1 July 2014 / leggypeggy

When a guide goes bad

African Trails, checkpoints, guides, Iran, maps, Middle East, overland travel, police, travel, trouble

We had a wonderful three weeks in Iran—visiting Tehran, Isfahan, Qom, Shiraz, Yazd, Persepolis, Kerman, Mashhad and even a small oasis.

Everywhere we went, people went out of their way to be friendly and helpful. Fellow passengers were gobsmacked when, during lunch stops in small towns, complete strangers would offer us lifts (rides) to food markets or small restaurants.

Western media is pretty hard on Iran and most Iranians worry that a lot of the outside world views their country with suspicion and mistrust. We were constantly asked how we liked Iran, whether the cities and sights were enjoyable, and if people were being helpful and kind to us. The locals showed visible relief when they heard that we held them and their country in high regard.

High regard puts it mildly. In reality, we were all overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity shown to us throughout the country. And the touristic sites are pretty sensational too.

But there was one big exception and, unfortunately, he played a big role in our day-to-day lives in Iran.

Looking sweet, but a devilish streak lies within

Rafi was supposed to be our local guide, instead he was our local headache.

Sometimes it’s mandatory for a group to have a guide when they travel through Iran. For various reasons, we were such a group. Our driver, Suse, managed to cover the distance from the border to Tehran without a guide, but things changed by the capital.

While Suse had hoped to tour Iran without a guide, she had had some early email contact with Rafi as a possible guide. But her first choice was a woman she met on her first night in Tehran. Unfortunately that woman was already busy with another group.

A third prospect appeared the next morning saying he was our official guide, bragging that he had all the details for our group of nine.

Enough bragging, buddy, said Suse. You must have bought sketchy details from a guard at the border crossing because our group is 14.

So the job fell to Rafi by default. He seemed okay at first, but from the first bush camp it was apparent that he wasn’t the person for us.

In countries where a guide is compulsory, that person’s role is to shepherd you from place to place. They are supposed to keep you on the appointed path and make sure you don’t get up to any ‘mischief’. They aren’t supposed to run the show. On an overland trip, the driver (or the tour leader , if there is one) makes the decisions and keeps the itinerary on track.

For our truck, breakfast happens an hour before departure. Tents should be down and packed away before the meal starts, then we eat, wash up, pack up the ‘kitchen’ and our own day-to-day gear, and brush our teeth. We can accomplish all this in just about an hour.

Suse explained this daily morning routine to Rafi—more than once—but on that very first morning, he begged for a couple of minutes to explain some history of Iran and where we were headed next. Thirty minutes later, we’re desperate to finish our daily duties and get on the road.

Now don’t get me wrong. I would have thoroughly enjoyed a 30-minute spiel that was interesting, informative and useful. But Rafi gave us a rundown of all the dynasties in Iran from the beginning of time—with no dates, embellishments or anecdotes, and virtually no mention of where we were headed next. Good grief, we hadn’t signed up for a history class. And if we had, at least it could have been made interesting, engaging and relevant to our travels.

Frankly, Poor John—with his wonderful story-telling voice and his amazing memory for the details of everything he reads, especially the quirky—makes for an infinitely more entertaining and enriching guide than Rafi could ever hope to be.

So we were lumbered with a guide whose greatest skills were superb English and knowing where things were in a town, but very little information about the cities or monuments themselves.

Worse still, he told fibs, or they seemed like fibs. For example, the day before we arrived in Kerman, he told us there would a bank holiday the next day, but that we shouldn’t worry because everything would be open. The next morning, he told just one passenger, quietly and on the side, that it’s a pity everything will be closed here today because of the religious holiday. Rafi is supposedly quite religious and you think he’d have known about a national religious holiday. Of course, he knew, he was just being devilish and this was not the only occurrence.

The final frustration came a day or so out of Mashaad. The temperatures were blisteringly hot, and Suse and Rafi consulted over stopping at a particular oasis so we could spend the heat of the day in the shade and resume our travels later in the afternoon.

In late morning as we paused at the likely oasis, Suse asked if this was the right place. No, no, said Rafi, another 40 kilometres. So we drove on for another six hours without seeing a single oasis.

In the late afternoon when we were still moving, Rafi told me privately that he had organised with his friend in another oasis—much farther on—for us to stop and have food and tea.

Have you told Suse? I asked. No, he replied, but it will be a very nice stop.

Yes, the oasis, when we finally stopped, was lovely and we spent about 30 minutes there. But after a scorching day on the road and one that ignored a specific request to avoid the heat of the day, Suse was furious. She let Rafi know—in a stern but even-tempered voice—that she was not at all happy and that he must not continue to try to override her decisions and requests.

In the end, Rafi decided to stay behind in the oasis. Suse did not ask him to leave, but he came on the back of the truck, announcing that he was leaving because he wanted to be part of the solution and not part of the problem.

That’s when things went really sour because he knocked himself out trying to be our major problem over the next couple of days.

It appears that he hopped in a taxi at the oasis and preceded us to Mashaad. At each police checkpoint, he must have urged them to interrogate us and make life as difficult as possible.

This was a major change because we had had no police issues up to that time, and usually Rafi never even showed his face at a checkpoint, so they had no way of knowing whether or not we had a guide on board.

He also began to send Suse a barrage of emails threatening to have us deported, saying she was in cahoots with the devil, and a range of other ridiculous claims and accusations.

Before our last night in Mashaad, he fabricated a story that as overland passengers, we could not remain at the homestay we were using—that we must move to a hotel. Funnily enough, the ‘recommended’ hotel was hugely expensive and one, we later learned, from which he got a commission.

Unwittingly, Suse booked us into a different hotel and the manager of that place told her that Rafi (who considers Mashaad his hometown) was a nasty character and not to be trusted. Hmm! Useful news, but given way too late.

Since we left Iran, he has continued to be a menace from afar. Sending threatening emails, promising to report the overland company and the homestay place we used to the authorities, in an attempt to have everyone banned. All very annoying and disappointing behaviour.

Admittedly, Poor John and I, and Diego (our Italian travelling companion), did go around most of the cities we visited with Rafi. He was quite useful as a map and translator, but as Poor John said, the problem is he doesn’t know anything else about the places we visit.

But you know what gave it all away for me? Early on in the trip, he said he wanted to buy a gift for his wife and could I help him choose something. How sweet, I thought.

When’s her birthday? I asked.

I don’t know, he replied.

Well, at least what month?

I don’t know.

Now there’s a man not to be trusted.

Have you ever had a crappy guide on your travels? Oh, do tell!

P.S. Luckily, I have many more good stories to tell about our time in Iran. Stay tuned. And be sure to check out my cooking blog.