More Waiting

Friday afternoon I got a email from Nene Overland confirming they had shipped me the new starter motor and including the tracking number. However, checking the TNT 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.

We started the day’s sightseeing with a visit to the Armenian Vank Cathedral 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 St. Gregory the Illuminator, at the hands of the Armenian King Tiradates, 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.

Frescoes at Vank Cathedral

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.

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.

Afterwards, we wandered over to the nearby ”Forty-Columned Palace,” or Chehel Sotoun, 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).

Seven of the 20 columns on the 40 columned palace

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 famous bridges in the evening. Next stop, Tehran.

Blogndog

6 July 2015

Tehran

The Show Must Go On

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:

1. The starter is being shipped to the tour agency, who deliver to the mechanic
2. The mechanic will restore El Guapo to working order
3. A driver will take him to me in Tehran next week
   

In the meantime, I am continuing my tour as planned with a driver. Yesterday, we drove north to the legendary city of Isfahan. Checked into our hotel in the old city; I went for a walk alone at dusk and ended up at the Jameh Mosque, the oldest in Isfahan (originally a Zoroastrian temple) just as Maghreb prayer was starting.

Today was ”see the sights” day, so naturally we started with the famous Naqsh-e Jahan Square , and visited the Ali Qapu Palace, the Shah mosque, and the incredible royal mosque. After a break for lunch, it was time for another time-honoured Iranian tradition, haggling over a carpet.

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.

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.

Blogndog

4 July 2015

Isfahan

Solihull, We Have a Problem

After seeing the Pink Mosque, 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.

Interior of the Pink Mosque

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.

I pulled into a car park and thoughtlessly turned off the ignition. I tried to start again. As I expected, nothing. Fortunately, Shiraz 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.

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.

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.

Poor El Guapo :(

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.

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.

More Indignities

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.

I'm not saying it was aliens, but...

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.

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.

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).

Ancient astronauts? Or just guys with really bad fashion sense?

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.

Blogndog

4 July 2015

Isfahan

That’s No Mirage, I’m in Shiraz!

Abadan 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 Iran-Iraq war, Abadan’s main claim to fame is having the highest known temperature on the planet, a heat burst that hit 87° C in June 1967.

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.

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.

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.

At last, we were ready to do some sightseeing. Our first stop was the Pink Mosque, a beautiful 19th century tiled edifice with incredible stained glass windows. Finally my trip was going smoothly…or was it?

Blogndog

3 July 2015

Isfahan

Kafka, Schmafka — Welcome to Iran!

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.

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.

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!"

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.

Blogndog

2 July 2015

Shiraz

Iran at Last

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.

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.

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.

”What is it you know?”

”I know a lot — is this a test?”

”What specifically do you know?”

”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?”

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.

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.

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.”

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 FIVB World League volleyball tournament in Tehran.

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.

Blogndog

2 July 2015

Shiraz

If at First You Don’t Succeed...You’re Probably at Some Crappy Middle Eastern Border Crossing

The next few days passed in a blur of hopes raised and dashed, frustration and success. A brief chronology:

Friday

I parked El Guapo at the entrance to the Iraqi side of the Shalamcheh border crossing 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.

Waiting for Major Saddam

Saturday

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.

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.

Everyone's favourite part of visiting in Iraq – the "Going Away" facility

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.

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.

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.

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.

One of the many luxuries in the commander's headquarters at the Shalamcheh border facility – a choice of soap colour

Sunday

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.

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.

Good-bye Iraq, Hello Iran

Blogndog

Shiraz

1 July 2015