Posts from — July 2008

My bus was leaving at 2:30pm, so I had some time to kill on Friday morning. Not intent on running around like a madman in order to see the “sights”,, I headed to the other side of the river and took a look at a cemetery on which some of the soldiers who died in the Iran - Iraq war are burried. Needless to say this is propaganda galore. But I must say that I find it interesting how states and their governments deal with this issue. In this case, the pictures of the soldiers are powerful reminders yet again (at least they were to me) that wars are not fought in a vacuum and that they are not the long-away wars that we in the West seem to think at times they are. Granted, the pictures serve a completely different purpose here - the places is commonly referred to as the martyr’s graveyard (or so I hear) … and you can draw your own conclusions from that.

On the way back I cross the river via the Khaju bridge again and a good number of men sing underneath the arches …

It was time to leave eventually and Naser had booked ahead for me on the bus and so that was a no-brainer. Unfortunately the AC in the bus failed after only 10 minutes of a 4 hour bus ride. Open doors, windows and hatches did little to remedy the situation. I was glad to not have done this by bike though. The desert wasn’t very pretty and the temperatures extremely high. The bus thermometer showed 44C, the outisde being much hotter.

Upon arrival in Yazd I met Mohsen of the local tourist office (a legend according to the Lonely Planet) and he lives up to the many praises he receives in the book. He points me to the train station and indeed drives me over despite having to go to Shiraz with his parents and gives me a range of pointers. In the train terminal I am helped by a young couple who also offer to drive me into the city. All was well … found a hostel (OK) and some people to have dinner with. Am sorted until Tehran.

This time it’s the tourist thing. I set out to not just wander around as I usually do the first day I am in a town, but have a bit of a plan as I am leaving again tomorrow and things will be closed then as it will be Friday.

In the Jome Mosque I meet Omid and three French guys (Gontran, Julien and Raphael). I am sitting there leafing through my guide book, amazed at what I see when Omid comes over and asks whether I want to join them for a tour. Only if this is not a bother I reply. Turns out that Omid is a real tour guide and couchsurfing host, the other three staying with him. Unlike yesterday no creepy feelings.

We have a blast of a day - and the city is amazing. Omid is extremely knowledgeable about all things Esfahan and he guides us throughout all of Esfahan’s great sites. But more importantly he gives us insights into the life of people in this city and again, for me, this was a big learning experience.

We have a late lunch - trying our luck in the first place, which basically turns us away for no reason. Omid is extremely annoyed - and feels that all of what he has worked for (trying to show us the good sides of his city and country) has been destroyed by the restaurant owner. We find a much better place with great food and have more fun throughout the afternoon.

The mosque did not escape history unscathed. Here is what is supposed to be a Russian bullet hole.

This one struck me …

So did this one …

In the evening I meet up with Peter, the father of Isabelle who happens to be in the city as well. Another good meal closes out the night - almost - with great conversations about our experiences traveling all over.

I meet up with our tour group of the day at the Khaju bridge, enjoying the atmosphere and just having a great time.

I get up and after talking to a German motorcyclist on his way to Malaysia, we set out to discover the city a bit. We tour the bazaar and a local medressah, Sepp talks to the warden who is a motorcycle freak and speaks some English.

I spend the afternoon updating the website and then almost fell for the oldest trick in the book. A guy comes up and asks me about country and so forth. His English and German are excellent. Amazing indeed. He says he is a tour guide and also something about couchsurfing and I say, sure I am one of those. He invites me to his place and I would have almost gone. Then I decide that I would spend the night in the hostel still and say that we could meet up.Then things become fishy: I said that I amin search of something. He says: “A girl?” I was simply looking for a good bookstore. He doesn’t drop the subject though and soon enough tells me about his problem with approaching girls. Very strange guy. I decide not to stay with him for sure. Creepy. I turn to be completely boring and he eventually gives me his phone # and says he has to go. I was glad to have lost him … not sure what the outcome would have been.

I turn back to the hotel and meet up with Nasser and his kids … we drive around town a bit more and very briefly I meet his wife. Nasser and I spend the rest of the evening in an interesting discussion at one of the best places in Esfahan. The Khaju bridge. There are lots of people milling around, listening to singers (all male of course and sadly) and just watching everyone.

I am told that I am an immoral person after not wanting to entertain person #217 of the day with respect to where I am from and what my name is. I like talking to people, but when the conversation is limited to this it becomes a bit difficult after a while.

For Esfahan, there are many more pictures on the flickr site.

Note: For reasons that will be clear when you read the previous post and this one, I have delayed bringing these posts online. My apologies for those who worried about me, but I am posting the flickr pictures earlier on these occasions so that you have an idea that things are moving along still. And Esfahan was a good place to take a great number of pictures, so enjoy!

I had a terrible night. I don’t really know what was wrong with me. I was as nervous as you can be and indeed felt like I was back in those days when you first enter elementary school. Or in my case third grade. I didn’t like my teacher back then - she went by the name of Mrs. Limmer. I remember complaining every Wednesday that I didn’t want to go to school. That kind of feeling. There was a knot in my stomach about this whole going back to the consulate business. It shouldn’t have been there and I felt that the consul was responsible for it and that it was unfair. Just for some money, because that is the only reason I can see. The website of the Ministry is quite clear. At any rate, you know the type of eeling I mean. I couldn’t eat much - and bid my farewells from Ali and Ghazal and was on my way. The waiting game took forever. I had all papers I made sure. Was helped by a travel agent just to be sure that I would have all potential sizes for the copies of my passport. I was early … and had to wait for a while.

Then it was time to go up - only to look into astonished faces of first the secretary and then the consul. He stared at me coldly and asked why I was here. I had prepared a line of answers, mentioning my preparation for the trip and that I had consulted with a number of people as well as the Berlin consulate of Uzbekistan. None of this seemed to faze him in the slightest. Then I pulled out the printout of the website, indicating that there is no need for a letter of invitation for German nationals. The cold stare goes to hostile. The secretary in the background looks amazed or at least that is my impression. The consul stares at the papers and says: “So, you do not agree with my decision?” I reply: “Of course I do, but I was confused and so I am seeking clarification from you.” Hostile stare continues. He then ignores me. Tends to other business. Says something about sending this to Uzbekistan. Then the secretary is told to prepare my papers. She is very friendly. Then the consul murmurs that I can pick up my visa in one week. I couldn’t believe it. Not sure that I am rejoycing yet, but I did give the Japanese tourist that I had seen the previous day and who was there again a hug. I had to, despite it not being appreciated in Iran - feeling elated.

Now, this could all go wrong still. The travel agency guy still has to be told to stop all of this and the consul could kill everything by denying or delaying the visa or by giving me too short a period in the country. We shall see what happens. I still hear his comment of yesterday when I tried to say something about other Germans having received their visas here before. “No German in the last four years received a visa from me.” Not sure that is true, but if so, I am hoping to be the first in four years.

At any rate, I am leaving Tehran ASAP, helped by Hossein - a jewelry dealer by letting me use his internet connection and making some phone calls and pointing the best way to the bus station. I get there with the help of a motorcycle taxi, the guy is driving like a maniac, but gets me there in time for a bus to take off. On the way there he points out that I should hold on to him tightly. I do. He is proud of his buddha-like proportions which I have no trouble making out as I hug him so as to not fall off. He says I am too thin, I didn’t tell him that I think he is too big.

A note for those concerned about my weight or rather lack thereof. I have lost a good amount of weight so far, but things are OK with me. I can bike long distances and feel fine with my weight and am sure that a few days and weeks at home and then in Miami will get me back to my normal weight range. I am eating and drinking like a madman, so no need to worry.

I sleep and write some blog entries on the way to Esfahan, am told that I must be a biker by a former boxing champion of Iran and chemistry professor somewhere in Iran and meet up with Nasser in Esfahan. He is the friend of a … OK. My cousin’s child is in the same children’s group (Krabbelgruppe) as the child of Mehdi. Mehdi and Nasser met up in university and so I meet in Esfahan by Nasser. Alright, it’s that simple really. But in the terminal things become strange. The guy making announcements calls me over by name. Turns out that Nasser was the head of the place at one point. We find a hostel and then he gives me a quick tour of this very amazing city. I eventually walk back and doze off.

Back to the Uzbek consulate it was. I get there and see Andrew the Australian and the two cyclists again. One of them is famous Japanese cyclist Daisuke who has been on the road for 10 years. He plans to continue for another 2 and then wants to go back to Japan. He is accompanied by Bastien, a French cyclist who is heading to Mongolia and then South America.

It is a waiting game. The consulate is disorganized I feel - the people inside don’t care about what is going on outside and the tour operators play with the rest of the people. Once one of them is in, the others hand him all the passports and the money and so Khalil spends like 2 hours up there. Eventually it is my turn and I anticipate little problems. Here is the letter that I thought I would need to submit - and which really only states that I am German and a whole bunch of things that are in my passport (for the German-reading people among you, you can click on the picture and see a large version). Oh yeah, it also asks for assistance … does that really matter? Anyway, with this I thought I was covered.

Boy, was I wrong. “Mr. Markus, there is a problem.” I am told in no uncertain terms that I have to go through a travel agency, need a letter of invitation (as opposed to a letter of recommendation which I have), no discussion allowed. The “I don’t understand this” face (I really don’t - airport face was in great form today) didn’t help. The consul says that Germany and Uzbekistan don’t have an international agreement on tourist matters and so I need to go through a travel agency. Or so he says. Many other countries do have such an agreement he says, I am out of luck though.

Darn … this throws a big monkey wrench into the plan. I had made sure before leaving that I had this stuff lined up so as to not get into this situation. Alright, the consul gives me the business card of an agency (how come they are always so handy, I wonder) and I head back to meet Isabelle to move the bike to their place as I don’t want to bother Ali and Ghazal much longer. I am still not happy about all of this. I had hoped that this would go without a hitch and now this …

Following Isabelle’s cab driver to their place doesn’t work and so I am trying to find my own way, but instead find Ali (another one) who is an interior designer and biker who just says to put the bike in the car, he knows where the place is and after some searching  and a lot of time (thanks so much Ali) I am putting my bike into its destination for the time being. Isabelle and I chat about the situation and she is great about calming me down. She says she will fix dinner while I am trying to sort things out with the travel agency. Off I go and meet up with the slimiest and unsympathetic person you can imagine. It didn’t help that he had an accident in which he got burn marks on his face, but I get the feeling that I am being set up. I am sure this guy (speaks Farsi and Russian only and yells at me) is in cahoots with the consulate. The letter of invitation costs $180, the visa is ready in one week. I reluctantly agree to this. There is is a stack of such letters in front oh him. The guy makes big money off of this and I get the nagging feeling that some of this money is going back to some little street in North Tehran. I want to fight this situation, but don’t know how. Something is very wrong here. Back to Isabelle’s place. This was supposed to have been the day where I could just let things go and not think about bureaucracy any more for a few days. The problem with the tourist agency visa is that is good for only 15 days. That is not enough time for me at all. And I don’t feel like running to Tashkent like a madman in a most likely vain attempt to get the visa renewed when I shouldn’t have to worry about it.

So, I scour the internet and lo and behold I find a page of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs which says that I need none of the documents that are being requested (scroll down a bit and ye shall see). The battle plan is clear: be nice to the consul, but make clear that Germans don’t need the letter of invitation by bringing a printout along.

I spend the rest of the day swimming in the pool, eating great pasta and having a wonderful conversation with Isabelle. I am I must admit intensely nervous about the visit to the consulate because all sorts of things could go wrong here. We shall see. I head back to Ali’s and Ghazal’s where we continue our conversation about religion from the previous day - and which is just as challenging and exciting. I am grateful for their openness in so many respects - which is something that I don’t take for granted at all. But I feel that the discussions we are having are in a very real sense letting me take a look into their thoughts. Thank you very much for that!!!