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Published: October 25th 2009
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Day 19
The second new day on board the Trans Asyan Ekspresi began much the same as the first. But now there were sightings of a wide river, and suddenly young children appeared by the side of the train tracks - there were no houses to be seen. A mosque, its bright silver dome dazzling brilliantly. At one stage we stop and most get out to stretch their legs, rushing back when the whistle blows. I had a good omelete and some bizarre sausages - short hotdogs, split and fanned out at either end - in the dining car.
We reached Tatvan in the early evening, the train coming to a stop at a small ferry port on the edge of Lake Van, in the far east of Turkey, floating among the hills. We are to go on a six-hour ferry trip, in an area where the train finds the hills too steep. An Iranian train is due to meet us at the other end of the lake. We boarded, stepping over the railway tracks that synchronised boat and land, and where the goods carriage that had sometime become appended to our train was shunted aboard.
After a
brief scramble for seats people emerged on the open deck - open to the extent that there were no railings - and take in the sunset over the lake. Suddenly everyone is awake and animated, after being subdued for so long in our compartments. Now I meet a young South African couple who live in London, two Slovenian women - an architect and a translator cramming as much as possible into their annual leave, a young Canadian who appeared to be an expert on currency exchange rates to the point of tediousness, a British couple in their sixties who tell me of their previous trips such as the four months they spent cycling through South America, and three young Iranian men with a dozen words of English between them - accompanied by a Swiss woman they were sharing a compartment with.
All were in high spirits. I made good friends with the Iranian/Swiss combo, wowed by their incessant laughter, curiosity and obvious love of life. It took three minutes for the famous Iran-Australia football match to be mentioned - that drawn match that took Iran to the World Cup in 1998. Everyone was taking photos and videos. Inside the
women were preparing their headscarves for arrival in Iran, and sports coats and long-sleeved shirts were being produced out of backpacks by the men. I had been concerned about changing money - in Iran there is no Visa Atm network, and Iranian Rials are hard to come by outside of the borders. The coffee bar proprietor helped us out, and took advantage of our situation with his poor exchange rate. Yet for 70 Euros I was an instant millionaire - my two notes converting into a substantial wad.
we arrived at the other end of the lake on our sedately moving ferry, only to wait for over an our for our new train to arrive. It was cold under the clear midnight sky, but food kept appearing (and I heard one story of a woman with rice she had cooked in her compartment) and we took turns at waiting in the tiny railway cafe.
On board the new train - following the free-for-all to find compartments, during which my previous roommates secured me a bunk (no notice was taken of the berth reservation numbers) - I sat with the three Iranians: Reza, Esmail and Methie, to laugh and
drink chai. It was just after 3am when I returned to my bed; Ali asleep but Faroukh sitting up doing Sudoku in Persian numerals under the bright strip light. I put on my British Airways eye mask and fell asleep quickly, thankfully.
Or so I thought... At 3:45am came knocks on the doors and shouts of "Passports!" Then, "Mr Nick, Passport! Mr Nick, Passport!" I joined the rush out of the train, through the atmospheric plumes of steam, and into a small but warm border-control office. There we were all rudely assembled, perhaps 100 people plucked from sleep - except for the canny Faroukh. And there we waited for over an hour before the clerks began their painfully slow checking and stamping. This was still Turkey, so the torture was merely to be allowed to leave the country. Iranian immigration was yet to come.
Back in bed by 5.15am, only to be awoken at 5.45 for someone to double check all our passports had been stamped, then at 6.30 for the Iranians to collect our passports, then at 7.15 for the return of the passports. I was thankful for not having to leave the train again - or even my bed - but the regular disruptions were tedious. Never again will I travel, I vowed, although I forgot that oath by the time I glimpsed the salt-encrusted tip of the Persian Gulf, the cottage-industry brick works now springing up beside the train tracks, the amazing friendliness of the Iranians, and the tears of suppressed laughter from the big strong Iranian men when Corinne painted their dozing friend Reza's fingernails bright pink. Childish, I know, but hilarious to watch.
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jo
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Fantastic!
I am LOVING your blog, Nick. Who is going to play "Nick" in the movie?