Breakfast of pistachios and apple aborad the bus for Zahedan, wild and dangerous Zahedan. The Iranian girl opp me has disappeared completely under her black veil but surfaces pretty quickly when her mobile rings. There is a scrolling message at the front in (surprisingly) English.
- A safe journey for all of us. Praise be upon Mohammed and his tribe. Please keep the gangway clear. You can find hot-cold water by the back exit. Please co-operate with the attendant. Passengers welfare should be respected.
Some superlatives: Landscape is flatter, drier, yellower and more bereft of interest than any so far. No, hang on, it's getting bumpy! and it flattens out again. Sigh.
I have been very conscious of the advice all over the internet to keep a low profile on the Iran/Pakistan border - even bought a dense black veil in Bam - and am expecting a police escort the minute I hop off the bus. However, when we come to the hilly bit, I squeak excitedly and rush down the bus to the front to take pics. Unfortunately I brandish my (silver) camera at the driver - indicating my desire to take pics - and he shies like a frightened horse and nearly overturns the bus. When he realises it is not a gun and I am not hijacking his bus and intend to respect passengers' welfare he lets me sit on the step and snap and chat in broken Farsi. Too late I remember my low profile and creep back to my seat trying to look devout and submissive.
At Zahedan no one takes any notice of me at all, no polce hustling me away and I get a cab to the border with Sayeed for 500 rials. Misty eyes when taking last photo of Iran out of the door of the customs house and mistier yet at passport control, then out of clean, civilised Iran and into the dusty, flyblown horror that is the introduction to Pakistan.
