The driver spoke no English, but instead of silence I was treated to some religious chanting coming from the stereo. At one point, the driver put his hand on his heart and mumbled some chanted words reverently to himself. He looked across at me to make sure I was taking it all very seriously. I tried my best to look pensive but was more concerned with his one-handed high-speed prayer driving.
We parted company in a small rural Turkish village, the name of which I never learnt, next to a bridge over a river that was blocked by several goats and cows ambling along to get to the embankment nearby. They took a good while to clear, and on seeing me and my backpack, their young herder shouted a warm English “hello.” He looked rather pleased with himself when I responded with the same.
A few minutes later, another modern truck responded to my request for a lift and pulled up some distance from where I stood, creating a huge cloud of dust. I ran over, opened the door, climbed the steps leading up to the cab, and was just about to haul myself inside when the driver stopped me by indicating that I should take off my shoes first. He pointed to his immaculate carpet, then to his feet, and shook his head with a smile. I climbed down the steps again, pulled my shoes off, and got in.
This proved to be my final lift all the way to Iran and the end of my hitchhiking proper for this trip. I was extremely pleased. It turned out to be a conversation-free ride since the driver spoke as much English as I did Turkish or Farsi, the Iranian language, but we managed to establish early on what each other’s names were. His was Kerim, and he was driving all the way to Tehran, the capital of Iran.
The landscape we drove through was beautiful, but the music he played at a deafening volume was anything but, with eighties Irish crooner Chris de Burgh blaring from the stereo. This was my first encounter with the peculiar popularity of de Burgh all over Iran, and although not my first choice of auditory stimulation, it did, at the time, make a welcome change from the likes of repetitive religious chanting.
The last settlement before the Iranian border is the small Turkish town of Dogubayazit, known affectionately to travelers as “doggie biscuit.” Just twenty-two miles from Iran and at an elevation of some 6,000 feet, Dogubayazit commands spectacular views of Turkey’s highest peak, Mount Ararat, which rises majestically from a plain to reach nearly 17,000 feet.
At one time, Dogubayazit had been a significant trading town thanks to its location near an ancient trading route that ran from northwestern Iran to the shores of the Black Sea. But when the trading route’s importance declined, so did that of the town, and today this predominantly Kurdish settlement provides services for people stopping off between Turkey and Iran, and for those visiting Mount Ararat.
The snow-capped Mount Ararat dominates the town’s surrounding landscape. It is considered a holy site by the Armenians and is, according to some, the resting place of Noah’s ark. Genesis 8:4 states that the ark came to rest on the “mountains of Ararat.” The counterargument to this handy pinpointing of the ark’s location is that
We stopped in Dogubayazit at a cafe for lunch, which included meat of uncertain origin, tomatoes, bread, and olives. We were less than thirty minutes from the border, and it was now that I looked properly at my
Of particular concern was a section about changing money, and its advice not to do so at Bazargan just inside the Iranian border, which was exactly where I had planned to do it, as it would be my first stop in Iran. Apparently, foreigners received extreme hassle from the crafty money changers there and were often ripped off in the process. I didn’t like the sound of this.
In the money changer’s favor I now learnt, was the confusion between the rials written on Iranian bank notes and the tomans commonly referred to by the locals. Since one toman equates to ten rials, this quirky local practice is the equivalent of American shopkeepers asking for ten cents when they really require a dollar. To confuse matters further, the shopkeepers at the bazaars will, on occasion, ask for one toman when they actually mean one hundred rials, or even a thousand.
According to my guidebook, the money changers were perfectly aware of this confusion and did their best to exploit it with foreigners, whilst stirring in random references to the dollar just to muddy the waters further. I didn’t plan to change a penny in Bazargan now. I mimed to Kerim and the other guys at the cafe, all of whom he seemed to know, that I needed to exchange some money before I arrived in Iran.
These kindly chaps explained, via a man from the shop next door who spoke a little English, that they would be more than happy to help me out and personally exchange my U.S. dollars, for what they assured me was a better than average rate. I politely declined. After further discussions and negotiations, one of them agreed, for a small fee, to take me to a proper money changer not far away in the center of town. I jumped into his car, leaving Kerim and my backpack behind in the truck, and went through the crowded twisting streets to a small currency exchange shop. I only wanted to exchange enough for the next few days until I managed to locate a proper bank inside Iran. I swapped the Turkish lira equivalent of about sixty dollars, and in return received a huge wad of green Iranian currency graced with the image of the Ayatollah Khomeini. As soon as I returned to the cafe, we set off for Iran.
The queue of trucks stretched for a hell of a long distance from the border, which is considered to be one of the most congested bottlenecks in West Asia. The thought of waiting in the truck for hours didn’t appeal, so I thanked Kerim for the ride and headed off on foot toward Iran.
I approached the border with some trepidation. Thoughts of the gruesome documentary I’d seen before leaving and of the chaos in nearby Iraq filled my mind, and I wondered what sort of reception I, as a Westerner, would get in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Britain had meddled often with the country’s internal affairs, so would the Iranian people be cold or even hostile? I thought back on my encounter with Saddam, which, along with last night’s canine-interrupted sleeping arrangements, I could well have done without. I hoped there wouldn’t be any similar close shaves awaiting me in Iran.
The initial reception, it turned out, couldn’t have been nicer. I was directed by friendly, smiling officials to one of two border queues situated inside an airport-style customs building. In here, I saw for the first time a picture I would see again and again during my Iranian tour: a portrait of Iran’s late supreme religious leader, Ayatollah Khomeini. Alongside this was a picture of the current religious leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. There was also a sign for a prayer room and one for a human quarantine area. On seeing these pictures and signs, I felt a quiet sense of achievement at having made it this far and having finally reached my elusive destination. The nervousness I’d experienced moments ago evaporated and was replaced with an intense excitement.
I joined the back of a large line leading to a couple of kiosks where it appeared that passports and visas were being checked and stamped. Just beyond this was a larger area where a group of people were busy arranging their luggage in readiness for joining another queue, at the end of which luggage was being presented for inspection at a customs desk. After less than a minute lined up behind the locals, I was spotted by an official who immediately approached me. My previous apprehension returned when I was then asked for my passport and told simply, “Follow me.” I was paranoid at having been singled out and was half-expecting a thorough interrogation, followed by an invasive full cavity search, topped off with a spell in “human quarantine.”
Instead the official brought me to the front of the line, handed his colleague my passport, and said happily, even excitedly, “Tourist!” His colleague smiled back, stamping my passport in the process, and said in a similar manner, “Welcome to Iran!”
I was now led through the crowd of locals rearranging their luggage. This proved difficult as my tent protruded significantly sideways from my backpack, making it impossible to get past without bumping into people. I apologized profusely and tried to maneuver as carefully through the crowds as possible, but the friendly official couldn’t be bothered with any of this cautious nonsense and pushed me from behind shouting “Tourist! Tourist!” in an attempt to clear the crowds.
A generously proportioned Iranian woman in traditional full black chador stood blocking my way. I hunched my shoulders and turned to squeeze respectfully past her, but just as I was about to negotiate this move, the official gave another helpful shove and I hurtled toward her. It was like the second before being in a car crash where paradoxically everything slows down and yet speeds up all at once. I panicked and instinctively tried to stop the collision by throwing out my hands—which collided with her ample hindquarters. My palms sunk in, giving me a
