tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85903520831721216182024-03-13T04:29:39.222+01:00NomadicityFightin' Round the WorldBlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-57624543260640452262016-01-31T00:33:00.002+01:002016-02-04T20:30:13.520+01:00New Years' Greetings 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 85%;">"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."</span><p />
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 85%;">"Happy familes are all alike, but unhappy families are each unhappy in their own way."</span><p />
<p class="MsoNormal">As you may know, those two quotes are the opening lines of two of the greatest novels of all time, Charles Dickens <i>A Tale of Two Cities</i>, and Leo Tolstoy’s <i>Anna Karenina</i> (or at least, how I remember them). I’m starting this year’s annual update with these two acts of plagiarism because it’s been difficult to find my own words to describe my 2015, or to explain why I’m so late in getting my update out this year, and both seemed to capture that reasonably well.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I think it’s no exaggeration to say that 2015 was the most significant year of my life to date. Most of you know me as someone who lives life pretty full on, but I think I think I managed to ramp it up a notch or 12 in 2015:<p />
<ol><li>Got engaged for the first time</li><li>Finally reached the travel milestone of visiting more than 100 countries or territories</li>
<li>Partook in an Ayahuasca ceremony with a shaman in Ecuador, resulting (amongst other things) in me having a conversation with my grandmother as a 14-year-old girl</li>
<li>Smoked my first cigarette in 10 years<br /></li>
<li>Lost my job</li>
<li>Lost 17 kilos</li>
<li>Lost my Dad to cancer</li>
<li>Drove my Land Rover from Qatar to the Czech Republic, in the process becoming the first American to be permitted to enter Iran with their own vehicle since 1979</li>
<li>Visited South America for the first time since 1979</li>
<li>Got a tattoo for the first time</li>
<li>Obtained a visa with forged documents for the first time</li>
<li>Bought an ‘Aloha’ shirt for myself for the first time</li>
<li>Did yoga for the first time</li>
<li>Drank Absinthe for the first time</li>
<li>Watched <i>Keeping Up With the Kardashians</i> for the first time</li>
<li>Voted for a Presidential candidate I am genuinely excited about for the first time (mailed in my absentee ballot for the New Hampshire primary in December)</li></ol><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">So I’ve had few dull moments, and much to be grateful for, but my year ended badly, with my fiancé and I breaking up in a particularly nasty way on Christmas. We didn’t do anything in that relationship half-way. I’ve been trying to emerge from the subsequent depression ever since — feeling better now, particularly as my ex and I recently managed to find a way to apologise to and forgive each other for the things we said and did in our worst moments, but still have a long ways to go. So, hence my tardiness in getting my annual update out — they say there’s a woman behind every successful man, but there’s a woman involved in a lot of our failures as well.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s still painful for me to think about the relationship, but of course a little bit difficult to talk about 2015 without talking about it. But before I get into that, a little context. After finishing yet another routine day at my corporate job in the strategy department at Ooredoo Group in Doha on 11th March last year, I was about to go to bed when I got a somewhat breathless call from an ex-girlfriend. “Did you read my email?” she asked. I hadn’t.
<p class="MsoNormal">“Read it now” she insisted. I dutifully opened her mail, which had a link to a horoscope. I can’t remember exactly what it said, something about Mars being up Uranus or something.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">“Do you know what this means?” she asked<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, I don’t. I was kind of thinking you might tell me.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">“Big changes are coming your way. BIG changes.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">“Anything I should do?”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah,” she replied. “Fasten your seatbelt.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next morning I got up and got ready for work as usual. It happened to be my last day in the office before I was leaving on a long-planned two-week holiday, driving around Oman in my Land Rover, which I had christened “Mrs. Smith". I put on my shoes, grabbed my laptop bag, and had my hand on the front door knob, preparing to head out the door and drive to the office. Just at that moment, an unexplained but irresistible urge came over me. I set my laptop down, fired up the stereo and danced around my living room in my suit while blasting Bon Jovi’s “Going Down in a Blaze of Glory.” When the song was over I left the house and drove into work.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I arrived at the office precisely on time, and my boss was waiting for me. He pulled me into a conference room. Along with some colleagues from Finance and Operations, I had been advocating to senior management for some weeks that our organisation was over-staffed. Apparently, our message finally found receptive ears, as 24 of us were being let go, including myself. No better time to start a holiday.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">My ex-fiancé and I met in late 2014, and in January, I invited her to join me on the Oman trip, and she agreed to meet me in Dubai. Seeing her for the first time at DXB passenger arrivals, my head started swimming. She walked up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Hi” she said. The swimming turned to spinning, the spinning into falling…falling into the most incredible pair of green eyes I’ve ever looked into. I was hooked. I was cooked. I was toast. Stick a fork in me, I was a well-done roast. “Hi” I croaked in return.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Our trip to Oman was incredible — it’s long been one of my favourite destinations and I had been repeatedly planning and postponing this trip every spring for several years, as I also repeatedly failed to finish all the modifications to the Land Rover I had been working on in time. Finally, though, the vehicle was ready, or almost. I spent the Christmas Day prior to our trip installing the new roof rack I had ordered from South Africa almost 2 years previously. Installed and wired up new driving lights. Installed a remote tyre pressure monitoring system, a GPS, inclinometer, two retractable awnings, a gas bottle holder and a rack for the sand tracks. Put in a new external storage compartment for the recovery gear, and a secure lock-box for valuables. I spent my three previous Doha winters doing numerous other modifications — putting in a fridge, a shelf for the cooker, a drawer system to hold all the gear, a water tank, water heater, water pump and shower, on-board 230 volt AC power, a solar panel, a secure charging station for all the electronics, a GPS tracker and remote immobiliser, a long-range fuel tank, and a battery charger. A few days before I was due to leave, a crack in a fuel line left diesel leaking from my tank. I also had air leaking from one of the valve stems, the result of a cracked rubber washer. I urgently ordered a replacement fuel line from the UK. I rang up the valve manufacturer in Taiwan and asked for new valves and washers. The guys in the UK promptly got the fuel line on its way via DHL. The guys in Taiwan said they could only send it regular post. That was on Monday. On Wednesday, incredibly, Qatar Post delivered a packet to me from Taiwan containing the new washers. On Thursday, I picked up the fuel line from DHL. I was departing for Oman on Friday. Installed the replacements on Friday morning, spent the rest of the day loading the vehicle with clothing, camping gear, food and supplies, and set off for the Saudi border and Dubai.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We put both the vehicle and my modifications to the test soon after driving from Dubai to Musandam, in northern Oman, powering up rough tracks in the interior of this mountainous peninsula before setting up camp in a remote spot. Everything worked beautifully and our budding romance survived a night of heavy drinking (and subsequent powerful hangovers) and a heavy desert downpour. It wasn’t all ‘roughing it’ though — as we spent the next few nights at the Six Senses Zighy Bay resort, a five-star retreat built on an isolated beach on the other side of Musandam on the Indian Ocean. Before the year was over, we'd walked together on beaches on the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans as well, and shared adventures in a total of 10 countries on four continents. By the time we got to Muscat, less than a week after we met, we’d decided to commit ourselves to an exclusive relationship, on the condition I change the name of my vehicle. (S)he got a sex change (my Land Rover, that is, not my then-girlfriend) in the process, when I re-christened him “El Guapo”.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I had set off to meet her on Friday, the 13th of March, and after two incredible weeks in Oman, I dropped her back at the airport in Dubai on April Fool’s day. In retrospect, I suppose I should have taken that as a sign. Three weeks later, I flew to Boston to spend her 30th birthday with her. The day before, I bought the biggest diamond I could afford and proposed to her in the limo I rented for the evening. She said “yes.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We rented a furnished flat in South Boston, where I spent a couple of weeks before heading back to Doha to pack up my stuff, settle my affairs and leave Qatar. Due to Department of Transportation requirements in the USA, it wouldn’t be possible for me to permanently export El Guapo to the USA, so I decided to bring him to Europe, at least for the time being. Shipping him of course would have been the sensible option, but that of course was reason enough for me to consider other alternatives, and in the end I decided that driving from Doha to the Czech Republic seemed an adequately insane alternative.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the following weeks, I did exactly that — driving from Doha through the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iraq, Iran, Armenia, Georgia, Turkey, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, and Slovakia before arriving at my destination in Bohemia in late August. Along the way, I became the first American to be permitted to travel through Iran in a private vehicle since the 1979 revolution, and probably the very first one ever to do so sporting an “Obama ’08” bumper sticker on the back. On my last day in the country, I joined crowds of Iranians in celebrating the announcement of the nuclear deal and an end to economic sanctions.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEM6onoFd50Hiwi0k_tSKcNkpH5CbXsno4PcjLDEGy8fjeN9v6y3WxAHayzzpC8rxyNWUDMjFDUjSoyE4unSP-iHGcBkW6u9a6e9Y4UF-O_QHPjIDW8PvyIOJr39nCuwTbBAd_uZft3HnQ/s1600/IMG_1031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEM6onoFd50Hiwi0k_tSKcNkpH5CbXsno4PcjLDEGy8fjeN9v6y3WxAHayzzpC8rxyNWUDMjFDUjSoyE4unSP-iHGcBkW6u9a6e9Y4UF-O_QHPjIDW8PvyIOJr39nCuwTbBAd_uZft3HnQ/s400/IMG_1031.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">"El Guapo" and I in northern Iran</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjcR05PHz1hs4rnBxb3UsrEDRKGOJJ1h8SV17ZlUFAk2nFnQgCCbkAxtHfZdk38q_sgoYs3Gf_MJy7Cbwm1Lx1jdrDUfRxrGUbF-d1ff6jN6X3Sy5gXO8-Yqu6fv3suL8nWqzHTYhb8Ho/s1600/IMG_1022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjcR05PHz1hs4rnBxb3UsrEDRKGOJJ1h8SV17ZlUFAk2nFnQgCCbkAxtHfZdk38q_sgoYs3Gf_MJy7Cbwm1Lx1jdrDUfRxrGUbF-d1ff6jN6X3Sy5gXO8-Yqu6fv3suL8nWqzHTYhb8Ho/s400/IMG_1022.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">“El Guapo,” on the Iraq border, just about to become the first private American-owned vehicle permitted to enter Iran since 1979</span></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">Simultaneous with these travels, my Dad’s health was deteriorating rapidly. He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the year before and had already well-outlived his original prognosis. Both my travels in the Middle East and my experiences around his death on 4th August are too much to try to summarise here, so I’ll instead refer you to the detailed accounts concerning both that I posted to my blog, which I know many of you have already read. The blog entries, in chronological order, are below:<p />
<a href=" http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-waiting-is-hardest-part.html">28 June, Doha, getting ready to depart</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/road-trip.html">29 June, Doha to Iraq</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/if-at-first-you-dont-succeedyoure.html">1 July, Iran-Iraq border crossing</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/iran-at-last.html">2 July, Abadan</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/kafka-schmafka-welcome-to-iran.html">2 July, Abadan</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/thats-no-mirage-im-in-shiraz.html">3 July, Abadan-Shiraz</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/solihull-we-have-problem.html">4 July, Shiraz</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-show-must-go-on.html">4 July, Shiraz</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/more-waiting.html">6 July, Shiraz-Isfahan</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/busload-of-faith-to-get-by.html">7 July, Tehran</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/shiny-happy-people.html">11 July, Tehran</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/faith-tested.html">11 July, Tehran</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/lazy-shiites.html">12 July, Tehran</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/lucky-13th.html">13 July, Tehran</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/faith-doubted.html">14 July, Tabriz</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/later-mullah-fuckas.html">16 July, Tabriz-Armenia</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/07/reflections-on-iran.html">31 July, Tbilisi</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/08/the-adventure-continues.html">1 August, Yerevan, Ann Arbor, Tbilisi</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/08/a-journey-completed_16.html">16 August, Ann Arbor, Batumi, Istanbul</a><br />
<a href="http://www.nomadicity.blogspot.com/2015/08/prague-or-bust.html">31 August, Istanbul, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, Slovakia, Prague</a><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">From Prague, my then-fiancé and I travelled to Ecuador, as part of our search for a permanent place to settle and start a family. Somewhere along the way, our relationship started to come unravelled, and after an earlier break-up and subsequent reconciliation in October, we ended things permanently and rather dramatically the day after Christmas, at her Mom’s house on Cape Cod. I have no regrets. I learned a lot. I am, with no exaggeration or disingenuousness, a very different person than I was a year ago. She brought magic into my life, and whilst I no longer have her, the magic has stayed with me. And I’m in Ecuador, bitches! In fact, I rented a very large house here, in anticipation of us returning here together, so as a consequence, I have two spare bedrooms with two beds each, so if any of you fancies a cheap holiday, the flights are cheap, living is cheaper, and you have a free place to stay. Bring your surfboard and wax (for your board, I mean).<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">But enough of all this! — I know by now what you guys want and I’m going to give it to you! Yes, it’s time to MAKE FUN OF REPUBLICANS! Sorry, I got nothing this year. Nothing. Really. Not because of my state of mind, but because I just don’t know where to start. Just how exactly does one satirise Donald Trump, Ted Cruz or Sarah Palin? There’s nothing I can say about them that isn’t funnier than watching a news clip of any of them, except maybe watching a clip of them together. Ted Cruz? Well, he does wear mascara, apparently, and not sure why the lame-stream media refuses to talk about this (too distracted by Trump’s hair?), but other than that, I got nothing. Bush, Rubio and Carson on the other hand are impossible to caricature for other reasons, mostly that they don’t have any character. Rubio last gave us something we could laugh at when he took his awkward sip of water during his response to the SOTU address two years ago, but that one’s kind of been beaten to death. Christie’s declaration that he’d “get along” with King Hussein of Jordan, who died in 1998, appeared to be the only suggestion that any Republican saw room for diplomacy in dealing with the Middle East; otherwise the Republican debates seemed to consist mostly of the candidates trying to one-up each other over which of them would be in the biggest rush to start another war, and which of them planned to drop the most bombs on civilians and create the most terrorists.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">So, that leaves us with the Democrats, or more specifically, the Democratic Establishment, which has changed its reasons for why we shouldn’t vote for Sanders more than Bush did in attempting to justify his invasion of Iraq. Initially, of course, the Establishment was contemptuously but unconcernedly dismissive, labelling his campaign as ‘Quixotic’ and expecting him to just go away. That approach doesn’t seem to have worked out so well, so the next line of defence was to declare he has “no experience.” Sanders of course noted that Hilary’s foreign policy “experience” consisted of voting for the disastrous, illegal war in Iraq that he voted against, but he should have also noted that with eight years as mayor of Burlington, 16 years as a congressman, and eight years as a Senator, he has about 3 years less experience governing than did both Clintons and Obama COMBINED at the time they ran for President. Next they tried floating the claim that his proposals are “unrealistic,” because the Republican Congress will never allow him to pass any of his proposals, but they will work with Hilary, because the Republican congress just LOVES her and can’t wait to get started co-operating with her! And remember – this isn’t Denmark! (no, that would be the country that has routinely taken one of the top 5 spots in nearly every index of human, social and economic development over the past 60 years, in rankings that typically put the USA somewhere around number 30, so why would we want to look to Denmark as an example?).<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">So today, as Iowa prepares to caucus, they’re trying to deploy their last, desperate firewall against the Sanders conflagration – he isn’t electable! (except that voters overwhelmingly view him as stronger against any potential Republican opponent than Hilary). Americans will never vote for a socialist! (except that they elected FDR six times). Voting for Bernie is the same as voting for Trump! (just as not donating to the ASPCA is the same as drowning a kitten).<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Just as I was finishing writing the above paragraph, I received a news alert informing me that the <i>New York Times</i> editorial board has just endorsed Hilary Clinton as the Democratic Nominee. Just as they did in 2008. The Democratic Establishment seems no less capable of putting itself beyond satire than the Republicans.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We live in a weird world. I’ve had a weird year. No sign of things getting less weird any time soon, thankfully. I’ve started 2016 by learning to surf for the first time. I’ve met a new girl, with almost the same birthday as my ex (it seems the universe is just going to keep giving me Taurus girls until I learn how to deal with them). I got invited to join a new Singapore-based telecommunications consultancy being established by some of my former colleagues from Netcom Consultants, the Swedish consultancy I left in 2002, and am expecting to start some new assignments soon. “President Sanders” is not the impossibility it seemed a year ago. We’re seeing the words “police” and “accountability” in the same headlines. We have gay marriage in Kentucky. Marijuana legalisation is spreading. Full diplomatic relations with Cuba have been restored. Keystone XL is as dead as a child that drank municipal water in Flint. The Vanilla ISIS fruitcakes behind the faked Planned Parenthood ‘baby parts’ videos have been indicted, and Y’allQaeda, the guys who occupied a Federal wildlife refuge in Oregon have been arrested. The ‘Birthers’ who spent the last decade carrying on about how Obama’s pregnant mother managed to sneak on board an airplane to Kenya despite aviation regulations against flying in such a condition just so she could give birth to him in Kenya (whilst also having the foresight to create a false paper trail in Hawai’i, just in case he wanted to run for President in 45 years time) have been silent about that Canadian, Ted Cruz. Jeremy Corbyn has been elected Labour Party chair in the UK. Harper is out, Trudeau is in in Canada. Tony Abbot was forced to resign as PM in Australia. All weird. All good. Hope all of you are good as well.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">With kind thoughts and good wishes for all of you,<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">BlognDog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">30 January 2016<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Montañita, Ecuador<p />
</div>BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com2Montañita, Ecuador-1.8268465 -80.752973099999963-1.842717 -80.773143099999956 -1.8109760000000001 -80.73280309999997tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-79903707215348343742015-08-31T16:53:00.000+02:002016-01-28T12:53:56.804+01:00Prague or Bust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">MJ and I flew back to Istanbul from Boston mid-August. We departed Logan airport late at night, spent most of the flight arguing loudly and annoying the flight crew and other passengers. Changed planes early the next morning at LHR and arrived at IST late the same morning.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">A short taxi ride brought us back to the Hyatt Regency Ataköy, where we spent most of the rest of the day sleeping. I of course went to check out El Guapo and found him to be in sound, but dirty, condition.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next day of course the priority was to sort out the tyre problem El Guapo had suffered weeks earlier in Zara, and to get the other mechanical issues looked at. The Land Rover dealer was close to our hotel and I found it easily enough the following morning. The place was modern and professional looking, but unfortunately the service staff there informed me that the Land Rover Defender was not available for civilian use in Turkey and hence they could not service it. But they directed me to a workshop they said could assist.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I got there with the help of GPS – as usual, Istanbul's network of highways and motorways did not make this quick or straightforward. Next door to the recommended workshop was a Michelin dealer, so I decided to try to get the tyre problem sorted there. They didn't have my size (750 R16), but directed me to call the Michelin importer for Turkey. Tried to call but my phone was out of money, so had to walk 800 meters to a nearby commercial district to find a Turkcell refill point. Called several times before I managed to speak to anyone, but he was helpful and promised to revert to me ASAP.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, the guys at the workshop told me they couldn't help, but they knew someone who could. I should explain that all these workshops were located in an industrial district with street after street of mechanical, tyre, electrical, muffler and other automotive workshops. We drove together to a workshop a few streets away that I immediately knew was the right place. At least four Land Rover Defenders sat out front in varying degrees of mobility. The owner, wearing a baseball cap and grey ponytail reeked of mechanical oneness with the Land Rovers that surrounded him.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">He looked at my tyres. He donned a stethoscope and listened for the odd whining sound I had been hearing in various engine components. We went for a short ride. He told me he could fix the whine – which was originating from the brake vacuum pump – for 1100 Turkish pounds, but it really wasn't a problem. He could also get me four new BF Goodrich off-road tyres for around 1200 Turkish pounds, but I would have to return the following day. I agreed to do so.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I returned early the next morning and followed him to a nearby tyre workshop, which efficiently replaced all four tyres. I went to a nearby ATM and got the cash to pay him. Before I left, he had noticed that my parking brake light annoyingly stayed illuminated even when it was released, so he open up the brake handle boot and bent the switch contacts into place.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCXf0DmmvxX5VKRxamQa7-NS-_yAzKMGB_47PF_8lzUz8NwPlSXvWWpn-yOaPBf-ylT-9iUK-jgLBbmCUuSR1YF5AVdi9ppHKxguz9Y4pvjFhke8qHzILc1fmBwjgBETdu2LKKlSfDnQt/s1600/IMG_3023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCXf0DmmvxX5VKRxamQa7-NS-_yAzKMGB_47PF_8lzUz8NwPlSXvWWpn-yOaPBf-ylT-9iUK-jgLBbmCUuSR1YF5AVdi9ppHKxguz9Y4pvjFhke8qHzILc1fmBwjgBETdu2LKKlSfDnQt/s400/IMG_3023.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Getting ready for the next 30 000 kilometers</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I returned to the Hyatt – after another confusing diversion in the same neighbourhood I had been in weeks earlier to find a petrol station and refill my tank which – dejá vu! – was empty again. MJ was waiting by the pool in her bikini, drink in hand.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">The Hyatt we were staying at (the Hyatt Regency) was the newest of the three Istanbul Hyatts, and amongst the small number of kinks they still hadn't fully worked out was the air con. After two days of being promised that something would be done, we decided to change hotels; and it would be better to be in the centre in any event. I was going to bookd the Grand Hyatt, but the front desk staffer who was assisting us had transferred from the Park Hyatt, and he urged me to go there instead. It of course wasn't cheap, but at his urging I decided to go for it.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We checked out, loaded up El Guapo and headed back east into central Istanbul. Google maps got us to the Park Hyatt without any problems, and we were thrilled to find our room included its own private Turkish bath, with steam room, wash tub and bath. With all the vehicle issues finally out of the way, we were free to spend a couple of days sightseeing, which MJ wanted to start with a visit to the UFO museum.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Up early the next morning, excellent breakfast in the hotel lobby. Back to the room to freshen up a bit before heading out for the days' sightseeing. MJ said she wanted to lie down for a minute. Ten minutes later she was in almost unbearable pain. I called the front desk, they sent a nurse. The nurse summoned a doctor, and the doctor advised us to go to the nearby American hospital. A five minute taxi ride got us there, and after a bit of paperwork and a rather modest payment, MJ was hooked up to a morphine IV. A couple hours later and she was back to her usual bubbly self.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We finally made it to the location marked for the UFO museum the next day, only to learn from a neighbour that it had moved to an unknown location (the Vega system?) a year or so previously. So we wandered around some back streets before emerging fortuitously onto Tarlabaşi Boulevard, one of Istanbul's main retail shopping streets. We spent a couple hours shopping for bargains there before eventually finding ourselves at Taksim Square, where MJ scored a couple final retail finds before we took the metro back to our hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next day, it was finally time to hit the road and start the final leg of this journey. It didn't start terribly smoothly. Nearly all of my experiences with Istanbul traffic had not been good – four and five lane highways slowing to walking speed was a frequent experience. After more than an hour of driving west, we hadn't made much progress, crawling along in stop and start traffic. Hundreds of enterprising Turks lined the route – most of them children. They ran alongside El Guapo, or jumped on the sidesteps, banging on the window trying to persuade us to buy water, snacks, and other items. The kids in particular took troubling risks in traffic in an effort to try to sell us things – I would be surprised if there was not at least one fatality every day as a result of their desperate efforts to make a living. No doubt many of them were refugees or others without legal status.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Slowly, the traffic thinned out and we started to move a little faster, and we finally reached the Bulgarian border around 19:00. Immigration and customs formalities were quite efficient, and the Bulgarians friendly and welcoming. Everything was done except one thing – I needed to obtain mandatory third-party liability insurance. The customs agent took our passports and directed us to the typical border insurance shack, explaining we could have our passports as soon as we showed proof of insurance. I parked to one side as we watched border guards dump dozens of cartons of contraband cigarettes discovered in the boot of another vehicle on the ground.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">MJ waited in the vehicle while I walked over to the insurance office, staffed by a single young woman. She took all my vehicle info and entered it into her computer. After 20 minutes or so, her task was complete and she tried to finalise issuing me the policy. Problem. System wouldn't respond. She looked at her watch. "Ah, it's 19:30 on Saturday evening. That's when they take the system down for maintenance and updates every week." She told me to expect it to be off-line until 21:00. I returned to the vehicle. MJ and I talked. We did our fortunes with tarot cards. We whitened our teeth with whitening strips. I went back at 21:00. System still not up. I smoked a cigarette with the insurance girl and her colleague, who had come to replace her. I went back to the vehicle. It started raining. MJ and I talked about UFOs and aliens. I went back to the insurance office again. Back to the vehicle again. Lather, rinse, repeat. A Bulgurian guy walked by, carrying groceries in a "Billa" bag. The handle broke, and the litre bottle of vodka he had inside smashed on the ground. I found him a new plastic bag from the vehicle. Finally, near midnight, I returned to the insurance office for the fourth or fifth time and the system was back up. I got my insurance document, retrieved our passports, and we finally headed down the road towards Sofia.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We knew there was no way we would reach Sofia – on the other side of the country – that evening. We decided to make for Plovdiv instead. We got there well after midnight, famished. The McDonalds had a drive-through open, but we had no Bulgarian Lev, and had no clue how to order in Bulgarian. With the help of the internet, I found us a hotel, arriving past 3:00. A wedding party was in full swing, but the hotel was full. The helpful front desk clerk directed us to another hotel. We found it on Google maps, but drove back and forth past the location shown several times before I pulled over and searched on foot. It was right where it was supposed to be, but the sign was difficult to see. We dragged our luggage into the smoky lobby, staffed by surly looking, tattooed young men and checked in. Our room was on the 4th floor. No lift. MJ made a point of demonstrating her independence by lugging all of our heavy bags up four flights of stairs while I found a parking spot.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">It was an inauspicious start to our stay in Plovdiv, but the town turned out to be a highlight of our trip. Across the street was the Plovdiv mall, a smallish shopping mall featuring all the usual mall tenants and a surprisingly good restaurant where we had a late breakfast the next morning. The weather was absolutely flawless – sunny, maybe 23 degrees. We took a taxi into the old town and wandered its picturesque cobbled streets. We visited an Orthodox church before finding ourselves at the intimiate Roman amphitheatre that had been discovered and excavated a couple decades previously.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">From there, we wandered further uphill towards the historic citadel, stopping at another Orthodox church, where a service was underway, at the town museum, and a number of gift shops and galleries. After stopping for some obligatory photos in the ruins of the citadel, we wandered a few meters back down hill to a casual outdoor restaurant overlooking the river for beer and food.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">That evening, we sat in the hotel bar and decided to try to figure out where to go after Prague. We had thought about settling in a number of countries, but had basically narrowed it down to Ecuador, Guatemala and Oaxaca. I decided to try using some of the million+ air miles I've accumulated over the years. We tried for Mexico first, but connections and availability were bad. Same with Guatemala. Finally, Ecuador. Immediately found a business class fare, with one change in Amsterdam for a reduced mileage award. Booked a flight for both of us to Guayaquil out of Prague for the 31st.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next morning we continued west to Rila National Park. The park is most popular in the winter as a ski resort, but it is popular with hikers in the summer time as well. We checked into a massive, communist-era hotel. I can't remember what we paid, but it wasn't much. The hotel featured an indoor swimming pool, fitness centre, sauna, spa, game room, bowling alley, shops, cafés and restaurants. MJ went to the spa and got what she described as one of the best massages she ever experienced for about $15.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">After finding a secure parking space for El Guapo near a power supply where I could charge the batteries, we had a wander around town and found a friendly place for dinner. Next morning, we drove to the entrance to the park itself, first across a flat, open plain, but then ascending an increasingly windy road before arriving at the park gate. The car park was jammed full, but we managed to find a space at the very end.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Our goal was the "Seven Lakes" hike, which took in views of seven pristine apline lakes. We bought tickets and took the gondola to the start of the hike.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHeWxtUJcMn4bk7kVXx7oS0UOm1Bmu6bVZdGYkKSIigBAdK7HV5l6rmwe6iTt1lHX18XCidzweLOc60sc3JElQXLyXi-zWEwuS893rM9VnffKwVoEdyTEVJr5i50JBCzIGT4Iu5ygUrH_/s1600/P1010261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHeWxtUJcMn4bk7kVXx7oS0UOm1Bmu6bVZdGYkKSIigBAdK7HV5l6rmwe6iTt1lHX18XCidzweLOc60sc3JElQXLyXi-zWEwuS893rM9VnffKwVoEdyTEVJr5i50JBCzIGT4Iu5ygUrH_/s400/P1010261.JPG" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Hiker's reward</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">The landscape was open and the views spectacular. Eventually we made our way to the shores of one of the lakes, which MJ discovered was populated by a species of fish that had a taste for cashew nuts. We stopped there for a snack and a bit of rest ourselves before heading back to the gondola.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RGvAE1pflztfAV6ieSUQlRyG16LwPmcdXjuIybdep8m9DFtHaz2RUUMUQP7hyGDbCz-1utNhVUcAM96leFsxIyMqsPjXZ-reG77ms9Ei5x4_yZdl1wNjZxI90usR_-AZMNg5Xe25F1Hc/s1600/P1010269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RGvAE1pflztfAV6ieSUQlRyG16LwPmcdXjuIybdep8m9DFtHaz2RUUMUQP7hyGDbCz-1utNhVUcAM96leFsxIyMqsPjXZ-reG77ms9Ei5x4_yZdl1wNjZxI90usR_-AZMNg5Xe25F1Hc/s400/P1010269.JPG" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Resting up for the return hike</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">On returning to the car park, I found that El Guapo's right front tyre was completely flat. I had first noticed it leaking around the valve-stem back in Plovdiv, and had "repaired" it by wedging a piece of folded-up paper between the valve-stem and the rim. Fortunately, I carried an air compressor and re-inflated it, but on our way to the resort I kept an eye out for tyre shops. MJ spotted one, and after a short wait I was able to get the rubber washer at the base of the valve-stem replaced for all of €10.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next morning, we carried on towards the Serbian border. My easiest crossing on the entire trip. The insurance I bought entering Bulgaria is valid throughout the remaining countries on our drive, so no need to stop at the insurance booth. The only minor hitch was that I had neglected to purchase a road-tax vignette on entering Bulgaria, which the Bulgarian customs agents pointed out but did nothing but sternly remind me to buy one next time I visited. Immigration was quick and perfunctory. We had a bit of lunch on the Serbian side before continuing on towards Belgrade.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Most of the rest of the drive was event-free, although the rear tyre continued to leak slowly, so we stopped after a couple hundred kilometres to re-inflate. Before too long, we were approaching the outskirts of Belgrade when suddenly traffic came to dead stop. We inched forward in three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic for well over an hour before we were even able to discern the cause – it was just the routine back-up at the toll plaza; apparently, Serbia has yet to implement an electronic toll system. Slowly, we approached the front of the queue. We exchanged helloes and brief stories with other overland vehicles, with registrations from the UK, Germany and elsewhere. Finally, we were through and a short drive took us to the Radisson Blu hotel, which I booked earlier in the day. Google maps, as usual, got us reliably to the hotel entrance, but then found that the final 100 metres of that route led through the hotel underground car park, which was too low for El Guapo. A friendly hotel employee told us how to drive around, which involved driving a couple hundred metres down the tram tracks. We managed to arrive at the hotel entrance and check in.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">After unloading the luggage, I found a place in the above-ground car park where I could run a power cord inside to charge up the batteries. The next day was my birthday, so we began celebrating with a couple of cocktails and some excellent food on the terrace outside the hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">This hotel (The Raddison Blu Old Mill Hotel), which as it name suggests is housed inside a re-purposed 19th century textile mill, is one of the best I've ever experienced. Architecturally, they did an excellent job of maintaining the integrity of the orignal building, and enhancing it with sleek, minimalist decor. Our room was huge, and the bathroom almost as large. Large, strategically placed mirrors near the bed and the shower led MJ to remark that it had been designed by a guy with a heathily dirty mind. Service was even better. Not only was the staff friendly, helpful and without exception possessing a strong people and service-oriented attitude, service was at times almost inconveniently fast. In the morning, I ordered coffee from room service but was still in my underwear when they knocked on the door to deliver it less than 5 minutes later.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We both would have loved to have lingered in this beautiful river-side city, but we were on a bit of deadline to be in Prague in time to catch our flight to Ecuador. So we did the now-familiar pack up, load up, check out, book next hotel (Budapest) and punch the address into Google maps. Our next border crossing (into Hungary) would be the last to require us even to stop. I expected it to go smoothly, but fittingly, there was a small hiccup. I kept all the car papers in an accordian folder which in turn was put into a secure lock-box in the rear of the vehicle. The dozens of keys I needed for the vehicle were on a ring secured to a lanyard on my belt, and the lock-box key was about the largest on the ring. At some point the previous day, on getting back in the vehicle I remembered trying to slam my door shut but encountering some resistence. It closed on the second attempt and I didn't give it another thought until I was asked by the Serbian border officials to produce my car papers, and I found the lock-box key badly bent. It must have been dangling down onto the door seal when I attempted to slam it shut. As I feared and expected, when I tried to bend the key back into shape, the end just snapped off. The spare was back in Doha (I left a full set of spares with a friend just in case something happened along the way – note to future self – you need three sets: one for use, one in a safe place with a friend, and a third hidden in the vehicle, preferably not in your lock-box).<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"Don't worry" the customs agents said,"we will get your box open." I was a little worried. But he just dropped the broken end of the key into the lock, inserted the stub, and the lock turned and opened. We were soon on our way into Hungary. After driving across the Hungarian plain, again stopping to re-inflate my leaking right rear tyre, Google maps got us into central Budapest and within a couple hundred metres of our hotel without difficulty. However, the near-final turn indicated was down a narrow street blocked by a retractable bollard. Traffic was heavy, so circling around the area trying to find an alternative route took the better part of an hour. On the second trip around I asked someone and was told that only residents of that area possessed electronic keys that caused the bollards blocking the entrance to retract into the ground. I took their advice, waited at one of the entrances, and tailgated behind another vehicle to get inside.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Our hotel was another favourite of our trip – but completely different than the one in Belgrade. This was a small, cozy family-run hotel, beautifully restored with vintage furnishings and fixtures to look like a typical Central European hotel from early in the last century. After the usual check-in and unload routine, we took a seat outdoors at the hotel's charming bistro, which also featured the same 'fin de siècle' atmosphere as the hotel itself. The charming hotel owner introduced himself, and on learning it was my birthday, brought us drinks on the house. The food, unfortunately, was a little disappointing, but we had a very nice evening nonetheless, and after dinner, went for a stroll and more birthday drinks at a bar on Deák Ferenc.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_y4kRpT9VdHo7yA3hakCJLaiVxubG_FDHoXHri6Jp0KAEu8N_gAnC1BoerjJBe0sxvwjkcexo-uGTQQK0nZPc-3Hl6OComnd-xYZAmWhnz7PAfXMbtS5YMNuwAbasq9EV0TXviF45NEq/s1600/IMG_3068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_y4kRpT9VdHo7yA3hakCJLaiVxubG_FDHoXHri6Jp0KAEu8N_gAnC1BoerjJBe0sxvwjkcexo-uGTQQK0nZPc-3Hl6OComnd-xYZAmWhnz7PAfXMbtS5YMNuwAbasq9EV0TXviF45NEq/s400/IMG_3068.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Birthday in Budapest</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next morning, of course, the challenge was now getting back out past the bollards blocking the entrance to this restricted area. Actually, that was the second challenge – the first was that (not unexpectedly) El Guapo's right rear tyre was now entirely deflated. I re-inflated, re-incorporated my folded-up piece of paper repair, loaded the vehicle, and checked out. The hotel receptionist informed me that I was lucky not to have been ticketed, as parking enforcement was quite strict in the area. The restrictions did thankfully mean that I had no problem finding a place to park within view of the hotel – there were relatively few other vehicles.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Soon we were crossing the Danube into Buda and on our way to our final destination – actually not Prague, but a friend of mine, J's, cottage in a Bohemian village called Velké Heřmanice. My friend had arranged for a local 4x4 garage to store and care for El Guapo for a while. After a few hours (and another re-inflation stop – WHY didn't I have that garage in Bulgaria check all four tyres?) we reached a point where the road signs said go straight (the route through Austria) and Google maps said take the exit (the route through Slovakia). I went with Google maps. Only a very brief stop at this border, to buy a road vignette, which was good that we did because the Slovak traffic police were waiting 100 metres down the road ticketing people without them. The border still featured a shuttered border post; we slowed but didn't stop. In fact, we didn't stop at all during the couple hours we were in Slovakia, passing near Bratislava but continuing on towards Brno and Bohemia. I couldn't find the hamlet of Velké Heřmanice on Google maps, but I did locate the next larger town, Heřmaničky, and after exiting the motorway and driving the last hour through postcard-perfect Bohemian countryside on a beautiful summer afternoon, we arrived there without difficulty. I asked a passing couple the way to Velké Heřmanice; the guy just gave me a blank look (it's about 4 km away, for fuck's sake), but his girl just repeated "Velké Heřmanice, Velké Heřmanice" back to me and indicated I should continue in the direction I was heading.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I found J's house with no further difficulties about 10 minutes later, but he was nowhere to be found. As I didn't have a local SIM card, I had been in contact with him by text message when we had the opportunities to connect to WiFi on our re-fueling and re-inflation stops. His last message had said something about heading to the "fun fair," which I guessed to be back in Heřmaničky, where in any event I hoped to find a WiFi connection I could use to contact him.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We parked and found the "fun fair" – a collection of decrepit-looking rides – near the centre of town where the pubs are. I went into one I knew that J frequented. He wasn't there, and neither was the pub owner who apparently was the only one who knew the WiFi password. We went to the pub next door, and were in the process of getting more flustered responses to my inquiry about WiFi when J, appearing reasonably intoxicated, returned to the common room from a trip to the toilet. We all squeezed in to El Guapo and drove a few kilometres to a neighbouring town for some beer and Czech food.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">On arriving at the restaurant, we discovered that El Guapo's left front tyre also had a problem, as it was nearly entirely flat. Nothing you can't postpone dealing with until after some food and some good Bohemian lager. Despite the slow service and problems with our order, the food was excellent and afterwards we just dug out the air compressor again and headed back to the cottage.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next day, it was finally time to say good-bye to El Guapo, at least for a while. I unloaded the vehicle and put most of the contents in J's attic. Packed up our remaining things and followed J to the 4x4 mechanic's house in a nearby village – he wasn't at the shop as it was Sunday. He wasn't at his house either, but his wife met us there and with J's help, I gave her a list of things that needed seeing to – besides two leaky valve stems, I had another leaking hub seal (left side, this time), funky ignition switch, undiagnosed problem with the transfer case, and a battery that wouldn't hold a charge.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">J dropped MJ and I off at the rail station in Heřmaničky, where we bought tickets into Prague. We arrived that afternoon and got a taxi to our hotel. After 9480 kilometres of driving, and a 1 1/2 hour train ride, I had arrived at my destination.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5zOb5ySEaZEFh3n3OILK1tCKcuUiPC2NZdtUtM_Ci92xXNG-ll61rVA0i_9q3UB-FaKqXNOGrCTqc8dDH3pNnl-w0Yw9EOU_1AXhhJFLQBV51Wcmd88uMH19NhFDZ6nX6LapiUCIPfVF/s1600/IMG_3089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5zOb5ySEaZEFh3n3OILK1tCKcuUiPC2NZdtUtM_Ci92xXNG-ll61rVA0i_9q3UB-FaKqXNOGrCTqc8dDH3pNnl-w0Yw9EOU_1AXhhJFLQBV51Wcmd88uMH19NhFDZ6nX6LapiUCIPfVF/s400/IMG_3089.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Prague at last</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">31 August 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Prague<p />
</div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Prag, Tjeckien50.0755381 14.4378004999999849.749331100000006 13.79235349999998 50.4017451 15.083247499999981tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-30081880474831174592015-08-16T12:30:00.000+02:002016-01-22T18:08:02.610+01:00A Journey Completed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">I had few expectations about Batumi, but the city nonetheless managed to exceed all of them. The city had an excellent climate, and was oriented towards the pebbly beach that separated the gracious town from the Black Sea.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I had little time to linger, so after breakfast I headed towards the Turkish border, stopping only to top off the tank. Border formalities were refreshingly efficient, such that despite the 20 minute wait to buy insurance I was in Turkey little more than an hour after arriving. Motorists heading in the other direction, however, had a good wait, as it took me 10 minutes at 30 kph to pass the end of the queue of vehicles waiting to enter Georgia.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">A very good dual carriageway road brought me to Trabzon a few hours later, where Google maps took me straight to my hotel. Checked in, checked out the view from my terrace over the harbour, got my dirty clothing to a laundry, bought a Turkish SIM card, found some dinner and a beer, and went to sleep.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqtcNHK3TF8PAn0fCiJIZ5zwkKy6E-vzAjk1fz5vA55Z33M0gfKlT_-JSO95KtI3k5LjFRsGcATgBJidyEIT-TUUCaA9XwVUmR0-cM42lK2GqysHu8a3ociLebGBfD9e2BzRZMoGXovVx/s1600/IMG_2982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqtcNHK3TF8PAn0fCiJIZ5zwkKy6E-vzAjk1fz5vA55Z33M0gfKlT_-JSO95KtI3k5LjFRsGcATgBJidyEIT-TUUCaA9XwVUmR0-cM42lK2GqysHu8a3ociLebGBfD9e2BzRZMoGXovVx/s400/IMG_2982.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Trabzon harbour</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Departed reasonably early next day after breakfast. Istanbul was too distant to attempt driving in one day, so I decided a visit to Cappodoccia would be a good way to break my journey. I booked myself two nights in a hotel there, and set Google maps to navigate me there.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">As usual, three alternative routes were offered, and also as usual, I took the one with the shortest drive time. The route I chose headed directly inland, straight up into the Anatolian plateau; others continued west along the Black Sea coast before turning south. The road started as a four-lane dual carriageway, but soon narrowed to a single lane as it climbed into the mountains in a series of switchbacks. After more than hour of steadily gaining elevation, it levelled out into a long straight stretch. This road continued east towards Erzurum, but Google maps directed me south onto a secondary road.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the next couple of hours, the road steadily deteriorated, getting narrower and rougher until I was driving over an unfinished track through pine-covered mountains. For El Guapo, it was no real challenge, but I would feel bad for anyone in an ordinary vehicle that had been directed to this route by Google maps. Eventually, of course, I rejoined the pavement, and as I continued towards Cappadoccia the roads grew steadily wider and smoother. At Zara, I took the opportunity to fill El Guapo's diesel tank, before continuing on. Leaving town, I was distracted by a text from MJ and drifted into curb dividing the roadway, travelling at around 100 kph. I hit hard, and bounced back onto the road. The time pressure monitor loudly informed me I had just punctured the tyre.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUv2b8BYePSNpxSuAT71VjcRaszDpBetpwj7azzerdGjzw01DFrFU2rjDSaWC76DupCnIstHBtcyiX-fbudF7CJ3dps2wYJghu6NwaqIp7pX_a-YvHgp1PgL-dJjqYJpQpd_4nak9mURh/s1600/IMG_1058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUv2b8BYePSNpxSuAT71VjcRaszDpBetpwj7azzerdGjzw01DFrFU2rjDSaWC76DupCnIstHBtcyiX-fbudF7CJ3dps2wYJghu6NwaqIp7pX_a-YvHgp1PgL-dJjqYJpQpd_4nak9mURh/s400/IMG_1058.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Pine-forested Anatolia</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I managed to pull over directly in front of a complex of workshops, mostly in the business of tyre repair. A mechanic soon appeared, and we jacked up the front axle, removed the wheel and took it to his workshop. Despite the abundance of tyre shops, no new ones were available. The mechanic took the tyre off the rim and together we inspected the damage. There was a gash 6 cm long in the side wall. He patched it up and it held air, but I didn't have a lot of confidence in the repair. We moved that tyre to the spare wheel carrier, put the spare on the rear, and moved the rear to the front. I paid him €100 and set off down the road.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">No further mis-haps marred the rest of the journey, which took me over increasingly good quality roads to Göreme, the centre of Cappadoccia, by what I thought was around 22:00, but later that evening I learned that I had crossed a time-zone boundary at some point that day and it was an hour earlier.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I wandered into the touristy centre of town and had some drinks and dinner before going to bed around midnight. My plan was to take a break from driving and have a look around Cappadoccia the next day. Although I was in bed, I was still restless and slept lightly. Around 3:30 I got a text from my brother: my Dad had just passed away.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I sat awake texting him and then MJ for a bit before getting a little bit of sleep. I was out of bed by eight and on the road by 10:00. The friendly Kiwi owner of the hotel allowed me to cancel the second night I had booked without a penalty.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Istanbul was still a good ways away. I headed towards Ankara first and was headed north from there by early afternoon. On the way, with MJ's help, I booked a ticket to Detroit, a hotel at the airport in Istanbul, and a hotel in Ann Arbor. Approaching the city, the traffic grew steadily denser and slower. At one point I had anticipated reaching my hotel before 21:00, but the last kilometers in Asia I just crept along. I had earlier passed up some opportunities to re-fuel, and now my low-fuel warning came on. Around 22:00, I finally crossed the Bosporus into Europe. <p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I continued through heavy traffic on the highway towards the airport, my fuel gauge making me increasingly doubtful that I would make it. I considered an exit where there might potentially be a fuel station, hesistated, passed it, and then saw that I could have easily accessed three large petrol stations if I had exited as I considered. I had more diesel on the roof rack, so I wasn't worried about running out of fuel <i>per se,</i> but rather that if it ran dry I would have to bleed the air out of the fuel system. Prudence finally got the better of me and I decided to pull off and find a fuel station or to pour the contents of one of jerry cans into the tank. Naturally, unlike the exit I passed by, the exit I took 1) had no fuel stations and 2) did not lead easily back on to the main highway. I found a spot to pull over, climbed up on the roof and brought down a full jerry can, dug the spout out of the back and poured the contents into the tank. Replaced the jerry can on the roof and pulled back out into traffic.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">With the help of Google maps, I navigated the spaghetti junction that led onto the avenue along the Sea of Marmora where the Hyatt was located. I pulled into the car park a few minutes later.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Checking in I was given good news and bad news. The bad news first: it was nearly midnight, I was exhausted and smelling like diesel, and my room wasn't ready. The good news: the only thing they had left was the Diplomatic Suite, which turned out to be an enormous six-room suite with two bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, a conference room, living room, kitchen and master suite with an immense bathtub in the middle of a bathroom larger than most people's sitting rooms. Over the years, I've had dozens of colleagues tell stories of such good fortune, but it had always eluded me. However, now that I had finally reached this elusive goal, I was only going to be able to enjoy it for about four hours, as my flight was at 6:00 the next morning.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I told the bellman I was going to the bar and to bring me the key when the room was ready. He did so in the middle of my second drink, so I headed down one floor to my fancy suite. I plugged all of my Apple devices in to charge, each in its own private room (why not, right?), set two wake up calls and an alarm and went to sleep in the enormous bed.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">On waking, I turned on all six jets in the gigantic marble shower and blasted my body with warm water. Dressed, packed up all my Apple devices and headed downstairs, where they had a take-away breakfast waiting for me. I left the keys to El Guapo with the bellman and headed for the airport. Check in, security, etc. all normal. Found my economy-class seat at the very back of the plane, surrounded by a dozen or so unhappy toddlers. All were loud, but the one directly across the aisle was possessed by particularly noisy demons. In between screaming fits, he would kick the back of the seat in front of him, take the items his parents had offered in vain attempts to calm him and throw them into the aisle, and – his favourite – lower the tray table and pummel it with his fists as hard and fast as he could. Fortunately, he soon tired of all this, and – no, actually that was just our collective wishful thinking. He never got tired of keeping up his tantrum at full intensity during the entire 5-hour flight to Frankfort.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Frankfort was a short layover, and before long I was crammed into another economy class seat in the back of another jet. Fortunately, the configuration on this one was one I had never before encountered, and it had a lot fewer kids. Can't remember what the model of the aircraft was, but the toilets were all on a lower level, down a flight of stairs. The bulkhead around the stairs was just starboard of my seat, so although I had a "middle" seat, I had no one to my right, and only one seat to my left.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Before I knew it, my brother was picking me up at what had become a familiar spot at DTW. My Mom was never one to handle even the most lightly stressful situation with any sort of grace or dignity, so losing her husband of 57 years was sending her around the bend. We felt some trepidation because of this (my brother sharing with me some of her more outrageous actions over the days since I had left), but nonetheless felt it our obligation to stop in on my Mom. Afterwards, he dropped me at my hotel on the west side of town.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next few days were spent getting things ready for my Dad's funeral, which was planned for Friday. With the help of my niece, we sorted through hundreds of old photos, selected a few dozen, found a guy who could scan them, had a dozen or so printed up, and put the rest on a playable DVD that could play on a repeating loop during the wake. We met with the priest and made final arrangements concerning the cermony, finalised the lunch menu and the readings and the music. We cleaned up the house in preparation for visitors, prepared print-outs of my Dad's favourite poems to distribute to guests, and took the American flag that had covered my sisters remains at her funeral 30+ years ago to the funeral home. One nice touch was my brother's idea – having his seven passports on display, the photos marking both his aging and the progression of hairstyles through the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and beyond.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_ktV_bkE4UkXnrh1XUQEU8NbMDihF2IF8YYDC3BKwAsmrNRPAkXlNSpg3Y4IAkQDETVvRsNO_DTeDz5UkJPCT7Ox2yhae52f3O5QHMObXUHMC4sseFOgZbN6fPk2isx8EkmzElFsTz4b/s1600/IMG_2999.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_ktV_bkE4UkXnrh1XUQEU8NbMDihF2IF8YYDC3BKwAsmrNRPAkXlNSpg3Y4IAkQDETVvRsNO_DTeDz5UkJPCT7Ox2yhae52f3O5QHMObXUHMC4sseFOgZbN6fPk2isx8EkmzElFsTz4b/s400/IMG_2999.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">At the wake</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">The wake was well attended, by members of his family, my Mom's family, as well as friends, neighbours, and former colleagues, classmates and co-workers. The weather on the day of the funeral was flawless. I had taken my Dad's car back to my hotel the night before, and so I rose, put on a suit and headed over to my Mom's house first thing. The funeral was starting at 10:00 and my brother and I had planned to depart the house at 9:30 to be at the church no later than 9:45. I arrived at 9:15 to find that my niece and nephew weren't even out of bed yet, my brother was frantically pulling things together, and my Mom, of course, was jumping frantically from one self-manufactured crisis to the next.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Somehow, I managed to bundle them, the flag, and the poems into the car by 9:35 and arrive at the church almost on time. It was a spectacularly gorgeous Michigan summer day. A little knot of people had already gathered outside the front door, and we joined them in exchanging hugs and hellos with everyone as they arrived. Soon it was time for the funeral mass to start. My brother and I reached deep into the recesses of our memories and managed to mentally retrieve the process for properly folding an American flag, something we had both learned as boy scouts some 40 year ago and not had the occaision to practice since. We managed to do it perfectly, and then assisted the priest in spreading the pall over the coffin before processing up the aisle behind the priest, the casket, and my mother to the stirring chords of the <i>Battle Hymn of the Republic</i>.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">One of my Mom's many anxieties about the service, is that the priest she wanted, Father Bill, was on leave when my Dad passed, so we ended up in the hands of a Father Todd, a sincere young 27-year priest who turned out to be perfect for the task. One of the main reasons I thought so was the amazing homily he gave. He had only met us the day before, and never knew my father, but he asked questions and learned some things about my Dad through us, of course including his love of mountaineering. I can't recall everything he said, but a key thread running through the homily was a discussion of the meaning and symbolism of mountains and the mountain-top in Scripture – Moses at Mt. Nebo; Jesus giving the sermon on the mount, etc. and connecting my father's love of mountains to his spiritual journey through life.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwHe08ZV1pcPUFiANvXJ7B8BVa_cFCgj3Nhk15KwobTf6vBBLffKrkibyVzmO1ITwNvB4ifH131p6LzsxJ9uag-cL80lqrD_MF3S_TFrH3YbQ3TJK9avw9wcUaj2WMHE3zW0x3myMvDdN/s1600/IMG_3003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwHe08ZV1pcPUFiANvXJ7B8BVa_cFCgj3Nhk15KwobTf6vBBLffKrkibyVzmO1ITwNvB4ifH131p6LzsxJ9uag-cL80lqrD_MF3S_TFrH3YbQ3TJK9avw9wcUaj2WMHE3zW0x3myMvDdN/s400/IMG_3003.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">After the funeral mass</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">After communion, my brother and I came to the lecturn, where I delivered a brief eulogy and my brother read one of his favourite – and most relevant poems, <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173698">Abou Ben Adhem</a> by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/leigh-hunt">Leigh Hunt</a>. Afterwards, we had a lunch in the church hall. The church, St. Thomas, was the same church I was baptised in, and aside from attending a Sunday mass there with my cousin a few weeks ago, the only other time I had been there was for his mother's (who was also my godmother) funeral 2 1/2 years ago.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">MJ flew in that evening with her son, whom I met for the first time the next morning. The three of us spent that weekend together before flying to Boston to move out of our flat there and to prepare to fly back to Istanbul, where MJ would join me for the final leg of my journey to Prague.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">16 August 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Boston<p />
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BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com1Boston, Massachusetts, USA42.3600825 -71.0588801000000142.1722125 -71.3816036 42.547952499999994 -70.736156600000015tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-43053084905386250932015-08-01T10:15:00.001+02:002016-01-25T17:00:35.361+01:00The Adventure Continues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">I spent a good part of my time in Iran believing I would not make it back to the USA in time to say good-bye to my Dad, but after a 20-hour, 3-leg flight from Yerevan to Detroit, I arrived at my parents' house to find him still with us. Physically, he was weakened and emaciated, unable to stand without assistance, his pain kept under control by regular doses of morphine. Mentally, he initially also seemed weakened and confused, but over the days following my arrival, he experienced numerous interludes of lucidity and awareness.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, at times this awareness led him to express unhappiness – that he was in pain, that he just wanted to die. My Dad never taught me a lot through instruction or advice over the years, but I learned so much through his example, and this experience has taught me I need to take steps to ensure that I have the ability to end things on my terms if and when that time comes.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
My mother, brother, niece and nephew all were sharing the house and the burden of caring for my Dad. The stress, at times, brought out the worst in all of us, but on the whole, I am very proud of all of my family, and they way they have managed this very difficult time. Eventually, we were all but forced to bring in an overnight care-giver, which later became full-time assistance, but we worked as a team under difficult circumstances to give my father the care he needed whilst trying our best to keep him comfortable and maintain his dignity.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5DUFpzPRJj6lzuo9FCF4yQaESoxrkWZWTvKxuUKauH_tcXl0Bzk9LkzhqdQfKG-oToBqnvfd3MOKliSsvMgs9JBri0AXs8vkyPgB2L4Wo_HSYwvSsgdK8AhazN6KzwgjkobBwttix_uj/s1600/P1010141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1r5k1ZyxNxjye6jKOH8VDCgCfMMfhxaO0-Z_3MH329cb-y9p5UTLmpdyZZYqO1X4QdmrxhyphenhyphendqJ-RrwT3-hZ5IuX0CeepxsxZ1Y_U3L7D0x7DziEKFbsJyKRIXuN38aXbsLxP6DWhj7xoE/s320/IMG_2952.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">My father with my brother and I -- his response to this photo was, "hey, who's the little guy in the middle?"</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">
My original intent, of course, was to stay through to the end. But we never anticipated that he would last more than a few days. Everyone from my mother to MJ to the hospice nurse thought he was just hanging on until I could arrive, but on the day I left he had better blood pressure than I do. I couldn't suspend this trip indefinitely, and in fact, I only had permission to bring El Guapo into Armenia for 15 days, even though my own visa was valid for 90. So on the 27th, I said good-bye to my Dad and flew back to Yerevan with the intent of getting El Guapo to his permanent home in the Czech Republic and returning to the USA as soon as possible.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I arrived in Yerevan – exhausted – after more than 24 hours of travel with long layovers in both Frankfort and Vienna early in in the morning of the 28th. I was too tired to go through the process of removing the jerry cans from the roof and driving around trying to find the hotel I had booked on-line during my Vienna layover, so I just had a quick look in the car park to verify that El Guapo was safe and then took a taxi into town. Arriving at my hotel, the <a href="http://www.hotelmeg.com/">Hotel Meg</a>, I was surprised to find my seat-mate from my flight from Vienna waiting there for me – he was the owner! It's a small hotel, and <i>very</i> difficult to find – only a small plaque on the door, completely not visible from the street, marks it as a hotel, so it was good I chose not to drive.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
I slept most of the rest of the day, and then returned to the airport by taxi, first to retrieve my rescue tool from airport security and then to collect El Guapo from the car park. I was surprised but pleased to see that the oil had ceased leaking from the rear axle, but of course hoped this wasn't due to it having leaked completely dry. I brought some gear oil – and the half-inch socket wrench I would need to open the diff fill plug – with me from the USA. I had to use my foot to get sufficient leverage, but did manage to open the rear diff fill. It took about a half-litre, so it was down but not excessively so. Drove to the exit, paid 24000 AMD (about 25 EUR, not bad, eh?) for 12 days of parking and drove back into town. I thought I had marked a GPS waypoint for the hotel, but if I did, it disappeared somehow, so I spent more than an hour, twice passing within a few dozen meters of the place, before I finally managed to return to the hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
Before leaving for the airport, I arranged to have a mechanic meet me at the hotel the following morning. He arrived a bit late, but we got to work on the replacing the hub seal by 10:30, and were finished with the job by 12:00. In the process of making that repair, however, we discovered that the bolt and bushings from the left rear stabiliser bar had gone missing. We made a shopping trip to a friendly local lube supply and picked up 8 liters of 5W/30 engine oil. Then to the parts shop for new bolts and bushing, and then back to the hotel car park. Stabiliser bar sorted; drained the old engine oil, replaced the filter, refilled the engine. Replaced the fuel and air filters, drained and refilled the front diff. Should be good for another 5000 km. I thanked and paid the mechanic – at around 50 EUR for the day, he was less expensive than the 8 liters of Shell Helix engine oil (60 EUR).<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJwt8vg_I-mNsECLmzlb8-3bpPMiapIrvDQc_RT1mMGld6GbGn213Aq6nhq1x5DdQKjFEkqd1TU8LDIPLOpkAiuYVy0XcMyMHTSGhrpsEu_FrayLKqeEJb0Q0b-fiH9LtkDLxk84ifmJu/s1600/P1010151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJwt8vg_I-mNsECLmzlb8-3bpPMiapIrvDQc_RT1mMGld6GbGn213Aq6nhq1x5DdQKjFEkqd1TU8LDIPLOpkAiuYVy0XcMyMHTSGhrpsEu_FrayLKqeEJb0Q0b-fiH9LtkDLxk84ifmJu/s320/P1010151.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">El Guapo gets a new hub seal</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">
I've started beginning to wonder if I had made a gender identity mistake in giving El Guapo a masculine name -- after giving him (her?) the vehicular equivalent of a cleanse, manicure, pedicure and facial, El Guapo now wanted a foamy bath, which he hadn't had since leaving Doha in June. In fact, he was whining continuously – I noticed a high-pitched whine that had not been present before when I drove away after finishing the service. There are plenty of car washes (or "day spas", as El Guapo likes to call them) in Yerevan, so I got him checked in and ordered up the full treatment. El Guapo was positively glowing when we left, but still refused to stop whining.<p />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaxTWa8w0ftmk8wsSFwJ9tO7i5eBFR5etr9J15Eqe_RQMnCHuxtLYeLgFy0oyx5FaJM0OMXpI7G9TO2B-Ot1I4f5Bi84Cnfk1UUx23uzvdxMPncTntREQrQ0IP_e0fy2OF9HSlN0Lto5r2/s1600/IMG_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaxTWa8w0ftmk8wsSFwJ9tO7i5eBFR5etr9J15Eqe_RQMnCHuxtLYeLgFy0oyx5FaJM0OMXpI7G9TO2B-Ot1I4f5Bi84Cnfk1UUx23uzvdxMPncTntREQrQ0IP_e0fy2OF9HSlN0Lto5r2/s320/IMG_0007.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">Nothing like a hot bath!</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">
I returned to the hotel, parked El Guapo, plugged in the battery charger and had a long hot shower. Had some food and a beer and tried to get some sleep, without a lot of success. Went to bed around 23:00; gave up on trying to sleep around 1:00. Went for a walk, returned at 2:00, think I finally managed to go to sleep around 2:30, and was woken by a text message around 5:00.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
First thing to pop in my head was that I had forgotten to grease El Guapo's U-joints, a task I usually look forward to because it gives me an excuse to say "grease nipple." I did so straight-away, and had a check on the batteries – still charging. Had a shower, packed up, checked out, and got on the road by 12:00. The road north from Yerevan was only slightly less dramatic than the road I arrived on from the south. Lots of mountains, lots of lakes, lots of hairpin turns. I reached the border around 17:00, on the last day that El Guapo was legally in the country. Did the now familiar queue/paperwork/bank/paperwork routine, but this time it took less than an hour. I said good-bye to Armenia and then drove 100 meters to the Georgian border control. The agent there had a little difficulty processing me in, but he summoned a colleague and 15 minutes later, with no paperwork no fees, and no bullshit, I was given a Georgian entry stamp and waved forward to customs. There, the customs officers collectively were far more interested in checking out El Guapo (really -- I need to sort this out, this vehicle is obviously female, but somehow "La Guapa" doesn't have the same resonance. I'm facing a similar mental dilemna with the child I haven't even conceived yet – if it's a boy, I definitely want to name him "Joseph" after my father, but if it's a girl, "Josephine" doesn't really seem to cut it) than they were in properly checking things, and so after a 15 minute discussion on camping, off-roading, on-board water and electricity, etc., I was on my way. This is the experience I have been hoping for in the course of the last 5 or so crossings and I hope the remaining six or eight are similarly uncomplicated.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
Another hour brought me to Tbilisi, which I quickly discovered was a far more interesting and beautiful city than I had anticipated. My first good impression arose from happening across the "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bridge_of_Peace_%28Georgia%29">Bridge of Peace</a>", an absolutely exquisite piece of architecture I had never heard of. I passed this landmark over the Kura river just as dusk was falling on a perfect summer evening. The bridge is for pedestrians only and is beautifully lit. As its designers no doubt anticipated, it was thronged with people -- hanging out, making out, working out and chilling out. It's an absolute genius piece of urban architecture, and you will never see anything like in the USA because, well, it isn't automobile centric.<p />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz0r4s5UaA7IL9jreFOv8SYCLdBVaZfowlKWCaWMhxQFZecYDk9rnJ2eEKoSxbi13cgkhkITspSka-tf3Y5rDvahD8LkGcer-hEuI1VQhLd3G5D29yrc-Iux-ZX-Y2FPSYJTXIdHjFWGZC/s1600/Freedom_Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz0r4s5UaA7IL9jreFOv8SYCLdBVaZfowlKWCaWMhxQFZecYDk9rnJ2eEKoSxbi13cgkhkITspSka-tf3Y5rDvahD8LkGcer-hEuI1VQhLd3G5D29yrc-Iux-ZX-Y2FPSYJTXIdHjFWGZC/s320/Freedom_Bridge.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">The "Freedom Bridge," much as I saw it driving by on a perfect summer evening</span></div><br />
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<p class="MsoNormal">
Near an immense statue of St. George with a sword in his hand and a determined "I <i>am</i> going to kill this dragon" look on his face, I found a Geocell shop that was supposed to still be open but nevertheless was not, but managed to find an unsecured wireless connection, logged on to TripAdvisor, and found the location of a small but highly rated hotel, the "Hotel British House." Drove there with the help of Google Maps and checked in. Simple, but very nice hotel, and fantastic breakfast included in the 65 EUR rate.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
After checking in, I walked downhill from the hotel to the main drag, Rustaveli Avenue. What a trendy and lively scene – a beautiful avenue, on a beautiful summer evening, populated with beautiful, trendy people and...can it be? Yes! A Wendy's!<p />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAw8iMx9sOd-BNUdP7Loa-MpWNh3fJS7fQs8Y5OFWrleONuvcSYmE7BQBvmsnaDRol8r59f7c4M749AYletoaEIFT7DYVzLdtG3S5-KWfUi9V0OcVQhsD-Tcpp44eQ-9C4Y0PGv-08uire/s1600/IMG_0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAw8iMx9sOd-BNUdP7Loa-MpWNh3fJS7fQs8Y5OFWrleONuvcSYmE7BQBvmsnaDRol8r59f7c4M749AYletoaEIFT7DYVzLdtG3S5-KWfUi9V0OcVQhsD-Tcpp44eQ-9C4Y0PGv-08uire/s320/IMG_0009.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">First time I've seen a Wendy's this side of the Atlantic since they closed their UK, Poland and Swiss outlets back in the '90s. Welcome back.</span><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnaOMQ7Admg-hKA8wN1DWxCDvp3vdJCMCyE6vKB0CH4KxxjOT_erAMx4bnYUTPLyC404dzdDBV-VCKcRbqg5B0cgk01zWDtfON88PF-K9B0fkn7pTWMgvNInpW1oNGJLn5sPzUp39pIwO/s1600/IMG_1049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnaOMQ7Admg-hKA8wN1DWxCDvp3vdJCMCyE6vKB0CH4KxxjOT_erAMx4bnYUTPLyC404dzdDBV-VCKcRbqg5B0cgk01zWDtfON88PF-K9B0fkn7pTWMgvNInpW1oNGJLn5sPzUp39pIwO/s320/IMG_1049.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">Beautiful Tbilisi at night. Just how did I achieve this dreamy, romantic look, you ask? Was it some photo programme, either Apple's or Instagram's or someone elses?</span></div><br />
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<p class="MsoNormal">
If you want to have this same look in your own photos, just follow these simple instructions:
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<p class="MsoNormal">
1) Buy an iPhone<p />
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2) Stick it in your pocket, and mostly don't think about the "photo" function.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
3) Sweat a lot (helps if its warm and you are a bit overweight and out of shape)<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">
4) Take your iPhone out of your pocket, smear the sweat around a bit with your filthy t-shirt. Phone is now ready for use.<p />
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I found the "Georgian" restaurant the hotel receptionist had recommended, went in, sat down, and ordered a "local" beer (it was good, although I don't remember the brand). The appetiser was amazing – just a big plate of raw herbs and vegetables, including green onion, purple basil, parsley, tarragon, radishes, and others. No prep, no dressing, nothing fancy – but really nice and crisp and fresh – something I will have to replicate next time I have both an herb garden and guests.<p />
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Again following the suggestion of the waitress I ordered what she assured me was a "traditional Georgian dish" for the main course. It was good, but I would have difficulty differentiating it from "pizza" in a blind taste test.<p />
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This morning had a huge, tasty breakfast at my hotel. I was still a bit concerned about El Guapo's whining, so I had a look under the vehicle. There appeared to be a leak (nothing serious) from the transfer case, so on my way out of Tbilisi, I stopped into a high-tech looking garage and had both the transfer case and transmission oil replaced. They discovered bits of steel shavings stuck to the magnetic drain plug of the transfer case. Any number of potential causes, but I suspect my difficulties in shifting in and out of diff lock, which invariably involves a lot of grinding of gears. In any event, this didn't make the whining go away, but it did make me more assured.<p />
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After leaving Tbilisi, I soon found myself on the best highway I've seen since leaving Qatar.<p />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39WAybDxwXyAK9BOXrlaHGqFHQRWjfFkbJ-8CfZXO3CdUyVok9emW5_hkhpFV8dn0p0ItumIaVMuMNdfMPZ8t3d72q6rQzc44PdRKB7sU2v2C2Gdl47myhXezZxFbiQs-0VL3NQ63VjXB/s1600/IMG_0012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39WAybDxwXyAK9BOXrlaHGqFHQRWjfFkbJ-8CfZXO3CdUyVok9emW5_hkhpFV8dn0p0ItumIaVMuMNdfMPZ8t3d72q6rQzc44PdRKB7sU2v2C2Gdl47myhXezZxFbiQs-0VL3NQ63VjXB/s320/IMG_0012.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size: 85%;">Wow! Nice road! If it weren't for the hill I am driving up, I'd think I was back in Qatar!</span></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">This good road unfortunately didn't take me all the way to Batumi, but mostly made good time through green countryside, and eventually reached the Black Sea coast and a series of pebbly beaches and resort towns. The last few kilometers wound slowly through a lush green forest before paralelling the beach into Batumi itself. I hadn't made a hotel reservation, so I drove through town looking for a hotel, and ended up at a Sheraton. They told me they only had executive rooms left at 600 EUR/night, so I went to the bar, got a Wifi access code and logged on to Trip Advisor. Searched for hotels in Batumi, and the Sheraton came up at the top of the list for 200 USD. I booked it and returned to the reception desk. She retrieved my reservation, noted I had booked a standard room, and then upgraded me to an executive room for free.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow I expect to achieve a significant psychological milestone in this journey, as I'll be entering Turkey, the last border crossing I will doing in Asia!<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">1 August 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Batumi<p />
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BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Batumi, Georgia41.638611 41.63722200000006541.448696999999996 41.314498500000063 41.828525 41.959945500000067tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-4679708546855624542015-07-31T10:04:00.000+02:002015-08-05T15:18:03.145+02:00Reflections on Iran<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A lot of people have of course been offering their views on the Iran nuclear deal, both before and after it was finalised. In the USA in particular, most of these opinions are un- or mis-informed, and are largely the manifestation of a deep-seated bias against Iran, which in turn arises from Iran's successful resistence against British and American imperialism. Americans, in particular, are deeply resentful of any country (e.g., Cuba, Venezuela and Vietnam) that successfully challenges their perceived entitlement to their self-appointed role as global hegemon.<br />
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With respect to the nuclear agreement, I personally support any and all efforts to limit or eliminate nuclear weapons, and so to the extent that this deal supports that broader objective I am supportive of it. But of course addressing the specific concerns arising from the Iranian nuclear programme whilst ignoring the far bigger threats posed by Israel and most of all, the USA, is obviously akin to a doctor being concerned with a foot blister on a cancer patient. Countries like the USA and Israel, who continue to harass, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mordechai_Vanunu">intimidate</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megan_Rice">imprison</a> opponents of their respective nuclear programmes have no moral authority to judge Iran on its programme. I am particularly offended by the fact that whilst the American effort to limit Iran's capabilities is based on Iran's international committments as a signatory to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_on_the_Non-Proliferation_of_Nuclear_Weapons">Non-Proliferation Treaty</a> (NPT), the USA declines to publicly express concern for the fact that Israel is one of only four countries globally (the others being North Korea, India and Pakistan) that has refused to accede to this accord. Moreover, the Obama Administration has based its concerns in part on the "fact" that as Iran is sitting on immense fossil-fuel reserves, it has no "legitimate" need for nuclear power. Yet in the 1970s, when Iran was under the brutal but loyal rule of Reza Pahlavi Shah, the Nixon and Ford administrations <a href="http://www.berkeleydailyplanet.com/issue/2013-04-26/article/41010?headline=Iran-s-Nuclear-Program-Made-in-the-USA-Historical-Analysis---By-Gar-Smith">actively supported General Electric and Westinghouse</a> in their efforts to export American nuclear technology to Iran.<br />
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But the recent history and the nuclear deal aside, I am more baffled by the British and American choice of allies in the struggle for regional political and economic dominance between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and the Islamic Republic of Iran. While the U.S. Congress <a href="https://foreignaffairs.house.gov/hearing/subcommittee-hearing-state-sponsor-terror-global-threat-iran">continues to promote</a> the generally unsupported view that Iran is an "exporter of terror," it is the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia that for decades has <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/23/opinion/isis-atrocities-started-with-saudi-support-for-salafi-hate.html?_r=0">promoted</a> its own violent and intolerant version of "Islam," "<a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/saudi/analyses/wahhabism.html">Wahabism</a>." Saudi-funded "madrassas" promote intolerance and extremism in places once known for their moderate versions of Islam, such as Morocco, Bosnia, Pakistan, Malaysia and Indonesia. ISIS, Boko Haram, and Al-Qaeda are all end-products of a decades-long, deliberate effort by the Saudis to radicalise Islam globally, with the explicit objective of making hatred and violence a core belief of this "faith." In Saudi Arabia, all faiths but Islam are banned; churches, synagogues, temples and other non-Islamic places of worship are illegal, and priests and others have been tortured by Saudi authorities for the "crime" of practicing their faith.<br />
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In Iran, in contrast, Christians, Jews, Zoroastrians and others worship freely, although Iran's history of persecution of the Bah'ai is shameful. Jews fled North Africa, Syria, Iraq, Yemen and other Arab countries with ancient Jewish communities decades ago, and the Christians have been following in recent years. Iran, however, remains home to a thriving and secure Jewish community, a fact even the New York Times has <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/23/opinion/23cohen.html">acknowledged</a>.<br />
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Like most Arab countries, Saudi Arabia is largely incapable of managing or producing anything without foreign assistance. No automobiles, white goods, or consumer electronics of any consequence are produced in the Arab world. Exports such a fossil fuels, petrochemicals and aluminum are produced by plants managed by Europeans and staffed by Asians. Other than the radical Wahabist rantings noted above, there are no cultural exports equivalent to American movies, Mexican soap operas, European cuisine, or Japanese graphic novels that originate from the Arab world. Iran, in contrast, produces both its own brand of automobiles, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paykan">Paykan</a>, and also assembles other brands, such as Peugot, under licence from the manufacturer. It has many other thriving industries, and it is a prolific source of both intellectual property and physical goods, in plants and instutions managed and staffed by Iranians.<br />
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Saudi Arabia is a strict totalitarian state, run by what amounts to an organised crime family, the House of Saud. Iran is governed by one of the most vibrant and well-functioning democracies in the world.<br />
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I am not of course arguing that Saudi Arabia has no redeeming qualities, or that Iran has no flaws. But it is baffling to compare these two competing political entities and understand why the USA, and the British before them, have consistently chosen to support the corrupt and dangerous Saudis over the responsible and capable Iranians.<br />
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Blogndog<br />
<br />
31 July 2015<br />
<br />
Tbilisi</div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com2Tbilisi, Georgia41.716667 44.78333299999997141.337479 44.137885999999973 42.095855 45.428779999999968tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-46698407144949114692015-07-17T17:12:00.001+02:002015-07-20T00:25:35.559+02:00Adventure Calls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've spent the last few weeks travelling overland from Qatar to Armenia in my Land Rover Defender, "El Guapo," (from where I flew here to the USA); the next few blog posts are about my adventures and experiences on that trip. I am posting these all at once as most of this period I was in Iran, where access to blogger is blocked by authorities. The dates of the original drafts are as noted at the end of the blog entry, although all were posted more or less simultaneously.
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">17 July 2015</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ann Arbor</p></div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA42.2808256 -83.74303780000002542.1868311 -83.904399300000023 42.3748201 -83.581676300000026tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-86913094526586484762015-07-16T22:17:00.000+02:002015-07-20T00:24:44.515+02:00Later, Mullah-Fuckas!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I of course mean the title of this entry in the most friendly, 'hip-hop' sense, so hope that none of the many kind and wonderful people I met in Iran (or anyone else) take any offence from it. If anyone does, well, get over it...bitches!</div>
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After our unsuccessful visit to the police station on Monday, Mehdi and I returned to the Hotel Sahand in Tabriz, had some lunch and discussed and digested the news about the nuclear deal, which had just been announced in Vienna. Iranians appeared to be thrilled, but I think the economic circumstances caused by the sanctions have created a lot of jobs, and many of those will disappear as domestic production is replaced by imports as the rial strengthens and trade barriers fall.</div>
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Monday evening I needed to rebook my flight to the USA, but every time I called Austrian Airlines, I just listened to recordings until my phone ran out of money. I did this three times, at 10 bucks a pop, before I decided I just needed to load up the account and stay on the line until I could get through. I changed my last of my 100 Euro notes for riyals and spent half of them on about 30 recharge vouchers. It took over an hour to tap in the 16 digits required for each one, and when I finished, I had over 400 thousand riyals on the account and my battery was almost dead. Recharged for 15 minutes and dialled Austrian again. Of course, they picked up almost right away, and inevitably, they charged me 900+ dollars to make the date change to Thursday. Finally went to bed after 11:00.</div>
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Next morning, of course the first stop was police headquarters, and this time we had the opportunity to pay homage to the Keeper of the Traffic Offences, who pronounced us violation-free, and issued a written Fatwa confirming that he was cool with us leaving Iran. We were out of there, less one set of temporary Iranian number plates and with our papers in order 10 minutes later.</div>
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Then the drive back to the border. I had the stamped carnet and the farewell wishes of the customs director 10 minutes later, but still had to get the OK from about six more guys before I could actually leave. First, customs, who entered all the details about myself and my vehicle in the computer. Then immigration – first to talk to one guy who asked all kinds of questions ("what is the capital of Michigan?"), scanned many pages of my passport, and entered a bunch of stuff in his computer. Then a second guy – more questions, more typing stuff in the computer before finally giving me an exit stamp. Back to customs. Vehicle paperwork issued. Heartfelt good-bye to Mehdi, then the barrier was lifted, and then I was free to go...to the next checkpoint, that is. Another paperwork check. More info entered into a ledger. Finally, the barrier was lifted and I drove onto the bridge over the Aras River (separating Iran from Armenia) and joined queue of vehicles waiting to enter Armenia about 10 meters over the border at about 13:30.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2fNHMHap5zm4xag-dPrJVV0SyD0mfm7sClawW6EjwwsODllkUQB_31kLb35jA_cMWK7pcChQfUMg-cUqC2PnD4jM-WsgaMvmnGDE1_nepnmk7vWVfxYvIk-zUY7OHUsc8f4l3AUEYZ8O/s1600/IMG_2932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2fNHMHap5zm4xag-dPrJVV0SyD0mfm7sClawW6EjwwsODllkUQB_31kLb35jA_cMWK7pcChQfUMg-cUqC2PnD4jM-WsgaMvmnGDE1_nepnmk7vWVfxYvIk-zUY7OHUsc8f4l3AUEYZ8O/s320/IMG_2932.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Yay! I'm out of Iran! – on the bridge over the Aras River, which forms the Iran-Armenia border. The Iranian part of the railing is painted red, white and green (the Iranian national colours); the Armenian portion is a utilitarian grey. The stripe on the roadway is the border</span><br /><br><br /></div>
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Snacked on some fruit and cheese while I waited and then had an initial check before being permitted to continue to immigration. This took a while, in part because the guy keep looking suspiciously at the extra pages that had been put in my passport, under the watchful eye of the portrait of Russian President Putin on the wall behind him. Then a "vehicle check" by another suspicious character before I was allowed to continue to the customs and immigration hall. Unfortunately, in conducting this check the inspector discovered that El Guapo's right rear wheel hub was missing its rubber cover and was leaking oil. They kept asking for my "card machine," meaning vehicle registration, and were reluctant to accept the form printed on an ordinary sheet of A4 paper that was the only ownership document Qatar had issued. They eventually accepted it and directed me to the bank to pay the fees and get my documents copied. The fee was 52 dollars, payable in dollars, euros, or Armenian drams. Unfortunately, I had only about 32 dollars and €5 remaining after the day before. Canadian dollars, Swiss francs, and sterling were all rejected. There was a cash machine, but it was out of service, so I had to pay extortionist rates to get a taxi into town to find a bank. On the way back, I stopped at the insurance shack just outside the customs facility to buy the mandatory vehicle cover. Returned to bank, paid my fees, made copies of everything, and returned to the customs broker.</div>
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It took well over an hour to finish everything, in part because in crossing from Iran to Armenia I left the part of the world where officials didn't know the country I was going to (Czech Republic), and entered the zone in which nobody knew where my vehicle was from (Qatar). The agent left her desk three times to consult with her superiors, only to return to her computer and stare at the same two short documents she had in front of her, my passport and my vehicle export certificate. Between them, there probably wasn't more than a dozen pieces of information there – my name, surname, passport number, date of birth, place of birth, chassis number, registration number, etc. But for unexplained reasons dozens of other customers arrived, got their paperwork processed and left while she continued to struggle with my documents. Finally I was given leave to return to my vehicle. Once there, the same suspicious customs officer I encountered earlier again searched the vehicle, then directed me (and it appeared, me alone) to an adjacent building to have the vehicle scanned by a giant x-ray machine. Then back inside the customs hall for more discussions between the customs official and the customs broker over my vehicle paperwork before everything was finally signed and stamped. A final check at the exit and El Guapo and I were legally inside Armenia.</div>
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Even with gaining a half hour from the time zone difference in crossing the border, it was still after 17:00 when I was finally under way to Yerevan, over 400 km of narrow, twisty mountain roads away with limited traffic and limited facilities in a vehicle with a faulty wheel hub. I passed a couple of mechanics in the nearby town of Meghri, and considered having one take a look, but fixing the problem I was sure would require replacing the wheel hub seals and the chances of finding those locally were close to zero. There was no noise and no abnormal heat in the hub, so I decided to risk it rather than almost certainly miss the opportunity to say goodbye to my father.</div>
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The road and the landscape I passed through over the next hour was as beautiful and dramatic as it was challenging to drive. The road rose to well over 3000 metres at several points, before bringing me to the town of Kadzharan at around 18:40, where I found an Orange Armenia boutique just before closing, where I was able to buy a local SIM card and some airtime before hitting the road again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjXjl87UZbkbl3j4iRYCOYQtWn0kYemmY64OKE54IfT6jOAORC1I6gbyL4AA_9E2QusQayGtqwHM9nAEJSUbMMXLbJk9Vah0yOK5-gAcAt-AeHHdYOpmjELIKDktC_TRNEunbRe6QzNRT/s1600/P1010144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjXjl87UZbkbl3j4iRYCOYQtWn0kYemmY64OKE54IfT6jOAORC1I6gbyL4AA_9E2QusQayGtqwHM9nAEJSUbMMXLbJk9Vah0yOK5-gAcAt-AeHHdYOpmjELIKDktC_TRNEunbRe6QzNRT/s320/P1010144.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfEi5ewIfWoYu9QvwIWY4NWINxvMfhCk5ibpX46_ARPLhFjqjkUImMv6aCBQFxFtIsI6rH3-jvp28UxNPr4e_ldgOzAGG93I1bBsd3XwKC5p91aYT6AKT3yhvHMmbRWQZl77dXP68y5KB/s1600/P1010145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfEi5ewIfWoYu9QvwIWY4NWINxvMfhCk5ibpX46_ARPLhFjqjkUImMv6aCBQFxFtIsI6rH3-jvp28UxNPr4e_ldgOzAGG93I1bBsd3XwKC5p91aYT6AKT3yhvHMmbRWQZl77dXP68y5KB/s320/P1010145.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Some views of the dramatic and dangerous road linking Meghri with Yerevan</span></div><br />
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I had arranged to park the vehicle at a charity facility owned by a friend of an Armenian friend of mine in Yerevan, but hadn't received any response to the texts I had sent earlier in the day from Iran. I tried calling the two contact numbers I had, but one was switched off and the other had no response. I left a voicemail with my Armenian number and continued on my way.</div>
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I crossed over four more mountains over the next two hours, the desert of Iran gradually changing to dense green forest before arriving at Goris on the "main" highway. Just after the intersection was a mechanics workshop. I stopped and tried the numbers in Yerevan again without success, sent two more texts, had a look at the wheel hub again and considered asking the mechanic to have a look. More leaking oil was clearly visible, but still temperatures were normal. I decided to press on.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWUaVlI7qOa6Jitss9vgWnBfMkW8YaVem_AKMzFzya8KTCs_CFzhdpunsSl6Ikc60_WXP49B_AKqesOQMM1n4z0FCJnjEAL9dc0B6TeISbLIF6gTUlg7B3_k_u7qvTlLPc4k1IQfUht83/s1600/Armenia+Road.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWUaVlI7qOa6Jitss9vgWnBfMkW8YaVem_AKMzFzya8KTCs_CFzhdpunsSl6Ikc60_WXP49B_AKqesOQMM1n4z0FCJnjEAL9dc0B6TeISbLIF6gTUlg7B3_k_u7qvTlLPc4k1IQfUht83/s400/Armenia+Road.tiff" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">A screenshot from Google Maps showing a representative section of the road from Meghri to Yerevan</span></div><br />
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Now the road was straighter and flatter, but it was also now dark. For the first time in hours, I got El Guapo into 4th gear, even 5th a couple of times, as I careened through the darkness on the poorly paved road. I passed numerous heavy vehicles and then began descending towards Yerevan as the twists and switchbacks turns returned. Several treacherous turns combined 180 degree hairpins with washed-out roadways. Losing control and plunging into a chasm would not have been difficult, but finally around 23:00 I reached the main road and started the final 50 km dash into Yerevan, setting off at least three speed cameras along the way, and nearly continuously praying that my left rear axle wouldn't seize up.</div>
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I never managed to contact anyone from the charity, but I had the address and decided to go there to see if I could rouse the caretaker. I arrived in Yerevan around midnight and found a busy petrol station frequented by taxi drivers, and the help of some friendly young Armenians, managed to find one that would be willing to escort me to the address I had for the charity. I waited in the vehicle for a few minutes while he filled his tank, and while doing so, some drops of viscous liquid dripped onto my windscreen. I assumed it was from a tree or something and didn't think anything of it at the time. I followed the driver through Yerevan traffic. We stopped to ask directions of some more friendly young Armenians, who knew exactly the charity I was looking for and how to get there. I continued following the driver through the city; at one stop light, more liquid dripped onto windscreen, and I suddenly realised it must be diesel leaking from one of the jerry cans on my roof rack. I got out to have a look, but when the light turned green, the taxi sped away. I jumped back in and raced after him, but at a fork a couple hundred meters later, I lost sight of him and mistakenly followed the wrong taxi. As soon as I realised this, I pulled over and waited and thankfully he soon reappeared.
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We found the charity without further difficulty, but it was so dark and quiet it almost appeared abandoned. I tried the bell, and we both tried pounding on the gate and shouting, all to no avail. Plan B was to park at the airport, So I asked the driver to lead me there. Fortunately, it wasn't far away, so I paid and thanked him just outside the entrance to the airport car park.</div>
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Naturally, this trip could not end without one final bit of drama. Like most, the car park entrance featured a notice indicating the headroom (2,4 metres) on a hanging board designed to impact any part of a vehicle above this height. Because it hung from chains, it was intended to do so without causing damage. The driving lamps at the front of the roof rack cleared easily, but the jerry cans looked very close. I inched forward. A driver stopped and waved me forward, indicating I was clear. I got out and stood on the bumper. It looked like I had about 4 cm to spare. I inched forward some more. The jerry cans cleared the height indicator. However, about a metre further into the garage was a second headroom indicator, like the first covered in red and white stripes. Unlike the first, however, this one did not swing freely from chains suspended from the ceiling, but instead was a solid steel I-beam. And it was about 10 cm lower than the first. As best I could tell, this was an ingenious system designed by the Armenians to foil any invading Turks, who would be lulled into a false sense of security by the first barrier and then have their vehicles disabled by the second. </div><br />
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I stopped short of the steel beam, climbed onto the roof and unlocked the jerry cans. I found the one that was leaking, poured what was left into the fuel tank and abandoned it by the entrance. The jerry cans were at the rear of the roof rack, but the leak had dripped diesel into one of the channels on the roof rack, through which it had flowed forward to drip onto the windscreen. I laid the remaining cans flat, drove in and parked, then replaced them on the roof. Cleaned out the fridge and the trash, gathered the things I was taking with me, and then backed El Guapo up against the concrete wall, making it nearly impossible to break in to the back.</div>
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Headed into the terminal – reeking of sweat and diesel – and checked in at 2:30, almost exactly two hours before my flight. I remembered almost everything, but at the checkpoint realised I still had my rescue tool, which includes a knife blade and seat-belt cutter, on my belt. I was surprised and pleased to learn that they could hold the item for me for up to six months, so I handed it over and filled out a form that would allow me to reclaim it on my return.</div>
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Briefly spoke to my brother to tell him I had made my flight and to expect me in Detroit. Bad news about my Dad -- both mind and body faltering. Twice he has fallen and hurt himself. I will likely be there before he passes, but he may not be someone I recognise, and he may not recognise me.</div>
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In the lounge, had my first beer for 3 weeks. Boarded my flight and arrived in Vienna later that morning. Stopped into Hugo Boss and bought a shirt for Dad's funeral, which I had neglected to pack, then boarded a connecting flight to Frankfort, and then a third flight to Detroit. Still wearing the same clothes I put on Wednesday morning in Tabriz. I'll be seeing my Dad soon.</div>
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Blogndog</div>
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16 July 2015</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Lufthansa flight 442, en route from FRA to DTW<br /><br /></div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-31702653678825871102015-07-14T21:08:00.000+02:002016-01-22T18:29:04.107+01:00Faith Doubted<p class="MsoNormal">I set two alarms for 5:00 this morning. Rose, showered, dressed, packed and loaded the vehicle by 6:00. After a stop for fuel we were on the road to Jolfa. Along the way, we passed a rare, almost perfectly preserved caravanserai amidst the dramatic mountain scenery. I’ve seen other preserved or restored caravanserai (just what is the plural form of that word?) in places like Nicosia and Aleppo, but this one appeared much as it would have to a 17th century traveller, with no modern car parks, signage, souvenir shops or other evidence of later centuries.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">After Jolfa, we passed the crossed the railway tracks that once led to Moscow – before the line was interrupted by Armenia and Azerbaijan’s war over Nagoro-Karabakh in the 1990s — via the ”Iron Bridge” over the Aras River, which separates Iranian Jolfa from Azerbaijani Djulfa. From that point, the road followed the river for more than 50 twisting kilometres, with increasingly dramatic mountains on both sides. At some point, the opposite bank became Armenia rather than Azerbaijan, and we arrived at Norduz and the Meghri-Norduz border crossing soon afterwards.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5DUFpzPRJj6lzuo9FCF4yQaESoxrkWZWTvKxuUKauH_tcXl0Bzk9LkzhqdQfKG-oToBqnvfd3MOKliSsvMgs9JBri0AXs8vkyPgB2L4Wo_HSYwvSsgdK8AhazN6KzwgjkobBwttix_uj/s1600/P1010141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5DUFpzPRJj6lzuo9FCF4yQaESoxrkWZWTvKxuUKauH_tcXl0Bzk9LkzhqdQfKG-oToBqnvfd3MOKliSsvMgs9JBri0AXs8vkyPgB2L4Wo_HSYwvSsgdK8AhazN6KzwgjkobBwttix_uj/s320/P1010141.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Looking across the Aras River from Iran at the Azerbaijani village of Kotam</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">As usual, we were misdirected a few times before we found the office we needed to handle El Guapo’s exit paperwork. At around 10:30, we got some bad news — we could not exit until the police had removed El Guapo’s temporary Iranian number plates, and that had to be done at police headquarters back in Tabriz.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We wasted the better part of another hour trying to find a way around this requirement, but eventually headed back to Tabriz at 11:45, hoping to make it to the police station before it closed at 14:00. Mehdi spent much of the ride telling me how hopeless it was we would manage to do this today — why do I keep attracting this Marvin-the-manic-depressive-robot type personality into my life? We had a little difficulty in finding the place, but eventually pulled at the front gate at 13:58, and were reluctantly admitted. The usual running around various offices ensued before we were directed to another gate, being aggressively protected by a young officer who was allowing people to exit, but no one to enter. Mehdi spoke with them in Farsi, then told me it was ”not possible” today. He hadn’t even tried to sound even vaguely desperate, so I pushed him aside, addressed the officer and said, ”please, sir, please, please please. We have just driven 2 ½ hours from Norduz to come here. we had trouble finding it. Have you ever driven that road? It’s a terrible road, very dangerous. I drove very fast on this road so I could get here before two. Please. Please, please, let us in. Please.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”OK,” he replied, and stepped aside to allow us to pass. If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">The familiar routine ensued. First find the right office. Then speak to the junior guy tells you it can’t be done. Ask to speak to his superior, a Colonel. Talk to the Colonel. Have him call the junior guy in. Let them discuss it for a bit, then have the junior guy find the right form and have the Colonel sign it and stamp it. ”Bring the vehicle to the gate so we can remove the number plates,” he said. Things were looking good.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I drove El Guapo around to the gate, where a cluster of three functionaries waited. There were no tools in the facility. I brought several kilos of tools, but no drill. ”You should have brought a drill,” observed Mehdi. Thank you, Captain Hindsight. Using a big hammer and big screwdriver, I managed to bash out the rivets holding the number plates in place with minimal damage to El Guapo. In the meantime, Mehdi and the others had disappeared. They soon returned with bad news: there was one more step required — they need to confirm that I had no outstanding traffic violations, and they guy who did this had just left for the day. Come back tomorrow at at 8:00. No way around it.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLF5XHvZ63xqVT9iJV3jDVbrGEAix8It9pXgUa1Vh7W2n1goUyrf6H9A_RT83_Pa6Wf-3MBdyFaknHKaghVGaLpWxgFJm_m8XdRTI4k7gHYf8nGOInKAmQEM_OykFqNKnsV0KAcyCIhc53/s1600/IMG_1028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLF5XHvZ63xqVT9iJV3jDVbrGEAix8It9pXgUa1Vh7W2n1goUyrf6H9A_RT83_Pa6Wf-3MBdyFaknHKaghVGaLpWxgFJm_m8XdRTI4k7gHYf8nGOInKAmQEM_OykFqNKnsV0KAcyCIhc53/s320/IMG_1028.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Bashing my way out of Iran (photo: Mehdi Fatemi)</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">We returned to the always charming, fully-amenetied Hotel Sahand. Mehdi cancelled his flight back to Shiraz. I had to pay for the cancelled flights, another night hotel for both of us, and another day of Mehdi’s guide fees. Total cost - 482 USD. I was broke but manage to find some unused Omani Riyal left over from my trip there in March with MJ, which the agency agreed to accept as payment.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, rejoicing in Iran and the scent of political opportunity amongst Republicans in Washington as a deal to end sanctions over Iran’s nuclear programme was announced in Vienna. I should have asked John Kerry to toss in exit clearance for myself as part of the deal.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">14 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tabriz<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Tabriz, Östazarbaijan, Iran38.066667 46.29999999999995537.8666855 45.977276499999952 38.2666485 46.622723499999957tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-52310584820520358862015-07-13T20:59:00.000+02:002015-07-20T00:27:34.355+02:00Lucky 13th<p class="MsoNormal">I made the increasingly familiar trip to the foreigners police station again this morning, this time praying continuously to the collection of angels, saints, prophets, buddhas, bottisatvas, revered ancestors, etc. that have gotten me this far. The first good sign was that my passport didn’t appear to be in the ”waiting to be processed” pile any more. However, after a few minutes it appeared that it wasn’t in any of the other piles either — possibly at the foreign ministry. However, they found it eventually — perhaps it was in the ”people who keep coming back here and bugging us to do our jobs” pile. They asked us to wait — a good sign, and sure enough I was summoned to the window 10 minutes later where they delivered my passport complete with a 1 week visa extension.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We drove back to the hotel, where I hastily packed and loaded everything into El Guapo. The leisure battery had been completely discharged while it waited in Shiraz, but plugging in the battery charger overnight restored everything to working order. We departed the Hotel Khayyam at 10:00 sharp, and entered the mobile lunatic asylum that is Tehran traffic. Without GPS, we made a few minor navigation errors but before 11:00 we were out of the city and on the highway to Tabriz.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the next few hours, the traffic steadily grew thinner, and the landscape less urban and more dramatic. At several points, the road approached 2000 metres above sea level, but never quite reached that high. Eventually, we entered the city of Tabriz and spent a good hour circling around trying to locate our hotel, a tiny storefront entrance that I eventually spotted. Then spent another hour trying to figure out how to approach by vehicle, as the main entrance was located on a bus lane. Eventually we found the narrow alley — scarcely 40cm wider than El Guapo — that led to the hotel car park.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2QLRouUOv32yX0zMKsnA8aj3rzz3j999ZReVS8gw6LXBn6uQR2tjmsCDf-bMdiSKy5Wp8oz7Mnqoa-6IRW8JHATf2XPGryN3HKBTy43ujqaFeTMtp1QWwaSbGp6ptFrFN8ALp_devp77/s1600/P1010126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2QLRouUOv32yX0zMKsnA8aj3rzz3j999ZReVS8gw6LXBn6uQR2tjmsCDf-bMdiSKy5Wp8oz7Mnqoa-6IRW8JHATf2XPGryN3HKBTy43ujqaFeTMtp1QWwaSbGp6ptFrFN8ALp_devp77/s320/P1010126.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Navigating the narrow alley that leads to the Hotel Sahand car park</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">On a short pedestrian street nearby, I found more restaurant options than I did in all of Tehran, but had to wait until dusk to eat. Tomorrow, I hope to finally leave Iran.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">13 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tabriz<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Tabriz, Östazarbaijan, Iran38.066667 46.29999999999995537.8666855 45.977276499999952 38.2666485 46.622723499999957tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-16191519293323405552015-07-12T20:45:00.000+02:002015-07-19T20:48:35.743+02:00Lazy Shiites<p class="MsoNormal">Today was supposed to be the big day, the Get-Out-of-Tehran Day. We got an early start and headed over to the foreigners police office with my passport receipt, expecting to collect my passport with its extended visa. After a little difficulty in locating the office we went inside, upstairs to the ”Visa Extension” window, where there was no queue, but unfortunately also nobody working. However, through the glass I could see that my passport was on the very top of the pile!<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">When someone did finally arrive to assist us, however, we soon learned that that was the ”passports waiting to be processed” pile my passport was at the top of, and not the ”passports ready to be picked up” pile. The guy explained that because I was American, my passport had to go to the Foreign Ministry to have the extension approved. OK, fair enough, but what exactly had they been doing with my passport in the six days since I dropped it off? It was just sitting there with my completed application form exactly as I had left it with them, apparently entirely untouched these past few days, except perhaps for an occasional dusting.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Mehdi went to plead my case with the Colonel in charge of the facility, but all he could do was to direct his staff to expedite having the passport sent to the Foreign Ministry. Back at the ”Visa Extensions” window, they promised to do so and told us to call at 14:00.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Back to the hotel. We talked to the front desk. The guy there knew someone at the Ministry. He spoke with him. He promised to expedite processing of my passport as soon as it arrived, but he could nothing until the police sent it over.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, we did a get some good news — El Guapo arrived at the Khayyam Hotel in running order. I thanked the two young guys who drove him here, cleaned it up and re-organised a bit, and confirmed that nothing had gone missing. Connected the mains power in order to charge up the leisure battery and run the fridge.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I decided I couldn’t wait any longer to sample some of my caviar, so I went in search of supermarket in order to buy some bread and sour cream to eat it with. I went wandering the streets of Tehran in search of supermarket with no success. Asking for a ”supermarket” inevitably got me directed to some hole-in-the-wall shop selling basics. I decided to try Google, which reliably turned up a half-dozen ”supermarkets” in the area, although none was less than a few kilometres away. I took the metro two stops to the closest one and found it was just a little bigger than the tiny convenience stores I had already passed up, and I couldn’t find any sour cream. There was another a few blocks away, but it wasn’t much better. I decided to settle for some yoghurt with shallots, and something called ”breakfast cream.”. Stocked up on some other snacks in the continued belief I would be taking a long drive in the near future. On the way, I found a bakery cranking out fresh Iranian bread and bought a few sheets. Then took a taxi back to the hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Mehdi was waiting and we called the police office around 13:40 (they had said to call at 14:00); however, no one answered and after a few tries we concluded they had left for the day.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Had some lunch and a nap; it’s a pity I have no chilled vodka to accompany it, but I think its time to dig into that caviar!<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">12 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tehran<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Teheran, Teheran, Iran35.696111 51.42305599999997435.283462 50.777608999999977 36.108760000000004 52.068502999999971tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-5217904331323162882015-07-11T18:19:00.000+02:002016-01-22T18:36:05.042+01:00Faith Tested<p class="MsoNormal">Given what I’ve been through in the past couple weeks, I am naturally hesitant to declare that I finally have all my problems sorted, but things are indeed looking positive as I write this on Saturday evening in my Tehran hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">TNT delivered the new starter motor to the tour agency in Shiraz this morning, and they’ve given it to the driver to bring to me along with El Guapo tomorrow morning.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">My Dad’s health appears to have rebounded slightly; MJ says he hanging on for me, and I am sure that is the case. So I am increasingly confident I will arrive in time to say good-bye to him, but also concerned about the suffering he is enduring as a result.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve just received word through Mehdi that the driver is setting out with El Guapo from Shiraz and is expected here early tomorrow morning.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">And I expect my extended visa to be ready for collection tomorrow.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">So, whilst it’s difficult to utter the words ”if all goes according to plan” at this point without experiencing a deep sense of irony, my realistic expectation is that I will be on the road before noon tomorrow and in Tabriz tomorrow evening. I hope to arrive at the Armenian border before noon the next day, and although the last four borders I've crossed were successively more difficult to clear, I hoping that I have finally broken that particular curse and will have a routine and problem-free exit from Iran and entry into Armenia.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Today was therefore hopefully my last day of sightseeing in Teheran, and we spent it in a more successful attempt to visit S’ad Abad. Most enjoyable about the visit were the grounds themselves, which were beautifully landscaped, heavily shaded and watered by numerous streams, which made the area noticeably cooler and more comfortable.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOToas5Jk4RPHRtSyhYw8uhDLNIP_1HVhaK0kpFX2aVYQqh2MORGlbjp9D4Kc-a7O5dEj-cgwgLlcTmeqnnWKmXJp4k3FO3Nin3fMaI25HniAGqZiE0IDhCwAf0qJ6Wr7O4sZqI2FPa4L8/s1600/P1010105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOToas5Jk4RPHRtSyhYw8uhDLNIP_1HVhaK0kpFX2aVYQqh2MORGlbjp9D4Kc-a7O5dEj-cgwgLlcTmeqnnWKmXJp4k3FO3Nin3fMaI25HniAGqZiE0IDhCwAf0qJ6Wr7O4sZqI2FPa4L8/s320/P1010105.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Reza Pahlavi Shah's "White Palace"</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">The main sites were two Palaces, one imaginatively called the Green Palace, and the other the White Palace. The Green Palace was constructed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rez%C4%81_Sh%C4%81h">Reza Shah</a>, and the White Palace by his son, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammad_Reza_Pahlavi">Mohammad Reza Pahlavi</a>. To me, both palaces were most notable for their relative simplicity and lack of ostentation, especially in contrast to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qajar_dynasty">Qajar</a>-era equivalents. The Green Palace is probably less than 800 square meters in size, and the White Palace perhaps twice that, big enough for a tract mansion, but modest as a principal residence for a monarch officially referred to as the ”King of Kings”. In front of the White Palace were the two bronze legs, cut off at the knee, all that remained of a statue of the last Pahlavi pulled down during the revolution.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggyDFghR5RdqGh1c70yJM9TSCcPtmj6p8nxIGOf_Bl9f5NNdvC7WuyQBEhyphenhyphenhn2XZYchyADbqJJxGJpl6uyCmkyKdHgrW1NCnClXoh2VfBe_eEjjNQs0MebPay_P3QYfHeGJYNPQMbjG7QD/s1600/P1010103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggyDFghR5RdqGh1c70yJM9TSCcPtmj6p8nxIGOf_Bl9f5NNdvC7WuyQBEhyphenhyphenhn2XZYchyADbqJJxGJpl6uyCmkyKdHgrW1NCnClXoh2VfBe_eEjjNQs0MebPay_P3QYfHeGJYNPQMbjG7QD/s320/P1010103.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">All that is left of the statue of the last Shah</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were many other museums on site, including the Museum of Fine Arts, but more than we could take in in one day. We had a look at the imperial collection of fine automobiles, again rather modest in both size (about 10 vehicles, including a snowmobile) and ostentation — mostly Mercedes and Rolls Royces, but nothing too showy. More interesting was the miniature painting museum, which included many artistic interpretations of the poems of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hafez">Hafez</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omar_Khayy%C3%A1m">Omar Khayyám</a> and other Persian poets. Several of these depicted drinking, sexual behaviour and other un-Islamic themes, and almost certainly would never be publicly displayed in Qatar or many other Arabic countries, an indicator that despite the reputation of its government, Islam here is still moderate, at least in comparison with the Wahabi-influenced Gulf states.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">On the way back we had another wander through the bazaar at Tajrish, where I admired the freshness and breadth of selection on display at the fruit and produce vendors. One thing I had been looking for Iran — so far, unsuccessfully — was some Iranian caviar. In the bazaar we were approached by a random stranger who offered me a tin of something labelled ”Bluga” for 80 USD. I was hesitant, and Mehdi also was not entirely confident about the guy, so he told him to come to our hotel at 18:00 this evening. Mehdi figured if he actually showed, it was an indicator that he was probably legit.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43f2l1c2XOXd_m1SEfgOlAV_VGgC3TQq2vZq5SAxPjazVp7NlIjwYw_FooLRqq_lg38xs9nKBxxBFNy-rrAGBKwx5hoVyIXNJ6VdAXwg2GXtNRfArOe4euH5-HAYEFMib-zjPiC1WRGJU/s1600/P1010120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43f2l1c2XOXd_m1SEfgOlAV_VGgC3TQq2vZq5SAxPjazVp7NlIjwYw_FooLRqq_lg38xs9nKBxxBFNy-rrAGBKwx5hoVyIXNJ6VdAXwg2GXtNRfArOe4euH5-HAYEFMib-zjPiC1WRGJU/s320/P1010120.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">The bazaar at Tajrish</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">After making the long slog back to Teheran, eating a late lunch and having a short nap, it was 18:30, the guy hadn’t showed, and the front desk clerk suggested another location to buy some. After walking for better part of an hour to a location near the German Embassy, we were told the shop we were after had moved to a new spot, just 5 minutes walk from our hotel. However, there was another shop nearby, so we decided to check it out. No Beluga, no Sevruga, only ”pressed”, the lowest grade of Iranian caviar was available for 1.7 million riyal, around 50 USD. However, it appeared of reliable provenance, with a production date on the label and a lead seal proving that the wire bail keeping the lid in place had not been tampered with. I decided to buy the tin and also check out the place we were originally looking for near our hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We found it about 20 minutes later, and the shopkeeper produced an unsealed tin of what he said was Beluga. I’m not entirely expert in these things, but I do know that Beluga consists of large, distinct grey eggs, and visually it passed muster, so I forked over another 2.2 million riyal for 200 grams. Not quite cocaine prices, but getting close. On our way back to the hotel we met up with our friend from the Tajrish bazaar, who told us he had arrived at the hotel two minutes after we left (he was supposed to come between 17:00 and 18:00). I told him he was too late, indicating the shopping bags I was carrying. He apologised for being late, and offered me his tin of ”Bluga” for 750 000 Riyal, half of his original price. I declined.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I kept both my tins of caviar on ice and put them in the fridge in my room. El Guapo, of course, is equipped with on-board refrigeration, so getting it to Yerevan should not be difficult. Carrying to the USA with two changes of planes and 19 hours of travel will a little more challenging; hopefully I can charm a flight attendant into keeping it in the fridge for me, and also hopefully I will not forget to collect it at the end of each flight. Beluga has been almost impossible to lay hands on these days, and when you can — e.g., at Dean and Delucca in Doha — it was outrageously expensive, typically 300 USD for the smallest container. So if I manage this, I and my very closest friends will be enjoying some in Ann Arbor in the near future.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s evening now, just waiting for my dinner to be delivered before getting some sleep in preparation for what I hope is a successful departure from Teheran tomorrow, with vehicle, replacement starter motor, and passport with visa extension.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">11 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tehran<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com1Teheran, Teheran, Iran35.696111 51.42305599999997435.283462 50.777608999999977 36.108760000000004 52.068502999999971tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-43058627475813705932015-07-11T10:25:00.000+02:002016-01-18T20:41:54.127+01:00Shiny Happy People<p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday was an important Shia holiday, the Feast of the Martyrdom of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ali">Ali</a>, the prophet’s cousin and son-in-law, whose murder triggered the schism that split Islam into Sunni and Shia branches. As a result, all the tourist destinations were closed, and so I took an obligatory break from my frenetic sight-seeing schedule and spent much of the day just hanging out at my hotel.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I did take a couple of long walks around Tehran, and checked out the <a href="metro.tehran.ir">Tehran Metro</a>. There are four lines lines in the metro system: Line 1, Line 2, Line 4, and Line 5. No doubt Israel has something to do with the missing Line 3. It was unremarkable in many ways; vaguely reminiscent of Montréal, and like Cairo, features ”women only” carriages, although it is doubtful Iranian men have the same difficulty keeping their hands to themselves the way Egyptian men do. One unique feature I particularly liked was the train status board. Different Metro systems have different ways of keeping you informed about the next train — in Stockholm and London, there are information screens that tell you how long to the next few trains and their destination. In Warsaw, where trains run at fixed intervals, a counter starts when a train leaves the station, so when it reaches 4 minutes during peak hours, you know another should be arriving momentarily. Here in Tehran, there are graphic signs showing where the trains are — red dots indicating they are in a station, and yellow arrows showing when they are travelling between stations.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNuzKHNxlrmLmzS7S9_bgQHobUXYiVmfd0XYOaC6vdii3jqaKmS3VoR38BHWXd25U5g4JhPfi4fa7jB6UuYRn_wdc51XYzke66xTxr01fyOWN1WiOEJAbhbZLjCLIyRLxXzRrgLxXF2JL/s1600/IMG_2897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNuzKHNxlrmLmzS7S9_bgQHobUXYiVmfd0XYOaC6vdii3jqaKmS3VoR38BHWXd25U5g4JhPfi4fa7jB6UuYRn_wdc51XYzke66xTxr01fyOWN1WiOEJAbhbZLjCLIyRLxXzRrgLxXF2JL/s320/IMG_2897.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Where's my train?</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are many things I have come to like about Iran; I have to admit that the food is not one of them, although you might not guess that from seeing how my waistline has expanded since I have arrived. One reason is that there are not a lot of dining options in Tehran or anywhere else; this may in part be because of Iranians' preference for entertaining at home, where they can escape the social strictures imposed by mullahs and literally let their hair down.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">That evening, I decided to get a break from the endless rice and kabab and seek out one of Tehran’s few fine dining venues, the nearby <a href="www.bagrre.ir">Baharestan Grand Restaurant</a>. I arrived shortly before dusk (none of the restaurants of course would be serving until the end of the fast) to find the place brightly lit, the tables set, and plates of salad, bread, dates and nuts covered with plastic wrap already set out and waiting for the end of the fast. Dozens of people milled around, but nobody seemed to be charge, or even to speak English. Finally one charming young woman offered to assist in English, but she informed me that the restaurant was fully booked for the evening. But then she asked how many persons, and I explained that I was alone. ”Just you?” she asked, ”OK, no problem,” and she led me to a place at a round table. <p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I waited for a bit as they brought more food to each of the tables, including a steaming tureen of soup that looked and smelled fantastic. When the fast finally ended, I was joined by the young woman who helped me earlier (who introduced herself as Mehrnoush), and a fit-looking gentleman who turned out to be her brother. After speaking with them a few minutes I slowly realised that the brother — an apparently well to-do anæsthesiologist — had actually booked the entire restaurant for the evening for a private event with his very large extended family, and I just either charmed or buffaloed my way into this gathering, depending on your perspective on such things.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">First priority for Mehrnoush, her mother and sister was determining my marital status and economic potential. They accomplished by asking a series of subtle, yet probing, questions such as ”are you single?” and ”do you earn a lot of money?”. Her Mom was visibly disappointed when I told her I was engaged, and she was not entirely convinced of this until I produced a photo of MJ, whom she nonetheless pronounced to be ”very beautiful.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Second order of business was giving all the young cousins of the clan the opportunity to practice their English with me, which many of them did. Some were shy and hesitant, but in particular one charismatic 11 year-old spoke with much poise and confidence, and learning that I was from America, declared that ”I think your country is sensational!” Apparently, this was one of his favourite adjectives, as he also used it to describe the Chelsea Football Club, BMW automobiles, the iPhone, the Iranian Volleyball team and the sport of volleyball in general, and the dessert we were eating. I didn’t ask his views on the Greek economy.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next came all the men of the clan, who each in turn stopped by my table to show off babies, ask my opinions on Football and Volleyball, complain about the sanctions and politicians, and tell me in which state they had relatives in the USA (it was always California).<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, the ladies — the charming, black-clad Iranian ladies — who arrived in a gaggle led by Mehrnoush’s mom and ancient Auntie, and who asked far more pointed and intelligent questions than the men did — what did I think of the nuclear negotiations? Did I like Obama? (they didn’t) Did I like Khomeni? (they liked him even less). How old was I? (I referred the question to my attorneys).<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Undoubtedly that evening will be one of my best memories of Iran — they were all so charming, so welcoming, so friendly. It took me a full half-hour to take my leave, shaking hands with the men, bowing to the ladies, high-fiving the kids. Mehrnoush gave me her number and told me to call if I needed any help. I got back to the hotel to find Mehdi and one of the hotel staff having a cup of tea in the front garden and joined them for a bit before calling it a night.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next day, it was back to sight-seeing with a visit to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golestan_Palace">Golestan Palace</a>, a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qajar_dynasty">Qajar</a>-dynasty complex of buildings arranged around a landscaped courtyard. Near the entrance was the marble throne where the Shahs of Iran have been crowned for the past 300 years or so (the Qajars moved the capital to the then-village of Tehran from Isfahan in the early 18th century). Even before this visit I was starting to get opulence burn-out — and this sent me over the edge: yes, very nice, the interior of this palace is marble. Ooh, this one is covered in silver and mirrors. Ah, here’s a gilt one, and this one is all intricately inlaid woods. Somewhat more interesting were the displays of gifts that the Shahs had received from foreign dignitaries and potentates over the centuries, including two Farsi typewriters from the USA, and a badge of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Order_of_Kamehameha_I_%28decoration%29">Royal Order of Kamehameha I</a> from one of the Kings of Hawaii’i.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMX0iHioc6Pqvrpw3wVdUIlDeVUMA9LVt7iOcnlKS4HbIC_plxrF82SSp0MxeMaeekFRmTf7UB43qiDAO1_dOvI-gMEeMo9p2yl_2jf0leL9nkic_p_s0A9Lp0qbvEkSKV0_BL_t29_fQ/s1600/P1010089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMX0iHioc6Pqvrpw3wVdUIlDeVUMA9LVt7iOcnlKS4HbIC_plxrF82SSp0MxeMaeekFRmTf7UB43qiDAO1_dOvI-gMEeMo9p2yl_2jf0leL9nkic_p_s0A9Lp0qbvEkSKV0_BL_t29_fQ/s320/P1010089.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">The Qajars liked things sparkly</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">After the palace, we headed to the nearby <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Bazaar,_Tehran">Grand Bazaar</a>, which is reminiscent of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. Like most bazaars, it was organised into different sections with all shops of one type clustered together — carpets, kitchenware, housewares, electronics, office supplies, gold, spices, etc. A scrum of shouting, gesticulating men outside one of the entrances turned out to the city’s foreign currency market. We also made a short visit to the nearby <a href="http://www.lonelyplanet.com/iran/tehran/sights/religious/imam-khomeini-mosque">Imam Khomeni mosque</a> before calling it a day.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Friday was another day of enforced relaxation, as all government-run facilities, including museums, were closed to encourage everyone to attend anti-Israeli demonstrations for "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quds_Day">Quds Day</a>". We didn’t know this, however, when we set out this morning for Tajrish, in northern Tehran at the last stop on Metro line 1 in order to visit the <a href="www.sadmu.com">Sa’d Abad complex</a>, where two more palaces and various museums, etc. are located. Tajrish itself had a pleasant, village-like atmosphere, with lots of green-grocers selling impossibly fresh, beautiful looking fruit, a small but lovely bazaar, a wonderful bakery, and temperatures a few degrees cooler than central Tehran. Above it looms <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tochal">Mt. Tochal</a>, a 3933 metre peak that hosts one of Iran’s most popular ski areas.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">After travelling 15 stops by metro, we took a shared taxi to the entrance gate of the complex to find it closed, so we retraced our steps and ended up back at the hotel in time for lunch. Afterwards, I took a short nap, and then decided to visit the infamous ”Den of American Espionage,” formerly known as the Embassy of the United States of America to the Imperial State of Iran. I had been warned to be discreet and low-key, especially when taking photographs, but I arrived to find the place deserted and the anti-American graffiti faded and peeling. Immediately next to the ”Down With USA” graffito was a small convenience store selling ice-cold Pepsi and Coca-Cola, amongst other refreshments. I guess radical Islamists need that ”<a href="http://www.susanascher.com/its-the-pause-that-refreshes-coca-cola-circa-1929/">pause that refreshes</a>” now and then, just like everyone else. I walked the entire length of perimeter fence and encountered no one except a couple of ladies strolling along. At the main entrance, the Great Seal of the United States had been obviously defaced but was mostly still legible. <p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIseWC7LErPivYmNWTZyA0SotdoLB7Z24ELQrydKI7RVTOU2NyZhlTZ5gW9BGWYdFXJmOplObfnrMJoLS-Te8ozCkcJeko2HttNMkARTIt8pfbFYf1Fm4DG2vInPZkdyhbk66Khd9eKmVt/s1600/IMG_2901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIseWC7LErPivYmNWTZyA0SotdoLB7Z24ELQrydKI7RVTOU2NyZhlTZ5gW9BGWYdFXJmOplObfnrMJoLS-Te8ozCkcJeko2HttNMkARTIt8pfbFYf1Fm4DG2vInPZkdyhbk66Khd9eKmVt/s320/IMG_2901.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">A somewhat disappointing attempt at defacement – a bit of spattered blood and black spray paint would have been much more effective</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t avoid feeling cheated somehow — I came looking for wild-eyed radicals spewing hate-filled, anti-American invective and instead just found a quiet Tehran neighbourhood. Maybe I should try <a href="http://america.aljazeera.com/articles/2015/6/30/confederate-flag-supporters-opponents-brawl-at-south-carolina-capitol.html">South Carolina</a>
?
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAEceT_9ye_xITmDUcScbpFyb75lSutx-m449fxecgh_tmGuY3ibsJITOEL6TiPjwMQF8LBRJs5oOPERyjSV50eCortK_cAj4O8lCgxrsNv_Q989tRXtURmaH3w3pvRJpz3QzVjukw4dQC/s1600/IMG_2898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAEceT_9ye_xITmDUcScbpFyb75lSutx-m449fxecgh_tmGuY3ibsJITOEL6TiPjwMQF8LBRJs5oOPERyjSV50eCortK_cAj4O8lCgxrsNv_Q989tRXtURmaH3w3pvRJpz3QzVjukw4dQC/s320/IMG_2898.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">And when is the last time anyone did any maintenance on this graffito?</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, I learned from the TNT web site that Iranian customs cleared my new starter motor, and it presumably would soon be on its way to Shiraz. I talked to my brother and learned my Dad had pulled back from brink and had a couple of relatively good days, with his blood pressure back up from critical levels, although he still could go at any time. My ticket back to the USA from Yerevan is booked. Nothing much more I can do at this point but continue praying.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">11 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tehran<p />BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Teheran, Teheran, Iran35.696111 51.42305599999997435.283462 50.777608999999977 36.108760000000004 52.068502999999971tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-17518967866486966832015-07-07T16:01:00.000+02:002015-07-20T04:39:57.336+02:00Busload of Faith to Get By<p class="MsoNormal">After driving north from Isfahan, and passing near both Iran’s hardened nuclear fuel enrichment facility at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Natanz">Natanz</a> and the ”holy city” of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qom">Qom</a> along the way, we arrived in Tehran yesterday.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Our hotel, it was soon obvious, was in a district where all the auto parts and supplies are sold; in my walk around Tehran yesterday and today I learned the entire city is like this, with all the auto parts shops in one district (which in turn is sub-divided into a tyres section, a batteries section, an exhaust system section, etc.), all the musical instruments in another, pet shops in another, electronics in another, etc. Seeing the hundreds of shops — each of which was better stocked than anything we had in Doha — I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some place that could rebuild my starter motor.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I was also finally able to try to follow up on the starter motor shipment from Nene Overland. First problem was that the TNT website had no phone number for the Iran office, and only an 0800 number for the UK, which couldn’t be dialled from Iran. I went to their ”Sweden” page and was able to find a regular fixed line number in Sweden. I rang them and they informed me that the shipment was being held in the UK with ”unshippable” status, but they had no details of why. But they gave me the UK phone number. I called the UK office and they also confirmed the ”unshippable” status, but still could not tell me precisely what was wrong and referred me to the Iran office. I rang the Iran office to find that they were closed for the day and would not re-open until 8:00 this morning.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">As if all of this wasn’t stressful enough, my visa was set to expire on 9 July (three days from now), and my father, in the USA, who has been ill for some time, was expected to pass away imminently. I had already anticipated this by organising a place to park El Guapo in Yerevan, Armenia, while I flew home to be with my family. But a lot had to happen between here and Yerevan.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I started developing multiple contingency scenarios:<p />
<ol><li>Option A was to get the new motor shipped to Iran and delivered to the mechanic in Shiraz, get a driver to drive El Guapo to me in Tehran, and then drive north to Tabriz, to the Armenian border and onwards to Yerevan. But the status of the new motor was unclear.</li><li>Option B was to fly out of Tehran, be with my family, then apply for a new visa, buy a new starter motor in the USA, fly back to Shiraz, have the vehicle repaired, and then continue the drive to Europe. However, there was no guarantee I would get a new visa or any way of knowing how long it would take — sometimes, months are required.</li><li>Option C was to fly to Yerevan, hire a flatbed there, have the Iranians put El Guapo on a flatbed to the border, where I would meet them with the Armenian flatbed and then have it taken to Yerevan for repair before continuing my journey. Time consuming.</li><li>Option D was to explore the idea of getting the starter motor rebuilt in Tehran.<br /></li></ol><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">Options A and D would almost certainly take more time than was remaining on my visa, and I was told that extending for Americans was close to impossible. Both of these options also had a higher risk of me not being able to see my Dad before he passed away.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I started my day today with chasing up Option A by ringing TNT Iran. They didn’t know anything I didn’t, which is that my shipment was showing up as ”Not Found” in the system. They advised me to ring the UK office, which wouldn’t open for several hours. In the meantime, I decided to try extending my visa. We went first to one office, then were re-directed to another. We talked to one guy, then another guy, then a third guy. Mehdi, my guide, explained my situation. They agreed to extend. Then came the inevitable standing in various queues — getting the form, completing the form. Passport copies. Visa copies. Proof of payment of the fees at Bank Melli, down the road was necessary. Fortunately, directly outside the visa office an enterprising Iranian was selling payments receipts at a markup from face value with no waiting — he made a living standing in the queue at Bank Melli, making a few dozen payments and getting the payment receipts and then selling them to foreigners like me with more money than time. Finally the completed application was accepted and I was told to return on Sunday to collect my passport with a 15 day extension. A good outcome, but less than ideal — I really wanted to get going, and only needed one, maybe two more days, but getting the extension would take 5.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally was able to speak to someone at TNT and read them the riot act — why they didn’t inform me PROMPTLY that there was problem was beyond me, and Nene had in fact called them before shipping to verify that sending to Iran was possible, and nobody thought to mention that there were any special requirements at the time. And WHY the wild goose chase of referring me to the Iran office?<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">In any event, spoke to someone who explained that there are ”special procedures” for Iran, but he wouldn’t explain them by phone. He took my email address and promised the send the necessary information. When his email arrived, I found all that was needed was for the shipper, Nene, to complete a short form attesting, amongst other small points, that the shipment did not contain ”any goods of US origin.” I forwarded the form on Nene, and rang them. They sorted it within minutes, completing the form, scanning it, and sending it on to TNT. TNT confirmed receipt and promised to dispatch the parcel right away.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">So far, not a bad start to the day. Back at the hotel, one of the managers there directed us to a shop that might have a suitable starter motor, naturally located nearby as we were in the ”auto parts” district. They were not, in fact, able to help, but they directed us to a nearby workshop that they thought could rebuild the starter. We found it easily, and spoke with the owner. No problem, he said, he could fix it. Mehdi rang the agency in Shiraz, which dispatched a driver to the mechanic in Shiraz to collect the starter and take it to the airport. He got it on the next flight to Tehran.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, we had time for a little sightseeing. First stop was the <a href="http://www.cbi.ir/Page/1475.aspx">Treasury of National Jewels</a> in the basement of the National Bank, whose vaults contain the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iranian_Crown_Jewels">Crown Jewels of Iran</a>. I’ve seen both the Imperial Russian Crown Jewels in the Kremlin, and the British Crown Jewels in the Tower of London, and I don’t think the two combined came anyway near the splendour of this collection. In fact, it once contained the Koh-i-Noor diamond, which was stolen by the British and now sits atop Queen Elizabeth’s sceptre. At one point, Iran threatened to sue the British for its return, but then India said that if Iran did so, they would sue Iran, as it was stolen from India by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nader_Shah">Nadir Shah</a> in 1739. Then Sri Lanka stepped in and reminded India that it had been stolen from Sri Lanka by the Khilijis in the 14th century.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Even without this stone the collection is mind-blowing. At the entrance is the Peacock Throne, rumoured to contain parts of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peacock_Throne">Mughal Peacock Throne</a>, which was also plundered from Delhi by Nadir Shah. Several huge crowns, dozens of diamond, emerald and spinel tiaras. Golden, bejewelled harnesses, saddles, stirrups, firearms and swords, including one a metre long with a scabbard encrusted its entire length with thousands of diamonds. And an incredible globe, a meter in diameter, with the continents set in rubies, the seas in emeralds and Iran in diamonds.
<p class="MsoNormal">Next stop was the archaeological museum, which had an amazing collection of pre-Islamic Iranian works — pottery, bronzes, terra cotta, stone — decorative works, vessels, tools, weapons, jewellery, etc.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">On leaving we were informed my starter motor should be at the airport, so jumped in a taxi and joined the insane, high-speed throng that is traffic in Tehran and headed to the cargo terminal. It arrived in short order and we dashed back into Tehran and delivered it to the workshop. I left as the owner pounded away at it gleefully, assuring me, ”don’t worry, I can fix.” We headed back to the hotel for dinner and before we finished eating he rang to say it was ready.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPYDrwG1-vEiJwXLYwUcCQFmfLkQgtZyASgHkBhKq6HVWIjom2w4Km1ssxC-ya-Qr71kixbTDT4oqf5ZHiBIu6qYRhNJQkdwFeW1MWa3v66A-xhhORCgF9Q50OI-HuqyaMpceV502UFmN/s1600/IMG_2864.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPYDrwG1-vEiJwXLYwUcCQFmfLkQgtZyASgHkBhKq6HVWIjom2w4Km1ssxC-ya-Qr71kixbTDT4oqf5ZHiBIu6qYRhNJQkdwFeW1MWa3v66A-xhhORCgF9Q50OI-HuqyaMpceV502UFmN/s320/IMG_2864.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Mehdi and driver, starter motor in hand</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhex6kbj1OnibypGObmr1Frxb3jZ0FM3-712UUgI56aCZ37Hn38VzvlFb8JztBmTlAAf7lSxG2WBuAKMsAfTDpnr4O_BwSlIZYoEdug5KLxvf-g4fBfAh4Atoibvrmi_qhYRgdQvLtSewxj/s1600/IMG_2865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhex6kbj1OnibypGObmr1Frxb3jZ0FM3-712UUgI56aCZ37Hn38VzvlFb8JztBmTlAAf7lSxG2WBuAKMsAfTDpnr4O_BwSlIZYoEdug5KLxvf-g4fBfAh4Atoibvrmi_qhYRgdQvLtSewxj/s320/IMG_2865.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">A new lease on life for my starter motor</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">The driver took the now-working starter motor and headed south. He won’t make Shiraz tonight, but will stop in Isfahan, and get to Shiraz tomorrow. Tomorrow, by the way, is the Shia feast of the Martyrdom of Ali, one of the most important holidays in Iran. Museums all closed, so a day of enforced but much-needed rest.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Overall, a successful day, but one that nonetheless ended on a down note. I rang my brother and updated him on my situation — I could now give firm confirmation that I could expect to leave Tehran on Sunday, spend Sunday night in Tabriz, and reach the Armenian border by mid-day on Monday, and hopefully Yerevan that evening. Fly out Tuesday, Wednesday at the absolute latest and arrive in Detroit the same day. However, although my brother said my father’s condition was somewhat improved from yesterday, he didn’t think he would last that long. I managed to have a reasonable FaceTime conversation with my Dad and tell him I loved him and was on my way. The rest is beyond my control.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">7 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tehran<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Teheran, Teheran, Iran35.696111 51.42305599999997435.283462 50.777608999999977 36.108760000000004 52.068502999999971tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-45530229300732405252015-07-06T17:38:00.000+02:002015-07-20T03:42:12.282+02:00More Waiting<p class="MsoNormal">Friday afternoon I got a email from <a href="www.neneoverland.co.uk">Nene Overland</a> confirming they had shipped me the new starter motor and including the tracking number. However, checking the <a href="http://www.tnt.com">TNT</a> web site, I just got a ”not found” error message, which wasn’t very comforting. Nothing to be done until I could call the guys at Nene on Monday, however.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We started the day’s sightseeing with a visit to the Armenian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vank_Cathedral">Vank Cathedral</a> in Isfahan’s dwindling Armenian quarter, which features incredible, brightly coloured frescoes covering every square centimetre of its interior. All the major Old and New Testament scenes were there — the Flood, the Tower of Babel, Jonah and the Whale, Daniel and the Lions, the Massacre of the Innocents, Jesus booting the moneychangers out of the Temple, etc. Also present was a series of frescoes depicting the 12 horrible tortures endured by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregory_the_Illuminator">St. Gregory the Illuminator</a>, at the hands of the Armenian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiridates_III_of_Armenia">King Tiradates</a>, which including flogging, breaking on the wheel, having some foul liquid forced into his ass, and having molten metal poured over his head, amongst others, none of which managed to diminish the luminous lustre of his halo or cause him to lose his faith. Evidently, however, Tiradates never tried forcing him to attempt to import a vehicle into Iran; I have little doubt the trauma would have cracked him and caused him to renounce his faith in God.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXJYkn9aeDXlZLLQqSLcg9ZA0jpnJcNsxyexIaMscKTDZCFW8CEbKN3TMRC7g_wDdl1_90qwWh-yCQl3UkPFNfcz03XJWJ-l1p-uXRg0f6NTaVm-2jrmMjSAs0a8EEAT1L_Ima6iPaDLt/s1600/P1010063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXJYkn9aeDXlZLLQqSLcg9ZA0jpnJcNsxyexIaMscKTDZCFW8CEbKN3TMRC7g_wDdl1_90qwWh-yCQl3UkPFNfcz03XJWJ-l1p-uXRg0f6NTaVm-2jrmMjSAs0a8EEAT1L_Ima6iPaDLt/s320/P1010063.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Frescoes at Vank Cathedral</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Afterwards, we stocked up on goodies at the nearby Armenian bakery before returning to the carpet shop for some more tea and haggling. As promised, they brought some more carpets, but still I didn’t like any of them as much as the one I had my eye on the day before. Finally we got down to business and after a bit of back and forth, pleadings of poverty on my part, protests that I was essentially robbing him on his part, we settled on a price of 1550 US dollars. More tea, a few last efforts to sell me a second carpet, money changed hands and the deal was sealed.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Before leaving the bazaar we also visited the miniature shop, where I browsed hundreds of tiny hunting and battle scenes, portraits of dervishes, bird, animal and floral scenes, etc. before selecting a small camel bone box with a bird motif for MJ.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Afterwards, we wandered over to the nearby ”Forty-Columned Palace,” or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chehel_Sotoun">Chehel Sotoun</a>, a Safavid era palace which in fact has only 20 columns, but with the traditional reflecting pool in front, the reflection doubles the number to 40 in Iranian accounting (and to think I just bought a carpet from these people).<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWaswzSWjvyNVAPYldbn_MIUcv7GwWE5e0MAzBOH9wRAfyGp1eaI4z8tlvw5nyE88_DaNER9vBaq2XXB3Jh1CrqiITcwFMdg10btYiv0cSW_DwzlqBJLA5EFSC-FQyBozp3JSjMBIHk3V/s1600/P1010076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWaswzSWjvyNVAPYldbn_MIUcv7GwWE5e0MAzBOH9wRAfyGp1eaI4z8tlvw5nyE88_DaNER9vBaq2XXB3Jh1CrqiITcwFMdg10btYiv0cSW_DwzlqBJLA5EFSC-FQyBozp3JSjMBIHk3V/s320/P1010076.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Seven of the 20 columns on the 40 columned palace</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our final stop was to return to the Jameh Mosque, which I had visited alone my first evening in Isfahan. Back to the hotel for dinner, and then a visit to two of Isfahan’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siosepol#/media/File:Si-o-se-Pol.jpg">famous bridges</a> in the evening. Next stop, Tehran.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">6 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Tehran<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Isfahan, Esfahan, Iran32.6546275 51.66798259999995932.226862999999994 51.022535599999962 33.082392 52.313429599999957tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-57249107663531289632015-07-04T18:00:00.000+02:002015-07-20T23:29:06.239+02:00The Show Must Go On<p class="MsoNormal">My Iranian visa expires on 10 July, and I am due to meet my brother in Michigan on the 11th, so hanging around Shiraz waiting for El Guapo to get a starter transplant is not an option. So, everything has been organised:</p>
<ol><li>The starter is being shipped to the tour agency, who deliver to the mechanic</li><li>The mechanic will restore El Guapo to working order</li><li>A driver will take him to me in Tehran next week<br /></li></ol>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, I am continuing my tour as planned with a driver. Yesterday, we drove north to the legendary city of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isfahan">Isfahan</a>. Checked into our hotel in the old city; I went for a walk alone at dusk and ended up at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jameh_Mosque_of_Isfahan">Jameh Mosque</a>, the oldest in Isfahan (originally a <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/zoroastrian/">Zoroastrian</a> temple) just as Maghreb prayer was starting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today was ”see the sights” day, so naturally we started with the famous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naqsh-e_Jahan_Square">Naqsh-e Jahan Square</a>
, and visited the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%80l%C4%AB_Q%C4%81p%C5%AB">Ali Qapu Palace,</a> the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shah_Mosque">Shah mosque</a>, and the incredible royal mosque. After a break for lunch, it was time for another time-honoured Iranian tradition, haggling over a carpet.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Given the sanctions, the fact that it was Ramadan (or Ramazan, as they call it in Iran), and July, there were not a lot of tourists in Isfahan, so I was reasonably confident about getting a good deal. My guide led me to the ”Flying Carpet” gallery, we sat down, had some tea, and started to chat. Carpets were pulled from stacks and laid out on the floor. I had some fairly specific requirements in mind — I needed something for under the dining table — so I needed something rather large.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After some time, we had a ”very nice” and a ”possibly” pile in front of us. Problem was that I wasn’t finding exactly what I wanted. Too many dark colours. There were two with bright greens, yellows and blues, but not quite large enough. We ordered in some lunch. Couriers were dispatched to other rug shops to find something that met my specifications. More carpets arrived. Many were nice, but none were as nice as what I had already rejected. I decided to call it a day, and to return the next day when they had the opportunity to bring more carpets and I had the chance to think things over.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">4 July 2015</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Isfahan</p>BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Isfahan, Esfahan, Iran32.6546275 51.66798259999995932.226862999999994 51.022535599999962 33.082392 52.313429599999957tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-9992408152907342012015-07-04T12:00:00.000+02:002015-07-27T12:51:37.448+02:00Solihull, We Have a Problem<p class="MsoNormal">After seeing the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nasir_ol_Molk_Mosque">Pink Mosque</a>, my guide Mehdi and I returned to El Guapo. He started up normally, I put it in reverse and started to back out of my parking space. Suddenly, the air con stopped working, which immediately caused me concern, as in past experience this has always been the first sign of a serious electrical fault.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5QcZd_N46VR7HoLC_-wqFTj4lWX1dzvyudljkA4uQyG8c0AvOjDhocT2IFGblZwiJpJ7dlgf2KbNfzNMMQUmGMv1c3TOOZo_MKlhyPj8xMPQIaEtOxmrduyQxTBUi9XGcosTDh3alswr/s1600/P1000945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5QcZd_N46VR7HoLC_-wqFTj4lWX1dzvyudljkA4uQyG8c0AvOjDhocT2IFGblZwiJpJ7dlgf2KbNfzNMMQUmGMv1c3TOOZo_MKlhyPj8xMPQIaEtOxmrduyQxTBUi9XGcosTDh3alswr/s320/P1000945.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Interior of the Pink Mosque</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">More signs of trouble soon appeared. The alternator light came on. The tire pressure monitoring system screen went dark. Nonetheless, the vehicle was still running, so somewhat against my better judgement, we continued to our next stop, the former hammam, or bath house. I didn’t learn so until we toured this facility that Reza Pahlavi Shah ordered all the hammams in Iran closed some 85 years ago, as he considered them a sign of backwardness. This one was preserved as a museum.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I pulled into a car park and thoughtlessly turned off the ignition. I tried to start again. As I expected, nothing. Fortunately, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiraz">Shiraz</a> is Mehdi’s home town, and he knew plenty of people. A mechanic was contacted. He would meet us in an hour’s time, after we finished the bath house tour.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">When we returned to the vehicle, he was waiting. Although I explained it was a waste of time, we tried jump starting the vehicle. Nothing. I dug out my multi-meter and checked both batteries. 12,6 volts from each. Not the problem. The mechanic suggested we swap out the battery and drive to a garage. Again I explained it was a waste of time, but again I was ignored. A friend of Mehdi’s would bring a fully charged battery. In the meantime, we had some lunch and then went to see the nearby castle.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Mehdi’s friend was waiting when we returned. Again I showed him that the batteries were charged. ”Try it anyway” they said. Doing so is not so easy with El Guapo, as he is outfitted with a dual battery system. First, remove the driver’s seat and open the battery compartment. Remove the terminals from both positive battery posts. Remove the terminals from the negative battery posts. Remove the two bolts that secure the batteries into place. Carefully slide out the bracket without shorting out either of the batteries. Remove the leisure battery. Slide the starter battery forward and remove it. Drop the new battery (actually, it was an ancient, filthy, acid-leaking mess, but it was fully charged) into place. Connect the terminals. Demonstrate that the vehicle still will not start. Take momentary satisfaction from the ”I told you so” moment. Then painstakingly reverse the procedure. Now you have wasted a full hour in the hot Shiraz sun, but now Mehdi is persuaded he needs to call a tow truck.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RbKhRjGQEK5_xgBBh8epgzBHzc50P4meJy6_O9lc3q48qR_Ym1tzjgr4uln32n4i47GtRFvSSJiCzKsDxTAZQc6nwfq3HVdY9tSWBctJh3eEO62jNKkndkK3Ohkbb7yeaZF7juGcyR55/s1600/IMG_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RbKhRjGQEK5_xgBBh8epgzBHzc50P4meJy6_O9lc3q48qR_Ym1tzjgr4uln32n4i47GtRFvSSJiCzKsDxTAZQc6nwfq3HVdY9tSWBctJh3eEO62jNKkndkK3Ohkbb7yeaZF7juGcyR55/s320/IMG_1024.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Poor El Guapo :(</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">The tow truck arrived shortly and we followed it through Shiraz traffic to a garage on the outskirts of town. The mechanic there quickly confirmed what I had been saying all along — burnt out starter motor, a motor which in fact I had just had installed less than a month earlier when the previous one failed in a similar manner. Clearly some underlying problem was causing El Guapo’s starter motor’s to burn out, but I had no idea what. A vehicle electrician was summoned from another garage. They couldn’t figure out how to remove the starter motor, which is buried deep in the engine bay and not easily accessible. They insisted it would need to come out through the top, which would necessitate dismantling the diesel injection system. I knew this not to be the case, and told them to remove it from below. They couldn’t manage it, and it was getting late. I had the entire workshop manual for the vehicle on my laptop, but it was back at the hotel. We agree to return early the next morning to deal with it.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">The driver and Mehdi collected me from the hotel, with laptop in hand, early the next morning. We headed back to the garage. We decided to have the vehicle towed again, this time to the electrician’s garage. Mehdi found a flat-bed, and soon we were unloading the vehicle at the other garage. No sooner did we finish, however, than Mehdi finished a phone call and told us he had found a better mechanic. El Guapo went back on the flat-bed and we all headed to the third garage.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97zRm9iEMtJGC20C0eLKbpAr8gF_T7GnXsBZIEZ8O1PDd1kBwDv8njuG0lRO-W8qkVg0Cp7e3P84SdrNKpknMnO3CimtBraYY8XFp-7945527f2U3bgCAypFfPJb0Fsn9Tp6XonvEiJKg/s1600/IMG_2860.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97zRm9iEMtJGC20C0eLKbpAr8gF_T7GnXsBZIEZ8O1PDd1kBwDv8njuG0lRO-W8qkVg0Cp7e3P84SdrNKpknMnO3CimtBraYY8XFp-7945527f2U3bgCAypFfPJb0Fsn9Tp6XonvEiJKg/s320/IMG_2860.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">More Indignities</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">We left El Guapo with the mechanic and headed to the Necropolis and Persepolis to do some sightseeing. The Necropolis tombs, which included Xerxes and Darius, were carved into living rock in the style of Petra. Nearby was a curious, cube-shaped stone temple of apparently unknown purpose and origin. This one was in almost perfect condition, and we saw another similar but half-ruined one the next day at Pasargad. Both were reminiscent of the Ka'aba in Mecca, and I can’t think of any similar structure — a simple stone cube -- anywhere else in the world. My fiancé would no doubt attribute all three to aliens, a theory supported by ancient, pre-Islamic legends that say that the Ka’aba is ”not of this world” and that it was build by ”angels” who came from the sky (some legends say it was the Archangel Gabriel, specifically). I cannot contribute meaningfully to this discussion other than to say it certainly had a very alien feeling about it.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2-bokVyDY1-zxDoi5jHQoSPDAAJHVLhvSejJbM2-u7fX20t2jfvB0W442zTCRV5elSgNo80-np45oUM82BJpAAfQA14ravIJNRbhEt-O6-xACo7K1IwZbZPYijcT6q3otHwpMzvsDoI5/s1600/P1000971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2-bokVyDY1-zxDoi5jHQoSPDAAJHVLhvSejJbM2-u7fX20t2jfvB0W442zTCRV5elSgNo80-np45oUM82BJpAAfQA14ravIJNRbhEt-O6-xACo7K1IwZbZPYijcT6q3otHwpMzvsDoI5/s320/P1000971.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm not saying it was aliens, but...</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next was a sight I had been wanting to see for a very long time — Persepolis. But first we had an update from the mechanic. The starter motor was burned out, and nothing could be done to repair it. I would have to find a way to put my hands on a replacement. I had the driver pull over in the shade, and I rang my friends in the parts department at Nene Overland in the U.K. No, they did have a starter on hand. Yes, they could get one next day. Shipping to Iran? Not sure — would have to check with TNT. An email came through a few minutes later — no problem with shipping to Iran. I rang Nene again and gave them my credit card info, and I was promised it would be on its way to me the next day.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">The stone carvings on the palaces at Persepolis were in amazing condition — indeed looking very recently carved; this is because for centuries they were buried in the sand until being rediscovered by and excavated under the guidance of the famous German professor and archaelogist Ernest Herzfeld in the 1930s. This had also saved the ruins from intentional destruction by the Arabs in the 8th century, who did demolish what parts of the ruins they knew about. Mehdi was quick to remind me the Arabs would not hesitate to have another go at destroying this site if given half a chance, just as they had done recently at Nineveh in Iraq.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Even before seeing the cubic temple that morning I had been put on the alert for signs of ancient aliens by my fiancé, who had informed me that Persia was a focus of alien activity in ancient times. I am generally skeptical of such theories, but was taken aback when I found a carving that appeared to show helmeted astronauts in one of the palaces (the Mirror Palace).<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNi6qucl90KY6tNwgFcZgJkRponqqfcOMqXj_-pY-_KR_OfSPGtmiscyr-g2PEXj_RIuIHtwCfFK1MBGlDYysG8CChWn5WHr2fqpUeyvZwhzUp6rU29o11CLZ1NX46h3KeTPraoLNDl7Q4/s1600/P1000987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNi6qucl90KY6tNwgFcZgJkRponqqfcOMqXj_-pY-_KR_OfSPGtmiscyr-g2PEXj_RIuIHtwCfFK1MBGlDYysG8CChWn5WHr2fqpUeyvZwhzUp6rU29o11CLZ1NX46h3KeTPraoLNDl7Q4/s320/P1000987.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Ancient astronauts? Or just guys with really bad fashion sense?</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">After our tour we headed back to the mechanic’s workshop, where we were able to observe the remains of the motor brushes for ourselves. For reasons unknown, the mechanic said he was not able to remove the starter motor without first removing the front left mudguard, which in turn could not be removed without de-installing the water pump for the shower system. Not sure why — as I said, this was my third starter motor and it had not been a problem to remove it before. He assured me he could get everything back together again, but I am skeptical. In any event, nothing to be done now except to wait for the new motor to arrive. Or for aliens to intervene somehow.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">4 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Isfahan<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Isfahan, Esfahan, Iran32.6546275 51.66798259999995932.226862999999994 51.022535599999962 33.082392 52.313429599999957tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-25294770504452328462015-07-03T03:22:00.000+02:002015-07-20T00:38:33.146+02:00That’s No Mirage, I’m in Shiraz!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abadan,_Iran">Abadan</a> was swelteringly hot when we left, as it was the whole time we were there. In fact, besides being the site of the refinery that was essentially the start of British Petroleum, and also the focus of some of the bloodiest battles of both WWI and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iran%E2%80%93Iraq_War">Iran-Iraq war</a>, Abadan’s main claim to fame is having the highest known temperature on the planet, a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abadan,_Iran#Climate">heat burst that hit 87° C in June 1967</a>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The road started flat, straight and smooth across a featureless, shimmering plain, and continued that way for several hours. An escarpment arose in the distance, and eventually we started to climb into some hills. The road twisted through a series of rugged red canyons and steadily gained elevation. Twice I was stopped by police — once for speeding, and once for overtaking on a curve; both times managed to be declared innocent on grounds of insanity. On entering Shiraz province, the hills became proper mountains, and soon we were crawling along a series of switchbacks behind a long queue of heavy lorries. El Guapo managed to pass them one by one, leaving my guide looking a bit pale at times. Finally the road levelled out and soon we were on the outskirts of Shiraz.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We dodged vehicles, motorcycles and pedestrians for a few kilometres before arriving at edge of the old city, where my hotel was located. I turned down a narrow alleyway, and drove into the old city itself. The streets grew narrower as we got closer, at one point requiring us to fold in both wing mirrors to squeeze through a particularly narrow passageway, but we made it to the hotel and safely parked El Guapo in the car park.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Got up early the next morning to have a stroll around the old city before joining my guide about 9:30 to go to his agency to settle my bill. Due to sanctions, there was no way for me to pay for my trip in advance, and the agency had made all of the arrangements based only on my my email commitment to do so on arrival. Honouring that commitment, I counted out a big stack of hundred Euro notes for the agent.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At last, we were ready to do some sightseeing. Our first stop was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nasir_al-Mulk_Mosque">Pink Mosque</a>, a beautiful 19th century tiled edifice with incredible stained glass windows. Finally my trip was going smoothly…or was it?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">3 July 2015</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Isfahan</p></div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Isfahan, Esfahan, Iran32.6546275 51.66798259999995932.226862999999994 51.022535599999962 33.082392 52.313429599999957tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-53172776219226566162015-07-02T18:00:00.000+02:002015-07-20T23:37:18.434+02:00Kafka, Schmafka — Welcome to Iran!<p class="MsoNormal">Last day of bureaucracy! (I hope). Got an early start, and my guide and I headed to the traffic police to get temporary Iranian number plates. After waiting our turn, we were told they had no more plates, and we would have to go to the police in Khorramshahr to get them. But first, we would need a letter signed by the Abadan Chief of Traffic Police, and he was not in the office. And the vehicle would need to be inspected. We headed to the inspection facility, and hoped that the Police chief would arrive by the time we returned.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Inspection was relatively efficient. We handed over our documents and drove inside. The inspector asked me turn on my headlamps. I did so. He asked me to put the vehicle in reverse so he could verify that the back-up lights were working. I did so. ”Thank you, you have passed inspection.” Another signed, stamped form was added to my bulging document wallet. <p />
<p class="MsoNormal">We returned to the traffic police. Still no chief, but we struck up a conversation with two mysterious guys driving late model vehicles — a Toyota Land Cruiser and a BMW Z4 — with Kuwaiti plates. I’m not really sure what happened next, as most of the discussion was between them and my guide in Farsi, but a few minutes later, we had the letter from the Police chief and we were driving into Khorramshahr to pick up the number plates. I waited outside with one of the guys while my guide disappeared into the building with the other. Half an hour later my guide emerged carrying a stack of number plates. We drove back to the Traffic Police, waited our turn, filled out more forms, handed over more copies of my passport, signed and fingerprinted a bunch of documents, and finally was issued a registration card. Went outside with the new plates and waited for a guy with a drill and a rivet gun to attach them. While we were waiting, another ”customer” emerged from the building, clutching his new number plates to his chest. He kissed them and shouted ”Allahu Akbar”. I looked at him sympathetically. ”God bless Iran!” he said, ”because nobody else will!"<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">My new plates were fixed on top of my Qatar export plates, as I would need them when I left Iran. We were done. We drove back into Abadan, had lunch, and set off towards Shiraz. Allahu Akbar.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">2 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Shiraz<p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Shiraz, Fars, Iran29.5917677 52.58369820000007229.150252199999997 51.938251200000074 30.0332832 53.229145200000069tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-31271331543520042332015-07-02T02:54:00.000+02:002015-07-20T00:40:02.931+02:00Iran at Last<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">I was directed to pull over a few meters inside of Iranian territory. The same border guards who had been so surly the day before were all welcoming smiles. First order of business was to search the vehicle, which is a task they apparently enjoy immensely. Since they were speaking in Farsi, I didn’t understand most of it, but just about every one of my bags elicted a wise-crack from one of them, which would cause the others to pause and laugh hysterically before retorting with an even funnier joke of their own. When they opened my box of camping supplies and saw the canisters of Camping Gaz on top, they shouted ”bomb!!” in unison and feigned ducking for cover. When they were done, all shook my hand warmly and bid me welcome to Iran.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">A customs official accompanied me to the customs shed, where El Guapo would have to remain until clearance procedures had been completed. After parking, I returned to the border post and started the immigration process. All the while, a friendly English-speaking guy in street clothes made casual conversation with me, but it was obvious he was with the intelligence services, inquiring about my family, my job, my life, and my politics.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Back at the border post, after waiting an hour for the right official to show up, I was formally interviewed, and again asked detailed questions about my life, my family, my beliefs, etc., this time with no attempt to disguise it as friendly conversation. In the end, the agent apologised for having to do so, explaining that procedures required it. In particular, he asked if had any knowledge of Iranian history or politics. ”Yes,” I replied. <p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”What is it you know?”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”I know a lot — is this a test?”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”What specifically do you know?”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”A lot. Would you like to start with ancient, Mediaeval, or modern Persian history? The Sassanids, the Timurids, the Safavids, the Qajar or the Pahlavi?”<p />
That was it. My passport was stamped, but then I was told I would need to be fingerprinted. I assumed this was the standard border fingerprinting process, using a scanner, but instead I was put in a car and driven to police headquarters in Abadan. I was led upstairs to a small room adjacent to small dark cell, with a small and sad looking man gazing out through the bars. Directly in front of the cell was a table with an ink plate and roller. One by one, the police officer rolled my ten fingers in ink, and then again onto a fingerprint form. I thanked him, washed my hands, and then we went to our hotel in Abadan. It was now 14:00 (during the summer, you lose and hour and a half crossing from Iraq to Iran), and everything was closing, so customs procedures would have to wait until the following day.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Next morning we returned to the border post and first got a letter from the Customs chief at the border that would allow us to take the vehicle. We needed to get formal permission for import from Customs headquarters in Khorramshahr, where the General Director was expecting us. We drove to his office at Khorramshahr port, but found he had gone to a meeting back at the Salamchech border crossing, where we had just left. We waited an hour, and finally dispatched a driver to take our form back to Salamchech to have it signed. Finally, by 12:00 we had the signed letter. On our way in, we had engaged a clearance agent, and we found him in the first of three different facilities he would have to go to complete the import process and handed our documentation over to him while we went to buy insurance.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">The insurance agency was in a tiny storefront on a nearby side street, and was staffed by a single agent. She prepared everything, took my premium, gave me a receipt and proof of coverage and we were on our way. We caught up with the clearance agent in another building. I mostly sat in chair for two hours while he went from one window to another, every so often waving me over to say ”pay this guy 100 dollars,” or ”sign this,” or ”give this guy a copy of your passport.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Then we drove to another building near the entrance to the customs facility. The carnet was examined. Another copy of my passport was handed over. El Guapo was visually inspected. Another payment was made, and more forms were stamped. Finally, a gate pass was issued. I drove out and the clearance agent announced, ”congratulations, you have cleared Iranian customs.” I paid him his fee of 4 million Irani riyal, took my paperwork and drove off, arriving at our hotel in Abadan in time to watch Poland beat Iran in the <a href="FIVB World League volleyball tournament">FIVB World League volleyball tournament</a> in Tehran.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Not quite done though, although again, it was now late in the afternoon, so the final procedures would have to wait until the next day.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">2 July 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Shiraz<p /></div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Shiraz, Fars, Iran29.5917677 52.58369820000007229.150252199999997 51.938251200000074 30.0332832 53.229145200000069tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-7753458785603982892015-07-01T01:38:00.000+02:002015-07-20T04:38:09.629+02:00If at First You Don’t Succeed...You’re Probably at Some Crappy Middle Eastern Border Crossing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">The next few days passed in a blur of hopes raised and dashed, frustration and success. A brief chronology:<p />
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Friday</b><p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I parked El Guapo at the entrance to the Iraqi side of the <a href="https://plus.google.com/114736666246495763962/about?gl=us&hl=sv">Shalamcheh border crossing</a> post. Didn’t have any proper camping equipment, but at least I had a cot to get me off the ground and safe from the ”cobras” the soldiers warned me about, which I set up alongside the vehicle. The first of many acts of kindness and generosity I was to receive from the personnel at this post in the coming 48 hours was having the police commander park his Ford F-150 on the other side of my cot, and put a barrier in front of me, so I was sheltered by vehicles on both sides, protected a bit from wind and shaded from the sodium vapour lights glaring at the entrance. Thankfully I still had a sandwich and some other food I brought with me from Doha, but despite the long day, I slept only fitfully, and was wide awake by 6:00. <p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SM4Q2daGB0-N_l-htlM6TIINSrvz0KRgekAjy8POcyBwY5S-fD826HO5BCnAT92eRWljgZ-i4HGmqf1G7yaV4otzvh_Wtxgc5cXwLSuvBDCmJtkx6REcYEGBQ3HVN-3hyphenhyphenK8ccRJck3VS/s1600/IMG_2837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SM4Q2daGB0-N_l-htlM6TIINSrvz0KRgekAjy8POcyBwY5S-fD826HO5BCnAT92eRWljgZ-i4HGmqf1G7yaV4otzvh_Wtxgc5cXwLSuvBDCmJtkx6REcYEGBQ3HVN-3hyphenhyphenK8ccRJck3VS/s320/IMG_2837.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Waiting for Major Saddam</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Saturday</b><p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Spent two long hours watching the empty and entirely uninteresting landscape around me slowly brighten. Finally the post commander, introduced to me as Major Lawa Saddam, arrived in his convoy, and his men at the entry post explained my situation. He welcomed me and promised what help he could provide.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">First, of course, there was more waiting around to attend to. I followed the soldiers to their barracks, where they made me a surprisingly delicious breakfast, made all the more impressive by the fact that they were fasting and couldn’t join me. We waited around until 10:00, when the Major summoned us to his office. His translator was waiting, and I was asked to ”leave my firearms” at the entrance. We quickly sorted out the papers needed for exiting the vehicle, and these were handed over to the appropriate functionary. Next, I needed an exit stamp, and the Major assigned one of his men to escort me to the ”Hall of Going Away” for this purpose. However, the ”Going Away” team directed me to the arrivals hall, which directed me back to some more senior functionary on the Going Away side. Papers were signed and stamped, and taken back over to the Arrivals side. I was photographed and fingerprinted, and finally, given an Iraqi exit stamp. I returned to the vehicle and drove up to the crossing. The Iraqis removed the barrier so I could cross. I started into Iran. Four guys came out waving their hands madly and shouting in Farsi. I rolled down my window. The Iraqis tried to help. I rang my Iranian guide, who was waiting on the other side, for assistance. After a half-hour stalemate with El Guapo straddling the international border, it was established that I needed to go back to the Iranian Consulate in Basra and get my vehicle papers translated into Farsi. The Iranians insisted it would take ”only 15 minutes." I turned El Guapo around and headed back to Iraq.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZynGUAs9fxh43wlMbC6gESh4xZe04l2F-4LJ-GXqxfxSbbvTO8jcB6nZkpJS1trkUdBFhjDgngJ_ka1lPukbvqRGPXjFetkcAxgyGFrcEHyfzb-rdIoiU6ZT3xctzKDCM1ISTUmsld8l2/s1600/IMG_2844.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZynGUAs9fxh43wlMbC6gESh4xZe04l2F-4LJ-GXqxfxSbbvTO8jcB6nZkpJS1trkUdBFhjDgngJ_ka1lPukbvqRGPXjFetkcAxgyGFrcEHyfzb-rdIoiU6ZT3xctzKDCM1ISTUmsld8l2/s320/IMG_2844.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Everyone's favourite part of visiting in Iraq – the "Going Away" facility</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was not thrilled at the prospect of leaving the border post, and I had no idea where in that chaotic city the Iranian consulate was. I tried to get one of the Major’s men to give me directions, but the Major instead directed one of them to escort me. First, however, I needed to get my exit stamp cancelled It was 10:20 by the time we left, and 11:00 by the time we reached the Consulate. We were admitted immediately, but then learned the Consul was in a meeting and would not be free for an hour. However, I was invited to meet with some other very friendly but irrelevant functionary; I think he was the Literary Attaché or something like that. Nice work if you can get it.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">After waiting an hour, I was informed that no such document (e.g. vehicle information in Farsi) was required, and the that the Consul himself had spoken with the chief of border post and he had confirmed this. He advised me to leave the vehicle on the Iraqi side, cross on foot to Iran, sort our the paperwork, and then return to retrieve the vehicle.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I returned to the border post, this time being waved straight through to the Major’s office. I parked the vehicle, and got a new exit stamp. I again approached the Iranian side. I told them what had transpired at the Consulate. They refused to budge. I called my guide again and told him what was happening. He said he would come straight away. I waited on a bench about two meters inside Iranian territory for him to arrive. We argued with the border guards. Finally, they agreed to go let us talk to Iranian customs, so we were escorted through immigration and driven across the complex to the Customs Office where we were able to meet with the director. He referred us to Customs HQ in Abadan, about 7 km away. He examined my documents, assured me that all was in order and that there should be no problem; however, the office was closed for the day.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I crossed back over to Iraq. Major Saddam had left for the day but his men were under instruction to take care of me, so I was put up in the Major’s own office complex, which not only featured the Major’s huge office and majlis, but also a staff room with a giant map of Iraq where I could plan the decisive counter-strike against ISIS. The staff kept bringing me food and tea as I caught up on the news on the Major’s flat-screen TV, and finally I went to sleep, praying to Jesus, Mohammad, all the Angels and Saints, all the Buddhas and Bottisattvas, the spirits of my ancestors, and especially St. Christopher for success the following day.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKP8H2P8tfnvGcGrCFRdW8eNa73FlaxcTeIeikHAQKuKcG837MqHCisyrdwGGcuoSU1JcqKcKoAPKA1OD-1Pi7bEYiiH73ec88lRFJBbb0LB3itayCfr7a8PgrZ4G_q5jk_5ZN92a9OS6/s1600/IMG_2847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKP8H2P8tfnvGcGrCFRdW8eNa73FlaxcTeIeikHAQKuKcG837MqHCisyrdwGGcuoSU1JcqKcKoAPKA1OD-1Pi7bEYiiH73ec88lRFJBbb0LB3itayCfr7a8PgrZ4G_q5jk_5ZN92a9OS6/s320/IMG_2847.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">One of the many luxuries in the commander's headquarters at the Shalamcheh border facility – a choice of soap colour</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Sunday</b>
<p class="MsoNormal">At 8:00 sharp I crossed over to Iran again, again met my guide and was escorted to the passport control office. My guide took all the paperwork, leaving me to watch TV in the Passport control office and catch up on the news of the nuclear negotiations in Geneva and Bree Newsome’s successful removal of the Confederate flag from a flagpole on the South Carolina Statehouse grounds. Two and half nail-biting hours later he returned with good news and bad news. First, apparently Americans are not actually permitted under Iranian regulations to travel to Iran in their own vehicles, and I was urged to consider leaving the vehicle in Iraq, visiting Iran, and then returning to my vehicle (what is it these people don’t understand about me taking the vehicle to Europe?). If I did so, I could enter Iran immediately. The good news — they would be willing to make the first ever exception (yay!), but I would have to begin the import process the following day (boo!). In the meantime, however, I could bring the vehicle over and park it at Customs.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I dashed back to Iraq. Went to say good-bye to Major Saddam and thanked him profusely again, and offered him my final tips on how to crush ISIS. Got Saturday’s exit stamp cancelled, and got a third Iraqi exit stamp for Sunday. Retrieved El Guapo and once again, drove up to the border post. The Iraqis removed the barrier on their side. The Iranians opened the gate on their side. I drove through the crossing and into Iranian territory.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOLHM72SKok2yTrikXY9m7pP40oUMtwbK6yYyVz2pElW_1te17lFtYwU3f56PKt5a5o-C-i09VKRR_p6o8Ucd_ou3r7x6ZvqWrt89qcGsCNXR0vcTnV1XdPrqH_XfNMr8QSWslm4IZym7/s1600/IMG_1022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOLHM72SKok2yTrikXY9m7pP40oUMtwbK6yYyVz2pElW_1te17lFtYwU3f56PKt5a5o-C-i09VKRR_p6o8Ucd_ou3r7x6ZvqWrt89qcGsCNXR0vcTnV1XdPrqH_XfNMr8QSWslm4IZym7/s320/IMG_1022.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Good-bye Iraq, Hello Iran</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Shiraz<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">1 July 2015<p /></div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Khorramshahr, Khuzestan, Iran30.4256219 48.1891184999999530.2065189 47.866394999999947 30.6447249 48.511841999999952tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-83057759913160520682015-06-29T21:29:00.000+02:002015-07-18T01:46:25.985+02:00Road Trip!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday of last week had a farewell lunch with my colleagues from the Strategy Department. Early Thursday morning picked up my passport from immigration and was ready to hit the road. My colleagues came downstairs to snap some photos of me with El Guapo, all loaded, fueled up and ready to go (El Guapo was, not my colleagues). At this moment, sitting in the lobby of my hotel in Abadan, Iran, it seems hard to believe that was just a few days ago; the intensity of the experience in the interim makes it feel like it was some time last year.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I left the <a href="http://www.ooredoo.com">Ooredoo</a> Tower in West Bay, Doha around 10:00. Arrived at the Salwa border crossing with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia a couple of hours later, and started getting the export paperwork processed. The first of many bureaucratic snags I would stumble over in the following 72 hours was that the vehicle was destined for the Czech Republic, and they couldn't find "Czech Republic" in their computer system, so they announced that I could not export it there because "this country does not exist". They thought "Republic of Chad" was probably close enough, and so that's what they put on my export form. They did not yet know that when I travel, I am protected by very powerful Guardian Angels. I looked up at the agent, and then over his shoulder to the window behind him, where just at that moment a huge lorry just pulled up and came to a stop immediately outside the window. Emblazoned on its side was the "Hortex" logo and the words "Brno, Czech Republic” in meter-high lettering. I directed his attention to the window and the lorry parked directly outside. "No," I said, "there is a Czech Republic, and that's what you are putting on this form." Whomever implemented their system did not put the countries in any particular order, so it wasn't easy, but eventually we found the Czech Republic in the system, I finished the paperwork, had the vehicle inspected by customs and I left Qatar.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">A few minutes/meters later I was in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and dealing with the first of many extremely friendly, completely incompetent officials I woud encounter over the coming days. With my export certificate, which specified that the vehicle was being exported to the Czech Republic, I was only permitted to travel on a route towards the specified destination (Chad, of course, is in an entirely different direction). Unfortnately, their system actually did not have the "Czech Republic," and so on a Thursday afternoon in Ramadan in the KSA, I had to wait while they emailed the central IT support function for Saudi Customs in Riyadh so they could implement a new route in the system. After waitng three hours, I finally was directed to a customs area where El Guapo was searched yet again, a Customs tag was attached, and lots of paperwork stamped. I used the last of my Qatar Riyals to pay the fees, but then had to go buy insurance, which was 50 Riyal. When I explained to the agent I had no Riyal, he took 50 SAR from his own wallet, and then refused to let me repay him after I went to the cash machine.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I was about half-way to Damman when it was time for the Maghreb prayer and the end of the fast. El Guapo needed refueling so I pulled off the highway, but was flagged down (along with other motorists) by a group of Saudi teens distributing snacks for travellers to break their fast with -- a zip-loc bag with some dates, yogurt, cheese, water, lemonade and some religious literature in Arabic. There was no one pumping fuel when I arrived at the filling station; I wandered around a bit and found the entire staff in a tent at the rear breaking their fast. They invited me to join them and so spent a half-hour eating before anyone could see to El Guapo. 112 litres of diesel, 28 SAR.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5384pGbmEWXIwyHfy11e0pJxz_gA61Jwykdtqowjk1FGCQAP8MlrtRqg9jOLNLOW8wlV4koYSsD5774xi_LJBpCSwmCOC0NBMvgwCENx9u9YXJMlm2bwMTLyjjS93tJiFShXYYx3C5EnB/s1600/IMG_2817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5384pGbmEWXIwyHfy11e0pJxz_gA61Jwykdtqowjk1FGCQAP8MlrtRqg9jOLNLOW8wlV4koYSsD5774xi_LJBpCSwmCOC0NBMvgwCENx9u9YXJMlm2bwMTLyjjS93tJiFShXYYx3C5EnB/s320/IMG_2817.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Free Iftar Snack!</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I got back on the road and continued towards Kuwait. I arrived at the border around midnight. Yet another computer problem. Exiting the KSA, the immigration officer asked me my destination, I told him "Kuwait City", but for some reason the system kept rejecting his input. He tried several times and even showed me the screen. He said he would have to call Qatar. When he finally spoke with them, it turns out what he wanted was my <i>final</i> destination, the Czech Republic, not my destination for that evening (Kuwait City). Once he changed the destination, it accepted the input immediately.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Things were worse on the Kuwait side. First, I had to get a "visa on arrival". As is typical, there were about 12 guys in the immigration office, but only one tired-looking, chain-smoking guy wearing a filthy uniform and a baseball cap was processing applications. After a half-hour wait, finally it was my turn. There was a bit of a scramble as they tried to locate an English-language visa application form.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5iKTsEGZyQCfyygmx1Qgyb3KEtj3FOUNQChIzlSbf-kZgtODKd1fH_gsCkszdF09FgEAPGb-OP-f0S8Y9ElzzXd7MKQtS_ue5vbDooUZkRI1qvNMz6elzd1Gq7ROOuZ83kQnnHX_7HGv/s1600/IMG_2820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5iKTsEGZyQCfyygmx1Qgyb3KEtj3FOUNQChIzlSbf-kZgtODKd1fH_gsCkszdF09FgEAPGb-OP-f0S8Y9ElzzXd7MKQtS_ue5vbDooUZkRI1qvNMz6elzd1Gq7ROOuZ83kQnnHX_7HGv/s320/IMG_2820.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Apparently, visitors to Kuwait are managed by the "Parts Department" (just ask for "Earl" or "Leroy")</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYs1wy1hkPkIzH4SuXPhhEsO3a3PrhbM8Zc9YkV4nOtIZxiPl2DgshrECdq4ro0UbBlGoLHWbpdV21d-vJLEJ_DHkyLMCEpDfXQ2XA3TPl7G4WSb_iIn9ygrCgKEMzxVNHSw_kF3zuWoG/s1600/IMG_2819.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYs1wy1hkPkIzH4SuXPhhEsO3a3PrhbM8Zc9YkV4nOtIZxiPl2DgshrECdq4ro0UbBlGoLHWbpdV21d-vJLEJ_DHkyLMCEpDfXQ2XA3TPl7G4WSb_iIn9ygrCgKEMzxVNHSw_kF3zuWoG/s320/IMG_2819.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Visitors to Kuwait are required to attest to their "auerudedsement" of the terms of their visa</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I completed the form just as it was time for Mr. Efficiency and all of his colleagues to go on their break so that they could eat before dawn. After another half-hour wait, finally he returned and issued my visa. Now all I had to do was get the vehicle cleared in. I was directed a very nice agent, young, enthusiastic and eager to do his job right. He informed me I would need to have Kuwaiti plates put on the car and that couldn't be done until Sunday (it was then very early on Friday). I argued with him, asked to check. He found his manager. His manager confirmed that he was wrong, but that in order to bring the vehicle in, "you must have a 'Trip Ticket'" (Carnet). I produced my Carnet, he looked at it and said, "no, you don't need this." A coven of Kuwaiti customs officials was assembled in the conference room. Experts were telephoned and the spirits of departed officials were summoned. The ancient prayer of customs officials, "लेअसे प्रिन्त् च्लेअर्ल्य् उसिन्ग् ब्लोच्क् चपितल् लेत्तेर्स् इन् ब्लुए ओर् ब्लच्क् इन्क्”* was chanted aloud. Incense was burned. My documents were passed around the room and scrutinized by each officer in turn. One declared, "the vehicle can transit Kuwait, but it must go on a trailer."<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”Why?," I asked<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"The certificate says it must go by road."<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"Driving it is going by road," I countered.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"But it doesn't say you can drive it."<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"It doesn't say I can't"<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Ten pairs of eyes squinted at the certificate. There was a long moment of silence. Finally one voice announced "he is correct -- it doesn't say he can't drive it". Other voices murmured their agreement. The skeptic was silenced.
"He must buy insurance!" announced another.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"I have insurance"<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">"You have? Let me see"<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I produced my <a href="http://www.gulfins.com.kw/orangecard.html">Orange Card</a>. It was passed around. One declared it was insurance for Qatar, as it was issued by the Qatar Insurance Company. With a dismissive scowl, his colleague read the Arabic text on the back of the certificate aloud -- "UAE, Oman, Yemen, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Somalia, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq AND KUWAIT." Another skeptic silenced.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, the cabal announced its collective judgement. A short form would need to be completed, signed and stamped. The insurance office would have to stamp my Orange Card, and the Export Certificate would need to be stamped. I walked over to insurance office with the Orange Card and got it stamped. When I returned, the other documents were ready. Smiles and handshakes all around. I was on my way.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I arrived at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuwait_City">Kuwait City</a> Sheraton around 4:00, checked in, went up to my room, ordered and ate some breakfast, and went to sleep around 5:30, just as dawn was breaking. Slept until 11:00 or so, went downstairs, checked out and was back on the road north by noon. 85 km (about an hour) to the Iraqi border. I arrived at the initial checkpoint, where a Kuwait soldier waved me off, ”not here, this for Iraq”.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”I know.”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”You go Iraq?”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”Yes”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”No”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”Yes”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”Yes?”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”Yes”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”OK"<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I drove past the checkpoint to the customs office. The usual scratching of heads and assembling of the elders ensued, but they figured the vehicle exit process reasonably quickly, completed my paperwork, and directed me to the immigration hall to get exit stamped. The soldier who had greeted me at the entrance followed. My passport was passed around and the Iraq visa carefully eyeballed. A green sheet of paper was waved at me — ”you cannot leave unless you have this paper.” I had no idea what it was or where to get it. <p />
<p class="MsoNormal">”You must get this from the airport”<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I tried to argue but it was pointless. I returned to the customs building. Phone calls were made on my behalf. There was no other way — I would need this special green paper or I would not be leaving Kuwait for Iraq. With the assistance of the Customs officials, we eventually found a <a href="http://www.moi.gov.kw/psa19/edar-tanfeth-dkol-w-kroog.htm"> recent notice</a> on the Kuwaiti Ministry of the Interior website, and only in the Arabic section of the site (the corresponding English page said ”Under Construction”), informing passport holders of a couple of dozen countries that with immediate effect, permission from the security section would be required for those wishing to travel to Iraq from Kuwait. The very first country on the list was ”America" ("أمركا"). It was now Friday afternoon, during Ramadan, and the Security Office would not be open until Sunday morning. I would lose two full days.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">The helpful Customs team showed where on Google maps the Security Office was. I drove back out of the border post and headed back towards Kuwait City, intending to return to the Sheraton and hang out for a couple of days. On my way there, I decided to first go find the office, so I would know exactly where to go on Sunday. I found the airport without difficulty a bit over an hour later, and then with the help of a friendly cop, found the security office. I decided to park and see exactly where the office was. As expected, when I found the building, it was dark, but decided to try the door anyway. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I stepped into a darkened lobby, and then went up the stairs to a large, deserted, open plan office. I wandered around the dark, silent space but found no one there. I was just about to leave when I heard faint voices coming from one corner, and followed the sound to the immense corner office occupied by the director of the security office, a big guy with 3 stars on his lapels, who was apparently catching up on some work over the weekend with his deputy. I explained my situation, or at least tried to, but I have very limited Arabic and their English was even more so. But once I mentioned ”Iraq” they understood what I was after. ”No problem,” they said, ”we do it now.” My guardian angels saved the day again. The deputy led me to a workstation where he sat down, logged in, and entered details from my passport. A blank sheet of the precious green paper was produced. They hit ”print”. Nothing happened. They stared at the machine, they cursed at the printer. They tried a different printer. Success! Stamp, sign, done. I thanked them profusely, ran back to El Guapo and raced back to the border.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREs7Ps7f0pcL40kB4d8IiPotuTRPHUBeudfeV_RjlX-syvRMcJUXtKLp1nza7vpmDvfgDkA1zuwf1FdBhZVGz1Z1o3RexnJTc_GRCff5ZYWN54T2UcJ3PGaZ00T-_TvNd_V2qUQYzihSt/s1600/IMG_2832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREs7Ps7f0pcL40kB4d8IiPotuTRPHUBeudfeV_RjlX-syvRMcJUXtKLp1nza7vpmDvfgDkA1zuwf1FdBhZVGz1Z1o3RexnJTc_GRCff5ZYWN54T2UcJ3PGaZ00T-_TvNd_V2qUQYzihSt/s320/IMG_2832.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Why, yes, I <i>do</i> have a special green paper</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">I arrived just before sunset, and just as the customs official who had helped me earlier was putting up a barrier at the entrance to the border station. ”Did you get it?” he asked. I triumphantly waved my green paper. ”Come with me,” he said. I followed him to a building on the other side of the complex, and started to bring my paperwork. ”No, no,” he said. ”we’ll finish that later. First we have to eat.” I followed him into the building where the entire staff of the border facility was seated on the floor, waiting for the end of the fast. Plates of dates, yoghurt, fruit and bowls of lentils were already waiting. After a few minutes, the end of the fast was invisibly signaled and we all tucked in. We had a short break, and then the main course was laid on — roast chicken and lamb, vegetables, rice, and pasta. Finally, some Arabic sweets for dessert.<p />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lRobFpFwICp4XjLe7VUpcNyFyxbm5rNzKZObIPXWwsR7n1Reb-v6AxakdoReGkgTwcSfi3lh1sXVm99vAD2XDaC6MZ6viSwsQFPBc5gjh-KI_UgyL-VcMJ-R7WQ4tLsuZqD4stVdeGai/s1600/IMG_2831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lRobFpFwICp4XjLe7VUpcNyFyxbm5rNzKZObIPXWwsR7n1Reb-v6AxakdoReGkgTwcSfi3lh1sXVm99vAD2XDaC6MZ6viSwsQFPBc5gjh-KI_UgyL-VcMJ-R7WQ4tLsuZqD4stVdeGai/s320/IMG_2831.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Iftar with Immigration</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">At last I was ready to get my exit stamp. The immigration team returned to the departure hall, but still wouldn’t stamp me until the military representative gave the OK, and he was nowhere to be found. I spent another half an hour waiting around before immigration finally agreed to stamp my passport. I set off down the final 500 meters to the frontier gate. A final check of my documents was done, and the hydraulic gate on the Kuwaiti side was opened to allow me through. The Kuwaitis bellowed to their Iraqi counterparts. After some time, two disheveled guys appeared, one carrying a walkie-talkie. He spoke into it. I understood enough Arabic to know that he was informing someone that he had an American passport-holder at the gate who wanted to come through. Eventually, permission was received, the rickety iron gate on the other side was opened and I drove through into Iraq.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I entered into a dark, deserted area, with no pavement and a few decrepit shacks. First they wanted to search the vehicle. We started the process, but then the guy with the walkie-talkie got me alone for a minute and offered to expedite the process for 100 dollars. I countered with 10 Kuwaiti Dinar (about 35 dollars). He accepted. Next, the usual vehicle formalities, completed by a decrepit gentleman in filthy pajamas sitting in an equally decrepit shack. Then immigration — fingerprinting, photos, etc. all performed in an eerily dark, vacant and run-down facility. There was no evidence that anyone else had recently passed through the facility. Finally, I was ready to depart, and I headed off to the barrier at the exit.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">In prior experience, this final exit check is quick and routine — they just check to make sure the guys inside have done their jobs properly — is the passport exit stamped, are the vehicle papers in order. Three uniformed soldiers stood at the barrier, the first reasonably professional looking guys I had encountered since entering Iraq. They insisted on searching the vehicle again, and then declared that my GPS would not be permitted to enter Iraq. I was directed to return to the customs facility. Eight guys questioned me over the next hour, and again the vehicle was searched, this time with great thoroughness. In the passenger footwell, alongside my discarded crisp packets and water bottles, they found the Arabic literature that the Saudi teenagers had given me along with the Iftar snack. I was questioned at length about this. When I say ”questioned at length,” I mean they kept asking the same stupid question over and over again. I had actually snapped a photo of the bag (see above) and I showed this to them. I couldn’t get the simple point across that I had no idea what the book said. In the end, they gave me two options — surrender my GPS or return to Kuwait. The GPS was an 800 dollar Garmin Monterra, but I had no other option. It was locked to the dashboard mount, so I had to partially unpack the vehicle again in order to dig out the special tool needed to remove it. Finally, I was permitted to return to the exit barrier and this time, it was lifted so that I could depart. I was finally free!<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I started down the road. Less than a minute later, I was flagged down by soldiers demanding my passport. I was on the verge of losing it — I had only 74 km to cover in Iraq, but at this rate it was going to take forever. Eventually, my passport was returned and I asked them the way to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basra">Basra</a>. They escorted me to the main road, and I started on my way. 10 minutes later, a military checkpoint. Again I am stopped, and this time escorted to the commander’s office. My papers are checked. I am offered water and juice. The commander doesn’t speak English, so he phones his brother, who does. The brother explains that there is no problem with me, everything is in order, but he is concerned for my security. He makes some calls, and is obviously frustrated. Finally, after a half-hour, he sends me on my way, asking me to be careful.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">I drive as fast as I can on the poorly surfaced and maintained road, dodging pot-holes and random obstacles. I am detained by police again — this time only briefly — two more times in less than an hour. About three-quarters of the way to Basra, I’m hurtling along at 100 km/hour at the left side of the roadway when suddenly the road narrows by several meters. I suddenly find myself driving with my left wheels in deep, soft sand, and my right wheels still on the roadway. I struggle a bit, but manage to bring the vehicle back under control, and back onto the roadway. If I had done that in anything but a Land Rover it would have been a disaster for sure.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Without my GPS, I am reliant on Google Maps to get me to the Shalamcheh border crossing with Iran. Fortunately, it gets me across the Shatt al Arab and to the crossing without difficulty. Unfortunately, when I arrive I am told that I would have to wait outside the border complex until the commanding officer, arrives at 8:00 the next morning. So began the 72-hour saga that eventually ended with me sitting here in my hotel in Abadan, with El Guapo safely parked out front.<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">29 June 2015<p />
<p class="MsoNormal">Abadan, Iran<p />
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">*"Please print clearly using block capitals in blue or black ink"</ span><p />
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0Abadan, Khuzestan, Iran30.347296 48.29340039999999630.128005 47.970676899999994 30.566587 48.6161239tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-41161038072175725882015-06-28T21:42:00.000+02:002015-07-18T01:18:00.469+02:00The Waiting is the Hardest Part<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p class="MsoNormal">After working in Qatar almost exactly eight years, I am "moving on to new challenges", although not in a rush to get back to work any time soon. One of the things that has kept me sane during the last four of these eight years was buying and then extensively modifying a 2010 Land Rover Defender 110 station wagon, since christened "El Guapo." Carrying out these modifications consumed so much of my time during the winter months (when it is cool enough to carry out such work in Qatar), that I had few opportunities to enjoy its many capabilities until recently. I did a few weekend camping trips to the Inland Sea, but only this past March, when I drove around Oman in it with the amazing woman ("MJ") who has since become my fiancé, did I get to take it on a proper trip. Everthing performed beautifully -- both the original Land Rover equipment, and nearly all of the numerous modifications I installed. At some point, I will get around to doing an extended blog entry on this vehicle, but for now just want to keep people updated on my current adventure.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After getting the excellent news from my employer, Ooredoo Group, that services were no longer needed, I started the long and complicated process of exiting Qatar -- closing the bank account, terminating my lease, shipping my belongings, etc. It is a notoriously complex process, but for some reason I felt compelled to make it even more complicated by deciding to leave Qatar by driving El Guapo across the Middle East (yes, that Middle East) to Europe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With ISIS in control of much of both Syria and Iraq, the "traditional" route -- through Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Syria and Turkey was not possible. Civil War in Libya took option 2 -- Saudi-Jordan-Egypt-Libya-Tunisiia and then ferry to Italy -- off the table. So the only viable option was via Iran and Turkey. Getting to Iran though still was a bit of a challenge -- either I would have to take a ferry from either the UAE or Kuwait, or drive through 74 kilometers of southern Iraq. This part of Iraq is relatively safe, with "relative" of course being the key word here. Given my previous experiences with ferries in the Middle East, I decided to chance it with the second option.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First step was to book a tour to Iran, which is the only way Americans and Brits are permitted to visit the country as tourists. I emailed a half-dozen or so agencies, almost all of whom responded that it was not permitted for Americans to bring their own vehicles to Iran and would not assist me. One of them, <a href="http://www.key2persia.com">Pars Tourist Agency</a>, agreed to assist with the understanding I would have to sort out the vehicle formalities without their assistance.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Found a lot of info on-line about bringing a vehicle into Iran -- nobody made it sound easy, but it certainly seemed possible. At the borders with Turkey and Turkmenistan there are "fixers" who can help facilitate with the formalities, but none seemed to operate on the southern borders. However, I contacted one of these fixers and he confirmed for me what the Iranian embassy in Doha had told me, which is that it could be done, but that it would be necessary to have a Carnet de Passage. I visited the Qatar Automobile and Touring Club on C-Ring Road in Doha, which is the AIT entity authorised to issue Carnets in Qatar. They told me it was simple as long as I had a Qatari guarantor.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeGS8YYvf9MZ3zFPPncT6_r2Yh92GV5PtRKNyR5IgxHtrVtOP3Qgv-XoLfzCnI_UcWTgWtCuQg7SUUpYs8dkI9JmXGokPC-q7Ck4cHthC2oJK-zyG85SBbr1t0DYd-yMk_f-LFbWLrtII/s1600/IMG_2937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeGS8YYvf9MZ3zFPPncT6_r2Yh92GV5PtRKNyR5IgxHtrVtOP3Qgv-XoLfzCnI_UcWTgWtCuQg7SUUpYs8dkI9JmXGokPC-q7Ck4cHthC2oJK-zyG85SBbr1t0DYd-yMk_f-LFbWLrtII/s320/IMG_2937.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Carnet de Passage</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the next few weeks, I sorted out my Saudi transit visa, finished booking my Iran tour and getting my Iranian visa, and submitted an application for a visa to the Embassy of Iraq in Doha. They told me to come back in two days, but when I did, I was told no visas could be issued. In order to protect certain individuals who assisted me, I cannot provdie details about how I overcame this, but after six more visits to the embassy over ther subsequent days, I finally was the proud owner of an Iraqi visa.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBbpSFEEYhueBSFt3NtWLLzc1rC4gKPlrsFIJ8yYu-EhC4X8D0PrhrHa2E4Qs20aN_g0lRyZS38pUpWKnD3Sd6B5aWRQrv6DFCsGMQmAXPITitHW7dKg80kdoNqYni3ifwZzfx4UN0D4h/s1600/IMG_2803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBbpSFEEYhueBSFt3NtWLLzc1rC4gKPlrsFIJ8yYu-EhC4X8D0PrhrHa2E4Qs20aN_g0lRyZS38pUpWKnD3Sd6B5aWRQrv6DFCsGMQmAXPITitHW7dKg80kdoNqYni3ifwZzfx4UN0D4h/s200/IMG_2803.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Finally, my Iraq visa!</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWFhNqselGOdvyEhtWw3Gs1knnBal5Cpd3ErTldfki7069dC0YGIkhq9Qc-qoyFCBJgogWeQH5G5oaWh5ZlbwSzDxdO5Zgtsg9fducm9wlsU7krf5hYZVjkoaAsumJpcIyH2FRQLtdlyU/s1600/IMG_2806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWFhNqselGOdvyEhtWw3Gs1knnBal5Cpd3ErTldfki7069dC0YGIkhq9Qc-qoyFCBJgogWeQH5G5oaWh5ZlbwSzDxdO5Zgtsg9fducm9wlsU7krf5hYZVjkoaAsumJpcIyH2FRQLtdlyU/s200/IMG_2806.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Not going to get far without being able to enter Saudi Arabia</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbPJOuqKzxeijLtJ_swF79WbQvD_YmiqPeg4jyO7riREgt_GbMdI97D8aK8dL4ijeXJrn1JCw1bao8RBlFfQmu0NdjtXs_1M64U8dDYRo18i6L2z2TCvwQ_AuIydbgjVLoMWLX10t205n/s1600/IMG_2805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbPJOuqKzxeijLtJ_swF79WbQvD_YmiqPeg4jyO7riREgt_GbMdI97D8aK8dL4ijeXJrn1JCw1bao8RBlFfQmu0NdjtXs_1M64U8dDYRo18i6L2z2TCvwQ_AuIydbgjVLoMWLX10t205n/s200/IMG_2805.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">And finally, my Iran visa</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the interim, I had finished packing up and moving out of my house, returning my Liquor Licence, getting my electricity and telephone turned off and settling the final bill, getting export plates put on my car, and getting an "Orange Card" insurance certificate for the vehicle.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQUo9osBEziG0ZKAmcGfcmXfX02fkUUdYcwU6dZWrs9_Gd1953nKWBVoufGEsVuzQr9EDJuVJ5NLfQVoXE_DxQ7mnU1-7YN-QbAlYHjc03MDrVYZOecdY4FQVFUII965uYI9YER-qSYPF/s1600/IMG_2769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQUo9osBEziG0ZKAmcGfcmXfX02fkUUdYcwU6dZWrs9_Gd1953nKWBVoufGEsVuzQr9EDJuVJ5NLfQVoXE_DxQ7mnU1-7YN-QbAlYHjc03MDrVYZOecdY4FQVFUII965uYI9YER-qSYPF/s200/IMG_2769.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Getting El Guapo fitted with export plates</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6NueEzWYAgvExy34gXoBrwgTbk9aF2aRhB4T0A3DkQOyf07RYUNElRN4plMdhEGrI0rXxbbCzqkfQkefzQt0ysYySW_8p9oxG_vOc9DjwZys1lxG7aj7pPi6XbEnSVrVV8S6VbH0jMiD/s1600/IMG_2936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6NueEzWYAgvExy34gXoBrwgTbk9aF2aRhB4T0A3DkQOyf07RYUNElRN4plMdhEGrI0rXxbbCzqkfQkefzQt0ysYySW_8p9oxG_vOc9DjwZys1lxG7aj7pPi6XbEnSVrVV8S6VbH0jMiD/s320/IMG_2936.jpg" /></a><br><span style="font-size:85%;">Orange Card</span><br /><br><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">All that remained was to get my residence permit cancelled, and to "make like a hockey player and get the puck out of there," as they say in Canada.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">28 June 2015</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Doha</p>
</div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com1Doha, Qatar25.2916097 51.53043679999996125.0619277 51.207713299999959 25.5212917 51.853160299999963tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-65889201724868366352015-01-04T16:54:00.000+01:002015-01-04T16:54:27.011+01:00New Year's Greetings 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /><p class="MsoNormal">Whoosh! Zoom! Vroom! Yes, that indeed was another year of your life flying by without so much as a tip of the hat! Not at all as you and your best friend imagined it as you sat in a bar in Soho/le Grand Place/St. Germain/Adams-Morgan/South Beach or wherever you hung out when you were 19 years old and solved all the world’s problems together over a glass or three of Scotland’s finest or Brooklyn’s reasonably good back in whatever decade it was before you became jaded, cynical and calculating. But, here you are. And I am here with you, and I have no regrets about that.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We give up our delusions so reluctantly – in San Francisco, in 1979, I needed an ID photo for some visa application or something, so I did as we all did in those days and went to some crappy Chinese photo studio (“Cable Car Camera”) and got some Polaroid® instant photos done, which were delivered to me in a little cardboard wallet. I handed one over to my travel agent for the visa application, and kept the other one for future use – you never know when you’ll need another ID photo.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I only tossed this photo out last year, finally coming to terms with the fact that no government agency anywhere in the world would ever accept this image of a fresh-faced, long-haired, clear-skinned, bright-eyed youth as a valid and honest representation of my current self for identification purposes. This, for me, is life’s inherently tragic quality – we are never given looks, wisdom and experience at the same time, except perhaps for one fleeting afternoon in our late 30s. This is why we get tattoos – they are a message our younger selves send to our more mature, responsible selves – “Hey, you! Yes, you in the expensive suit! Remember the day you got this? Well, neither do I, but when I woke up with this tattoo on one arm and a naked, pale-skinned brunette on the other, I thought, ‘hey, must have been a good night’! So keep that in mind!” If only our future selves could message back to us as young people, warn us not to hesitate, not to fear, not to doubt, and above all, buy some Apple shares. But Einstein’s theories aside, time as we experience it flows only one way.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But here we are. My abs have absconded, my biceps gone bye-bye, and my glutes have headed south for the winter. Hair is mostly gone, except in my ears. But so is the doubt, the hesitancy, the fear, the ambiguity, the confusion, and the uniquely Democratic Party-ish urge to respect other people’s stupid opinions. I now fully embrace my understanding that Tea Partiers are complete and total morons, so bring it on – I am ready. Except for the duck heads and eel testicles and whale penis or anything else Anthony Bourdain has eaten on television, I am ready to take on anything. As I said, I have nothing left to prove, and I am NOT putting that thing in my mouth! It is important to say “yes,” to Life, but sometimes, yes, you need to need to follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and “just say no”.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I did not let life entirely slip through my fingers this year, and I sincerely hope you didn’t either. I did let another year go by without driving the Land Rover to Oman (I’m working on it!), but did manage to tick a few boxes on the proverbial bucket list. No sheep were harmed in any of these endeavours, I assure you. I moved a little closer to my goal of retiring in Prague by establishing a company there, and through that company, acquiring some investment properties. I got back to Stockholm, and indulged myself in the comfortable and familiar, hanging out with old friends in places with warm memories and cold artisanal beers. Kim and I went to London for about the 85th time, and -- unlike some previous visits -- being surrounded by Englishmen didn’t inspire her to test the limits of her ability to consume alcohol so unfortunately I don’t have another unique and memorable story involving her and Soho, Jazz bars, transvestites, night buses, or defending American honour with Tequila to add to the extensive existing anthology, but as always she was a warm and entertaining travel companion nonetheless. After London, we rented a car and headed north to the Yorkshire Dales, a first for both of us, where we indulged in all of our favourite activities – walking in the countryside, eating and drinking fireside in ancient, cosy pubs, and, course, shopping at Boots. Actually, that was more Kim than me, but I did get myself a new blister kit while I was there. Kim, I believe, bought one of just about everything else they sell. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl1SIJOAkfvi5Pv_ZHVjDWinb7wucRP883BKEdLKqYY2ubiFBgpTpv5nyQY9k5l12hYbBvIrJHrNWRhxNXLKxgTsffgwJOwEU41f4q7Q-8L-uCX7SYl7nyNFihlRCfZME2h9yzOJ_DOpH/s1600/P1000140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl1SIJOAkfvi5Pv_ZHVjDWinb7wucRP883BKEdLKqYY2ubiFBgpTpv5nyQY9k5l12hYbBvIrJHrNWRhxNXLKxgTsffgwJOwEU41f4q7Q-8L-uCX7SYl7nyNFihlRCfZME2h9yzOJ_DOpH/s320/P1000140.JPG" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">From the Dales we drove to Heysham, caught the ferry to the Isle of Man and did more walking. I really loved the place – not least because its four main public transportation systems really haven’t changed in 200 years. Getting there, we took the Isle of Man Steam Packet company ferry, which claims to be the oldest continuously operated scheduled steamship line in the world. Within Douglas, the capital, you travel up and down its gracious seaside promenade by a horse-drawn tram that has been operating almost since the 18th century. To go to the southern part of the island, you take the miniature steam train that was the inspiration for “Thomas the Tank Engine”, and to go north, you take the electric railway that has been in operation since electricity was first invented or something. Both of these railways are operated using equipment that is at least a century old, and works just fine, thank you very much. Why mess with success?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From Douglas, another ferry took us to Dublin, Ireland’s elegant capital city, which was even more incredible than I remembered it being from my last visit 34 years ago. We had some good moments in Dublin, but the Irish countryside was by far the more enjoyable part of our visit, with green fields, sparkling waters and rainbows dominating the experience, with the afternoon Guinness buzz of course just enhancing it just that extra little bit. So I will add Ireland to my very short list of places (Paris, New Orleans, Jerusalem, St. Petersburg) that actually measure up to the over-the-top hype you hear about them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not long after I returned to Doha, however, I received some troubling news about my Mom, whom I learned has a malignant tumour in her lung. This was unexpected news on two levels – first, there is very little cancer in my very large extended family, and second, she comes from very long-lived stock. People in her family do not die in hospitals of extended illnesses. Typically, they expire in the course of a morning’s work at some point in their late 90s, usually in an incident involving stubborn in-laws and/or recalcitrant husbands or farm animals (in south-eastern Poland, where my mother’s family is from, these two terms are largely interchangeable). </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Having barely been able to recover from this news, I got a text from my brother a couple weeks later saying that now my Dad been diagnosed with Pancreatic cancer, and not the Steve Jobs kind, which can linger for decades and cannot spread to Windows users. No apparently, this was the more common, and more virulent, variety that has a 95% mortality rate. My parents are not spring chickens by any means, but they’re really not that old – today, in fact, is my Mother’s 80th birthday, and my Dad is a few weeks younger.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Contemplating their mortality, I boggle my own mind (I believe the Catholic Church still considers self-boggling to be a sin) by considering the changes this world has gone through in their lifetimes. I’m not thinking about relatively recent stuff, such as the internet, which didn’t arrive until 80% of their current life spans were already lived, but more basic stuff. Think of all the stuff that didn’t exist in 1934 – not esoteric, exotic, or unusual stuff that most of us will never use, such as nuclear weapons. I mean the everyday stuff that is probably is within a few meters of you as you sit reading this: Epoxy cement. Plastic grocery bags. Nylon stockings Flea collars. Turbo-charged engines. McDonalds. Petrol stations that sell food. Drug stores that sell food. Grocery stores that sell condoms. Motorways. Gortex. Scotch-guard. Hair conditioner. Ferguson? Black people were still being strung up from trees in 1934 Missouri. I am one of the stubborn hold-outs who still gets a printed newspaper (Google it, young people) delivered to my front door every morning, and reading that paper some mornings it’s a bit depressing. I read about ISIS and the CIA and Ebola and Ukraine and the NYPD and it sometimes feels like we aren’t getting anywhere. But we are. We are having debates and discussions unthinkable just 2 decades ago. We are a gay-marrying, negro-electing, legal marijuana-smoking, bicycle lane-supporting, abusive cop-rejecting and female-clergy-enabling society very different from the one my parents were born into.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I spent Thanksgiving with my parents for the first time in over two decades, flying back to a Mid-west United States that was, to be honest, depressingly different than the one I left in 1966. It was impossible to avoid mentally comparing my parents’ illnesses with the malignant blight of unconstrained commercialism that the capitalist system has smeared across the once-beautiful State of Michigan, turning verdant fields into tarmac-paved shopping “malls” (a perversion of an English term -- which originally referred to a green urban park -- if there ever was one), whist at the same time turning once-vibrant urban neighbourhoods filled with family-run businesses into economically hollowed-out shadows of what they had once been, all the families they once respectfully supported now turned into Wal-Mart wage slaves.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My brother came as well, with his two awesome kids, and the two of us cooked Thanksgiving dinner. I did the turkey and the stuffing and the mashed potatoes and the gravy, and he did the Brussels sprouts and the cranberry chutney. My Mom made an incredible pumpkin flan for dessert, and my Dad opened a special bottle of wine, a vintage Margaux, I forget the year, but still can close my eyes and experience the taste.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the weekend we put the kids in the car (the key to getting them in the car is to toss their iPhones in first) and drove into Detroit, first to see the Henry Ford museum, visiting which in 1965 is one of the earliest of my many fond memories of my father. On Sunday it was on to Hamtramck, the little Polish city on the edge of Detroit where my Mom grew up. We had planned to start with Polish mass at St. Ladlslas church, the church where my grandparents and parents were married, and my sister and grandmother and grandfather had their funerals, but arrived at the posted Mass time to find the car park empty and the doors locked. A car-load of Poles showed up, asking in Polish about the mass. No one knew anything, and after waiting until 10:15 we gave up, and had a wander around the neighbourhood, showing the kids the house where their grandmother grew up, and visiting some of the many businesses that had managed to survive there since her childhood. There was also a fancy new Polish grocery, where we stocked up on pickles and kiełbasa and mustard and ham and all the foods necessary to maintain one’s Polish identity.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We had some further identity reinforcement planned for lunchtime – we headed to the Polonia restaurant, one of two awesome Polish restaurants in the city. We started with smalec (spiced pork fat, basically clogged arteries in a tub) and bread and pickles, and then moved on to żurek and pierogis and finally roast pork and chicken and potatoes and of course plenty of Okocim beer to wash it all down.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If all of this isn’t inspiring you to start planning your next holiday in Detroit, then our afternoon experience almost certainly will be – I have three words for you: DIA. Yes, the Detroit Institute of Art. Of course, part of our motivation for going was the on-going threat of the breakup of this incredible collection in order to satisfy Detroit’s creditors, an act which can only be legitimately compared to the rape of Detroit’s inert corpse by the capitalist scum that have brought this once incredible city to its current state, and whom already have focussed most of their attentions on their next round of victims. But even if its future was 100% secure, this was still a visit worth making, and I say that as someone who has seen most, if not all, of the world’s great museums. This was really one of the great Art experiences of my life – it has everything – Pre-Columbian American, ancient Mediterranean, Chinese, Islamic, Medieval, Renaissance, Modern, Impressionist, Pop, Futurist, Romanticist, Primitive, etc. An absolutely stunning Diego Rivera Mural. All in an in incredibly elegant, urban setting that the network cameras never seem to rest on whenever they do a “Detroit” story, which according to guidelines originally developed by “Fox” news, must always contain images of overweight black people (See? Welfare Queens, just like I told you!”) and abandoned buildings, but which of course must never identify the Capitalist system as the source of the problem. And unlike many other American museums, such as the Boston Museum of Science and MoMA in New York, they haven’t let the MBAs come in and do a “yield management” (i.e., fleece the public for as much as possible) study for them – residents of Detroit and Wayne County get free entry, because this is a museum still living up to the ideal of bringing art, culture and enlightenment to the masses. No wonder the Koch brothers and their Tea Party supporters hate the place so much – their agenda depends on keeping everyone stupid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We finished the day at my Aunt Helen’s, my mother’s elder sister. At one time, she could barely speak English, but now, trying to communicate with her in her native Polish was hopeless – she had completely lost her natal tongue. Nonetheless, she gratefully accepted the delicacies we brought her from the Polish market in Hamtramck, and then served us home-made pierogi made from her mother’s recipe, which she graciously shared with us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do of course, feel sadness about the fact that I will likely be losing so many of these people, people like my Aunt who still lives in the same house she did when I visited as a 12-year old. Most of all, of course, I am sad about expecting to lose my parents. But this sadness is not paralysing, it is energising. My lifelong sense of needing to make the most of my time here is reinforced and reinvigorated. I step out of my front door in the morning and the Land Rover looks more ready than ever for a drive around the world.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The world beckons. I have things left to do. I have plans, places left to see, and successes left to celebrate. I have ambitions. I no longer have hopes, as much as I have intentions. I intend to keep doing this on my terms, and I intend to see each and every one of you in the years ahead.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Happy New Year and God Bless.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Peace and Love</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Greg</p>
</div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-76031089797993961762015-01-04T16:26:00.001+01:002015-07-17T17:03:43.725+02:00Back at the Keyboard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Obviously, there is no denying that my enthusiasm for keeping this blog current has faded a bit from the initial enthusiasm. Not infrequently, I do give thought to doing an update, but the longer the pause, the more intimidating it becomes -- I don't think it unnatural to have a sense that the first entry after a long break needs to be exceptional in some respect. Which of course becomes an obstacle, a source of writers' block in and of itself.
Several friends have been urging me to write more, but what was a few voices became a chorus after my most recent holiday greetings, an annual message I have been writing and sharing for over a decade now. And it wasn't just friends, but friends of friends, people who have never met me or know anything about me, but yet had the most unexpectedly enthusiastic and encouraging response. So I feel almost compelled to return here.
I am going to start by posting that message, my 2015 New Year's greeting, but then I am going to add some new stuff. I have, in fact, had a number of posts bouncing around inside my head for some months now, and it's time to release them into the wild. Hope you enjoy.
<p class="MsoNormal">Blogndog</p> <p class="MsoNormal">
Doha, January 2015</p></div>
BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590352083172121618.post-28833864799406972052014-03-30T14:50:00.001+02:002014-03-30T14:50:12.946+02:00Cycling in the US from a Dutch perspective<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/m2THe_10dYs" width="480"></iframe>BlognDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05443424858768641900noreply@blogger.com0