Photo By Ernest Markwood
IRAN
888 Km – 19 Day
10 June – 1 July 2008
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| Photo By Ernest Markwood |
888 Km – 19 Day
10 June – 1 July 2008
10 June – Astara, Azerbaijan – Jokandan, Iran
– 82 km
Time
to don the burka and head to the border. The border crossing between Azerbaijan
and Iran was no less hectic than others, and the no-mans-land a tad of an
obstacle course. A misunderstanding regarding whether the bicycles needed documents
made a long wait until being cleared. Once in Iran, it came as a shock to learn
ATMs or banks didn’t accept foreign bank cards. If only I knew this, I could’ve
drawn money in Azerbaijan.
Adding
to the dilemma, I still had to spend my last money on a headscarf and long
sleeve shirt. The law in Iran states women must cover their hair, arms, and
legs. Even though I knew the rules and chose to visit, it didn’t make being in
a male chauvinist society any easier. I’m saying this as these rules weren’t made
by women but by men. I couldn’t believe I chose to cycle through another
Islamic country. In Iran, these restrictions felt worse than in other
countries, as religion was enforced by law.
Furthermore,
whenever speaking to people, they would entirely discount me and only talk to
Ernest.
The
landscape was amazingly lush and green, and one could hardly believe this was
Iran as the path led past bright green rice paddies. The coast along the
Caspian Sea was dirty but still a beautiful place to stop and have a break.
11
June - Jokandan – Hashtpar - 90 km
The
days cycling was predominantly along the Caspian coast, well known for its
abundance of anchovy Kilka. Sadly, the lake experienced a significant fish
stock collapse due to widespread overfishing. More surprising were the rice
paddies, not something I ever associated with Iran.
In
one of the towns, a kind Iranian bought us cake and bread. Then, as a newspaper
reporter, he interviewed us (or rather Ernest). Later, he showed us the way to a
beach to pitch a tent. Unfortunately, the beach was in front of a promenade. Our
spot thus came with a constant procession of spectators. Due to the sweltering
heat, people were generally out after sunset. This resulted in me being unable
to remove the headscarf or long sleeve shirt. I couldn’t even wash as inside
the tent, it was sweltering.
12
June - Hashtpar – Rudsar – 125 km
It
dawned while women, in full burkas, walked or jogged along the beach, an
unusual sight, and I thought they must be dying of the heat in those outfits. But,
undeterred by the staring eyes, Ernest proceeded to fry himself eggs for breakfast;
which drew even more spectators.
We
must’ve lost our way as the plan was to cycle along the coast but found
ourselves on an inland road. Eventually, the route spat us out at the beach.
There, I saw a woman driver who stopped and gave us fruit.
A
soccer field made a good enough place to pitch the tents by evening. Albeit the
spot was between the coast and the road, one couldn’t swim. Moreover, I was
uncomfortable and increasingly fed up with the headscarf, long pants and long
sleeve shirt. I felt hot, sticky, and my head itched.
13
June - Rudsar – Chalus – 109 km
The
route from Rudsar to Chalus was a lovely ride along the Caspian Sea, and a slight
tailwind made easy cycling. Halfway through the day, an invitation to a teahouse
serving tea and mint-flavoured yoghurt made me immensely uncomfortable. There
were no women at the teahouse, and I was treated with total disregard and had a
strong desire to bolt for the door. Maybe the invite was meant only for Ernest.
The
route to Tehran veered away from the coast. The temperature immediately became
milder following route 59, leading over the Alborz mountains. Camping places
change from country to country; in Iran, one can pitch a tent almost anywhere.
A popular spot was at a mosque, and we followed suit. By late evening quite a
few tents were scattered about—the primary reason being the availability of water,
toilets, and shade.
14
June - Chalus – Roadside camp - 70 km
As
anticipated, the road started climbing up the central Alborz mountain range,
home to Mount Damavand, the highest mountain in Iran. A steady climb led up the
pass as the road snaked higher and higher. Chalus Road, or route 59 as it’s officially
known, was considered one of Iran’s most scenic drives. I’m sure more so from
the comfort of a car, and I was exhausted when we camped at 2700 meters.
15
June- Roadside camp – Karaj - 92 km
From
our roadside camp, a short climb led to the top. Once over the high point, the descended
sported spectacular vistas and a view over the Karaj dam. En route to Karaj, I
was surprised to see a road sign pointing to a Nuclear Research facility,
especially in the wake of claims that Iran was producing nuclear weapons.
Subsequent investigations proved no sign of such weapons were found. If you want
to kick the cat, I guess you’ll always find a reason.
16-25
- June - Karaj – Tehran – 55 km
Iran’s
climate is diverse and has 11 of the world’s 13 environments. Ranging from arid
semi-arid to subtropical. Still, we found ourselves in Iran during summer and the
weather thus scorching and the air dry. So, not surprisingly, we cycled the
short distance into Tehran in blazing heat and what a busy and large city.
Eventually, we located the Mashhad Hotel, a favourite amongst foreigners where
the rules were slightly relaxed once inside. But, lo-and-behold, wouldn’t we
bump into Martin, whom we met on the ferry from Sudan to Egypt and who we last
saw in Cairo?
I
was desperate to try and get money as Ernest looked unwilling to make an
effort. Due to the American boycott, no American-owned card could be used, and most
cards were thus useless. Thinking my sister could send us money, I contacted
her and made the necessary arrangements.
We
further had to organise visas to Central Asia. On contacting the Uzbek
consulate, we discovered that the LOI to Uzbekistan was sent to Baku instead of
Tehran. To redirect, it would take an additional 5-7 days. In the meantime, my
sister, Amanda, had a battle of her own sending money to Iran. What a
performance! We waited and waited, but no LOI or money arrived. In the meantime,
we applied for a Pakistani visa, which took equally long. Still, if the Uzbek
visa didn’t materialise, one could cycle via Pakistan
to India.
Nearly
all at the Mashhad Hotel were in the same boat. Everyone was waiting for
something as there wasn’t any other reason to stay in Tehran other than getting
visas. Therefore, the Mashhad was a place where one met wonderfully fascinating
people. Some of them I’m still in contact with to this day.
The
weather was scorching, and one could do little more than stay indoors.
A
thick grey/yellow haze hung over the city so much that one couldn’t even see
the surrounding mountains. I was convinced it was the reason for my constant
headache, or maybe it was due to the stress regarding our finances. However, Ernest
was unperturbed; perhaps he had something up his sleeve.
What
a strange country Iran was. No satellite TV or even ADSL was allowed during our
visit, and the internet was still dial-up. Alcohol was forbidden, but I understood
it was readily available if you knew the right people. On the other hand,
Iranian people were extremely accommodating and welcoming. Walking around town
came with continuous offers to help find a bus, taxi or metro.
Following
a week of waiting, I received word from Amanda, stating the money sent had been
refunded. Unfortunately, the bank transfer system was American based,
and all transfers were blocked. I then realised America had taken over the
world without anyone noticing. Our situation instantly became desperate. By then,
we’d already reverted to eating bread (Nuun) and water and hadn’t paid the
hotel in five days.
Ernest
uncovered a travel agent who could maybe arrange money and walked me to his
office. Explaining our problem, the kind man proceeded to give me 300US
dollars. At first, he said it was a gift, but after insisting on his bank
details, he provided an account in Dubai. All this happened without him looking
at me and solely speaking to Ernest. Even though I was the one who had to
arrange the money transfers. Of course, this behaviour irritated me, but I was
desperate. I was equally astonished that Ernest never attempted to get money. I
then surmised he had cash but was unwilling to share it.
I
immediately arranged for my sister to transfer the money into our saviour’s account
in Dubai. Then, with money in my pocket, I could at least pay for our hotel and
our Pakistani visas. Phew, what a relief. Still, it would be a tight squeeze to
get both of us to the border, 1500 km further south. By this time, barely
enough time remained on our visas to make it to the border.
26
June - Tehran – Qom Rest area – 124 km
A
full ten days were spent in Tehran before all was sorted out. We biked out of
Teran in stifling heat and straight into a headwind. Maybe cycling through Iran
to Pakistan at the height of summer wasn’t such a smart move. The heat was at
its worst
between 14h00 – 18h00. One couldn’t drink enough to keep hydrated, and drinking
warm water in the sweltering heat made me feel even more nauseous. Nevertheless,
we managed 124 km before camping at a rest area with a petrol station and
restaurants.
27
June - Rest area – Kashan Petrol station – 113 km
We
woke at sunrise and departed soon afterwards. Still, our early start made little
difference, as the heat soon became unbearable. I drank as much as possible, but
like the previous day, it made me nauseous. I felt weak from an upset stomach
but battled on, still against a headwind. The going was dreadfully slow, and
Ernest, single-minded as he was, had no intentions of waiting. He had his mind set
on reaching the border without using public transport, which he would do. No
one would stop him, especially not a puking cycling partner. By then, I was depleted
of all energy and dehydrated as not even the water could stay down.
28
June – Kashan Petrol station - Kerman – 28 km & bus
I
still felt unwell, weak and nauseous by the time we got underway. With little
money remaining, we merely ate a tin of beans the night before, not something that
would put a spring in anyone’s step. I realised Ernest had no intentions
of waiting. He must’ve had money of his own hidden away as soon afterwards; he
continued on his own.
I
barely had any money left and considered it better to take a bus and get out of
Iran. I waited forever, but eventually, a bus arrived to go quite close to the
Pakistan border. The bus drivers were accommodating and only charged me 8000
Toman (less than 10$). I met Fariba, a lovely lady living in Kerman. She
invited me to stay with them for the night. The bus reached Kerman at around
1h00, and I accepted her kind offer. A mesmerising experience followed,
watching Iranians live behind their homes’ high walls. I slept on the sofa.
Fariba and her husband, Mehran, slept outside in the courtyard.
29
June - Kerman – Zahedan (By bus)
We
only emerged at 9h00, had breakfast consisting of bread (Nuun), cheese, nuts
and halva. Fariba escorted me to the bus station, where I caught a bus to
Zahedan. On the bus, I met a lovely student, Nargess, on her way home after the
term’s closing. I know I’m harping on about the heat, but it was unbearable.
From Bam, the road crossed the desert, and little water appeared along the way.
The scenery and structures resembled Sudan to such an extent one could easily
imagine being there. Once again, the bus arrived in Zahedan at around 24h00 and
Nargess invited me to stay with her family. The family lived in a luxurious
double-storey air-con home behind high walls. Communicating was tricky, to put
it mildly, as they didn’t speak English and me, no Farsi.
30
June - Zahedan
Observing
a typical Iranian family was captivating. The family only surfaced between 10 and
12h00, and I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. Nearly all people in
Iran slept
during the day and did their shopping and business at night. This routine was
the best as the heat was unrelenting during the day. They fed me until bursting
with rice, noodles and fruit.
31
June - Zahedan
In
the morning, the family insisted on me staying one more day. The time was spent
doing laundry and sorting out panniers for the trip further south. Again, I was
fed all kinds of interesting and unknown dishes. It was indeed fascinating to
observe Iranian life at such close quarters. The father was undoubtedly the boss
and the most important person in the household. All family members hurried
nervously to serve him, merely relaxing once he had departed, after which the
relaxed mood became tangible. I felt increasingly uncomfortable seeing women in
such a degraded role as they very much served the function of slaves. I guess
it isn’t all unusual, as even in Western culture, many women cook and clean for
their husbands without pay, purely for board and lodging.
1
July – Zahedan, Iran - Pakistan border
I
insisted on leaving for Pakistan. My hosts, nevertheless, advised against
cycling to the border due to “dangerous activities”, as they called it. They
had already ordered and paid for a taxi by the time I was ready. I couldn’t get
them to accept my money, and in the end, I gave up, took the cab, loaded a massive
bag of food and headed to the border. The drive to the border was through a barren
moon-scape area, and I couldn’t wait to get out of the country. Iran will never
be on the top of my list of favourite countries, most likely due to my
anti-authoritarian attitude. Once across the border, I’d an intense desire to chuck
them a browneye. I should’ve done it!
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