'Salam… Salam'.
It is around 5 o'clock in the morning when I knock on the door of the one star Esteghlal Hotel in Shiraz.
'Salam. Salam'.
Eventually a balding head pokes out of the window two floors above.
'What you want?' (clearly my Farsi accent still needs a bit of work then.)
'You have a room?'
'Yes'
'Can I check in?'
'No…
…Too early. I sleeping. Come back later', the balding head suggests.
'But I've just been on the bus from Yazd. I'm really tired. Please give me a...'
'You from where?'
'England'.
'All right mate. 20 dollar'.
A bit of street to window bargaining then ensues.
'Ok 15 dollar'.
The squat night receptionist grudgingly opens the door and leads me up a dilapidated staircase. He watches me struggling with my suitcase and seems to relish pointing out the obvious…
'Heavy'.
He shows me into my room and then casually asks…
'You want first to drop kids off at the pool? Bathroom this way'.
I can't believe what he's just said. Limited English and then he comes out with that.
'Err, no I'm ok thanks'.
'Good night mate. Have good sleep', he adds graciously.
And then squeezes my nipple.
Did he really just do that? I'm too disoriented and tired to either reply or object. I close the wafer-thin door and fall immediately onto the wafer-thin bed.
Eight incredibly long hours trying to get comfortable and/or sleep on the overnight bus from Yazd to Shiraz has taken its toll. I spent the journey dispelling the illusion that spreading your body over two plastic seats – because there is no one sitting next to you – must logically be more comfortable than sitting on just one. By the end of it I had proved that no amount of awkward contortions and leg/arm/buttock position combinations can ever make it comfortable. So it is a welcome relief to be finally in bed.
But then I realize I am not alone. And I can hear everything…
Every morning throat clearance. Every passionate manoeuvre. Every unconscious fart.
Room number 26 has already been to the loo twice. Surely they don't need to go again. Please turn off that bloody music, it's only 6am. Was that really someone being sick or just coughing their guts up? Now is not the time for a marital dispute. Please…
Sleep is going to be tough. But I bury my head in my pillow and try. I'd forgotten the joys of budget travel...
That afternoon I take a shower. Before realizing that it is not the sort of hotel to provide a towel. I reach instinctively to the empty towel rail and then conclude that I'm either going to have to drip dry or abuse one of my few remaining clean t-shirts.
But it was in Yazd that my backpacker status was initially questioned. I was branded a 'flashpacker'. If I hadn't lost all credibility from the diehard travelers when I walked into the Silk Road hotel courtyard with my Tumi suitcase rather than rucksack, I certainly did when word got round that I travel with my own goose down pillow.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The ice cream parlour
This is the menu from an ice cream parlour the two girls I met on the train from Yazd took me to on our trip around town. Note the interesting flavour fourth from bottom. I had never had 'pussy' flavoured ice cream before and it wasn't bad. But the hairs did get caught in my teeth.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
A Persian Welcome
I have been in Iran for barely five days but have already received a marriage proposal, a paid offer to be a sperm donor for a sterile Iranian man desperate to start a family, and 8 dinner invitations from complete strangers. It is an extraordinary and quite wonderful place.
It had been two months sorting out my visa due to the Iranian authorities' current distrust of the British, and it was quite a bureaucratic adventure getting there including having to go to Dubai CID for my fingerprints to be taken. But eventually my ditsy yet clearly capable travel agent came up with the goods.
The ferry from Sharjah to Bandah Lengeh was pretty straightforward and I had my own professional queue barger to help me through the departure process, an Iranian merchant who felt that as the only non-Iranian passenger, and with a modest suitcase compared to the other passengers' kitchen sinks, I shouldn't have to wait. He insisted on ushering me, rather embarrassingly, to the front of every queue along-side burqa clad Bandari ladies.
As we left port, I was filled with a surge of mixed feelings – excitement and anticipation, yet a certain sadness to be leaving my friends and the place that had been home for six years. But the realization of having no real commitments in the immediate future apart from a couple of weddings in the diary was incredibly liberating. And my long-held idea to travel back to England by train through Iran, Turkey and Eastern Europe was starting to become a reality.
The crossing was uneventful apart from a seasick, wizened old dear who spent most of the trip barfing through her burqa.
For some reason I always feel incredibly guilty going through customs, though I invariably have little more to declare than dirty washing. Indeed arriving in Bandar Lengeh I felt like I was harboring Osama bin Laden in my suitcase. But I was waved through politely without a second glance.
Bandar Lengeh is a bit of a one camel town. So I quickly found a shared taxi to Banda Abbas, the start of the train line, and a two hour journey along an attractive coastal road.
I don't think I have ever met a more hospitable or friendly race. People are determined to ensure you feel welcome in their country and seem to go out of their way to help, sometimes literally - a girl who had shared my taxi insisted on walking me several kilometres to my hotel in Bandar Abbas. I just assumed it must have been on her way but later found out that she lived in totally the other direction. As we walked she told me how she was a journalist working for a newspaper and that three days before she had been beaten by the authorities for writing something they didn't like.
Later that evening, I was seen to be having trouble hailing a cab – none of them seemed to want to stop - so a policeman unashamedly flagged down a cab under the guise of pulling him over for something and ordered him to take me to the restaurant!
The train to Yazd was pretty comfortable and I spent most of the 12 hour journey in the restaurant car being bought cups of tea and surrounded by various people who were intrigued to know what I was doing. The idea that I might want to take the train home to England was a concept they couldn't really understand when flying is clearly so much quicker.
Two beautiful Iranian girls were eager to know which of them was the most attractive. My diplomatic answer that they were both stunning didn't wash so one took it on herself to decide for me. Despite the fact that her English was little better than my non-existent Farsi we managed to have some good banter playing a mix of Pictionary and Charades. She decided that once she had finished her studies she would marry me. And my marriage value of a thousand camels was accepted in principle (though she did point out that my camel looked more like a giraffe).
In the early hours of the morning we arrived at the ancient desert city of Yazd, the third place I have been – along with Sanaa and Aleppo - which claims to be the oldest city in the world with continued inhabitance. We took the girls home first in a shared taxi and the poor mother was prized out of bed to be introduced to me. I was taken on to my guesthouse and the driver proudly showed me a picture of his twin baby daughters before dropping me off and planting me huge kisses on either cheek. 'Welcome in Iran', he beamed.
The girls met me the following day and showed me round town, introduced me to their friends and insisted on paying for dinner - something that appears to be generally impossible to prevent here, such is the spirit of Iranian hospitality.
I have spent the last three days in a wonderfully chilled guesthouse in the company of a diverse mixture of travelers - a German couple who are cycling through Iran, a Swiss guy who sold his business and is travelling round the world for 5 years on his motorbike, an ex policeman taking Farsi lessons, a 20 year old Dutch student on his way overland to Pakistan, a Canadian grassroots journalist looking for stories, and a train driver from Bournemouth with a degree in Middle East Politics, on a sabbatical from South West Trains.
The one thing these people have in common is a seeming inability to leave the understated charm of the Silk Road hotel. All claim to be leaving 'tomorrow' yet are invariably there for a leisurely breakfast in the hotel courtyard every morning. And despite so many seemingly adventurous spirits, it appears to be an effort for any of them to do anything more constructive than order a cup of tea. Leaving the courtyard confines is a rare occurrence – though an expedition to the butchers round the corner to pick up a camel burger has occasionally been known.
There is something completely captivating about the place but I am going to have to tear myself away and am planning to leave the train route for a quick diversion to Shiraz and Persepolis, an 8 hour bus journey away.
It had been two months sorting out my visa due to the Iranian authorities' current distrust of the British, and it was quite a bureaucratic adventure getting there including having to go to Dubai CID for my fingerprints to be taken. But eventually my ditsy yet clearly capable travel agent came up with the goods.
The ferry from Sharjah to Bandah Lengeh was pretty straightforward and I had my own professional queue barger to help me through the departure process, an Iranian merchant who felt that as the only non-Iranian passenger, and with a modest suitcase compared to the other passengers' kitchen sinks, I shouldn't have to wait. He insisted on ushering me, rather embarrassingly, to the front of every queue along-side burqa clad Bandari ladies.
As we left port, I was filled with a surge of mixed feelings – excitement and anticipation, yet a certain sadness to be leaving my friends and the place that had been home for six years. But the realization of having no real commitments in the immediate future apart from a couple of weddings in the diary was incredibly liberating. And my long-held idea to travel back to England by train through Iran, Turkey and Eastern Europe was starting to become a reality.
The crossing was uneventful apart from a seasick, wizened old dear who spent most of the trip barfing through her burqa.
For some reason I always feel incredibly guilty going through customs, though I invariably have little more to declare than dirty washing. Indeed arriving in Bandar Lengeh I felt like I was harboring Osama bin Laden in my suitcase. But I was waved through politely without a second glance.
Bandar Lengeh is a bit of a one camel town. So I quickly found a shared taxi to Banda Abbas, the start of the train line, and a two hour journey along an attractive coastal road.
I don't think I have ever met a more hospitable or friendly race. People are determined to ensure you feel welcome in their country and seem to go out of their way to help, sometimes literally - a girl who had shared my taxi insisted on walking me several kilometres to my hotel in Bandar Abbas. I just assumed it must have been on her way but later found out that she lived in totally the other direction. As we walked she told me how she was a journalist working for a newspaper and that three days before she had been beaten by the authorities for writing something they didn't like.
Later that evening, I was seen to be having trouble hailing a cab – none of them seemed to want to stop - so a policeman unashamedly flagged down a cab under the guise of pulling him over for something and ordered him to take me to the restaurant!
The train to Yazd was pretty comfortable and I spent most of the 12 hour journey in the restaurant car being bought cups of tea and surrounded by various people who were intrigued to know what I was doing. The idea that I might want to take the train home to England was a concept they couldn't really understand when flying is clearly so much quicker.
Two beautiful Iranian girls were eager to know which of them was the most attractive. My diplomatic answer that they were both stunning didn't wash so one took it on herself to decide for me. Despite the fact that her English was little better than my non-existent Farsi we managed to have some good banter playing a mix of Pictionary and Charades. She decided that once she had finished her studies she would marry me. And my marriage value of a thousand camels was accepted in principle (though she did point out that my camel looked more like a giraffe).
In the early hours of the morning we arrived at the ancient desert city of Yazd, the third place I have been – along with Sanaa and Aleppo - which claims to be the oldest city in the world with continued inhabitance. We took the girls home first in a shared taxi and the poor mother was prized out of bed to be introduced to me. I was taken on to my guesthouse and the driver proudly showed me a picture of his twin baby daughters before dropping me off and planting me huge kisses on either cheek. 'Welcome in Iran', he beamed.
The girls met me the following day and showed me round town, introduced me to their friends and insisted on paying for dinner - something that appears to be generally impossible to prevent here, such is the spirit of Iranian hospitality.
I have spent the last three days in a wonderfully chilled guesthouse in the company of a diverse mixture of travelers - a German couple who are cycling through Iran, a Swiss guy who sold his business and is travelling round the world for 5 years on his motorbike, an ex policeman taking Farsi lessons, a 20 year old Dutch student on his way overland to Pakistan, a Canadian grassroots journalist looking for stories, and a train driver from Bournemouth with a degree in Middle East Politics, on a sabbatical from South West Trains.
The one thing these people have in common is a seeming inability to leave the understated charm of the Silk Road hotel. All claim to be leaving 'tomorrow' yet are invariably there for a leisurely breakfast in the hotel courtyard every morning. And despite so many seemingly adventurous spirits, it appears to be an effort for any of them to do anything more constructive than order a cup of tea. Leaving the courtyard confines is a rare occurrence – though an expedition to the butchers round the corner to pick up a camel burger has occasionally been known.
There is something completely captivating about the place but I am going to have to tear myself away and am planning to leave the train route for a quick diversion to Shiraz and Persepolis, an 8 hour bus journey away.
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