Rick Steves' Europe: Istanbul to India by Bus

Istanbul to India by Bus

(Page 3 of 5)

We hit Teheran during a major Muslim holiday and all transportation to the holy town of Meshad (the town just before Afghanistan) was booked for several days. We bivouacked in Amir Kabir, the vagabond hotel district, where travelers stranded along the freak road to India kill time. Hidden behind piles of tires and used auto parts lurked countless dirt-cheap no-name hotels. Rooms were decorated in the local style: smashed bugs, broken windows, cigarette butts stuck in sooty holes in the walls, and bare dangling 20 watt light bulbs. We had joined a community of India-bound travelers, living in their rooms like animals in caves, running around in sweaty underpants and bare feet. There we sat, exhausted, methodically pinching bugs as they waded through the hair on our legs. To survive the sweltering night, we made endless round-trips with our bed sheets into the shower.

My spirits sagged as I pondered the easy life we'd left behind in Greece. I started to struggle with the wisdom of this trip. I would never be satisfied until I had traveled overland to India. But I didn't want to endure several weeks of hell only to spend a fortune to fly back to Europe. Still hot under my dry-again sheet but protected from the bugs, I fell asleep thinking it was not too late to return to Europe. In three days, maybe five, it could be baklava in the Greek Island sun.

But we pushed on. Meshad was a Muslim carnival. Our first taste of Afghanistan was the Meshad bus station. It seemed a jumping-off place for lands beyond this planet. Things seemed more Mongolian than Iranian. The station was strewn with humble bundles and people who seemed more in need of a camel than a bus. Gene was dealing with a little Tehran Tummy. We boarded our Afghan bus pensive and weak. With gritty hairdryer wind blowing in my face, I dreamed out my window. At the same time I hoped the kilometers would tick by quickly, I regretted plunging farther and farther away from Europe. But with so much parched earth behind us, we had no choice but to think of India as Gene and I sang a shaky verse of "Homeward Bound."

We were about a week beyond Istanbul and only half way to India. At 10 am we actually hit the "middle of nowhere," a huddle of concrete block buildings which marked the Iran-Afghanistan border. Surrendering our passports we were taken into a waiting room. An interesting mini-museum greeted us with a stern message. Several glass cases displayed the sobering stories of fifteen or twenty ill-fated drug smuggling tourists. It made for interesting reading — who smuggled what, where they tried to hide it, and how much more time they'd spend rotting in a prison. One of our guidebooks actually had a fine print appendix listing assorted First World prisoners who needed blankets, medicine, and so on. I had this clammy fear that someone would plant some dope in my rucksack.

After zipping through Iranian customs we walked across a windy desert no-man's-land to a tiny settlement bordered by stripped, abandoned VW vans where local people piled into and onto small orange busses. The wind and heat were fierce, and the barren plain stretched out in every direction. Gene commented, "So this is Afghanistan." In the shade of a wrecked, rusted Microbus we peeled an apple and waited for the bank and doctor's office to open. The next few hours tried my patience as we bounced from one dusty office to the next, jumping through hoop after hoop of Afghanistan bureaucracy. It seems that Gene was missing a vaccination. No problem, they were delighted to inject him right there. It was tough to watch the needle bend as the nurse forced its well-used tip into Gene's flesh. Finally we squirted out into the vast Afghan wasteland.

We piled into waiting mini-buses. It was the only way to get to the only place you could reach from here — Herat, the first town in Afghanistan. The empty, well-paved road shot like an arrow past random clusters of mud huts, a few "melted sand castle" ruins, seemingly lost herds of sheep and goats, and into the parched, pristine mountain backdrop.

Just when I thought this was going smoothly, a commotion broke out in the front of the bus. The Afghan driver decided to double the price of the ride. We road-to-India travelers were a principled bunch and refused. One leathery Afghan pulled out a knife that could filet a goat, and the driver turned around and headed back for the Iranian border. In an uproar, everyone tried to solve the problem. One polite but loud Pakistani urged us to pay, but we figured if we did that they would just extort us again. Compromising, we agreed to pay 50% extra upon arrival in Herat, and the driver turned back toward Herat.

We stopped at a desolate tea shop. Next to a well, a bunch of locals were skinning a still-warm goat. There was a sign that read "Hotel" and I expected the worst. But this was just an innocent mid-day tea stop which provided Gene and me with our first good look at Afghan life. We cooled down under well-buckets of brown water before sharing a melon. Feeling a bit road-weary, we promised each other that from now on we'd eat well and sleep in good hotels to stay healthy and keep our spirits high.

The tea house was classic Afghanistan...old rag-wrapped men, who looked like they worked hard all their lives sat around on rugs drinking tea and smoking hashish. The room was filled with smoke. Their glassy dark eyes smiled at nobody in particular. I stood silently over my melon rinds looking in the window like I was watching a documentary on TV. The word spread...our driver was high as a kite. No one was surprised.

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