Day 193 – Batons and tear gas. (Iran)

We’ve been in Tehran for the last couple of days, and we are loving it. It’s crowded and dirty as expected, and the ongoing stares directed especially towards me do get a bit tedious, but it is a lively and exciting city and the people are on the whole amongst the most generous and genuinely friendly that we’ve come across.

Things have gotten a bit sketchy today though which we first realised as we were walking to the train station (yes, even we are catching public transport in this hectic city). The square that we were about to walk through was packed and the shouting voices didn’t sound like happy ones. A helpful man spotted us hovering around trying to figure out what was going on and explained that the people unhappy because of the economic situation.

The official rate is $1 = 12,600 Rial and hasn’t changed, but when we arrived in Iran we were given 24,000 Rial for every $1 on the black market. Four days later we were given 27,400 Rial which we were stoked about, but when we found out another two days later that the going rate was now 32,500 Rial, alarm bells started ringing. Today $1 is worth 36,000 Rial.

All day we have had to change routes to avoid armed police waiting ready with their riot shields. A group of 100 or more police on motorbikes that I can only describe as a “gang” has been riding around the city. We have heard discontent on many street corners and witnessed a group of civilians riding behind the police holding flags and banners, one of which was written in English and read “We Resist”.

We’ve arrived back at our accommodation this evening and after reading some news have discovered that although we didn’t see anything remotely violent, police have been using tear gas and warding of protestors with batons and shields. The street where we ate lunch at 2pm was the centre of the protesting this morning, and the taxi rank near our hotel which we noticed was peculiarly quiet this afternoon was closed for the same reason. The vibrant bazaar which we spent yesterday exploring is closed because of the crisis, and most shops in town pulled down their shutters to avoid broken windows. Apart from the groups of protestors, the hustling hive of activity that is usually Tehran was completely gone and the streets were eerily quiet. Most shops were closed in the afternoon and there were hardly any people roaming the streets. It feels disturbingly like the calm before a storm.

For some more information on the matter, visit http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/oct/03/iran-currency-crisis-tehran-clashes

Photos

Take a look at the Turkmenistan album on our facebook page:

www.facebook.com/4guysinacar

Trev’s (Trevor Winston Elroy Walter Katter) Ultimate Makeover. (Uzbekistan)

By Ben Crowley and Thomas George Stanley Denner.

              Six months in to our overland odyssey Trev had gathered quite the collection of plant and other organic matter. We had grown fond of our brown Toyota 4Runner but alas with our impending entry into Turkmenistan (Long live Turkmenbashy!) this needed to change. As such we decided that a car wash would be in order for our dear Trev. Turkmenistan, for those unaware, places hefty penalties on any vehicles considered to be in a less than spotless state.

              While in Khiva, our last destination in Uzbekistan before crossing the border, we (Thomas George Stanley and Ben) found ourselves no more than a hole in the wall that apparently provided such a service. Greeted by a small collective of Central Asians we ascertained that for the small fortune of 20,000 Uzbek Som ($8-black market rate, $12-official rate – have a read of “Day 171 – The brick phenomenon” for more on this) we would receive the full service, inside and out.

              We hurriedly drove back to our accommodation and emptied Trev of all our belongings, originally for fear of loose hands possibly taking something that took fancy, but as you soon will find out this was a very smart move. Satisfied that all our possessions were safely removed, we took him back to begin the two hour process of giving Trev his second wash this trip (the first being in Darwin for the purposes of shipping). Two boys, no older than sixteen, possibly younger, then set to work. Their first and most important task was to ensure that our car had a working stereo system and to check what music we had. Having removed our iPods, all that remained was a single CD that Tom Denner had bought Ben as a souvenir entitled Praised Red Army Chinese Patriotic Songs which brought much hilarity to us, but shock and genuine interest from the aforementioned collective.

              The boys then went to work with the high pressure hose. We watched in amazement as almost 27,000km’s of dust, dirt, mud, leaves, grass and heaven knows what else was physically assaulted like a drunk by a nightclub bouncer. This went on and on, interchanging between high pressure awesomeness and the occasional good old fashioned elbow grease of the old rag. At this stage we were loving every minute of the titanic struggle between hose and dirt but found particularly peculiar how much attention was given to the wheel arches and undercarriage.

              Entertainment turned to shock when they commenced cleaning the inside, still using the high pressure hose! Our seats, dashboard, steering wheel, windows and back tray were all sprayed down with the immense drenching abilities of the hose. Needless to say the interior was still damp the next day even despite the harsh dryness of our desert surrounds.

Throughout this experience we had two primary concerns, one which was founded and the other of which we’re just not really sure about. The first was the possible damage to our sticker collection and the spray paint job Eilidh and Tom Denner had expertly but rather hastily done. In the end we lost one Australia sticker and incurred some minor damage to some others, easily repaired by Tom Denner’s fine handiwork. On the flip side, the website spray painted on the side, on which you are no doubt currently reading this, once again became legible. The second was the possible damage to the car/paint work itself. Once the car was cleaned and the many scratches scrapes, bumps and even a broken headlight protector became apparent, we were just completely unsure as to what was there before but invisible due to the dirt coverage and what may have been new.

              After two hours, a local man (who may or may not have worked for the business, it’s always hard to tell in these countries) noting our sticker collection had arrived with a brand new Uzbekistan sticker to adorn our window, thus making up for the loss and damage. We then ended with payment and the obligatory handshakes took places, after which we drove off as the proud owners of a sparkling white Toyota 4Runner.

Day 191 (Turkmenistan and Iran)

At this point, there's lots of story missing due to the severe lack of internet opportunity and lots of awesome stuff to keep us entertained, but we've made it through Turkmenistan to Iran, all alive and well.

Turkmenistan - what an incredible place, about which I will write plenty more in due course. Our five day transit visa was of course sorely short, but enough for us to visit an eternally flaming gas crater in the middle of the desert, a 55m deep natural thermal spring, and the unique capital city, Ashgabat.

Iran is a very interesting change of scenery after Central Asia, about which I will also share more. The variety of food and drinks is outstanding, especially compared to the narrow selection we've become accustomed to. The compulsory head to toe covering for women isn't quite as charming, especially in the late summer heat, but more on this exceptionally diverse subject later.

I just wanted to inform our readers that we're still on the radar and although the story is falling behind, it is not forgotten. I also have myriads of amazing photos which will be put on facebook as soon as we get a wi-fi connection.

Day 178 – Visas Part 5: Granted entry to a Stalinist State. (Turkmen visas in Tashkent, Uzbekistan)

The designated 20 day waiting period for our Turkmen transit visas took us until Wednesday, 19/9, but after doing the rest of Uzbekistan, we arrived back in Tashkent a few days early, hopeful that we might be able to pick them up a couple of days sooner. We spent the weekend ticking off everything we wanted to do in Tashkent, and set off to the Embassy for 11am opening time this morning (Monday). Ben dressed in gray wool slacks and a beige cardigan for the occasion, and I brushed and plaited my hair. Looking good would surely bring us luck.

We found the glamorous building easily this time, and knew to leave all our electrical gadgets in the car. It was bang on 11am when we got to the entrance, but we were a bit concerned to find not only no other civilians, but no policeman guarding the monstrous gates. Doubt as to our likelihood of obtaining the visas that day started creeping in as the minutes passed and we waited. The guard post was empty, so we were just milling around hoping somebody might see us out a window or through the many surveillance cameras facing in our direction.

After what was in reality probably two or three minutes, but felt like about two hours, the door at the side of the building opened and two men that we recognised from application day meandered out. They were deep in small talk and concentrating on each lighting himself a cigarette, but as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the one in the lilac shirt who we’d mainly dealt with last time, glanced up and spotted us. He held up his finger to indicate that we should wait a moment and hurried back into the building, butting his cigarette in the lush garden bed. When he reappeared, the two men approached us, obviously recalling who we were and what we’d be there for. The gates were opened and we entered the grounds.

“Telephone? You.” The lilac shirted man addressed Ben.

“Well we tried, but the lady who answered couldn’t understand me,” Ben responded, thinking that we were being asked whether we had phoned, or perhaps being chastised that we hadn’t. (We actually tried to phone several times in the previous week, and even had one of our guesthouse owners give it a shot.)

Then we realised he was simply asking if we had any mobile phones with us, to which we told him we didn’t. We followed lilac shirt man and his Reebok adorned colleague along the familiar wide footpath, through the same perfectly manicured lawn to the staircase that led to the heavy wooden door into the building. Inside the small, non-descript office, lilac shirt man disappeared and reappeared with a large ring bound folder. He asked for our passports, checked our nationality and began flicking through the folder. Each paper had a bunch of writing and some stamps, but what he was looking for was in a small table in the centre of the page, the right hand column of which mainly read UZB. As he flicked through we spotted a few IRA, a bunch of FRA and a couple of GBR, but no AUS. As he turned over the last page, our shoulders dropped, our hopeful smiles disintegrated, and we began turning towards the door. The man in the lilac shirt though slammed the folder shut, pointed at the chairs and said “SIT” and left the room with our passports. We sat.

Another man appeared on the other side of the glass wall and started to make some phone calls. This was starting to look hopeful again. He got off the phone and addressed us in Russian, at which point the chubby man in his Reebok t-shirt who was still standing on our side of the glass, started translating. When did we apply? I told him 30/8 (I didn’t specify that it had still only been 18 days – hopefully they wouldn’t notice). Some discussions between the two men ensued and another phone call was made. Next thing we know, he’s telling us we would have a 5 day visa – as we expected, and asked what date we would like it to start on. Why did we have to write it on the original form if we could just decide now? I had a quick look at the calendar behind the glass and decided to stick with what was on our application forms – Friday 21/9. We were told to come back at 4pm with $35 each.

We were pretty flabbergasted at all this; friendly and prompt (if you don’t include the 18 days) service, a fairly simple application process, and now a very reasonable price. I had been prepared to be charged well into the hundreds of dollars for this privilege, and had certainly anticipated a string of struggles and frustrations.

By 4pm we’d visited the National Plov Museum, had our roof rack and fog lamp welded, bought new bulbs for a brake light and a side light, and were standing outside the magnificent gates once again. This time a stocky policeman was manning his post and told us in Russian to come back tomorrow. We gestured that we were “collecting”, and he didn’t really seem to care, so we took our place amongst the other dozen people gathered around. A middle aged lady in a black dress and an old lady in a colourful headscarf had a great time staring and talking about us in front of our backs. Being a tourist attraction does ware thin, but we weren’t about to make a scene in front of the Embassy where we were hopefully about to collect our visas.

At 4:20 the doors opened and our friend in the lilac shirt sauntered through the garden and unlocked the gates. Everyone crowded around, and he let one person in at a time. Black dress lady was first – she was the pushiest, and her head scarfed companion followed. Each person was only talking a minute or so, so we weren’t too perturbed about the pushing. Lilac shirt man was very friendly with everyone, laughing with the civilians at a stupidly small dog struggling to climb the kerb, and seeming to find many things that we couldn’t understand to be quite hilarious. Our turn came so we left the joviality and made our way to the doors once again. Four passports each complete with a Turkmen visa and an A5 receipt were pushed through the slot at the bottom of the glass window, our $140 was pushed through the slot in the opposite direction, we said our sincere thankyous, and strutted out of the building, barely able to wipe the grins off our faces.

We stopped at the Turkmen run convenience store around the corner for a celebratory coke and ice cream. While we were there, our lilac shirted friend entered and made a purchase.

At the end of all this though, I am a bit devastated at the placement of my visa. As any Australians with passports issued since 2009 will know, there is a variety of Australiana pictures on each page, and if you happen to have the privilege of being in the possession of one of these fine documents, I would challenge you to flick to page 25 and 26. For those of you who don’t fall into this demographic, some of the pictures include kangaroos, kids playing netball, a country pub, a wattle tree, a surfer, and on page 26 there is a very nice image of a couple of girls in bathers. My Iranian visa complete with headscarf adorned headshot, had been inadvertently (unless the Iranian Consular Officers had an unexpected sense of humour) placed on page 25, directly beside the girls in bathers. I found the cultural contrast quite amusing, and greatly enjoyed pointing it out to people. Now though my page 26 is taken up with the Turkmen visa, and there is nothing humorous about that double page anymore.

Day 167 – Entrance fees and carpet galleries. (Uzbekistan)

I am often chastised by fellow travellers for not “embracing the culture” or “accepting differences”, but there are some things that from time to time really frustrate, and even offend me, about other “cultures”. The main issue on my mind at the moment is the relentless quest for money from foreigners that seems to be something that all Asian countries that I’ve ever visited (Japan excepted) have in common. Just because I’m Western doesn’t mean I’m rich, and certainly doesn’t mean you should be taking advantage of me.

The Registon in Samarqand is one of the most beautiful and well maintained buildings I’ve ever visited. As non Uzbeks we were required to pay an entry fee of 13,300 Som (about $5) which in relation to Australia for example is a very low price, but in the context of where we are is a reasonably substantial amount of money. Paying the fee I don’t have a problem with. What I have a problem with is that once inside the grounds we’re not actually free to appreciate the buildings because of the incessant drone of stall holders hassling us to buy their overpriced and tacky souvenirs. Not only that but large sections of the site are not even visible because of the covering of rugs, shirts and fridge magnets.

On the other hand, the Registon was traditionally the centre of commerce and an economic hub, so are they not maintaining its historical integrity by continuing the tradition of it being a market place? Well if it is to remain as essentially a bazaar, then there should be no entrance fee. Is it a tourist site or a shopping centre? I don’t think it should be both.

The Registon is far from the only example of this disrespectful deviation from local history and culture. In Bukhara we visited one of, if not the oldest mosque on the Silk Road. It was one of the simplest and least restored of all the ancient buildings we’ve seen, which in itself held a certain charm. We were prepared to pay the inevitable entrance fee, which as it’s no longer a functioning mosque I have no issue with. When we arrived at the entrance though, we were greatly disappointed to find that the mosque has in fact been turned into a carpet “gallery”; every wall, pillar and piece of furniture covered in carpets that the lady who was also accepting the entrance fees was hoping to sell.

One thing I really despise is the notion of taking an each way bet with mosques and other such places of worship. The way I see it is that either it should be a mosque which anyone is free to use as a mosque, or it should be a tourist attraction where everyone is treated as a tourist. If it is a functioning mosque then enforcing a dress code, prohibiting photos and portraying an aura of respectful calm is appropriate. If it is a tourist site then taking photos and exploring the buildings should be acceptable. By trying to be both, neither is going to be satisfactorily achieved.

Dual pricing is something I continue to battle with in my own mind. The only conclusion I can come to is that it is appropriate in some instances and not in others. There is no doubt in my mind though that the examples I’m talking of here should not include dual pricing. In the case of a mosque, why should I be religiously discriminated against because of my background? What if I genuinely wanted to pray there, yet because I can’t speak Uzbek and look Western, I’m treated as a tourist. If dual pricing is to exist, it needs to at least be appropriate. I doubt taxes pay for the upkeep of any of these sites, which would be the only argument against. 

We visited the tombs of St Daniel (from Daniel and the Lion’s Den) and Job (from the Old Testament book of Job), and to each one we paid an entrance fee. Inside there were people praying and taking part in religious rituals. Did they pay an entrance fee? Or was it assumed that because they were Uzbek that they were there for religious purposes? There were also people set up on knee high tables and rugs, selling the usual array of hats, magnets and plates. Did they pay an entrance fee? Or do they just have an agreement with whoever charges the entrance fee? Maybe he takes a cut of the stall holders earnings.

It’s also very difficult to tell when the entrance fee is official or not as there seems to be no regulation or repercussions. The fact that the ticket price is often negotiable, and there is usually no ticket handed over in return for our money, raises alarm bells. But as there doesn’t seem to be any sort of body regulating it, we have no option but to either pay the price or leave the site. Imagine if someone just set up a desk at the front of a State Library in Australia or Europe and started demanding payment from everyone entering.

Day 173 – Worst oil producing nation ever. (Uzbekistan)

First I should justify myself – I actually don’t know if Uzbekistan is the worst oil producing nation ever, but it certainly is the worst I’ve ever been to. I thought “ever” made for a catchier title than “than I’ve ever been to”.

Availability of petrol was one of the aspects of this trip that we were careful to research as much as we could, and prepare for however possible. Right from the beginning we have been on our toes in terms of playing it safe with having enough petrol, but this is the first country where it has truly been a concern. We fully expected to be resorting to plastic bottles by the side of the road in South East Asia, and even though we continued to pass an abundance of international petrol stations everywhere we went, we were always careful not to get complacent. “Just because we haven’t had any problems yet, this might be the first road where there isn’t a proper petrol station. We’ll fill up before leaving this town just in case.” Even in China we adopted the same philosophy, but still, even in the remotest of areas a petrol station would always appear before the end of a tank.

Kazakhstan had us worried a few times in the desert, but still, there always was a petrol station somewhere, and it always had some decent quality petrol. Kyrgyzstan was a breeze. Yet here we are in Uzbekistan, the world’s 55^th oil producing country, surrounded by some of the most prolific, and yet petrol shortage is a daily concern.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of petrol stations, varying from a single retro bowser under a sheet of corrugated iron, all the way to a vast and shiny shelter harbouring a dozen modern bowsers, complete with convenience store and electronic signs. The problem is though that about 25 out of 30 are closed, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the state that they’re in. Of the five that are operating, four will be selling only gas and one will have 80 octane available (we’ve even seen 76 for sale). So it’s essential that we constantly have our eyes open for the all too valuable petrol, and if we find some we get as much as we can squeeze into the tank.

It is incredibly frustrating when we drive past this myriad of out of use petrol stations, yet there is a brand new one in the process of construction on every stretch of road. Surely it would be more beneficial to get the petrol to the already existing businesses before starting up new ones left, right and centre.

But what do the locals do? They can’t all just be running around on thin air? Well actually, not far off. They’re all fuelling their cars with natural gas, which apparently is much more available than, yet essentially the same price as any sort of petrol. Unfortunately we once again don’t have the correct adaptor so can’t tap into the natural gas supply. That would make life a lot easier.

So where does all their oil go? We see petrol tankers driving around. Where are they going? I have a theory that if they stopped putting so much oil in their cooking, maybe there’d be enough to supply the petrol stations.