TURKISH AIRLINES FLIGHT 980, LONDON-ISTANBUL
GMT 13:09 HRS – WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 24th.
We have reached our cruising altitude of 10,113 metres out over the English Channel, flying eastwards towards night. Drinks are being served. I sit at a window seat left vacant when the plane took off, while Linda sleeps in her allotted seat in the centre of the aircraft. This morning was a whirl, a sudden flurry of activity that saw us whisked away from the Realm, from that blessed plot without a chance for a tear or a sigh.
Casting back I think of the morning’s events. We are up early, 6am, woken by the screech of jet engines overhead as they descend effortlessly into Heathrow after weary night flights. Cathy is away first and I walk up to the corner with her, saying goodbye amid the rumble of traffic on Kennington Road. I walk up to a corner dairy, buy some orange juice and return via the quiet lane behind Stables Way.
We cross the Dutch coast at GMT 13:19. Drinks reach my row, and I choose Coca-Cola. The accompanying peanuts are packed by Saad Foods of Leatherhead.
I take Cathy’s bike and ride up to Lambeth to buy bread. The nearest open bakery is at the bottom end of Lower Marsh Road which is almost devoid of market stalls at this hour, but crowded with pigeons doing their morning shop. I cycle back down Kennington Road. My throat burns with the effects of pollution drawn in by my rapid breathing. The flat is stifling hot. But as Jo and Lucy leave, a cool breeze blows up, freshening the air and trailing ragged wisps of cloud. London’s forecast is for a sunny morning then showers, but this doesn’t concern us. Afternoon we’ll see as far above the Mediterranean.
We leave the flat at 9am, locking the door carefully behind us and walking around to the bus stop outside the bingo hall. A 159 bus takes us along past Lambeth Walk and across Lambeth Bridge. The river is low and glassy, our final glimpse for a while, and the chimneys and rooftops reach up to a sullen sky. Looking out the window as we speed along Milbank, I notice that a few leaves are beginning to fall from the sycamores lining the street. Autumn is coming, the year has turned and we are leaving. A few dead leaves whisk around against the corners of a stone building by an eddy of wind.
The bus speeds around Parliament Square and up Whitehall. We disembark near Piccadilly Circus and walk up to the nearest entrance to the underground. As we descend the states I breathe the words: “Goodbye, London.” A rattling Piccadilly Line train conveys us out to Terminal Three at Heathrow. It is crowded at first but by Hyde Park Corner, most of the commuters have disappeared. They are off to work. We are off to Iran. The signs above our heads in the train mainly advertise things that people en route to an airport would need: Bureau de Change, Telecom, the Post Office. The messages are lost on us. The ad men had bigger fish to catch with the adverts than a couple of backpackers off on a journey.
At Heathrow, we follow the long lines of Express walkways into the crowded heart of the terminal and check our baggage through. We have two hours to wait. But we have business. Posting letters, last-minute shopping, a final meal at Burger King. We have followed the same pattern that we took last time we left England. Our last meal was a curry the night before departure, a sort of ceremonial feast, and our last food on British soil is a Whopper with cheese. We returned two years after our last ceremonial feast and I’m sure that we will return again. I save a pound coin for luck and we pass through immigration.
Boarding the plane is swift as it isn’t quite full. Take-off is bumpy and the aircraft, an 310 Airbus, climbs very fast. The green and beige fields of our second home, of England, are soon swallowed by the massive ranks of cloud. Sunlight sparkles off the wings. England has gone…but adventure lies dead ahead. The steward arrives with another drink.
One of the incongruencies of flying east is that one goes forward in time. As I change my watch from 15:17 GMT to Istanbul local time 17:17 I ponder the effects of this phenomenon. If one were to fly endlessly eastward around the world, would one get younger or at least never age? There must be something about it in the Theory of Relativity.
The aircraft makes a perceptible change in its altitude as we can begin our long gliding descent from 9,601 metres. Below us, hidden by an airbrush screen of white, lies the Black Sea. The aircraft’s flight path describes a slow graceful curve approaching Istanbul from the North. Speed bleeds off as we descend: the thickening air slowing the aircraft and warming its outer skin from a minimum of 52 degrees below zero to a balmy minus 36 as we pass through the 8800-meter mark. Back in London, it is 3:30 pm: afternoon tea time. On the Bosphorus, it is the end of the working day: rush hour, meal time, homeward journey time. The stylised map of Turkey displayed on the video screen denotes several names of places that I recognise as ones that we visited in 1990: Denizli, Caesarea, Ecbatan, and of course, Istanbul. Other things about the flight are also familiar: the Turkish script on the signs, the smell of rosewater, the soft burr of the spoken Turkish language.
TEHRAN, THE FOLLOWING DAY
It’s mid-afternoon, hot and smoggy. Tehran roars and rumbles outside our hotel window. We have taken shelter, as do most Tehranis, from the hottest part of the day. The events of the last 24 hours still sing in my head: memories of heat and bearded faces and long waits on airport concourses.
Landing at Ataturk Airport was again a descent into past memories. The domed mosques, clusters of minarets, and the achingly beautiful Bosphorus under a fiery red sunset. We had a two-and-a-half-hour wait in the transit area which was crowded with people flying to far-flung corners of the Middle East, and a few tanned holidaymakers waiting for the return flights to Europe.
Boarding the aircraft — other 300 Airbus — for our flight to Tehran is quick. There is a short delay and then we are airborne again, bouncing through the hot turbulent air over Turkey. The plane is uncrowded. Many of the passengers are obviously Western-living Iranians returning for visits. The women are attractive and well-dressed. The men are liberated and friendly.
After the meal of chicken casserole followed by coffee and cognac, I chat for a while with a Dutch Iranian, asking him questions about Tehran and aspects of Iranian life. He is returning to Iran for the first time in 14 years and knows nothing about the current prices. But we have an interesting conversation nonetheless.
Tehran appears, spread out into the night below us. The air is hot and turbulent. The sky is a dark violet color. The city looks immense from above, the spires and mosques visible amid rows and rows of streets and freeways. After we land, the passengers are conveyed from the aircraft to the terminal in buses. The air is hot and oppressive on the tarmac. A huge Iran Air jumbo stands next to our shutdown aircraft, making it look puny and insignificant.
Passport control is hassle-free. Then our passports are checked by several other men: two of them probably Komitté men. My friend from the flight comes over to say that there is a bank open and that they speak English. The bank teller is learning his English from an Oxford Dictionary of Common Slang. After we have changed money at a reasonable rate, I look up the word fuck and asked him if he knows it. Of course he does!
We are hustled through the baggage search at Customs. It’s clear that no one can be bothered with us. A cursory glance at our Currency Declarations is all that is given and we are free to walk out into the concourse. It is crowded with groups of people welcoming friends and loved ones with hugs, kisses and bunches of flowers. We find a seat and settle down to wait for morning. It is 1:30 AM and very hot. Linda looks just like all the other women in her long black coat and black scarf. People stare and whisper but only in passing, not the incredulous gawping we have become used to in some of the countries we have visited.
A taxi driver offers us a ride into town but we politely refuse, saying that we want to stay in the airport until morning to save a night’s accommodation. Later on, an American Iranian comes and talks to us. His name, he says, is Said: “but everyone calls me Sam.” He gives us some useful advice about the BM [black market] rate for the dollar and also his phone number. He says to call him if we get into any trouble and need help.
We wait in the airport terminal until the sky begins to lighten then take a taxi into the city. We settle on 500 tomans (5,000 Rials). I have no way of knowing if this is good or bad but we have to make a move sooner or later.
Speeding into Tehran, the roads are bumpy but uncrowded. We pass a huge monument which the driver says is called the Azadi Tower. It reminds me of the curve made by many intersecting straight lines and is lit by an avalanche of light.
Near the Median-é-Imam Khomeini, we reach the hotel our driver has recommended. It is expensive at $30US for two nights and he’s probably getting a kickback but we are too tired to search for somewhere else. We haggle furiously with the young man behind the counter and the taxi driver and eventually thrash out a deal whereby we change $50US with the driver and pay 7,300T for the room.
The Hotel Tehran Göl is cool and reasonably quiet. We have a cold shower and crash. I am awakened at 6:30 AM by crushing pain in my leg. It is a cramp and I massage the muscle until the spasm stops. Outside it is daylight and becoming very noisy but we both sleep until 12:30
After another shower each, Linda puts on her chador and we go out into the hot dusty afternoon. The streets are busy with people going about their business. We walk up the Median-é-Imam Khomeini then left down the street which leads to the bazaar. The shops are full of goods including a surprising range of modern cameras and stereo gear. No one seems to give us more than a cursory glance, which means that we either blend in quite well or that no one cares that we’re foreigners.
The bazaar is immense, a cavernous labyrinth of streets sloping down from the busy street running along its northern side and bisected by narrow lanes jammed with merchandise. The roof is vaulted and contains vents through which sunlight ineffectually tries to penetrate the gloom. The air is still humid and smoky and permeated by a thousand smalls: spice, bread, food, cloth, exhaust and perfume.
We wander around for an hour or so. Linda buys some short stockings and I buy some raisins. The sum of 100 toman gets me about one kilo. It is very hot and we are beginning to tire. Along with many of the shopkeepers we retire back to the hotel where we sleep until 6:30 pm. Our first meal in Iran is chelo khabbii: a flat strip of meat barbecued and served with rice, salad bread and tomato. It is very, very good.
While we’re eating, a Pakistani man comes into the shop to buy food. He speaks English a little so we have a chat about Pakistan and cricket. His favourite player is Wasim Akram. Back at the Hotel Tehran Göl, we retire thankfully to bed.
CurseOfTheTraveller 