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)
Today, it was time to
don the burka and tackle the border crossing into Iran. The hustle and bustle
at the border was nothing short of chaotic, with the no-man's-land resembling
an obstacle course. A mix-up over whether our bicycles needed documentation
left us anxiously waiting for clearance. Once we finally stepped into Iran, I
was stunned to discover that ATMs and banks didn’t accept foreign cards. If
only I’d known, I could have withdrawn some cash back in Azerbaijan.
As if that weren't
enough, I had to spend my last few coins on a headscarf and a long-sleeve
shirt. In Iran, women are legally required to cover their hair, arms, and legs,
and while I was aware of this rule before my trip, it didn’t make the
experience in such a male-dominated society any easier. I found myself
questioning my decision to cycle through another Islamic country, especially
since the restrictions felt stricter here than in others. The laws seemed
deeply rooted in tradition, crafted by men with little regard for women's
perspectives.
Conversations often left
me feeling invisible, as people would brush me aside and direct their questions
solely to Ernest. It was frustrating to be sidelined like that.
Yet, amidst these
cultural challenges, the landscape took my breath away. The lush greenery and
vibrant rice paddies were surprising — a side of Iran I never expected. As we pedalled
along the Caspian Sea, the coastline might have been marred by debris, but it
still held a certain charm, making it a perfect spot for a much-needed break.
11 June - Jokandan –
Hashtpar (90 km)
The following day’s
cycling brought us along the stunning Caspian coast, famous for its abundant
anchovy kilkas. It’s disheartening to learn, though, that overfishing has led
to a significant collapse of fish stocks in the area. As we cruised past
emerald rice fields, I couldn’t help but marvel at the surprising beauty of
Iran.
In one charming little
town, an incredibly kind Iranian man treated us to some delicious cake and
fresh bread. He even took on the role of a newspaper reporter, eager to
interview us (well, mostly Ernest, of course). Later, he guided us to a beach
where we could pitch our tent for the night. Unfortunately, the beach was right
next to a bustling promenade, turning our tranquil campsite into a stage for a
continuous stream of onlookers.
The sweltering heat
drove many locals out after sunset, which meant I couldn’t dare remove my
headscarf or long-sleeve shirt. Trapped inside the tent that felt like an oven,
I longed for relief from the heat, both physical and cultural. Despite these
challenges, the vibrant life around us made each moment an adventure, reminding
me that every obstacle is just a part of the journey.
12 June - Hashtpar – Rudsar (125 km)
Morning broke with a unique scene unfolding before my
eyes: women clad in full burkas strolled or jogged along the beach, an image at
once striking and surreal. I couldn’t help but think about how uncomfortable
they must feel in that sweltering heat. Meanwhile, Ernest, with no care for the
curious eyes around us, was determined to whip up a delicious breakfast of
fried eggs, much to the amusement of onlookers gathering like moths to a flame.
Somehow, we lost our way, though our original plan had
been to cycle leisurely along the coast. Instead, we found ourselves on a dusty
inland road that eventually led us back to the beach. Just when we thought we
were in a bind, a woman in a car stopped to gift us fresh fruit, a refreshing
surprise amidst our confusion.
As evening rolled around, we found a makeshift campsite
on a soccer field, nestled between the coast and the road. However, the
temptation of a swim was futile—the water was just out of reach. The headscarf,
long pants, and sleeves became a heavy burden, amplifying my discomfort. I felt
sweaty and sticky, with a maddening itch on my scalp.
13 June - Rudsar – Chalus (109 km)
The journey from Rudsar to Chalus turned out to be a
lovely ride along the breathtaking Caspian Sea, with a gentle tailwind urging us
along. Halfway through the day, I encountered something that made my stomach
flip—a teahouse invitation —but the absence of women inside left me feeling out
of place and uncomfortable. I was met with disregard, and in that moment, I
felt a strong urge to bolt. Perhaps this tea was only meant for Ernest's
enjoyment.
As the route veered inland toward Tehran, the temperature
dropped noticeably while travelling along route 59 into the Alborz mountains.
Camping in Iran comes with its own charm; you can pitch a tent just about
anywhere. We opted to stay at a mosque, surrounded by fellow travellers. By
nightfall, the area was alive with tents, primarily because of the convenient
access to water, toilets, and much-needed shade.
14 June - Chalus – Wild camp (70 km)
The next day promised a challenge and delivered—it was
time to tackle the majestic Alborz Mountain range, home to the iconic Mount
Damavand, Iran's highest peak. Our ascent was steady but not without its
rewards; the road twisted and turned, revealing stunning scenery at every bend.
Chalus Road, known as route 59, is heralded as one of Iran’s most scenic
drives, though it certainly felt more taxing from the saddle of a bike than
from a cosy car. By the time we camped at a lung-busting 2700 meters,
exhaustion enveloped me like a heavy blanket.
15 June - Wild camp – Karaj (92 km)
From our campsite, the initial climb to the peak felt
like the finish line. Once we crested the high point, a thrilling descent
greeted us, complete with breathtaking views of the Karaj dam below. As we
journeyed toward Karaj, a peculiar road sign suddenly caught my eye—it pointed
to a Nuclear Research facility. In light of all the murmurs about Iran
supposedly pursuing nuclear weapons, this felt particularly ironic. But as
investigations later revealed, there was no evidence to support such claims. I
mused to myself that if you really wanted to find an excuse to worry, there’d
always be one lurking nearby.
16-25 June - Karaj – Tehran (55 km)
Iran’s climate is a tapestry of diversity, offering 11
out of the world’s 13 environments, swinging from arid deserts to lush
subtropical regions. But there we were, in the heart of summer, grappling with
the searing heat and dry air as we cycled into Tehran. The city unfolded before
us, vast and buzzing, with its chaotic energy palpable even in the sweltering
sun. After navigating the bustling streets, we finally found refuge at the
Mashhad Hotel, a favourite haunt for travellers like us. Inside, the atmosphere
was more relaxed, a welcome respite from the heat. And just when we thought the
day couldn’t get any better, we bumped into Martin—the adventurous soul we met
on that unforgettable ferry ride from Sudan to Egypt, and who we last spotted
wandering the streets of Cairo!
In the midst of this unfolding adventure, I was caught in
a frustrating predicament: I desperately needed cash, but Ernest seemed to be
dragging his feet. The American boycott had rendered most card options useless,
leaving us at a standstill. I quickly reached out to my sister back home,
hoping she could rescue us with a money transfer.
As if that weren’t enough, we also needed to sort out our
visas for Central Asia. However, upon contacting the Uzbek consulate, we hit a
snag—the Letter of Invitation (LOI) had mistakenly been sent to Baku instead of
Tehran. Redirecting it would take an additional 5-7 days. Meanwhile, my sister
Amanda was wrestling with her own complexities as she tried to send funds to
Iran. The waiting game became excruciating; our patience was tested as we
awaited both the LOI and the money. In the meantime, we had applied for a
Pakistani visa as a backup plan—it seemed like everything was dragging on and
on!
At the Mashhad Hotel, we weren’t alone in our struggles.
Almost everyone there was in the same boat, all waiting for something—be it a
visa, money, or simply a way to continue their journey. It became a melting pot
of fascinating stories and eclectic personalities, many of whom I cherish
reaching out to even now.
The relentless weather pushed us indoors more often than
not. A thick, greyish-yellow haze hung ominously over the city, obscuring even
the surrounding mountains. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the dullness
overhead fuelled my constant headache, though it might have also stemmed from
the financial stress gnawing at me. Ernest, on the other hand, remained
unflustered, as if he had some secret strategy up his sleeve.
Iran was a land of contradictions. While satellite TV and
ADSL were nonexistent during our stay, the internet crawled along on dial-up.
Alcohol was strictly forbidden, yet rumours circulated that it flowed freely if
you knew the right connections. Despite these restrictions, we were met with
incredible warmth from the Iranian people, who consistently offered assistance,
whether hailing a taxi or guiding us to the metro.
After a week of suspense, I received disheartening news
from Amanda: the funds she sent had been refunded. The entire banking system
had been stymied by American ties, and I was suddenly struck by the realisation
that American influence had seeped into our lives in ways we never could have
anticipated. Our situation morphed into a desperate struggle; we had resorted
to living on nothing but bread (Nuun) and water and hadn’t been able to settle
our hotel bill for 5 days.
As we pedalled our way through a world alive with
possibility, uncertainty clung to us like the oppressive summer heat. Each day
felt like a new chapter in an adventure that was equal parts thrilling and
daunting, where hope flickered like a candle in the wind.
Ernest, ever the resourceful companion, stumbled upon a
travel agent who might just be our saving grace. With a sense of urgency, he
led me to the man’s office. I laid bare our predicament, and to my
astonishment, the kind-hearted agent handed me $300. At first, it felt like a
generous loan, but when I pressed for his bank details, he said it’s a gift. After
much coaching from me, he eventually revealed an account in Dubai – without so
much as a glance my way, as if I was merely a shadow in Ernest’s narrative. I
felt a pang of irritation at being sidelined in my own story, but desperation
has a way of softening one’s pride. I couldn’t help but wonder why Ernest
hadn’t reached into his own pockets; perhaps he had the cash but was simply
unwilling to share.
Once the funds were set to flow from my sister to our
reluctant benefactor's Dubai account, a wave of relief washed over me. Finally,
I could cover our hotel expenses and secure our Pakistani visas! However, the
clock was ticking ominously; we had to cover a staggering 1500 km to reach the
border, and our visas were running perilously low on time.
26 June - Tehran to Qom Rest Area (124 km)
After spending ten gruelling days in Tehran, it was time
to hit the road. The stifling heat hit us as we pedalled out of the city,
quickly followed by an unforgiving headwind. Cycling through Iran towards
Pakistan in July wasn’t exactly my brightest idea. The sun bore down hardest
between 14:00 and 18:00, turning our adventure into a battle against the
elements. Hydration became a chore; warm water felt like poison in my already
churning stomach. Despite the odds, we managed to clock 124 km before crashing
at a rest area, complete with a petrol station and a few eateries.
27 June - Rest Area to Kashan Petrol Station (113 km)
At dawn, we climbed to our feet and set out. An early
start felt promising, but the relentless heat soon swallowed that enthusiasm
whole. I tried to hydrate as best I could, but the nagging nausea from the day
before returned to haunt me. Ernest, with his singular focus and determination,
pressed on, oblivious to my struggles. His eyes were set on the border, and
nothing, especially not a faint-hearted cycling partner, would hold him back. I
felt my energy waning, dehydration sapping my strength—water became an
unwelcome guest that refused to stay down.
The road stretched ahead, daunting yet beckoning. With
each pedal stroke, I knew we were in for a ride unlike any other. Would we
conquer it together? Only time would tell.
28 June – Kashan Petrol Station - Kerman (28 km &
bus)
I was still grappling with an unsettling mix of weakness
and nausea as we hit the road. The meagre tin of beans I had eaten the night
before hadn't exactly ignited my energy levels. It became clear that Ernest was
keen to forge ahead without me, likely hoarding some hidden funds. Soon after,
he was off on his own adventure.
With barely any money left and a strong desire to escape
Iran, I decided it was best to take a bus. After what felt like an eternity, a
bus finally rolled up, heading close to the Pakistan border. The drivers were
surprisingly accommodating, charging me just 8,000 Toman—less than ten bucks!
Onboard, I struck up a conversation with Fariba, a warm-hearted woman from
Kerman. She generously invited me to stay with her family for the night.
Our arrival in Kerman around 1 AM was nothing short of
enchanting. Peering behind the high walls, I caught glimpses of Iranian life
rarely seen by outsiders. I slept on the sofa, while Fariba and her husband,
Mehran, opted for the courtyard's coolness.
9 June - Kerman – Zahedan (By bus)
The sun finally coaxed us out of sleep at 9 AM, and we savoured
a simple breakfast of bread (Nuun), cheese, nuts, and the delightful sweetness
of halva. Fariba kindly guided me to the bus station, where I boarded a bus to
Zahedan. On this journey, I met Nargess, a cheerful student returning home
after the school term. The heat was unbearable, gripping me like an unyielding vice,
and as we crossed the desert from Bam, the stark scenery bore an uncanny
resemblance to Sudan.
Finally, as the clock struck midnight, we arrived in
Zahedan. Nargess was gracious enough to invite me to stay with her family. It
was fascinating yet challenging, as communication was a chore; they spoke no
English, and my Farsi was nonexistent!
30 June - Zahedan
Witnessing life in a typical Iranian family was both
captivating and bewildering. The household barely stirred until between 10 and
noon, leaving me to wonder how to navigate the oppressive heat. In Iran, people
sleep through the sweltering day and come alive at night; I found this routine
strangely fitting, given the soaring temperatures. They lavished me with a
feast—rice, noodles, fruit—until I could hardly move!
31 June - Zahedan
In the morning, the family insisted that I extend my stay
for another day. I spent this time managing laundry and reorganising my
panniers, preparing for the journey ahead. Each meal introduced me to new,
intriguing dishes, deepening my appreciation for their culture. Observing the
family dynamics was revealing; the father commanded the household with an iron
fist, and the other members scurried to cater to him. Once he stepped out,
though, a palpable sense of relief washed over everyone; the atmosphere shifted
from anxious to relaxed.
Yet, I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable witnessing
women in such subordinate roles—serving what seemed like a life of subjugation.
It’s a reminder that even in Western cultures, many women perform unpaid labour
within the home, cooking and cleaning for their partners.
1 July – Zahedan, Iran - Pakistan border
The next morning, I was firm about my intention to head
to Pakistan. My hosts, however, were dead set against me cycling to the border,
citing “dangerous activities.” By the time I was ready, they had already
arranged a taxi for me and refused to let me pay. Frustrated but resigned, I
accepted the cab ride, loaded with a hefty bag of food, and began the journey
to the border.
The drive took us through a stark, lunar landscape, and I
couldn't shake the need to escape. Iran, I concluded, would never make my list
of favourite countries, perhaps stemming from my anti-authoritarian streak. As
we crossed the border, an irreverent impulse surged within me; I should have
given them a cheeky salute in farewell!
