Photo supplement of 1985 trip

Stephen passed me some photos of the trip. I chose some to add to my March/April/May travel blog entries- and then I thought I'll put some random ones here:


1. A picture of Padma and myself in the middle of France




2. The car out in the middle of Turkey with a beautiful rainbow






3. The car up on hill overlooking the road the car just journeyed







4. The road stretching out ahead of the car

Calais to Dover- 1985

France was just another stepping stone to get to our destination. We situated ourselves on a ferry which ran from Calais to Dover. All we wanted to do was to get to the other side. I don't think I bothered to look out at the water or to gaze back at France.

Clearing the English customs proved to be a tedious process. The custom's personnel looked at our passports and immediately 'drugs' must have come to mind. We had traveled through countries which were known for such things. I'm sure our appearance didn't help; traveling in the wee Morris didn't do much for our attire. We were asked to step out of the car while it was examined throughly. Mirrors on long poles checked out the undercarriage. All the tires were tapped as was the sides of the car. We waited impatiently as the inspection went on, what a relief when we were told we could get back in the car. Off we drove towards our final destination: London.

zoom zoom zoom-1985

Fast cars, vivacious people and beautiful scenery made up what we saw of Italy. Everyone drove as if they were in a car race. The people dressed like they were going for a fashion show. As for the scenery, I couldn't get enough of it.

We did not take the big motorways. Our decision was once again based on limited finances. We chose the side streets and roads. I think we chose the better path. The side roads gave us a more realistic view of Italy.

The wee Morris found its way to the Mont Blanc Tunnel. It would have been nice to go up into Switzerland, but the little Morris huffed and puffed enough as it was. We decided to go through the tunnel. Bidding 'arrivederci' to Italy- and 'bonjour' to France we were well on our way to reaching our destination.

skinny houses- 1985

Yugoslavia had skinny houses. They fascinated me. I was wondering how people fit into the thin houses...all lined up in a neat row. What should have astounded me was the fact I drove through history in a united Yugoslavia.

One of the unique experiences while driving through the nation was trying to buy eggs. How do you buy an egg when you don't know how to say it and you can't see it anywhere so you can point to it? The answer is: you use alot of body language and noises. We cluck like a chicken and acted like we were laying eggs, we waved our 'wings' up and down, and we formed our hands in a cupped fashion to signify an egg. We would not have won any prizes in charades and as a result we never got the eggs we so desired.

We saw a magnificent waterfall.

The campsites proved to be both challenging and beautiful. One particular site was nestled amongst some trees. The next morning we woke up to the sound of chainsaws cutting trees down. We peered out of the tent only to see some men heading over to us. They politely told us to leave the vicinity as soon as possible-- unless of course we wanted a tree to fall on us. Oh my!

Yugoslavia presented herself in all her beauty and she captivated us. Although we would have loved to linger a bit longer to find out more about her, we knew our journey must go on....and we crossed over into Italy.

Bashes in Bulgaria-1985

Lazy atmosphere. The whole way through we saw people sleeping at the sides of the road. It was like everyone worked in slow motion. These were not just a select few, but the majority of those we passed by were in this stupor. It gave us some food for thought.

We stopped to buy bread. It fascinated us to find the bread was round. I remember the bread well because of what happened after we purchased it. The wee Morris was bouncing along on the wrong side of the road-- it was necessary because all of Bulgaria was driving on the wrong side, the poor Morris was built to drive down British roads and thus the steering wheel was placed in a position suitable for the correct driving position. Unfortunately trying to pass vehicles became a challenge-- remember you have to pass on the left and yet you are sitting over on the right side driving.

I'm not sure exactly how it happened-- seems like we were pulling out to pass a truck-- or we were just driving along-- who knows. What I do know is the big truck slammed into the wee Morris. Crunch!! All the glorious body work which had been accomplished in New Delhi crumbled before our eyes. Stephen's heart broke. The belligerent truck driver jumped out to start a fight. It was his fault but he wasn't going to admit it. The whole thing looked like it would escalate into something very sticky with police arriving demanding our passports. Thankfully, we were able to calm everyone down and we squeezed back into the Morris....driving in silence....heavy silence for miles.


We were somewhere over Sofia when we found a campsite to stop for the night. The tension in the air was heavy. Then it was time to eat our bread.

"Where is the bread we bought?"

"Uhm, I think it was in the back seat of the car."

I rummaged around looking for it only to find a very flat item which resembled what used to be the nice round bread we bought earlier. I had been the one who was sitting in the back seat; after the crash, I accidentally sat on the bread. Sheepishly I took the bread disc and shoved it into Stephen's hands.

"Uh....I think this is the bread...or was..."

All three of us stared at the bread and I can't remember who started laughing but soon all of us were laughing. We laughed and laughed until tears streamed down our faces. It was like a great release.

I can't see round bread today without remembering Bulgaria with a smile.

Iran -1985

Iran was a bit of a blur. When we finally did get in with passports properly stamped, we were told we needed a police escort. Someone who would be IN the car with us. As it was, the 1958 Morris Minor was stuffed to the gilly wigs with three young adults and miscellaneous things. We tried to reason with the border officials.

"Where will the guard sit?"

I think they understood when they peeked into the vehicle. However, there was no choice, we needed to have a police escort. It just so happened that 'The Bus' was going through-- this was a bus tour from England to Kathmandu and back again. The bus was filled with young people who seemed to be having a great time. This bus was the answer to the dilemma-- the police escort would be on the bus and we must follow behind. Our passports were given to the police escort on the bus; this was done to make sure we stayed close to the bus. Unfortunately.......

Just outside of Tehran, I happened to be driving. I must not have been paying attention to the fuel gauge. Everyone was sound asleep-- as it was in the wee hours of the morning. There was no stopping on this trip. It was a straight through drive. The car spluttered to a stop. The bus zipped off ahead and there we were out in the middle of nowhere. Stephen managed to get a ride on a tanker to the nearest petrol kiosk....he was back shortly ...well, let's clarify shortly....remember the last time he left us alone he was gone for five days, so now a few hours was considered a short time. The car was refueled and we were on our way. The only problem was....we no longer had a police escort AND we had no passports!! There were check points to go through. My memory may not be serving me correctly but I seem to recall gunning our way through a couple of those check points.

The nerve racking part of the whole episode was knowing the Iran/Turkey border was looming ahead and we had no passports. I still don't know how we finally caught up with the bus. I vaguely remember hurtling down the roads and finally reaching the border to see the bus in a long line. We did manage to retrieve the passports and leave Iran in one piece.

With the whirlwind trip through Iran there was not much I can remember. I do remember huge sign boards- propaganda style- mainly anti- western. Also, I remember lots of people on picnics. It looked so pleasant seeing families and groups of people everywhere enjoying the outdoors. So in the midst of bombing....war....people were still able to enjoy each other. It left us with a good feeling, despite the bus leaving us stranded in the middle of Iran.

No Man's Land -1985

Taftan, Pakistan appeared to be overrun by money changers. This was the last stop before we headed over to Iran. There was so much to do at the custom's house. The carnet had to be dealt with so the car was free to leave Pakistan and enter Iran. Sigh. Everything moving so slowly with us realizing the border would close soon and we wouldn't be allowed in Iran.

Once the last "i" was dotted, we were able to cram into the Morris Minor and trundle across to Iran. We made sure we were well covered, we had been forewarnedof the need to be completely covered-- just the eyes showing through the head scarf. I think a bit of my hair was peeking out from under the scarf and a guard gruffly informed me to 'cover.' We crossed into Iran only to find immigration and custom's offices were closed. The guards wanted us to go back to Pakistan and this is where things get fuzzy. I remember sleeping somewhere in the Iranian immigration/customs compound. A guard barked at us telling us to wake up. The next thing I can remember is being informed about one of the passports not having the proper stamps so we must return to Pakistan.

"We cannot go back...the car has already come out..."

"Go back"

"The visa is in the passport, I can see it..."

"Go Back!"

I think this is where I tried to reason with the official only to be told, "SHUT UP! WOMEN DO NOT SPEAK!" uh oh.

We piled back in the Morris Minor and drove back, except we couldn't enter Pakistan with the car as it had already 'left' Pakistan. So we parked in 'no man's land' next to the Custom's House. Only one of us needed to travel back to Quetta to sort out the passport situation, but the trip needed to be made by bus. The other two would remain behind protecting the car....but who would protect us? The Morris Minor, although a friendly little car, did not have much in the way of security. Its top was made of canvas and could be taken down.

Padma and myself stood and waved good bye to Stephen as he squished himself on the bus to Quetta. How lonely we felt when we saw the bus driving away. Stephen said he would be back in 2 days, we had no idea how wrong he was.

Men...men...men...there were men everywhere! We were the only two females in the world it seemed. No cold water, and the only water was from wells which seemed to be full of salt. All I wanted was a drink of fresh cold water which didn't taste like salt. Coke appeared to be the next best thing and Padma and I shared a coke a day. The coke was hot, but when you have no choice you just take what you can get. There wasn't any food in 'no man's land' but a young boy who apparently helped cook for the custom's officers snuck by the car and tossed in some chapatis for us. We were ever so grateful. We also had a gas stove which we used to make tea.

Two days went by and still no Stephen. Two days, three days came and went with no sign of our travel partner's return. Here we were, two 24 year old females, stuck in "No man's land" with men everywhere. We did alot of praying! There was no way to contact Stephen to find out if he was dead or alive. One thought which kept us going was we knew he loved his car so we figured he would die trying to come back for it. (see No Man's Land- Part II for the rest of this story)

The waiting was not done without certain entertaining episodes. Any stray foreigner entering or leaving Pakistan found us fascinating. We collected helpful travel information such as the departure time of the train, where to find buses to Quetta and how to change money. We became unofficial 'travel guides' for those who came through.

One man came across with his young daughter, he was not allowed to drive his car further. I think there was something wrong with his travel papers- or the car's travel papers. He was desperate to go through because his wife had gone on before him and was waiting for him. He invited us to join him and his daughter for a delicious dinner of sausage. He plied us with questions about the road to Quetta. After dinner he said, "If you hear something in the middle of the night just ignore it." It seemed an odd thing for him to say, but when you are stuck in "no man's land" everything is pretty odd. In the middle of the night we heard a swooshing sound; when we peeked out the window of the Morris there was the man pushing his vehicle as quietly as possible towards the road leading to Quetta. When he was far enough away, he jumped in and started up the engine. Away he went. The next morning all hell broke lose. We played dumb. We didn't lie, but we just didn't volunteer any information. The officers called us in for questioning, but we shrugged and said we had no idea where he was going- which was true.

I will never forget Michael. He was from the UK. He was backpacking overland and arrived from Iran. He discussed the train timetables and discovered he just missed one and needed to stay overnight. One of the officers invited him for dinner and even said he could spend the night in the barracks. This arrangement pleased him and off he went waving merrily to us. At around 10 pm, we heard a frantic knocking on the car window. Peering out we saw Michael knocking and saying "Help, let me in." All the while, he is glancing over his shoulder. We swung the door open and he literally leaped in the car. No sooner had we locked the door, when a rather rotund officer fell across the windshield of the Morris and drunkenly wails, "Miiicccheeeaaaallll....I love you....Miiiiccchhheeaaallll....I need you..."

The object of the officer's affection cowered between Padma and me saying, "Save me!" Michael briefly outlined what had transpired up at the officer's barracks. The food was delicious. As the night progressed everyone began leaving to go to bed. Michael was told he would stay with this particular officer who had somehow located alcohol and was getting drunker by the moment. Michael was oblivious to the officer's intentions until he began to get ready for bed. At that point, the officer made it crystal clear what he was wanting and poor Michael fled for his life. How he thought two young women could save him, I'll never know, but I supposed we were his only hope.

It was disconcerting to have the officer come up on all sides of the car and rant and rave. He even tried to push his hand down through the top of the car. When he tried that I was furious. How dare he come and violate our privacy. Maybe it was the lack of sleep which made me lose all sense of reason, or maybe it was my 'mother hen' instinct, whatever it was I leaped out of the car and yelled, "Stop this right now. You leave Michael alone and go away!" The officer towered over me but he crumpled at my words and apologetically backed away blubbering of his love for Michael.

When I crawled back into the car, I was trembling and of course the other two gave a couple of cheers and then we decided each of us would take a turn staying awake while the other two got some sleep. This system worked well until there was another knock on our window at 5 am. This time it was not the love struck officer, but Steven who had made it back from Quetta after 5 days. He was curious as to why a British chap was huddled up with us in the car....how had he been replaced after only five days of being away...we quickly assured him he was irreplaceable and then we told him the whole story. He had his own story to tell about his delay. His tale included long bus rides, Muslim holidays and government offices being closed. We were just happy he was back and we could continue on our journey.

Islamabad, Pakistan- 1985

It all is a bit fuzzy now; after all, it has been 23 years since I was there. The flight from Delhi to Islamabad was of no consequence. Actually, I was supposed to be driving across the border but due to the 'rough' relations between the two countries only one person was allowed to drive across- so I flew over to meet the car in Islamabad. The car was supposed to be there when I arrived, but there was no car. So I'm in a city I've never been in before and I have no phone number or address. Stranded in this city which although just a country away from India appeared so different. The one striking difference was the lack of females. (This would be something I would never get used to as I drove further into Pakistan).



The friendliness of the people sure did help to make my introduction to Pakistan be a positive one. A talkative taxi driver wanted to know if we were the ones waiting for the White Morris Minor. It could be a coincidence since there were so many Morris Minors around, so I pushed him to describe the driver. His description was perfect. My friend and I plunked ourselves down on the side of the road and waited. We waited and waited and waited. Soon the cheerful Morris Minor chugged up the road to where we were. Now the trip of a lifetime was to begin.

I saw a picture on another blog which brought back such memories. The picture was of a huge sign post telling the drivers how many miles there were to go to say...Islamabad...or Pershawa...etc. I just remember when we were driving those same roads there were very few signs- and we had to find out directions the hard way-- by stopping and asking with cross cultural, improvised sign language of course.