When we got the "ticket" from a police officer in Shiraz we thought it would be the nicest "farewell" from Iran. And yet, we didn't have a roughest idea about what was about to happen before we could leave Iranian soil...
We needed some time to decide whether to extend our visit to the Islamic Republic till the 26th or to pack up and leave on 22nd. We decided for the latter. "Ok, let's just get once more that delicious French coffee," Carmen said. Allright, we're talking about a place next to the Azadi park in Shiraz where two banana shakes, one Rani orange juice and one "cafe français" cost you slightly more than a modest lunch for two out of a street-stall. A cosy athmosphere where couples hold each other for hands. The home is badly parked. It's Thursday night, tomorrow is Iranian week-end. No cure but to park second-row. My eyes continuously travel from the shake to the vehicle I can see through the window. A police officer approaches and passes-by. The feeling is not too good so we start packing. Anyhow, we decided to leave Shiraz this very evening. The 620 kilometres, which finally turned out to be actually 750 as we wanted to get some scenic landscape and decided for the road via Lar, would be a long journey. As we climb to the cabin, the police officer, smiling, comes back, extends his hand and gives me the "ticket" you can see on the first picture. It is clear he had to find someone to translate it into English for him.
It took us 3 hours to cover the first 150 kilometres. Bad road, speedbreakers as numerous as never before. We find a nice spot for overnight.
Friday. Speedbreakers multiply themselves, these southerners are just running insane. Why for God's sake would a village need that many speedbreakers? We can't figure it out. The journey is becoming tiresome and time-consuming. I decide to go full throttle despite the bad roads. The landscape, and especially the temperatures, as we cross the magic elevation mark of 700 metres we haven't done for weeks, are becoming really Arabic. "Colours!" Carmen calls out as we pass a group of women walking to a nearby stream to wash the clothes. Yes, these are the first women we see in the country that aren't dressed in black.
It's late in the evening when we reach Bandar Abbas. We pass a row of truck workshops of the hole-in-the-oily-floor type, then a diesel-station on the left. Great, the primary tank is empty, just right to fill it before we embark on the ferry to leave the diesel-oasis. Before reaching the U-turn a couple of kilometres later, more speedbreakers deal with my nerves. A queue of some ten trucks in front of us. I get out and around the house. Oh, my God! The secondary tank, the full 300-litre tank is hanging towards the floor. The upper bolts are cut-away. Speedbreakers and the bad road have taken their toll. Thanks God the primary tank is empty. As are nearly all the jerry-cans. With the relieved tank we start looking for a workshop. I don't know how worn the lower bolts are so I never exceed 40 kph. Despite nice people around us, trying to help, the tank still dangerously hangs. It's midnight, forget it. We'll solve it in the morning despite the appointment with the shipping company at eight.
We're taken to a police check-point to spend the night there. Not a word in English, the guys still talk like rain. Then we get a jar of fresh water and a glass for overnight. Invited for tea and offered a bathroom. Oh, yes, I will definitely appreciate the latter. A limitless shower!
Saturday. Seven o'clock, time for some business. The guys understand what I want and start dismounting the tank. Me, the injured man, helplessly only supervising the work. Valfajre 8, the only company running passenger and RO-RO service betwen Iran and the UAE, understands the issue. We make a new appointment for noon.
With the fixed tank, we rush to the diesel-station. We are fourth in our queue, one of some 6. As we get blocked from all the sides, the bad news come. The station ran out of diesel. We'll have to wait for the tanker. The two-and-a-half hours we spent among all the running engines at a sunny 28 degrees were not too pleasant for Carmen. Many eyes, property of sweaty males, surrounding the home, were glueing on her.
We even get 10 litres of petrol for the generator from the perfectly English-speaking station manager. Not only that we get it. We get it for free. "I know how it feels to be a stranger in a foreign country." He was relating to his English studies in London.
Happy, we leave the petrol station, almost on-time for the appointment downtown. But we have no idea that the real troubles are only about to start.
Packed with the tickets and a kind of "customs document" for loading the "home" we are bound for the Rajaee port. The RO-RO and passenger vessels normally leave from the nice Bahonar port, just next to the city centre, with a huge entry gate, guarded by really fancy-looking handsome soldiers in colourful uniforms. However, the RO-RO jetty is being rebuilt so the wheeled cargo is temporarily using cargo port. And this is the source of all the upcoming nightmare.
No shipping agent was accompanying us to the port which I sincerely didn't find strange. We'll show the tickets at the main gate and everybody will show us the way. There will be THE immigration office and THE customs office. What a fool! To make it short (although I could be writing several pages), we've been walking from one office to another, nobody was in charge of nothing, nobody spoke English, we couldn't get the exit stamp because we were not sailors, we couldn't get the Carnet stamped because we didn't have the exit stamp. It was around 3 pm., the offices were slowly closing when the young Mr. "Morti", as we were asked to call him, appeared. Perfect English, he works for another shipping company. Finally managed to get a Valfajre agent coming to the port. Meanwhile Mr. Morti brought us kebabs, salads and coke from inside the harbour zone. When trying to pay he sped up and wished us good luck. Mr. Seljughi from Valfajre was already on the scene.
The vessel is scheduled to sail out at 9 pm. It's eight. The truck on the jetty, not a single document is ready. Trying to find out how to get the passports stamped, customs offices are sending us around the port, we're waiting for the third time for half an hour a gentleman who is supposed to issue a magic document which will allow us to customs-clear the vehicles and load them. Finally he arrives. Doesn't seem very friendly. Once more I get the impression there's a lot of talking involved here, not so much action. "What's the problem?" I keep asking. "No problem" is the constant reply. 10 pm., still running around the offices. "What about the boat?" is my concern. "Don't worry, it'll wait for you." Okay, we're the only passengers, and yet the ship has some schedule, right? Slowly I start to understand the problem is the bike. Because it's loaded inside the motorhome. And? Only the motorhome was declared as the cargo, not the bike. OK, neither are the toilet, the bed, drawers and the sink... So the officers were not ready to customs clear an item that was leaving the country. Whether loaded, self-propulsed, walking or flying, I don't see any difference. Midnight. Talking with the captain, Mr. Taslimi, on the bridge. All the time in touch with Bandar Abbas and Tehran offices. Mr. Maleki, the cargo manager whom we met at Tehran announces an incredible decision. The vessel will wait for us till tomorrow morning. We just couldn't believe this could be happening.
Sunday. I make a complaint about the professional incompetence of the port services to the governor of Hormozgan area. The people at the Governorate are friendly. There is a lady that speaks English. She actually studied French in Tehran, now she carries out social studies for the governor. I spend more than two hours with governor's protocol officer, sipping tea and tasting delicious Hormozgan dates, one of the best type I ever had the chance to. He's on the phone all the time. "What is actually the problem?" I try to finally find out. "No problem," he replies. Ok, let's rephrase it: "What was the problem yesterday?" He smiles and the other party, which picks up the phone on the other side, saves him from answering.
Ten o'clock, Mr. Seljughi enters the office with Carmen, all nervous and sweaty. The ship leaves in one hour. The "authorities" say the issue is solved, we rush for the port. Only the customs procedures take us more than one hour. As a foreigner I'm not allowed to enter the building. Phones up and down, security don't let me in. "What's the problem?" "No problem" is the usual answer. After some running up and down and paying some more taxes I hear the nice-sounding word: "Finished!" As we reach the vessel by noon, the tide is too low. Today the difference between the high and low tide is astonishing 360 cm! "So when can we load the cargo?" "After eight." Great! Having lunch on board, resting, sunbathing, this is how our afternoon passes. But the Carnets are still not in my hands. The sun goes down, Mr. Seljughi comes back from the nearby customs office and hands me over the Carnets. Relieved, I open them. EMPTY!!! No stamps in either of them. The export part unstamped in his hands. "Don't worry, you don't need the stamp." Are you guys crazy???!!! What have we been doing for the last 24 hours?! Of course I do need the stamps! This was over my verge. I take the carnets and go to the office myself. The customs officer speaks exactly five words of English: "Not my job stamp carnet." I go mad. The office is full. "Anybody speaks English here?" I shout around. "No English? Bandar Abbas Rajaee International Port Customs office, no English here? ¿Alguien habla español aquí? ¿Nadie?" I try with Portuguese, French and German. No luck, everybody's just staring at me. "Mutashakkiram, thank you." As I get to the ship, a pleasant man comes after me. "Come," he shows me with a gesture. A couple of phone calls and the not-my-job man opens the drawer, takes out the customs stamp, stamps both carnets and signs them. Aleluyah!
Valfajre 8 shipping company vessel Iran Hormuz 12 leaves the port with a 24-hour delay. With us two as the only passengers and the "house" as one of the three items of cargo. We just can't believe Mr. Maleki of Tehran office and Mr. Shishegar of B. Abbas office could be so nice as to delay the whole vessel for an entire day just for not leaving us grounded. Definitely a very nice and towards us very professional attitude from Valfajre 8 Shipping company. Mr. Maleki, Mr. Shishegar, thank you!
The morning of the 24th brought us to a new world. It will be updated soon.
The posts Deseeert!!! and Finally have been finally translated into English. Some pics have been added to the post Press conference. The long awaited pictures were also added to "It's warmer!".
Tomorrow, December 26th, the Sledat /Uscom tracking device will be turned on again for the UAE tests. Probably it will update all the daily movements to the web page three times daily in 8-hour stages. Even today you can play with the time report (Časovno poročilo) up to November 24th. "Prikaz poti" will show you the tracking details for the dates chosen. If the meeting in a couple of days succeeds, you'll be able to live-track me even to the remotest parts of deserts from February on. Sledat DS3
Links to the travellers I'm meeting on the way are accessible through a subpage of the Desert Soul tab.
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