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: