Turkmenistan cont'd ...

Turkmenistan cont'd, then on to Nukus over the Uzbek' border.

The fun factor definitely took a vacation yesterday. After doing some damage to my left ankle following a low-speed tumble in Erbent, we had a long ride from half-way point Dharvaza, to the far north of Turkmenistan ready to cross into Uzbekistan.

Dharvaza

Dharvaza is known to travellers in central Turkmenistan, as a big hole in the ground out of which natural gas emanates. But gas is pretty dull, smelly and visually unexciting stuff. Put a match to it though, and you have something that provides heat energy as well as lighting up the darkness. And so here's where Dharvaza comes in, as the naturally occurring escaping gas has been set alight and (so I'm told) looks like the entrance to hell. The story goes something like: The 'Russians' discovering gas coming from an area of rough ground many years earlier, decided to ignite it (though no explanation why). It's now become a bit of a touro' must-see for anyone in the area. Though should add that anyone in the area, is going to be travelling on the one and only road either in a northerly or southerly direction. So there we were surveying the track heading off into the desert, that we'd had confirmed as the way to the gas crater. We'd heard it was a fairly spectacular sight, and with dusk and darkness not so far off it would likely be the best time to view it.

Following the track away from the road, we came to a rise partly made of the dreaded 'soft-sand'. There was no way I was going to attempt this with a bike full of luggage, as I was guarding my dodgy ankle and didn't want to do anything that risked further damage. Limping up the hill there weren't any clues which hinted that our crater was within hobbling distance, besides which had also heard it was at least a few kilometres in ... So we returned with ideas of camping for the night, and Bjorn considering he'd maybe hike in later to take some photographs. Late afternoon heat prompted a siesta and so this seemed a good time to take some much needed rest. And further, it was a chance to assess things and try to decide where where would be the best place to spend the night. While laying contemplating and drifting into something of a light doze, I spotted what looked very much like another motorbike way off in the distance. It put-putted it's way along a rise, and after a couple of minutes watching the scene realised I could make out another person. This distant individual was walking along the rise in the opposite direction towards the motorcycle. As I looked the bike and person met, then the person jumped on as a pillion and the bike continued on its way with the two people on it. With Bjorn dozing a short way over a dune, he missed the sight of this bike making it's way up the track that we'd earlier assessed as being un-rideable. It disappeared over the rise with little apparent difficulty.

Some time later noise and movement could be detected coming from the direction of the desert. In turning my head a herd of goats could be seen migrating their way across the track, and back towards the road and a Yurt we'd past on the way in. A couple of local youngsters in their early teens pulled up on a ratty old Rusky built motorcycle. It was the one I'd watched earlier. The boys were very interested in our bikes, and tried for all their worth to blag a 'turn' on ours. In return this prompted the idea to Bjorn, of blagging a lift out to the gas-crater on the back of this ancient looking bike. 10 minutes later a price and time was agreed, and the two guys left to finish their job of getting the goats back home for the night. Returning back some half an hour later, Bjorn got on the pillion and I watched as bike, rider and Bjorn wobbled their way off into the desert. I spent the next 40 minutes or so chatting with the other lad, who slowly munched his way enthusiastically through a bag of mixed nuts we'd been given back in Tehran. When Bjorn and his desert pilot returned, was told he'd managed to get some good shots that showed the gas-crater as described. A hole to hell made of fire and rock. He described the smell too, and it didn't sound like a pleasant place to camp for the night as we'd hoped. But I got the distinct feeling that the highlight of the expedition wasn't the gas-crater, but the ride in and out on that rattly sounding rat-bike of unknown age. With little in the way of brakes, and tyres 'wired' to the rims and with little air-pressure to keep them inflated, it was near perfect for getting through the much-feared soft sand. This ancient motorcycle had put our well kitted out mounts to shame here in the Turkmen' desert.

We waved these young guys off, then heard another vehicle approaching. A 4WD bus had appeared on another track that diverged from the one we'd come in on, and watched as it struggled its way up the same track, assumedly trying to take some other touro's in to see the crater. They didn't make it on their first attempt and as we looked saw them get out and push. The bus eventually topped the rise, but didn't wait for it's passengers and kept going. We'd had enough entertainment watching these other people struggle though, and headed off in search of somewhere to rest for the night. Going back to the road, we made our way up to a nearby building perched on a rise on the other side of the main road.

Bobby-Joe was a big jovial sort with a natural bent for leadership. He directed a mob of guys who serviced a gas-head for supplying natural gas. And who lived in this tumbledy down concrete box of a building. After riding up to their make-shift home, they gave us a warm welcome and offered us tea. We were also offered to bed-down with them, and accepted rather than chance the unknowns of the adjacent desert. When we agreed to stay they plied us with more *Turkmen tea and questioned us with some enthusiasm, using an up till then unhelpful Berlitz Russian language book.

* They took pains to impress on us that we were drinking 'Turkmen' tea, though I for one couldn't really tell the difference.

With it being a warm night, needed little in the way of bedding. We'd been given some thick quilts to lay on top of the rough concrete slab, that served as a bed for these guy's. Looking up could I could see the billions of stars that marked the Milky-Way, and drifted off to sleep with mixed thoughts of being a long way from nowhere. My ankle hurt and was mildly nervous about the long desert ride the next day, but at that moment had found some kind of contentment with these simple yet friendly bunch of guys.

Avina'chat over a Russian language course-book. The book was crap, but was good for a larf!

Our first night under the stars came and went and I for one awoke feeling reasonably refreshed. Foregoing even a quick splash from the nearby well, or a nibble of dry bread as a hint of breakfast, we waved our thanks and goodbyes and hit the road north. The intention was to get to Kënëurgench (pron. Korny ewe gench), before the days heat melted away all our energy. Little was I to know what that day was going to bring, as we set out with an enthusiastic wave-off from Bobby Joe's crew.

The concrete box of a home to the Turkmen gas workers.

Some clues soon appeared that the road was not going to stay in moderate to poor, yet acceptable condition, as we hit the first patch of bad surface. We came across a section of newly prepared road awaiting resealing. Alongside the yet-to-be road were piles of black-stuff (asphalt), which stretched off and away into the distance. The kilometres went by, but could only make moderate progress, at best barely managing to keep in top-gear. The speed averages slowly went down, as the loose surface continued and travel times to our destination increased in proportion. Doubts crept into my mind. How long would it stay like this? Would it get worse? These doubts were soon confirmed, as it got worse. Much worse ... so much so, that further doubtful thoughts manifested themselves in the 'what if it gets so bad I can't continue' vain. Bjorn apparently seemed to be weathering the bad conditions better than me, drawing from his off-road intro' course. One reason perhaps, why I kept falling off in the soft sandy drifts of Erbent.

The piece de resistance of the day was a patch of big gravel. The size of golf-balls, it was spread right across the pathway. There seemed litte doubt, that getting across this was going to be tough on a new level. To confim my fears could see Bjorn bogged down the best part of a hundred metres in front. He was clearly struggling, his progress painfully slow. The engine of his Dakar could be heard revving, and the bike was jumping about under him. He evidently had little control and was looking for any way to get through the last few metres.

Turning attention back my own lack of progress, started scanning for an easier route through. The gravels were evenly distributed right up to the sand either side. There was no easy route through. A quick assessment as to whether the sand would be the easier option, led my mind back to the previous day, when I'd gone flying. Choosing to try and cross the sand meant the likelihood that another tumble was very high. At least this new obstacle was an unknown quantity. Just sitting there was bloody ridiculous. I couldn't stay put, so had little choice but to go forward. Steeling myself put the bike back into gear, blipped the throttle and slipped the clutch to move forward onto the untried surface. The front end bucked with me wrestling for control. I'd gone 5 metres and simply had to stop, the bike threatening to slew away from me in just about any direction. Catching my breath went through the options. There were none. It was either keep going and hope I don't end up in a heap with the bike on top, or sit there ... Burgeoning thoughts such as, “how much more of this are we going encounter, even if I can get past this part?” And, “What do I do, if I can't get past it, and there's still countless more miles before civilisation of any kind?” Bugger it! Cussing every Turkman civil engineer to his ancestors, the 'bit' was mentally shoved between my teeth. Gunning the motor, just 'went for it'. The bike, me and a load of luggage bobbed and weaved the remainder, until we arrived on the other side. I looked at Bjorn, who looked back. Crikey! He looked as frazzled as I felt. And am now sorry to say, that at the time I was thankful of it too. If he'd have looked as though he was okay, or worse still enjoying the 'challenge', I'd have been even more dejected more than I already was. We conferred, if that's the word. But to honest was more an exchange of explatives. A colourful range of profanity eminated into the air between our helmets, creating a blue haze of unrelenting swear words in a clumsy attempt to describe our collective experience. We discussed briefly the possibiltiy of how far we've got to go and the prospect of more of the crap we'd just been through, and realised it didn't matter. We had to go on ...

A few K' after that lot, we came to sealed road. I could've stopped and kissed it, I can tell ya. But again it didn't last and was just a tease of solidity and smoothness. A couple of minutes later and it went back to the loose-stuff once more. Not so bad this time. The sealed surface reappeared. Pot-holed with broken edges, but nevertheless solid. Eventually we limped into Kënëurgench. We'd made it through the broken landscape of the Turkmen'' desert.

But our day doesn't quite end here in Kënëurgench, because a quick survey found that there was really little there. Ghengis Khan had evidently devastated this place as an ancient pilgrimage site, when he'd swept across Asia. He'd done a bloody good job as the march of civilisation over millenia in the rest of the world and following decades of Soviet rule showed that this place still hadn't yet caught up. No hotel could be easily be detected during our ride through. And a few Q's to the locals as we passed, told us the only place to stay was not too good. The Lonely Planet info' advertised that the only accommodation in the town, was a guest-house that was reputed not to have any running water. And after a ride like we'd had, was determined to have a good scrub-up under a shower. Even a mean guest-house with a dribble of a shower would suffice. But a doucheless stoppover at that point held no appeal whatsoever. There was one more LP listing of a home-stay, on the road out of town. But when we eventually found it, the place appeared to have been converted into barracks for local police or the military. It was decided that Bjorn would ride back to the other side where we'd come in for a photo-shoot of one of the old pilgrimage sites, then head for the border and get the heck out of Turkmenistan.
But the country had one more sting in it's tail, before it let us out. It came in the form of a good grilling from a bunch of security guys, who came in two cars.

At the time, I was dozing in the meagre shade of a partly built service-station. The bike had been left parked in a place that could be seen by Bjorn, so he wouldn't go hurtling past on his return. I think that the two cars pulling up at the same time was a coincidence, as they had been passing in different directions at the time of spotting my bike. Pulling up one behind the other within a few seconds, the occupants got out. An odd looking bike and rider were too good an opportunity to break up their mundane daily grind, of giving the locals a hard time over nothing whatsoever. Before speaking with me though, there seemed to be some sort of negotiation between them. Once the hierarchy had been established the non-uniformed pair approached first. Vaguely threatening, neither cracked a smile as one of them babbled enquiries at me. This had all the hall-marks of becoming difficult, so a well placed smile and direct eye contact projected a good bit of 'bull-shit' confidence to try and show that I'm not going to be easily intimidated. Making sure the smile didn't falter, reached around behind with both hands to retrieve my passport that was zipped into the rear pouch of the jacket. The slight delay and my silence seemed to put the nearest guy on edge. He looked at his mate, then back at me. I volunteered “passport?”, which appeared to relax him. The usual Q's and A's followed, but was quickly learning it was a good thing not to appear be too understanding. Some well-placed shrugs in answer to anything that resembled a sentence, ensured they would be in no doubt that any interrogation was going to be hard work all the way. Over the space of ten minutes, three separate guys peered at my passport and the papers I'd been given at the other border, and all the usual inane questions were answered, along with a part mimed explanation to describe my trip. By now I'd learned to say that I'm from 'Anglia', and that I was going to 'Uvstralia'. I was a Tooreest, and to get here had ridden through Fransay, Sviss, Germania (with a 'g' as in gorilla), Awstria etc, etc. I was also learning the subtle art of body language and some of the better strategies to deal with security guys who were clearly not above bullying tactics, if they could get away with it. After half an hour managed to shuffle myself into a tiny bit of shade, leaving them in the sun. All but one gradually migrated back into the sanctuary of their air-conditioned car, leaving one uniformed guy to continue the interrogation. With beads of sweat forming on his brow he soon tired of the sport too, and eventually turned and walked back to the open door of his police-car. To this day am not quite sure of its meaning, but he left me with a kind of *grunt! Continuing the pantomime, I gave them a hearty wave as each of them drove off, and slowly felt the tension melt away as their cars receded. With their departure all was quiet again. The silence was bliss and peace reigned once more.

*On my life yer honour! With no thoughts of associating the police with pigs in mind at all, he really did make what I can only describe as pig-like grunting sound.

The last twenty minutes saw me dozing back in the shade, though guessed the temperature was still creeping over the 'forty' mark, even there. I was dog-tired and drifting in and out of sleep, feeling I could stay there forever. Eventually the unmistakable putt-putt of Bjorns bike returning, pulled me out of my half-dream. It meant I could finally saddle-up and we could head towards the border. The prospect of a cool-shower, food and beer had me buzzing again.

Turkmenistan Part 4

Avina'larf with the kids in Erbent ...

The road out of Ashgabat ... Is in very good condition. Being concerned about being 'turned-over' by the local Rozzers, for deviating from our planned route (a fellow bike traveller Sheen, was given a hard-time for this misdemeanour only a couple months previously), so tried to make sure we got it right first time. We'd worked out there only one road going north, and that was the one which went past the airport and the big bazaar outside town. So long as we went past those land-marks were safe. Leaving town on the correct road, found it ran for mile after mile, after mile, after ...

Sand is a way of life in the middle of the Turkmen' desert

We travelled past low-level desert vegetation, small dunes and little else apart from the adjacent railway line, which paralleled the road on the left hand-side. Starting out late in the day, we knew it was gonna get warm. It did! Midday gave way to 1, 2 & 3 pm and the temperature rose way, way past 40 degrees. We thought we'd make a cursory attempt at doing something to stave off the expected heat, and so had stored half our water overnight in the freezer at Murat's. Within a couple of hours of leaving Ashgabat this ice had not only melted, but the water inside the bottles was actually hot. The desert had other ways of making it's presence felt. Within a short time after our departure, I encountered the same phenomena of hot-wind forcing me to keep my visor closed for relative coolness. I tried to kid myself I could take the heat, but it was uncomfortable. And was likely going to stay that way for a couple of days. We had a stoppover planned in Darvhaza where we'd heard there might be a yurt or two that we could cadge either accommodation or food. My thinking was at the time, that I'd rather camp on our 'Jack' to catch up and reflect on these experiences. It didn't work out quite that way ...

Me relaxing over a cuppa in Erbent, just before 'doing-in' my ankle!

Camel time!

Young lad on an Ish (Rusky built bike). You can't see it, but the tyres are wired to the rims and there's hardly any air in the tyres (good for riding over soft sand)

Our last refuelling stop was at Erbent, a small gathering of shabby buildings just off of the trunk-road. Sand was a way of life in that barren, forsaken place. As we rolled into town a few people appeared from ramshackle houses, curious to see who these strange looking travellers were. Shortly afterwards I had my first fall ... now I don't want to make too much of this, but will try to give you some idea of what it's like riding through loose sand. The first metre or two is okay, but as you proceed, the front wheel gets disconnected from the rear. It's as if the bike has suddenly had a universal joint inserted into the frame. But it's not a completely free uni'-joint, as there is a spring waiting to return the frame straight again. As this spring does it's job, the inertia then takes it past centre the other way. Normal handlebar movement and centre of gravity no longer works in the same predictable way. My only previous experience on sand was many years back, using my old Honda 250 in some dunes over in Wales. I recall it being great fun. That feeling of being on the edge was quite exciting back then, but here in the middle of the desert, being slowly grilled by the sun and dessicated by a fiery wind it was positively alarming. My first attempt at getting across a sandy drift was not able to relax into the manoeuvre, so lost vertical and dropped the bike to a soft slow motion landing. Bugger! I made a very half-hearted attempt at lifting it, but with all the luggage and lack of purchase on the sand couldn't lift it on my own. The easiest thing was to simply check and make sure I wasn't losing any fuel, or had shed any other load and waited for Bjorn to wander back to lend a hand and get the Dakar upright again. There came a repeat fall that happened after choosing to try and leave town on the slip-road that connects back to the main drag north. Again I was confronted by a good-sized drift and tried to barrel-thro', but no ... same story. Once more I waited for help, which came in the form of one of the local youth's, who helped hump the motorcycle back upright. It seemed as if the tyres were being held back by treacle and found the bike wouldn't roll where it was pushed. With Bjorn's help managed to turn around and attempt to go out on the road we came in on. And, dammit ... it was the same result in one of the deeper drifts. But this time there was a difference. In trying to scoot the bike upright before it went past the point of no return (it'd worked a couple of times on other short sandy drifts), my foot slid off into the soft stuff therefore giving zero purchase. Down I went, with said foot wedged under the left pannier. My body still having some forward inertia needed to lose energy, which meant I kept going. It doesn't take too much imagination to realise that with my foot wedged firmly between the ground and the bike, and my top-half still going, something was going to hurt. And it did! I can feel it now ... it had a wrenching sort of tearing feel to it, that told me all would not be well after this spill. Laying there for a moment zeroed my mind onto the spot where foot connects to leg, to try and determine whether it was serious. A couple of locals helped lift the heaviness off my leg letting me hobble vertical. Thankfully the worst of discomfort in the ankle receded, but was unable to put any weight on it. Another test hobble, told me things weren't too calamitous, but didn't fancy any more falls. This last fall was going to leave its legacy. Sightings of soft sand with no obvious way through, were going to make for some very nervous moments in the days to come.

There is a lot of this stuff in the middle of Turkmenistan!

Turkmenistan Part 3

A linear park close to the centre of the city. I had to wait for five minutes or so for some people to appear. A bit of a false impression of 'life' in this soul-less city.

Ashgabat

Nothing prepared me for Ashgabat. It is out on it's own, though to give you some idea of the nearest equivalent could compare it to Las Vegas. But it didn't have the people and the neon. Then again there's some parallels with Dubai, but it sure doesn't have a fraction of that city's energy. It feels at times as if I'm walking around a city that belongs on a set for a film called 'The Truman show'. My understanding about the high degree of surveillance that takes place on the Turkmen' population, the last comparison makes this one the closest perhaps. We were to discover what affect this Big-Brother regime had on the people who lived there, particularly some of the odd individuals we encountered on the streets of Ashgabat.

Another big 'posh' building. Might've been a Palace, but just as likely a bank or Ministry of something or other ...

Ashgabat's main buildings are recent structures of typically steel-framed concrete, with a veneer of marble tiling. To my eyes they have a kind of smooth satin look to them that gives the impression of luxury. But with insufficient people out on the streets to provide balance for all this available housing of commerce and habitation, the overall feeling is that this is a city without a soul. I think to myself that this place just doesn't make any sense. Which was a thought that was to reoccur many times over the next couple of days.

First evening in a hunt for cheap food, we find ourselves in an 'English Pub' as mentioned in the trusty travel guide. Not because we crave Englishness or miss the beer, but because the write-up indicates it's got good basic food at reasonable prices. And in truth, it's not such a bad replica of an English pub. It at least equals the modern corporate approach to English pub decor. Fake everything, including stone-wall patterned wallpaper. The menu's not too far off of a corporate English pub too ... I avoid the imported prawn dish due to cost, and the same went for the fish and chips. My eyes stray to the list of burgers. Cheese, Anatolian (or was it Albanian?), and eventually go for the 'Madburger'. The description of 'mad' seems to be because they've plonked a fried egg on top of the rather thin disc of meat. I'm not sure if the name suggest's you'd be mad to eat it. Or perhaps this place is so conservative, that putting an egg in a burger is the Turkmen' idea of letting their hair down. Whatever, the bread-roll it comes in has more to do with a current bun without the currents. The meat is bland, the fried egg suggesting it came from a joke shop, and a handful of re-heated fries have got all the hall-marks of having been 'dressed' with left over chip-oil. Though the dessert-spoon sized helping of cole-slaw wasn't too bad. The whole ensemble would make an English corporate pub manager proud.

Waitresses are fairly typical of places like this all over the world, in that they don't crack a smile ... Some are vaguely attractive, but their thin-lipped visage make them appear either unwilling or unable to engage with any kind of dialogue other than asking what you want to eat or drink. When the bill came we ask for it in dollars, to which they ensure has a 20% tip built-in, when compared to the local exchange rate. We're both too tired to complain and therefore I pay without further argument, so that we can leave and get back to the guest-house for some much needed rest.

Finding Murat's guest-house

When we first entered the suburbs of this odd city, we spent an hour or more riding around in search of our 'pick' of the travel guide, Murat's guest-house. While on accommodation-search we didn't spy anything resembling a service station, neither did we see shops, either of which would seem likely places where we could get directions. So the next best thing was to stop and ask some likely looking passers-by. This tactic didn't work too well, as we mostly we got a mix of blank looks, and in the case of one lady, she looked distinctly embarrassed to talk to me. This short non-interview came about, after I'd stopped and accosted a likely looking local bloke, 'mooching' along the pavement. He shook his head after I enquired about a road name shown in our travel guide's map of the city. I tried different ways of pronouncing it to try and spark a few brain cells of savvy in the man, but to no avail. Nearby there was an attractive lady who also looked local, dressed in fresh full-length floral patterned dress standing on the corner. He nodded in her direction, and said something that I guessed to be in Turkmen' lingo. Maybe she could help me out?. My questions to her got an even cooler reception than the guy I stopped. All eye-contact was avoided, completely. She would not look at me, so much so it had me wondering if she was deaf or blind. But even then there are usually some signs, to let you know that a person with either of these conditions is paying you attention. As I continued what felt like some kind of 'interrogation', found my mind wandering towards trying to decipher her body-language. Barely raising her voice to any audible level, I wouldn't have recognised whatever it was that she was saying, even if her mumbling was in English. The eyes were downcast and a slightly worried frown stole it's way onto her brow. I was looking at someone who was 'afraid' But not of me surely? But then on reflection, I was dressed in my 'Star Wars Storm-trooper' Bikers outfit, so maybe it was as simple as that. But whatever the cause, she was distinctly nervous, and so I made my apologies, with a 'no-worries' and made to move away from her. I found that I felt sorry for her, as she was obviously feeling very uncomfortable by my presence. I went on to wonder, was this typical behaviour for the local people? Would everyone react like a startled rabbit caught in headlights, whenever we spoke to anyone out on the streets? The answer was very much a yes, and detected what I felt to be a definite undercurrent of fear in a number of those we approached ... Not everyone acted as if we were aliens about to gobble them down in one gulp though. One guy was bright and alert, and seemed to understand which one of the main roads we wanted to find, but his enthusiasm didn't match his knowledge and it resulted in another fruitless ride-around.

We were getting hotter, and it was beginning to feel like my body was gradually desiccating like a piece of fruit left in the sun. The heat came in hot-blasts that surprisingly meant it was more comfortable to ride with the visor down. One of the joys of motorcycling is that on hot days any breeze normally has a cooling affect. But in this case the air movement was searing and so afforded no relief from the heat. Temperatures had reached a level of cherry-red hotness and the word 'cool' only applies to a 'dude' with a laid back demeanor, who's wearing Chino's and shades. This was full-on furnace-like heat with no respite while we were out in the sun. On a couple of occasions I did try to get some lubrication into my parched throat, by grabbing the emergency Sports-bottle water rations strapped to one of the panniers on the side of the bike. Popping the top, pulling the 'teat' I could feel the water trickle down my gullet. But instead of refreshment it was more like hot-lava. Somewhere over the course of the day it had gone from tepid to half-way boiling.

I'd guessed we'd reached and passed the point where eggs would cook on the pavement, if that is, you fancy a pavement cooked egg. Which at that moment was the last thing on my mind. I wanted shade, but most of all a cool drink of some kind. If we could have seen a shop or supermarket would have raided whatever was in their drinks chiller. But all we had was US dollars and would need to negotiate some kind of money exchange for some local currency first. Besides which out of all the buildings we were passing, we were unable to see anything that resembled and kind of retail establishment. At that point it still seemed easier to try to find the guest-house. But as more time went by visions kept floating in front of eyes, of a huge beer glass filled with lager that had ice crystals on top and condensation running down the side. In this vision the perfect pint would be sat on a white patio table under a shady tree. We continued to ride up and down one of the many wide avenues of Ashgabat and failed to see any shops, let alone somewhere selling cold drinks. Had I come across a heaven sent vision such as I described, would have avoided all financial negotiations to find out how much, and paused only long enough to grab every bank-note in my wallet and throw at whoever was in attendance, before guzzling it down to the last drop without coming up for air.

Bjorn had some GPS co-ord's given to him by one his German biker acquaintances, which if accurate should have pin-pointed the exact location of the guest-house. But it became clear that unless the Garmin units had been calibrated, there would be an error of some kind. In the maze of side-streets 30 metres could be crucial. After getting to within a few paces of the supplied GPS data, Bjorn finally spotted what looked like a corner shop, and once again asked for directions. The all too familiar question marks appeared above their heads, but then someone had a brain-wave of telephoning to ask directions, if we had a number for said hostelry. Bjorn started digging into the depths of his panniers, to see if he had it. And with me near collapse-point, rather than sit about waiting decided to try a few of the other side-streets in the vicinity myself. And promptly got myself lost ... Eventually I managed to find our helpful corner shop again, but by this time Bjorn had gone. After more enquiries, it became evident that one of the locals had driven there in a car to show the way, with Bjorn following on behind. Some 10 minutes later the car returned, and with me having what must have appeared to be a face of desperation, managed to persuade the driver to do the same for me too. Bingo! With a grateful heart interred myself to Murat's and nearly fell off the bike with exhaustion. Making a cursory attempt at unloading the bike, ripped off the bike jacket and strides, replaced 'em with shorts and t-shirt before hot-footing along to the nearest shop. Along with Bjorn threw 'em some dollars in exchange for Turkmen' Manat, and grabbed a big, and more importantly cold bottle of fizzy water. I couldn't actually see it, but knew there was steam coming from my mouth as the water hit my parched throat. We'd landed in Ashgabat.





This is the revolving restaurant, on top of which sits a statue of Türkmenbaşy (self-named 'Father of all Turkmen'). This statue is programmed to always face into the sun. I think the word 'Megalomania' very much applied, when this guy was alive ... One of his other claims to infamy, was in formally announcing that a man-made canal which had been carved through the country, was now in fact a natural river!


It doesn't show a lot, but it's a nice sunset. I recall, it was bloody hot at the time of taking this shot ...















We never intended staying too long, in this the capital city of Turkmenistan. And even if we did, there wasn't really too much to keep us here, so two nights and we were ready to leave. We did hunt out Internet on the 2nd night and was surprised to find that even in one of the main hotels, the 'net connection speed was as slow as an old mangle. They had two PC's that were locked in a swish looking office on the 1st floor. But there was nobody around to either use it or monitor it's use. We paid for the hours use, then left. On the walk home had what I momentarily thought was my 'best offer for a long time'. A very pretty young lady of diminutive stature, but adequate proportions and wrapped in a well fitted dress with brief hemline, was seen walking in my direction. Instead of weaving to one side, as I would normally expect, she kept her line and at the last moment veered slightly towards me and stopped. Being an apparently forward young lady, she beat me to an opening line. “Do you want something?” she ventured in heavily accented English.

Now, I'm fairly confident that if me & Brad Pritt went out for a night on the town, even back in my hay-day would not have expected to give him too much competition. But here in the middle of Ashgabat and further heading towards my mid-fifties, am well content in the fact that an evenings promenade, rarely leads to any ladies swooning as I walked past. In fact if I want to be completely honest, the only time this has happened was when a lady fainted next to me on a boys-night in down-town Bristol many years ago. At the time my mates tried to tell me that she was under considerable alcoholic influence, but personally I'm still convinced it was my dynamic presence that did it! So apart from the possibility of over-tight corsets, do not expect ladies to go weak at the knees in my presence. To further confound my logic, I was out with a younger and arguably better looking man, so would have expected to be 2nd best to Bjorn, who it appeared was more in this lady's age-group. All comparisons put aside then, I would have thought she should have found him more attractive. But no, her come-to-bed gaze and body-language was directed at me.

Shaking myself out of my trance, suddenly realised it was the bulge in my back-pocket she was interested in. This lady was a 'professional' and I was simply a prospective meal-ticket. In resisting the more obvious “Boing! Time for bed, said Zebidee” retort, left her with a simple “No thank-you my dear”, and continued on my way.

Turkmenistan Part 2

The Ride down to Ashgabat

Although it was a relatively short ride to take us from the border crossing down to the city of Ashgabat, I do have to make mention of this particular leg of the journey. During the section that took us from Tehran to the North East of Iran we'd become kind of used to the flattened topography as we progressed along the Southern end of the Caspian. But then the last part on the Iranian side became definitely more interesting. As our route moved us away from the main west to east road towards some distant hills that marked the divide beween Iran and Turkmenisan, the landscape started to change. Dramatically!

The above is a pretty crap picture, and doesn't give any real scale ...

The most noticable difference was that things got more vertical, where the flat of the plains gradually melded into some rather nice hills. Then as we progressed, the hills turned into 'proper' big mountains, with often sweeping valleys connecting the higher peaks. Things were looking up ... literally. Following the entertainment of the Turkmen' side of the border crossing, we rode downwards into a single large valley, to encounter a vista that was somewhere around 7to 8 out of 10 on the scale of grand-views. An enormous wall of rock appeared to swallow the road ahead of us. Once again it felt as though we'd been shrunk into a Giant's landscape. A photo-stop gave us chance to not only record the sight, but also take the specatacle in properly, without worrying where the road went. The weather was warm with bright sun casting sharp oblique light onto the scene, providing drama that not only made for a good picture (though not in my case), but also helped burn the sight into my memory banks. Not long after that, any idea of 'warm' as associated with pleasant sunny weather was forgotten. The thermometer was about to go through the roof.

Winding our way along a good road up and down among this mountainous landscape of stark beauty, found that I was enjoying the feeling of the first steps into a new country. As the road that we found ourselves riding on was in pretty good 'nick', it allowed my mind to stray towards thoughts of what lay ahead. Because pot-holes and rough surfaces demand attention, It was unusual and somewhat refreshing not to have to put my full concentration into keeping myself safe on the road. After half an hour or more, we came to a place where there were no more 'ups', as the road flattened before starting its descent. Down we went and as the numbers of altitude on the GPS dropped, so did the temperture rise. It was quite noticeable, and after a nice comfortable ride in the mid 20's, the rising mercury had me playing a guessing game of how-hot-now? 30 degrees? 32? 33? More perhaps? Something else grabbed my attention, as I continued down the gradient. It was the city of Ashgabat. Even though it was way down below me, it loomed! Something about what I was looking at wasn't right. I was slowly making my way down towards a city, that looked for all the world as if it had sprung up out of the billiard-table flat plains of the surrounding land. There were big buildings spead across the conurbation, and some taller buildings too that likely marked its centre. The contrast of height while all around was flat meant it demanded attention, and was not going to be ignored. Even more it shone! And there came something else that made an even bigger impact. It was after I came to a small rise in the road that blocked the view of the city momentarily. Carrying on over this rise found that I was riding through a huge semi-circular frame of concrete and marble, that put me in mind of ancient Rome. It framed the city perfectly, to show that someone had put a good deal of thought into positioning this rather OTT entrance to mark the city limit. After some of the often pitiful attempts of civil building experienced while journeying through the last few countries, this was positively lavish. To make such a bold statement, somebody had spent a lot of money. This had all the hall-marks of a Triumphal Arch!

The ride continued down, the temperature continued to rise. We rode past the outskirts and were suddenly in the city. Several things happened. My visor was slammed shut to keep out the inferno of desert heat, my mind was reeling at huge wide avenues and lush green grass verges with extensive fountains of cool water, my jaw dropped at the luxury high-rise buildings and my brain wondered where all the people were.

Turkmenistan Part 1

The Border Crossing ...

Crossing the border into Turkmenistan was some of the best entertainment we'd had in quite a while. Seeing as the country had something of a reputation for social 'control' of its population, we'd prepared ourselves for a long and tedious round of paperwork. As part of this preparation, Bjorn thought it would be some kind of fun to record the number of seperate steps, in order to get clearance to leave the border post and enter the country. From that he counted 12 seperate office-stops for various bits of paper to be issued, stamped, cross-checked and stamped again. This included one rather dubious tax on a tax, whereby we were required to sign to say that we agreed with it. After visiting a number of dingey offices carrying bits of paper, we were directed into an airily light room, where we were presented with a list of things we had to pay for. I shall not go into details for each one, but the aforementioned tax on a tax that needed a seperate signiture is definitely worth enlarging on here, because of the guys reaction.

As was usual it was becoming habit to ask for explanation and sometimes question things rigorously, when handing over money during border crossings. And Turkmenistan we'd gleaned needed special care because of rumoured corruption that's rife in civil authority. So anyway, when we got to this stage, Bjorn questioned our burly official behind the desk, asking if he'd heard him right about the final addition of a set-fee (of something like $4) which he'd indicated was specifically derived from one of the fees listed as 'tax' nested in the column he'd scribbled down for us to see. Without hesitation he thrust another piece of paper in front of us to sign, at which point my interjection of 'so if we don't sign to say we agree, we won't have to pay the $4?' sent him into a mild panic. 'You heff to sign ... SIGN', told us we'd hit a raw nerve somewhere. I read something between fear and burgeoning anger, which was confirmed when I began laughing. His face not only didn't crack, and if anything the expression hardened.

Of course we had every intention of paying, if we wanted to get into Turkmenistan, even if most of these fees were meaningless bureaucratic nonsense, designed to create meaningless jobs for people with little meaning in their lives. But it seemed worth poking the fire to see how far it would flare up. You could tell in the tone of voice and absolute seriousness with which this man treated our mild taunt, that to buck or even question the system might mean his whole world would come tumbling down. How lucky we are in the west, I thought. This was mindlessness of a kind I'd only ever heard about. And if truth be known, thought it only existed in jokes about the old defunct style communist inefficiency. But this guys reaction was real, and it got me thinking. It re-enlivened thoughts about denial ... and how people usually know the truth, but seem happy to support the lies, because they don't want to disturb the status-quo. With such madness staring me in the face knew I didn't have enough energy to deal with people who are prepared to put so much effort into keeping such a blatant fraud going. So laughingly pulled the slip of paper towards me, and signed my four bucks away ... I knew it stung Bjorn, but it was time to move on to the next bit of madness, the fuel tax.

Fuel is 'cheap as chips' in Turkmenistan, as they have plenty of oil resource. But selfish gits that they are in that country, make darned sure that non-residents passing through in their own vehicles don't get any benefit. This is done by hefting a surcharge against assumed fuel used, when going across their country. The fee was to be paid in one of the dingier offices we were directed to, that was situated below an ageing post-soviet styled concrete building. Two guys sat in front of tomes entering details derived from paperwork given to them by the lorry-drivers ahead of us. And here I observed the first of several dodgy hand-shakes, in confirmation of the ongoing underground economy. Corruption was alive and well here ...

It went something like this: Driver walks in through the door, who then barges jovially in front of us, to greet his long-lost mate behind the desk. Beaming smile, loud voice and exaggerated hand-shake that starts too far away with the right hand as a closed fist. Just as Lorry-Driver's right hand comes into contact, his left hand shoots forward to hold the outside of Office-Man's right hand. In closing, Drivers right hand opens onto Office-Man's right hand palm, with a brief two handed-shake. With the loud and over-jovial lorry-driver entertaining everyone, all eyes are on his face as he continues the joke (of course nobody notices a little something passing from one hand to the other). The finish: Office-man's hand is withdrawn and momentarily disappears behind the desk, before coming back up to pick up his pen and continue writing. A slip of paper goes across the desk and is picked up in an instant. Lorry driver hesitates just long enough for another loud quip, before heading out of the door. I'm sat there patiently waiting to pass the rego' document across for my turn, wondering what he'd got for his money apart from in-and- out service ...

Bjorn's estimate for mileage wasn't so far out, but their charts for our intended route was 'kind' by a few kilometres, so we wouldn't have to pay quite as much fuel tax. Or so we thought. So long that is, that they used the correct rate for their calculations. The useless idiot doing this, tried charging us the same rate for lorries, which was doubly higher due to them using diesel. A grimy document nailed to the wall, enabled Bjorn to highlight the 'mistake', after which the dozy 'official' tried masking his cock-up by having a fake argument with his mate, who dismissively puts him right. After all, it's in black and white, on an official document with the Turkmenistan seal of government at the top. It was even dated (though half expected some bright-spark to say it was 'out of date'). But they didn't spot that one, so we got satisfaction of only paying what was due. And not a Turkmen' Manat more ...

All in all, it wasn't a substantial amount of money, but f'cryin out loud, this pillock wouldn't have even made anything out of it for himself. He was just too bone-idle lazy, to find out if there was any difference for vehicles other than the goods-wagons he was used to dealing with. How many other Touro's had been nailed for the 'standard' rate? There it was clearly printed in both Russian Cyrillic and an English translation, not 2 metres from him on the wall ... A list for wagons, cars and motorcycles. As well as that, a 2nd column, showing variation depending on whether the vehicle was diesel or benzin (petrol). This incompetent fool had probably been doing that job day in day out for years, and yet didn't apparently know about this variation. And the really sad thing ... I think that as soon as we left and went on our way, he reverted straight back to his memorised standard rate. Wanker!

During our lengthy processing, the fees continued to mount up. One more fee that we were required to pay for early on, is worth a mention here too. And that was our 'entry' tax, which had to paid at the bank.

The bank it turned out, was no more than a room with a closed door. Bjorn opened the door, and we furtively peered inside, to find nobody there. It was devoid of furniture save for one lonely, tatty desk that displayed a couple of small pads on it, along with a huge safe that was wide open. Most odd ... So we wandered back over to the only available bench-seat in the unwelcoming hallway, and sat patiently to see if someone appeared. After waiting for a few minutes, a bored looking lady waddled along barely glancing in our direction, even though we were the only people waiting. Guessing this was the banker, we watched her slow progress across the echoing hall. She was shuffling her feet in a way that exuded disdain for our presence in every footfall. It was easy to tell that she really didn't want to be there. A colleague that we were have the pleasure of meeting a short while later, was walking along by the side of her and apparently listening to what sounded like a really good whinge. I wondered if it was about us ...

This was not a happy lady. And she made sure we knew it too. Every movement, every spoken syllable expressed her displeasure in having to deal with us. After giving across the requested money to pay our dues in U.S. dollars, she rustled about in the drawer of the desk, giving us a receipt ripped with maximum contempt from one of the pads and our change minus 1 dollar. Bjorn stood his ground in asking for all of the money. Her sneered expression and shoulder shrug in reply said 'no chance', so I'd pretty much given up on us getting it. After all it was only a buck. But no, Bjorn had other ideas. Between us we get all our dollar bills out, and in doing so found I could pay the exact amount for my share. It included a few single dollar bills. This miserable lady was not pleased, and to make sure we were in no doubt threw Bjorn's dollar across the table at him, and in one fluid movement got up to leave. I guessed she had to get back to her other job of drowning puppies!

Oh, and before we leave the border post, do feel compelled to mention Olga the nurse in charge of 'medicals'. Of course her name might not have been Olga, she just looked one to me. Dressed in 60's nurses uniform our first encounter didn't bode well for our visit to her office, as she was associated with the miserable banking lady. Now, I've not heard of people having to have a medical before entering a country unless it's for permanent residency, so was surprised to be told we had to go along and get medical clearance before we went any further. Adolescent memories of drop-em, bend down and cough did nothing to put my mildly nervous mind fully at rest, though was also interested to see what was to come. Entering this new office, Olga was already sat waiting for us at her desk, regulation pads in front of her. Putting on my best smile in the hope of trying to charm this lady, who I thought might be in competition for the local Stone-face competition. But was immediately rewarded by a smile in return. Things were looking up ... but then I spotted a screen over in one corner and wondered if my fears were founded. But instead of instructions to strip, she asked in hesitating English 'Do you heff any diseases?' Now, this simple question took me by surprise and had to stifle the first response that came into my head of, “Well, back in '79 I had a mild dose of Bubonic plague, and as for AIDS? ... Don't wanna get that again!”. But instead came back with a feeble “No, nothing really, I'm perfectly healthy thank-you”. From that was half expecting her to start going into more details, instead it prompted her to ask for my passport and start some frantic scribbling. A few moments later my passport was returned and her ledger-like book was pushed towards me to sign. “$5!”

“What? Oh ah yeah, I have to pay for my medical. So guess I have to give you five dollars for the medical examination?”. I tried hard to keep the cynisism out of my voice and think I failed, so gave her another award-winning smile to mask it. I don't think she'd have noticed, nor cared if she did. A few seconds later, Bjorn had his medical and coughed up another 5 bucks! We were 'clean' and allowed to infect Turkmenistan with our wit and lunacy. Yippee!

Footnote to Iran

And here right at the end, if you've managed to stick with all the postings for my visit to Iran, do feel compelled to add this foot-note.

It was with a good degree of sadness that I left the country, as it had turned out completely different to anything that I had in mind before coming here. Though if truth be known, am not sure exactly what my expectations were. There were rather mixed feelings for me, when it came to leaving this enigmatic land. Yes, I was disappointed that I did not get to visit Esfahan, a city that's arguably the jewel of Iran's cities. A city that perhaps has a few clues locked into its great buildings that surround, and along with the Imam square might've given me some hints, for how earlier generations of that country lived and wielded power.

A further sting was to miss out on Persepolis. While being told there's actually not very much there, with the site consisting of little more than a few dusty ruins North of Shiraz. But there are some places I regard as something of a pilgrimage. Some places that I feel drawn towards. Some places I believe have meaning way beyond what can be seen with the eye, and seem to have special power that can be tapped into with the right mind-set. Here was a place that was the centre of the civilised world of the time. One of learning, and one of the great cultures that marked the march of human progress. And I had missed out on standing there, to plug into it's secret power. All because we'd decided to go through China as part of our chosen route, and had therefore squandered most of our time in Iran pursuing a bloody visa. I left feeling I'd missed so much ...

But to finish on a brighter note, rather than on the sadness of missed opportunity. Iran was really about the people. And their welcome and hospitality on quite a different level. The Iranian idea of hospitality was far and away better than could be hoped for in most other parts of the world. There is indeed a certain duality between peoples public and private worlds, as discussed in Jason Elliot's excellent book 'Mirrors of the Unseen'. But there was also friendliness and openness on a scale way beyond that which I had encountered during my life so far. And it has changed my mind, about people and the way that they can be. Perhaps forever altering my sometimes cynical mind-set on human behaviour. For this reason when leaving, did not feel I had missed out on the best of Iran. The greatest discovery for me while in this country, was that it wasn't the land, the cities or the sites, but the people who lived there. These are the true stars and jewels in the crown of Iran ...

IRAN Part 8 ...

I liked this group picture as there's a lot going on, and not just the usual posed shot ...

Leaving Tehran

We eventually left Tehran to a most amazing farewell. It began the night before, at around 11.am with an emotional response from each one of the family. I do have to make a really special mention here to Akhter, who shed a few tears, Omid whose warmth came beaming across as always, kind words from Sussan and a hand made picture with hearts sketched on it from Tabasson. In fact everyone contributed in one way or another ... Even Reza had whiskery kisses for both me and Bjorn (not that I can talk, with my near-permanent 5 day stubble these days).















After my earlier whinge about the cost of travel, here was a family that did all they could to make our stay as comfortable as they could. As well as ensuring we didn't foot the bill for anything while we were with them in their house. It made me realise I was being one of things that I really disliked in others, and that was small-minded. Akhtar's family altered my mind-set about people, and many things that resided in a cynical part of my brain. It was a small change, but nevertheless a significant shift in perspective. While true that the city is bound to be a crazy, wild-ride for anyone not local or native, there is no indication that Tehran should be a city to hold fond memories for anyone. But it most certainly does for me. I was to leave carrying some very profound thoughts with me. Omid, Akhtar, Suzzan, Sholee, Tabasom, Tarranom, Wian, Reza, Zenap, and not to forget Mr Mohammad, and the rest of this wonderful family, were responsible for doing something few people have ever managed during my life. And that is, in changing my mind ...

Early next morning, everyone except the kids got up to see us off. With Omid, Akhtar and Sussan going with us in Omid's car to wave goodbye at the city limits. They drove with us way past the outskirts of Tehran, just to ensure we were on the correct road. More hugs, more thanks, more gestures of sadness at our departure. But go we must, as our journey has to take us further East. We were being given a send off fit for the Great King Darius. Right to the end, the echoes of hospitality continued. My thoughts stayed with them for many many miles. Some thoughts remain with them still.

Akhtar, Omid & Suzzana seeing us off ...

The Road out of Iran
The road-maps showed that while in Tehran we were around 400 miles from Bojnurd (love that name). This was to be our targeted last town in the north east region, before we made our way along the final bit of road which led to a border crossing out of Iran. Even though we'd not been on the bikes for a week or more, these short stints were becoming increasingly tiring. After a couple of brief leg-stretches, we eventually stopped for a kip under some trees that were just set back from the road for some 20 min's. The initial ride through the Alborz mountains when first setting out from Tehran, saw the temperatures dropping lower than anything we'd had for some time. It was distinctly cool near the upper passes. So much so, I even considered zipping up the vents in my jacket and getting out my scarf. But rather than stop, shivered onwards till we we began the descent on the far side of the mountains. It was the first time I'd been properly cold in what seemed like weeks, with hot to very hot days becoming the norm. When we started descending after the Alborz passes, the afternoon got predictably warm.

I'm not so sure if this piccy was taken on the ride from Tehran. But thought I'd stick it in anyway ...

There were boys selling fish on 'sticks' caught from the Caspian Sea. From a distance it looked like they were holding up lances as carried by North American indians during their ceremonies. But as we got closer and passed by, could see that instead of feathers there were fish dangling from the pole. A stop-off for tea and water gave our sore butts chance to get some feeling back into them. The locals I recall were gently friendly and the tea was delicously thirst-quenching. Gulping down 3 cups in quick succession, was a sure sign I was getting dehydrated. While in mid-slurp a chap named Mohammad invited us to stay with him. We felt compelled to let him down, as we'd decided to get a few more miles under our belt before nightfall. Arriving in what was to be our last Iranian town, Bojnurd (doncha' just love that name) gave up one of it's cheap hotels without the usual difficulties. After a few semi-traumatic hotel hunts on previous overnighters, this was a breeze. Pulling up for a 'nose-about' half-way into town, glanced across the road and there around 30 metres away was a hotel. It turned out to be both basic and cheap. Just what we were looking for!

Next morning the young guy running the place invited us for tea. We'd packed up ready to leave, when he'd spotted our supplies for brekkie, which we'd planned to munch just prior to setting off. Ushering us back inside he disappeared momentarily to fill the kettle, leaving us to hunt out a seat and lay out our meagre brekkie on the cleanest spot of a nearby cofee table. While waiting we made a start with our dry-bread, fruit and packet of biccy's. Then our young host came and sat with us and poured the tea, after which he proceeded to show us a variety of dodgy short movies on his mobile-telephone. This included one noteable clip, of a lithe young lady dancing eastern styley, hands above her head and winding their way into the air above. Fully intending to feign polite approval, found myself watching this one with some interest. The lady concerned was rather gifted with sinous fluidity that allowed her dance movements to be very provocative indeed. Even though she was moderately dressed in jeans and T-shirt, have got to say that despite her modest attire, found it to be quite erotic. Thinking this was a prelude to more hard-core stuff, was surprised to find that, that was as good (or bad, depending on your perspective on such things) as it got! It seemed that either his tastes or maybe the general availability, limited the content. It made little difference though, as he was clearly delighted and laughed with glee, while he continued to hunt through the directory, for yet another forbidden treat with which to entertain us.

If we thought that the moderate content of this guys moby was a bit of a surprise, it was nothing to what the next country had in store for us. Turkmenistan might be a lot of things, but moderate was not a description that easily fits.

IRAN Part 7 ...

Me, Bjorn and Top-bloke Omid, in the Turkmen tea-house ..Note: Black wallet in my hand with passports, application forms, money & photocopies of everything!!!

The madness in trying to get our Chinese visa's.

Monday comes, and Omid gives us a lift across the city to find the Chinese embassy. Looking back at it now, it was with bright optimism that we started out. While not expecting an easy time of things, I'm sure that neither of us could have guessed it would turn out as it did. It was quickly evident that if we had been left to our own devices to find the embassy, it would have taken either a month of Sunday's, or a small fortune in a taxi fares, so we already realised how much Omid was helping us. With the three of us in the car, the embassy was eventually located, but only, after numerous stops for him to ask directions. When we get there and try to gain access into the small visa office located on the outer perimeter, we find it's full of people all scrabbling to try and get the attention of a dimintive Chinese lady behind a grille. The Q occurs ...why is it that visas for this part of the world are never easy to obtain; along with ... why does it have to be such a disorderly process?

Eventually with the help of a nice young Iranian lady, we get to speak to a Mr Yu on the telephone, who goes on to tell us we need a letter from our home countries embassy, before we can be given a visa ... The paper-chase run-around had just begun! Before we can even put in an application we have to visit our respective embassies and arrange to get a letter of support. It feels like we've just been sent back to the Start without passing 'Go' and without collecting ₤20!

The morning's warm and Bjorn's short on patience and unwell besides.
He's suffering with what appears to be travellers tummy that thankfully doesn't see him bed-bound, and so is able to continue with the embassy-run. On the way back to Akhtar's place, we stop for a drink in one of the juice bars. Omid tells me that one of the orangey coloured liquids in the chiller-tank is Mango. Now I rather like the taste of Mango, but associate it with some hard work peeling and nibbling my way around the large stone inside, just to enjoy the flavour. Normally I get into something of a sticky mess of orange-coloured pulp smeared around my mouth, so for that reason mango's not the fruit of choice for me too often. I'm handed a glass, Omid pays for it; and again feel a pang of guilt. Usually I try to be one of the first in line, with my wallet out ready to pay. But Omid does it with such good grace, it feels impudent to interfere. In thanking him take the glass of fresh juice to my lips. It is absolutely delicious. Pure unadulterated pulped liquidized mango ... It's bloody gorgeous and is like tasting this fruit for the first time. It's chilled and perfumed fragrance is a taste sensation, and think to myself that I've rarely enjoyed such a mouthful of flavour. The sweetness doesn't have the slightest hint of being cloying, and so find it hard not to guzzle it all down in one go. Suddenly the hot frustrating embassy run, doesn't seem quite so bad.

Me & Omid doing our Reservoir Dogs walk ...

Home Embassy run ...

7/7/08: The first clue that there is something different about this embassy is that there is barbed-wire, strung over something-like scaffolding running the length of the front-wall of the main-road. Memories of demonstrations against the UK here in Iran during recent times, that I remember being screened on TV news-reels not so long ago. Political passions running high, whipped up by religious fervour of the Mullahs, with things being thrown at the gates and over the walls. And here I was with no visible sign of civil unrest anywhere, during my time in the country so far.

My gosh, but security's really high, with me having to go through a very thorough security screening. The moby and camera are consfiscated for the duration. 3 electronic gates had to be unlocked allowing me into the British embassy grounds. Then a pretty insignificant side-door gave me access to one of the main buildings. There then came a 30 minute wait, before seeing a non-native Brit embassy rep. I was initially relieved when I explained my requirement for a 'Letter of Support', because he seemed to understand with signs of doing the biz in fairly short-order. But then immediately after that became a let-down when he indicated there was a fee involved. And proceeded to quote a price in Rials with lots of zero's. 680, 000 IR to be exact. Ouch! After years of paying bloody tax, just when I need some help ... blah, blah, etc. etc.

More bloody embassies
Three days and three embassy run's. Across the city in crazy traffic, the thronging crowds on buses and a couple of stints in the metro. Long hot days, with interminable waiting outside, and on brief intense occassions inside embassies. The Chinese embassy is becoming something of second home to us. But of course we've got a vested interest of going to all this time and effort. Notice I didn't say money ... as the costs, the time and as much effort was bourne by my new found friend and fast becoming patron-saint, Omid. This guy went to an astounding amount of trouble on our behalf, as well paying for just about everything when we were out and about. One memorable day while waiting for the afternoon session of the Chinese embassy to re-start, he took us to one of the famed mountain resort parks for lunch. There we were treated to views of Tehran, as well as a pretty sumptuous feed in the Turkmenistan tea-house. And again when it came time to pay, made it clear he wouldn't be well pleased if we forced the issue by picking up the bill.

Gert Long Kebab!

Finished ...
10/8/08: We're done with Tehran's Chinese Embassy ... After chasing around for the last few days trying to give them what they want, they still refused to grant a visa. We'd made mistakes, but the embassy (and Mr Yu) were pretty rigid. After managing to get an interview with Mr Yu the consul on one our early visits, we came within a hair's-breadth of getting our visa's right there and then. After listening to our case he agrees to grant our visa's, but a power cut prevented him printing the necessay papers right there and then. We were therefore told to go back the following day when the power was restored, when presumably they'd have done the biz'. But when Bjorn went to pick the up the passports next day, it was noticed that the Letter of Invitation (different to the Letter of Support) was against my Oz passport, and I'd applied using my Brit' passport. This wasn't the only deviation, as the LOI was addressed to the Chinese mission in Germany, not Iran. Evidently we might've got away with one of these, but the two together meant they weren't gonna play ball. We were not granted a second interview and had our passports returned along with a scribbled note, saying we should apply at the next mission on our route. “Oh, Mr Yu ... What are you?”

The 'Last stand' was made following me getting yet another letter of support. But this time from the Oz embassy, and in this was helped by a very nice young lady called Neda. But as nice as she was, I had to shell out yet another 'wedge' for this letter. But even then our 2nd attempt of getting our Chinese visas from the Chink embassy of Tehran failed at the first hurdle.

Looking like we had to start all over again, we tried to blag it through the madding crowds at the tiny grille. Against all British conventions of queuing pushed our way brutally to the front. There was sat Mr Yu himself ... well, well, well ... we optimistically speculate between ourselves, that seeing as he knows of our case, there's a some chance we can fast-track things here. But no, not a bit of it. Mr Yu slopes off (excuse the pun), leaving the girl to carry on under a barrage of abuse and papers thrust through the grille. Bullying others aside, we get some attention, but she's deaf to our pleas. Then all of a sudden the grille closes in our faces, as they bugger-off for lunch. In disbelief at the rudeness, we go outside to try the same bullying tactics to get back into the consulate buildings. More ringing on the door-bell, sees us trying to get the attention of an embassy official. Now before I go further here, will make mention of a local guy called Ryan (or was it Bryan?). Who'd been advising us in quite good english, about the procedures when applying for a chinese visa in Tehran. He'd evidently worked in parts of China before a couple of times in his capacity of IT consultant, so was familiar with both process and some of the culture. It seems he was making a lot of money in China, so not surprisingly was keen to get back over and stay there if he could. So it turns out he was trying for an extended business visa to allow him back to work and earning pots and pots of dosh. I can see his face now ... eyes staring from behind a pair of wine-bottle-bottom glasses. “They will play with you. You will see ...” He was kind of smiling and looking at me sideways out of his glasses when he said it, but the smile was ironic. Whether he was right or not, it sure seemed that way. The door closes on the chinese visa debacle, with him getting his visa refused too. I can see his face again ... wild, staring eyes. Indignant, and sending out a message of complete and total disbelief. The Chinese have found a new way to torture, that's far more effective than dripping water on the forehead ...

But they still had one surprise up their sleeve. And it was right at the end too, when I'd already pretty much come to a point of acceptance, that we were most definitely not going to get a chinese visa granted here in Tehran. Even after all that effort, the time wasted and not to mention the ...

Aha, gotcha there, as I didn't mention the money.

Doh! Yes ya did! Ava'look at the line above ... Doh! Damn it!!!

I've gotta tell ya, that I'm a great believer in persistance. And that the measure of how much you want something, is related to how much effort or resource you'll put towards getting it. Of course sometimes things fall straight into place and bingo! You've got whatever that thing is, with minimum expenditure, work or time. How pleasing. Or perhaps, this is yet another of those 'western' expectations, that come tumbling down as soon as you leave western society. You know ... that place where the 'customer is always right', and there are such things as: Service Industries. Anyway, the final surprise came when we were flat fingered from ringing the embassy bell, in another feeble attempt to persist our case. At that time we still felt justified. Surely they couldn't refuse us. We only needed enough time in their country to ride through and connect to the next country. After all, that is the proper definition of being Tourist'.

We were to find that in dealing with the Chinese, we needed to find different rules. It has been said they can have two-minds and three-hearts, which we were beginning to find made some kind of sense. But the real surprise came with one of embassy's rep's coming out to speak with us, to give us the final thumbs-down. Initially there was some surprise, simply because they actually sent someone out to see us. It was clear that they all knew of our case, which was different to the run of the mill applications that their embassy normally dealt with. They also knew we were there waiting for a further interview of some kind. And have to say even so, that I fully expected them to stay hidden, skulking behind the walls of the consulate, firm in the small print of not having to give an explanation for their decisions. Y'know, just wait till we got fed up and left. But after the initial surprise of finding we were able to speak to someone again, the root cause for even greater surprise, was because he gave us western rationale for the refusal. He explained that it came down to a simple 'jobsworth' knock-back in the end. He told us that their embassy couldn't let us have the visas, because our documents didn't match with their procedure, and that if they granted them, it could have got them in trouble with their bosses back in China. So 'face' it seems is no longer the 'be all and end all' of business with the Slope-eyed one's; the Choong's. They're learning fast. Very fast indeed. My thought's were at that time ... This is quite a good bloke actually. He's not only aplogising, but he seems truly genuine. Right to the end, the Chinese bearacrats were able to catch us out again, but instead of inscruitablity, it was with some out of character unpredictability. Damned clever people these Chinese!