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What's Inside
The Hide, the Heat, and the Realization
In 2009, I found myself in Mashad, Iran, without a phone, a map, or even a clear sense of direction, all while lugging around a 40kg wet-blue leather hide stuffed in my suitcase. My journey began with a visa snafu in Turkmenistan—a country that had granted me a visa after six months of waiting, only to give me just seven days to explore. Despite assurances from my local partners that the visa would be extended, the days slipped away. Seven days became a deadline, and I was told to leave. “Just wait in Iran for a few days,” they said, but I knew better. The first ‘few days’ had already consumed half a year of my life. So, I made my own plan.
Into the Unknown
With my absurdly heavy luggage in tow, I entered a local travel agency and asked for the first available flight to Pakistan. I had been in talks with some leather traders there through Alibaba and saw this visa limbo as an opportunity. The agent informed me the next flight would depart in three days. Three days felt like forever. “Can I take a bus?” I asked. The agent gave me a look that suggested I’d lost my mind but told me it was possible. “But it will take a long time,” he warned. Little did I know how long that journey would turn out to be.
A 16-Hour Ride and Crossing the Border
I boarded a cab to the bus station, where I learned the ride to Zahedan, a border city, would take 16 hours. Afterward, I would need to cross into Pakistan on foot before finally finding a domestic flight. With no other choice, I bought the ticket and settled in for the ride. The bus was slow, uncomfortable, and filled with passengers traveling for reasons unknown to me. After 16 grueling hours, I arrived in Zahedan, only to find myself crammed into a tiny cab with six other adults. We headed toward what barely resembled a border. Instead of a formal checkpoint, I was greeted by a dust-choked desert field, where a single shack doubled as an immigration office. Smuggling activity was rampant, and the local border patrols chased after what they could catch.
At that point, I considered my options. Should I have waited for that flight? But after 18 hours, I had no choice but to keep going forward.
Smugglers, Soldiers, and the Road to Quetta
Once across into Pakistan, I was told to hop onto the back of a pickup truck heading toward the nearest town. The bumpy ride led me to a place that felt like a film set from the 1940s—dusty streets, crumbling buildings, a world frozen in time. Starving and in need of rest, I grabbed a meal and asked about flights. The response was clear: No airport. The nearest airport was in Quetta, requiring another 16-hour bus ride.
Sighing, I bought another ticket. The bus was ancient, packed with people and cargo, and lacked windows or seats. I squeezed among the passengers lying in the aisles, my oversized suitcase—still filled with that leather—pressed tightly against me. As we traveled deeper into the Afghan borderlands, I realized this road was notorious for Taliban-government conflicts, bombings, and frequent checkpoints. At every stop, soldiers climbed aboard, scanning the passengers. Each time, their eyes locked onto me—the lone traveler in jeans and a t-shirt, clearly out of place.
One soldier stormed over and demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing here?” My heart skipped a beat, but I pulled out my Turkish passport. His face lit up with recognition. “Brother!” he shouted. Just like that, I was safe.
The Water Bottle Test
The tension continued to simmer for hours, but at one point, a bottle of water was passed from the front of the bus, seat by seat, until it reached me. Everyone watched as I held it in my hand. The question was clear: Would I drink it? Would I hesitate?
I took a deep breath, tilted my head back, and chugged it like my life depended on it. The atmosphere in the bus shifted immediately. Heads nodded in approval, and just like that, I was no longer the foreigner. I was one of them.
The Sweetest Airport in the World
After 48 hours of relentless travel, lugging a 45kg leather hide through deserts, smugglers, and war zones, I finally arrived in Quetta. I stumbled into the first ‘hotel’ I could find. The receptionist took my passport for verification before handing me a key. Exhausted, I crashed onto the bed and slept for a few hours. When I woke, the receptionist informed me, “Your passport checked out. You’re clear.”
With that, I rushed to the airport, where I was greeted by the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I caught the first flight to Lahore, where I met my Alibaba contact and spent three weeks immersed in Pakistan’s leather world—visiting tanneries, meeting artisans, and making valuable business connections.
On Day 21, my partners in Turkmenistan finally called. “Your six-month visa is ready.” The timing was perfect. This time, I flew back—no more pickup trucks.
The Moment of Truth
Looking back, what stuck with me wasn’t the danger, exhaustion, or uncertainty I faced throughout the journey. It was that one pivotal moment on the bus. There, sitting among strangers, holding a bottle of water, I realized I had crossed a point of no return. I had risked everything—not for money, not for survival, but for leather.
I had carried that soaking wet-blue hide through three countries, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. At that time, I was too young to understand why I did something so absurd, but today, I know it was my deep, passionate love for leather that pushed me through the harshest of challenges.
That was just the beginning of a journey that would lead me to explore the world of leather in ways I never could have imagined. And who knew? It all started with a crazy decision to carry a hide across the world.
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