Diarrhoea

Saturday 15th October 1983

The night was freezing and as we only had a sheet each, I put on all my warm clothes and got into bed. We all slept well until 09:30 hrs. despite the cold, when we got up and set off in search of a bank. The streets were bustling with life and bicycles, 3-wheeled taxis, motorbikes, cars and pickup trucks roared about hooting wildly as we negotiated horses and carts, pedestrians and the open sewers.

We found a bank where George had a minor difficulty changing up Thomas Cook Travellers Cheques (I had America Express, that’ll do nicely!) but he changed £50 and we had £25 of Rupees each. The banks were guarded by men with shotguns and casual-looking police with batons sat chatting on street corners in groups.

I tried to change my Iranian money (which the banks wouldn’t change) into Pakistani Rupees with a dodgy old incoherent bastard who had chewed too many betel nuts. At least we got a free cup of tea from him before realising that he was wasting my time with a pitiful rate of exchange. I still had this Iranian money when we returned to the U.K. and it is probably still in the attic!

After breakfast we went to the railway station where we gained 50% discount on tomorrows first class sleeper by fraudulently presenting our Youth Hostel Association cards as proof that we were students. Our next port of call was the Post Office where we wrote postcards in the sunny front garden, and then on to a tour of the town.

Jan returned to the hotel and George and I went shopping around the bazaar looking for bags and waistcoats with secure zip pockets. People beamed when we acknowledged their greetings and we wandered from stall to stall unmolested. We left empty handed and tried a cheaper café for supper. I was quite happy with minced beef, spinach and rice but Jan picked unhappily at his ropey curried lamb with a look of disgust which only increased when George suggested that he substituted the meat for banana with the rice.

At another place we had tea and I raced back to the hotel just in time to avoid soiling my pants with a sudden assault on my bowels by a bout of virulent diarrhoea. We settled down for the night now equipped with a heavy duty, maximum TOG, continental quilt.

Jan, who had been careful about what he ate and avoided drinking the water provided on the bus, was worst affected by gippy tummy. He spent most of the night in the toilet groaning, drizzling and farting and muttering “Oh my God, Oh my God” to himself.

Whew! This completes the mammoth task of writing up the events of the last week. I thought it wise to refrain from writing about Iran, especially the political comments, until I was safely outside of her borders.

Quote of the Week: from Winty “You want to sleep on the bus? You cannot!”