Getting there is half the fun, they say. That's what I thought, when the Iranian policeman squeezed my pants hard at the border crossing with Pakistan. "You smuggle anything?" he barked, leaning in as I smelled his stale breath.
Two shady Baluchi men were lingering outside the roadside shack, revving the engine of their sports car. They had given me and Sam, my then-girlfriend, a lift from the border. The police eventually let us go, frustrated that we weren't smuggling heroin into the Islamic Republic.
