swings and roundabouts

Today was a bad day.

Matt and Neil had to get up at 5:45am and drive to Manchester to drop the passports at the Indian Consulate only to find out that they would take seven working days, not the one or two we had thought.

Back at home Tom dropped the marmalade.

Bad day.

Then we realised if Neil took the passports to Birmingham they would take less time and we could pick them up on the way to the ferry.

Then a parcel arrived from our new friends at howies with some pretty nifty t-shirts and stickers.

Today is shaping up just nice.

your money is safe with us

We had heard mixed reviews about staff at the Pakistani Consulate in London, so we went to Bradford instead.

Despite being informed that it would be impossible to obtain a visa for overland travel the gents at Bradford issued it with a giggle; “How many days to get there? Seven? Twelve? Twenty four?” After satisfying their curiosity we headed to the fee counter where we were greeted by perhaps the finest cover up of all time. Though the safe stands proud from the wall staff had cleverly covered it with wallpaper thereby rendering it almost invisible – genius.

We love Bradford.

no way home

We, like Captain Cook, will be setting sail with a common hoard of treasured worries. Primarily; “By George, I hope we get there.” Followed shortly after by, “Anyone know the way home?”

Armed with a bundle of biscuits, a barrel of rum and an unwanted single entry Iranian visa we shall voyage into the unknown with no way home. Our original plan of a hasty retreat  back through this fine country has been anchored by a blanket ban on the issue of dual entry visas from our brothers in Iran.

So it looks like we too may take to the high seas accompanied by a sprinkling of scurvy and with luck, a fair maiden.

dancing dick

The warm plastic chair squeaks as I displace its previous occupant.

‘”Number 7.”

The audience of six Iranian diplomats stares toward a single flickering screen shrouded in the bark of a 1980′s tree.

“Number 12.”

The communal gaze remains transfixed as yet another visitor squeezes on the end of the row carefully watched by 12 eyes lurking from behind their presentation cases.

“Number 19.”

On screen and entertaining the minds of thousands struts an Iranian Dick Strawbridge and his two rather handsome brothers.

“Number 22.”

Sporting an oversized white tracksuit Dick prowls the streets, parks and shopping malls of Tehran. Rhythmically lunging, stretching and dancing.

“Number 28.”

Waking a nation from their slumbers women privately exercise in front of an empty room.

“Number 31.”

I turn to catch the eye of my neighbour. His gaze remains unbroken as he taps his foot to the music.

“Number 38. Mr Smith. Number 38.”

I make my lunge to the visa collection window.

iranian courtesy

Smiles rain down above expedition HQ.

12 weeks of rather painful patience has finally been rewarded by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Tehran – we are cleared for entry! Next stop: the Iranian embassy in London to collect our visas.

Even the electrical problems on the Land Rover can’t dampen our mood, after all the courtesy car comes complete with a working orange flashing light.

Apt; men at work.