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Herat - Taibad
E.Route : Herat - Taibad : ETD ------- : ETA -------- : E.Dist -----.
A.Route : Herat - Taibad : ATD 1735 : ATA 0020* : A.Dist 111m.
- Depart Herat Airport 1735
- 1748 - 1840 Chai stop - Herat.
- 1843 - 1855 Fuel stop - Herat.
- 2107 - 0115* Frontier clearance.
- Arrive Taibad quarantine camp 0120
Est.A.Spd -------- : Gross A.Spd 14.94mph : Net A.Spd. 42.69mph.
Stop Time 5:07 hr. : Speedo TD 12627 : Speedo TA 12738.
Comment : (*) - 0020 Iranian time, 0120 Afghan - times Afghan throughout. Most of the day was spent waiting for repair to the defective fuel system, and tempers ware distinctly frayed all day. An entertaining, if short, journey - I almost got us into the USSR, we were stopped by a bunch of unintelligible and rather scruffy soldiers, and finally, before we were whisked into the quarantine camp and the luxury of real beds, came the celebrated bagpipe incident on the Afghan frontier.
Jim Lindsay's diary:
17 September
Cleverly I had parked my kitbag over a line where oily water ran across the
tarmac and the groundsheet soaked some of it up. This was the place where we
had previously had worries about amoebic dysentery so having belongings soaked
in the water was not good. Most of us did not do a lot during the morning but
the mechanics were able to get the coach fit to go into Herat to locate and
replace the fuel filter, and it turned out that the bog paper had not been to
blame.
There had been a major clear-out of the interior and boot, so most of our
belongings were littered around the groundsheet. Dipping into the communal
food resource had always been strictly taboo. Because we now had a fine
collection of tinned goods and there had been a little suspicion that some
of the stores had been disappearing into private hands, Fay appointed Tony
as storekeeper with me as his assistant, and we spent a fair amount of time
inventorying and marking the tinned goods and other stores with felt-tips.
This also made rational meal planning easier.
Another Ariana plane turned up, and then the rejuvenated coach. The last of
the American drinking chocolate was open to all, and we enjoyed it. The liquid
was not wonderful but it left delicious tacky goo in the bottom of the cup.
The other excitement of the day was that the contingent finally managed to
have Ricky taken off the driving rota. Most people wanted this but the other
drivers and the mechanics were most determined. As his regular navigator Don
Winford had always retained some loyalty to him but this had now gone, and an
important point was that Sandra, a newcomer with no axes to grind, expressed
her forthright concern about his driving. The issue had been simmering for
some time and really should have been tackled a lot earlier. We all felt a
good deal more secure but from then had to put up with him sulking and brooding
for a few days and then trying to stir up discontent. Previously drivers and
navigators had been paired in approximately two-hour stints, but we now had
one navigator over, so the driver and navigator rotations fell out of step.
We set off not long before dark. We were on the American road tarmac and would
fairly soon turn left onto the Russian concrete for the frontier. I was
navigating and beginning idly to wonder why we had not reached the junction
when a bunch of soldiers jumped out from a checkpoint, waving guns and shouting
"Roosia! Roosia!" while they pointed north. I had obviously missed the turning.
We turned with difficulty and some way back found a little roadside post pointing
west with Eslam Qualah written on it. I had been fooled earlier because the
American and Russian roads did not link directly, but via a short stretch of
dirt track.
A little later another bunch of men in motley uniforms popped up from behind
a rock. These ones were not armed but just seemed to want a lift, but I'm afraid
they did not get one.
We reached the customs post but it was late and the Afghan side was officially
closed. However while we were languishing there a group went over to the customs
post looking for chai and one of the customs men made the connection between
Scotland and bagpipes. Brian was persuaded to start playing and people did
Scottish dancing. It was a great diplomatic coup and we were ushered through
in an atmosphere of great goodwill.
Despite the late hour there was a doctor waiting on the Iranian side to do
cholera testing. We all had to file in and lower our trousers to have orange
sticks inserted up our rectums. "It didn't go in as far as I thought" said Roz
afterwards.
We were now officially in quarantine and if it had been earlier we would have
travelled on to the camp at Fariman under escort. It was too late for that now,
so we were taken to the quarantine camp a few hundred yards down the road.
There were real beds! I think this is one of the few times in my life I can
say that I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Things go in threes by Liz Y
We were on our return journey, had left Herat in the late afternoon and had settled in for a two or three hour
journey to the Iranian border, expecting this to be followed by a long bumpy ride on desert roads in the direction
of Mashhad. Gordon was driving and Jim L was navigating. Then three things happened which in retrospect should
have been a little unnerving. The fact is that by then we had learned to expect the unexpected. Anyway we were
young, took most things in our stride and were I guess a bit gung ho.
The first thing that happened was that we inadvertently headed north towards the border with the USSR. Didn't
we have a compass! There had been a few navigating mishaps before, but these usually only caused minor delays.
This one got us held up by soldiers wielding guns. Oh well, Gordon managed to manoeuvre the bus around and Jim
worked out how to get us back on the right route to the Iranian border. Apparently there had been some confusing
issue with mal-connected roads and a missed turning. But, perhaps the two most bizarre things were yet to come.
These occurred at the Afghan-Iranian border itself.
After the unplanned detour, it was gone nine o'clock when we neared our intended Afghan border post en route for
Iran. It was dark and most of us apart from driver and navigator were dozing, slumped in our seats. It was a rude
awakening to find that the customs office had closed for the night and we were facing an uncomfortable wait till
it re-opened in the morning. Then someone spotted the customs officers taking tea nearby and somehow came back
with an offer to clear us through the border, if our piper Brian tuned up his bagpipes and the rest of us hauled
ourselves out of the bus to perform Scottish country dance numbers.
I'm sure all this was quite innocent. The men were most likely bored in this rather out of the way place. I don't
remember there being any other traffic about. Maybe other vehicles knew the border would be closed. The officers
professed a special interest in Scottish bagpipes, on the indisputable grounds that there is a similar, traditional
instrument in Afghanistan. This evening has been described elsewhere as developing a party-like atmosphere.
Certainly we all rose to the occasion, but I couldn't help feeling that we were performing under a little duress.
Most of us were half-asleep and none of us wanted to spend the night at the border.
After this unexpected requirement for an impromptu bagpipe and dance display, we were duly waved through the Afghan
customs and drove off into a stretch of no man's land towards the Iranian checkpoint. It was by now very late and
once again everyone who wasn't driving or navigating settled down to sprawl and doze. At the Iranian checkpoint
there was another surprise in store. Someone went off to talk to the border officials and came back loudly
announcing "You'll never guess what we have to do now!" We soon discovered what this was. Earlier, around Kandahar,
we had passed through a cholera area and now there was a doctor at the Iranian border ready and waiting to take a
rectal swab from each of us. This was an undignified procedure. No details required here but I think it was Sandra,
with her medical training, who undertook to chaperone the girls. We all duly lined up and swabs were taken.
Next stop, directed into quarantine in Taibad. Nevertheless we were in Iran, the border had been crossed and the
next stage of our journey begun. Looking back all these years later, I would happily swap some of this idiosyncratic
and somewhat unique style of border crossing for the intrusive metal detectors, body searches and cold formality
which cross-border travel often entails today. Imagine a couple of eightsome reels at Edinburgh Airport or Heathrow
and you're on your way! If only life were that simple!
| Memorabilia Corner | |
| Passport with cholera stamp |
