Ticket to Ride

by Tom Chesshyre

  I take the hint and leave them in peace, heading out into the darkened city, wondering whether it's the best idea to stroll about in the night in an Islamic state where 20 per cent of the population is not so keen on Westerners. I find a cafe selling 'hen and rice' and eat on my own while reading a copy of the English-language Tehran Times, picked up in the hotel lobby. The front-page headline reads: ROUHANI [the President of Iran] CALLS BRITISH PM'S REMARKS 'INAPPROPRIATE AND UNACCEPTABLE'. The report is critical of David Cameron's comments that touch on the country's support for terrorist organisations, its nuclear programme, [and] its treatment of its people.

  It is, of course, hard to visit Iran and not think about those imprisoned for speaking out against the regime or acting in a manner considered inappropriate by officials. Amnesty International keeps long files on the country's many prisoners of conscience. At the time of my visit, one of the most infamous is a 26-year-old British–Iranian woman, Ghoncheh Ghavami, held in solitary confinement for mingling with men while watching a volleyball match. She is, ridiculously, accused of 'propaganda against the regime', though she is eventually released, after several months, following worldwide criticism.

  Equally ridiculously, a group of six young Iranians who posted an online video of themselves singing the Pharrell Williams song 'Happy' has been given suspended sentences of up to a year's imprisonment and 91 lashes for producing the 'vulgar' film. If they are found guilty of another 'crime' in the next three years, they will have to serve their sentences. Commenting on the affair, Williams tweeted: 'It is beyond sad that these kids were arrested for trying to spread happiness.'

  In Isfahan itself, there have been vicious acid attacks on local women deemed not to be adhering to the country's dress code. As many as 25 people have been targeted in the awful assaults blamed on religious zealots. A handful of arrests has been made but fear has spread and many women dare not go outside. President Hassan Rouhani stepped in to say, 'The women of Iran are pious and know how to dress. A few people should not assume they are the only moral compass in the country.'

  I go back to the hotel, where television reports are covering 'Zionist plans to close the Gaza Strip and West Bank as Palestinians prepare to celebrate Eid' in between bursts of rousing marching music and pictures of the Ayatollah.

  Iran is, without question, the most complicated country so far on these train adventures.

  The 1,001 Nights train rolls south. We have by now settled into the routines of meals and cups of coffee and tea as we pass through the parched countryside. Soldiers at empty stations eye us with a mixture of wonder and suspicion; their looks seem to ask: who are these mad Germans? There do not appear to be many other trains; not many people move along the tracks in Iran. There's a sense of being alone in a dry, inhospitable land, with rugged mountains with jagged peaks often rising in the distance. The soil is tinted pink and the sky is a delicate pale blue. Heat mirages wobble on the horizon. Occasionally we pass rows of trees that look as though they bear nuts. We see little other cultivation.

  In the dining carriage, I befriend an unusual elderly Austrian named Bali Fra Ludwig Hoffmann von Rumerstein. He holds the title of Gran Commendatore del S. M. Ordine di Malta, an order of knights with connections to the Vatican. I am not making this up. He is the Grand Commander of the Professed Knights and of the Knights and Dames in Obedience, with the responsibility of spreading the faith of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. I know all of this as he presents me with his card, which is embossed with a Maltese cross. He is travelling alone, and has been on the Trans-Siberian Railway, 'through the Channel Tunnel', and on the luxury Blue Train in southern Africa: 'That was the best. I had a bathtub in my cabin. So I could have a soak and watch the world go by.'

  The gran commendatore and I drink coffee and talk trains for a while. Having been on quite a few of late, I now have tales to trade. Rail enthusiasm seems to create a natural camaraderie. The gran commendatore becomes my Iranian train buddy (along with the Russians, of course).

  We are taken to sights that few tourists ever get to see, including the archaeological highlights of Pasargadae and Persepolis, homes respectively to Cyrus the Great and Darius the Great, dating from around 520 BC. The rows of soldiers carved in the stone walls of the palace of Darius (visited by Alexander the Great), with their amazingly preserved curly beards and beady eyes, are one of the wonders of the ancient world. Graffiti from recent centuries has been protected for its historical interest. Perhaps the most eye-catching is by a well-known hand: Stanley: NEW YORK HERALD 1870. This was scrawled the summer before Henry Morton Stanley discovered David Livingstone in Africa.

  We go to see the ruins of the palace of Cyrus the Great and his tomb. Outside the entrance, a few hundred yards from the tomb, a sign says: The world should know that all Iran and Muslims' problems are due to the politics of aliens. Of the USA, Muslims generally hate Allies and specially hate the USA. Not the friendliest of hearty welcomes for the honourable tourists here. The tomb itself is step-shaped with sand-coloured stone, rising almost enigmatically from a shrub-land with an escarpment on one side upon which Cyrus's soldiers would keep a watch on enemy movements. It's hard to believe that this and the somewhat scrappy remaining parts of his palace – including columns and old irrigation channels from bathing rooms – have survived more than 2,600 years.

  Then we head further south. The city of Shiraz is without its famous wine (as far as we can see, although some locals suggest it is easily possible to source other forms of alcohol). The wine from the region became famous in the seventeenth century, when it was exported to Europe; now any vineyards that remain are harvested for table grapes, many of which are dried into raisins. We visit the peaceful tomb of the Persian poet Hāfez, with its lush garden and fountain, attend a Persian poetry-reading evening, enjoy the mosques and check out the city's charming, intricate bazaar. At the poetry evening in the lobby of our hotel, just a handful of the 65 train lovers turn up.

  The Brit who enjoys cooing at waiters says, 'I don't see many of the Germans, do you? It's rare to see people who are interested and cultivated around here.' She looks over at a tall German man passing towards the lifts. 'Arrogant!' she comments. Then she gazes towards one of the guides, who is waiting by reception in case anyone has any questions. 'She doesn't know how to communicate,' she says.

  Who'd have thought that a week on a train could generate so much back-stabbing, so many divisions? I have only touched on a tiny fraction of the snipes, comments and icy, dagger-like looks. To summarise, simplifying somewhat, and leaving me out of it: some of the Germans don't like the Russians; the Russians like the Austrians; the Austrians, in turn, like the Russians; some of the Germans don't like some of the Brits; the Brits don't particularly like anyone; and the Swiss and the Australians keep themselves to themselves.

  If you don't get sucked into all the infighting of a train full of Germans, Austrians, Russians, Brits, Swiss and Australians, Shiraz and Isfahan seem like laid-back cities, though it's patently obvious that plenty does go on beneath the veneer of calm (much of it very unpleasant).

  0.0 per cent beers

  Tehran

  Before we know it, we are hurtling back through the night to Tehran, passing desert and darkened nut-tree groves. Beyond apartment blocks, we arrive in the capital at 06:30, where officers in jackboots stare into the carriage and indicate that some of the German women need to wear their headscarves (they'd forgotten). We collect our luggage and part from our red, white and blue train. Some of the windows of the galley on the dining car are still cracked from the hurled stones in Van. We tip the staff – who have put up with us marvellously – and go to see the Treasury of National Jewels.

  At the jewellery museum it is against the rules to take anything inside, so for the first time within Iran, I am parted from my camera and notebook. This makes for a nervous tour.

  As we are shown the world's largest pink diamond, among many other prized possessions of former shahs, the fear factor of visiting I
ran as an incognito journalist suddenly returns. What if a security services official pokes about and finds a 'suspicious' notebook, along with potentially troublesome pictures in my camera? Who knows what I may have captured by mistake over the past week? Might I be accused of espionage on my final day? If I'm 'discovered' and questioned, will the German journalist be asked about me? (I've managed to keep him at arm's length over the past few days.)

  But both notebook and camera appear untouched when I return to our coach. I was probably just being paranoid.

  We visit Golestan Palace, where we admire the fine white-marble thrones and intricate painting, and where another official notice says: Do you, Jewish religious leaders, enjoin right conduct and piety on the people.

  What on earth is that meant to mean? It's a garbled message, but it's been a fascinating trip. We're 2,700 miles of track from Istanbul and we've travelled through a region in turmoil – Syria is not so far away, slowly imploding, while the neighbouring countries of Iraq and Afghanistan are well and truly imploded. Yet we have been tourists on a train, charging through an 'axis of evil' that's embracing the outside world… for now at least.

  On the last afternoon I take a taxi to see the former US embassy, scene of the hostage crisis during which 52 American diplomats and citizens were held for 444 days from November 1979. I snap a picture of the outer wall, which is now daubed with anti American graffiti, including a picture of the Statue of Liberty with the face of a skull. A gun is painted in the colours of the Stars and Stripes. Hands emerge from satellite dishes holding matches that threaten to set alight a garden of flowers: symbolising American propaganda's potential effect on the purity of Iran, or so it would seem.

  Yet throughout our visit not a single person has acted in anger against us. At every turn, save a surly soldier or two, it's been friendly faces.

  Before we fly to our respective countries, we are staying for a night in a hotel in Tehran, and the Austrians, the Germans, the Russians and I have a final meal, during which Maria gives me a little black-leather container with a picture of Lenin on the outside and four shot glasses inside. Then we all drink to our trip, with 0.0 per cent alcohol beers.

  In a couple of weeks' time, those glasses could come in handy.

  7

  FINLAND, RUSSIA AND CHINA: THE BIG RED TRAIN RIDE

  HERE IS THE plan: fly to Helsinki, where I will meet a Finnish contact for lunch at the city's famous art deco Central Railway Station; catch an overnight train with a first-class cabin to Moscow, where I'll spend a day sightseeing around the Kremlin and Red Square; hop on the seven-night Trans-Siberian service (second-class) on the route that skirts the top of Mongolia and then plunges through Manchuria to Beijing; potter about in China's capital for an afternoon; and, finally, take a taxi to the airport to fly home via Kiev on Ukraine International Airlines (because it's cheap).

  Total time away: ten days. Total distance covered by train: 6,319 miles.

  This is the big one. Just about every train lover dreams of taking the Trans-Siberian Railway. It's got to be top, or very close to the number one spot, of most must-ride lists: all the way across a continent, from the east of Europe to the Far East, on a train.

  I'm adding Helsinki to spice it up. During an enjoyable couple of days in the Finnish capital last year, I visited the Central Railway Station and noticed the tantalising destination names of St Petersburg and Moscow on the departure board. I was on a weekend break, yet had I arranged tickets and visas, I could have sped to St Petersburg for an afternoon; the travel time on Allegro fast trains is 3.5 hours (with a top speed of 130 mph).

  The ten-hour Helsinki–Moscow service is called the Tolstoy Night Train – the name alone is too good to resist and the cost is surprisingly reasonable: a first-class sleeper cabin is £100. So, ticket in pocket and full of anticipation for the long journey ahead, I arrive at Helsinki's main station on a sunlit August day, just a week after Tehran.

  The Tolstoy Night Train

  Helsinki to Moscow

  I am met by Maria, my Finnish contact (not Boris's wife). She's standing beneath two columns topped with stone sculptures of muscle-bound men clasping lanterns shaped like footballs. The men have centre partings and extraordinary, long wavy hair.

  'The silent pharaohs, Tom!' says Maria, who has a whirlwind style of speech and who is well informed about Helsinki as she is a guide for Visit Finland, the country's tourist board. We met the previous summer, when she showed me round the city, and we have kept in touch. 'Yes, I call them the silent pharaohs! Illuminating the journey of the passengers for the travel ahead, that's what I say! In the early 1900s, trains were a serious business. This was a prestigious place.'

  Maria has dark curly hair, almond eyes, Spanish ancestry and has lived in Britain, picking up a distinct East End accent along the way. She is wearing pearl earrings, a white blouse and a necklace with a golden cross. Her stature is diminutive, and she likes to talk a lot (in a good way).

  'Eliel Saarinen!' she says, after we have hardly had a chance to say hello. 'This is his grand masterpiece!' She's talking about the station. 'He built this in 1914, then in the 1920s he emigrated to the US and became famous there. His son! Eero! His son Eero was a famous architect too! The Gateway Arch in St Louis: Eero built that! Dulles airport in Washington DC: Eero! The TWA terminal at JFK airport, the General Motors office, the headquarters of John Deere, on the shores of Lake Michigan: Eero! The US embassy in London, the one with the eagle on top: Eero!'

  Maria wants me to know it all: fast.

  We enter the station.

  'Lee Harvey Oswald, Tom! 1959 – he took your train,' she says, beginning another burst. 'He was obsessed with the Soviet Union. He got his visa to enter Russia in Helsinki. He stayed at the Torni and then the Klaus Kurki hotels. He walked through these doors, Tom, past the silent pharaohs! I always think of that.' Maria pauses for a split second. 'You know, I don't think he assassinated Kennedy – it's all a cover-up, Tom!'

  There is an aspect of Oswald's visit to Helsinki that has divided historians, I rapidly learn. Some investigating his time in the city sought out and analysed Oswald's documents for his visa application to Russia, and they believe that its issue in 24 hours was suspiciously quick. Usually a visa would have taken about five days. Could this be evidence of Soviet involvement in Kennedy's assassination? Others, however, say that Oswald received special treatment simply because he paid for a deluxe-class ticket. The official stamps came quicker when hard currency was flashed about.

  The art deco interior of Helsinki's Central Railway Station is wonderful: grand arches, clusters of tubular lights, columns cut with snake-like patterns, polished-wood benches, ticket desks with lampshades. Original kiosks have been kept, selling newspapers, coffee and snacks. The ticket hall – which Maria describes as 'my office' as she spends so much time in the quiet space between tour groups – is opposite the station's one apparent aberration: a massive Burger King in its old restaurant. This opened a couple of years back, says Maria, and we go inside to take a look. I'm expecting the worst, but find that I quite like the place. Great care has been taken maintaining original features, such as dining booths, art deco lights and a splendid mural depicting a lake above the service counter. The mural is protected from kitchen fumes by special air conditioning and was painted by the Finnish composer Jean Sibelius's brother-in-law, Maria tells me (she really does seem to know everything about Helsinki's main station). Finland's National Board of Antiquities oversaw the transformation of the restaurant into a Burger King, and ensured a sympathetic makeover. It has to be one of the finest fast-food joints in the world.

  We get a bite to eat and go for a quick early-evening drink in the station's Pullman Bar, with its FINLAND FOR WINTER SPORTS posters issued by Finland State Railways, comfortable booths and windows looking down onto the concourse. I order a beer, Maria goes for an Irish coffee, as she proceeds to provide me with a brief – super-speedy – history of Finland's involvement in the Second World War, includin
g 'the 1939 Mainila incident, Tom!'

  During this incident, I discover, the Soviet Union falsely accused Finland of attacking its territory as a pretext to launch hostilities. Maria goes on to tell me about Finland's 1941 return strike on the Soviet Union alongside German troops, when land lost in the winter of 1939–1940 was retaken and the Germans went on, without the Finns, to the siege of Leningrad.

  'Now, and back then, the Finns probably realise that it was an alliance of necessity,' says Maria, of the Finnish–German collaboration. 'It was a case of: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Remember that the Finnish–Russian border is about 1,400 kilometres long, so it was impossible for the Finns to defend alone.'

  The Tolstoy Night Train goes along much of the route the Germans would have followed.

  'It would take me a year to tell you everything!' Maria adds. She's referring to the history of Finland in general.

  'I am like an encyclopaedia, Tom!' As if to prove this, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a book she's in the middle of reading: The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer – she's halfway through the tome. 'If I read it, Tom, I remember it!'

  And I don't doubt her.