I had been looking forward to visiting Samarkand since the beginning of the rally. I had read a lot about it as a teenager, my anticipation had built for weeks and I had convinced Nick and Bob and Olov that it was something not to be missed.
It didn’t take us long to drive there – only 4 hours on relatively bad roads, but mainly hanging back because Bob and Olov were still not feeling great and so wanted to take it slow. They also wanted to find a workshop in Samarkand and get their front springs fixed, since there was no hope for the shock absorbers. To this point they were driving on two different length springs, and so on each bump they were bottoming out on the left and weaker spring.
When we got to Samarqand, we asked for directions to a workshop and were directed to what looked like car repair heaven. It was a workshop the size of a warehouse with around 60 mechanics working under, over and alongside 10-12 cars. We pulled up and it turned out that the ‘Master’ or head mechanic spoke fluent Russian. Little did I know that this would be the crunch point for my Russian skills as well.
I explained to him that BobOlov had different length and strength springs and that they wanted to replace either the shorter one with the same length spring as the stronger one, or both.
He sent across 6 of his apprentices and they winched the car up and took the wheels off. Looking at their car, they told me that since the shock absorbers were broken on both sides, it would be better to insert a plate at the top of each suspension that would raise the car up by around 3cm, rather than put new springs in, since the increased pressure of larger springs would make the car bounce even more. The inserts on the other hand would give them the height that would stop them bottoming out all the time.
Bob agreed to the plates but insisted on changing the springs as well. They made the discs from molds taken off the top of the suspensions and the head mechanic again advised that not only would this stop them from bottoming out, but inserting stronger springs would additionally slow them down, since the car would be so unstable.
Bob put his foot down and insisted that they put new springs in as well. We went across to the adjoining spares shop and Bob found the springs he thought would fit. The head mechanic looked worried and said that they were too narrow at one end and therefore wouldn’t fit.
Bob said they should cut them to the point where they were all one width and then insert them. The master argued that they wouldn’t be flat and so there would be a danger that they would push through the rubber top bit of the suspension and possibly into the engine, but Bob said he didn’t care and that they could be bent straight with some heat.
The head mechanic soon realised that there was no point in arguing with Bob, once he’d made his mind up. They looked at the springs and made some calls to speak to some welders and metal workers, who could cut and bend the springs to the right length.
Unfortunately, by the time they got through to the right people, it was too late to do the work the same day, so the head mechanic organised a hotel for us to stay and told us to return in the morning.
By this time, I was exhausted not only from translating into a language that I hadn’t used in years, but also using vocabulary that I had never used in that language and that I was producing out of a mixture of memory and Russianised Bulgarian.
Although tired, when we got to the hotel, we decided to visit at least some of the sites of Samarkand.
The water wasn’t working in some of our rooms and the toilet didn’t flush in others. Since the hotel was quite close to the workshop, the price of the rooms was low and the hotel manager assured us that he would get it all fixed within the couple of hours that we would be out sightseeing, we agreed to stay.
We caught a taxi, haggled for a price and he drove us to the central square that was flanked on three sides by very old temples. These were very similar to the temples we had seen in Bukhara, but much more polished and touristy. All three buildings were fenced off and visitors were allowed only to sit and take photos from a few rows of benches, positioned around 200 metres away from the temples. There were guards patrolling between the three buildings and they had unwillingly increased the interest of the site multi-fold by screwing up the lighting of each building.
It seemed that all three buildings were supposed to be lit up from below to give them the most dramatic look and feel. Unfortunately, one of the lighting systems always seemed to malfunction at exactly the point when they got the other two working. And so, one guard kept patrolling, while another two guards frantically kept running between the three buildings seemingly turning on lights here and simultaneously turning off the lights there, much to the delight of the visitors, who couldn’t have expected this much action if they had dreamed about it. After 25 minutes of frustrated running the guards seemingly gave up and shut off the light to all three buildings, this way ending what was quite an unexpected but amusing show.
At this point, we had reached the end of our energy levels and decided to have a bite to eat. We found the first pizza place and although the pizzas were mediocre, even the semblance of familiar food tasted very delicious. This is a good point to mention that pretty much since the border of Uzbekistan, easily available and attainable vegetarian friendly food was becoming more of a mirage every day and I had to custom order my food everywhere, each time explaining that chicken and fish still constituted meat of one variety or another.
After our meal, we decided to grab another cab home but got more than we had bargained for when we agreed the price and got into a lada jigula. Our driver was a youngish guy, who as a first step called over an even younger guy in his twenties with a small bag of green dust, took a generous pinch of the stuff and stuffed it up his nostrils. He then speedily took off, before any of us had the chance to think better of it.
Swerving wildly, then randomly opening his door only to swing it shut again at what seemed like 40 miles an hour, he took a swig of some neon yellow liquid and then promptly drove by the road our hotel was on. By this time I had already asked him whether he was sure he knew where we were going and he confirmed. Another 5 minutes later, and in the meantime on roads that seemed more village-like rather than capital-like, I asked again and he seemed to get annoyed at the continuous questioning of his directions, but by this point we were so far away from our hotel, we were getting worried he was driving us to get mugged somewhere.
We all repeated the name of the hotel a couple of times and this seemed to finally get through to him. He started waving his hands about angrily and turned into another street. 8 minutes later we stopped outside of our hotel and happily got out. We handed the driver the agreed sum, but he insisted that we had changed our mind half-way and so wanted double the agreed price. I argued with him until he agreed to take the equivalent of another 1.5 dollars. Relieved to be rid of him and in one piece, we walked into our hotel only to find that of course our water issues hadn’t been sorted out.
We slept anyway, and in the morning checked out demanding a 50% discount on the room price. 30 minutes of haggling and discussing the problems, and admittedly, some threatening with Health & Safety by Bob, we walked out of there each having paid only $10.
We got back to the mechanics and after a few hours of Bob supervision, BobOlov had their equal springs and their raised inserts all done and dusted.
While waiting, we had realised that our roofrack had come out of its sleighs and got the mechanics to bolt it to the frame of the car. This they had done and when we all went to pay, we were positively surprised to receive a price tag of only $50.
Although they advised us not to drive along the Pamirs, they all waved us on our way, inviting us back at our earliest opportunity. A good end to a lot of discussions, insistence and two long days of arguing about technical mechanical issues, we finally drove away looking forward to driving along the second highest road in the world.
We arrived in Bukhara late and found the hotel that I had called along the way from the border just before all the restaurants in the old centre shut. ‘Liaby House’ was a great little hotel, just off the main square and man-made pond of the same name. It was a fusion of a new and tastefully built country style hotel, with terracotta stone on the floors and wooden beams running along the ceilings, and a very old, grand, almost stage-like building with ancient looking crumbling columns, flaking paint on the walls and little alcoves that featured very old pottery and tin and silver pitchers. We checked into our rooms, which were spacious and modern, and rushed over to the square and pond for some last minute dinner.
The boys were happy! They ordered shashlik, which they thought was very good and a local dish called ‘djeez’, strips of beef cooked with cucumbers, tomatos and onions, and lots of local spices – a juicy dish that turned out to be their favourite. They also offered us a large selection of salads, different from any European salads we’ve had before, from which we chose 4 and, which alongside fries made up most of my meal.
Stuffed like Christmas turkeys, we all rolled back to our hotel an hour later and after a long desired shower made it to bed at around 1am.
What seemed like 20 minutes later of cool, unconscious near-dead bliss, we got up and went down for breakfast, about 10 minutes before it was scheduled to end.
Breakfast in Uzbekistan almost deserves its own post. It’s made up of the usual bacon, sausages and eggs, but in addition they offer the thinnest pancakes, some plain and some stuffed with a type of feta-like cheese. There are 5 types of home-made jams that they offer with 6 different types of breads. In addition, they offer a sheer mountain of fresh fruit, and a large variety of cookies and cakes that meets the needs of even the most capricious tourist palate. There were 4 different types of tea prepared fresh in Russian style samovars, coffee and the yogurt drink ayran, which stills thirst in the heat better than anything else you will find.
Bob and Olov weren’t feeling well. Bob in particular looked ready to pass out from nausea but Olov wasn’t far behind. We all decided to walk around the town and visit some of the sites, but by the time lunchtime rolled around, both Bob and Olov had to go back to their rooms and lay down. Nick and I proceeded further.
Bukhara is a centre of ancient history that is both unexpected and what seems a relatively well kept secret. The lonely planet mentions some of the sites, but we had no idea what we were about to see. A lot of smart government investment has preserved and restored most of the ancient temples, towers and spires as well as 8 covered markets that sprawl through most of the old town.
We thought we could see it all in one day, but ideally we could have used two. Most of the old domed buildings are in use as part of the bazaar and every little alcove is utilised by musical instrument workshops, woodwork, painters, carpet makers and the occasional art or photography gallery, featuring local people in local settings. Everywhere you look, people are painting, drawing, carving or forming their materials into their goods.
They also sell knives, tin and metal pots and pitchers, teracotta and ceramic pots and bowls, bread forming utensils, silk and linnen clothes and scarves and woolen hats. Additionally, they sell sentimental wares from the former USSR ranging from badges for different sports and memorable events, to medals, pictures, pots, books and old rubles.
Although friendly, it’s obvious that the sales people are accustomed to tourists and Mongol ralliers coming through.
There is a huge fuel shortage in Uzbekistan and queues at gas stations are 5-6 hours long but waiting doesn’t guarantee you a portion of the available fuel after all this time. The alternative way to get fuel is to talk to local sales people, who are obviously making a profit out of the Mongol ralliers plight. We were approached by one man, who after 30 minutes of haggling came down to the equivalent of $45 dollars per 20 litre jerry can. We passed, especially, when we heard from a scarf selling girl who I’d become friendly with, that just 2 days earlier when there had not yet been any rally teams, the price had still been high, but about 4 times lower nonetheless. We had the assurance of another 2 full jerry cans on our roof, so we thanked him and left. Seeing about 20 new rally teams arriving that day, we were sure he was going to make a killing anyway.
Walking into a worse-for-wear temple, we walked around the stalls and just before leaving we noticed a dilapidated entryway with a crumbling staircase leading up. Nick was apprehensive, but after seeing me run up the first 6 steps out of sight, he followed. What a brilliant move!
We had to sneak by the second floor, where there was a lit stove that someone was cooking a stew on, but where they were also drying their socks, which by the smoke coming off them, seamed on the border to being crispy. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, so we walked on up another floor. A further set of steps and a dark alcove further brought us out onto a bright and open roof top. It came like a wave. We walked out, and out of a dry and crumbling darkness, we suddenly had a sun flooded 360 degree view of all of Bukhara. It was just at the time, when the sun was full ablaze for one final push before setting for the day. It was glorious! There was a light breeze, everything was lit up just waiting to be photographed and there was no one to stop us. It felt like the perfect freedom!
We took our photos, sat on the roof with our legs dangling over the edge but out of view of the people in the market below, watched the sunset and chatted about the great experiences we’d already had on this trip.
When the sun had set almost fully, we walked down the steps, careful not to draw any attention and got out of the old temple unseen.
We walked back to the hotel and texted Bob and Olov to see how they were feeling. They had gotten worse during the day and asked us to go the the close by pharmacy and buy medicines for them. We gave them the medicines, wished them goodnight and went for dinner.
Supposedly, there is a vegetarian restaurant, which is known for its excellent dishes. Although we found it, they were not serving food that day and we continued on. After trying to find another restaurant described in the lonely planet, which turned out to be permanently shut, we decided to just go back to the restaurant on the square, where we had eaten with the boys the night before.
Dinner was good and after reviewing our photos of the day, we went back to the hotel and retired early in preparation of our drive to Samarkand and beyond the next day.
The next morning we came down to breakfast and found another 6 teams catching up. One of them told us that there had been a casualty on the Mongol rally and that one of their friends had tried to reach them during the night to confirm whether they were OK.
They said that although they didn’t know much, they had been told that it had been a car accident in Iran and that one of the team mates had died, while the other two were in stable condition in hospital.
Naturally, we were quite shocked and upset. This was the first time anyone had ever died on the rally and it was quite likely that we knew the team involved, as there weren’t so many teams going the southern route. Since I had been in touch with a lot of other teams since before the rally, I sent out a mass text message asking anyone for any further detail they could provide.
Meanwhile, we met Bob and Olov at the outside pool and discussed our plan for the way forward. Opposite to most of the other teams, who were planning to stay for another night until Monday to get money out of the bank, we decided to carry on into Turkmenistan today, hoping to make it most of the way to the border, in order to cross before the 3.30pm deadline into Uzbekistan the next day.
Driving out of Ashgabat, we soon realised that the roads were only perfect leading from the border into Ashgabat but no further, and so after driving at 50km/h for 6.5 hours straight on the worst roads of the rally thus far, we had barely made it 150 miles to Mary.
At this time I had also received confirmation of the team that had crashed and we were very sad when we realised that not only we knew the team, but we had planned to convoy with them on the Pamirs. We sent our condolences to our injured friends and hoped that the surviving two would get better soon.
At this point, the terrain had changed from urban uber-chique to sandy desert with high dunes and camels. We pulled off the road into a dune and decided to set up camp for the night, continuing to the border and out of Turkmenistan the following day.
In the morning, we woke up to workers working beside our camp. Peering out, we saw that they had not spotted us behind the dune, but after we got up and started moving around to pack up, they soon did. 15 minutes later, they had called ‘Bob and their uncle’ over to watch the ‘tourists’ pull their camp together.
Eventually, two worked up the courage to walk over the see what we were doing up close and after taking a couple of pictures on their mobile phones they walked back to the group of now around 60 people to report. When we were done pulling our camp together, we were cheered on by all of these men, all now standing in neat rows about 4 people deep.
Back on the road, we soon drove deeper into the desert, hot wind sweeping our cars heavily to one side of the road, carrying hot sand as it went in small twisters. We met fewer and fewer people and signs of life gradually disappeared until finally at around 1.30pm we saw signs for the Turkmenistan border.
Rolling up to it, we were prepared for the worst, but in fact it was a smooth and relatively fast crossing that cost us $30 in toll for a highway and bridge we had supposedly used, but which we couldn’t remember crossing.
After our checks and successful document completion, we hoped to get through the Uzbekistan side just as quickly and as painlessly, but this border was unlike any other we’d been to before.
Firstly, we couldn’t find it. On leaving the Turkmenistan side, we drove into more desert and dunes just as barren as the ones before the border post. There were no signs and after 40 minutes of driving, we started wondering, if we’d missed the correct turn off. Three queries for direction later, we finally found our way, but it seems that neither Turkmenistan nor Uzbekistan want you to find it.
About an hour and 25 minutes after crossing the Turkmenistan border, we arrived at a run down shack with an iron gate and were asked to park our cars in front of it.
Walking towards the shack, we had to walk through a box filled with lime and covered with a wet sheet that featured foot and shoe prints of all shapes, sizes and depths – this was their disinfectant box, that everybody wishing to get into Uzbekistan had to step into at least once.
The shack turned out to be a walkthrough building where perfect chaos reigned. Truckers, farmers with cows, sheep and various other cattle, citizens of both Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan all pressed in on both sides, trying to get in or out of the border. The 4 officials that were working seemed unperturbed by the cacaphony that ruled on our side of their glass windows and just continued writing in their ledgers at near snail’s pace.
When we got in, we were first checked by a doctor, who was delighted that I spoke Russian and while telling me about the time he spent in Bulgaria 25 years ago, he processed us quickly by writing our details into his register in front of all the other people that were trying to push in, took each of our temperatures and then continued to pop in at each next step of the border crossing process to make sure we were alright.
The next step was to register with customs, a signle official beleagured by everyone it seemed, who registered human, cattle and cars alike. He truly had the patience of a saint, but when a local woman tried to jump the queue, he jumped up and shouted at her, shaking his finger very sternly upon which she immediately went back to the very end of the queue. She then selbstverstaendlich jumped the queue again not 2 minutes later, this time getting away with it.
As the final step and at the final window along this coridor of moving and pushing masses, we were given an immigration form to complete, which we would see again and again both on entry and exit from the various countries ending in ‘stan’, asking for all of our details, as well as any cash and the belongings we were importing, finally registering our cars and passports one more time in our now trusted means of a hand-written register.
After this, we drove through a deep ditch filled with lime and water to disinfect our cars and then were asked to stop at the narcotics building, another border function, which we would get accustomed to at each following entry and exit border. Here we saw with worry that a car that had driven through earlier was searched very thoroughly, taking each item out and opening and emptying each out onto the ground. Since the car was nowhere near as full as ours or BobOlov’s, we didn’t look forward to these checks on our cars.
However, at entering the narcotics building, and once they established that I speak Russian, the guards here again registered our documents very speedily, and enthusiastically sent us on our way without any major checks, bar from checking our camera’s photos for any ‘incriminating’ shots and quickly looking under Nick’s seat. BobOlov were through even faster and so after just over 3 hours, we drove off and towards Bukhara, which we had heard was a great little town in the middle of the desert.
Driving down the mountain into the valley and towards Ashgabat, we could immediately tell that we were in a different country. The hills were lush and covered in green and gold shimmering grasses and the road was new, wide, clean and perfect to drive.
At the border we had been given some of the ground rules for Turkmenistan:
You must always wash your car before entering any major city in Turkmenistan. Just before the entrance gate, you will always find an inexpensive car wash at a petrol station to make use of. Owners of dirty cars will be fined
There is an 11pm curfew, after which you should not be walking anywhere on the street anymore, or you will be fined
Should you need to be out after this time, like at ‘the’ nightclub, take a taxi, so that you are not walking, otherwise you will be fined
Also after this time, should you be found together with a local girl, even if just talking, it will automatically be assumed that she is a prostitute and you will be arrested and, you guessed it, fined.
Armed with this advice and about 50 jokes among all the rally teams, BobOlov and we dutifully drove up to the final gas station outside of the city limits and washed our cars. It was good to see Polly in all of her glory and all of her stickers and decals that bright and clean again.
After this short interlude, we drove into Ashgabat and were immediately struck by the grandness of this city. Built by the late dictator for his son, it was immaculate. All the buildings looked brand new and modern, with whole sides made of glass. We drove by the library and the building was shaped like a giant open glass book standing on a book stand. There were also grand arches like you would see in Greece, interactive and dancing water features and fountains, and buildings shaped like pyramids and other geometric shapes. It was something that you would expect to see in Dubai or Las Vegas, but not in the middle of the desert 20 minutes from the Iranian border where everone throws their trash out their window and by the wayside.
Bewildered and excited, we pulled up to the main hotel, where everyone seemed to be congregating and booked our rooms for the night.
We arranged for our laundry to be done, but instead of paying the official prices, we paid the maid under the table and she did all of our laundry the same night at the price of one shirt.
After a long shower and viewing Fidel Castro’s first speech in 4 years live on the BBC world news service, we went to a pub just 60 meters down the road, had excellent beer and food and were promptly kicked out at 11pm at closing time.
After the emotional day at the border, the early start we’d had and the excellent dinner, it was all we could do to go back to our hotel rooms and enjoy the sweet sleep and air conditioning that made us feel human again and recharged our batteries for the rest of this magnificent country.
Seems these wonderlust cats haven’t had internet for days so I’m posting this update on their behalf just to point out you can see their live updates – directly from SMS here: http://www.teamwanderlust2010.com/b/live-updates!!
We got to the Iranian-Turkmenistan border far too late. It was supposed to close for the day at 3.30pm and we got there at 2.30pm.
I was correspondingly nervous and pushed Nick through all the Iranian control points as quickly as possible. And there were lots!
First, we had to walk over to a building and get our passport and Carnet entered into a handwritten register in a room on the ground floor. Then, we had to climb the stairs to the second floor and past the entrance to one room to the window of another, where another man entered both of these documents into a handwritten register of his own. He handed us back our passports, but slid our Carnets to be entered into a computer to the back of his table and ordered us to go back to the door we had just passed. This we did, but we soon realised that everyone had gone to lunch and we were in for at least a 20 minute wait.
Meanwhile, there were 10 Iranian guys in that little room with us, illegibly pushing and shouting at each other at the top of their voices in what seemed to be a bit of a pissing contest, simultaneously moving stacks of what looked official truck (TIR) papers from one pile to the next stamping some and pushing them over the others. That then brought on another fit of shouting and pushing, but this seemed to be within the realm of normality in their coexistence.
20 minutes, and at least 5 bouts of shouting and pushing later, one of the administrators came back to the office and finally entered our Carnet details into an ancient looking computer that I would swear is powered by very tired running hamsters, releasing us to the actual building for passport control and customs.
Going into this other building we first had to get a stamp from a customs man who wanted to see our car. We led him out, he glanced at it briefly, alternating between scratching his butt and his head as he walked, and when he was happy and scribbled something on the back of a piece of paper we quickly queued at the passport control kiosk, which bizarrely processed both incoming and outgoing passports, but mainly those of owners who screamed loudest at the border guard.
Eventually we got our passports back and were pointed to yet another window, where they would check our passports, this time through Interpol.
Finally, we had all of our documents checked, entered, re-entered, re-re-entered, stamped and processed and could go through to the Turkmenistan side, where we were hoping to buy our visa in the last remaining 10 minutes before the border closed.
By the time we drove the 15 meters over to the Turkmenistan border, those 10 minutes had elapsed, and we were really worried we would have to spend the night there in no man’s land.
Luckily, we weren’t alone. In fact, in the last hour, the Iranians had miraculously processed around 10 teams, so just as the control points and the bank were about to close, about 30 of us walked in. Since no man’s land was about 15 cm long, they couldn’t possibly leave us standing there overnight and so they were forced to show all of us, a group of dusty, scraggly, unshaven and mostly unshowered group of tourists, a bit of leniency and process us even after their closing time.
Luckily, they seemed pretty efficient, and so, after another 2 hours of waiting and around $300 for the visas and for the tax that we had to pay for each exact kilometer that we were planning to drive through Turkmenistan, we came out on the other side and agreed to meet the other teams in Ashgabat for a drink that night.
The next morning we got up at around 9am and walked downstairs. The family were already up, with the son at school and the husband at the hospital where he worked as an accountant.
We were served a delicious breakfast of freshly baked bread, panir cheese, tomatoes and home-made jams and the two women asked us lots of questions. They also asked us to stay longer, offering to have a big lunch together with the whole family, since both men were coming home shortly, and also to stay until the next day, when they were planning on travelling south along the Caspian sea to Sari.
Although this was also our direction we really had planned to only spend 3-4 days in Iran and we were already behind schedule. Soon after, the husband and son came home together and we sat for another 30-40 minutes talking and sharing their meal.
Looking at the map, the husband told us that we could expect at least another 2 day-long drives, since it would take us at least another 22 hours of driving to reach the Iranian-Turkmenistan border.
We took lots of family shots, exchanged addresses to send each other the photos and were just about to say our goodbyes when the wife and daughter took me aside and gave me a hijab as a present. They also showed me ways in which to tie it, so that I wouldn’t be so hot in the blazing temperatures, which I was very grateful for.
We then walked down to our car together, and after giving them each one of our rally t-shirts, as well as one for the daughter’s boyfriend-soon-to-be-husband, the wife handed us a large packed lunch, we hugged and kissed our new found friends and set off on our way.
Because we were nervous about Nick’s nationality, we had decided to avoid driving through Tehran and to take the scenic coastal road instead. Additionally, we had been told that just that stretch of road through Tehran takes a whole day to cross, so we were looking forward to saving some time by cutting that out. Unfortunately, the road along the coast doesn’t actually run along the coast at all, and so what we had hoped would be a very picturesque drive along the Caspian sea, turned out to be one long, hot, incredibly boring highway of speed bumps dotted with occasional glimpses of blue far away at the horizon.
A day later after having stayted at a roadside hotel and having passed the end point of the Caspain sea, we were caught up by team BobOlov, who had got stuck at the Turkish-Iranian border due to an expired visa. Because of this, they had had to turn back and drive 200km back into Turkey to get a new visa and then come back. Luckily, because of the time we spent in Tabriz and after almost non-stop driving on their part, they had managed to catch us up still in Iran.
Our little convoy of two back together, we caught up on what had happened to both teams and set off for the border together. It was interesting to find that we had had very similar experiences with the Iranian people and that they also had found people that had helped them in unexpected but very welcome ways.
It took another night of camping and 240 km more in order to reach the Iranian-Turkmenistan border just 1 hour before it closed at 3.30pm. Although we were sad to leave this amazing country with its curious and helpful people, at least here, we knew we would all go into entirely unknown territory.
When we got to the seaside on the day that we left Tabriz, we were exhausted. Although the roads were much better than in Turkey, there were frequent speed bumps that were unmarked and should have been measured on a scale of 1 to 10 in terms of deadliness to a car. A couple of them we hit so hard, that it dislodged everything in the back and made us bottom out on our sump guards. Other teams reported burst tires, which luckily we managed to avoid, but later on we did realise that this had broken some of the front bolts on our roof rack, making it jump out of it’s guides.
Reaching Astana on the Azerbaijan-Iranian border and the Caspian Sea at around midnight, we’d already had to stop twice for a short break as we were falling asleep at the wheel. We were thrilled to see signs for a camping site and following the signs we rolled up to a large roundabout in the middle of the city covered in tents. Our moods took a knock back, since this was clearly it and it seemed to be overflowing with tents already, but also it was right beside the highway and so would be very noisy and polluted.
Just as we were looking for the entrance to the ‘site’ and a possible parking spot, a local car pulled up beside us and a middle aged couple greeted us, asking us, as we’d become accustomed, where we were from. We answered and when they pulled forward we put our attention back to the camp site. Not a second later, they had pulled in front of us and the man jumped out and came towards us. He asked, by putting his hands together in a roof like position, ‘Tenting’? When we said yes he smiled broadly and quickly said ‘My house, come, 10 kilometer.’ We looked at each other and then back at him and said ok. He quickly returned to his car and waved to us to follow him. We looked at each other again and smiled, since we both couldn’t believe our luck. We’d have the opportunity to set up our camp in this man’s garden, away from the noise and the pollution – this was more than we had hoped for.
On our way to his house, we were exhilarated but also a bit apprehensive. After all, this was a situation that would never happen back home, nor would we ever agree to if we were in the West. So we drove along, wondering what awaited us, agreeing that of course we would have to talk to them for a little bit, so that we wouldn’t seem rude and then hopefully crash sooner rather than later.
About 15 min later we pulled over and up onto a curb and were motioned out of our car. We were then ushered into a hallway, where we were asked to take off our shoes and to walk up a stair case leading up to an apartment. A girl of about 16-18 stood at an open door welcoming us in and this is when it got really astonishing.
We walked into a huge flat that would have been luxurious for European standards. Granted, everything was decorated in golds, pale yellows and dark woods, but the ambiance and feel of the place was grand and very welcoming.
They sat us down on the couch and the wife immediately proceeded to take off her hijab, pointing at me to do the same. I noticed that the daughter was also not wearing one, so I followed suit. Inside their house, they seemed to be like any Western family, with much the same exchanges and customs and very equal and casual with each other.
Their 12 year old son was sprawled on the second couch, watching what seemed to be a 65” TV and eating a chocolate desert.
The wife made some tea and cut some water and honey melon and brought it over to us. We all ate and we tried to talk to each other, smiling a lot since our Farsi was non-existent and so was their English. Their daughter turned out to be studying English at University but she had only started, so it was still very limited.
It’s interesting how much you can communicate and get across even without any words in common. We spent the next 2 hours finding out about each other, and viewing and listening to traditional Iranian music on their TV. After 30mins the husband had also gone and retrieved a very old copy of a Farsi-English dictionary, which featured useful conjugations like ‘I am killed. you are killed, we are killed, they are killed’, etc. as well as much needed phrases such as ‘taking hostage’ as well as photos of JFK and 1960s playboy pinups.
The wife turned out to be only 8 years older than I and the husband 10, but they seemed much older than that. They showed us that they had been married for 20 years already, which by my calculations meant that she had been 20 when they had married. Their daughter turned out to be 18.
The wife offered for us to take a shower, which we gratefully accepted and we then asked to be shown to their garden, since it was nearing 2.15 in the morning. They asked Nick to follow the husband, who much to our surprise didn’t show him to the garden, but instead led him up another flight of stairs and into a one room loft apartment with a huge terrace. This is where they wanted us to spend the night and they offered us the choice between the room and the terrace since it was still very hot.
This was much more than we had ever expected and we thanked them wholeheartedly. They said for us to sleep as long as we wanted and to come down for some breakfast the next morning.
We settled down for the night, once more feeling elated by the extraordinary good luck we’d had and admiring the incredible friendliness and welcoming nature of this family and the Iranian people in general.
Iran is a country of many contradictions. The nature is beautiful but hostile. Temperatures at this time of year are in the very high 30s and low to mid 40s. While it’s policy and politics are very unfriendly towards the West and that of the West towards Iran, the people couldn’t be further from it.
Although as we found out, they are not taught any languages at school apart from Farcy and Arabic, most people have a grasp of English and some even speak it very well. When we asked how they had learned English, most had taught themselves, but had done so to a standard that was very advanced to near fluent.
Most Iranians travel only within Iran and the few that do travel outside, go to neighbouring countries where they don’t need a visa or it is easy for them to get one, like Turkey, Dubai, Syria, Azerbaijan or Turkmenistan.
Fuel is very cheap – at around 5.50 EUR for 20 litres, it worked out at around 0.27 EUR per litre and is the cheapest we’d found fuel for at this point of the rally.
They seem to be very friendly to women and in the home environment, women seem to be full equals, but outside on the street, segregation is strong and very apparent and women know their place.
When we got to Tabriz and finally found a hotel, we had already been surprised by multiple unexpected acts of friendliness and helpfulness.
Upon arriving in Tabriz, we’d asked for directions to a hotel and a man had offered to guide us there, driving for 15 minutes to get us to where we were going. Once he’d got us to the hotel, he welcomed us to Iran and wished us luck on our journey.
During the 5 hours we spent looking for a hotel following the flop at the hotel we’d hoped to find a room at, we were actively stopped multiple times by both men and women to ask us where we were from, where we were going, how we liked Iran and what we thought about what we were seeing. We were also hollared at from car windows, honked at and waved at, all with utmost enthusiasm and curiosity.
The following day we decided to explore Tabriz and were advised to take a bus into the centre. A man from the hotel guided us to the bus stop and handed us over to a local who promptly put us on the bus. It happened very quickly but it was also very funny:
Our bus arrived, he touched us in with the impulse card of the hotel man, and showed us onto the bus, or so we thought. Nick got on in the front and as I put my foot on the step to follow him in, the man stopped me and in a very friendly tone said: “Hello, you can get on in the back”. He was friendly but it was clear that unless I got on in the back, I wasn’t getting on at all.
I stepped back and walked over to the back entrance. This was separated into two by a bar that ran down and offered entrance to the front bit and the back bit on its respective sides. I got on on the left hand side of the bar and found myself in the cramped back of the bus, a much smaller space than the separate front space, where Nick was comfortably sitting with another 10 or so men.
The back space was cramped, with only a handful of somewhat smaller seats, occupied by women, all wearing the traditional hijabs (head scarves). It felt as hot, close quarter and invasive as the Central line at 8.30am on a weekday morning. In contrast, in the men’s section of the bus, there were open windows, lots seats with plenty of leg room for even a very tall man.
Two thoughts went through my head:
If this situation was depicted in a cartoon, you’d see the men sitting naked, covered with towels as in a sauna with a pool in the middle of the bus being served tea and being given massages, while behind multiple bars, women would be stashed as sardines, squeezed tightly in just a tiny bit of juice, in this case sweat.
A question formed in my mind that, if as in most other countries it’s the Iranian women that do most of the family shopping and organisation, then it would follow that there should always be a higher number of women on these buses. Taking out the segregation and inequality issue, why then would they make the women’s section that much smaller? From a practical, ‘I want food on the table when I get home, woman’ standpoint, this made no sense, especially after the message that women were less worthy was pushed home and clear already by the segregation itself.
After about 20 minutes of squeeze, we made it to the Blue mosque, which was excellent and where we were approached for the first time with a more thought through question it seemed. I had tried to shake a man’s hand on parting the night before, and althought he had taken it, it was obvious that this was not the ‘done thing’.
In fact, whenever any man talked to us, they would ask for Nick’s name but never for mine; they would shake his hand, but never even attempt to shake mine and I would always walk at least half a meter behind the two men as they talked. I didn’t feel any hostility in these proceedings, this was just what normal decorum dictates in Iran.
On the other hand when women talked to us, they would mostly approach me first and then ask about Nick. They would shake hands with me and mainly point their questions at me, although they seemed happy to receive answers from both of us.
Interestingly, and as a woman not wholly unexpected, any more critical or uncomfortable glances came from women rather than men. Although smiling mostly diffused these situations and brought the women out of their shells, I often felt an assessing, measuring and judging look that weighed up not only my attire, although I was wearing long sleeves a long skirt and a hijab, but also my behaviour in their environment.
Part of it was most likely the fact that most if not all Iranian women wore black or very dark colours, while I was wearing long but light colours to fend of at least some of the squelching heat. I admire these women for their patience and ability to shrug it off – with the hijab on my head, there was not a part of me that wasn’t sticky or wet, making me irritable and frustrated. I cannot imagine having to cover up every day for all of my life and although I don’t agree with it, I respect these women for adhering to their cultural code.
Anyway, at the Blue mosque, we’d been approached by two separate men already, so when we got to the front of the mosque and a girl walked over to us we didn’t at first think anything of it. However, as a first step, she went straight for Nick and reached her hand forward to shake hands with him. Then she clearly spoke to both of us, but mainly addressed him and asked right out what we thought of Iran.
As we’d agreed, we answered that it was very beautiful and that the people were very friendly. Her response was: “Really? I hate Iran.” She told us that she lived in Tehran, that she was a student at university and that she hated her hijab. It was too hot, she said, and women’s clothes in Iran were impractical. She told us that she would like to go away from Iran but that it was impossible to get a visa. After a short conversation she shook Nick’s hand again, asked if she could kiss me on the cheeks and asked her mother to take a photo of us. This was our first encounter with a ‘political’ opinion in Iran.
After the mosque, we walked over to the grand bazaar of Tabriz, which is renowned for its carpets, gold and handicrafts in all of Iran and spent a good few hours there talking to merchants and admiring the goods. The atmosphere buzzed with haggling, salesmen displaying their colourful wares and convincing buyers to come into their stores. Since most of the bazaar network was covered, it was relatively cool and time slipped by in a comfortable lull.
We ended up having to pull ourselves away in the early afternoon, in order to make our trip to the seaside town of Astana in time.
The road from the border to Tabriz was long and boring. The only excitement/source of stimulation were our attempts of getting fuel. Gas stations were few and far between and often the ones we did find only sold CNG gas, with unbelievably long queues of cars waiting for their turn.
Once we did find a gas station that sold benzin, we had to first convince the proprietor to accept EUR. Communicating mostly by calculator, we agreed on an exchange rate, he fueled up the car and 3 jerry cans with 80 litres of fuel and gave our change back in Riyal.
After driving off, we counted our change and realised he had paid us double the changer back by mistake. This meant that we only paid $9 for the whole 80 litres. Fuel we would find is very cheap in Iran when it can be found.
Pulling into Tabriz at around 8pm, we first tried to find a hotel. Getting quite lost, we asked a man on the side of the road where the Azerbaijan hotel was and he surprisingly offered to get in his car and show us. After 15 mins of driving, he indicated that we had reached the hotel and got out of the car to say bye. I innocently asked where to park and again to our surprise, he ran inside and brought out the hotel manager, who proceeded to stop traffic for us and guide us the wrong way down a one way road next to the hotel to park.
Considering the lengths to which they had gone to find us a parking spot, we were shocked when they told us inside the hotel that they had no rooms available. We drove around for the next 2 hours, stopping at every hotel only to be turned away. We decided to grab some dinner before the restaurants closed and ended up sitting in a really cool outdoor courtyard restaurant with delicious food and friendly waitors.
After dinner we resumed our hotel search and were stopped by a friendly Iranian student, her father and brother. She was so happy to see us and speak English with us. She said she’d been waiting by our car for us to come back so she could meet us. She gave me a small felt banner with farcy inscriptions as a giftl and her father brought us two yogurt Ayran drinks.
To prove to her friends that she had actually met us she asked me to write her a letter to show them and after much picture taking, we resumed our hotel search.
After driving the length of the main road in Tabriz at least 5 times, one hotel manager finally took pity on us at aroudn 2am and gave us a reserved room, whose occupant hadn’t shown up.
The next morning Maria and I, hopped on a bus to go and see the Blue Mosque and Tabriz’ famous bazaar. Getting on the front of the bus with me, Maria was told that she ‘can’ get on at the back of the bus instead. Once on the bus, our confusion cleared when we realised the bus was segregated for men and women. While the men sat upfront with spacious seats and lots of leg room, the women were mostly forced to stand in a much smaller crowded cramped rear space of the bus. We both thought this was pretty amusing although I doubt Maria would think so if we lived there full time.
We spent a few hours that morning sight seeing in Tabriz, including the impressive Blue Mosque, before heading out again on the road.
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