It was my first major border crossing, I
felt prepared that I knew what to expect and how to handle myself. I’d read
detailed accounts from other fellow over landers on the ins and outs of that
particular border. I cleared the Turkish side without a hitch and the Iranian
formalities were going smoothly. As I had all necessary documents signed and
stamped I headed towards Iran. A young chap looking somewhat official had a
look at my papers and said I must go to the traffic office. I was prepared for
this, here I was going to refuse the purchase of a fuel card (fuel is rationed
in Iran and technically you need this, but I had read that most over landers
decide against this and just show up at the pumps lost and wait for the service
attendant to use their card). When they
asked about a fuel card, I explained it’s already arranged for me by a friend
in Tabriz (Bollocks). A group of men, who don’t seem very official are saying I
have to pay for the roads (all very vague and I was unaware and suspicious of
this) I said that I didn’t think this was correct but I would enquire in
Tabriz. The young man suddenly took my passport and documents and signalled for
me to come with him, we went to the final office where another officer checked
my documents one last time.
It was signed off and I was free to go....
Or so I thought. The young man signalled for me to hurry and get out of the
border. All of a sudden he jumped in my car and said to drive past the border
and let him out, after a few hundred meters he indicated for me to pull over
and let him out. This is where the games started. He wanted money! However I
explained to him even though I was grateful for his help, I did not request it,
and I would not be giving him any money. Suddenly, out of nowhere the same group of men
as before surrounded my car, saying that I must give them 150 Euro or there
would be “problems” for me. They told me they were part of customs and I need
to pay (but the refused to say exactly what for) or I have to go back to
Turkey. One man threatened to call police, in which I encouraged him to do as I
said I too would like to clear this up with them as well. As I suspected he
stopped calling. They continued, saying this man is the customs chief, but my
requests to see Identification were ignored. After a back and forth
conversation where the amount of money being demanded changed a number of
times, the “Customs Chief” (insert sarcasm here) tried to grab the keys from
the ignition. I blocked his attempt and put my foot down hard on the
accelerator (they tried to hold onto the car haha… idiots), all this still with
the first young man in the front passenger seat. After 500 metres or so I
pulled over and demanded he get it, which thankfully he did. I drove top speed
for the next few Kilometres, heart racing and shit scared that they would give
chase. To my relief it was the last I saw of that border and the “Customs
Chief”. This wasn’t the best way to start my Iranian leg and my levels of
apprehension had risen dramatically.
The Islamic republic of censorship
Let me start by saying, Iran is a wonderful
place and everything I had heard about the people and their hospitality was
true. I was treated extremely well everywhere I went and never once felt unsafe
(apart from the border fiasco). However
in order to protect their Islamic oasis from the west, there is a high level of
censorship at play. Most western outlets of online media are blocked by the
internet filters, all social networking feeds, albeit Facebook, Twitter or
whatever are all blocked. To a further extreme ALL foreign credit or bank cards
will not work ANYWHERE and cash is the only way a foreigner can pay for things.
Blissfully unaware to what degree this law
was imposed (In honesty I knew this law was in place but I didn’t think it
literally meant, impossible to use foreign cards anywhere) I checked into the
Tabriz International hotel at about 11:00PM after a long and stressful
day. What proceeded was logistical
operation of epic proportions
“How the idiot boyfriend was saved”
The idiot boyfriend rose early, his
destination was the leading branch in Tabriz of Melli bank. (By this point he
was now fully aware of the severity of this cash situation) He parked nearby
and even though an illegal park, the traffic officer ensured him he wouldn’t
give him a ticket, the nearby shop keep also said he would keep a watchful eye
on Dorothy. In order to save face, once at the bank, the idiot boyfriend
concocted a story of how he was mugged of all his euros (I felt bad about being
dishonest but perhaps this white lie would garner a little sympathy and thus
helping to find the solution)
With the help of an English speaking
customer he delivered his tale of woe to the bank, for which a bank man lead
the idiot boyfriend to three different branches in the area…. At The final
branch a man commented how they only had connections in Istanbul, Moscow and
Dubai. At this point the idiot boyfriend finally had an idea “My girlfriend is
currently in Istanbul, she could help?”
The bank man took the idiot boyfriend by
the hand and led him to a recognised money exchange outlet. Once again he
delivered his Oscar winning re-enactment of how all his precious euros were
stolen by miscreants. They explained they did have a contact in Istanbul and if
the girlfriend could get cash to the contact all would be saved. The idiot
boyfriend had no way of contacting the girlfriend without internet, so he
wandered aimlessly about the plaza looking for a supposed internet café (it was
closed as it was holiday in Iran) What he found was another good Samaritan at a
computer store who let the idiot boyfriend use his LAN internet connection. The
idiot boyfriend managed to get in contact with the girlfriend and somewhat
embarrassingly informed her of the situation, and how she could help. Luckily
for him, the girlfriend is a kind and generous girlfriend and she quickly
sprung to action, grabbed a taxi and set forth to meet the contact.
This operation was playing out like a grand
orchestra, everyone playing their instrument to perfection, all in complete
unison with each other……….
The traffic officer turning a blind eye on
the illegal park job. The shop-keep keenly watching over the safety of Dorothy.
The English speaking customer at the bank kindly translating. The bank man
leading the idiot boyfriend to the numerous branches. The Samaritan at the
computer store allowing the idiot boyfriend to go back and forth using his internet.
The exchange outlet facilitating the deal. The contact in Istanbul processing
the transaction. And finally the
girlfriend, in the taxi, delivering the cash and completing the deal in
Istanbul.
The deal was done and the operation was
complete. Everyone giving a performance of a lifetime…. All to save the idiot
boyfriend.
Iranian hospitality
I had heard tales of Iranian hospitality.
How they seem to go far beyond the call of duty to ensure that foreigners are
enjoying their stay (even to the point of awkwardness). Tehran was no
different. When I asked a taxi driver for directions, instead of sodding me off
he hurriedly jumped in his cab and drove, with me trialling, the 30 minutes to
my hotel doorstep. For which he denied any financial reimbursement that I was
offering. This encounter really did set the tone for the rest of Iran and in
hindsight much of Asia so far. Upon
entering Hotel Khayem (a regular overlanders stop) I was immediately engaged in
conversation by Stewart. Stewart was an American bloke travelling with his
Iranian wife (probably in their 40´s). Stewart seemed to have lived and worked
just about everywhere, taking him from the Middle East to Russia to his current
home in the Philippians. After hearing my upcoming travel plans he essentially
thought I was signing my own death sentence, concluding that he would keep an
eye out for me in the news. With my conversation with Stewart echoing in my
head, I had a near sleepless night. I rose early and made way for Isfahan,
although unfortunately I would only be merely passing through on my way East.
Akbar English
Akbar English is actually the Akbar Tourist
guest house, but when looking for directions, you simply ask for Akbar English.
This is because funny enough, he is about the only guy in town to speak
English… So finding Akbar in the city of Bam was extremely easy. Akbar was your
typical smooth talking Iranian. Extremely personable and had a tremendous
calming effect for me. By this point my levels of angst had risen dramatically
as my scheduled crossing into Pakistan was just days away. It was here that his
reassuring words put me at ease. (That was at least until I spoke to my parents
again.)
Things haven’t been very easy for Akbar in
recent memory, and his financial woes are never too far from his mind (this was
particular evident by his concern when he received his water bill in front of
me) He tells me of the dramatic decline in tourism since about 2008, and it was
here that I could plainly see the effects the media has to everyday life in
Iran. He explains that traditionally there have been many Aussies through his
doors, but now they are reluctant to come, because of the many political issues
between East and West. In addition a massive earthquake hit Bam in 2003 which
just about flattened everything, including their UNESCO world heritage listed
old town (Arg-e Bam). Despite all this Akbar was always keen to laugh and share
stories from all the travellers he has met.
I had been building up to these next few
days for it seemed like a year. Since I put together the idea of this adventure,
Pakistan had been my major concern. Much of Pakistan has been out of government
control for a long time. Some of it nearly completely lost to the Taliban and
other militant groups. In fact, Quetta (where I would need to pass through) is
considered somewhat of a Taliban strong hold, and every day I inched closer to
the border. It was like a 10 tonne
monkey on my back..... It was crushing me and I all my instincts told me to
run.
The Crossroads
In truth, I was looking for any excuse or
way out of what was coming. Every day I would drive closer to the border and I
would spend the rest of my evening on the net reading updates from Pakistan and
then trying to figure out a reasonable way of bypassing this whole nightmare.
My fears were heightened by reports that the US were conducting their drone
bombing attacks on the tribal regions of Pakistan and in addition, a bus
travelling in the Baluchistan region had been ambushed by militants, executing
two passengers.
Had I become a victim of the scare
mongering tactics of the media? Or was my fear justified? The unknown of what
truly lied beyond the border was terrifying, and night after night I lied awake
contemplating the same questions over and over. I had reached my crossroads in
Bam. I was to either continue onto Zahedan (about 90 km from Iran/Pakistan
border) and to what felt like my impending doom or head south to Bandar Abbas
along the south coast and ship Dorothy to Mumbai.
Akbar had assured me that I would be fine,
but to contradict, the response to my travel plans I received from the
Australian embassy in Islamabad strongly advised against me coming to Pakistan
at all, let alone driving through Baluchistan and Quetta (exact words were
“great danger”)
After much deliberation and the
conversation with my parents (who were in great favour of me shipping and
bypassing Pakistan), it was my final conversation with Mayara that helped me
realise that I had lost something along the way and I needed to get it back....
I needed to regain my courage! The following day, Dorothy and I nervously made
the 300Km Journey to Zahedan which is where I would spend the night before
crossing the following morning.
