We would come to a doctor in Teheran latest by the next day.
But we had a big disappointment and the little devil on my left shoulder laughed his head off. It was a crushing defeat and all hope of getting a doctor was gone!
Ceylonese needed a visa!!!!
I realized what that meant at once: We had to travel back to Ankara to get visas for my wife and my mother-in-law.
At this moment I could have killed my Chitra but this would cause only more damage. I did not want to end up in a jail in Anatolia, so I shouted at my dear wife. But then I changed my tone quickly when I saw that she cried and sobbed and took her in my arms and comforted her. Yes, I still loved her!
We drove back to Dogubayazit and we looked for a hotel there. The hotel manager also knew of a doctor right away, who then came immediately and made his diagnoses for my mother-in-law and my daughter.
My mother-in-law, whose name was Nancy by the way, got powders prescribed and the pain disappeared.
The doctor said that this happened only because of sitting for a long time
In the future we were to make more stops and a little bit of gymnastics. This would not be bad. But my daughter had an intestinal infection and this was not so easy to put up with, that was the reason for her fever. But even for this case, the Uncle Doctor had a prescription but this medicine was to be administered only under his supervision. My plan was fixed; Nancy was ordered to stay with my daughter and take care of her and to let the doctor into the hotel room when required.
Chitra, Dieter and I would be on our way immediately and take my mother-in-law's passport along with us. Perhaps we could get our visas there even the next day.
So we were on a night trip to Ankara.
Those who know the conditions of the roads in East Turkey in 1969 will know what kind of an undertaking this was. Of course we reached the Embassy only in the afternoon, despite rapid driving. The word "quick" would be exaggerated; "rapid" was appropriate for this.
We stood in front of the Persian Embassy very early the next day. Chitra didn't get her visa immediately - first she had to get two passport size photos from an outpatient photo lab just in front of the Embassy and hand them over to the officials. He promised that the visa would be ready to pick up the next morning. We did not get the visa for my mother-in-law, we were told that Nancy herself should present herself. Even if we had taken her photos with us, it would not have helped. This meant that we had to wait till the next day and then drive back to Dogubayazit and come back here with Nancy. This was a crappy game to play, all because I had believed my wife's nonsense about the Ceylonese being the great tea exporters for Persia. The quota was probably not enough to be free of visa.
Never again would I believe in anything blindly. I know now of course: Believing means not knowing anything! And she really didn't knew anything!
It wasn't going to help getting angry, we had to return to Dogubayazit and drive back here again.
But on the next day it was closed because it was a holiday. I was foaming with rage. On the next day still charged with indignation, I called him a "fucker" after a tedious discussion with the passport official.
But this official understood English and just asked for my passport, which I didn't give to him but I just left the Embassy building very quickly. Luckily Chitra already had her passport.
I knew that if I had given him my passport, there would have been a stamp with the note: Entry Is Not Permitted, as "persona non grata", literally meaning "an unwelcome person," A transit through Persia wouldn't have been possible because of that. Back in the hotel, the situation was much better and my mother-in-law was once again fully fit for traveling. My daughter was also ready for action to some extent.
The doctor was a genius, I told him so, but he brushed it aside by saying that every other child had these symptoms at some point there and that is why he was so familiar with it. He was just modest, so was also his fee. But I gave him the double of the required fee. Grandmother, mother and child, Dieter and I now set off on our journey to Ankara for Nancy's papers.
This time however we took our time and did not rush as much. We had even more time in Ankara since we got the last day of Ramadan, the fasting month of the Muslims.
Since it is a Wednesday, the Embassy was closed - and also on the next day and the day after that. We could go to our Embassy on Sunday. That was again a day full of surprises. We already knew the rhythm. We were to submit the papers on one day and get the visa on the next day. Since I was very careful and had checked the situation first of all and also saw another visa-official, and not the one from previous day, I went into the office with Chitra.
This official was friendliness personified and apologized to us that we had to wait for so long due of the festival. We told him that we had been there some days ago already but his colleague had sent us away because Nancy was not there with us.
We told him the whole story and at the end he told us that it was not necessary that the person who is applying for a visa had to be there in person as well. Many sent their passports through another person and got their visa. It was only important that there were passport-size photos and that the collecting party signs that he had received the other person's passport. Another colleague had worked in his place in his absence and had done the office work. The official said that perhaps his substitute had not been aware of this. Could we believe this?
Just as the little devil, my leprechaun on my left shoulder would have it, the colleague from last time came out of an office just at that moment.
He looked at me and immediately started to gesticulate and scream something in Persian.
This in turn brought more people from the corridors and also two soldiers, probably the security personnel.
These soldiers came from the direction in which I wanted to withdraw to, so I sat in a trap.
I had to show my identity card to the higher official, and thus I had to hand over my passport.
Precisely that happened, that I wanted to avoid: the condemning stamp "Persona non grata" in my passport!
Goodbye, Iran, I should leave. Now good advice is expensive and I got that advice from the German embassy.
I was lectured that I had to behave properly when abroad, otherwise I would not have been in such a situation. Then I was told that I could get a new passport only if this one had been full, so that no visas could be stamped in any more or if I had lost my passport. But that would be enough only for a homeland travel for a substitute passport.
For example it was possible that a small child had spilled his chocolate drink and the passport had unfortunately become dirty and wet by chance.
I had understood, thanked him and we left the embassy. The very next morning I was the first in the queue in front of the German Embassy in Ankara. My passport had an evil inkblot crosswise on the first page, where all important data and my name stood.
I explained to an official that I was writing a letter to my parents and had filled my fountain pen. Suddenly my little daughter had wobbled at the table and the mishap had happened. I was very embarrassed and what could be done there.
The officer advised me a form with my data and fill another form, explaining how it had led to the mishap resulting in the illegible passport.
Then he told me he would need two passport photos and a fee to the value of 20 DM.
The next day I could come and pick up my blank passport and the old, invalid one. Which I did.
Since we had lost so many days and I was still a little afraid of the Persian frontier because a letter had been sent to the border station in Bazarghan, I changed my plans.
I decided to drive to Beirut and to ship the car.
My Ceylonese ladies also needed a visa for entering and residing in Syria and in Lebanon. We got this done in Ankara.
From my other travels, I knew that German did not need a visa for this country. The road was in order at times but travelling to Adana through to the Syrian border was a pain - for the car and fo
r us. I had not noticed this in my previous trips. The procedure with the Syrians was, as always, only slightly more expensive. This was probably due to the larger car as well as on the number of occupants. I visited the ship dealer in Beirut, whom I knew from my seagoing service. The ship agency "Gargour and Fils" were able to assure me that there was no option of bringing the car to Ceylon in the next three months, not even with another agency. I did not wait for so long, so no flight to Colombo. Dieter would have flown from here back to Germany but now he wanted to stay with us and continue with us.
My idea was now to travel from Beirut to Damascus and then to eventually ship the car to Ceylon from Basrah.
Somehow all this appeared to be a bit crazy to me. I could not get rid of the car and we were not able to proceed further either.
If only this "Carnet de Passage" had not been there and also if my wife had not promised a relative in Ceylon that he would get a Mercedes "Sedan", this is how she called a limousine, and that it was already on the way. So the car had to go to Ceylon but how? The only possibility I could see now was to drive to Basrah.
Basrah was not so far away on the map, which I had with me.
We only had to drive from Beirut via Damascus and Baghdad and then continue to drive to the south of Iraq and you then we would be in Basrah.
I was confident on the fact that I knew the shipping agent there and that he would definitely help me. I really wanted to get rid of the car.
We came to know in Damascus that no visas would be issued for Germans due to the current political discrepancies.
Ceylonese would not have any problem and could travel to Iraq. That was again such a situation that had to be dismissed. I could not believe it. What was going on?
I had not imagined the trip to be so complicated. I had assumed that the driving was going to be but I had not thought that procuring a visa would be such a strain on my nerves. That meant, that we had to drive from Damascus to Dogubayazit and then hope that the Persians would brush aside my issue as something unimportant and I would not have any difficulty in entering the country.
Thank God, my ladies had a visa for Iran already. Now I hoped that it continued to be the case that Germans did not require a visa.
Travelling back to Ankara was too great a detour. So I thought that it would go faster if I drove to Turkey on the route via Aleppo, then to Malatya passing the Lake Van and somehow on the route Erzrum-Dogubayazit.
If I had never seen a bad road in my life, here I could fully enjoy the experience "bad road" for three full days.
But somehow we managed the impossible and came to Dogubayazit. No cars, except our Mercedes, maybe a Jeep could have gone this route.
However, by moving several boulders to the side and by making all passengers to get off the vehicle plus changing of tires three times, we overcame even this obstacle. Since I only had it a spare tire, the second flat tire was a little more problematic. But with the help of Turkish truck drivers who were mending the broken tires on the spot and mounted them again, it was only a matter of time and patience. Without repeated help of the truck drivers, we would have left the car somewhere standing and would have had to continue to travel by hitchhiking.
When we were last in Dogubayazit, I could have never imagined that I would see this town again. But now we were very happy because the last three days had been very bad here and it seemed really civilized to us here, although this area was already the limit.
After a period of rest for one night, I had to summon up my courage and go to the Persian frontier.
At the border I avoided showing up anywhere unnecessarily and waited patiently at my car until all the formalities were done. Then, behind the turnpike, I let out a cry of relief.
We drove up to Macu, then it was necessary to take rest for two days for the car and the passengers. This small town just across the border had everything we needed.
The car got four new tires, the best old tires became spare tires and a second reserve tire was added.
A new roof rack was mounted.
In addition, the oil and filter were changed, the air conditioning was filled with the coolant that was missing, the water in the cooling system was renewed and two new shock absorbers were installed in the rear axle.
I was surprised to have all these things and it was not much more expensive than it was in Germany. The streets – or rather, the tracks of East Turkey had taken a toll on them.
The two spare tires were put on the new roof rack. So I had more space in the trunk and in case a tire had to be mounted, we did not have to unload the luggage, to get to the spare tire.
From Macu I did not drive on a very nice route. I had been recommended to drive the longer route via Tehran and Qom but I had wanted to take the shorter route, past a lake and then get to the Iraqi border after passing Urmira, Bachtaran, Ahwaz, Shiraz, Abadan and Korramschar.
I had to have special skills to drive on a route that was guaranteed to be the worst, which was the loneliest and probably the most dangerous route, which was perhaps found in all of Persia. I had to choose exactly this part of Persia, to reach a harbor, this was really stupid!
The route led past the Iraqi border, over steep mountain ridges, through parched wadis (valleys), over bridges, which consisted of only two thick planks, which were then also designed for truck width.
We drove past a lake and over roads that we had to search for, under a thick layer of dust powder.
On some routes Dieter or I had to go along in front of the car, to feel the route under the dust.
With our feet, we felt if some larger stones or boulders lay in the dust.
Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, our hair was disheveled and matted; everything in the car was dusty - it was as if we were driving in a huge flour vat.
But even this part came to an end.
I found a suitable reasonably for us hotel in Bachtaran. Similar to the last hundreds of kilometer, this small town was also simply barren.
The people here had definitely never seen a tourist, except if they had ever been to the capital, which I very much doubted. But there was water and fantastic food. Since I could speak a few words of Persian, I ordered “Ob”, that's water. There was also "Chelow Kabab", the fine lamb fillet with steamed rice and a large dollop of butter on it, a lot of "Nane Lavash", which is the delicious bread, they also call it "Taftoon" and two whole "Morgh", which is chicken. After a long, grueling journey, we really deserved this heavenly food. The people were impressed because of the little bit of Persian that I spoke and we had a large amount of fans, who are constantly marveled at us, as if we were from another planet.
I think they really thought so. The very next day we continued on our onward journey to come to Abadan. We reached our preliminary target and I went to look for a hotel. Of course I did not want to go to a certain place that I already knew from my seagoing service and had great memories associated with it. A smaller, not so posh hotel was good for us too. So I did not have to give any explanations if a certain lady spoke to me in the bigger hotel. It was more important that the shipping agent could ship the Mercedes to Colombo.
After three days and after going to all the agencies, it became evident to me that there was no possibility of shipping the car.
What now? Now I was really arrived at my wit’s end, I did not know what to do any more. I also logically did not have more money or traveler’s checks but less of them! Whether the car and we would ever arrive in Ceylon?
I had great doubts because it was six weeks since we were on the road and we had not even reached half of the distance to our final destination. Should I forget everything, go back to Tehran and take the flight? No, I had set my mind on driving by car to Ceylon and I would do it. Chitra's mother stopped saying anything since a long time now, even Dieter became more and more silent. My little daughter was doing wonderfully, which I would not have thought.
My vigor also gradually disappeared.
After a crisis meeting that
lasted for a long time, we decided to continue driving.
Our next destination was now the port city of Karachi in Pakistan.
It was very simple on my map: we had to drive always towards the east and would come automatically to Pakistan. The marked roads were not marked as highway, but rather as camel paths but it did not bother me very much. It could not get any worse there than where we had been already all over and had driven around. So we loaded our car again prepared ourselves for the onward journey. Dieter and I took turns driving, as already in the last few weeks. Chitra was busy with the little one and Nancy kept hearing the one and only song, which she had on a cassette. Otherwise, the trip was very boring.
Death lurks in the Persian desert
Our most precious baggage was a canister with 20 liters of water, one with 10 liters of gasoline and a 5-Liter-oilcan.
The other things were clothes, which were so dusty that we had to shake out vigorously before wearing them. Then there was a woolen blanket.
If we didn’t need it, the ladies sat on it, there was a 5-liter water canister packed on the left and the right side between the two ladies and there were also diapers and things for my two-year-old daughter behind the seat.
I imagined that this is roughly how the gypsies travelled.
But compared to us, the gypsies were well-organized, neat people.
Well, they were a nomadic group of people but no one can find such a pigsty like we had in our Mercedes, in any gypsy’s car.
And also how we appeared after six weeks, so to say, living in the car, unshaven and far from home.
I looked at my map of the route to Karachi.
We had to only follow this fine line on a map, then we would arrive in Karachi. That is what I thought. From Abadan via Bushier, Shiraz, Bander-Abbas, Jaak, Ghoghweiter towards Bahaor - and the next place Guador was already in Pakistan. From there to Karachi. I had already been in Jah and Chah - Bohor. These are very small ports, where iron ore is found. On the "Arsterturm" we had dropped anchor and the rusty looking ore came on board with the help of cargo barges. Minium, an iron primer paint was made from this. People carried the stuff in wicker baskets on their heads. They balanced over planks and threw it in our loading hatches. Once we had loaded a whole load of dried fish and garlic from Bushier to Calcutta. No one can imagine this mess. The dry fish came into the hatch and due to the vibration of the ship, the stuff was somehow shaken together and squeezed, so that even more fluid came out of the fish. This resulted in a sort of a lake. The stench was appalling.
My Dream to Be Free Page 16