The Islamic republic of censorship

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.