From Turkey into Iran

The road to Dogubayazit, as far as Erzincan, is dominated by a low mantle of heavy grey cloud and intermittent rain. It is, I believe, what our glorious Met Office call ‘organised showers.’ It is the only possible reason I can find for the vindictive personal vendetta which precipitation has for me. There has to be some organisation behind it, bad luck just can’t explain the pernicious pursuit of yours truly across deserts, mountains and continents by what can only be described as ‘Caledonian’ weather conditions.
The following day, however, is much better, and the last 400km of the road to Dogubayazit has deep blue skies with an artful distribution of candy floss clouds. The country becomes drier the further East I travel. High mountains of broken brown and grey rock rip up into the blue sky. Between them, in the valleys, are little pockets of pasture, startling green below the crumbling peaks. Huddled in little groups, like giant white mushrooms, are the circular tents of the shepherds. The shepherds themselves stand immobile on the hillside with vast flocks of sheep which vary in hue from cream to chocolate and every shade in between.
Little can have changed for these people for countless generations.

Nearer Dogubayazit the mountains pull back and a wide flat valley marks the way to Iran. Above the town broods the massive, snow plastered bulk of Mt. Ararat. It is doubly impressive because none of the surrounding mountains come close to it in stature. I get a little lost in the famous, dusty frontier town known as ‘Dogbiscuit’ to the overlanding community, but eventually find my hotel.

A rest day gives me the opportunity to visit Ishak Pasa Palace, an ancient mosque/fortress/palace/cafeteria complex perched high above the plain in a classic defensive position. It is stunning, both the building and the location, and I rattle off dozens of shots hoping to get a picture that does it justice.

Walking home after a Has Has (it has meat, cheese and bread: the three essential food groups, and is lovely) at a local restaurant, I meet a boy of about nine. He thrusts a set of bathroom scales at me and grins. I’ve seen this before, it seems to be a way of investing the act of begging with a little dignity. The provision of a notional service for a fee, I have weighed myself in Kathmandu, Asilah and now Dogubayazit. I offer him the equivalent of about ten pence for the privilege and he gives me the thumbs up. Apparently, including a rucksack full of photography gear, I weigh 95 kilos.
“Blimey!” I say and pat my stomach. He laughs and pats his own. As I turn to leave he snaps to attention and salutes. Solemnly, I draw myself up and return his salute like Monty at El Alamein. It’s a strange world this, I reflect, that has one saluting small boys in busy Turkish streets.
That evening I relax in my hotel and prepare for Iran. I have my last beer until India and listen to some music. As Aretha sings about a ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ I am intrigued by a the curious male backing vocals I have never noticed before. It is a full minute before I realise it is the call to prayer resonating through the window of my hotel room.

Dogubayazit is a mere hop, skip and jump from the border with Iran and I’m soon wandering around in that state of confusion that goes hand in hand with trying to temporarily import a vehicle into another country. After an amount of shuffling, queuing, stamping, queuing, sighing, tutting and more stamping I get out of Turkey and into Iran for a bit more stamping, shuffling, and sighing but no queuing. Everyone is very friendly, the whole process is actually very smooth and over in little more than an hour.
Another short ride through dry mountains to Mako where I will stay the night and spend some of the enormous wad of rials I now have secreted around my person.