Thursday Market

Not to be put off by our disappointment of the day before we decide to make tracks down the coast to Minab. Our speedboat back to the mainland is overloaded with shopping, and I start to wonder if I can swim with my boots on. Gayle points to the lifejackets in a bag in the prow of the boat. She's a mind-reader. We make a quick trip to change money at the bank. "From Manchester, Mr. John? How I would like to visit Old Trafford and watch Manchester United!" I smile and nod, because I've just handed over two torn Euro notes and everyone is very fussy about this. Why doesn't anyone ever want to watch City play? Same reason as me, I guess. The euros are exchanged without question. Then we hop into a shared taxi for the hour long drive to Minab. There's a soldier in the front seat and he keeps turning round to talk to us. The driver sometimes joins in. We speak no Farsi, they speak no English, but no matter. We now know all the questions, we are just not sure of the order. So the answers we give go something like this: "England. English. Near Manchester. 40. Wife. No children. No, Manchester City. Tabriz to Tehran to Yazd to Kerman to Bandar-e Abbas to Minab to Shiraz to Esfahan. Good."
It is hot and sweaty in the taxi, and it is hotter and sweatier in Minab. We are recovering in our hotel room, sat in our underwear, when there is a knock on the door. We quickly dress and I open the door. A man is smiling and saying something I don't understand and I am not sure who he is but he keeps pointing inside the room until I eventually let him in. He goes straight to the fridge and removes a frozen chicken, says thank you and leaves............
Our purpose here is to visit the Thursday Market. It is held on a bit of open ground next to a wide bone-dry riverbed. The market is very popular with people from miles around and gives us an opportunity to people-watch. The locals are a mix of Iranian, Arab, Baluchi and African, and most of the women here not only wear chadors but a particular kind of burqa, or veil, over their faces. They look like carnival masks - bright red embroidered eye masks that have a kind of beak - quite unusual. The mask possibly originates from when the Portuguese settled around Bandar-e Abbas to trade. Minab itself is the dustiest and dirtiest town we have visited in Iran, and on Thursday a wind whips up the dust and blows over the market. The market is a bustle of traders and shoppers with goods and food laid out on cloths on the ground - lots of fish, rolls of cloth, plastic tupperware, "Chinese" bric a brac, shoes and clothes. We wander around with Sjef and Sasskia, a Dutch couple who we first met in the Turkish border town of Dogubeyazit. Apart from the grit in our eyes, the hurly-burly of the market is fascinating. On the edges sit a crowd of men on motorbikes chewing the fat whilst mostly women go round to do their shopping. After all the covered bazaars we have wandered through, the scene makes quite a change.
There is nothing else to keep us here, so we return to Bandar's crowded bus station and manage to get the last seats on the last night bus to Shiraz. It's another long hot ride...........

Laft? I nearly cried

We arrive in Bandar-e Abbas just before sunrise. Prayers are being said by the faithful in the carpark and the mens' toilets are full of blokes scrubbing up before joining them. It's six o'clock in the morning, we've just stepped off a nightbus, I'm desperate for a piss, and it's rush hour in the toilet block. I hop about a bit. It is muggy warm, and a couple of large rats dance across the grass. There are men in shalwar-khameez, the bus station is being rebuilt while it is still being used, litter overflowing from the bins. Are we still in Iran? We get to the pier in the town centre and join a group of people in what looks like a home-made fibre-glass speedboat. The boatman, with African features, climbs in last, starts the motor, lights a cigarette and guns the boat out into the hazy fug of the Persian Gulf. Actually, our journey takes us across the opening of the gulf, past moored tankers sitting high in the fairly still waters. Now and again the boat slams against the wake of another speedboat - there is a lot of traffic to and from Qeshm island, our destination. We climb out onto a landing and walk into the small town, which is a tax-free zone. We try a couple of cheap hotels which are full, and then an expensive hotel which is also full. We ring another one. Full. At the point of giving up we spot a man with a suitcase coming out of an alleyway. We go down it and up an open staircase where we find a receptionist. We struggle with our phrasebook. We can ask for a room but have no idea of the reply. A guest appears, and she kindly translates for us. There is a room, with four beds, we'd have to pay for all of them. It is a shoebox with bunk beds. We say yes. The shared bathroom is clean, there's a kitchen and the cleaner brings us a flask of tea. We collapse. It is only 7.30am and we're knackered.
Our guidebook says " the village of Laft is the highlight of any trip to the island". This may be true. It also says that Laft is a "charming Persian Gulf village". I beg to differ. To get there we have taken a shared taxi to one town and then were feasted on by the taxi sharks, some of whom almost came to blows over the fresh kill, before negotiating a fare to get to Laft and back with a two hour wait. The driver gave us a hard time over the fare we agreed and the waiting time after we had set off, but eventually settled down. Laft is a sad little fishing village of mainly breeze-block houses with wind towers. Maybe we are too tired, maybe the taxi driver has worn us down, but we are disappointed. Very disappointed. Oh well. The landscape of Qeshm island is barren - sloping land rises up out of the desert, pushed upwards by pressure from below - the whole island looks like it emerged out of the sea - and there is not a hint of life. The most amazing thing about Laft is that it exists at all.
Back in the main town we are surrounded by Tehranis doing their duty-free shopping in the bazaar. It is busiest at night, when it is cooler, and the shops look very busy for such a remote place. There's a buzz in the air, and it's not just the flies. There are people selling fruit and spices and cigarettes on the pavements, greasy meaty smells wafting out of the sandwich shops, people weighed down with enormous bags of shopping, crowds pushing through the doorway of an ice-cream and juice shop. This is definitely a different side to Iran. We feel enlivened and energised again.

South by South-East

The mud brick of Yazd has a strange soothing and apathetic effect on us. We find we cannot move on. We are unsure what to do for the Iranian holiday of No Ruz (New Year) which lasts for ten to fourteen days from the 18th March. We ask Reza, the owner of our hotel, and he suggests that we stay and help out in return for accomodation. It seems like such a good offer, and he seems like a very relaxed guy, that we say yes. So, knowing that we will be back soon, we head off for a circuit through the south of Iran, beginning with Kerman.

When we asked another traveller what Kerman was like they told us it was nothing more than two roundabouts. This seems a little unfair. There are three roundabouts. It is another desert city - the last big town before the border with Pakistan. It is here we say goodbye to James again, who is making the border crossing with Marthein, a seemingly sane Dutchman. The crossing has a small risk of kidnap - this is drug-smuggling country and when the government has made a big seizure in the past, tourists have sometimes been kidnapped in return for a ransom. The famous city of Bam is not far away, but since the big earthquake 4 years ago there seems little point in visiting. It had a huge adobe citadel, which has all but collapsed to rubble. We opt instead to visit Rayen, where there is a similar smaller citadel. The castle walls have been extensively restored with fresh mud and inside some of the larger buildings are almost nice enough to live in, but for the main part it is a jumble of ruined houses and broken archways. In the distance, across the desert, are mountains still with snow.
Another day takes us to Mahan to visit a mausoleum of a sufi mystic. We might be in danger of overloading on tiled domes and minarets, but in this sand dun-coloured region, the decorated buildings look really impressive. Again, lots of people say hello, and some even want to take our photo, bless 'em. We take photos of each other. It feels like we are minor celebs, and it can be quite tiring if you walk down a busy street at night - you never get a chance to finish your sentence (although this is a trait I may have had for some...........

Back in Kerman an old man catches us on the street who speaks good English. He doesn't let us get a word in and asks us back to his house for tea. We hesitate and look at each other and then say yes. This is the first time we get an invitation back to someone's house and I am eager. This is a mistake. Ali turns out to be a taxi driver (alarm bells) who introduces us to his wife and son, neither of whom bother to look at us (alarm bells) and then persists in asking a lot of unanswerable questions in a relentless monotone. It is quite clear he is mad. He produces a translation of the Quran and asks for clarification on certain words (e.g. submit). We sit in their lounge and drink tea and the conversation turns to age. We are invited to guess his and his wife's age. He has two teeth and white cropped hair. She has a face like cold tripe. We guess incorrectly by about 15 years. The wife does not look best pleased, and even less so when we are asked about our religion and reply that we have none. Their daughter joins in the conversation. We are asked for gifts for their children which we don't have and when, eventually and thankfully, it is suggested we leave we are asked to pay for the lift back to where we met. We decline and Ali takes us back to town. We are dazed and relieved and angry. A young man says hello etc. and a bit later we see him again. His English is not very good but he says he would like us to come to his house. We don't even look at each other. Naaa, mamnun! No thank you!!!

Rash action

One of our first tasks in Yazd is to find a pharmacy - Gayle has come out in a rash which started in Tehran. It is Friday and everything is closed except for the 24-hour pharmacy. The chemist refers us to the hospital next door where we find a doctor who speaks some English and who writes out a prescription for a hydrocortisone injection for an allergic reaction. Gayle suggests it's an allergy to the hijab, a joke he doesn't appreciate. He thinks it might be food. We think back to all the kebabs we have eaten in Tehran...........a kebab allergy? This could be very difficult. We get the drugs and return for the jab. Gayle has to come back the next day for a follow-up. The whole process is quite quick and costs only 3 quid. Mind you, this might be value for money as the jabs don't work and after four days Gayle's rash is getting itchier and spreading.


So after some internet research we go to another chemist, in search of anti-histamines. The chemist recommends a dermatologist. His waiting room is half-full when we arrive at 4pm and are greeted by an insolent receptionist who won't look us in the eye. In fact, he never looks at anyone in the eye, just tuts and tilts his head back or forth. He tells us six o'clock. At first we think this is the appointment time, but it actually turns out to be time the doctor arrives. We sweat it out in a stuffy and crowded waiting room full of people who all stare at us. Fortunately the doctor arrives about 6.15 and we don't have to wait much longer. He speaks a little English - enough to tell Gayle that she is suffering from a reaction to an insect bite - most probably bed bugs. We think back to the flea-pits we stayed in in Tehran................... Gayle asks lots of questions to see how certain the doctor is. He points to his certificate on the wall from the American Faculty of Dermatologists - Gayle is unimpressed. So he pulls out a pictorial encyclopaedia of skin diseases and flicks through it. The large full-colour photographs make me blanche and think about all the other patients in the waiting room outside. Finally he finds a photo of someone's neck - it's exactly like Gayle's - the photo is captioned "bed bugs".


He sends Gayle off with a prescription for anti-histamines and within a day her skin is getting better............

Mud City

After 5 minutes walking around we know we like Yazd, but more importantly, that we like Iran. After a couple of nil-nil draws in Tabriz and Tehran, we've scored a hat-trick and we're going to Wemberleeee, ta ra, ta ra. It is Friday and the city is asleep, the streets are deserted. James, the English chap we met in Syria, is here and giving us the "orientation" tour: "So this is Khomeini Street, and that's Freedom Square" (Every single Iranian town has a Khomeini St. and a Freedom Square.) He's staying in the most-recommended hotel for backpackers in the whole of Iran - The Silk Road Hotel. Everyone we know who has been here has stayed there, so of course, when we arrived on the night train from Tehran, we made a bee-line for it. It is full. Fortunately the owner has another equally good hotel just around the corner. Both hotels are traditional houses built around a courtyard and with a roof terrace giving views over the old city.

James & Gayle in the Jameh mosque

Yazd sits on the edge of the desert, between two ranges of hills and from these hills run a series of underground tunnels (qanats) that used to bring cool fresh water to the residents. Throughout the old city are covered stairwells that descend to cool rooms where water could be drawn. It is warm as we walk around and we are glad we've come south. We are told that the city is like an oven in the summer. The old part of the city is a maze of mudbrick buildings and alleyways, mercifully free of traffic, with courtyard houses with high walls and old wooden doors, mosques with blue-tiled domes, a covered bazaar, and peaking out above everything are the windtowers. These towers are designed to catch the breeze, and through a clever design, draw the air downwards to cool the building below. It helps explain how the city has existed in such harsh terrain for so many years -a man-made oasis. We are in Silk Road territory here - Marco Polo passed through on his travels and the bazaar still sells silk cloth.

One day we share a taxi with James and Pierre, another traveller, to visit Kharanaq. It's an old mud-brick village that has been all but abandoned for a new village of concrete breeze-block houses. The old adobe houses are ruined, but you can still wander down the covered alleys and climb up onto the roofs for a view of the countryside. An old caravanserai has been brilliantly restored but stands sadly empty and locked up except when tourists arrive. It would make an excellent hotel - as it was when it was a staging post on the route to Yazd.

Because of the heat, Yazd takes a siesta in the afternoons. The main streets are deserted and the shops close up. But in the evening it all comes back to life and the pavements and roads are busy with people. We are greeted and welcomed by so many passersby that I end up with an idiotic grin on my face. Women smile at Gayle and young men call out "Hello, how are you?" in our ears. The city feels more conservative than Tehran - principly because nearly all the women are wearing black chadors, even little girls of 5 and 6. In comparison the young men are like peacocks - although so many look like extras from seventies cop shows (more Sweeney than Starsky) - lots of long coiffured hair and central partings. One man, in high waisted brown flares and tight black t-shirt, looked like he'd just stepped out of the Wigan Casino. Keep The Faith. The faith here is of course Shia Islam and as we are staying right next door to the marvellous Friday (main) Mosque, which has a sound system to shame any Northern Soul all-nighter, we have found the early morning call to prayer a little lively to say the least. But this has become a normal state of affairs for us now.

What a difference a day makes

The sun is shining. We move from our expensive flea-pit hotel to a cheaper one, although we have to wait a while for the return of our passports - the hotel has to register us with the police. With 14 million inhabitants, many of them driving Paykans*, Tehran is not going to be a green and pleasant place. It's not too bad though, once you've mastered the Dance of Death, a pre-requisite to crossing any road here. After a breakfast of curried felafel sandwiches, we visit the British embassy to buy a letter recommending us for travel in Uzbekistan. This costs us a bargain 34 quid and we have a nice chat with Sandra who has lived here for 33 years. The embassy is in huge walled grounds and was the subject of some controversy when it was publicised that Britain actually "owns" the land it sits on - a gift from Shah Reza, whose coup the British supported. Tehran is an eye-opener - a fairly ugly modern city that sprawls nothwards to the foot of snowy mountains. We see only one mosque - under construction, and don't actually hear the call to prayer while we are visiting.



On the streets people say hello all the time. Here the pre-dominant hijab style is off the back of the head, with plenty of hair on show. We ride the modern metro (with optional women-only carriage)and take a bus (with compulsory gender segregation, women at the back of course) to the Uzbek embassy. We pass buildings with murals and quotes from Khomeini in Farsi and English - good old-fashioned agit-prop - some of it lost in translation, possibly. Photos of Khomeini and Khameini, the current Supreme Leader, who looks more cheerful, are dotted everywhere. An old man on the bus asks me what I think of Iran. I say I think it feels a little poorer than Turkey, where we have come from, and he replies: "Iran is a rich country, one of the richest, but so many of the people are poor.", and he waves derisively at the large modern appartment blocks on the outskirts and says " they have the money". I'm not sure who they are.


We are served at the window of the Uzbek embassy by a tall man with a pencil moustache. His name is Shavkat / Shashlyk / Shaft - we don't quite catch it and immediately conjure up a mnemonic nickname that fails to help us remember. He jokes with us and is very nice but we have to stand outside in the cold to complete our visa forms and my hands are numb. The visa process for travelling through Central Asia to China and then into Pakistan is complicated. We have had to research the best location to apply for each visa on our route, the order in which we must apply, and the cost. We need the Uzbek visa before we can get a Turkmenistan transit visa. At the Turkmen embassy, which is a half-hour forced march away, they tell us that the application process may take 10 days. Great!


The streets are all signposted in English as well as Farsi, which helps a lot for getting around. But we continue to struggle to find anywhere to eat - so many of the restaurants are below street level, down dingy stairwells. We seem to be eating a lot of kebabs.............
*The Paykan is a national icon - an Iranian car modelled on the Hillman Hunter (even I'm too young to remember the Hillman Hunter) - succintly described as a "shitbox of a car" by our guidebook, which consumes 20 litres of petrol every 100 miles. Petrol here is rationed, but costs about 6 pence a litre.

The end of the road

We take a minibus to the Iranian border with a lot of men and a lot of luggage. At one point a man takes his seat on the driver's lap, but after expressions of concern for road safety (the road is, after all, covered in sheet ice) the passenger relocates into the warm fuggy morass of the main compartment. It is thankfully a short ride and a quick border crossing. We are welcomed by an Iranian Tourist Board official who takes our details and gives us onward public transport info. She forgets to mention the rugby scrum for the shared taxi down to the first village. We cross this hurdle simply by waiting for everyone else to go first and finally hook up with two Kurdish students going to Baku. These boys want us to share a $40 ride to Tabriz but we decline, and opt for the uncomfortable slow bus that costs $3. At first I am told I can't sit next to Gayle. ("But she's my wife!", I lie, indignant.) The back seat is rock hard, and the students climb into the driver's bed above it and snooze. At departure, the driver relents and gives his assent to my sitting next to Gayle. The bus is a Mercedes. This is not good. The advice is to take a Volvo. Oh well..........

The landscape is mountainous and snowy, but it does feel warmer than eastern Turkey. We pass small brown villages - the only colour in a white land - and eventually arrive in the large low-rise city of Tabriz. The pavements are caked in ice and compacted snow and the roads are choked. It's rush hour. We find a comfortable hotel where the heating is so hot that we start to melt, and after a compulsory kebab, we retire to watch Manchester United tonk Arsenal in the Cup. Well, Gayle doesn't.

In the morning we call on Nasser, the friendly local Tourist Information man. "English? Then you'll have a cup of tea. I don't pay for it - the government does!" He points out the Yoghurt and Honey Shop to us and answers every single question we can think of. We change money at the bank and emerge millionnaires. I am full of cold and faced with a dilemma. It is a cultural taboo to blow your nose in a restaurant here. Should I just let the snot dribble down my face? While pondering this we sample some of the cheap cuisine - dizi, which is a mutton broth with chick peas and potatoes and a blob of fat (mmm) and ash, which is a heavy soup, either of yoghurt and barley, or green vegetables, or in my case, noodles and pond weed. We also wander the old covered bazaar, looking for a cup of tea. The bazaar has 35 km of streets in a maze divided by caravanserais and open courtyards. We walk about 15km before we finally find a tea shop - just up an unmarked staircase - run by a dour man with a woollen watchcap perched on the top of his head. There's no point trying to speak Farsi here as everyone is Azeri and speaks Turkish, so at least we know the numbers. Later we come across several modern shopping arcades dotted around the main streets and realise that these are modelled on the ancient covered bazaar. Except these have neon lights and better window displays and are warm - all of which may explain why they are busier.

By the time we leave Tabriz the thaw is on, and the pavements that were thick with ice when we arrived have now turned to muddy slush. We take a bus (Volvo!) for the 9 hours to Tehran. At a lunch stop we are helped by Arash, a young student, who buys us soup. We chat away until we reach Tehran while he explains his IT projects and work at university. He's a smart guy and been offered a job in California, but he can't leave Iran before completing 2 year's national service, and he can't enter America until he has lived 6 years outside of Iran. He's not a fan of the Iranian government. After a long flowing conversation talking about many different things he tells me that it is the first time he has ever spoken to a native English speaker. It's amazing. It is late when we arrive in the capital and after a ride on the modern metro we wearily settle to stay in an overpriced hotel peopled by Armenian market-traders who are hauling large sacks of goods in and out of their rooms and in and out of the hotel. We are tired and fed-up. Tehran means 'the end of the road' according to our guidebook.