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Istanbul to Tehran

Leaving Istanbul we back-tracked south-west down the western side of the Bosphorus, our destination the landing grounds at Gallipoli.

Gallipoli

It was here that, during World War One, British and ANZAC soldiers landed to gain control of the Dardanelles (Mediterranean side of Bosphorus / Sea of Marmara). It started to fail from the very start. The lead in buoy had moved (been moved?) and so the ANZAC troops landed in the wrong place. The losses, by World War One standards, were not great, but they did start a feeling of nationhood amongst the Australian and the New Zealand troops and their peoples. Because of this there is a ceremony held every year, by the Aussies and Kiwis, to commemorate what was begun here.

We were able to go up to the top of the ridge above the bay and see the remains of the trenches. From these trenches the allied soldiers could just see, in the distance, the Dardanelles waterway, their objective, which they never achieved. This was the high point of the campaign. From here the Turks, under the command of a young officer - later to be known as the father of Turkey or Kemel Ataturk - drove them back to the sea and off Turkish soil.

Kemel Ataturk later raised a moving monument to this fallen soldiers :-

After Gallipoli, we drove across the peninsular to the Dardanelles side, and camped outside the Boomerang Bar. This is a fun place just over the ridge from Gallipoli, where a lot of the visiting Aussies and Kiwis stay. We set up camp in their car park, just a stones throw from the Bosphorus. The food there was great, as was the beer (BB rather than VB) and the company. Inside the bar visitors had put up their own signs, to show that they had been there. There were even signs from Brits, reminding the Aussies and Kiwis that we Brits had taken part in the Gallipoli landings, and suffered far more casualties.

We spent the evening drinking and eating a fine meal prepared by the Boomerang bar, and early the next morning saw us driving the few kilometres to the port and on the ferry across the Bosphorus - leaving Europe.

Ferry to Asia minor

Turkey is jam packed full of historical sites, Troy and Ephesus to name but two. Me, I've seen far to many ruins, Roman and otherwise, so, even though we did visit these sites, I can no longer tell one from another. I do remember Troy as being an indistinct mound of earth, where some enterprising cafe owner had built a large wooden horse outside of his establishment. Ephesus was far better preserved, and had quite a memorable main street, with, as our guide was only to pleased to point out, well built sewers.

We took a break from the historical stuff, with a few days down by the Mediterranean at a fun place called Olu Deniz. Golden beaches, cafes, bars, and late night discos. Our campsite was a few hundred metres up the beach from the resort proper. And it was here that we bumped into a British biker riding his ageing BMW R series to India (this would not be our last meeting).

Paragliding

Looming 6500 feet (2300 metres) above the beaches and bars was a treeless mountain, and here was a launch site for paragliders (parapents). I decided to have a go. So, after paying my fee, I was taken, by jeep, to the top. Fellow travellers in the jeep ride were experienced Austrian paraglider pilots. The journey to the top started out on a tarmac road, in amongst trees. This soon changed to a rocky track, getting steeper and steeper. I consoled myself by thinking that if the jeep left the track, then at least the trees would stop us rolling over and over back down the mountainside. We then passed above the tree line and continued up the bare rock strewn mountain. As the mountainside got more and more precipitous I consoled myself by staring straight out of the side of the jeep (I was on a sideways facing bench seat in the open back) at the rock face, never looking down. This worked well for a while until one of the Austrian's tapped me on the knee and shouted above the engine that I should look down over the far side of the jeep. The road had been cut into the mountain side, and at this point had broken through to the other side. Looking down there was a sheer 150 metre (400 feet) drop!

The launch point (36 31 51.65 N, 29 10 51.20 E) was a loose rock and shale slope at the very top of the mountain. The paraglider was laid out at the top of this slope, while I put on the offered flying suit. I then waited, calmly, as my pilot fastened me into the front seat of the harness, and watched other people's launches. After the gentle take-off slope (about 20 metres (70 feet)), there was a 10 metre (30 feet) drop down onto the road that we'd taken up. One of the less successful launches, I watched as I waited, ended by crashing down onto the road.

Our launch, after a lot of waiting, was frantic but successful. The pilot had told me that when he said "go", I was to start running and not stop 'til he told me to stop. So, on his command I started running, arms down at my sides to keep clear of the rigging lines. All too soon there was nothing under my feet, so, even though he hadn't told me to, I stopped running and hoiked myself up into the harness seat. The pilot sat behind and slightly above me, with his legs either side of me, flying the canopy.

A quick left turn and we were flying along the ridge at the mountain's peak, searching for lift. After a few brief puffs of upward moving air we turned away from the slope and out over the bay. My pilot, seeing that I was enjoying myself, let me have a quick steer. This proved to be harder than I'd imagined as there seemed to be no feedback from the control toggles. Then, heading serenely out over the azure waters of the bay, he lit up a cigarette and happily smoked, leaving the glider to fly itself. Several thousand feet below us, very experienced pilots were doing aerobatics, including loops, something I thought impossible in a paraglider. So we tried some , more gentle, aerobatic manoeuvres. Tight, spiral turns, with the air rushing past, the horizon at 90 degrees, and the blood rushing to my feet (the lowest point of my body, forced there by the centrifugal forces created by the turns) round and round we went.

All too soon it was time to land. Our landing on the beachfront was made more interesting by me having to shout down at pedestrians, for them to get out of our way. This was amazing as they seemed to be locals, so you'd have thought they'd know to keep clear. Then, after to two brief steps, we were down and the flight was over. Exhilerating.

Crazy Baby

I discovered, in the Buzz Bar (our "local") that night, the joys of the "Crazy Baby" cocktail, which we got cheap by mentioning Dragoman. I remember little about that night, apart from making a prat of myself dancing (I never did learn to dance gracefully, or rhythmically). I drank six or was it seven of those cherry flavoured drinks, and would have drunk more if my "emergency get me home autopilot" hadn't kicked in.

The way back to our campsite (just under a mile walk) was achieved by me marching myself there. Frequent stops were made when I couldn't remember what came after "left, right, left, right, left ...". I eventually got myself back to the truck. Here I couldn't be bothered to get my sleeping bag and mat out of the locker, so I went to sleep directly on the hard groundsheet of my tent. I woke every hour or two, just in time to un-zip the tent, stick my head out and vomit. Early (about 09:30) the next morning a side trip was organised to do some canyoning, but I couldn't get out of my tent, and only managed a feeble wave to tell the others that (a) I was still alive and (b) I wouldn't be joining them. I didn't sober up until after 5 o'clock that afternoon.

Our campsite had its own bar, with a rather odd system of paying for a beer from a Turkish gent at the main building and then taking a token across to the Australian barman to get the beer. A carpeted area next to the bar (shoes off first) was where we could lounge, read or watch soccer on the box. The Turkish cashier was a friendly sole, and asked all of his customers where they hailed from. When Helena answered him "Ireland", he, trying to make conversation, asked if that was part of England. Helena went ballistic and gave him such a mouthful, feeling, I'm sure that he was trying to make some sort of comment about the independence of the republic. He wasn't, his geography simply wasn't very good. Poor chap.

Travelling on truck trips means that you're with the group constantly day after day, this can cause tensions and problems. I managed, through poor behaviour, to set both Mia and Kerryn against me. At one point they called me a "dirty old man". It was quite a shock (and rather hurtful) to realise that even though I only felt like a twenty year old inside, others where seeing me as the middle-aged old fool that I probably am.

We continued our trip along the coast of Turkey, camping by the beach at night. It was at one of these camps that I managed to make a very passable goat curry (by this time Helena and I had, by unspoken agreement, decided to cook on our own. This made for a busy time on your cook group night, but this was compensated by having half as many of them.). It was also here that Kerryn managed to get another mouse into her tent, so, again, she freaked out.

The ruins at Solas were quite spectacular. Their inhabitants had resisted all attempts by the Romans to conquer them, by building high in the mountains. The road up, even today, is hard going. It was here that Kerryn said that she felt like Indiana Jones, she had a whale of a time.

We spent our last day in the west, by stocking up at a supermarket. We loaded up with beer and soft drinks, as well as plenty of food, and then drove south out of Turkey and into Syria.

Driving into Syria

There was truly, even for me, a feeling of culture shock crossing into Syria. The roads got worse and even the best kept buildings looked like wrecks. The best things I can say about Syria, are that it's a dusty hole and I'm not there.

We arrived in Syria at about the same time that Tony Blair (British Prime Minister) was visiting Damascus, in his attempt to drum up support for the attack on Afghanistan.

Two Firsts

The city of Aleppo had two first in store for me. It was the first time that I'd been into a medieval meat market, that's how the butcher's section of the souk was like. There were pieces of carcase hanging there that not only couldn't I identify the beast that it had come from, but what part of that beast! And it was the first time that I'd ever been propositioned by a man. As homosexuality is illegal in Syria, I suspect that this approach in the market place was a setup, to try and extort money.

We drove south from Aleppo, across the desert and had our first bush camp. I had intended to sleep under the stars, a wonderful sight in the desert, but Mia (our leader) warned against this because there were scorpions in the area (it's a sign of how much overlanding has changed since I started doing it. On my South American and West African trips there had been no such nannying. If you got stung, tough!), so I put up my tent (leaving the waterproof flysheet off).

That night's meal included the treat of bananas filled with chocolate, wrapped in foil and cooked over the fire. Unfortunately I was suffering from the first case (of my many) of "runny bum", so I wasn't eating and couldn't join in. The next morning I was woken, in my tent, by faint scratching noises. Looking through the netting at the end of the tent, I saw the source of this noise. Birds. In the middle of the desert what looked like dusty starlings were trying to find food around our campsite. There was none, as we always kept a clean campsite.

Palmyra

Breaking camp we continued on south, across the desert, aiming for a vee shaped gap in the distant mountain range. This was how desert travellers for centuries had been finding the city of Palmyra.

Palmyra had once been a thriving city on a major trade route during biblical times. But, as often happened, a shorted route was opened up and the city declined and then vanished. When the modern Syrian government sent archaeologist to the ruins, they found them inhabited by desert nomads. These were unceremoniously turfed out, and the ruins are empty to this day.

While being shown around the, quite complete, ruins, and trying to keep out of the broiling sun, we had a hard time hearing our local guide as he was often drown out by the noise of jet fighters, unseen in the brilliant blue skies. I'm not to sure whether the Syrian airforce flies such fast jets, or if they were Israelis making incursions into Syrian airspace, I never managed to spot the aircraft.

In one valley, a little way from the main town and ruins, where the tombs of Palmyra. These were built as if to be defended, rather like Scottish border farmhouses.

Yes, No, I don't understand

It was in Palmyra that I came across an odd aspect of cultural difference. In the streets young lads would come up to us trying to sell us tourist junk. Even though we repeatedly told them "laih" (no) and shook our heads, they wouldn't go away, and merely repeated their sales pitch. Later we found that while nodding your head still meant 'Yes' (as it does in the west), shaking it means "I don't understand". The correct head movement for 'No' is a sharp backwards flick.

Damascus

A short drive onwards from Palmyra brought us to Damascus, Syria's capital. A sprawling city. Our campsite, on the outskirts, was memorable for three reasons.

1. The dead buses. Just outside the camp site was the Damascus graveyard for buses.
2. The cats. The owner of the campsite allowed feral cats (I say "allowed", but I don't suppose he had much choice) to roam the site. These scrawny beasts were always on the look out for food, and in me they found an ally.
3. The other trucks. The site was a meeting point for overlanders of all nations. The posh Germans with their driver cum chef and their slide out coffin like "bedrooms" ; the bikers with support truck on there way south; and other overland trucks like ours. We had a grand party with all of the other travellers, including a memorable gay chap, who had brought wine glasses with him on an overland trip and had bought a beautiful hand woven carpet to go in his tent - class.

Our way south through Syria was quick, as we would be visiting the usual sites on our way back north. Next came Jordan (the country).

Jordan

After a quick stop in the outskirts of Amman (Jordan's capital), where I had to have a McDonald's (I don't touch their stuff in the UK, but in the third world, I always have a quick burger, just to get myself back into "West" for a moment.), we drove onto Petra. Along the way, on long stretches of well paved, but rather boring roads, we passed western cyclists pedalling along at quite a speed, despite their bikes being ladened down with all of their touring kit.

Yet again I found myself with a case of "runnie-bum", and so was starving myself (easiest way to get rid of the bugs). This made walking around Petra - which is a large historical site, much larger than the gorge part (shown in these photos) - a tiring task. I didn't, as usual for me, go around the entire site, but only the gorge part, before going back to our hotel for a quick rest. But, as the historical site was at the bottom of the town, and our hotel was a couple of miles across and a thousand feet up town, I managed to loose quite a bit of weight walking back.

That night, in the hotel, we watched the film "Lawrence of Arabia" on tape. We would be soon be visiting some of the locations in the film

I spent the night, rather uncomfortably, on the back seat of the truck. When staying in hotels we would share rooms to keep costs down. Unfortunately this meant putting up with Ray's snoring, so I put up with the discomfort to get a night's kip. Early the next morning found me making breakfast (even though it was Helena's turn) as quietly as possible, so as not to wake anyone. This was foiled by me dropping the metal table, as I slid it out of the side of the truck.

All to soon we were back on the road, going south.

Wadi Rum

We had arranged for a two day desert trip into the Wadi Rum national park. This area was made famous in the film "Lawrence of Arabia", although the locals do not have many fond memories of Lawrence. They feel that he did not hold to his promises and that he "used" their sons.

The campsite we stayed at was some distance from the nearest road, and even the truck couldn't make it all of the way. We parked (abandoned) the truck in the middle of nowhere and walked the last half mile to the Bedouin tents that were our home for the next two days (the "Spot the truck" was taken from the campsite, looking back across the desert to the truck).

The campsite had a resident cat and dog. The cat rarely stayed around to be petted, but Ren the dog was around all of the time. She was very heavily pregnant at the time that I was there. One night, just after our evening meal, I went for a walk in the desert. Only when you're away from the lights of the camp and the fire, do you really get to see the night sky. It was jam packed full of stars. We were many miles from any town, and the only man-made light came from our distant camp, but the stars lit up the desert wonderfully. There was no moon, but I easily found my way. Ren, the camp dog, so as to keep an eye on me, followed me part way out into the desert, and then sat down waiting patiently for my safe return. The next morning I repaid her kindness by cupping my hands under the fresh water tap (fed by a large tank) so that Ren could drink from them.

During the day our peace and quiet in this desert idyll was disturbed by a low flying RAF (in full temperate - green and grey - camouflage) Hercules transport aircraft. I never did find what they were doing this far from home.

We were taken, in our guide's land cruiser, around the desert. He showed us how to tackle sand dunes in a motor vehicle (Mia had managed to get our truck stuck in the 20 yards of soft sand that we had to traverse getting to the camp). Then Richard and Kerryn raced each other up then down a huge dune. Later we visited some real desert nomad people, who lived under canvas at the end of a box canyon. They showed us hospitality, gave us tea and would accept nothing for it, even though they were obviously poor. But we did manage to give their young (5 or 6) daughter some money, so hopefully they will have used it to be some treats for her.

Aqaba

After the desert we went to Aqaba and the sea. This was as far south as this leg of the trip was going. The campsite, some miles from the city, was again a meeting point for overlanders. A group of Austrian bikers were staying there, trying to arrange the paperwork for travelling further south (ferry across to Egypt and then south through Sudan). The campsite had very nice showers, which we all needed after our time in the desert. On a trip into the city we got rid of our used tin cans (we'd been keeping all of our used beer and soft drink cans) to a local boy, who made money selling them for scrap. And I, in my usual style, ate heartily in the local (air-conditioned) Pizza Hut (menu devoid of any pig products). Followed by some time in an Internet cafe (such places are everywhere) where I wrote emails home and listened to what sounded like Islamic sermons being downloaded and listened to be a young man on the next PC.

All too soon it was time to start off again, back north. Aqaba was an interesting place to stop, but there is nothing there to keep you there. We headed back up through Jordan and then Syria (where we had to buy another visa, even though we'd only just bought one, on our way south).

Syria North Bound

Dead Sea swim

Going north we stopped at the sites we hadn't bothered with on our south bound leg. The dead sea was truly weird. We stopped next to a fresh water stream that empties into it, and went for a swim. We were warned not under any circumstances to get the salt water in our eyes, mouth or nose, as it would cause a great deal of pain. It was, while swimming, that I realise why all of the photographs I'd ever seen of swimmers in the dead sea always had the swimmers on their backs. Trying to swim on your front causes your bottom to rise up out of the of the water and pushes your head down, very close to the surface. On your back, it's easy to keep your head well clear of the water.

After swimming (floating) for a while we all cleaned off the salt in the fresh water of the stream. Here we suddenly found that we had to swim again, as the water gave no support, unlike the salt water of the dead sea.

People are just people

It was while cleaning off the salt that I met a Syrian man introducing his 12 month old child to the waters of the dead sea (the child was hating being wet and was crying heartily). We had a quick chat while he tried to comfort his son. He said, in halting English, that he didn't hate the west (the British and Americans were bombing Afghanistan at the time), but he was troubled about the way civilians were being treated. He asked if there was really any difference between his son (now dry and no longer crying), a child in the West and Afghan child. This was a common theme that I cam across again and again. Most Muslims really do see all peoples as brothers and sisters. Time again I heard the phrase "people are just people".

We camped that night on Mount Nibo. This overlooks the dead sea and from our campsite we could see Israel and many biblical towns. It was at the top of Mount Nibo that Moses looked upon the promised land that he would never set foot on. Which was odd, in that, even for an old man, it would have taken less than a week to get there on foot.

Even though our Mt Nibo campsite was rocky and windswept, I slept out in the open, which is one of the special delights of overland travel. The others pitched their tents, which needed some co-operative team work in the wind. The mention of co-operation and our group of course meant that there was very little, and the task of pitching tents took longer than it should, although I did my best to help.

On top of Mount Nibo, a little way from our campsite, was a Christian church, which I found odd as Syria is a Muslim country. But, as I was to find out, Syria wasn't what I expected to find in a Muslim country. They had been the sanctuary for Armenians (Jews and Christians) when the Ottoman empire (Turkey) committed genocide on them at the beginning of the 20th century. It was also the only Muslim country that we were able to get pork in the shops (I made a pork hot pot that night).

Syria has many Crusader ruins, we went to the Krak des Chevaliers, one of a line of forts that Christian knights kept for decades. I had, by this time, obtained an International Students card (even though I wasn't a student), which allowed large discounts on the entry fees into historical sites and cost me $5 US. This paid for itself in no time. Kerryn, who had a real Students card, had trouble using it on more than one occasion, while my fake was accepted everywhere. Our guide around this site did not have very good English, so I spent most of the tour of the Krak trying to work out what he was actually saying and translating it for the rest of the group. I was surprised, I suppose I shouldn't have been, by the European style of architecture.

Later we came across a wooden water wheel that had been built by the Romans, amazingly it was still standing. While the amphitheatre at Bosra, also Roman, was amazing for different reasons. The authorities had hung large banners of the past and present president. The past president had had three sons, who succeeded him when he died. Son number one was shot shortly after taking over the role, son number two (who as a teenager, while his dad was still alive, used to to amuse himself by getting driven around in one of his dad's limos and shooting dead random pedestrians) died in a car accident shortly after he came to power. Son number three had never imagined that he would ever be president, so had trained to be an opthalmist. Son number three is still the president, but I'm not convinced that he has any real power.

Turkey again

Back in Turkey we continued northwards, through Cappadocia, to the Goreme Valley. Here we had a tour of the underground city. This had been mined out of solid rock, had many levels going down 100 meters (350 feet) into the ground. The occupants were never conquered by the Romans or any other invaders, as all they did when trouble arrived was go down into their city and hide.

It was at the campsite in Goreme that we met another Dragoman truck. They were doing the same trip as us, but in the opposite direction. I must admit that I wished I'd been on their trip, as they were having a ball. Our group had definitely not gelled, and there was barely concealed hatred amongst some of us (myself included). Helena continued to annoy just about everyone. She would chatter on about nothing for hours at an end. Pleas from us for her to shut up were ignore, we even tried to bribe her into silence by offering her all the sweets on the truck (a treat in short supply at he time) for an hours silence. She refused. She said that Phil only wanted her silence so that he would be able to call her all the names under the sun, while she would be able to retaliate. She missed the point entirely. All we all wanted, Phil included, was for her to shut up every now and then. It was around this point in the trip that I suspected that Helena had had a truly awful upbringing, to have turned her into such a person.

Our campsite in the Goreme Valley was in the hills, away from the town (where we had a most memorable meal, cooked in a pastry sealed clay pot). As well as the above ground campsite, there was a below ground bar. Here we whiled away the cold evenings of our stay, sitting by the huge roaring wood fire.

I spent time, while at the Goreme campsite, doing my laundry. I had to wait my turn for the one, old, top loading washing machine. In front of me was a guy from the other truck, who had been told to wash his sleeping bag, as it had started to smell of fish! Keeping your stuff clean can be hard on these trips, but is something that must be done.

As we were now in the mountainous interior of Turkey and it was October, the temperatures both night and day were dropping. I was very glad that I had taken the opportunity to bring good thermals with me. Yet again I managed, through my an ill-considered remark, to annoy Kerryn. I dressed in my cold weather kit, exclaimed how toastie I was, she had not brought any cold weather kit with her and was freezing, so my remark was not welcome. We saw, in the news, two weeks after passing through this area of Turkey, that the night time temperatures had dropped to minus 39° C, and that several local people had died of the cold.

Mount Ararat

Our last point of call in Turkey was a town called Dogubayazit (pronounced, by us, as doggy biscuits) at the foot of Mt. Ararat. I took the opportunity to email home , saying that as I was about to enter Iran, and that this was probably going to be the last email I would send for 16 days, til I got to India.

We met a few fellow travellers at Dogubayazit. a group of young (compared to me) British cyclists who were making their way east from the UK to Kathmandu (I later heard that they had made it to Kathmandu after taking public transport through Pakistan, and taking their lives into their hands in India by riding their bicycles), while a Londoner was making his way west, back home, in an old Peugeot. He was able to pass onto us news of Iran.

That night, our evenings relaxation, in the hostel/cafe we were staying in, was interrupted by Turkish troops doing their routine patrols. Their officer joined us for a chat, leaving his men outdoors in the cold. He wanted to practise his English, as well as talk to us about what was happening in the world. I must admit that I did my best to give as non-comital answers to his questions about Bush and Blair, as I wasn't sure how he felt about them. We did our best to drink all of the booze left on the truck, as none of it could taken into Iran. Any that was un-drunk was given away or poured onto the ground the next morning.

The next morning saw us driving to the border, past rows of Turkish armoured vehicles. We had strict orders not to take photos of these, which was ignored by Ray, who said that he was only taking photos of the surrounding mountains. Fortunately the authorities did not seem him, so no harm done, although Mia had kittens when she heard, later, what he had done.

Cover up

Border formalities took quite a while to complete on the Turkish side. Mia (our leader) took us through on foot, while Ash (the co-driver) took the truck through separately. We were all dressed modestly, as is required by Iran. The women wore black pyjamas suites that they had bought in Aleppo, with veils over their heads (reminded me of nuns), while we men just made sure that the only flesh showing was our heads and hands. Kerryn and Helena found it difficult to cope with having to wear this garb, and took every opportunity to get out of it (in hotels rooms and when we were safely out in the desert away from prying eyes).

We eventually got our Turkish exit stamps in our passports and were shown into a large windowless room. A metal door was closed and locked behind us.

We had left the West.

Iran

The transit room at the border had been built, probably, around 1900, which (from the flaking paint) was when it had last been decorated. We sat on hard benches wondering what to do next. Mia banged on another door and after a while an Iranian border guard, armed with an AK47, opened it, took all of our passports, and slammed the door shut. So, there we were, no longer in Turkey (officially), but not yet in Iran, and without our passports. We sat there for about 45 minutes. While waiting other travellers (all Iranian) came into the transit room from Turkey and handed their passports over to the same guard. Eventually the door was opened and we were motioned forwards by the gun toting guard. He held the door open for us and handed back our passports as we passed through. We stepped out into the bright sun light and walked the 10 metres (35 feet) to the Iranian border post. This was a brand new, concrete and glass building, with raked gravel either side of the pathway. Such a difference from the old dump we had just left.

We discovered that the reason for the delay with our passports was that the Iranians had been filling out our entry and exit forms for us in Arabic (they "knew" that we would not be able to do this for ourselves). We were greeted by a friendly official who completed the entry formalities and stamped our passports.

Iran was definitely not living up to what I had expected. There were no secret police, no down trodden masses. It was not a gloomy police state. They even had a TV hanging from a wall showing the Godzilla film (the one from the 90s). There was a little shop in the border building with plenty to sell (but definitely no booze). Although I couldn't get used to seeing all of the women in "nun's outfits".

Our first stop was Tabriz. We stayed at a hotel near the city centre. In the foyer they had an Internet connected PC, from where I emailed home. So much for not being able to contact the outside world while in Iran.

One thing that I noticed straight away was that about 98% of the cars on Iranian roads were local copies of the old English Hillman Hunter. Apparently the Iranians had bought a licence to build this early 70s design, before their revolution, and had been making them ever since. The revolution I just mentioned, was when the murdering torturing (Western backed) Shah of Iran was ousted and, sadly, replaced by a strict Islamic regime. I say "sadly" not because it is Islamic, but because it is an extreme fundamentalist version of Islam. The Iranians do not deserve either someone like the late and unlamented Shah or the Mullahs that they now have. As I was starting to realise, the Iranians are a good bunch of people.

Staying at our hotel was the British biker we had met in Olu Deniz in Turkey. He was riding an old BMW R80 (the one with the engine based on the WW11 design) and seeing the world. He remembered us from Turkey, as we had woken him up when we left the campsite early in the morning. Unfortunately we were to wake him up again, as Helena seemed to feel that 'if she was up and awake', then everybody else should be, and didn't moderate the volume of her chattering no matter what time of the day it was.

We were not going to be able to drive through Pakistan (and after I had already spent £40 on a visa!) because of the anti-western feelings that had been ignited by the bombing of Afghanistan, so we decided to spend some extra time in Iran. Our next, unscheduled, stop was the Caspian Sea. We drove north out of Tabriz, up into the mountains. The countryside around there was dry rocky desert, as it is in most of Iran. We climbed up to the summit tunnel, went through and burst into verdant greenery on the other side. It was as if someone had 'turned on' the vegetation. All of this greenery was due to the microclimate caused by the Caspian Sea. The mountain range we had just driven up and through, kept it from the rest of the country. We drove down to the sea shore, and then, left, along to where Iran meets Azerbaijan, which looked exactly like the bit of country we were standing in (I've noticed this about many borders. One side looks exactly like the other, but they're different countries). We camped for the night on some unused land a safe distance from the road. Local farmers came to have a quick look at us, to see who was in their neighbourhood, but left us alone.

We, the next morning, ventured a little way inland and into a steep valley. Where we found a little town perched on the vertiginous valley walls. The roofs of one set of houses were the street for the next row of houses up. A fascinating place.

Esfahan

After getting lost in the outskirts of Tehran, the next day, we drove onto Esfahan, a beautiful city. Here we enjoyed ourselves for a couple of days, wandering around the shops, buying carpets (I bought a very nice silk on silk carpet as a wedding present for a nephew), drinking numerous cups of tea (no alcohol allowed in Iran), and smoking hookah pipes of fruit flavoured tobacco. Oh, and carrot juice and ice-cream. A strange sounding mixture, but it worked perfectly (Iranian ice-cream is quite sweet and worked well when dunked in carrot juice). Something that I noticed about Iranians was that, although they were not permitted to indulge themselves with alcohol, they were addicted to sugar. They would crunch great brown unrefined lumps of it, especially when drinking tea. I wonder how often they are forced to see the dentist.

As part of a city tour - Zoroastrian ziggurat/mound, drinking tea beneath the 33 bridge (which wasn't as spectacular as it should be as there was no water in the river due to a drought)... - we were shown around the city's cemetery. Here the fallen of the eight year long Iran-Iraq war were buried. Their head stones showed a picture of the dead (normally taken from their ID card) on one side and, on the other side, either a picture of their Imam (priest) or another photo of themselves. All of those who fought in the war were volunteers. That isn't to say that they agreed with the Mullahs who were running the country, but they didn't want Saddam, and Iran was their country. 500,000 Iranians lost their lives fighting against (the Western back) Saddam Hussein. During the war they were stopped (by the west) from buying effective weaponry to fight against Saddam, and their currency was devalued so that their largest note went from being worth $143 to $1.10 US on the international money market. And yet the Iranians that I talked to were not bitter towards the West.

While wandering around the graves, I asked our guide if he was happy with what the West had done to the Iraqis in the first gulf war. No, was his reply, he could only think of the innocent civilians who had been killed, while Saddam and his hench-men had survived. He felt the same about the Afghanis who were dying at that time, from the allied bombing.

Another delight in Esfahan was the Abassi hotel. This was like a sultans palace, with beautiful mosaics everywhere. If I'd had the money, I'd have stayed there. I did, however, enjoy a club sandwich (not sure where they got the ham from) and fine coffee in their foyer cafe.

Persepolis

After Esfahan came Persepolis, the ancient city built by Xerxes. The ruins were surprisingly complete and held some really beautiful statues and bass-reliefs. As luck would have it, our viewing of these treasures was cut short by a violent thunderstorm. We tried to setup camp in the adjacent forest, but the local park ranger said he would need permission from his boss to allow this, and that he couldn't get a hold of him. So we drove off and camped further up the road. Having found our spot - about a kilometre from the road, on the track of a new road being built - we set up camp and went about our evening routine. The cook group got the evening meal prepared, others of us did our truck jobs (I swept and mopped out the truck), and then we settled down for some relaxation. Using some brush wood we tried to get a fire going, but to little avail. But as was becoming the norm, a local rode past on his moped, stopped and lent a hand. Even though neither of us had a common language, the Iranian saw what we were trying to do and, tipping his moped over, he poured a cupful of petrol (gasolene) onto the would-be fire. We soon had a roaring fire going, and our saviour hopped back on his moped and rode off into the darkness. This sort of friendly act is, in my experience, the norm rather than the exception when you're on the road.

Stealth mode

Like most third world countries, Iran has many road blocks and documentation checks. Stopping at each and every one of these would have cost us far to much time, so we used stealth mode. This consisted of us pretending to be invisible, which meant that the armed road check guards couldn't see us. And as they couldn't see us, they couldn't stop us. So we would just bowl straight through their check points. Most of the time this worked, occasionally they would send a police car after us. When they did, Mia would stop the truck, get out , go over to them and use her beautiful smile on the occupants. We never got into any trouble.

Internet porn

In Shiraz I took the opportunity to use a well equipped Internet cafe in the centre of town, to email home. Sat two PCs away from me were some Iranian teenagers (boys) - about 13 or 14 years old - who were surfing the web. To the casual observer they were checking up on a local entertainers site, but whenever they thought nobody was looking, they'd switch to a site showing naked (Japanese) women. Boys are the same all over the world.

Nipple Hill

It was a long drive to the mud brick city of Bam, so we had to camp part way there. The campsite, named after a distant mountain, was in the middle of the desert. It was great, the sort of stuff that I really like. Shielded from the road by a small hill, with salt flats and distant mountains, a splendid spot to camp. Our isolation allowed the women in the group to let their hair down (always having to wear strict Islamic dress was getting them down). While it also afforded a splendid spot, amongst the boulders, to answer the call of nature.

* Nipple Hill camp

Before leaving the UK I had been given a fun gift by friends, it was a mobile sun dial. The idea was that you used the compass to properly align the fold-away device, and then read the correct local time. As you can see from the photograph, it works perfectly.

It was now November the nights were cold, doubly so when we camped in the desert. So that night, in the Iranian desert, not only did I use both of my sleeping bags (one inside the other) and liner, I also wore most of my clothes, plus scarf and woolie hat. It wasn't to bad, I did find myself waking at odd times during the night, when I'd dislodged my hat, but the view was worth the slight discomfort. There were so many stars in the sky that I had real difficulty identifying any of the constellations (and I was an astronomy buff when I was younger). I had setup my ground sheet some 60-70 metres from the truck and the rest of the group, so that I could really experience the isolation of the spot. There was no extraneous light or sound, just me, the cold desert and the star filled sky.

The next morning I found, while putting my sleeping bag away into its stuff sack, that it had become crisp and crunchie from a layer of frost. That was how cold the desert night had been. After that, breakfast didn't take long, as we all wanted to get into the truck and get warm.

Ramadam started at about this time, so getting food became a problem. At some towns we were given bread for free (a tradition of helping travellers) while at others we could find nowhere open to buy food.

Bam was an amazing city, partly re-built to its former glory. We had a tour of the old city, from the gates all the way to the top, where the wind howled through the open windows and empty rooms (It's very sad that this no longer exists, after the earth quake of 2004). The people we met were, like all Iranians we met, friendly and showed no signs of annoyance when they fed us during the day, while they had to wait til sun-down.

Back to Tehran

If it hadn't been for 911, we would have continued eastward from Bam to Pakistan, however, because of the ill feelings in that country towards westerners, we had to overfly. This meant returning to Tehran and flying from there to Mumbai in India.

The trip back to Tehran was long and boring. Most of Iran is rocky desert. Fuel for the truck was easy to come by as there were many roadside filling stations. The price paid could only cover the wages of the staff, it was that low. Before leaving the truck at Esfahan, for Ash to take to the be shipped from the southern port of Bandar Abbas, we did the usual "end of trip" truck clean. This was totally ruined when our last camp in Iran took place in a dust storm. From Esfahan we took a 10 hour minibus ride north to Tehran.

We piled all of our luggage (we weren't sure if we'd see the truck again before Kathmandu) and ourselves into the minibus. While waiting to depart, Helena let her head scarf fall loose (looking like a catholic girl going to her first communion), and the driver quickly pulled shut the window's curtains , so that she couldn't be seen by anyone in the street.

Part way through the mini-bus trip we came across a strike picket. The road into the town had been blocked by pickets and we had to drive through the desert around the town, as did every other vehicle. I never did find out what the worker's grievances were.

Tehran - cold and dusty

We arrive in Tehran after dark, quickly finding our hotel, and getting ourselves comfortable. Later we went out to find something to eat, which turned out to be harder than I'd would have thought, and had me stressing out (lord knows why).

We stayed in Tehran for one full day, waiting for our early morning flight out. This was one day too long for me. Tehran was a dusty cold hole. Once I'd seen the be-muraled walls of the ex-USA embassy (what did they expect, trying to overthrow the Iranian government) and the fort that is the UK embassy, there was nothing much else to see.

Flight to India

We flew out at first light, which meant leaving the hotel very early (we had to wake the hotel owner to let us out) and taking a mad taxi drive through the dark and deserted city to the airport. Here we checked in and then went through the security check. One, long, line for men and a separate, short, line for women. Then it was a matter of changing money back to US dollars (US dollars are acceptable/changeable just about anywhere in the world), which caused no problems (no change receipts were required), and waiting for the flight. As we walked across the tarmac to the plane (an IranAir Airbus A300, the same sort that the American ship USS Vincence had shot down some years before when its super-sophisticated weapons system mistook the lumbering airliner for a jet bomber) it started to rain. This was the first rain we'd seen since France. As soon as we were seated, the women (there were four women on the plane, three were from our group and the other was the first class cabin attendant) in our group removed, with great relief, their head scarves.

Iran was, to me, a great surprise and delight. The people were not down trodden and oppressed, as I'd expected, thanks to western media, but friendly and open. I'm not trying to say that they don't have problems with their government, they do, but they will sort it out themselves, without outside interference.

Iran is on my, small, list of places I'd like to revisit.

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