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Or make that Baluchistan. And it had all been going so well.

A one-way ticket to Palookaville

Conor_purcell
2005-11-18 13:53:19

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later, in walks Carlos, our Basque friend, alive and well. He had been in northern Iraq and western Iran writing about the Kurds, and was now enjoying a little holiday before heading to Baku. What a small world.

It was to get even smaller. My next destination was Esfahan, the jewel of Iran's tourism industry, and rightly so. Five minutes after checking in to my hostel, I walked straight into Linda, a 60 year-old English woman I had met in Cappadocia, on her way from Portugal to Australia on her motor-bike. She was having a great time apparently, and I'm sure we'll see each other again.

I was surprised at how touristy Esfahan was. As well as all the French and German tour groups, I met in my hostel a German couple who had drove all the way from Bangkok in a tuk-tuk, and travellers from places as near as Oman, and as far as Venezuala. Why were they all here? Because Esfahan is the shit.

Not too busy, but not too quiet, the city's focul point is Imam Square, second in size only to Tianamen Square in Beijing. At the southern and eastern sides of the square are two magnificant mosques, dazzling with blue mosaics and tulip-shaped domes. On the western side is a cool palace with good views, and the northern end leads into the huge bazaar. Just above the bazaar entrance is a great tea-house, where we spent a lot of time just drinking and staring. Esfahan also has a nice river, with some excellent bridges, complete with tea-houses.

Esfahan is a beautiful, sophisticated city. Take Imam Square - at
night you see a father and son kicking a football to one another, girls playing badminton. Replace the mosques with churches, the tea-houses with bars, and lose the hejabs, and you could be in any European City. Despite the above location given, the Middle-East this ain't. And the girls - they are the bravest in Iran. A couple of times they ran up to me, shouted "Hello!", and ran off giggling. One day, walking along the river, I was told I am beautiful. Which is always nice.

My visa was for 15 days, not enough. I went for an extension, thinking 'no problem'. Big problem - the guys in the office accused me of tampering with the dates on my visa, pointing at a mark around the '15'. It was obviously from my Turkish entry stamp on the opposite page, and I pointed out to them that since 15 days is the minimum time one can expect on a tourist visa, they were basically accusing me of changing it from something more than 15, and then looking for an extension. Which made no sense. My guy pointed this out to his boss, but the main man had made up his mind. I tried begging. I asked if there was an 'extra administrative fee' I could pay. No dice. With the next day being Friday, I couldn't go and try somewhere else, as everywhere would be closed. I had 36 hours to leave Iran.

And that was that. 18 hour bus ride to Zahedan, followed by 14 hours to Quetta in Pakistan. So no time to adjust, to ease into the new country - the change was reminiscent of taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco a few years ago. Rickshaws, rubbish and shalwar kameez everywhere. Driving on the left-hand side, kids
playing cricket, and milk in my tea. Someone's been here before - the British!

Quetta was cool, I stayed a couple of nights, saw Man Utd draw with Liverpool, and moved on. I had options - and 24-hour bus journey, or a 32-hour train journey. After 32 hours of buses through the Baluchistan desert, there was only one winner.

Conor.