Into Iran

I wake as the engine slows. We are already inside the sea wall. A row of dhows tied beam to beam drifts past the window.

Berthed, only the group of black shrouds clustered forward on the port side are moving. The men scattered around the ferry know we won't be getting off for a while. I watch a dhow negotiating a berth, it's wooden rudder worked back and forth by chains from a blue and white painted wooden crossbar. It's diesel soot coated Iranian flag hangs limp. I've never thought of Persians as boat people. Maybe these are Arabs.

The women are gone. I don't see them again. The door is still closed. Men are gathering around the door. I take my place at the back. Friends from the passenger terminal and ferry ride smile and nod to me.

The door opens and the group funnels through. Last, I step through the portal into the heat and glare. It's too bright. I can't see anything except steel treadplate. Four steps off the gangplank and I'm in Iran.

We file onto a bus. It's blue and white, with WELLCOME TOO MY BUS arching over Mickey Mouse the wizard. I didn't expect them to be so profligate with lettering.

The buildings are blue and white. The ships are blue and white. The overalls unloading cargo are blue and white. Everything is blue and white. Except the sky.

We file off the bus, through a chainlink fence and into a concrete building. We are queuing to go through a doorway in a wooden partition. The queue compresses until everyone fits inside, then begins to shuffle slowly forward. I don't see the timber plate across the bottom of the doorway. I kick it. Hard.

I slide my passport into the booth and the woman types my details into a dusty computer. She mouths New Zealand, and I can hear her breath making the words through the holes in the glass.

She hands my passport to the next booth. The man looks through the passport carefully. He looks up "New Zealand" I don't know if it's a question. I nod anyway. He thumps a blue circular date stamp next to my visa.

Immediately behind the booths baggage is coming round a carousel. My bike and trailer have only minor wounds. I hitch them up and walk through the crowd through a large doorway. There are four inspection tables, with one in use. I walk slowly through, waiting for directions. I pass the tables and am just about through the doors when there's yelling. It's not unfriendly yelling. I'm waved back to a group of men, some in uniform, others not. One of the uniforms looks at my passport and tells the others I'm from New Zealand. He holds the door open for me and I wheel down a ramp into a carpark. I was expecting something difficult. I loop the carpark looking for an exit, avoid an inbound car, and roll into the street. Now I am in Iran.

I need to turn right, off the coast road, and the hotel should be on the left. At the corner there's a group of young men in the shade. there's hooting and one yells "American aren't you." It's an accusation. I yell "New Zealand" and ride faster. This is why I have the flag. Why didn't I set up the flag. Grandad said people would assume I was American. Why on earth would an American come here?

I don't see the hotel. Motorbikes ride slowly past, leering, then loop around to leer again. It's 3pm. I'm sweating. It's not just heat. One motorbike veers in and brushes me, the accelerates away. What the hell am I doing here. I turn corners into a quieter street, then stop. The guidebook map has five streets. There's more than five streets and none of the names match. Grandad said I should go to Bushehr. Why didn't I go to Bushehr. The whole town is young men. Young men are the worst. Young men are idiots. Where is everyone else.

The whole town is in ruins. It's all crumbling mud brick steel bars and concrete block. There's rubbish and piles of rubble everywhere. I can't tell if it's bombed out or broken down. Even the mosque is only held up by scaffolding. What the hell am I doing here. I have to get out of here.

I double back to an old man I saw on a corner. He's roasting peanuts. I ask for the hotel, and understand nothing, but I think I know where to go. I have to go back to the corner where they think I'm American.

I ride fast, hugging the curb, to a sign with a knife and fork. The restaurant. The hotel should be upstairs. I lean the bike against the wall. The windows are dark. I can't see in. A man with glasses rides a motorbike out of a doorway and makes a locking motion with his hands and points at my bike. They're all thieves. This whole town is full of bandits. I follow his advice.

I push open the glass door and there's a man at a desk. the whole place is packed with men. I don't look around. He asks if I want to eat, and I ask for the hotel. He gestures that it's back outside and up the stairs. Back outside and four doors along is a stairway. There's no sign. Not in English. I transfer the bike to the stairwell and lock it to the banister. It's the hotel.

I negotiate a room in Farsi, with a discount for two nights. When the bike is inside the room I open the map over a cigarette scarred bedspread and plot my escape. I curve dental floss against the red scratches then straighten it against the key. Six hundred kilometres to Shiraz. Why the hell didn't I go to Bushehr. It's so close. Only three hundred kilometres.

It gets dark. I need to eat. That means I have to go out. I don't want to but I have to eat. In the hall there's a well dressed couple. She has high heels. In the stairwell I'm greeted by the heat. And the traffic noise. I walk outside.

There are cars and motorbikes. Peugeot. Citroen. New. French. There are pedestrians. Couples. Families. The island that separates the traffic is lined with fluorescent pink lotuses. The other side of the street has glowing globes. Blue. Green. Pink. Yellow. There's a green windmill in small lights hanging from a telephone pole. It's whimsical. Delightful. I breathe.

Viscous traffic swirls at a roundabout with a neon fountain. The fairy lights strung diagonally overhead flash on in turn, a slow propeller. It's the corner with the old man and the peanuts.

The restaurant is bright. Lots of marble. Balustrades alternate white and yellow. There's a round, tasselled carpet sitting on each seat. People come in and collect takeaways. I eat fish, rice, charred whole tomatoes, raw onion, salad, bread, yoghurt, crisp green chillies. It's good. It's three dollars.

The book shop. It took me a while to find.