When facing danger or trouble, our ‘fight or flight’ mindset kicks in. Flight is the preferred option, so long as there is no just cause, or a lack of ability to fight. Civilians often flee from troublesome situations, such as war. Soldiers, potential or serving, sometimes flee from an unjust war, as we have recently seen in Russia.
Exceptions permitting, I visualise myself down memory lane in 1979, on yet another trip from Munich to Tehran. It’s my third ‘car delivery run’ to Iran, the previous two having been in 1976 and 1977, when ‘Shah Reza Pahlavi’ ruled Iran, and overland car imports were an organised and authorised business.
As usual, we travel in a small convoy, consisting of seven cars on this occasion. I am accompanied by two of my friends, Hans and Joe, Uli a German lady, Brendan the Englishman, and two Pakistanis, Mohamed and Ali, who own the cars. A few days into our journey we have left behind the ‘Death Road’ through the length of Yugoslavia, notoriously named for its disproportionate number of fatalities. Unlike my previous two trips, we choose to bypass Communist Bulgaria to avoid paying its exorbitant transit fee. Instead, we venture on through northern Greece to the Turkish border, where some friendly border officials welcome us wearing a predictable ’Baksheesh smile’ on their faces.
For a modest ‘donation’ we are cleared to proceed to Istanbul, where we spend the night sleeping in our cars as we do most of the nights, especially throughout Turkey, ready to fend off any thieves.
Well rested, we proceed east, embarking on an approximately five day journey to Ankara and beyond through the legendary ‘Wild Kurdistan’. To my surprise, long stretches of Turkish road, which I remember as having ‘more potholes than bitumen’ have been resurfaced and is now as smooth as a tabletop. Travelling easy, we carry several cartons of cigarettes and some small change for the kids along the Kurdish roads who are busy signaling signs of smoking or money with their hands. In response, we frequently keep slowing down and throwing them a few smokes or coins, for if we don’t, we’ll get a stone thrown through the window.
I am also familiar with all the other hazards and pleasures of the journey, such as bandits, fuel shortages and extortion at service stations, compensated for by Turkey’s breathtaking fairytale scenery, crowned with the majestic legacy of the Ararat mountains at its eastern boundary.
Unfamiliar, though not entirely unexpected, we encounter endless convoys of Iranians, their cars and roof racks packed to the max with people and their belongings. We converse with them at the rest areas only to be told repeatedly “You are mad”.
They are fleeing the revolutionary turmoil and aftermath in their homeland, going west while we are going east. Well, mad or not, we keep on moving until we eventually arrive at the Iranian border to the sight of an old campervan in the customs yard, its rear riddled with bullet holes.
It turned out the three German hippies in the driver’s cabin had failed to stop and were given a revolutionary welcome, overnight accommodation in the lock-up awaiting trial included.
We spend the night in the only and very modest hotel far and wide, where in the morning we bear witness to dodgy passport tampering to suit Ayatollah Khomeini’s newly passed import laws.
Our smuggled ware, such as western world clothing and magazines, well hidden in six of the cars, we leave one car as baksheesh to the customs officers whom we share a cup of tea with on their invitation, before we hit the road again, via Tabriz and finally, to Tehran, where a few things have changed since my last visit.
The Shah’s brutal though modernised regime has been overthrown and Khomeini’s ‘Islamic State’ is still in its infancy. In fact, the revolution is still in ‘full swing’.
Alcohol is impossible to source but the sale of hashish is almost causing an economic boom. We live it up for a while on dope and ‘chelo kabab’, when suddenly, reality hits.
Our tampered passports could land us in jail or get us executed trying to leave the country. Hans, Joe, and I end up spending a month trying to find avenues of escape from Iran, even toying with the idea of riding horses from Reza-Yeh in Iranian Kurdistan, across the border into Turkey in the stealth of night.
Our plan is foiled when the locals warn us to catch the next bus out of town before nightfall to avoid the traditional nocturnal shootings.
Back in Tehran, the transition to ‘sharia law’ is in progress, though change is not known to happen overnight. While most women are completely covered in the compulsory ‘Chador’, we spot a young lady in western attire fiercely arguing with her husband in the street. A Mullah appears from within the spectating crowd and calmly brokers a piece deal between the two. Later, another young lady passes us wearing a ‘see-through chador’, her lingerie clearly visible. Naturally, this comes as a welcome sight for the three of us young men.
Back to our passport issue, Hans and Joe decide to try their luck and venture on to the Iran/Pakistan border, which is known for its lax controls, then on to India from where they plan to fly back to Germany in time for University to resume.
I, on the other hand, have unlimited time to travel, ie. on a shoestring budget until the money runs out’. My nose points west, so I catch the ‘Magic Bus’ to Ankara for a flawless border crossing out of Iran and into Turkey. With a busload of sixty people, lady luck is smiling down, the officers can’t be bothered inspecting the passports closely, so they just stamp them and send us on our way.
A few weeks down the track on buses, ferries and hitchhiked rides which took me via Cyprus, Syria, and Jordan, I find myself in Israel working on a Kibbutz.
On the weekend I anxiously make my way to the post office in Haifa in anticipation of a ‘post restante’ letter from Hans and Joe. Before we had split up in Tehran, we promised to keep each other updated on our fate. ‘Relief’ is an understatement for what I feel as I learn they are in India, ready to embark on their homeward flight. Their exit from Iran had been relatively smooth thanks to a $20 ‘correction fee’ each.
In gratitude to our Iranian refugee friends who tried to save us from trouble saying: “You are Mad”, I ponder, were we mad? I don’t think so.
Everything we do in life comes with a risk. Thrill seekers deliberately take risks. The traveller on the other hand, accepts the risks of the journey and responds like water.
Water always finds a way. When it hits an obstacle, it moves it or flows around it. Water evaporates, condenses, or freezes. When water is trapped, it lies dormant. Once even the tiniest opening occurs, it will flow again.