Sleeping with the enemy

The ticket man at Tehran's train station looks long and hard at the visa page in my passport. And then takes a studied bite of his baby cucumber. Crunching and considering. Shaking on salt. Considering. Crunching. Slowly flicking through the pages of my passport… Could the visa from my recent visit to India which he seems to like very much give him some inspiration or guidance? No, he was going to have to ring the border. Which he does after carefully placing his half eaten cucumber in his pocket. They will call back in a few minutes…

And it was all going so well - rounder than a plump Iranian apricot - but then suddenly it looks in danger of going all rather pear shaped. I knew that overstaying your visa in Iran is best avoided at all cost but given that there is only one train a week to Turkey, I decided to take the risk of overstaying my welcome by one day. ..

It has been two hours and there has been no call from the border. I am sitting in the ticket man's office being routinely mistaken for his lazy apprentice - answering questions about on-board facilities and estimated arrival times with 'Sorry Ingilisi.' I feel slightly embarrassed that after a month in Iran my Farsi doesn't extend beyond that. To add insult to injury the ticket man then tells me that the train from Turkey to Syria, my planned next stop, is not running due to an earthquake in Turkey closing the line.

I finally accept the kind offer of his last flaccid cucumber – more out of something to do than hunger - and chew it mechanically, without tasting. It barely even crunches. He checks that I am not Irish and then tells a joke he apparently heard from another traveler, involving an Irishman in a car who keeps his possessions on his lap rather than in the boot. He can hardly control himself and is doubled up in fits of laughter at his own joke, though I have no idea why it is meant to be funny. Lost in back translation perhaps, or reconstituted transliteration - but at least we are passing the time.

My turn. I tell him a few jokes about the Scottish and he laughs when I explain that they are like the people from Rashd in northern Iran; they have deep pockets and short arms. I think that after two and a half hours he is warming to me.

Eventually the phone rings and a lengthy and lively conversation ensues… You rarely get an answer of no in Iran; it is always a carefully composed semi negative. 'You possibly may not be able to pass border because of your unfortunate extra day'. But he therefore has to concede that maybe I can, and so he lets me on the train to await my fate.

I am led to a compartment in which an Iraqi, an Afghan, and an Iranian are already busy making themselves at home, arranging belongings and pouring tea. (Would I like some? Thank you.) None of us can properly understand each other but we all see the amusement value in the unlikely combination of nationalities we form. The Iraqi immediately mimes the carriage being blown up, the Afghan points to the Iranian and Iraqi sitting next to each other and howls with laughter, and the Iranian alludes briefly to his view on British and American foreign policy ('Tony Blair'; thumb down, 'Bush'; thumb on floor) and then gives us all the high five.

We are all getting on famously until the Iranian is told he must change to another carriage. Another 'foreigner' is to replace him, Not strictly a foreigner at all as it turns out but an Iranian who has spend most of his life living abroad, and now on his way to do a Summer season in Bodrum. Immediately the happy dynamic of our carriage changes. He is deeply bitter and launches into a tirade of unanswered questions pointing to why he left Iran. Where does all the money in Iran go, why do the poor remain uneducated, and why is the train so slow?

I tell him I understand his frustrations and try tackling the safest of his questions by suggesting that, yes, the train is slow but at least it is cheap. 30 dollars for a 20 hour journey – that would barely get you the 20 minutes from Heathrow to central London. But it's no consolation. The Afghan and the Iraqi, sensing the mood, sit in silence, cross legged on their seats and share a jar of pickles. (Please eat. Thank you, I'm fine). I decide to go for a walk around the train.

Above the squat loo at the end of our carriage, a funneled potty has been cheerfully erected on a collapsible frame and loo paper has been provided - so I can feel at home when nature calls. Which it does repeatedly. It can't have been the cucumber?

After dinner in the restaurant car, we turn in for the night and clamber into our berths. I sleep to the rhythmic clatter of the train, broken only by my compartment mates snoring in unison, in their own distinct styles. The Afghan is purring, purring with contented expectation of a new life in Europe. The Iraqi is whistling, whistling with the thrill of Istanbul's night life. And the Iranian is growling.

The next morning I wake and peer through the window to the sight of rolling green hills and a clear blue sky – I am in my element. I have always loved trains. Not in an anorak on, notebook out, I've not seen a 114 on broad gauge since 1982 kind of way, but I've always believed that it is the most civilized and romantic way to travel. I love watching landscapes slowly melt and change, steeling glimpses of other lives, and gently coasting through cities, mountains, valleys, deserts and time.

I remember as a family putting the car on the train at York and travelling up to Inverness for our annual holiday by sleeper. This was actually the best bit of the holiday given that most of the rest was spent thrashing a fishing rod around in the pouring rain, in vain, on a lonely loch, in the middle of nowhere, being bitten by midges, and wishing we were in Disneyland. My sister and I would argue over the top bunk, eventually I would win, we would sleep, and wake up magically in Scotland to the smell of breakfast…

The Iranian awakes from his embittered slumber - wishes me good morning and fetches some tea for us all; he has obviously slept well.

In the next door carriage - (Orange? Banana? Sunflower seeds? Thank you. You welcome) I meet a family of four who are emigrating to New Zealand via a year in Turkey to sort out their papers. Mahvand, the mother tells me there is no future for their children in Iran – she wants them to be free and although she will miss their extended family and friends, she knows it's what they must do. She feels a mixture of sadness and excitement about the future.

In another carriage (Nuts? Tea?) I meet a family on their way to the UN in Istanbul. They are Bahai and are planning to seek asylum on account of their religion. Negar, the daughter explains they are also leaving behind their life in Iran because they feel so unwelcome in an uncompromisingly Muslim country. They are desperate to feel free to practice their faith and be accepted by the rest of society.

Aboozar is going for an interview in Istanbul for a university placement in America. He is a devout Muslim and a 28 year old father of two. He also feels that his liberty is curtailed in Iran but from a very different perspective. He believes that Iran is a corrupted society where those who wish to be good Muslims cannot do so without condescension from others. He says that people mock his wife who chooses to wear the full chador and cites the driving style of his fellow Iranians as evidence of their lack of respect for each other and their distance from Islam. Ironically he feels his family will be freer to practice their religion in the States. But he seems nervous and is painfully self-aware. He repeatedly asks me what I think of his appearance and his chances of success in interview. 'Do I look too formal, too religious, too old man-ish, what do you say – stick-on-the-mud? Should I take off my glasses and wear trainers?'

During the course of the journey, I meet many people with similar stories to tell. The majority are leaving Iran for good and many of them will be seeking political asylum. But some are going on holiday; in another carriage two young students are going to check out Istanbul for the first time. 'What are you going to do in Turkey', I ask. They laugh; 'All the things we can't do in Iran.'

They are sitting opposite a self proclaimed sex tourist who openly admits he's going to Istanbul to make up for his carnal frustrations at home. Their fellow passenger is an Iranian Arab who is taking a break from his two wives who live on consecutive floors of his house. He tells me he is planning on getting another wife when he returns. 'Where will she live? I ask. 'I'll build another floor – Allah Akbar, God is great!' he replies.

Back in our compartment, we shudder to another unexplained stop. I take out the tattered timetable from my pocket which the ticket man in Tehran gave me to read to pass the time. We should be nearing the border. But we're not. The Iranian mocks me for even looking at it. 'It's pure fiction' he says. 'Not worth the cheap paper it's printed on – it'll be more use in the squatter.' The Afghan and Iraqi are again sitting quietly, picking at their pickles. (Please...Eat.)

Lunch is then served in the compartment. The steward hands me a bowl of soup - with his thumb poking in it. But it's no problem; he can lick his digit - which he does - and I can wait for the main course. The main course which looks conspicuously like last night's dinner; the ubiquitous 'chelo kebab' – skewers of meat served over a mountain of rice slicked in butter, and served with crepe paper like bread. I have barely taken my cutlery out of the plastic wrapper when I notice that the Iraqi has already wolfed most of his down, pausing only to open his pot of jelly which he devours mid course.

I am half way through my last skewer when we reach the border and I am summonsed off the train to hand over my documents. Eight vaguely official looking officials crowd around my battered old passport and it is handed round in turn for inspection, like a recently unearthed relic.

I get back on the train and wait. Eventually our carriage is led to the restaurant car where the officials are sitting round a mound of passports, mine left conspicuously abandoned on the side. The other passengers wait patiently in turn for their stamped passports. I'm told to sit at the back by the portly chief official who looks at me with his deep-set piggy eyes and scowls. His distorted face grimaces in disgust while his snubbed nose sneers. He reminds me of a Toulouse Lautrec portrait.

The women are expectantly adjusting their scarves; many are waiting to be free of them and the constant rearranging involved in wearing one. And free from the strictures of post revolutionary Iranian life. To me, the symbol of my own freedom is my passport, my most valued possession and my license to travel, and I now feel rather uncomfortable without it.

The rest of the train have all had their passports stamped and handed back in turn and so the restaurant car is now empty - apart from the chief official who is languidly drinking tea - using my passport as a coaster. He was born to be an immigration official - or a driving examiner, I decide. He clearly has a very small penis… He walks past me without acknowledging me… And what little he has doesn't work.

Eventually the train's electrician who is the only one who can speak English sheds some light on the situation. 'Don’t worry he is just trying to make you nervy'. 'It is a problem', he confirms, 'but every problem in Iran has a value'. And this, it seems, should be no more than a 30 dollar problem. But I am welcome in Iran and he tells me he has a brother living in Trafalgar square. I briefly picture his brother covered in pigeon shit on top of Nelson's Column - but at that moment the chief official waves my passport at me. 'Come you here', he orders in his wounded pidgin English. I hand over 30 dollars and finally my stamped passport is thrown on the table in front of me. It seems strange that the only time I've been made to feel any less than completely welcome since I arrived in Iran is at the very point of departure.

Eventually we are moving… Only to lurch to a screeching halt a few hundred metres down the track. We reverse back to the Iranian border as we have forgotten the Turkish conductor. Who boards to check our tickets for the fourth time. Again we move and I initiate a round of applause in the restaurant car – somehow I feel it takes some of the heat off me for my part in this latest delay - but from the platform I see the chief official looking at me, his piggy eyes unnaturally widened and almost leaving their sockets. I'm very happy that we are moving.

At the Turkish border we all get off the train to sort out our visas. Many of the women throw off their headscarves with joy. I speak to Mahvand who tells me it is the first time in her adult life she has been without her scarf in public. She sheds a tear, 'I'm so happy, I can't believe it. So happy for my children'.

Caught up in the flood of mixed emotions, I almost forget to get my Turkish visa. I am the last one at the visa counter and I offer 100 dollars to the immigration official. But they don't have change. I have pounds sterling and Iranian pounds but they only accept euros and dollars. Shit. I really don't want to hold up the train again. Nobody else has change for 100 dollars and no one wants Iranian pounds or sterling. Eventually the snack booth man agrees to change my Iranian money into lire so I can in turn change it for dollars with a helpful passenger. All too complicated for my innumerate mind to fathom in haste, but with 20 dollars in my hand I run back to the immigration counter to exchange it for my visa.

Back on the train, the atmosphere has completely changed - you can feel a real sense of relief and jubilation. Muted discussions have become shrieks of laughter. People deliver tea and snacks to strangers in other carriages. Music blares. (And this is before those heading on to Istanbul crack open the beer on the Turkish train).

Eventually we pull into Van but I realize I've missed my stop – this is Lake Van where those heading on will be getting the ferry before boarding the Turkish train the other side. I needed Van City and the train steward in my carriage was meant to tell me to get off there, but he forgot. So they offer to take me back in the train to Van City, thirty minutes back in the direction we've just come, as the only passenger. The steward appears to feel slightly guilty and, after trying in vain to engage me in some English premiership football chat, he sheepishly hands me half an orange.

Finally I fizzle to a halt at Van City station, 28 hours after having set off, with, mercifully, two more stamps in my passport, and an eclectic mix of new friends.