We bump at 15mph along the stony road, a brown cliff rising steeply to our left, the great roiling mass of the Oxus (now called the Panj) following to our right.

The river’s turbulent slate-grey waters move in the opposite direction from us, and far more swiftly than we can.   We are in Tajikistan. If my pitching arm were any good, I could say we were a stone’s throw away from Afghanistan, which claims the other bank of the Oxus for its own.
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Thank goodness the second Turkman agency facilitator is with us, in what I’ve taken to calling our “guidemobile.” I expect a long palaver to ensue, with police, and forms, much gesticulating, growling, headshaking and frowning of black eyebrows. Not so. The agency makes it all go away, assuring the offended party that they will handle things. In return for this, we part with $400, a moderate sum considering the damage done by Brunhilde (I want to make clear this was all her doing…).

Off we go through town, where I spy a huge poster that seems to advertise horse racing. My brain, still in shock from all the dazzling whiteness clicks into gear, connecting that poster with the name of our hotel’s restaurant: Akhal Teke. I have seen a photo of this legendary horse, with a caption that it was a Russian breed. It dawns on me that back then, Turkmenistan was part of the USSR, so no one cared that it was actually a Turkman horse. Now it’s been claimed by its rightful breeders and they are bursting with pride over it.
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In which we leave Iran more easily than we entered and thankfully discard our headscarfs. I have a love-hate relationship with my headscarf: first day it’s a novelty that amuses me; second day it’s a nuisance, slipping off my head and keeping me too hot; third day I’ve figured out how to get it to stay in place by means of a bun, and thus am proud of myself,; fourth day I’m so hot and bothered it resides at the far back of my head, exposing most of my hair, as done by the chic Iranian teenagers; fifth day I don it with resignation as it’s now simply a part of my wardrobe. At the border I take it off and shake myself with relief.
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Oh so many kilometers have been driven since my last dispatch from Mashhad. I’m in Samarkand, Uzbekistan now, having left Iran, entered Turkmenistan, crossed Turkmenistan, left Turkmenistan, entered Uzbekistan and crossed most of Uzbekistan, too.

Following: a scene from Mashhad, Iran, in which we visit the Imam Reza shrine, mausoleum to the 8th Shiite Imam, who died a martyr 1300 years ago. To get into the inner sanctum of this immense marble and mosaic mausoleum, we had to wear chadors. No worries. They are available for loan at the security checkpoint before entering the shrine. Mine is a simple white and blue print piece of cloth., which is neither long enough nor wide enough to full envelope me. I don’t feel it does justice to the need to cover my entire body and head. On the other hand, since it’s been officially issued by a Muslim, who am I to say?
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Now, as for that quylan, otherwise known as a narghile. Or for children of the 60s, perhaps waterpipe or hookah will ring a bell. We were in Tehran, eager for something to eat after a long, tiring day’s drive on the fabulous but admittedly monotonous superhighway from Tabriz. Wonderful, soulful music emanated from our hotel’s old-style tearoom, so we went in there.

What we found was a darkish room, wood tables with blue and green tiled tops. Banquets lined with stiff cushions and stiffer bolsters, all covered in a prickly carpet-type fabric. Three men played traditional instruments, singing ballads with much gesturing of hands and wagging of heads. It seemed just the place.

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