Iran > Crossing the border to Iran

Saying goodbye to Turkey. I get on Murat’s bus for the last time. It’s about thirty kilometers to the border. At the first gate I get out. I have to walk a short distance. Then it turns out the bus is allowed to go further, so I get back in. A money changer also boards. He can exchange my Turkish lira and euros. His rate doesn’t sound bad, matching what I had checked online beforehand.

Iran - The Blue Mosque of Tabriz was severely damaged by an earthquake in 1778

When counting with fellow travelers, something goes wrong. The amount doesn’t match. The man adjusts it, but it looks messy. I don’t trust him. I decide to exchange only a small amount, saving the rest to exchange in Tabriz. Still, for just a few dozen euros, I quickly have half a million rials in my pocket. In hindsight, I realize I hadn’t paid close attention—the amount I received for my lira was far too low. Fortunately, I didn’t have much lira left. With the exit stamp from Turkey, I walk to the Iranian border. The gate opens just enough for me to pass with my luggage. I join the line for immigration. It’s crowded, mostly traders trying to get large packages across the border. There’s pushing and shouting. I wait. After a while, nothing moves, and the customs officer signals that foreigners can go ahead. To the annoyance of those waiting, they make way. All passports are collected. Then again, nothing seems to happen for some time. When an officer gestures that I can sit, I point to my passport in the booth. He goes to check it, and shortly after returns with a few stamped passports. This scene repeats until he finally brings my passport as the last one. I cross the border. I am in Iran. With my luggage, I head to the bus—a large coach, a clear difference from the Turkish bus.

Iran - The bazaar of Tabriz is among the largest in the world

Now everyone has their own seat. I meet Koserov, our driver, and his son Ali as co-driver. Crossing the border, it seems the landscape has changed. Streets are wide and well-maintained. The hills look drier. We are clearly entering more desert areas. The clouds cast beautiful, colorful shadows across the landscape. The bus takes me to Tabriz in a few hours. Tabriz is a large city in northern Iran with 1.4 million residents. The bus weaves through the crowded city traffic. Where there are three lanes, cars line up in four or sometimes five. Every gap in the road is used. I see wide shopping boulevards. Large billboards display offers, unfortunately only in Farsi. By looking at the text, I can make out some numbers. Late in the afternoon, I arrive at the hotel. At the bus station next to the hotel, I buy a bus ticket. Using the local bus, I travel to the city center. Men sit at the front, women at the back. I still need to get used to this separation. Everyone around me immediately wants to know where I’m from, what I think of Tabriz, etc. They also help me find the right stop for the Blue Mosque. The Blue Mosque was once Tabriz’s main mosque, named for its blue tiles. It dates from 1465. During an earthquake in 1778, it was heavily damaged. Today, it has been restored and functions as a museum. From the mosque, I walk to the bazaar. Giggling girls shyly ask where I’m from. Western tourists rarely visit this part of Iran. The bazaar of Tabriz is the oldest and largest in the Middle East, covering nearly three square kilometers, making it one of the largest structures in the world. It’s also on the UNESCO World Heritage list. I wander for a long time among the stalls, taking photos of proud shopkeepers.

Iran - A meeting with Iranian youths in El Goli Park in Tabriz

I promise to send them the photos. After leaving the bazaar, I search for a restaurant. The Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant no longer exists (or I can’t find it). I end up in a large snack bar and order a hamburger. Everyone watches me closely. I smile back warmly. I start a conversation with a girl who wants to know where I’m from. I ask her what to do in Tabriz in the evening. She advises visiting El Goli Park on the edge of the city center and helps me arrange a taxi, saving me on the fare. At the park, it’s busy. Everyone strolls around the large square pond. Seeing and being seen is important here. In the middle of the pond is a restaurant on a small island. Fountains and lights complete the picture. I follow the flow of people clockwise. After almost completing the circuit and barely speaking to anyone, a boy on his bicycle stops. He wants to know everything about me. A few friends accompany him, including a Swede who has been hitchhiking for four months. At a terrace with lounge chairs, we talk about everything and anything. After eleven o’clock, I take a taxi back to my hotel.