Last India Overland (38 page)

Which is likely a lie, right? I said.

Right, he said. But lies have their functions, he said, and then hung up.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rumble of wheels and tried to make my world stop turning with aspirins and 292s. I maybe took a few too many 292s. I should’ve spread them out little better.

Whatever. I wasn’t the picture of a perfect tourist, the kind of tourist border agents are happy to see, when we got to the Iranian border.

IRAN Erzurum—Tabriz

Day 32

Route: E 23; 336 km (possible long wait at Iranian border). Hotel: Movarid; tel.: 1442-1443.

Points: 1. Unit of currency is the rial, subdivided into 100 dinars. Current rate of exchange: $1 = 75.75 rials.

2.    Remind your troupe that if an Iranian or an Afghani is caught smuggling drugs into Iran, he usually finds himself facing a firing squad in very short order, while a Westerner finds himself facing a long sentence in the Mashhad jail.

3.    Another reminder: in no way is the company at all responsible for loss of life or limb, then tell them about Iranian taxis. Advise extreme caution. These things are driven by frustrated camel jockeys who think nothing of driving on sidewalks, scattering pedestrians in all directions, if it means getting a leg up on the competition. If they insist upon having an adventure, however, let them know that they have to know how to yell real loud in order to get one of them to stop.

4.    Iran’s national dish is chelo kebab. It cannot be avoided. Chefll love you if you can manage a second helping. If not, well.... Careful with the veggies. They likely were washed with untreated water.

5.    Just about every Iranian you meet will try to sell you a carpet, or introduce you to his brother, who makes the best in the world. When buying a carpet make sure the tufts are well knotted. The closer the stitch, the more durable the carpet and the higher the value. Rub the design with the tip of your finger to test the tightness of the knotting, and to test the fastness of the colours, rub the carpet with a wet cloth. A good price is usually half of the original asking price.

6.    Islam is Iran’s official religion. Its followers are a group called Shi’ites, who split from the mainstream over a disagreement over who was the rightful successor to Mohammed. And they take it all very seriously.

7.    Mail service is erratic in Iran, given the fact that their written language resembles a child’s scribble. If they can’t decipher an envelope’s address, they’ll usually just throw the letter away.

We got to the Iranian border around noon. The customs agents collected our passports, saw there were a few Yankees on board and decided to let us cool our heels for a couple hours. When they finally let us into the customs building, which was long and narrow and grey like a slaughter barn, there was a long line-up ahead of us, mostly truckers. But there were these three hippie types right ahead of us. As Patrick put it later, they looked distinctly Kerouacian. Two guys and a girl. Guys had long hair, beards, torn dirty clothes. The guy wearing a poncho right out of those Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns had glasses that were taped up, one lens missing. The other guy looked like he had a broken nose. The girl was a blonde with milk-white skin and big blue eyes on the verge of tears. She was wearing a tan corduroy jacket with a sleeve missing. Me and Kelly got into a conversation with them. Bongo George, Rob Fincati and the girl’s name was Felicity. They’d just come from Kabul and they told us that if we were smart we’d turn around and head back west because Iran was nuts. They’d been beat up twice and Felicity said she was raped. They said they saw banks and gas stations being burned and people being gunned down in Tehran. And then it was their turn to get their passports checked and when the agent saw they came from Iowa he hauled all three of them into a back room for body searches. Same thing happened to Jenkins, Kelly, Charole. When they came out, Kelly looked pretty upset. Bad scene.

After that the agents went through the bus tearing stuff apart, and they dumped all our suitcases out on the wet ground, went through our clothes with a stick. They found a few things which they decided to keep. That camisole Kelly wore on Hallowe’en and a lacy pair of black silk panties in Dana’s suitcase. A
Playboy
with Dolly Parton on the cover and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label in Patrick’s. One of them asked Patrick what he thought he was trying to do, smuggling smut and booze into the land of Allah, and Patrick shrugged, said they were for the sole purpose of being sold should he happen to lose his wallet and be in dire need of emergency funds. He said he heard that such things fetched high prices on certain streets in Delhi. Which might’ve been funny if these agents hadn’t looked so much like heavies out of
The Godfather.

They made a big thing out of Jenkins’s suitcase. Dave says Jenkins didn’t take too kindly to the body search and told the guy who searched him to grab a brain when he was taking too long searching the rectum. When they found his jacket with the little Canadian flag on it, they asked him about it. Jenkins shrugged his shoulders, said he used to be a Canadian. They called him a liar.

“Better that than being whatever you are,” said Jenkins. Which didn’t show a lot of clearheaded thinking on his part, because the agents asked to see his passport and medical book again and they went into a huddle and a few minutes later they hauled Jenkins over to join them.

“What’s going on?” I said to Patrick.

“Apparently there’s an irregularity in Mr. Jenkins’s visa,” he said. Next thing we know Jenkins is getting his duffel bag off the bus.

“Hey, Jenkins,” I said, “what’s happening?”

“Gotta make a few backtracks,” he said, in a sad voice. “So they tell me. But I’ll be catching up with you guys later, so don’t celebrate too quick.”

The upshot was this. Pete had fucked up. When he was checking all our medical books he hadn’t noticed that Jenkins didn’t have his cholera shot. I think the problem was that Jenkins had a Yankee passport. That’s why they made him go back and get a cholera shot in Erzurum.

The plan was that Jenkins would catch a bus across Iran and meet up with us in Herat.

Pete told him we’d even wait for him a couple days if he didn’t show up right away.

Kelly and Charole had their cholera shots but that wasn’t because they were told to get them, they just got them to be on the safe side. Charole’s mother was a worry wart about germs, Kelly told me later, and she told them to get them. Dave says the whole cholera thing was completely arbitrary, but Charole figured Pete should’ve been up on it.

And so it was that we pulled away from the border without Jenkins on board.

When I looked back, I didn’t see him. I just saw two of those hippies, the guys, walking out of the customs office. The girl wasn’t in sight.

I settled back and lit up one of my last Marleys. I didn’t have a good feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it wasn’t thanks to the dysentery germ. It was a little deeper than that.

It occurred to me that maybe I should’ve talked more to Jenkins. He was a real nice guy. Real easy to get along with. He wasn’t always checking you out, sizing you up by some personal high moral standard no one else has a clue about. Like a lot of people do.

Dave says I should mention something else. I wasn’t around but Dave says Charole asked Pete if he could just stay at the border and wait until Jenkins got back from Erzurum, but Pete said that would take two days and by that time the revolution might’ve spread to the north. He said he was sorry but we couldn’t afford to take the chance. Charole said well, the next time you should be more careful looking through the medical books. Pete said there is going to be no next time and then he turned around and walked towards the bus. Then Charole ran into the customs office, to talk to Jenkins I guess, but Dave says she wasn’t able to find him.

She was the last person to get on the bus. Her face as grey and gloomy as the sky.

It was real quiet on the bus as Pete picked up speed. The music was low.

A few miles down the road it started raining.

I tried to make that Marley last as long as possible, I smoked it right down to the butt.

After that I stared out at the bleak Iranian landscape. We were headed towards mountains. The tops of them lost in mist.

Suzie’s daybook entry

Nov. 14

We’re in Iran. I knew it was going to be bloody awful. Kelly talked to some Yank dope addicts at the border who kept getting beat up and raped all the time in Iran. Kelly and Charole better look out. Look what happened to Frank. I bet they won’t even let him go back into Turkey. Patrick said he probably bribed the customs agent into finding something wrong so he could meet up with some mail-order sheila without the rest of us knowing about it. My opinion is they’re going to throw him in jail just because he’s a Yank and this is going to be the start of an oil war. I said this daybook’s important so from now on everyone make sure they take their turns every day, this is history. I know one thing. I’m going to be staying on the bus. Except when I go to the loo of course. I wish they hadn’t taken Patrick’s Scotch back there. I could use a shot right now and Mick’s such a piker he’s keeping his raki to himself. He claims he needs it for his tooth. His tooth probably doesn’t hurt at all. It’s just an excuse so he can get good and sauced. Those customs agents also confiscated some other things from Patrick, by the way. Porno magazines. He claims they were for emergency funds. They looked like pretty suspect emergency funds to me. Maybe emergency funds means something different to a limey. Hey, it’s snowing. We don’t see much snow in South Australia. They must see a lot of it in Nova Scotia because Dana’s more interested in doing her nails. But maybe she’s just upset about what they took away from her back at the border.

from Kelly’s diary

Nov. 15

We’re in Iran. Definitely can’t wait to leave. C & I have a vague idea of what it’s like to be raped, thanks to our visit to the Iranian border. F. was sent back to Erzurum because of some visa snafu that Pete missed. C. would like to tie Pete up & shove barbed wire down his throat. Him & a certain border agent. So would I. But there’s no barbed wire in sight, just the Miami Hotel across the street, its red neon flashing a gap-toothed vampire smile my way. We’re in Gorgan, waiting for some “kin.” Pete’s grabbing a catnap on the back seat. D & Pat. had a few things taken away from them at the border. We’ve taken to stealing diesel from truck stops in retaliation. R’s taken to throwing hard-packed snowballs at S. Everyone seems to be slowly talking leave of their senses. But now they’re sleeping, knocked out by Valium that C., in a generous and/ or drunken moment, passed out to everyone around 4 this morning. I declined. You never know what moment might be the last & I wouldn’t want to miss it.

Mick

Near nightfall the rain turned to snow and it took to melting on the highway, then freezing. The road got slippery. I guess that’s why we stopped for the night in Tabriz.

The Shah must’ve heard that we were coming because he had a nice little reception waiting for us when we pulled into town. Jeeps, tanks, trucks, all of them full of soldiers, lined up along the main drag. Patrick took out his little Canon, started clicking away, and even Rockstar got into the act with his SX-70, which I hadn’t seen much of lately, maybe because he was running short on film. You can’t pick up SX-70 film in countries like Iran and Turkey like you can Kodak.

The main drag of Tabriz could have been the main drag of any North American city. There were tons of billboards and skyscrapers and golden arches and Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets. The only fast food joint I didn’t see was a Taco Bell.

That night we stayed in a hotel that sold Marlboro. It almost made my day.

Pete threw me and Patrick and Rockstar into a long narrow room that reminded me of the hospital ward I woke up in after I cracked up the old man’s Buick.

We all hit the sack right away. That night Rockstar had a bad malaria nightmare and when I finally managed to shake him awake, all he said was, “Suzie.”

“Suzie?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Suzie and bloody Santa Claus.”

Bloody Santa Claus. Ain’t that funny. I’d forgotten all about Rockstar saying that.

Dave just phoned me up, wanted me to read over the last few pages. Said he was trying to nail down a land deal on a planet near Alpha Centauri and he hadn’t been paying much attention. After he read about Erzurum, he told me I took a nap on the bus too. Which is why I didn’t realize he’d gone into the hospital in Erzurum and got me a penicillin shot for the dose.

I did kind of wonder why the dose dried up by itself. I think maybe I just thought it was some kind of 336-hour bug.

So, there, said Dave. There were a few benefits to him taking over.

Yeah, thanks, Dave, thanks heaps.

When Rockstar didn’t have much else to say, I went back to bed. Lay in silence for a while. You could hear and feel the tanks rolling by on the street. Finally through the darkness came Rockstar’s voice in a whisper. Just when I was wondering if not having
Tim
deLuca’s quiet but definite presence on the bus might affect Rockstar’s behaviour in the long run.

“Muckle?”

“Yeah, Rockstar?” I said. Conscious of the fact that Patrick was likely going to be listening to whatever Rockstar had to say.