by Jamie Maslin
After my visit to the money changers, I walked over to pick up my camping gear from Shahram. I arrived and found to my dismay that the company he worked for was closed and all locked up. Whoops.
The only telephone number I had for him was his work phone, so this was serious. My train left tomorrow morning, and my visa ran out the day after that. If I couldn’t get hold of him today then it looked like I’d be saying bye-bye to all my precious camping equipment. Not only was it all of enormous sentimental value but was worth well over a thousand dollars.
The office on the floor above was open, so I stuck my head in and inquired after Shahram by saying his name and pointing downstairs. One of the staff pointed out to me what I already knew, namely that the door was locked and that he wasn’t in. I gestured that I needed to call him. Luckily, he looked like he knew what I was after and went back to discuss this with a colleague. His colleague picked up the phone and called Shahram’s cell for me. Ten minutes later, Shahram and Kimya were outside with all my camping gear.
We went for a wonderful abgusht lunch together in a smart little restaurant around the corner run by a very animated man wearing big chunky sunglasses. Over lunch, Shahram tried to discuss some sort of investment in Iran’s stock market with me. I think he wanted me to invest some money in the market as a whole, as opposed to stock of an individual company. He said it was extremely safe and that the Iranian stock market was “the number one stock market in the whole world.” His proof? “It has officially been declared the best by the Iranian government.”
I told him I’d think about it.
Outside the restaurant, we bade each other farewell and promised to stay in touch. Before I left, Kimya said to me, “I hope you can come back and visit again someday with either your wife or sister.” I told her I’d like to.
The rest of the day I spent packing, getting some of my diary notes written up, and generally taking it easy.
I had an early start on my final morning in Iran as my train left just before dawn. I’d asked the hotel’s reception staff the night before to order a cab for me. I waited and waited in the lobby, watching the clock. The car was very late. After twenty minutes of nervously biting my fingernails, I gave up and went out into the chilly near-deserted predawn streets in search of another one. It was still dark and there was next to no life about. After ten minutes of panicked searching, I spotted one and flagged it down, waving my arms about like a madman. I didn’t know the Farsi for “train station,” so I did silly little choo-choo train impressions with the appropriate hand moves and noises. The driver turned around and looked at me like I was a fool.
“Do you want to go to the train station?” he asked in perfect English. I told him yes and that I was seriously late. He put his foot down and burned off at racecar speed. And thank goodness he did, because I arrived only a couple of minutes before my train left. If I’d missed it, I would have been in serious trouble; my visa lapsed the following day, and I definitely didn’t want to be in Iran illegally.
I shared a spacious cabin with just one other guy who spoke no English whatsoever but was a warm and friendly chap who shared his bag of candy with me. I spent the next few hours gazing out of the window at wonderful mountain gorges and the huge sprawling surface of Lake Orumiyeh, which the train skirted past. Northwest Iran has some mind-blowing scenery.
Before long, we crossed the Iranian border and were into Turkey. It was party time. The girls suddenly took their hijabs off and changed into revealing Western outfits. The guy from my cabin who’d shared his candy with me rolled up and smoked a spliff. He puffed away while I checked for guards in the corridor. Afterward, he crashed out listening to his Walkman. Even through the headphones, I could tell it was none other than our Irish friend. Could I ever get away from the guy?
I was both sad and excited to be at the end of my Iran adventure and the end of my journey. Everywhere I traveled, I encountered the friendliest people I’d ever come across and constantly had to remind myself that I was in Iran—part of the so-called Axis of Evil. Although I obviously make no apology for the abysmal Iranian government and its terrible human rights abuses, the Iranian people were just incredible.
On the long journey back to Istanbul, I met a group of Iranian girls in their late twenties in the train’s restaurant car who belonged to the minority Baha’i religion. Being part of this religion would have meant death or imprisonment in Iran until recently, and its followers are still prevented from employment opportunities or attending university. The girls had managed to obtain visas through the UN and were leaving Iran for Istanbul, then heading to Canada for a better life. This would be their last time in Iran for many years, and possibly their last time ever. I said how happy they must be to be off to Canada, but the eldest one shook her head.
“No. There is no place like home.”
I could well understand. It wasn’t my home, but I was certainly made to feel welcome. It was, however, time for me to take my leave as well. After all, you can only take so much Chris de Burgh.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE - Close Encounters of the Mustachioed Kind
CHAPTER TWO - Hitchhiking to the Axis of Evil
CHAPTER THREE - Tourist at the Border
CHAPTER FOUR - Disco Lake with Ferris Wheels
CHAPTER FIVE - German Pop Songs and Chains of Misery
CHAPTER SIX - Rules of the Road
CHAPTER SEVEN - Mosquito Mayhem
CHAPTER EIGHT - The Assassins and the Smoking Car
CHAPTER NINE - Underworld Paradise
CHAPTER TEN - All the Gear but No Idea
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Mullah Madness
CHAPTER TWELVE - Milan, Paris, London, Tehran: Party Time!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Traveling in Style with the Single-Handed Man
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - The Jewel of Esfahan
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Mr. Private Jet’s Gate of All Nations
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - “Super Film” with Celine Dion and Eminem
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Who’s A-knocking on That Door?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Den of Espionage
CHAPTER NINETEEN - English Expert
CHAPTER TWENTY - Strange Encounter