A very Tehran experience, Part 1. In which we go in search of Gandi but find Africa instead

To celebrate our final night in Iran together Gabs and I decided to head back to the oh-so-fash north of the city for a final dinner and coffee with two of our travel buddies Kim and Kirree. We were headed to the well-known Market cafe on Gandi Street where the menu was kebab-free.

Gabs and I ordered a taxi at 5.30pm, keen a do a little window shopping before dinner. Kim and Kirree were to join us at the cafe at half seven. Bang on time our taxi driver bounded into reception, raring to go. With some Iranian jazz on the stereo we pulled away with flair into the jaws of peak hour Tehran traffic. So far, so good.

Now, we'd done this journey at 8.30pm the night before and it had taken around 20 minutes. I figured it might well take an hour in peak traffic, maybe even a little more. Tehran traffic is notorious and we had to travel on a couple of major roads and motorways to get where we wanted to go. No matter. We were relaxed, we had time, we had water.

For the first hour of the journey we were so thoroughly engaged in conversation about our trip we didn't notice the time. The traffic was appalling but we were moving along. At the end of the hour I began to think we'd used a few more motorways than I had remembered...but our driver seemed confident he was headed to our desired location.

Somewhere in the second hour of the journey we voiced our private fears our driver was lost. Nothing looked familiar, except that we had passed Africa Boulevard about four times from six different directions. We passed three hospitals, a football stadium and a very large mosque. In reaction to our enquiry...'Gandi?' the good man denied all knowledge of English but offered us a consoling cigarette and a shrug in relation to the traffic. Worryingly though, he began to stop other cars for directions to Gandi. None of them bore us fruitful progress.

A little over 15 minutes into our third hour, when our water had run out and the wailing started, we understood we had entered Taxi Pergatory, where one is damned forever to drive on the highways and byways of northern Tehran. Leaping to our death on the motorway looked to be the only sensible option. But which motorway? And where were we? We could not understand how we had fallen into this unfortunate state of damnation. All we could moan from our back seat was 'Reza Shah...where art thou, travel leader?' But The Prince of Persia had flown home to Shiraz to recover from the 16-day social, historial and political turorial of ancient and modern Persia and repetitive questions regarding the meeting time for dinner. We were on our own.

At the two hour thirty mark, as we began to wave down police from the back seat, we suddenly pulled into Gandi Avenue - our desired destination - and motored gracefully to the front door of Market, where our friends calmly waited for us. They had left one and half hours after us but arrived 15 minutes before us.

I don't wish to sound dramatic but as I stumbled out of the taxi I thought I knew how that young Israeli boy Gilad Shalit felt being released after years with his Palestinian hosts. Out of the confusion surged a grateful euphoria mingled with fear that we might not recognise the world we were stepping back into...so long was our time in captivity.
The end - Part 1.