13 February,2011 10:36 AM IST | | Arjun Razdan
This is the story of a drive, not a destination. A 30-hour ride from the heart of Anatolia into the Persian plateau, made a bit easier by Salman Khan
Both Iran and Turkey drive on the right. Both have the standard European two-pin electric sockets. Both possess manic metropolises of capitals ufffd Tehran and Istanbul ufffd which are arguably a world apart from the rest of the country.
More importantly, both share a nearly 500km-long land border through which human masses and tonnes of cargo ufffd the good mood of officials permitting ufffd transit across the two territories.
It's quite simple, in fact, to hop on to a plane, pay $250 and reach Tehran from Istanbul in three hours (plus one and a half for the shift in time zones). I bought a flight ticket, and then realised that for all the similarities, a big change like that must be digested slowly ufffd as slow as 30 hours ufffd otherwise you stand to miss out on savouring the minute variations in cultural flavours of the two zones.
It was not merely a matter of the crooked accents of modern Turkish giving way to wriggly Persian characters ufffd or flapping wide flatbreads replacing d ner racks ufffd a bus ride across the heart of Anatolia into the Persian plateau opened up the inside of an ancient arterial passage for my viewership. Well, and it did not hurt when this slightly old-fashioned option came at just $30 ufffd God bless cheap Iranian fuel.
Leaving the Megapolis behind
On a day when Istanbul was Istanbul, and minarets rose above the din of people rushing to work with Simit i (local bagels) in their hands, I walked up to the 18th century Laleli Mosque, which was a handy landmark for the bus to start rolling out of the mega-city just after lunchtime. In two hours, I saw the first cow grazing by the roadside even though we were still negotiating our way through the endless eastern suburbs of Istanbul.
Apartment blocks ufffd typically two or three stories with sloping roofs and clothes drying in the balconies under the winter sun ufffd stood among the conifers in hills while their little antennas pouted mouths in various directions to catch the satellite reception. I had a single seat by the left hand side of the vehicle, in front of an Azerbaijani woman who I had been mistakenly clubbed with on the same ticket and both of us watched ufffd some kind of celestial chariots ufffd white crescents on red of the Turkish flag riding on the evening wind.
The politics of symbols runs high in contemporary Turkey with classical black and white portraits of Mustafa Kemal ufffd sometimes holding a fashionable small cup of Turkish coffee and at others lighting a cigar ufffd adorning nondescript caf ufffds in the bylanes of Istanbul.
We were still in the industrial area around Tuzla ufffd aluminium, cement, automobile plants on both sides of the road ufffd when the terrain grew a little sparse, and sugary caps of snow appeared on the top of the hills.
D ner on a Snowy Night
By 6 o'clock, a light spray of white had nearly reached the wheels of the vehicle. In the meantime, the certificate of the Iranian censor with its floral borders appeared on a television screen and soon the swords were drawn between a blind martial art wizard and an unbelievably stretchable princess in some remote corner of medieval China.
The bus stopped for supper at Sakalya. Along with Kaarli Toast ufffd stringy white cheese inside warm slices of bread ufffd I had some G zleme, a fine example of Turkish craftsmanship in pastries. An extremely fluffy version of a Paneer Paratha, the pastry is given an exceptional airiness by the touch of egg yolk, and is delicious when dusted with some sugar. It reminded me of those early mornings by the Hali (Golden Horn) in Istanbul, where the street seller would place a ruler on the sheet of phyllo pastry (b rek) and cut off a neat little edge for you to have as the first meal of the day.
The night could not have ended without a D ner however, and few hours later at Osmancik, as I emerged from the WC with a fresh dab of lemon kolonya on my hands, the usta (chef) was busy scraping the brown bits off the vertical stand of meat oozing with succulent juices of roasting. As usual, I had the sandwich stuffed with slices of tomato and fresh parsley squeezed with lemon on top and was quite content to let the satisfying flavour linger in my mouth for the rest of the night.
Once we got started around 10 o'clock, a crisp darkness moved along with the vehicle eastwards and streetlights glowed for none but wooden sheds stacked with potatoes. Rivers of snow had already conquered the desolate land.
Honey and Winter on the Palate
Erzurum Airport ufffd the sign flashed in passing first thing in the morning. A different Anatolia rose in front of me. Not only had the soil erupted in a yellowish-brown complexion, brief sketches of a rural life lay painted for the eyes of these roving passengers.
Poplars marking the boundaries of houses, horse-carts ferrying people, roofs held to their structures by stones, semi-frozen streams and little footbridges ufffd in between somewhere, we managed to halt for breakfast.
Olives, cheese, eggs, honey, Corba (lentil soup)u00a0 ufffd anything goes for kahvalti in Turkey ufffd but it was meant to be a special meal. Honey comb served with the lightest top half of cream ufffd bal geymak as it was known locally ufffd felt as the first rays of the sun on the tongue.
Outside, ice had climbed up on the bridges and rides in a children's park. Winter was on everyone's breath and even though the driver rushed us into the confines of the diesel guzzler, a chilly aftertaste stayed well into an otherwise fine day.
Salman Bhai's timely entry
Around noon, we saw trucks in queues waiting for permission to cross the border. To naked eyes, nothing was different ufffd rugged brown hills against a crystal sky ufffd yet symbolically two worlds, one draped in red and white and the other marked in the red, white, and green of the Iranian tricolour stared at each other in the eye.
Everyone got down from the vehicle, and stood in a queue for their documents to be inspected.
In this part of the world, tourists ufffd in other words, people who pay for the leisure of change ufffd are a rare breed, so it came as no surprise to me when the young Turkish officer in a sky blue shirt sent me to his superiors as a special case. However, what was more curious was the reaction of the Iranian representative on the other side of the fence. Having a brief glance at the tattered blue of my passport, he broke into a sudden smile, "Hindustan?" he beamed, "Shahrukh Khan? Salman Khan?" and spared me the other difficult preliminaries of entering a foreign land.
By three in the afternoon, we were on our way from Bazargan border only to stop a few miles into Persian territory for my first taste of the Iranian culinary palette. I had a bite from a fellow passenger's Chelo Jujeh Kebab ufffd tender meat served under a bed of flaky rice ufffd as usual a little sour, as usual quite rich.
Soon, patches of barren earth ufffd rougher than Anatolia ufffd arrived on both sides of the moving cavalcade, and my Azerbaijani neighbour, who had since pulled out a headscarf from her handbag left us for a car waiting for her.
Azeri lokantasi (highway restaurants) and scraps and snow saw the evening break into a very cold night. My last memory is of stacks of residential buildings on the outskirts of the fourth largest Iranian city of Tabriz. I got down at ten to haggle with Tabrizi taxi drivers in my broken Persian.
