Deciding early in the morning that two days in Tehran was enough I managed to secure a train ticket to Bam, the only challenge being I had an hour to get back to the hostel, pack my bag and get to the train station. I was on the metro on the way to the train station and things were going well until I realised that I was on the wrong line and only had 30 minutes left to get to the station. I was left with no other option than to head above ground and place my life in the hands of a Tehrani motorbike taxi driver.
As I exited the station there he was, parked in the middle of the lane and holding up traffic, a driver with a crazed look in his eye, desperately scanning the crowd for his next customer. Whilst every vehicle on the road in Iran is a potential taxi, mototaxis have a distinctive large plexiglass screen on the front, and often large mittens that are attached to each end of the handlebar for keeping the driver's hands warm. I should have known from the way his eyes lit up, clearly sensing my desperation, that I was about to add to my tally of grey hairs.
After a too quick negotiation in our mutually shared language of hand signals, the driver shuffled me on to the back of the bike, and we took off with equally disconcerting full throated laugh from the driver and a kick from the bike and the throttle was opened fully.
Movement seemed to loosen his jaw, and he began to speak to me non-stop, whilst cursorily glancing at the traffic now and then, despite us being on an 8 lane wide road, and traversing a roundabout where there appeared to be no rules. Talking seemed to require hand gesticulation to really convey the true meaning - so one hand was out of the mitten moving around wildly, and the other hand alone was controlling the beast that was hurtling us along.
Traffic lights in Tehran appear to be no more than advisory, and for my driver not even that. We cross a major intersection by simply weaving through the cross traffic - which has the green light. There is not even a toot of the horn from them - not that this would make much difference. I find us flying down a narrow side street, after pulling off the daring maneuverer of crossing lanes of traffic by slowing down then darting across in a gap between cars, and then heading in to the on-coming traffic - at one point between two cars, to reach the side street. Whilst catching my breath and relaxing because of the lack of oncoming traffic, we hit three speed humps in a row that each time almost fling me up and off the back of the bike. I begin to think I would be safer to have my feat under rather than on the stirrups.
Back on a main drag the desire to communicate hasn't diminished, and at one moment, to emphasise a point, the driver pulls both hands out of the mittens and is waving them about. Time suddenly slows, and I realise I am on a motorbike, travelling at speed with no hands controlling it...fortunately hands on the throttle means we begin to slow and the rapidly approaching traffic island is narrowly averted, hands back on the handlebar we pull in to a lane of oncoming traffic for safety!!
Returning to the correct side of the road allows the driver to demonstrate his signature move. As we pass a pass he makes a hand movement which I initially presume is shooting at passengers on the bus. I then realise he is actually blowing kisses to women in the buses and cars that we pass. As I see on the speedo that we are hitting 70 kilometres an hour, my only thought is what a way to go. The driver jokes about how much I am moving around, and wobles the bike from side to side to show how much it is moving.Left with no other choice, I use everything I have to hold on - my thighs tighten around his legs and I lean in close and grab tight the rack at the end of the bike.
After a few more cuts across traffic, rushes down narrow lane ways, and top speed attempts on wider, traffic filled lanes all going in our direction the train station appears before us. The driver pulls up and I check my watch - what seemed like half a lifetime was 13 minutes!!! We negotiate a price - and he wants $6, because I presume from his hand movements, that he did it in double quick time. This is capped off by a laugh from him. Glad that I have survived, I agree to his price - but this requires getting change from a nearby taxi driver. When I hand over my 500000 riel note ($15) the rather short and portly taxi driver pretends to run off - to guffaws all round. It seems like in Iran as a driver you are either crazy or prankster or both.
Stepping on to the train the slow, steady, linear of movement of a train never made a man happier.
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