Ticket to Ride

by Tom Chesshyre

  We take in our surroundings. It is, we have to agree in all honesty, a fairly standard subway – a whitewashed tube of space. Nothing special. But then the train arrives and we slide away along the new 'iron silk road', with all those ships, ferries and fish above us, heading east beneath the famous, historically important sea. It is a decidedly odd sensation. What would the sultans have thought of this? Are we safe? (Some have suggested that not enough checks have been made for the tunnel's resistance to earthquakes.) Might there one day be a truly oriental express, all the way to the capital of China and beyond?

  In this manner – doing 'train things' – we pass our time in Istanbul.

  A very low profile… and meeting the Russians

  Istanbul to Van, via Cappadocia and Nemrut

  Some may consider rail enthusiasm to be a British phenomenon – a legacy of the days of steam trains across the English countryside before Dr Beeching's infamous 1960s cuts. This, as I have been finding, is wide of the mark. Our chartered train journey from Istanbul to Tehran has been arranged by the German tour operator Lernidee and the vast majority of the 65 passengers are Germans interested in trains; although there are two British couples, plus an Austrian and Swiss train lover or two, and a Russian oligarch with his wife.

  I am soon to get to know quite a few of them.

  We meet at Haydarpaşa Terminal, which was first built in 1872 and then redesigned in its current form in 1909. From a distance, it looks a bit like a German castle, sturdy with turrets, high windows and neoclassical columns; just as at Sirkeci, the architects were German. It is positioned beside the Bosphorus, with an old steam train painted in black and red sitting in the forecourt: cue a flurry of photos.

  Haydarpaşa makes a grand departure point. The empty ticket hall is ornate with frescoes of flowers and urns, marble panels, shiny lamps and original brass clocks. No other passengers are about as the station has been closed to all but a handful of suburban trains, as well as special services such as ours; there are rumours that the building may be converted into a hotel. A crazy little cafe sits to one side; ruby-red walls covered in blackand-white pictures of old matinee stars, with a photograph of Salvador Dalí adding to the eclectic mix, plus a profile of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk above the cashier's booth.

  I would have liked to have spent more time here but we are ushered onwards by Lernidee guides to watch pipers, drummers and dancers perform a jolly jig on the platform. Then we board our train, which has been named 1,001 Nights, although the trip is in fact just 11 nights, with seven spent on board and four at 'first-class hotels'. After five nights in Turkey we are to cross into Iran, to go on holiday for a week in George W. Bush's infamous 'axis of evil'.

  Passengers have paid handsomely for this experience – about £5,000. I will put my hands up here and admit that I have been commissioned by a newspaper to write an article about the experience; on this basis, I am travelling free of charge. This, however, has put me in a quandary as journalists have been known to be arrested in Iran after mistakenly being accused of espionage. So I have decided to travel as a tourist who works in the hospitality industry – if anyone asks, as a 'freelance brochure writer'.

  This whole scenario has made me nervous, so I have made up my mind not to interview passengers on the trip or to appear to be a journalist. I'll stick to the brochure-writing line. I don't want fellow travellers talking about the British journalist on board when we are in Iran. That said – and making the situation more complicated – there is a German reporter on our train who has declared on his Iranian visa application that he works for a paper. However, he has said that although he is a journalist, he is a journalist on holiday, and therefore not officially planning to write anything. To make matters even trickier, this German knows that there is another hack on board – just as I know that he is here. He has, somehow, got wind that I am with the group.

  He is a tall man wearing black, with a long grey ponytail, and one of the few passengers travelling alone. I clock him, and he clocks me, within a few moments of arriving at Haydarpaşa. For me, he is particularly easy to spot as he is taking notes. He hangs back slightly from the crowd and nods in a knowing way in my direction. I go over, we introduce ourselves out of earshot of others – and I ask him if he can keep quiet about my presence. He kindly agrees.

  In short, my aim is to keep a very low profile indeed, take lots of pictures like a good tourist and not go about asking too many questions. I have to admit I'm more than a bit concerned. Before going, a colleague with many years experience of overseas reporting, and who sits opposite me in the features department of my newspaper, asked how I was planning to explain myself should I be interrogated in Iran. He also pointed out that, a few weeks earlier, three journalists had been arrested and held in the country; an Iranian–American freelance journalist, the Tehran correspondent for The Washington Post, and a correspondent for the UAE-based newspaper The National. I knew about this and also that there were 35 journalists in prison in Iran at the time I set off (a figure that comes from the Committee to Protect Journalists).

  But I am just going on a train ride, not covering anything political. And I've decided to be very careful not to take pictures of anything that might vaguely be considered sensitive – just the tourist sights. Any notes will be written in private in my cabin or hotel room in the form of a diary in longhand, so they do not appear suspicious. No shorthand squiggles, just sunny morning, scrambled eggs for breakfast with more interesting bits interspersed in a matter-of-fact way. I'll keep this notebook with me at all times.

  Yes, tensions between Iran and the West have thawed of late, but there is no point in taking chances. This is especially so as there is, at the time of my visit, no British embassy in Iran. The last one closed after being stormed by anti-Western protesters in 2011. Members of staff were seized (though swiftly released), the offices ransacked and the British flag replaced with an Iranian one. While doing so, protesters chanted: 'Death to America! Death to England! Death to Israel!'

  So this train ride has, for me, a few layers of consideration. I do not want to end up a news story: number 36 on the list of hacks counting their days in an Iranian cell.

  Yes, I enjoy a train journey, but not that much.

  The locomotive of the 1,001 Nights is a DE22000 made in Turkey in the 1980s under the licence of General Motors (as I am sure you will be interested to know). The 'DE' stands for dieselelectric, which means that it can be powered by either form of power, as I understand it. The railway carriages, of which there are eight including two dining carriages and one for staff, were built in 2000 for Turkish State Railways, Türkiye Cumhuriyeti Devlet Demiryollari. They are white with red-and-blue stripes. Symbols shaped like an eagle surrounded by a crescent moon with the letters TCDD stamped beneath are to be found here and there. The train runs on standard-gauge tracks. Its top speed in Turkey is 80 kmph.

  I am reliably informed of the engine and carriage details by the Lernidee representative Frank Niggemann. He has a quiff and a calm manner, though there are usually a few beads of sweat on his forehead (the demands of 65 rail enthusiasts travelling from Istanbul to Tehran can be many and varied). He tells me that he has always had a thing about trains, and that he used to 'skip boring law lessons on Wednesday afternoons to go to work at a steamtrain company, putting letters in the post'. He says that the founder of Lernidee offered trips on the Trans-Siberian Railway during the Cold War, with on-board Russian lessons thrown in. One time, when Frank was in the US, he was wearing a name badge while on a train and a black passenger came up to him and said: 'I never seen a nigger-man who look like you.' In fact his name is pronounced 'neeg-man'. Frank has a good laugh remembering his American trip. As I have been finding, people soon open up on trains.

  My cabin has a turquoise seat that converts to a bed on one side and a cabinet with a pull-out desk and a fridge on the other. A few plastic hangers are on a coat hook on the wall. There's a beige curtain, a beige carpet and a simple sink; a shower room is at one
end of the carriage. The style is utilitarian, nothing fancy. Despite the price tag, 1,001 Nights is not for luxury lovers or those after an Orient-Express-style affair.

  Group dynamics on long-distance trains are interesting to observe, I am soon to realise – but it is more or less impossible, in turn, not to be observed yourself.

  Pretending to be somebody you are not – in my case, a freelance brochure writer – is rather tricky. Not speaking German, and therefore not being able to communicate with many of the passengers, is a bonus in this regard.

  Yet talk you must – sociability is de rigueur on German railenthusiast trips – and I enjoy getting to know my new companions. As we travel through the night in the direction of Ankara, I'm soon meeting a cast of characters.

  My favourites are the Russians: Boris and Maria. Boris is in his fifties, looks a little like Goldfinger (as played by the actor Gert Fröbe). He has a penchant for bright shirts, while Maria has a perma-smile and is softly spoken, with an almost angelic voice. She also likes bright, designer shirts, and – like Boris – is on the plump side. Boris is usually on his mobile phone, handling business calls. He carries an iPad, which is frequently used to establish facts, such as the scores in Premier League matches or the price of caviar in Iran compared to Moscow. Using the iPad, he is also reading the story of the travels of Marco Polo.

  The Russians are brash, good-humoured and stick out – which annoys some of the Germans, one of whom describes them to me as 'filthy rich', while glaring down the dining carriage in their direction. There is a fair bit of name-calling and rubbing up the wrong way.

  'I can't stand that Swiss bitch,' mutters a British woman. She also describes one of the guides as 'faceless… it's an insecurity thing'.

  Another of the Brits seems to enjoy giving waiters a hard time in a loud cut-glass accent: 'Coo-hoo! Coo-hoo! Hell-loo! Hell-loo!' Extra bread or another drink is quickly fetched.

  Meanwhile, one of the German couples is soon, as we move eastwards, reduced to a red-faced rage about the standard of the cabins and, later, hotel rooms: 'First-class hotel! First class! I do not think so!' They also dislike the train food: 'Awful!' After I comment that a local guide is particularly interesting, they say, 'They are paid to do that! We pay them!' And they become so angered about something to do with the Russians that they simply refuse to acknowledge them, despite being in the same daily tour group.

  Agatha Christie would have had a field day.

  The Russians are certainly well-to-do. Shortly after meeting Boris, he shows me a picture of a football stadium in Moscow. 'I built that stand,' he says as his phone rings, as it always seems to, and he rattles off some instructions.

  'Business is business,' says Maria.

  Boris, it transpires, is head of a construction company building a 2,000-home town near Moscow. In order to oversee work while away – he and Maria often take holidays and own a house in Majorca – he has installed dozens of webcams so he can keep an eye on what is going on at any time.

  'He trusts no one,' says Maria.

  They are just back from a deep-sea fishing trip in Cape Verde, where Boris caught a 98 kg tuna, and where he and Maria visited the grave of their favourite singer, Cesária Évora. One of their party reeled in a 350 kg fish.

  'It was like a small car!' says Boris, who is from Kyrgyzstan. He joined the army at 17 and became a major. 'But then perestroika happened and officers were very badly paid'. So he started a welding business and rose – somehow – to where he is today. As well as the small town that he is building, Boris has a transport company with 120 vehicles, eight storage centres (with ceilings rising to 22 metres), two plastic-making factories, a chain of pizzerias in Moscow and two Bavarian-style restaurants: 'Big beers! German food! Oktoberfest!' Their vehicles consist of Jaguars (two), a convertible Mercedes, a Range Rover, a JMC pick-up truck and a Lada (for staff). Their house in Moscow has a pool and a steam room. It is also full of souvenirs gathered from around the world.

  'Like a little museum,' says Maria.

  Western sanctions against Russia have led to contrasting outcomes for Boris's businesses. The storage centres have done well, as those who cannot sell goods have to put them somewhere.

  'Thank you, Mr Obama!' says Boris.

  People are also wary of depositing money in Russian banks as 'international back-up has been withdrawn'. The result is that people are investing in property.

  'Thank you, Mr Obama!' he says again.

  Sales from his plastics factory near Moscow have, however, been badly hit. When I ask where he thinks the Russian economy will go from here, Boris replies, 'It's either red or black: roulette!'

  Boris would like to retire soon and live in Majorca so he can 'smoke cigars and drink cognac'. It is cheap in Majorca, he says: 'Fifteen yur-oos for a meal.' They would also like to go travelling more. He holds out his enormous arms and imitates a plane.

  When I offer to pay for coffees at one of our stop-offs, Boris looks at me carefully. I've kept up my pretence of being a brochure writer.

  'Riiii-ch! Riiii-ch! I know you are very riiii-ch, Tom!'

  He assesses me with his swimming-pool-blue eyes, grins and lets me pick up the tab.

  Our passage across Turkey delivers many tourist wonders. Beyond the enormous concrete conurbation of Ankara, the landscape turns steadily orange: arid, inhospitable countryside populated by shrubs and stones. We stop at a small, dusty station and are taken by minibus to see the extraordinary rock formations of Cappadocia. We visit churches built into tapering, towering rocks that look like fairy chimneys, dating from the ninth–eleventh centuries, at Göreme; enter underground towns with tunnels designed so heavy stones could be rolled into place to block marauding invaders; and marvel at the spectacular castle on a 60-metre pyramid-like peak at Uchisar.

  We stay overnight in a 'cave hotel' in the village of Ürgüp. Our comfortable rooms are built into the side of a rocky outcrop, close to a series of Cappadocian winemakers' stores. At dinner, Boris and Maria, who have made friends with an Austrian couple, a retired aluminium magnate and a retired engineer for an atomicenergy company, buy the most expensive bottles of wine. The Russians and the obviously wealthy Austrians – all designer clothing in bright colours, which seems to be the 'look' for wellto-do rail enthusiasts on this trip – get on like a house on fire. The Germans simmer furiously.

  We return to the train and roll onwards. Melon fields, walnut groves and vineyards come and go. The scenery turns mountainous and rugged. Sheer cliffs plunge into deep valleys as we weave through jet-black tunnels. We pause for a picnic by a viaduct built by Germans in the late nineteenth century – part of the old Baghdad Railway, eventually completed in the 1940s, linking Berlin to Baghdad, and used as a set in the James Bond film Skyfall. It is partly because of this German history that Lernidee arranged the 1,001 Nights train trip.

  Here, one of the Swiss men opens up about his fondness for trains. Hans Peter is a retired Nescafé employee. He has bushy eyebrows and kindly blue eyes that take on a dreamy character when he talks about trains. 'The sound of a steam train is like a concerto by Vivaldi or perhaps Rachmaninoff,' he says, after a couple of glasses of Cappadocian wine. 'I am always happy on a train.' He leans forward, as though letting me in on a secret. 'Most of the men here have an interest in trains.'

  As he says this, there is a buzzing sound from the tracks. 'A train! A train!' says Hans Peter. He rushes off to take a picture.

  His wife Frieda, an Australian, looks at me and says, 'He's always like this.'

  Hans Peter returns. 'The funny thing is, I have thousands of pictures but I never look at them. It's like a woman with handbags. You know, I do listen to steam trains sometimes – on YouTube. If I feel as though I need a boost, I'll do that. If my wife comes in and sees me, she thinks I'm crazy. Sometimes, though, she'll put on the sound of a steam train for me – that's usually when she wants something.'

  'And it works,' says Frieda.

  After the picnic, we career through
dark, empty land, pausing in the morning to drive to see the magnificent stone heads adorning the temple and mountaintop tomb of King Antiochus I at Nemrut (69–34 BC), a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

  As we are walking down the steep path from the summit, Boris is reminded of a time when he climbed Mount Ararat. 'Somebody had written Brezhnev is an idiot on a big sign at the top,' he says.

  He roars with laughter at this, causing the angry German couple to shoot him dirty looks.

  I ask Boris what he thinks of Russia's current president, Vladimir Putin. 'Let me just say that people do not like Gorbachev as he broke up the Soviet Union. He's very unpopular. Putin is liked for being strong.' Boris clenches a fist. 'Strong and he ends the war in Ukraine.'

  Given that the 'war'/trouble is ongoing, I'm not entirely sure what he's trying to say, though I keep my thoughts to myself. The subject switches to his daughter, who works for a web-design company in California. Boris pulls out his iPad as we stroll along and shows me a picture. She's turning round, looking flirtatious and wearing tight jeans.

  'Nice, huh!' he says – and puts the iPad away.

  Nemrut is a pit stop to remember, and so is the next day.