It's 3 in the morning when we reach our 'hotel' in Ozbus 20's bus number 3. Once again, whilst ostensibly similar to buses 1 & 2 on the outside, inside it is a whole new world. There are fans and curtains and reclining seats. But if you dare to recline your seat you will end up with your head in the lap of the person behind. It's a good job we're all friends. The heat hit us hard as we leave the plane but the aircon on the bus is fierce and we are soon freezing in the back. There are only 2 options. Off or on. On it is then. With a separate cabin up front for the driver and his assistant there are fewer seats for more people and very few will have 2 seats to themselves. The springy suspension means we bounce along the bumpy roads swerving round potholes, people, random animals, bikes, motorbikes, rickshaws, tuk-tuks, trucks, buses of all shapes and sizes, and even the odd car.




When we arrive, waiting for us, are Rick , Lisa and Allen, together with a very welcome crate of ice cold beer. It feels good to be all back together again and the beer tastes even better. Despite our tiredness, we sit around chatting for while. Some had bought spirits at the duty free on arrival and are hell bent on celebrating their freedom from oppression on the rooftop. Not me. I have been, atypically, some might say, remarkably restrained on this trip and my fear of being sick on the bus still outweighs my desire for anything more than a beer to quench my thirst. In fact, I have not missed alcohol at any time during our stay in Iran. At 4.30 a.m. I go for yet another shower and bed as we have agreed to head for the Golden Temple at 10.30am.

When I get up at 9.00 am some of the girls are still partying on the rooftop. Janet takes them up on their offer of a swig of vodka and a beer for breakfast before we set off for the half hour walk to the Temple.

The essence of India assaults all our senses. After the austerity of Iran, it is such an immense contrast of culture and we drink it in. The streets are dirty and dusty. They are lined with lock up garages offering every kind of product you could possibly imagine, and some you probably can't. Generators sit outside most of them. There is a cacophony of noise, as the people go about their daily business. Mostly, it is traffic. Cars, motorbikes, trucks, bikes, buses, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, horse drawn carts. They all have their way of 'advising' the traffic in front that they are there and would like to pass, or are already passing, or have just passed. I like the trucks and the buses best. Their horns are a sing song tune as they thunder past and you leap out of the way of certain death.

There are no pavements, so death is only seconds away at any time as we make our way through the riddle of streets. Actually traversing a road is an art we have yet to perfect, but we take our training seriously and watch how the locals do it before determinedly setting out as we spy a gap, only to leap back again as a tuktuk swerves in from nowhere to take 'our' gap. But no fairground ride can beat the adrenalin rush of successfully attaining the opposite side of the road.

Underneath all the dust and grime, there is a strong sense of colour which lifts our mood and overrides everything. There is colour in the school uniforms of the children, the turbans of the men, the saris of the women, and the smiles of the people as they stare at this group of misfits trying to make their way through the crowds. The young girls giggle openly as we walk by in our shorts and t-shirts. The children gather round, anxious to make contact. 'Hello', 'What's your name?'', “ Which country?”. They beam when we reply and are desperate for us to take their photo. The half hour walk stretches out and the temperature rises in the late morning sun. Tuk tuks continually pull in front of us, blocking our way, keen to pick up a ride. Not today thank you.

None of us have any cash and we are looking for an ATM. They are not easy to spot in the line of garages and various bric a brac which extends out into the streets. We nearly walk past a small mall, inside which we find a couple of ATMs. Some of us are able to get cash, others are less successful. On we go. Suddenly, we round a corner and it is there in front of us. The roof of the Golden Temple sparkles in the sunshine. The gleaming white of the walls glares through the dust.

We leave our sandals at the counter and don our headscarves. Here, in the Temple, it does not feel oppressive and shades our heads from the heat of the sun. We rinse our feet in the foot bath at the entrance and walk down the steps into another world. Within the walls it is calm and serene, despite the hordes of people, who are already there. We follow them down towards the water and make our way around the huge courtyard. In the lake are koi and goldfish, and some of the men are also taking a dip. We are also an attraction in here, and surreptitious glances are fielded our way as they walk behind, or in front, or across our path. Again, we receive many approaches for photos or comments (name, nationality). The children are adorable. Shy, with immense brown eyes, they squirm with pleasure as we talk to them or take their photo. On the walls all around are memorial plaques of loved ones and groups, some military, some not. All have made donations to the Temple. Respite for all visitors, whether it be food or shelter or just peace and calm is available to all without charge here, but donations are gratefully received. As we gain the exit steps, there is a small door to our left. In the immense Temple it could be easily missed. Above it says 'Museum'. We mount the steep narrow staircase into a series of small rooms. The walls are lined with macabre paintings and photos, describing the bloody persecution of Sikhs through history right up to the massacre of Sikh separatists in 1984 ordered by Indira Ghandi in the Temple itself. I am sickened by it and have to leave.




Further down the street, there is another memorial to an equally bloody earlier massacre in 1919, this time by the British. Inside, the courtyard has now been converted to a garden of tranquillity. Despite this, we are still approached for photos with beaming smiles, even when the answer to 'What country?' is 'England'.




Back at the hotel for another shower, before we drive to the Pakistan border for the Border Closing Ceremony at sunset. How much would we have given just to be able to cross the border and get the stamp in our passport? But the border is closed long before the ceremony and we park our bus and trek with the crowds to the stands at the border.

Inside there is already a party atmosphere. Music is playing, the MC is warming up the crowd with chants and responses. The border guards are fascinating. So tall, with their half mast trousers and plumes in their hats. Groups of children are invited down to dance , then the women. Jaiho plays and we sing along to the Saturdays version but it is not the Saturdays playing. More chants and responses and, as the sun goes down, the kids are again invited to run back and forward to the border carrying the national flag. Then the ceremony starts as the sun sets over Pakistan. The calls back and forth between the border guards, each trying to hold the call longer than the other. The high goose stepping up to the border and back. Each kicking higher than the other. It could be Moulin Rouge. All too soon the gates are shut for the final time. No-one really wants it to end. We saunter back to the bus and wait for the 3 rows of buses in front of ours to leave before we head back to the hotel in time for dinner.




We decide not to venture too far for our evening meal. All I can say is, my first experience of Indian food in India was not up to my expectations. On the bright side, size 8 by Sydney, is looking marginally more realistic.

  Our last day in Iran and we have lost the will to live in this polluted, dirty, noisy city. The girls can't wait to get out of the country and I plan the ritual burning of all clothing and headscarves which will remind me of the oppression I had not really felt until freedom of choice was just in front of me. In the end, though, I offer my bonnets and clothing to the cleaner, and then am shamed and embarrassed at her overwhelming gratitude.

Most of the group have planned to spend the day relaxing and reading in the sanctimony of the hotel but Amanda had discovered the Museum of Contemporary Art during her few days alone in Tehran and I am desperate to do something, anything, cultural, and get some exercise after days on the bus.

We stretch our legs on the half hour walk through the streets and park to the gallery. Inside is an oasis of calm and cool. There are examples of art from many famous artists, sculptors, not all of it contemporary and certainly nothing recent. However, there is a Picasso, a Monet, a Manet, some Hockneys, Henry Moore, Toulouse Lautrec and many others to occupy the eye and the mind for a couple of hours. Nothing is a great example of the artist's work and none of it is particularly well presented but I relax as I wander round. There is even a coffee shop at the end. I spy chocolate cake and strawberry milk shake. I cut the huge slice of cake into small slices and offer it and my shake to the others to try. I couldn't possibly eat such a huge slice on my own. They all demur but 30 seconds later David changes his mind. Oops. All that is left is an empty glass and a small scattering of dark crumbs. Snooze, you lose, but if you're ever in the area, I can recommend the choc cake and shake.




Then it's back to the hotel for yet another shower before we dive on the bus and head for the airport and exit. Mahan Air looks after us well during the flight but we are all shocked when the stewardess announces that ladies should retain head covering for the flight. Too late. Mine is already off and the locks are loose. A few of the others replace theirs but I am resolute (again!).

After dinner, I disappear to the back of the plane where there is enough room to stretch out over the 4 centre seats and rest my eyes. It will be the early hours of the morning when we land in Amritsar.

  I am looking forward to the morning tour of the city sights. Esfahan has a rich history and culture and there is much to see. You could spend a week getting lost in the bazaar without ever going down the same street twice.

We drive to the main square and I am awestruck by its beauty. On one side is the Shah's palace, opposite is his lady's private mosque, considered one of the most beautiful, and at either end are the main mosque and the start of the bazaar. In the centre are fountains and gardens but it was originally conceived as a polo field. As we enter the main mosque, all the ladies are handed large sheets (hi-jabs) with which to cover themselves. Not content with being made to wear long sleeved dresses, trousers and headscarves in the blazing sun, we will now drown in our own sweat under a bedsheet. We then spend a happy half an hour tripping over them as we wander round. As the tour comes to an end a few of us decide to seek out the famous tea house on the square. As we approach, we are told it is closed but that the gentleman we are talking to knows of another one. He sets off at speed and we track him, right, left, right , right , down several alleys. Finally, there is a tiny alley lined with old junk, sorry, antiquities, and we enter the most amazing smoke filled environment. There is bric a brac on every shelf, lining every wall and cupboard, and even hanging from the ceiling. The room itself is as long and narrow as the alley, with one line of tables and a bench seat. We shuffle sideways past a line of men, all smoking from water pipes, and into the next room. Tea is brought and served, hot and sweet and the gentleman tells us a little of his history and connection with UK. Of course, he wants to sell us a carpet. We leave shortly before we die of asphyxiation from the smoke fumes. We wander round the bazaar, up and down alleys, into little dead ends. It is all covered and we lose our sense of direction. We are looking for another famous mosque, but we move further and further away from the tourist area and into the main alleys of the local bazaar. Each time we stop, some helpful person sends us on our way in the direction of the mosque but we can never find our way out. We begin to think that we will be stuck in the bazaar forever. Search parties will be sent and not return. Skeletons will be found periodically but they will not be ours. Eventually, we will become the ghosts of legend.

Finally, after several more consultations and discussions, we surface outside the bazaar, and into a world that bears no resemblance to the Esfahan we had left as we entered it. This is the Other Half of the World. This is a world of shabby buildings, dusty mounds of bricks and rubbish, random flea markets and other markets, hidden in the bowels of the various shabby buildings. This is where construction attempts at a metro have been started, splitting streets down the middle and preventing any traversing. Grey dust is everywhere. I am thirsty but, despite all the shops inside and outside the bazaar, we can find nothing to drink. Eventually, we find the mosque we are looking for, and a kind passer-by uncovers some water for me.

IN the evening, we walk down to the bridge for the sunset. The clouds are drifting across the sky, obscuring the deep red light. Along the bridge, lovers , families and tourists gather to gaze from the arches. I am torn. Do I watch from the bridge with the others but miss getting a photo of the bridge itself? Do I stay on the river bank with the sun behind me? Do I cross the bridge to the other side? OMG. Decisions. Decisions. I haven't had to make a decision since I packed my bags for this trip. As usual, I try to do it all and end up collapsing in a heap on the far side as the the last arc of the sun finally disappears below the horizon. I sit chatting with the others on the river bank as the bridge lights up for the night. It is magical, and all my reservations about Iran fade away.

  Back on the bus and today we leave Amanda in Tehran. She has not been well and needs some time to herself to rest and recover. We will collect her on our way back in a couple of days.

Through the chaos of the city we pass through the government buildings area and are instructed not take any photos. We pull over outside the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. It is a beautiful building, with echoes of Persepolis but we are not permitted to photograph it.. As we walk down the tranquil tree lined avenue, with little fountains and beautiful tiling and carving on the buildings it is such a shame we are only able to commit it to memory. We are, however allowed to photograph the gate at the end of the avenue. We enter the Archaeological museum. Once again, no photos or handbags, but security is minimal.. Our guide gives a brief explanation on 2 or 3 key pieces and then we are left to our own devices. But most of the labels are in Farsi and the English explanation is cursory ' A piece of pottery'. Well, even I could have guessed that! Upstairs is a specialist exhibition on Human Rights from Persian history. We are limited to one visit of 3 mins. After 1 minute, I am none the wiser from the Farsi text but stay another 5 mins just for the hell of it.

We arrive in Esfahan just after sunset. Even on the journey into the city, I get a good feeling about it. We decide to try the restaurant recommended by the guide. It is a beautiful setting and they have typical Iranian dishes. Most of us try local dishes, with mixed success. Our overall impression is that Iranian food is generally plain or overly sweet with lots of saffron rice and no vegetables. Not for the first time, when the bill arrives we are left in some confusion as it is much more than we calculated. Once again, when I tackle the manager, the bill is adjusted to something more acceptable, but still more than the money we have collected. But when you're talking millions it's hard to put it into perspective. Finally Barry confesses. He forgot to pay for his soup... a whopping 6000 Rials (45p).

Back at the hotel and everyone settles in for the night. We have been given a curfew of 9pm and the girls have been instructed not to go out alone. I want to walk to the Bridge as it is beautifully lit at night but everyone else prefers to stay in the hotel.

As I stride out on my own into the crowds, the rebel in me quivers a bit at the groups of young men which line both the streets and the bridge, and at the stares I receive from families and the women in their hi-jabs. But it is only curiosity, and there are many shy greetings of 'Hello' and 'where are you from?' as I pass. As I am returning across the bridge, I meet Liv and Michele, also breaking curfew for an evening saunter. Liv lights a cigarette and 2 young soldiers passing, snarl something at us in Farsi, then the one hurls his cigarette end on the ground in disgust, as they storm off. We are a bit nonplussed as this is the first negative behaviour we have encountered in Iran. Then we dissolve in giggles as two minutes later, he sheepishly returns to pick up his butt and continue smoking.

  The journey from Zanjan feels long and tedious. More police stops, more counting but we push through and do not stop for lunch. Even as we enter Tehran, it feels like any other large city. Same high rise concrete. Same busy streets. Same chaos. Our 2nd bus driver is nearly mown down as he tries to hold up the traffic to let the bus turn into the hotel car park. Our hotel takes us to the next level.. Our room is immense with a super king size bed and a single bed, dining table, coffee table, little kitchen and bathroom. There's even a balcony. Graciously, I offer the super king size bed to Isabelle, my roomie for the night. She tells me she prefers the single. I insist but she is adamant. Oh my God, no-one is going to believe me. I go out onto the balcony, leaving off my headscarf,.Others appear on their balconies, still with headscarves. I feel quite the rebel as I shake my hair out. Then, a chorus of jeers echoes when someone asks which bed I got.

Later, walking down the high street, people are not shy as we go past. The girls are mainly very glamorous in their tight fitted coats over tight jeans or trousers and extravagant makeup. Head scarves are loosely draped over bouffant hair. This contrasts sharply with others fully covered in Hi-jab. All around us are electronic shops. It's like Tottenham Court Road. Crossing the road, you take your life in your hands. Traffic lights are only a suggestion and a suggestion that most drivers ignore. Even the pavements are not safe as the Honda 125 s push their way through. As I negotiate 6 lanes of oncoming traffic, I spy a local bus bearing down on me out of the corner of my eye. I am a target and he is determined I will not make it across the road. At the last second, I turn to look up a him and raise my eyebrows over my sunglasses . He grinds to a halt, only inches away. Oh, yes! I am triumphant, as I stroll nonchalantly to the pavement.

  Tabriz was disappointing. Merely an overnight stopping point on the road to somewhere more interesting, we hope. Our guide, Sorab, however,  is much more interesting. Each morning we have our Farsi phrase for the day and are encouraged to ask questions about Iranian life and culture. We also have a driver and a '2nd ' driver, who appears unable to drive a bus. Our 2nd driver is, however, extremely good at counting us on and off the bus. Each time we stop and get off, he counts us back on. Then he double checks, then he triple checks, just to make sure. As soon as we set off he disappears into the bowels of the coach for a nap, surrounded by our backpacks to cushion the bumps and sudden stops as he sleeps. Our 2nd driver also seems to deal with the incessant police checks along the road.

A few minutes after leaving the hotel the coach comes to a stop and we are invited to visit the Blue Mosque. The gardens are calm and peaceful and people are sat on benches contemplating the day in front of them. The mosque itself, is a mismatch of different periods but has an interesting history of Shia and Sunni use.

Once again, driver no 2 counts us all carefully back on the bus.

As we drive along the motorway, the road surface is good and the landscape changes again. The hills resemble sand dunes and the colours are dramatic contrasts of deep red and pale beige. The villages we pass are more like mud huts, with low, matching mud walls, demarcating their land. A single power line trails through the village. In the yard, I spot chickens and turkeys and along the road and a boy on a donkey. Large piles of hay are everywhere and it occurs to me that the houses may well be made of bales held together with the mud. But we do not stop to find out and the wheels on the bus go round and round.

Another lunch stop and this time we have the choice of beef kebab, shish kebab or chicken dinner (which turned out to be roast chicken joint). All with rice. But no-one really wants a full dinner. This time, we are lucky to have the bus dustbin at our table. Michele devours at least 3 plates of shish kebab and a chicken drumstick. Where does he put it all?

Next stop is the Dome. Conceived as a mausoleum for kings & queens, it has never held a dead body, although there was a rumour that the last Shah of Iran was to be buried there. It does however, sport a beautiful turquoise roof. Inside, only the massive scaffolding is visible and I decline the 5000Rials (30p) entry to scale the dizzy heights. I wonder how long the restoration work will take but am informed the scaffolding is there to protect the building in case of earthquake. In the gardens, families are enjoying picnics in the sun. Several make approaches in Farsi and limited English, mainly young girls and women but occasionally young men, testing their English. All demonstrate a polite interest in where I am from and welcoming smile. Once again, we are counted and double counted back on the bus.

Despite it being Friday, Zanjan seems a little more lively than Tabriz and our hotel is the best yet, with spacious rooms and modern toilets. However, with no air con, the heat is stifling even though the temperature is only 27C.

The constant meat and rice diet has left us craving vegetables and on the nightly hunt for food we discover Iranian pizza and fruit beer (non alcoholic, of course). Even as we walk down the street, locals approach us. A young man inform tells me he is in the national rowing team and goes to great length to explain the competitions and other teams in his desire to maintain the conversation. I've already had that chat up line back in Turkey, or was it Bulgaria, but from his physique this one could well be telling the truth. Ah well, no harm in window shopping. I skip to catch up with my friends.

  We are awakened by the call to prayer from the mosque right outside our bedroom window at 5.00 a.m.. Even at stupid o'clock in the morning, it sounds lovely, but this morning we can even hear the Imam clearing his throat between calls. Not quite so lovely. Birds squabble on the balcony and Becky, still half asleep, reassures me it's the cleaners doing the windows. Poor lass. She must be delirious from the tummy bug she's been suffering. It's impossible to get back to sleep as the walls are so thin we can hear the person next door fart, and already showers are going and toilets flushing all around.

The shower has no curtain and the bathroom is already a swimming pool as I step in. Just as I'm shampooing my hair all the lights go out and the water fades to a trickle, then nothing. I'm stood there in the pitch black, wearing nothing but my nakedness and suds. It's not looking a good start to the day. Especially as today is the day we have to be fully covered for Iran, with full hi-jab. I feel my way to the door to let some light in. Just as I have dried myself and soapy hair off with a towel, the power comes back and I go through the whole process again.

As we go down to breakfast, the view from the corridor window looks straight to Mount Ararat, but today it is sporting a cloudy halo.

It's a short drive to the border, and we pass hundreds of lorries stacked 4 deep, waiting to cross as we risk life and limb driving on the wrong side of the dual carriageway to overtake them. This is where we say goodbye to our first Ozbus and driver Daenes. We will miss them both. We have a photo shoot with Daenes, the bus and all the girls in their gear. We gather up all our worldly goods and head towards the Turkish exit. There is a forlorn little beep from the bus as Daenes pulls away and I turn back to wave goodbye




There's only a short queue as we wait to exit, then another coach pulls up and suddenly its chaos as men come from all directions to try to push in front of us. They push in front of the girls in front and invite their friends and family to join them. It's like we don't even exist but I am resolute in my determination not to bow to this sexist intimidation. Is this how it is going to be? Debbie was standing behind me and as I go through I realise an entire coach load has placed themselves between her and me. Eventually we exit Turkey. We anticipate entry to Iran will be even more difficult but despite a long wait, it is relatively painless, as they take our finger prints from several angles including two knuckles(don't ask). As we sit and wait, two Iranian women, swathed in black, sit beside me, smiling and asking me questions in Farsi. I look at them, clueless, but they are not perturbed and continue on. I am willing myself to understand and I try sign language but its not working and they don't give up. Where are we from? Are we all family? Are these my sisters, daughters? Is Barry the father or grandfather? As I start to understand and try to explain, it is time to move on. I bet they are still marvelling at the lack of birth control in England, and wondering at the man who could father so many children and grandchildren and afford to take them on holiday to Iran.

Around us posters and leaflets welcome us to West Azerbaijan. What? I thought Azerbaijan was a different country. It is, but WEST Azerbaijan is now part of Iran. We go through to change our money. For the first, and probably the last, time of my life, I am a millionaire! Weyhey.

Outside our next Ozbus is waiting for us. Superficially, it looks not unlike our last but inside it appears to be held together with gaffer tape and, horror of horrors, there is no on board toilet. On the positive side there is a beautiful carpet runner down the centre and we have more legroom.

Suddenly a cheer goes up, and Kenneth comes running through to the bus. We have followed his journey to catch us up, lived through his torment of fully booked overnight buses, losing another 24hours, being rerouted through uncharted territory, and and are relieved to see him back in the fold. Not as relieved as he is to be back with us. Its hugs all round.

The journey to Tabriz is fraught with police checks and everyone in the front seats has that slightly petrified expression as we continuously swerve to overtake , challenging the fuel truck hurtling towards us to a game of chicken. The landscape is dramatic and the flat roofed housing of the villages we pass is both simple and sophisticated with large bow windows. But the colour of the ground and the housing is the same and there is little green in the fields we pass. Even with air conditioning on the bus, we are all stifling in our full length clothing and headscarves.

We stop for lunch in a little restaurant (there are no service stations in Iran) and we millionaires are challenged to count the cost of a meal, where a chicken kebab is 50500 Rials and a coke 3000Rials. The choice is limited. Chicken kebab, lamb kebab, beef kebab and for the vegetarians, barley soup. It is very tasty but we are not used to having our meal in the middle of the day and struggle to finish the large portions.

As we pick up the road again, in the distance we can see lightening and a storm approaching but as we exit the rain there are double and triple rainbows all around us. They are so beautiful, everyone starts snapping pictures.

When we finally arrive in Tabriz, it is already dark and quite late. We dump our bags in our rooms and set out to scavenge for food. The restaurant in the hotel is not open and as we walk up the street looking for food we can only see furniture shops. Eventually, there is a small, but busy supermarket. Great. We can get some bread and cheese and have a picnic. We wander round but can only find sweets, crisps, biscuits, fruit juice and water. We go round and round again. It must be somewhere. Is this all these people live on? We are causing quite a stir in the shop. Despite our attempts to fit in with local fashion, we are well off the mark compared to their beautifully chic , black headscarves and full make-up with kohl eyes. The girls on the checkout, at least 3 per checkout, look at us, chatter to each other and giggle. We grab some crisps, nuts, raisins and fruit juice and line up at the till. I hand over 110, 000 Rials for my purchases and a packet of chewing gum is put in instead of change. 'A present' she says.

Back at the hotel, we munch on crisps and dried fruit and try to connect to the internet with limited success. There's nowhere to eat, nowhere to drink, we can't play cards, we can't play music, we can't get online and we're too hot in our headscarves. Eventually, one by one, we go up to our rooms for a much needed, early night.

  Next morning gives us a late start but even though this was our last opportunity for alcohol, no-one had felt inclined to party hard. News comes in that Kenneth has not managed to secure a seat on the night bus and will have to take an alternative route to catch us up in Doggy Biscuit (Dogubayazit) before we reach the Iranian border. It will be touch and go if he can make it and we have his luggage.

We set off on another long haul and are totally unprepared for the spectacular views of snow capped Mount Ararat as we reach Doggy Biscuit.

Once again, we are treated to a tour of the town to find our hotel. It doesn't take long but it takes 2 locals to get us there. The children are coming out of school as we arrive and look beguiling in their school uniforms. They wave and smile at us as we try to mow them down in the narrow streets. We finally reach our hotel with views over Mount Ararat. No sign of any Ark but an American 'researcher' assures us it has been found and was proven to be made from aluminum and titanium. Heaven help us.

  Today offers another long bus ride but after a couple of nights chilling in Goreme, we are ready for it. We say our goodbyes to Rick, Lisa and Allen, as they don't have visas for Iran and will be taking a night bus to the coast for a few nights R&R on a gulet. It seems strange to be losing them. They have each brought a lively personality to the bus, and we will all miss them. A couple of hours into the journey there is some commotion. Kenneth's passport has been left in Goreme. It's too far to turn around and it seems it is not possible to post it or forward it by courier. He is going to have to go back for it. After much consultation and debate, he is to get a bus back from the next bus station and should be able to get a night bus back to get to us before we leave Erzincan the next morning.

On we go and the scenery changes into hills and mountains, reminiscent of home. We climb to 2500m and the bus swings round the hairpin bends as we go. As we roll into Erzincan, I look for the one horse. This town certainly doesn't rely on tourism for it's income. As we prowl the streets searching for food, I am glad I substituted my shorts and tshirt for more modest apparel. The women here are fully covered but mainly wearing colourful headscarves. They stare at our motley crew with interest and are quick to wave or smile back, when eye contact is made.