How hard is it to get a bike out of Iranian customs?

Answer: Very hard. Bordering on impossible. But more on that later.

Day 9. Friday.

Was keen to get out and about and not think about the bike for awhile. Arranged for Hosein (my driver and now friend) to give me a tour on the North side of Tehran. His English is excellent, so it’s nice to have time to converse with a local about history, current affairs and general perspectives on whatever topic comes up.

Aside from the Nature Museum (which was in a prime location overlooking the city), we also went to the Shah’s Palace (and grounds) which was quite magnificent. Everything has been kept since he was overthrown in the 1979 revolution and is major tourist destination. Hosein is old enough to remember the times of the Shah and he only had positive things to say.

Side note: Recently read William R. Polk’s Understanding Iran and I highly recommend it for anyway who’s interested in Iran’s history, both ancient and modern. Polk was a U.S. diplomat who spent a significant number of years in the Middle East and was on a first name basis with the last Shah himself. He writes with great humility and presents a decent and dignified view worthy of the subject itself.

There are a number of sites you can visit (charged separately) within the palatial grounds and we chose the White Palace (where the Shah lived and hosted guests), the Water museum and the Car Museum (the Shah’s personal collection which included a Bentley and the odd Merc). The White Palace was stunning. Incredible and enormous carpets filled entire rooms, beautiful artworks, grand settings for dining, lounges and offices. Of course bedrooms, billiards room and guest waiting rooms. Was very glad to have seen it.

We then went to Dar Abad at the very north of the city. It is a very popular spot at the base of the mountains. With a single road up and back it is extremely difficult to park and traffic can become gridlocked. But it is worth it. You have to walk a fair way up, but the greeting is most welcome. A host of traditional style restaurants to choose from, all in a shaded environment with lots of water sprinkler mists and fans. All while sitting in the traditional Persian way for dining – on a flat raised surface with the food spread out amongst the patrons. Abghoust was the dish of choice and I had more than my fill.

At the end of the day I asked if Hosein would be available to drive and interpret the following day. Fortunately, he obliged. I knew his English language skills would be useful. I was anticipating another challenging day ahead and just getting the communication sorted would be a huge advantage.

Day 10. Bike day.

We left before breakfast was served and got to the airport just before 8am. I knew where to go and we had to wait for the main lady to arrive at 8:30am. (Late maybe?) Fortunately, Hosein was able to explain to me that the sign in front of her section of the counter said “Temporary Importation”. Well, that’s a good start. No wonder she seems to know what she’s talking about. I explained that everything had been approved in the system from Tehran Customs and that she should be right to stamp the Carnet de Passages. My biggest fear was that this “approval” wasn’t going to cut it and I quickly found out I was right. (It actually didn’t even exist.) For the next two and a half hours we went backwards and forwards (in between lengthy waits) to superiors’ (that’s right plural) offices for discussions, sign offs, stamps and what not. Turns out that up until two months ago, the famous (in my opinion infamous) “stamp” was at the Airport Customs. But then it moved to Tehran Customs. Now no one seems to know where it is. And so this wonderful lady was negotiating that we get some kind of stamp to get me on my way (rather than send me back to Tehran Customs where I (and I think she) was sure the merry-go-round would continue). Hosein was nervous because he knew what these bureaucracies were like – he used to work in Imports. But I had a feeling that they were going to “find a way”. After all, every man and his dog knew me at the Airport customs and freight by now and they collectively felt so bad for me. Honestly, they kept saying that. It was so nice of them and they genuinely meant it and tried to help every step of the way. So wherever I went, people would smile acknowledgement “ah, here is that poor Aussie looking for his bike”… people would come up and shake hands like I was an old friend. And one of the main guys who I remembered said (in Farsi), “Your benzine (fuel) is still sitting over there”. And there it was. Priceless.

Nevertheless, come 11:00am, despite the odds against it, I had a carnet with the golden stamp in it! Well, it was red, but it was worth more then Willy Wonka’s Golden ticket I can tell you. That was the easy part. We then proceeded to the other Customs building, then to Freight yard, then back to main Customs building, then Freight yard and then first office, second office, third office, back to first office, then to fourth office, pay the fee, back to whichever office I cannot remember and after a couple of hours of this… maybe three I think… I really don’t know, I was hot and massively dehydrated (not tired though, too much adrenalin), we get over to the freight yard, ready to finally pick up the crate. Again we drop in on two of my many friends in high places (albeit in a transportable office) and there are smiles all round as everyone is excited about this bike.

But the main despatcher was none too impressed with this “he wants to unpack and ride off” idea and wasn’t having a bar of it, so Hosein, like the adept and calm thinking man that he is, shot back to our bosses in the transportable offices right behind us and they were totally fine with it. “We’ll sort out the crate no worries”. And with some instructions to the forklift driver and about a minute to find it, the crate finally appeared. I couldn’t believe it. There was my crate. The one I bought from Ellaspede in West End back in February. The one I tore my nice work trousers on loading it into my ute. The one that sat for months blocking my side entrance to my house oh so inconveniently. The one I sprayed zinc-gal on to hide some rust. The very same crate I packed myself in Australia. All my horrendous handwriting on the side of it in marking pen. It was just so surreal. You actually think to yourself “My God, this is really finally happening”. And then you think… “Wait a minute, I hope this bike starts.”

And so it got royally forklifted outside the customs freight compound into the main area where trucks, cars, people and bikes whizzed around. I thought well, this should be good. 40 degree heat and a million people. Fun times building a bike. Of course, not everything was ready. Hosein had to go back for some other authorisation. I think we needed someone to inspect the goods when I opened it. Whilst I waited for Hosein in the shade, I look up and see Ali (my helper from Wednesday) walk past. I sing out to him and he looks up with surprise. I told him of our great progress and he could see I was parched, so he shot off to get a non-alcoholic beer. So we chatted and drank whilst waiting for Hosein, all the while looking over at the crate in all its glory.

Of course, it didn’t help that the forklift driver dropped it next to the entry booth construction zone. I had to climb over bags of concrete just to get the bolts out, but that was the least of my worries. When it come to lifting the top off we had plenty of helpers. And then it was revealed. People were ooohing and ahhing and the gathering went from eight people to 30 people in a second. We all agreed the base should be lifted over to the shade (Amen to that) and the forklift driver was sent for again. And then it began. I was pulling bits and pieces and bags out from around the bike. People keen as mustard to help, so we set everyone tasks. I had tools, bags, gear strewn all over the ground. People we watching, talking, getting involved. Pictures were being taken. I was asked a dozen times how many cc:s “650…” I would say and show my fingers 6-5-0. “Ooohh…”, “Ahhh…” and some serious head nodding would follow along with interested discussion in Farsi.

When it looked like it would be a breeze, an issue thwarted us. One of the front brake calipers had dislodged. Immediately, two guys managed to get themselves involved and I suddenly I became an onlooker. It was taking time and some heated arguments erupted amongst the fixers, but eventually it was done. A cheer went up from the crowd. Hosein had asked if I wanted to pull the brakes off and get it fixed in town, but I was adamant it could be sorted there and I did not want to waste more time by being stuck at a mechanics. And so with the last pieces on, the tools were packed back in a hap hazard manner. I threw on my boots and jacket and tied everything down. By now, I was so parched. I was desperate for water. Of course, a couple of people wanted photos on the bike itself which I was more than happy to oblige. And then the moment of truth came. I put the key in the ignition and turned. Everything whirred as the electronics kicked into gear. Then I gently pressed the red button and that engine kicking over was the best sound I’ve heard in years. It cut out a couple of times, but I wasn’t too worried. It seemed to handle the fuel just fine. After some final handshakes, photos and farewells, I cruised toward the exit gate only to have to wait in the sun, cooking in my gear for a bit longer. A bit of cash to the guard and we were off. To the fuel station that is. We went to get Hosein’s car first and some much needed water. And then filled up at the gas station.

I followed Hosein back to the city and I was super pumped. Everyone driving along side me was waving and smiling and taking photos. One car drove right up next to me for a conversation. Slightly unnerving, but they seem to do this a lot. These sorts of bikes stand out a lot over here, so it was to be expected. But not everything would proceed simply. We were in the absolute hottest part of the day, so when the pace slowed down as we entered the city, the bike started to get hotter and hotter. These 690s run hot at the best of times, but I guess with the extra idling in the heat at customs and now this slow traffic, it just couldn’t handle it. The gauge reached the full eight bars and then flashed along with a red light I had never seen before. I signaled to Hosein to pull over and we found a shady spot to double park. I explained what was going and we could see fuel overflowing. We opened the fuel tanks and inspected and they were bubbling! I have never seen anything like it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. At the time, I was so thankful we’d stopped, but then it wasn’t til later I actually wondered whether it could combust? So after a 15 minute wait (whilst it continued to bubble and then slowly subside) we headed on for the final 5kms hoping and praying it would make the distance. It didn’t help that my iPhone was displaying a message saying it too had overheated and couldn’t be used for the time being. I had no means of directions, so lucky Hosein was able to guide me back.

Side note: I uploaded a lot of GPS maps for my Garmin prior to leaving, but then just before I left I saw the Iran map was missing which seemed strange. So I re-downloaded, but then noticed a massive chunk was missing – Tehran to Isfahan in the south. So, unless I can get the Google maps or maps.me to work on the road, I’ll just have to follow road signs and stop more often. Even if they do work, it’s too bright to see the iPhone display.

Throughout all this engine overheating saga, I wasn’t the least bit worried about traffic. Having the last 10 days to “acclimatise as a pedestrian” in Tehran, I felt very confident on the bike. It’s more of a mindset I think and everything flows when you actually go with it. Also, I think dirt bike riders are better at doing technical bits where you are stationary briefly without having to put your feet down on the ground to balance. This is constant in Tehran and having that balance as well as some serious throttle makes the world of difference.

Finally, I was back at the hotel. I said my final farewell to Hosein and thanked him profusely again. We both agreed it would probably have been impossible on my own so I was glad I asked him and even gladder he said yes. Even though it was past 5pm, I had only just come to the conclusion (acceptance) of not leaving Tehran that day. It was a wise decision in the end. Time to re-pack everything, finally eat my first meal of the day at 9:30pm and then get a much needed restful sleep. The next day I would be off to Kashan. Finally, my motorcycle odyssey could begin!

An afterthought: I had a lot of time to think at customs with all the waiting and I honestly don’t think I could recommend someone do this. Fly a bike to Tehran. It was something I wasn’t even too sure about myself when I booked it. I guess I always believe “where there’s a will, there’s a way”, but that got stretched a bit this time. In spite of how wonderfully helpful every single person was I met, with all the bureaucracy, the missing stamp, the language barrier, the cost of going back and forth to the airport, the journey to Tehran customs, the time limitations (there are places I need to be by a certain time). Basically, at the end of that day, the people found a way to make it happen. Would it be the same next time? I guess with hindsight, there are two game changers for any dice roller: 1) knowing the process and 2) knowing the language (via an interpreter). Initially, I didn’t know either. Now, I have somewhat of an understanding of the process (although I often was just being lead around) and I wouldn’t even waste my time starting it on my own again here. I would front the cash for an interpreter from day 1. Maybe even an import specialist. But you don’t know all this when you start. What you do know (from travel experience) is that you need to be able to deal with uncertainty. So many things aren’t certain. And you just have to roll with it. Mitigate what you can and embrace the rest. Otherwise, don’t do it. It’s the kind of thing a control freak would probably not be able to deal with. But what it does reveal again and again is the depth of the human spirit. People just want to help. All the customs people were wonderful. The ladies kept saying how sorry they were for me. Everyone wanted to help as much as they could. And I guess sometimes you’ve got to not be in control to experience that.

P.S. As luck would have it, some disheveled old guy with a beat up old truck asked if he could have my crate whilst I was reassembling the bike. I was more than happy to give it to him! So glad someone got some use out of it. And amongst the throng of people, my driver who took me to Tehran customs (on Wednesday) and waited for me, turned up. Kamybi was his name. What a nice feeling to shake his hand and show him that it had all worked out and how happy I was. His broad grin showed he was happy too.