Trippin in Tehran

Iran is not blessed with the most beautiful capital in the world but what it lacks in style it makes up for in modern conveniences. This city would not be out of place in any western country with large neon signs lining the streets and all types of consumer trappings available, from Plasma TVs to Nike shoes to nuclear power.  The church was another hard to find jobbie. Armed with only its name and that of the pastor, “Johnny” we rode the streets by night looking for any sign of it. As in Esfahan our destination was not recognised by any of the Tehrani locals but our persistence paid off and at 10:00pm we rang on the church doorbell. A man came and greeted us and after hearing we had come on recommendation from blind pastor Kourash from Esfahan he gladly welcomed two strangers in and gave us a room in the church.

The man who answered the door was the man we’d heard about- Johnny.  He preferred to be known as the caretaker of the church in Tehran rather than its ‘pastor’. Pastoring in Iran is not a recognised job in any sense. It is illegal to practice as an ordained minister, to baptise people and administer holy communion.  The lack of leadership has taken its toll on a congregation which is already hamstrung by constant self examination; looking for members who are not there to build up the body of Christ but in fact destroy it. We joined with the congregation for the Sunday service and shared our testimonies and the story of our trip so far. A sympathetic word from Nato alluding to the pressure the church was under from the government was carefully noted by what they call a ‘Judas’ in the congregation. The following day a government agent rang Bertie demanding to know who the two foreigners at church were and why they were blaspheming the government of Iran.

On the gate of the church only a small sign indicates what goes on inside.  At the rear of the building lies an unfinished extension. Its massive iron frame, now rusting away, is a relic from the pre-revolution days and a testament to the ambitions of the former parishioners to construct a larger church to house what was a rapidly growing congregation. There are signs of life in the current church though, with members meeting up during the week and the hospitality we received from the live-in worker, Ashok was humbling. Every morning we’d be greeted with a large hot breakfast and chai. Ashok would wait patiently for us to finish then lead us to the shower room one by one, wait for us and then sit us down for more tea. This was our morning routine everyday that we stayed. 

We spent our evenings in Johnny’s home with his cheeky wife and two beautiful young children- chatting through the issues faced by the church of Iran and listening to him play Spanish guitar (he can pull a wicked rendition of Pink Floyd’s ‘Another brick in the wall’).  There was seemingly nothing John wouldn’t do for us.  The day before we left, John took us to one of the local ski resorts. Because it was a Muslim holiday the lifts were shut so instead of going for a ski we did as the locals were doing - the curious Iranian activity of careering down the ski slopes in inflated tyre tubes- lucky we’ve got good travel insurance:)

John is tired of battling the government in Iran, he says it is becoming too difficult and too dangerous. He is concerned about the safety of his wife and children after reading about the murder of ‘pastors’ in other parts of Iran. He wonders if tomorrow it will be him. Faced with a congregation that is divided in its suspicion of one another he is looking to take his family to the States to live, where he says he’ll be free to worship God and will not have to worry about the constant persecution he faces in Iran. Seeing the situation he is in and knowing the real and present danger here, how could we blame him for wanting to leave. Unfortunately for the church in Tehran it will be losing one of its greatest assets.

Turkey

We knew it was coming, as sure as the sun rises and sets so too the seasons must change and the further we travelled from the equator the spectre of sub-zero temperatures loomed on the horizon. Our crossing of Turkey was purely out of necessity to reach our next destination in Syria. Out of practicality we’d selected it over Iraq reasoning that delays due to wintry conditions were preferable to delays caused due to detainment by militants. Usually 4-5” of fresh snow is something pretty exciting to wake up too but when faced with riding through it perched on top of an overladen motorcycle, it kinda looses some of its appeal.

There was plenty of apprehension in the camp on the morning of our first ‘snow day’. Some riders from the UK we’d met in Iran had gone ahead of us into Turkey via a small border near Iraq.

We planned to go the same route but a couple of days before we hit the border we had word that they’d hit impassable conditions and after being caught in a snow storm had to be rescued in dramatic style with a helicopter. We had a think and pray about it and decided to take the more travelled albeit more Northern route into Turkey where there would be more snow but hopefully the roads would be clear.

This theory had some merit although we found in Turkey that you can run from the snow but it’ll surely catch you at some point. It all caught up with us on a secondary road as we endeavoured to head south towards Syria. The strip of black bitumen became narrower and narrower as the temperature dropped to around -5 degrees and the snowflakes started to fall. We forged on like a couple of Antarctic explorers to the nearest town where we were greeted with a look from a local man that transcended language barriers.  It was something like - “What are you two crazy whities doing riding a motorbike in this weather?!” a look that is promptly followed by another - “Fancy a cuppa by the fire?”

The snow trek lasted three days in Turkey, it included skating on sheet ice, pushing the bike up hill, falling and sliding along the road, slipping backwards down a mountain and generally fighting every inch to stay upright and all the while wondering if our fingers and toes were in fact still attached to our bodies or had been eaten away by cold. There were moments where the snow ceased and the cloud lifted and we were met with rolling hills completely blanketed in white and at one point after fighting a good part of the day to travel 60km we negotiated with a truck driver to take us and the bike to the next main town. Never let it be said our sense of bravado got in the way of reason ;)

Coming down from the mountains was a great experience, to see rolling fields of green. We were happy to have survived the depths of the Turkish winter and experienced such hospitality from the Kurdish people in the villages dotted over the eastern part of the country.

Ahead of us lay another challenge, penetrating the borders of Syria with no visa and news that many before us had tried and failed.

We write now from what is no man’s land - between the borders of Turkey and Syria- we’ve signed out of Turkey but haven’t been accepted by the Syrians yet.  Yesterday we were denied access at an entry point about 400km along the border, so we have come here to have a crack. Its looking pretty positive, we’ve had chai with the chief of the border police and made polite conversation about politics, the differences between eastern and western countries and the prospect of us entering Syria.  He also mentioned to us that the town that we stayed in last night; Gazintep - which seemed something like the Kings Cross of Turkey- is the birthplace of the Doner Kebab- so there you go.

nb + jp