The end

Simon writes:

The heroism of this, my final post on our blog (necessarily long to reflect the importance of the occasion), is not to be underestimated: I'm having to type it on a French keyboard - nothing is in the right place, even if you're writing in French! Now don't misunderstand me, I'm no Francophobe. I love their language, I love their cuisine and I'll even admit to a grudging admiration of their pig-headed approach to international and industrial relations. But making me use the shift key just to type a bloody full stop is really pushing it!!!! Also, this internet cafe costs about £60,000 per hour (€3) so this sparkling copy does not come cheap...

Ahem. Sorry about that.

So we're in Lille, an underrated city if ever there was one (see pic)



There's good food and booze, a cinema that shows films in their original language and literally dozens of lingerie shops. What more could you possibly ask for?

We made our way here at great expense from Switzerland (you could fly to New York and back twice for the amount we spent on train tickets - some things in this world are just plain wrong). There we did little other than overdose on cheese. One glorious day of skiing (and cheese) with our friend Juhani will stick in the memory:




I'm sure you'll agree that those braces are really quite fetching.

We also spent time in the company of the Swiss side of my family, some of whom have already made encouraging noises about visiting us in Canada. Here's a picture of us with my aunt and cousin:



So that's you all about up to date really. I'm struggling to find a suitably elegiac tone on which to end it all so I'll take refuge in statistics. What with me being totally rubbish at statistics, I only have three:
1. We left London nearly 8 months ago;
2. Without flying, we have visited 23 countries (some more than once);
3. We stayed the night in 89 cities/towns/villages (this figure does not include night buses or trains).

Thanks for reading and commenting. We're back in London on Thursday night. I'll buy a beer for anybody who can tell me which country we didn't photograph the penguins in (is there anybody THAT bored?!!).

Back in Europe...

Simon writes:

Back in Europe people are not as friendly (with some prominent exceptions described below), everything is frikkin expensive and the weather is generally miserable. But you can´t argue with clean trains, drinkable tap water and spaghetti bolognaise. Our progress from Istanbul to Switzerland (where we are currently enjoying the hospitality of the lovely Juhani and Karolina) has been swift.

For the record, and after repeated nagging from the penguins, here`s how we got here (Zurich) from there (Istanbul):

Train from Istanbul to Sofia, Bulgaria, where the penguins got addicted to gambling and Noelle got into the Easter spirit;


train from Sofia to Frankfurt via Belgrade train station, Serbia, where we avoided the attentions of bandits, donated drinks and pastries to a penniless young Aussie traveller with a bad cold and gave in to the penguins´ demands for yet another photo op;

train from Frankfurt to Dusseldorf, where we met the sublimely cute Maisie and the rest of Noelle´s cousin´s delightful family before they set off on their Easter hols.


Speaking of Easter, we´ll be back in the UK on April 9th, I´ll get to wear a different pair of trousers and you´ll all be spared my pathetic drivel on this blog for ever more. Hurray!

Istanbul

Simon writes:

In order to survive a Turkish bus journey be sure to first arm yourself with:
a) A pair of teflon-coated testicles to withstand the searing heat of the engine, which is pumped directly into the groinal area if you happen to be sitting in a window seat near the back.
b) An ability to enjoy (or at least endure) the worst film ever made. Dubbed. In Turkish.
c) Flipping great wadges of cash. Coming from Iran, the cost of coach travel and the (admittedly pretty good) food at the rest stops was a bit of a shock.

Don´t say you haven´t been warned. I learned the hard way.

So we´re in Istanbul eating and boozing mostly. Most of the pictures I´ve taken here so far are rubbish so this little collection is from Cappadocia (crazy rock formations, underground cities, caves/churches carved out of the rocks etc):





Seeing as it appears this computer is refreshingly fast at uploading them, here are a few pics from Istanbul, including one of this paragon of cultural sensitivity visiting one of Islam´s holiest sites. The logo was even less subtle on the front, but I didn´t have the balls to photograph it (see above):

Tehran to Turkey

Noelle writes:

After braving the streets of Tehran (apparently traffic is the most dangerous thing to foreigners in Iran), we took an overnight bus to the Turkish border where we were met with a snow storm.

We are now in Goreme, Cappadocia (thanks for the suggestion Belinda) where we will relax with some hiking for a few days before heading onto Istanbul.

This is basically the Tehran equivalent to the 401 in Toronto or M25 in London. Although there are supposed to be 4 lanes of traffic the Tehranians have decided to take it upon themselves to create 5 instead. We saw a few accidents but not nearly as many as you would think.



The road from the Turkish border crossing.



The view from our hotel room in Goreme.

The prettier side to Esfahan

Noelle writes:

Although Simon is right that there is evidence of nose jobs all over Esfahan there is also a much prettier side to the city. Here are a few pics from some of the most beautiful mosques in the world.










Esfahan is also home to some very cool bazaars.




And bridges.





We also had lovely walk along the river bank where we met this family from Shiraz who asked us to join them for some tea. Tea turned into three hours of hand gesture communication and a shared picnic lunch with them.

Rhinoplastic fantastic!

Simon writes:

Reading about the horrors of the economic slowdown from afar, I'm half expecting to return to the UK to find hordes of hollow-eyed people shuffling about trying to sell their own urine in exchange for wheelbarrows full of worthless cash.

I'm sure it's not that bad, but even if it was you'd hardly know it in Iran. Here the streets are crammed with people buying designer labels, mobile phones, stupid haircuts and, most astonishingly, nose jobs. Yup, ancient Persia has transformed itself into the rhinoplasty capital of the world. A sculpted schnozz is apparently cheaper and better here than anywhere else. The evidence, in the form of tell-tale facial bandages, is everywhere. Maybe this is what's keeping the economy afloat.

The penguins wanted the "procedures" of course, but as a foreigner it's impossible to get money out anywhere in Iran so we've been having to spend our cash carefully. I've so far been unable to upload a pic of me taking matters into my own hands. Prepare yourselves...

Success!



So we're in Tehran (a dump if ever there was one!) trying to sort out transport to Turkey. With any luck we should be back in Europe within about a week.

Esfahan

Simon writes:

We're now in Esfahan (Iran) fighting off carpet salesmen and enjoying the bazaars, the cleanliness, the pretty architecture and the food. After three days in Yazd and one here, we're well rested, well-fed and well-watered. Lovely. Here are some pics:




A few days back it was all so different. The Quetta (Pakistan) to Yazd (Iran) section of our voyage confirms us as full-option travelling legends: a quite staggering amount of Iranian police-induced ballache sandwiched between two consecutive night buses PLUS a cheeky bit of runny poo thrown in to spice things up a bit.

If somebody in Pakistan tells you that the bus you're buying a ticket for is an "AC" bus, this is a lie. The air conditioning on Pakistan buses NEVER works and the music system ALWAYS does. From the very start this gives the washed out traveller two major irritants: blaring music all night (drivers are no respecters of anybody's wish to sleep) and, if you're travelling on unpaved roads, a never-ending mouthful of grit. Then there's the chain smoking of course. There's likely to be loads of pointless flashing lights as well.

Still, the Disco Bus from Quetta (as it shall henceforth be known) was a pretty trippy trip if you know what I mean. Pakistani trucks are cool - brightly lit reflective beacons crawling across the desert at night like huge phosphorescent bugs. At a pit stop for "lunch" at 11pm there was a coach with reclining seats and cup holders stuffed with live sheep. Odd.


Back on the Disco Bus, the driver decided to turn the volume up. This driver was a complete lunatic of course. On the parts of the road that were narrowly paved his tactic of playing chicken with the oncoming lorries to get them off the road added to the torment of my mangled bowels.

Six hours in Taftan ("hell on earth" according to the guidebook) waiting for the Iranian border to open wasn't much fun either. We spent a further six hours on the Iranian side waiting for our police escort. This included being shouted at by an immigration official when I asked him why only I was being finger-printed - "Ask your government! Ask your government!" Sheesh! Calm down, mate.

Here's a wee factoid for you: 85% of all the opiates in Europe plus the occasional knackered Westerner comes through Iran across the Afghanistan/Pakistan border. Drug dealers nab Westerners when they want compensation for a big bust apparently. For this reason we had to have an escort. After about three hours he turned up: an unarmed wee man in a green uniform who insisted we take an overpriced taxi to the nearest town. Ivo, a highly strung Czech fella who'd come from Quetta in the same bus as us, was having none of it. We convinced them to let us go in a minibus for half the price. Ten minutes out into the desert the bus stopped and we, plus some random punter, were told to get off. We began trudging up the road after our passports, the wee man and the random fella. A taxi pulled up and we all got in, including the random punter. Hmm. I sensed foul play, but we didn't really have a choice.

Four hours, two police stations, three police cars and countless clueless police/army officers later we were finally left alone at Zahedan bus station (only an hour's drive from the border) to continue our journey - another night bus, this time mercifully quiet and squeaky clean. The whole day was all very bewildering. Poor Ivo was livid - "We are guests in your country (pronounced as in "bounty") and this is how you treat us etc etc". I thought I was going to have to physically restrain him at one point. To be fair, the coppers were all very nice and presumably had no idea what we'd been through. One of them even spoke very good German, so he and I chatted away for a bit.

Ciao for now!

Oh, by the way, the beard's gone. I have of course got some comedy shaving pics but I'll be damned if I put them up here!

PS: Here are the penguins in Pakistan: