Lois Pryce - Revolutionary Ride: On the Road in Search of the Real Iran

T HE TAXI DRIVER spoke no English but his intentions were clear from his hand gesture. Two fingers. Two minutes. OK!

We were making an unscheduled detour on the standard run from Tehran airport into the city centre. I had no idea why we had stopped but he had ducked down a side street and now he was out of the car, disappearing at a light jog down the road. The familiar raucous jostle of south Tehran swarmed all around, the morning air already thick with dust and exhaust fumes in the summer fug. It was going to be a hot one. The driver had vanished from view. I guessed he had an errand to run, some other sideline, a typical Tehrani, on the hustle, running two jobs. I wound down the window, breathing in, tasting the familiar tang, letting the noise rush in from the street. I was in no hurry. Then he came into sight in the wing mirror, bounding back towards the car, youthful, eager, long-legged. He seemed to be carrying something in each hand. His face appeared at the window, smiling. No words, just an ice cream cone thrust into my grip, huge sticky swirls, laden with chocolate sauce and sprinkles, already melting in the morning sun. He jumped into the drivers seat, and we were off again, slipping back into the throng. It was good to be back in Iran.

I returned to Iran the following spring after my first trip. All I had to do was dust off the bike; it started right away and I picked up where I had left off, exploring new territory but also returning to favourite haunts and visiting some of the friends I had made the first time. Not many months had passed since then, and the mood on the street was much the same as it had been the previous autumn. Negotiations over the nuclear deal were rumbling on but looking hopeful, and while there were all the usual complaints about the regime, there was still a sense of optimism in the air. I had managed to get a visa without any trouble this time, and I hoped that maybe it was true what they said, that Iran was opening up to the world.

But then, halfway through my trip, I received news from home that things had changed, at least for me. British citizens would no longer be allowed to travel independently in Iran. From now on they could only enter the country as part of an organised tour group or if accompanied by a government-approved guide. I was in a caf in Tehran when I received the news and I surveyed my surroundings with fresh eyes, aware that every remaining moment was to be savoured now. I had been very fortunate, one of the last few Brits to have entered Iran unaccompanied, able to roam freely under my own steam. This new ruling seemed to have come out of nowhere, although there were mutterings that it was in response to a comment made by David Cameron at the UN criticising Irans human rights record; yet another point scored in our tradition of tit-for-tat diplomacy. I kept my head down for the last few weeks of that journey and sent my bike back home by Iran Air Cargo. The era of independent overland travel in Iran was over for the foreseeable future.

My guess back then, in April 2014, was that this new rule would soon be reversed. Iran has a history of inventing peculiar restrictions to its visa policies on a whim, and I guessed this would all blow over soon enough. I hoped so I had big plans for future Iranian adventures. So, in a replay of my first trip, I waited and watched. But nothing budged. The consulates in London and Tehran remained closed and the travel restrictions stayed firmly in place.

Then, in July 2015, after years of tortuous negotiations, and amid much clamour and celebration, the deal on Irans nuclear programme was approved. Twelve years of international sanctions were lifted and the Iranians took to the streets in their thousands to celebrate. In Tehran they cruised up and down Valiasr Street, honking their horns, waving V for victory signals out of their windows; there was even dancing in the street. The morality police turned a blind eye for a night.

Back home the Foreign Office changed its travel advice for Iran, swapping no-go red for go for it green and suddenly you couldnt move for broadsheet travel features gushing about the ancient treasures of Persia. Iran was suddenly safe, although the reality was that nothing on the ground had changed at all; to the visitor, Iran was just as safe or unsafe as it had been a week earlier. And upon closer examination, these newspaper articles were nothing but thinly disguised adverts for tour companies, whose bookings were going through the roof because, despite all the opening up of Iran, British citizens could not get in without joining one of their authorised excursions. The embassies quietly reopened but the consulates that issue visas remained firmly closed. Everything had changed but nothing had changed.

I continued to wait and watch. I wondered what Habib was making of all this. Was he still writing imploring notes to strangers? Was he happy how things had turned out? Most of the Iranians, both at home and abroad, appeared pleased; a great new dawn of opportunity awaited their land, they believed. Only a few of the old hardliners protested, comparing the nuclear deal to Khomeinis famous drinking of the poisoned chalice truce that ended the IranIraq War. I thought of the petrol-pumping psychology student I had met on my first journey Our countries are going to be friends! and of Raha, the glamorous luxury brand management queen with a penchant for Stoli, who had decided to stay and carve her career in her home country. I hoped their dreams and ambitions were coming to fruition.

So I kept an eye on the situation, and not just on what was happening in Iran but also here at home. There was a shift in mood and I noticed a new response to talk of visiting Iran. Less of What dyou wanna go there for? and more, Oh, how fascinating! There was a new flurry of broadsheet stories, now focussing on Irans underground scenes the music, the parties, the drugs. The underlying message being, Look, theyre just like us! They want to have fun too! But in Iran the fun continued to reap the same reactions as usual the arrests, jail terms and lashings continued. Executions for drug offences were at their highest level ever.

Still, the consulates remained closed and the visa restrictions didnt change or at least, not for Brits. In the wake of the lifting of the sanctions, citizens of every other European nation were now allowed a visa on arrival but the UK remained out in the cold. But in the summer of 2016 I managed to find a way to wangle my way back in. Travelling with my husband Austin this time, we flew into Iman Khomeini Airport, or Tehran International Airport as the pilot preferred to call it when he announced our arrival in English. I noticed its official title was used in the Persian announcement that followed.

We were greeted by a looming Khomeini and Khamenei, of course, frowning over the baggage carousel as if they were looking out for their missing suitcases. But the immigration guards were cheerful and at the bureau de change the teller waxed lyrical about his long ago university degree in English literature, quoting a few lines of Milton as he counted out our millions. Your English pounds are so much nicer than our money, he added.

I agreed that the rials multitude of zeroes made my head spin.

No, I mean your notes dont have pictures of an idiot mullah on them! he said with a grin, loading me up with the familiar pastel-shaded wads of cash. Half an hour later we were shunting and weaving our way up Valiasr Street, ice cream and chocolate sauce melting all over our hands. I realised I had missed this place, these people.

Unable to bring our motorcycles into the country, we hired a car for our road trip this time. Surveying our dented, scratched and bird-shit-splattered Hyundai saloon, we suspected we were at the vanguard of Iranian car rental. It came with a Quran in the glove compartment and a hire agreement that began with the line, In The Name of God . As I peeled out into the familiar highway madness, there was a sense of joyous, if slightly hysterical, abandonment about being back on the road in Iran. The two of us with our scrappy motor and no idea what was going to happen next, a Persian version of the Blues Brothers scene theres 106 miles to Qom, weve got a full tank of benzin , half a pack of pistachios, its sunny out, and Im wearing a hijab. Bezan berim!