A little slow on the news, but – I made it! I stumbled into Bushehr and consequently the Persian Gulf at around 1300hrs on Monday 18th January 2010.

The last leg from Yasuj to Bushehr was tough. Some very long days and of course the never ending Zagros Mountains. Truth be told I only left the mountains less than 80km from the Gulf, after entering them prior to reaching Esfahan, 3 weeks earlier. The Zagros Mountains are truly amazing! A wide band of mountains that run for 1500km from north western Iran all the way to the gulf. Tucked away amongst these peaks are beautiful valleys, ancient villages, bustling cities and at the same time harsh and inhospitable land.

I left Yasuj on a somewhat irritating note, which being now sat on my sofa in central London, far from the clutches of evil doers I can expand upon. I was in Yasuj for a few days primarily as I had to extend my visa for the third and (by law) final time. I had met some great people in the city who had really helped me out – 2 crazy young guys who I hung out with a lot and spent the evenings cruising the street in their modified Paykan, listening to hardcore Spanish electronica, Mojgan, a 31 year translator who with much efficiency found me a super cheap hotel (which she was amazed I could stand to stay in!) and not to forget Afshin from the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, without whom I am doubtful there was any chance of me extending my visa. All of these people, along with the many I simply met and talked to while wandering the streets of the city were so nice. Sadly, it seems the closer contact I had with authorities in Iran contributed to my woes.

Standing off the main street in Yasuj and a huge 4WD with window curtains screeched to a halt. Out jumped 2 well dressed guys while the large, bearded and scowling driver stayed put. “Mark?”, asked the older of the two standing next to the vehicle. This was Afshin and the lads had arrived to assist me in my visa mission. We got back into the truck and roared into the traffic en route to the police station. There is a confusing number of police branches and types in Iran, a whole variety of forces are in place to keep the peace. Our destination was more akin to a military base than your local cop shop. The boys were made to hand over their mobiles, while explained to the guard on the gate that allowing me to keep hold of mine would make a better impression. We were led into an office and met with the chap who seemed to be in charge of issuing visa extensions. The tea and biscuits were immediately broken out and the hassles began! So many questions (dare I say stupid?). Where did I stay this night? What about this one? What was the name of the family? Bloody hell! What about the other 50 nights while ou are at at??? No English being spoken by the officer meant Afshin was my saviour. Having him on hand was key. After endless explanation and many glasses of tea, they agreed to extend my visa by a further 30 days and we could come back at 9am the following day to collect. Not quite the 1 hour express I was lucky enough to get in Qom but pretty good. Had I not had my introduction letters from the Alpine Club of Iran and more importantly the Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Afshin I would have been sunk. My only option then being jumping on a bus back to Esfahan and it’s more tourist-friendly climes.

After a surreal night with my 2 electronica mates, I fronted up once again to the police station with Afshin in the morning. I must stress that everyone was so polite and friendly. Beyond the inane and pointless questioning the coppers were essentially good guys. That changed. Sitting in the office once more drinking tea and my visa application folder and passport were open on the officers desk. The questions started again. Bloody hell! Have we not been through this? A major walked in and we shook hands. He had nothing to do with me but mentioned to the others he had seen me walking by the road near Borujen almost a week previous with 2 spanners in my hands (or quite possibly walking poles!).

The next 2 entrants turned out to be the source of my real and honestly only major frustration of the entire journey (I am trying to think of a medium level, post friendly obscenity to label them with but cannot. Please feel free to let me know your own). In walked an older, stocky, balding chap with glasses and a younger, slim, neat fellow with a briefcase. The older of the two walked straight to the rear of the office and sat himself behind the officers desk while the other did likewise at another without hesitation. From his briefcase he withdraw some papers and pen. I cannot recall shaking their hands, at least initially which, particularly from my experience so far in Iran was odd. Afshin seemed a little unsettled but not overly so and introduced them as journalists from a local newspaper. He has already been getting frustrated with my previous questioning which he had to coordinate. Perhaps he was as over it as I was was. The young guy started up with reasonable english in a very effeminate fashion. After the expected pleasantries, he began asking a whole spectrum of questions. Reason for coming to Iran, am I married, my girlfriend’s job, what I know about Iran, what famous Iranians do I know. To be fair, a lot of the questions seemed legitimate and pertinant to a newspaper article but more than a few did not. The older gentleman would often interject in Farsi and the line of questioning would change. Why did I choose to travel this way? Why had I altered my planned route through Shiraz? This was getting old very quickly. Just give me my damn visa! My anger mounted when I glanced over at the older man and saw him closely thumbing through my visa application folder and passport. Ummm…pretty sure journos don’t really get to do that. I began to wonder. The relaxed and familiar manner in which they had entered the office was the first thing. It was most definitely not their first visit here. The questions were a bit too intense for a positive newspaper story on my journey through their province. Finally, seeing old mate looking through my visa papers really had me thinking. I became convinced and am still now certain these 2 Inspector Clouseau-esque blokes were government intelligence officers. Once this realisation hit I was livid. Here I was, walking across Iran to reveal a country, given a hard time by the international community, full of wonderful and amazing sights and people. Meanwhile, these two clowns were interrorgating me as to my secret agenda (again insert appropriate expletive). This questioning seemed to never end but in reality lasted only 45mins or so. Finally, Afshin was able to extricate from their clutches, passport with extended visa in hand. I mightily wanted to just ask them outright but decided the best course was just to answer the questions and get the hell out of there. That is exactly what I did. Going straight back to my grotty hotel, stuffing my kit into my pack and heading straight out of town on the road to Bushehr. It was late in the day, after 2pm, but I could not stay a minute longer in this place. I was pretty ropable, but in such a scenario best to swallow the old pride and keep moving. I marched a good 15km that afternoon and made camp by some abandoned buildings well away from the road and villages. I was happy to isolate myself somewhat after the last couple of days goings on. Even now, thinking back over it is frustrating. I am unsure why. As I mentioned, everyone was unfaltering polite and perhaps this is it. Their motives were much less pure, masked with this thin veneer of false hospitality. Wankers. Sorry, couldn’t help it.

Marching further away from Yasuj, the happier I became. Back into the mountains and back amongst people who were genuinely friendly and went out of their way to ensure my well-being. The afternoons, evenings and early mornings were bitterly cold with frost encasing my tent upon waking. With no time to let the frost melt and tent dry this meant most mornings packing a thoroughly soaking shelter, hoping for a breeze in the evening to dry it out. The walking from Yasuj to the next major settlement, Nur Abad was thoroughly enjoyable despite the sweltering days and freezing nights.

I seemed to spend my days evenly shared between steep, rocky slopes and flat, green valleys dotted with villages. Stopping to have tea with resting truck drivers, being offered a quick smoke of opium with an random old guy, seemingly protected by his son with a rifle and being loaded up with oranges by farmers as I passed their orchards. Sounds like a bloody holiday when I put it like that. At the time, it was far from it. I was trying to juggle big, long days with stopping and meeting enough people. So many times I turned down invitations. Coming at a rate of 3 or 4 a day meant it was impossible to accept all and still make progress.

My arch nemesis for much of this leg were the packs of mangy dogs living by the roadside seemingly wild and also working as guard dogs for the geep herders. The wild dogs were surprisingly timid and I could deter them with a couple of rocks. I did not want to throw them but I had no choice. It was the geep guard dogs who were the most scary. Nothing but a direct hit with a rock had much effect on their advance, teeth bared and growling. I also made fun of them by teasing them about their collars with bells attached. Probably did not help my cause and just upset them further come to think of it.

One afternoon after passing through the town of Konor Takhteh I stumble across a brilliant pass through the mountains. I reach the edge of a track and look out over a huge valley, a dirt road twisting and turning it’s way to the bottom before disappearing out if view. Is this where I want to go? A hell of a walk back up if not. As it is the weekend there a a few people about – families picnicking, friends just hanging about and even a few blokes out hunting. All assured me this road would eventually lead me to Borazjan en route to the gulf. One chap was adamant the road was built by Reza Shah and the British at the cost of many lives. I am not sure about that as yet but it made for a more interesting walk. I camped that night in a perfect secluded spot, sheltered from the wind but with fantastic views. Bliss!

I will pick up the remainder of my journey to Bushehr in Part Deux in the next couple of days to prevent this post turning into too much of an epic.