual pattern. He lists a pointless series of Italian or Italian sounding celebrities, cities, and brands, I nod in a ceremonious and grave way. He even showed me his handgun. I almost had a hearth attack when it took it out the scabbard and pointed it at me. Apparently, he just wanted to show off his mother-of-pearl pistol grip.

Without anyone noticing, we were already far from the danger zone, back in the head of the bus. We shook our hands, he handed me my passport, and left. I returned to my place keeping my eyes down, but I clearly felt my companions' smiley faces looking at me.

After we left the checkpoint, they invited me to have lunch with them.

The bus