Two for the Road, page 17
The regime in Iran is extremely anti the West and this is clear when we spot a ‘Down with America’ demonstration by schoolchildren outside our hotel window one morning. When I look out the curtained windows there are hundreds of schoolboys and girls marching down the street carrying banners and chanting. We are told it is ‘Education Day’, when the children celebrate their education, but it is actually ‘Down with America’ day. The students are chanting ‘Down with America! Down with Israel!’ and waving their fists. At the centre of the group is a flat-bed truck mounted with an antiquated sound system. The mullahs are trying to whip the youngsters into a frenzy. It isn’t working. As we walk past, the stragglers at the back of the demonstration welcome us and ask the usual question: ‘Where are you from?’ I am glad we aren’t American, but they certainly don’t seem threatening. They wave and wish us well, and then turn back to the front and resume their chanting. (Demonstrations like this are held throughout Iran today – the local news showed many similar demonstrations in various locations.) A cab driver is keen to tell us his views of the current regime: ‘I miss the shah – they were good days.’
‘But how do you remember the shah? You seem too young,’ I reply.
‘I remember they were good days. The people were happy. In the days of the shah we had one thief running the country. Now we have many thieves. The mullahs are greedy and have taken much money for themselves.’
His is yet another voice of discontentment.
Brian: From Shiraz we are faced with an 800 km ride to Bam and the border with Pakistan. Through the desert we make very good time and when we get to the outskirts of Kerman we begin to climb the winding road across a small mountain range. The road twists and turns, which is great for us, but not so good for the old trucks and cars that struggle up the steep gradient. Down the other side, in the distance, is a long downhill slope to Kerman. It’s two-lane and the rust buckets go flat out down the hill with little regard for safety as they buck and weave on balding tyres and worn-out suspension. If it wasn’t so dangerous, it would be funny.
The sun is fading fast and the air temperature drops considerably. As dusk settles, we seem to be the only vehicle on the road with lights on. Every other vehicle drives in the dark. A truck cuts onto the road from the right, darts across two lanes and begins to turn left in front of us without even looking let alone indicating. There is no time to hit the brakes and dive for the inside. I gun the bike and get around the truck just in time. I can feel Shirl grip me with her thighs and arms. With hearts racing, we continue on our way – counting our lucky stars. We must have a guardian angel.
Shirley: We have been tossing up whether we should stay at Akhbar’s Tourist Guest House, which has been recommended to us, or the Bam Inn, the mid-range option in the guidebook. We spy three bikes and a four-wheel drive in the yard of the Bam Inn and our decision is made. We know that the first stretch of road we will cross into Pakistan is dangerous and there is a definite safety-in-numbers principle in force. If this group is travelling east we can travel together. If they are travelling west they will probably have some good information on what lies ahead.
One of the group, Ingo, is on a Triumph Tiger and spending a few months travelling from Germany to India and Nepal. He must be home in May next year to resume his studies in forestry. Bernd and Heidi are also from Germany and are riding KTMs, heading all the way to Australia. South Africans Dagmar and Peter are taking their Land Rover around the world. We sit in the dark, Dagmar and I complaining bitterly about the scarves and coats we have to wear, and Peter and Brian talking travel. Peter and Dagmar are particularly keen to have company crossing the badlands of Pakistan, so we arrange to meet them in Taftan, across the border, in a couple of days. Bernd and Heidi aren’t sure if they can make the journey in one day, so we all contemplate a night in Dalbandin, the only town safe enough to spend the night in on that part of the highway. This area is very close to Afghanistan and a popular spot for the Taliban.
The conditions at the Bam Inn are really poor, so we move to Akhbar’s Tourist Guest House, a palace by comparison. Akhbar, a former English teacher, is friendly and welcoming. His rooms are clean, comfortable and fitted out with Western toilets and a double bed, and it’s a third of the price we paid the previous night.
Around lunchtime we head to Arg-e-Bam, an ancient adobe city dating back to 224 AD, to meet Peter and Dagmar. Most of what remains of the town of old Bam dates back to between 1502 and 1722, when up to 13,000 people lived in the city. It was abandoned in 1722 after an invasion by the Afghanis. The site is impressive. The old city is six square kilometres, and its massive walls tower over date palms. We spend about four hours walking around the streets and laneways, taking in the remains of houses, the bazaar, the mosque, the caravanserai, the garrison and the governor’s palace. Some of the buildings have been restored so well they still convey the majesty this city once had.
We climb high up into the citadel wall at the back of the ancient city, to a teahouse that is open today even though it is Ramadan. In deference to the Muslims, foreigners are asked to eat inside, but we sit by a window with views of the ancient city. It is breathtaking. The speciality of the house is date biscuits, made from a secret recipe that the woman who runs the teahouse is unwilling to share. They are delicious.
It is time to say farewell to Iran and head into Pakistan. As we approach the border with Pakistan we encounter a sea of vehicles and men. Utes packed with plastic containers of fuel and food jostle for a place in the queue. The Iranian soldiers push us to the top of the queue and check our passports before pointing us in the direction of the true border 10 km away.
We pass into the Iranian Truck Terminal for passport and customs checks. These go off without a hitch once we find the offices and officials. Our final check is by a man in a nondescript uniform who works in a concrete shed. Along the wall in front of the shed is the slogan ‘Down with USA’ signed by the Islamic Revolution Committee of Mirjaveh. On the other side of the concrete shed is what remains of another slogan: ‘… ept the Islamic law across the world’. I can only presume this originally had something to do with sweeping the Islamic faith far and wide.
We pass through a gate and are confronted by a rundown collection of buildings – Pakistan.
ELEVEN
PAKISTAN
7 November – 3 December 2003
Shirley: In Pakistan, the immigration process is cumbersome. All our details are entered into enormous ledgers by bureaucrats sitting behind ancient wooden desks in rooms filled with blue smoke. The men are relaxed and friendly, sitting on their rickety chairs. They all wear the traditional Pakistani shalwar qamiz – loose pants under long, flowing shirts. Permeating the smoke is the mouth-watering aroma of curry. It is Ramadan and the men are preparing their evening meal.
‘Welcome to Pakistan. Do you have any problems?’ Before Brian can answer, the customs officer says, ‘Of course you have no problems. You are in Pakistan now, not Iran. No problems.’
The conversation moves to Australia’s ties with England, which leads us to a favourite topic in Pakistan: cricket. When you mention Australia to a cricket fan in Pakistan, their reply is just two words: ‘Ricky Ponting’. They love him. The bond of sport breaks down barriers. The officials offer us tea, even though they are fasting.
We have organised to meet Ingo, Bernd, Heidi, Dagmar and Peter at the government-run motel in Taftan. The manager greets us at the door and tells us Ingo is already out the back, setting up his tent. Although it is Ramadan and daylight, we are offered cold drinks and samousa – fried pastry parcels filled with spicy meat and vegetables – which are a taste sensation after the bland kebabs we’ve had in Iran. At last I can shed the scarf and coat of Iran – no hijab laws here. This immediately gives me a feeling of freedom. From the motel’s dusty yard, we can see the customs house. We are waiting for Peter and Dagmar to cross. Finally, at about 6.30 p.m., they drive in with three other vans. It is rush hour!
Alcohol is banned in Pakistan but can be purchased under licence at major tourist hotels in the main cities. At our motel, discreet questions reveal that it does sell local whisky. It’s not cheap at 500 rupee (around $12) for a half bottle. And it is rough – 25% underproof, distilled in Pakistan – but it is whisky. There are a lot of laughs as we play the card game Uno with Ingo, Peter and Dagmar, and Ube and Bettina, a young German couple travelling in a four-wheel drive camper van.
Soon it’s time for our ride across the badlands of Pakistan. If Bernd and Heidi don’t arrive tomorrow we will head off without them, but that is not our preference. We don’t want to leave them to travel to Quetta on their own. We’ve been warned that it is a dangerous stretch of road and far better travelled in a group.
Dagmar and I head into town to buy some supplies. It is an unnerving experience – the roads are dusty tracks and the buildings ramshackle. We find a shop and walk in only to interrupt a man praying to Allah at the back of the store – right near the biscuits. The other man in the shop signals that we shouldn’t bother about this and just look through his produce. It is a very uncomfortable feeling stepping over the praying man to get a good look at the massive selection of sweet biscuits. We don’t linger over our shopping.
The motel manager tells us that there are ‘service stations’ everywhere in town. He is right. What he doesn’t tell us is that in this part of Pakistan a ‘service station’ is just a collection of steel drums on the side of the dirt road. A tin shed seems to be home to the young men who work there. Most of the servos are very shabby-looking affairs, but there is one that stands out from the rest. Instead of plastic drums and hoses, this tin shed provides jugs to dispense fuel and a muslin cloth to filter the fuel as it is poured into the tank.
After buying petrol at under 10c a litre in Iran, we are horrified when the young man, using a calculator, tells us the fuel here will be the equivalent of $4 a litre. When we work out that the decimal point is in the wrong spot it turns out to be a much more realistic 21.5 rupee (about 50c) a litre.
Bernd and Heidi finally make it over the border and we head off on the road to Quetta – the only road out of town. We travel just 16 km before coming to our first police checkpoint, a tin shed in the middle of nowhere. There are more dusty ledgers to fill in with our passport details. The police are incredibly friendly. The whole setup seems stuck in a time warp. On a rickety old stool outside the shed is a windup Bakelite phone that’s probably been in use since World War II. Wooden and rope beds with coarse blankets and wooden chairs and tables seem to be the only ‘comforts’ for the men placed here in the middle of nowhere. These checkpoints are not here to keep local officials busy. If we disappear, the authorities will be able to pinpoint when and where we were last seen alive. I am not comforted by this thought.
The road takes us through a desert landscape so barren nothing will grow out here. Yet there are people in small communities along the railway to Quetta. As our convoy passes, children run out of the settlements, waving madly. We must be quite a sight – Dagmar and Peter in their Land Rover followed by Brian and me, Bernd, Heidi and Ingo on bikes.
The first major settlement we come to is Dalbandin. On its outskirts are about 30 shanties selling petrol from containers. It is getting dark and we are warned not to press on from here. This is an area where foreigners need to be tucked up inside before night falls. We must find accommodation and, as towns go, Dalbandin doesn’t seem very promising. Peter and Dagmar head to a hotel with a camping area to park their truck. We opt for a hotel the local police tell us is the best in town.
If this is the best place in town, I’d hate to see the worst. The power doesn’t come on until 6 p.m. There is no hot water, no shower facilities and only a squat toilet without running water. You have to fill a bucket to flush. The bathroom, such as it is, looks as though it hasn’t been cleaned for weeks and the bed sheets are putrid. The only thing dirtier is the clothing worn by the assortment of men working here (including a dwarf named Commando, who sleeps on a shelf under the reception desk!). The only advantage is a restaurant of sorts that doubles as the overnight motorcycle parking area.
Our room has a window without glass, which looks out onto the internal stairwell. As I change out of my bike gear, I see the curtain move and half a dozen sets of eyes watching me. I am completely taken aback and shout at them. Without flinching they wander off. This is the breaking point for me.I am too old to bother with dirty hotel rooms, stinking toilets and dirty sheets. Brian is trying to be supportive and attempts a positive spin on things. This only makes me feel worse, knowing he now has to contend with a weeping woman.
While lying awake in our shabby room something occurs to me. We have been in Pakistan for three days and we haven’t seen any women – not even young girls. Taftan and Dalbandin seem to be towns inhabited by men only. Where are the women in this country that boasts of freedom in comparison with its fundamentalist neighbour?
The next stretch of the road to Quetta is said to be the most dangerous. Close to the Afghan border, we pass through an area where foreigners are not welcome. We’ve been told not to stop on this road for any reason. Max Ng, the Singaporean biker we met in Turkey, had a nasty spill on this stretch of road when he was chased by locals on bikes.
The road conditions worsen the further we travel. The desert winds raise up sand across the roadway. On occasion, we slip and slide our way through drifting sand up to 20 cm deep. There seems to be no life on the road apart from camels, but occasionally we see a man just sitting on the rocks looking down or wandering along the side.
There are the occasional small settlements by the road and it is here we see our first Pakistani women. They are wearing the most magnificently coloured saris – magenta, aquamarine, brilliant yellows and bright greens – as they toil in the barren fields. Groups of them wander along the side of the road carrying enormous bundles on their heads.
One hundred and thirty kilometres from Dalbandin we are stopped at yet another police checkpoint. This time they won’t let us move on until we have an armed escort. They want to put the armed guard into the Land Rover, but there is no room. We sit in the heat and wait while the police use their windup phone to find a vehicle to escort us. When they can’t find anyone we are told to move on without a guard. The checkpoints are there solely for the safety of travellers, who are at risk from Taliban insurgents.
A further 50 km down the highway, we pull into the town of Nushki. Here we are ordered into the police compound and berated for not waiting for a guard at the previous checkpoint: ‘You don’t realise how dangerous it is for tourists in this part of Pakistan. You are just 50 km from the border with Afghanistan. Where is your guard?’
Everyone looks to Brian for an answer. He seems to be the unofficial leader of our little group. ‘We waited at the checkpoint but they couldn’t find a vehicle,’ he replies. ‘There is no room in the Land Rover and no room on the bikes. We were told to move on.’
‘Not only is it dangerous, but if you go missing it causes trouble between your government and our government. While you are in this area you are my responsibility and you will not go on without an escort. And you cannot travel on these roads at night. They are far too dangerous and we cannot guarantee your safety at night.’
The haranguing goes on. This official is furious. Someone from the other checkpoint is going to cop it when we leave, that’s for sure. As a way of stressing his point, the official tells us about a group of foreigners who were forced to camp in the compound last night because they were travelling after dark. ‘They were lucky we let them stay here.’
On that note, he gets his gun and jumps into the passenger seat of a small van, signalling that we are to follow. He might be the officer in charge, but he is our escort. With a spin of the wheels in the dirt, the police car heads off at a frenetic pace with the convoy of foreigners following in its dust. For the next 50 km we speed through the desert. We are the only vehicles on the road. When we hit the foothills the policeman pulls over and signals Brian to move alongside. ‘You should be safe from here,’ he says. ‘There is an army presence in the hills. They will watch over you. Be careful and make sure you are off the road by nightfall.’
It doesn’t take us long to find the ‘army presence’, but at first glance it is frightening. Brian spots it first: ‘Shit!’ I feel his body stiffen against my chest.
‘What? What?’
Brian tells me to look into the hills, and before long I see something glinting in the sunlight – a rifle. Before I have time to have a complete panic attack, I feel Brian’s body relax. ‘It’s an army sharpshooter,’ he says, pointing to another man hiding in the rocks.
Well, he and his mates aren’t hiding too well. About every 500 m we see sunlight glinting off firearms or the hat of a soldier partially hidden behind rocks high above the road. These are the sharpshooters protecting us as we make our way into Quetta.
The closer we get to the centre of Quetta, the busier the roads become. Donkey-drawn carts, push-bikes, motorbikes and cars vie for the restricted road space. We try to follow Peter and Dagmar, but it doesn’t take long for us to get separated. Our saviour takes the form of a foreigner on a BMW GS Adventure, who leads us through the city to our hotel. We learn he is Andrew Fisher, a prison officer from Alice Springs.
In Quetta, we notice an unpleasant smell in the air, and then we notice the open drains. There are women here but they are covered from head to toe – even their eyes are covered by a thin veil in their burqas. They seem far more demure than their Iranian sisters. They travel in segregated buses; the women are separated from the men by an internal wall. Men standing guard make sure women get into the right section of the bus. The women’s clothing might be brightly coloured, but to us they seem very repressed.
