The last night in Armenia was spent wandering in shorts, drinking beer and joking about the prohibitions that the following day would bring (do you think we will be breathalised at the border?) My companion Jerry and I were hijacked by a German-speaking music teacher who insisted that he give us the tour of the church in German, which proved to be more than a little farcical as I had to interpret for my travelling companion, Jerry, this as he, I and the guide all spoke much better Russian than German.
We were taken to listen to some Armenian choral music and then, as always happens on such occasions, out came the Deep Purple cassettes.
From best Russian vodka to driest Islamic beer
Depsite being refused a visa without explanation at the Iranian Embassy in Moscow, Jerry had decided to try his luck on the border. Our guide gave us hope on the visa front, pronouncing incredibly that he could organise an Iranian visa from the Armenian side for about $12. He had a cousin at the border who was friendly with the Iranians and he would call him. The cousin was not around, and we were given his name so that he could help us the following day.
We hitched the five kilometres in a greying Niva, which had probably started life white, and passed truck after truck queuing. Our driver was not quite sure why we wanted to go to the border, but he took us there anyway and could not understand our lack of desire to alight.
He had stopped by the huge wire fence that separated the two countries, but some distance from the actual border crossing. When we explained that we wanted to go to the border because we wanted to cross into Iran, he looked at us with the same expression as everyone else - they think we're mad.
There were no tourists. There was no cousin of the tour guide. We didn’t think there would be, but it was a glimmer of hope to which we clung. In fact there was nobody at the Armenian side apart from border officials and truck drivers. “You want to go to Iran and you haven’t got a visa?” The Armenian, a congenial soul, took one look at Jerry’s passport and declared that he was the fortunate one - he would be drinking vodka tonight.
Looking at the passport, I could see his point.
No man's land on every level
There were five checkpoints on the Armenian side, the last three manned by the Russian Army (the Soviet Union may be no more, but the Russians do not give up their influence lightly). Our passports were inspected more from curiosity than anything else - only one or two tourists a month pass through there, according to the border officials.
And there we were, in no-man’s-land between Armenia and Iran. Behind us, lines of trucks, green and lush mountains, broken factories, ahead a blue-domed mosque, forbidding desert-like mountains and a bridge into the unknown.
We crossed in silence, neither of us believing that the Iranians would let Jerry in, yet neither of us admitting that this was the case, I because I did not want to continue alone and he because home in Moscow was a poor second to the Iranian adventure. We crossed the first checkpoint unhindered and then came to a second, in a hut. It was immediately obvious that language was going to be a major problem. Farsi has its own script and even the numbers are unintelligible.
In the hut, there were three others crossing the border and one of them interpreted from Farsi to Russian for us. The man behind the desk asked some questions and seemed satisfied. Was it possible to get a transit visa at the border? Maybe. Did he not want to see our passports? Why would he want to see your passports, wondered our translator - he was the doctor and was just deciding whether or not he wanted a blood sample. I have never felt so lost entering a country, ever.
Of course they did not let Jerry in. It didn’t even take a working knowledge of Farsi to work this out. The bearded official was frothing at the mouth at the very suggestion. We stood there, knowing that this was the end of an excellent time together. Neither of us wanted to part but after a few minutes, I thrust out my hand. I watched him go and suddenly felt terribly alone.
The welcoming stare of Ayatollah Khomeini
This leg was going to be hard. The passport check was more relaxed than I had expected. An immaculately turned-out immigration officer shepherded me into the room marked ‘Presidential Passport’, asked me a few questions and then said in a deep voice:
“Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
It sent a chill through me. I stuck close to the Russian speaker and she explained all the formalities, seeing immediately that I was totally out of my depth. I had read much about the thoroughness of the luggage checks at the borders, where cassettes were played, diaries inspected etc. I used the trick that works without fail every time - placing my dirty socks at the top of my rucksack. The customs official gave it a cursory glance (or was it a whiff?) and I was free to go. Thank the Lord for the Russian-speaking woman, who turned out to be a Georgian trader. Without her I would still be there.
There was a small bureau de change at the crossing and I took out a fifty dollar note to exchange for rials, thinking about the irony of the power of the greenback in this land where America is seen as the Great Satan. But it was my first sight of Iranian money that made me think a little more, as the penetrating stare of Ayatollah Khomeini pierced through me. I felt distinctly uncomfortable and thought more than once of running back to be with Jerry.
There were trucks and a few taxis at the other side, nothing else. We were the only clients. Our first destination was Tabriz, a city 250km away. She negotiated two taxis and allocated one to me and a lot of her luggage. I was charged $15 - I would have been happy to pay $100 if I had been alone.
Not for the first time on this trip, the first thing I noticed in a new country was the fairer sex. The first girl I saw was dressed head to toe in a black chador, more like a cape. I could see her face and hands and that was all. She had a Roman nose, dark eyes and I think she smiled at me. To be honest, I thought she was quite sexy.
Then I saw the second woman, older but dressed exactly the same - then the third, fourth and fifth. We passes a bus in the first town and in the front were the men, in t-shirts and short-sleeved shirts; in the back were the woman, all dressed as the first girl, all looking forward in silence. They looked like a cross between nuns and some perverse alien clones.
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
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