At a police checkpoint a soldier with a bulletproof vest and machine gun gets on the bus. He ignores all the other guests, but he asks me for my passport and signals me to follow him. On a platform between the barriers separating the traffic lanes, the crushed remains of a wrecked car are displayed like a piece of art. There’s hardly anything left of the hood, the windscreen and other windows are all smashed, and parts of the chassis are burnt black. The vehicle must have crashed against an obstacle at high speed. Now it is being used as a warning to other speedsters, a metallic equivalent to the pictures of lung cancer patients on packs of cigarettes. The soldier, watched by two curious colleagues, leafs through the visas of a number of countries that I’ve visited. Apparently he’s fascinated by how much I’ve been getting around.
“China?”
“Yes, kheili khub,” I say—very pretty.
“Nepal?”
“Kheili khub.”
“Ghana?”
“Kheili khub.”
He hands back my passport and wishes me bon voyage. I’ve survived my first official questioning. On the way back to my seat I feel the looks of my fellow passengers. The driver puts his foot down, but half an hour later the bus stops again. A couple of swashbuckling guys with beards and long hair embark. Strangely enough, apart from small handbag-sized bundles, they don’t appear to have any luggage, although it’s still hundreds of miles to the bus destination, Zahedan, on the Pakistan border.
From: Number Unknown
Hello, where is you? I want. Telphon nambr almani please you calling now. I am mobina
To: Mobina
Hi mobina, i m on a bus to bam, tomorrow kerman. Are you still on qeshm? Have a nice day!
I had almost forgotten about Mobina, the girl on the ferry trip to Qeshm. Her number, however, is different to the earlier one, where the phone call came from.
From: Mobina
Yes. I have a nice day. Can you speak pershin? I want tell phone.almani you
Shafa please.cam yazd
It’s not too easy to guess what she wants. Okay, first of alclass="underline" stay polite, somewhat distant, noncommittal but not unfriendly.
To: Mobina
Sorry i dont speak persian. I dont use almani phone now. I will go to yazd in 3 days
Another phone call from the same number as before. The thought of a laid-back backpacker slouching around in a bus seems to have a magnetic effect on the ladies, but come to think of it, the ladies can’t even see me. This time the lady at the other end of the line doesn’t hang up. Again, I think I hear “I love you” and “Where are you?” I break the connection after two minutes because of the interfering noises and send a text message.
To: Unknown Female Caller
Hi, how do i know you? I m traveling to bam and kerman now
From: Unknown Female Caller
Hi. Iammina.myfriendseeyouinbander.iamiran. plese come hear Harat.icannotmanyspeakenqlish
She seems to have an extreme aversion to spaces. The only people I met in “bander”—so, Bandar Abbas—were Ismail Schumacher and the Hitler friends (which actually sounds like a pretty crappy band name). Strange. But her “I am Iran” appeals to me so much that I store the number under “Iran.”
From: Iran
ILoveyou. Whataboutyou?
Anyone have any more questions about the laid-back bus slouching poses? Iran loves me, although she hardly knows me. Now, no mistakes. Keep a cool head. I wait half an hour before texting back. Not too emotional with the answer but also not too cool. Bear in mind the absurdity and the playfulness of the situation. Whatever you do, don’t leave the impression that you’re easy game.
To: Iran
I think i love you too
In the meantime it’s become dark outside. The signpost reads Abareq, and a second sign says that Bam is twenty-four miles away. The bus slows down, turns into a side street, then a small parking area, where the driver maneuvers it back and forth until it is correctly parked. The driver turns off the motor and the lights; it is pitch black and silent.
In such situations I’ve become accustomed to carefully observing the reactions of the local travelers before getting nervous. No one’s swearing, no discussions with the driver, no one seems surprised. There doesn’t seem to be any cause for alarm. After a few minutes, a pickup with two spotlights and a large tank on its bed draws up and stops next to the bus.
The man who gets out looks like an Afghani version of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean but with a turban instead of a pirate’s tricorn hat and looking even more gaunt. At a casting session for an al-Qaeda movie he would have been guided to the front of the line, just out of fear that he might turn nasty. He rummages around a bit behind the bus, and it smells of gas. Okay, so we’re refueling. It does seem to be taking a while, though—twenty minutes, thirty minutes. Still, no one seems surprised or alarmed.
I go outside to take a leak. Some of the passengers are sitting in a circle on the ground, smoking and waiting. Some men are wandering around with headlamps. Next to the bus there is a wooden crate containing rusty old tanks, a kind of pump, and some thick pipes. I almost bump into “Johnny Depp,” who says, “Chetori?” (How are you?), to which I reply, “Khubam” (Fine), which isn’t quite true because, according to the timetable, I should have reached my destination three hours ago. Then he continues fiddling around with his pipes.
It takes an hour until finally the motor starts and the lights are switched on. The bus interior stinks so pungently of gas that two women clasp their veils to their noses. The signposts show Bam 9 miles and Bam 3 miles. Everything was going too slowly before, and now everything is happening too fast. The bus fails to stop, although I told the driver my destination before we started. So, up to the front I go.
“Bam?” I inquire.
“Bam!” says the man behind the wheel, while making a semicircle sign with his hand, which, due to his relaxed tone of voice, I interpret as he will use the next opportunity to turn back. But in the ensuing minutes he stubbornly continues to drive straight on. I try to make him realize that I have to go to Bam, and he points backward. He chats a bit with his co-driver. Both seem to be inappropriately cheerful and not in the slightest affected by my fate.
The security advice of the State Department states that there is a “serious risk of kidnapping” in the east of Kerman Province and its neighboring province Sistan and Baluchestan. Even before my departure, I pondered just how far I would go to get my story of Iran. I decided to risk trouble with the authorities up to a certain point but to be overcautious as far as the dangers of kidnapping were concerned.
I say: “Stop here, please.” No reaction. I try to remember where the next scheduled stop is. We are about to cross the Dasht-e-Lut Desert, and the next large town is Zahedan, 150 miles away.
At last the bus slows down and stops. The door opens, and the driver points to a restaurant on the opposite side of the road. His co-driver fetches my backpack from the luggage compartment.
I’m exhausted. I have a headache from the gas fumes and have been on the go for ten hours instead of six. Slowly, I trudge toward the restaurant. All I want now is a bed and some peace and quiet. I open the door. And then: streamers, tin whistles, balloons, paper hats, and “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” “All just a bit of fun, Mr. Price. Ha-ha-ha, dumb name, ha-ha-ha,” as the TV show presenter from Candid Camera emerges from the kitchen and points at a hidden camera next to the Ayatollah Khomeini poster.