Three things I wouldn’t hold possible happened on my birthday. First, the roadside mechanic I trusted to change my rear tire managed to break the valve in half and ran off with my ruined tube. Secondly, he reappeared after an hour with the valve perfectly welded back together. And last, after weeks of good weather, rain and hail came pouring down so heavily that Mashhad’s streets turned into rivers and two Belgian bikers were very sorry for not wearing their rain gear.
Central Iran is dominated by the great Dasht-e-Kavir desert, making for great rides between sand dunes, salt lakes and desert rock formations. On the way we visit the old silk road cities of Esfahan and Yazd, two of Iran’s highlights, and the isolated oasis of Garmeh.
On the desert road between Kashan and Esfahan, in the middle of nowhere, we drove past what is supposed to be Iran’s uranium enrichment plant. Not that we could see much, only kilometres of wire fence, guard towers and large artillery mounted on the hill tops. Every hundred metre or so there were ‘no parking’ and ‘no photo’ signs, urging us to rush through as fast as possible and leave our cameras stashed deeply in our tank bags…
Iranian hospitality is unequaled, but after a while can become a little tiring. So we learned to say no to invitations now and then. Especially after spending a night at Josephs, who was so kind to invite us in his modest home in Tabriz because all hotels were full of medical tourists from Azerbaijan. Only, he turned out to be a bit grumpy and insisted we’d help him find a Belgian wife for his one-legged friend, so he’d be able to move to Europe. Joseph was willing to pay three thousand dollar to any woman who’d marry his friend, on one condition: she should not be black. No, he did not like black women.
Another time a stuttering man kept following us to our hotel in Kashan, thinking we were lost. On the way he used the tree branch he was holding in his hand to point at every obvious thing we came across: ‘re-restaurant!’, ‘sh-shop!’, ‘wa-watermelon, hmm, ve-very good!’. In the end, the hotel staff had to send him away.
Unlike in Europe, we never have problems finding a hotel with parking. Iranians always find a solution, even if they have to improvise. We’ve parked our bikes in corridors, courtyards, in a dormitory and even on a roof, like in the beautifully restored Ehsan House in Kashan.
After staying with them for two days, our Tehrani friends had to catch a plane to Europe. Nema was so kind to arrange us other accommodation in a 5-star hotel owned by a family friend. It was a little embarrassing to arrive in our dusty motorcycle suits and drop our dirty bags in the lobby. And then a bit more so when they gave us their most expensive room and didn’t expect any payment. No point in trying to refuse Iranian generosity, so we relaxed in our two-bedroom suite for two days while we waited for our Uzbek visa to be ready
Fourteen million people are living in greater Tehran, traffic is mad and rush hour seems to last all day. That’s why we were glad our friend Nema would meet us on Azadi Square, which isn’t too hard to find, and escort us from there. When we got to their nice apartment in the north of Tehran, Nema’s wife Maryam awaited us with a delicious home-cooked dinner. The next day they guided us around the bazaar and the old part of the city and took us to a nice Persian restaurant where they serve dizi, a tasty stew which you have to mash yourself with a wooden masher.
On the way to Tehran we stopped in the town of Abyek to stretch our legs. As usual, a small crowd quickly gathered around us, curious about where we come from, how fast the bikes go and how much they cost. In such places it usually doesn’t take long before the police notices us also. But these policemen looked serious and weren’t dressed in uniform. ‘State police,’ they said, and we had to follow them to the nearby police station for an interrogation. Fortunately Ali, a helpful local who spoke English, popped up out of nothing offering help and joined us to the station to translate. The police asked us a few questions about our trip and what we were doing in Abyek, and photocopied our passports. They apologised for ‘just doing their job’ and we could go, relieved they did not check our insurance because we were riding without!
Ali, who turned out to be a businessman importing German harvesters, then took us to a restaurant for lunch. Afterwards he offered to fill up our tanks with benzin, which we kindly refused since he already paid for our meal!
The Iranians are among the most welcoming and hospitable people we’ve ever met. Genuinely happy to see us, they often stop for a chat, curious about our life and our opinion about Iran. Quite openly they also give us their own opinion about their country and its repressive government. Every day people offer us tea or bread, invite us to restaurants or their home, or want to guide us around their town. Quite incredible, given the image Iran has in the west.
The border crossing didn’t start too well, with the Turkish police telling me women aren’t allowed to drive a motorcycle in Iran. This misunderstanding was resolved quickly but I still felt uncomfortable, stressing about my headscarf and feeling very exposed in a world of men. The women gave me a warm welcome though, they invited me to sit with them and one even hugged me out of sheer happiness that I was visiting her country.
Van, in Turkey’s far east, is the last major town before the Iranian border. We spend an extra day here to prepare ourselves, as we need to do some administration, have a helmet microphone soldered in the bazaar, update the website and so on. An also buys a headscarf to comply with Irans hajib or dresscode, and is taught how to put it on by two enthusiastic girls, who seem to find it very funny.
We’re staying two nights in a very nice cave room, hewn out of a mountain in Urgup, Capadoccia. In the nearby village of Mazi we meet Ihsan, wearing jeans and brown leather shoes, who turns out to be the local Indiana Jones. After some tea he guides us around a huge underground city, which is not your average tourist sight. Ihsan hands us both a LED-light and we climb up and down many floors through dusty old shafts, and only see the daylight again after an hour or so.
Turkey has, in my opinion, some of the best sweets in the world. My favourites are definitely the baklava, made of filo-dough, pistachio or walnut and soaked in honey. Anneke is starting to like these delicious little pastries too, as well as the long rolls in the top of the photo, made of grenade apple and pistachio and covered with coconut flakes.