By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
My headscarf is constantly slipping off my head, the bus is swaying and words of my mom are repeating in my mind to its beat: “Please, come back, I beg you, return the ticket”. It was the third day of my stay in Islamic Republic of Iran and the second day after the anti-governmental protests swept the country when Iranian political leaders tripled gas prices. As protests took the streets of major cities, Ayatollah decided to block the Internet. 80 million of population left cut off the rest world, so was I. My friends and family were worried sick, unable to reach me. There was nothing left for them to do but to watch the aggressive agenda of TV-channels to monitor the situation. My mom’s voice in my head is interrupted by a two-thousand-yard stare of a soldier. He is looking at me from a faded poster, one of those at the entrance to any Iranian city. They are photos of shahids, young men and sometimes women who died during the Iran-Iraq war. They serve as sad and silent reminders of what had happened to this once rich and incredibly beautiful country after the Islamic Revolution. The bus driver, Capitan Ali, as he prefers to be called, drops me off at the coach station in Kashan. There I’m waiting for a taxi in growing frustration pondering whether I have it in me to carry on with this journey. This is my first solo trip and I planned to travel across the country for the next two weeks. But that was before the political situation in the country heated up and the government started to use force against the protestants. But my taxi is finally here, ready to take me to a guesthouse. There an exquisitely beautiful girl with mischievous silver strands in her hair and charming gap in her teeth greets me warmly. She draws a map on the small piece of paper and tells me about local sights, one of which sounds especially promising. It’s Steve house, a museum of Steve McCurry, who has always been one of my biggest inspirations. A few hours later, my paper “google map” is already wet because of the rain, my heart is on the edge of attack each time I have to cross the road since there is no traffic laws in this Country. The Museum is still not found. Should I give up and come back? I definitely should. And then once again my thoughts are interrupted, this time by a young boy who kindly offers his help. Fortunately, he has an offline translator and we start looking for Steve’s house, asking every shopkeeper for directions. However, they only shrug. We wander until we meet two young men, the owners of a small café. They join us in our small expedition and our quartet enters yet another souvenir shop to ask about the museum. There two men are eating tangerines, relaxed and content. While they are chatting to my fellows in Farsi, I’m staring at a colorful plate thinking about my further actions. It is getting late and I am utterly exhausted. Then something happens that I guess can only happen in Iran. One of the tangerine men calls the museum keeper asking to postpone the closing for me. My new mates kindly offer to drive me there. And finally, here we are, enjoying McCurry’s works of art together. One hour later I’m safe and sound standing in front of my guesthouse door. Its owners have already lit a fire in the courtyard, the sunny Narges and her husband Amir invite me to join them at the fireplace and we spend the next few lovely hours talking and laughing. The moment of relief came when my head finally touched the pillow. I nuzzled into my jacket, which smelled like bonfire, and decided to continue my trip. I knew that everything is going to be ok. But actually, I was wrong. It was better than just ok, it turned out to be a trip of a lifetime.