Iran can wait

We have returned to Istanbul. In a recent discussion with Yvonne Gulugoph, our Satellite Navigator, angrily she shouted: “Istanbul? I thought we were going to be driving through Iran next? Why have you gone backwards?”. “Yvonne”, I explained, “its not that simple. There are legalities and visas that need to be organized to get to Iran. All you think about is the direction!” “So its my fault!” she snapped. “Do you think I got you lost?” “No Yvonne, let me explain…”

The Black Sea coast, although beautiful, was becoming exceedingly monotonous. This was due to two facts that were weighing down on our moods:

1) We were still waiting for our Iranian visa to be approved, and

2) Amanda was still on crutches, a fine Turkish set we had purchased from a local chemist. Despite these little miracles, her injured ankle limited her mobility so severely that exploring anywhere we visited was nearly impossible, and we were pretty much confined to the van throughout the two weeks we spent on the Black Sea coast. Having no fixed abode and with limited space inside the van, plus the fact that at this time of year its pretty cold at night and the wintery sun goes down at around 4pm, meant that our daily activities were becoming somewhat boring. We needed a new plan, and fast. Our sanity was at stake. Our means of entertainment had became insanely limited, waking up late, checking the internet for news on the visa only to be disappointed, driving to the next town along the short stretch of coast line, finding a safe place to park, making dinner, playing cards and sleeping. So, anxious for a change, we looked into accommodation through the Hospitality Club – a great website where ordinary people offer travellers accommodation in their own homes. We were pleasantly surprised to find an offer in Erzurum, and desperate for a break from the confines of the van coupled with the ever-encroaching cold, we sped up to Erzurum just in time to meet Aziz, a young and successful pharmaceutical salesman, who welcomed us into his workplace’s guest accommodation.

We were pleasantly surprised to find the apartment complete with three cosy bedrooms, satellite TV, a steamy hot en suite shower room, a well-fitted kitchen, and an office with internet. And our kind host Aziz, upon meeting us and treating us to the grand tour or our new home, handed us the key, and bade us farewell. He left us alone and in charge of this fine establishment whilst he travelled across Turkey for a nine day holiday to visit his family and to celebrate the holy celebrations that follow the Hajj (great pilgrimage to Mecca).

This holiday, or Bayram, is celebrated all over the Muslim world. It commemorates the well known story, that features both in the Bible as well as in the Quran, about Abraham who’s faith was tested by God when he was asked to kill his son Jacob in order to prove his faith. In the last moments before Abraham undertook this murderous deed, he was presented with a sheep and told to sacrifice the beast instead. This ‘festival of the sacrifice’ is somewhat similar to Christmas, and involves virtually the entire country going on holiday to visit their family and friends. Unlike the jovial simplicity of Christmas however, the Muslims dutifully sacrifice a variety of beasts, who’s delectable flesh is divided up between those who slaughtered the beast (under holy conditions of course) and also amongst to the poor who could not afford to buy an animal. Despite these horrific killings that were animated by the poor beast’s desperate final mooings just outside our bedroom window, we were extremely comfortable in our apartment.

Unbeknownst to us however, everything shuts down for the entire nine days of the Bayram. We were informed of this only hours before ‘total shutdown’ giving us just enough time to stock up on food and wine, lock ourselves in to our palace, and turn on the telly – a luxury we haven’t had in many many months! Although our penthouse boasted 264 satellite channels, only 3 were (occasionally) in English. Aljazeera was an informative news station, permitting us to catch up on worldly affairs and gossip – an awareness we had almost totally lost touch with in the solitudes of our van. Allizi was a ridiculous but mildly entertaining channel that featured candid home short videos of people’s pants falling down, or tripping up over household obstacles, or other idiotic fool-making impressions caught on camera. And last but certainly not least there was a channel featuring old classic movies from the 50’s and 60’s. We watched Marilyn Munroe in No Business like Show Business, Erryl Flynn in Istanbul, and Kerry Grant in North by North-West, to name but a few. After being our prison-like existence in the van, our new life-style of waking up and watching an old movie, cooking a roast, and sauntering around butt naked in the warm apartment, I cannot express our glee. We were as happy as pigs in shit.

We spent two weeks in this luxury. Erzurum had become our new home. It is Turkey’s highest city, with its sky-scraping mountains, frozen amidst 3000m peaks, most Turks shiver at the mere thought of the place. And for good reason too - the temperatures outside, when we there, averaged around – 8° during the day and -20° at night. The first of the winter snow blizzards had hit hard resulting in a bridal-white blanket that had frozen the city in. The soft powder soon turned to hard ice, and the streets and pavements had become ice-rinks. Two-foot long icicles hang ominously from the roof tops occasionally plummeting to the ground. As we skated precariously along the side-walks, we occasionally looked up to make sure we weren’t walking underneath these perilous death-dagger, which incidentally have been the cause of a few unlucky deaths in Erzurum. It was unbearingly cold, but quite an experience. I liked the place and the people. There was something magical about being isolated amidst these mountains, stuck in the cold.

Then, one morning, we discovered, to our utter dismay, that our poor old BattleBus had frozen his bollocks (diesel, oil, and working parts) and would not start. We managed to get a Ford call-out mechanic to come and jump start us, but on the road BattleBus was not happy, was blowing a lot of smoke and could not build up any revs. Well, we rushed him off to the local Ford Dealer, and the nice men there told us how to look after him properly in this kind of cold. Our BattleBus, who is used to a more temperate climate such as England (can’t believe I just said that!), just wasn’t coping in this sub-zero bitterness. We bought him a pair of new snow tyres for extra traction in the snow and we gave him a special drink of fuel-additive to enhance his combustion. We also covered his engine, and even visited him at least twice during the night to start him up and warm his engine (and keep him company). The first visit isn’t too tedious, as its done just before going to bed. But the second one means that I woke up at three o’clock, layered up with two pairs of socks, my long-johns and jeans, a tight vest and thermal long-sleeve top, three jumpers, two jackets, a scarf, a beanie, and thick gloves. Then, if it looked really cold, I would boil water for a hot-water bottle and brew some tea. Novel in hand, I ventured out into the snow to visit the noble BattleBus and warm his engine.

All good things must come to an end, and with the festive season drawing to a close, and still with no response from that bloody agency, frustrated, we had to move out of our snug apartment at 8am sharp Monday morning to allow the normal working day to proceed. (We were staying in an office after all.) But we were armed with a full batch of clean clothes, a luxury we hadn’t enjoyed for many weeks, so we felt pretty good about life and optimistic for our visa. But, after pleading with the petite and unhelpfully moustached official at the Iranian Embassy, who’s well-kept tach jumped and bobbed around on his top lip as he spoke resembling a tiny black rodent, we were finally given the boot. He told us to continue waiting for the authorization code to come through from the agency.

This bad news increased the after-effects of our final night in the apartment that involved the indulgent consumption of three bottles of wine, coupled with the 3am wake up to tend to the van, and we were beginning to feel tired and irritable. And then, like a slap in the face, whilst we were safely attempting a U-Turn, we jolted from our sombreness as the slaughtering thud, crash, and metallic crunching and tearing of someone colliding into our BattleBus’s rear-end. A bloody accident! Our home ruined! And by some twirp who was not watching the road ahead. Amanda started to cry, and beneath the string of vulgar language that snowed out my mouth, my heart sobbed too. We leapt out rushing to see what the damage was, not really wanting to look. A crowd had gathered already. To our bewilderment and utter triumph, the enraged Turk had completely destroyed the front of this car, shattered his windscreen, buckled and flattened his wheel, and had incurred no damage to his bodywork whatsoever. With no-one speaking English, we attempted discussion, until eventually we were ushered on by some of the eye-witnesses who could vouch that it was not our fault. So, triumphantly, we moseyed off.

On our visit to the Iranian Embassy that morning however we had met an Italian guy who had just been informed that his application for an Iranian visa had been successful. Since this seemed like a good omen, we joined him in a celebratory çay (black tea, pronounced ‘chai’), and expressed our jealousy of his success. (He had waited for two months for his visa, so we felt a little re-assured that ours would come soon.)

Turkish çay, incidentally is drunk in almost all situations. And since alcohol is a rarity in this largely Islamic nation, çay is even more popular than beer in some night clubs. In fact, drinking çay is so commonplace that it is offered in many shops and public places. We have even sat behind the wheel of the van, waiting for the petrol attendant to fill our engine, whilst we sip away warming our chilled fingers over a çay.

So, as I was saying, we had moved out of our luxurious home and needed somewhere new to sleep. The Italian we met at the Iranian consulate put us in touch with the people he was staying with. They are members of CouchSurfing.com, a website similar to the Hospitality Club that I mentioned. We called and they were only too happy to accommodate us. Upon arrival at our new student digs, we discovered that these blessed souls are somewhat of a halfway house for overland travellers en route to Iran, all of whom had waited for many weeks for this bloody Iranian visa.

The hospitality of the Turks amazes me. For instance, in our newly found student digs, one of the guys gave up his bedroom for us and moved onto a mattress in one of the other’s rooms. Despite only two of the four speaking English, we thoroughly enjoyed their company whilst we continued our visa waiting game. The experience reminds me of my student years a little, although a different atmospheric flavour devours these quarters. These young men are far less excessive than my fellow Saffas. What I mean by this is that there is a stillness, influenced perhaps a little by Islamic culture, that pervades the space. It is comforting and easy. There also seems to be allowance of closer male-bonding in Turkey. In cultures that I am familiar with, men aren’t supposed to walk arm in arm, massage each other, or tuck their mates in with a blanket if they doze off on the couch. But all these behaviours are perfectly acceptable by Turkish men. In fact I have not encountered a single macho Turk. Either testosterone doesn’t flourish in Turkish men, or there is no need for excessive masculinity here.

Anyway, back to gripping tale of our Iranian Visa… Extensive research into the best way to get the visa led us to apply through an online agency. Although these agencies cannot issue the visa directly, their established relationship with the MFA (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) in Tehran means that they are (usually) able to secure an authorization code which allows any Iranian Embassy to issue the visa. They do this for a fee of course, but they claim to have everything processed within 7 – 10 working days. Well, we paid ‘iranianvisa.com’ the 66 Euro fee, and when no response had come after two weeks, we emailed them. A few days later we received a response saying that we should get the result in the next day or so. It didn’t come, so we emailed them again. Guess what – a few days later we received a response saying that we should get the result in the next day or so. It didn’t come, so we emailed them again. Guess – what…. Well, this tedious game of email tennis went on for more than seven weeks, and then finally they informed us that our application had been rejected!

Temporarily devastated and helpless. What to do? Our overland travels prematurely haulted. Even if we re-apply for the visa and are successful next time, it will surely take many more weeks of waiting, and with the winter coming in fast, it seems too dangerous to attempt the journey through the snow, ice and mountain passes.

After a rather depressing day, we came to terms with the situation. And we decided on a plan B. We returned to Istanbul to seek work as English teachers. We moved in with another student digs in Bachelievler. This group of four students are, just like all the other Turks we have met, extremely hospitable and friendly. We have spent the last week here and have enjoyed their company tremendously. And, despite a great deal of walking around in the rain in search of employment, we have been offered a few shifts here and there. It is not easy to find full-time employment without the appropriate qualifications, but some of the more dodgy teaching courses offer under-the-table work for a lower rate of pay.

Perhaps Plan B is a lesson about life. At first we were pretty devastated that our expectations weren’t met. This was because it challenged our sense of security, the security found within the expectation that our plan would succeed. But it didn’t, and we have been channelled elsewhere, and in fact, its damn exciting to living in Istanbul. It seems that no matter where you go, there you are.