“I’m in Iran and I don’t know where my passport is!”.
A sentence I couldn’t have predicted me using, ever. It was an unsettling time…
After hours at the border, fingerprints with permanent-ink and some general faffing by the fixer we were in. My passport is mine again.
The truck-ladies are wearing traditional clothing, considered too sober by some local women, but a safe bet. Any male complaints about having to wear a long sleeve shirt NOT appreciated by them!
So far Iran is looking like one of the reasons I signed up for this trip.