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Mashhad, 31-12-2009

Salaam!

ِAs the date indicates, most of what's written below was ready to be published on the last day of '09, but just before I could do a quick proofread the owner of the 'caffeenet' (as internet shops are called in Iran) indicated that he really wanted to go and have his lunch.. Without knowing I had again spent 3 or so hours behind the screen, replying, tagging e-walls, and writing the blog. The world wide entangling web. Sticky as bubblegum (that pink one you used to have as a child). Better late then never as a famous Dutch saying goes, here's the road between Uzbekistan and Iran.

After the struggle with the fax machine at the Turkmen embassy in Tashkent I took a shared taxi to Samarkand, where my bike was waiting for me. The driver proved to be some sort of coureur. Pedal to the metal, overtaking left and right we raced to Samarkand with an average speed of 160 km/h. Scary, and still we got there well after midnight.

The next day whilst having breakfast a pleasant surprise walked in: Maria, the girl from the Basque country whom I had met earlier in Almaty. She's also on her way to warmer places and got the same dates to make the transit through Turkmenistan as I. We decided to travel together, she by scooter, I by bike. Unfortunately there wasn't enough time anymore to cycle all the way so I tried to find a hitchhike to Bukhara. The first 40 or so kilometres a truck driver took me, but after he had reached his destination, not many people were prepared to go through the trouble of taking me with all my luggage. In the end I stopped a bus. Cycle in the cargo hold, Koen in a window seat. Like this I still got a taste of the landscape. Total distance of 'mashyna': 240K.

35 kilometres before Bukhara the bus suddenly stopped. No further. So I hopped on and pedalled to the city. Around 7, so after sunset, I got to Rahima's house, who had hosted me before and was willing to do so again. That night we baked lepyoshka's (traditional Central Asian flat breads) in a clay oven out in the field. In the 'Brave Old World' bit there's a picture of this. It was very impressive to see her and her sisters making the breads with this age-old method, and the fresh bread tasted delicious.

The next morning I faced the 90 kilometres between Rahima and the border, and since this was also the first day of my transit time, I decided to hitchhike here too. 9 kilometres out of town, a truck took me and drove me a good 60 kilometres towards Turkmenistan. The last 20 I cycled and then the border process started. Tiresome tiresome.

'A filling station half a kilometre after the city gate of Turkmenabat' was where I was supposed to meet up with Maria, but by the time I got to a filling station (not sure if it was the one she had described to me) it was after 7, so dark and not the right time to enter the desert. En plus, I was exhausted and covered with mud as it had started raining. No sign of Maria. I tried another filling station but the operators there hadn't seen a Spanish girl on a motorcycle either. Not sure what to do I started to look for a hotel, but prices were surprisingly steep. When I asked the 5th passerby for a cheap place, I all in a sudden heard the grumbling sound of a motorcycle that had just bumped 6000 kilometres through Central Asia next to me. "Hola!" As it turned out she was even later than me. She had managed to find by asking for 'Gholandia na velociped?', which was enough for people to start pointing fanatically in one direction and like this she zigzagged through town, just as I had done some time before her.


(Pictures: Amaia and Hakim's car and Maria flying her scooter)

The next morning I had to repair my wheel as one of my spokes had broken the day before. Maria went for groceries. Around midday we finally started the great Karakoum. The first day we made about 80 kilometres before we set up camp. A tasty dinner of noodles with peppers and rice with beans. This desert, as opposed to the steppes of Kazakhstan, does provide dry branches of wood, so we made a small bonfire next to our tents. The next morning we had great weather and we moved about 50 kilometres. Maria went ahead to prepare for lunch and by the time I arrived at the picnic, the soup was done. As we were having lunch, I suddenly saw a strangely decorated car making a U-turn. "Amaia and Hakim?!" Yes, it was them, the 'Basque/Parisien' couple we both knew from Tashkent. They finally also received their transit and were on their way to break the record of driving from Bukhara to Ashgabat in one day. This was the second time they had to deal with Turkmenistan and they couldn't be bothered anymore. But when they saw the scooter and the bike next to the road they hit the brakes. We had coffee and tea and back into the 'relax' modus they decided to make a camp with us that night. So 70 kilometres further into the desert the four of us met again. Food, fire and fun.


(Picture: a (very) happy camper)

The next day we continued to Mary and from there to Sarakhs, the border crossing point Maria and I were going to take. Again time became a factor so from Mary I hitchhiked a pick-up for 70 kilometres. The next day I saw what will hopefully be the last inside of a machine for 50 kilometres to the border, from where I started cycling again. Or not precisely, as Maria and I were enjoying a cup of chai that was offered to us by the owner of the last cafe before the border, we were told that it would close a 16:00 instead of 17:00. And it was 15:30 already. Like crazy we packed up and hurried to the customs. We only reached in time 'cause I could hold on to Maria's shoulder, and once inside we were the last to cross that day.

Then on to the Iranian side, where it was 14:30 instead of 16:00, but the sun didn't mind this. It started to shimmer and Maria still wanted to drive all the way to Mashhad (180 kilometres away). I had planned for a more relaxed trip to that city, with one or two nights of camping, but I also didn't feel like an endless wait at the border. We pressured the customs officer and finally he came to look at our vehicles and documents. The way he went about my passport.. Inspecting it scrupulously. He looked at my picture, then at me. Then he made a brusque nod with his chin to the right, indicating that I had to look right. Equally brusque nod left. I looked left. Then nod up into the air. I looked up to the ceiling. As if I was doing some sort of test at the eye doctor's.. But no, this was the Iranian border guard, and he was checking if it was really me on the picture. Afterwards I had to explain about my plans. When was I for instance going to arrive in Mashhad? "Well, donno exactly, probably tomorrow or the day after?" Problem! When are you going to arrive in Mashhad?! "Today, today!". OK.
And so on, and so further, until we were finally "free" to go.



(Picture: my place the next morning.)

Little fast forward now, as I cannot convert everything into typed words. A good day of cycling, about 120K, one tough climb in the middle, splendid views like this one:



.. and a beautiful spot to camp inside a canyon. When I was collecting some branches to make a small fire, I shepherd on his donkey entered the crevice. Our communication was hampered by the lack of a common language, but as so often signal words and signaling did the trick. His dogs ran off at the moment a rabbit couldn't control his nerves anymore and not much later the guy set out to make his way home. The next morning he returned, just after I had taken down the tent. If I wanted to come with him and his friends for a cup of chai.



It was one of those wonderful moments with normal people that invite you to see a small bit of their everyday lives. They shared their bread, butter and cheese and with the help of some kerosene (not everything is entirely 'natural') we made a small fire to heat water for tea. During our breakfast, some 50 meters away from us a lamb was born. The guys sensed it immediately. I, as a pampered European who hasn't seen much of farm life apart from 'the traditional farm products' at the farm store, didn't realise what was going on. Only until one of them released the lamb from its string to the 'mother sheep', it came to me. A lamb was born and made its first steps right in front of our eyes. It was Christmas morning.
20 seconds after I had reached the main road again, I was almost hit by a car. Its driver had made an effort to pass me at 10 centimeters distance, while he (might be sexist but I rule out women in this case) in fact had two lanes and a stretch of at least 500 meters of road all to himself. The sequence of highs and lows.



After another long day of cycling I reached Mashhad. I'll write about my experiences there some time soon, but to explain the title of this entry: one of the first things I noticed in this place were the humongous piles of bananas on every street corner, smiling at me. Heaps of the smily fruit, all there for me to enjoy. In Central Asia it had become increasingly hard to find nature's own energy bar, but here: plantains aplenty (poetic freedom). It most definitely means something else, but I like to think of this as the Farsi smile wrapping it all up: ت