New road, old road

This bit is about a road. Or two roads actually.







But before I elaborate on them, I have to share some very sad news. Jamie, the girl with whom I've stayed twice at the the farm in Merke (Kazakhstan) has been in a terrible accident. She was in a taxi with at least two other passengers when a truck hit them. Two of her fellow travellers did not survive the crash. She fortunately did, but has been in a coma ever since. The US government has done a great job in bringing her back to the states (via a military base in Kyrgyzstan, an army hospital in Afghanistan and Rammstein in Germany). Here she receives some of the finest health care and her situation has stabilised, but she still has to wake up. My thoughts are with her and her family and I hope with all my heart that she finds the path back to them.

Road accidents. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the danger that comes with the road and the traffic that it bears. Just after I had left home, my cousin and good friend Geert informed me that two guys that we both knew, had died in accidents during the holidays. One had fallen off his bike, with his helmet dangling at the handle-bar; the other was struck by lightning whilst sleeping in a tent. Two times bad luck. Two guys in their prime. When you hear something like this your thoughts go out to the beloved ones that they leave behind. So did mine. And as I could relate all too easily to the circumstances in which they had died, it did occupy my thoughts a lot in the beginning.

And now this terrible reminder of the danger that comes with reckless driving. Accidents soon happen, and once you start thinking about danger, there aren't many things you can do without being afraid. But cycling on freeways is of course riskier than walking to the bus stop, catching a bus (although 'catching a bus' could be painful too). The other day my friend Daniel compared me to a plastic bag, floating in the wind. In a way you are indeed just as vulnerable.

From the very start I told myself: concentrate. And wear your helmet. (For this I have to thank Theresa, who was shocked after I had told her that I felt that a helmet would go at the expense of freedom. "Bist du Krank imf Kopf?! You have to wear a helmet!") It was only when I was about to leave my parents' place, and I saw that helmet lying on the shelf in the hallway, that I decided to take her advise at heart and wear the damn thing. Now I feel naked without it.
But a helmet won't safe you from an incoming truck. Nor does a rickety old Kazakh taxi. Dear Jamie, I know you're strong like the trees in the picture, come back fast!

There are two roads going from Tehran to Esfahan, a new one and an old one. The new one has 2 or 3 lanes both ways with a separation in between, and hard shoulders for emergency stops. The old one is mainly one way in both directions and has no emergency lanes of significance. Every now and then, there's bits of tarmac on the right side of the white lining (if there's white lining), but as a cyclist you're mostly battling over the same space as the motorised users.

Benno, the Swiss cyclist that I met in Mashhad, has lent me his road map of Iran. With it came a healthy piece of advise: "When you leave Tehran, take the new road. The old road has all the trucks, the new road has emergency lanes", as he got stuck with the trucks three years ago. And indeed, the road verge served as my private cycle lane. It's far from pleasant to cycle 150 kilometres with 4 to 6 lanes of speeding passenger cars next to you, but at least they are 2 to 3 meters away.

The first indications after Tehran say: 'Last road to Qom', instead of 'Old road to Qom', which confused me. "Does this mean this is the last exit for Qom?", I asked myself. But no, it's the exception that establishes the rule. Iran is an extremely well signposted country. All Farsi on the public roads is translated in fine English (sentences like: 'Police control the road imperceptibly'). And they do, which keeps the speed down in general.

I talked about my arrival in Qom in the entry about edible art/art to eat off. Here's an image of one of the meals that Edelat's sister prepared for us:

I thought Qom was an interesting place, even though it's an eternal 'second'. It's the second holiest city of Iran (after Mashhad) and it has the second most important Islamic library in the world. But as so often, it is these places that I enjoy most. It's the people that make the place. Conservative (in stark contrast to my host, who's progressive in thought and action), but interesting. Here are some of the things that caught my eye:

(Pictures: Behind bars)

I must have picked up something of a hand fettish, 'cause the following pictures are all hand orientated. The first pair is unfortunately out of focus. The sun had set, and flash is out of the question as you have to be careful not to get caught while making pictures of women, most-certainly when you don't ask them for permission. And flash would have ruined the colours anyway.

With the girl in the picture I had some sort of an unspoken agreement. She saw me taking pictures, but instead of warning the people around her with a nod, she smiled and made different poses.

On the Astana square, next to the holy shrine that gives Qom its pilgrimage status, I met a bunch of Afghan ring sellers. That they are Afghan I know because of Edelat. Afghan and Iranian people are very alike to me, and I wouldn't have made this distinction. Now that I do know, I imagine the bitterness they must feel. Degraded to street vendours with nothing else to display their goods than their hands. Before they left/fled their homes, they probably had a store, maybe for jewelery, maybe for something totally different. Or perhaps they went to university in Kabul or Herat and are actually equipped to make jet engines. To me, the facial expression of the first vendour speaks volumes.

From Qom, I continued my ride to Kashan. This time I took the old road, as Edelat had advised me to do. Most trucks join the passenger cars on the new road from here, so the old road is a better deal. On this stretch some of the drama caused by the new road can be seen. Abandoned road houses. Once enjoying a good economy from the passers-by, now with windows shattered and weeds creeping in.

Kashan is a lovely place, famous for some restored old houses where rich families used to live. Courtyards, columns, hammams (bath houses based in the cellar); all beautifully decorated. To give you a taste, this peacock is made of mirror, but due to the sunlight and coloured glass opposite of it, it gets this wonderful colouration.

Kashan is also home to a fantastic basaar. One of the men that I met here let me on top of the roof (mud-brick cupola's), from where I had a view on the surrounding mountains and the setting sun. Zoomed in it looked like this:

I had a remarkable encounter in Kashan, but I won't make this entry longer than it already is, and save it for a separate post.

The next day I cycled to Natanz, most famous for the nuclear sight nearby. When I passed here (it's situated next to the old road) I was stopped three times by different officials, on a stretch no longer than half a kilometre. The third time I started to lose my patience.

1. man in pick-up, uniform with three stars on shoulder: where you're from, where you're going, passport, "no pictures!"
2. two guys in army pick-up, uniform, no stars: where from, where to, wait here... I wait. Wait. Start having lunch. Then third guy arrives who tells me in rubbish English: "sitting no, pictures no till Natanz." I wouldn't have sat there if they wouldn't have stopped me in the first place.
3. two police officers on motorcycle, with sirens! No more than 50 meters after the previous halt. Same questions, this time I also had to explain the pictures on my camera. As there was also one picture of me almost kicking a woman in the face (this is part of the 'remarkable encounter' story that I will unfold in the next entry), I had a tough time doing so.

Anyways, in Natanz I saw the mosque depicted below. It was the trees that made it interesting. The second picture shows my wrinkled tent after I had pitched it for the first time since route 44.

It was cold that night. By now I was in the mountains, and the next morning I had to continue the climb up. Uphill, headwind, luggage: 3 ingredients to make me really tired. I had a tea to regain strength and that's where I met these 3 friends. The guy with the black hair spoke a bit of English, which made a conversation possible. The guy with the hat asked all the questions. The guy with the hoodie was a bit shy. But they were good company. Refueled I made it to the top.

By now I've arrived twice in Esfahan. How? It'll all become clear in the next story.

Esfahan, often called 'the pearl of Persia', and for me it was also love at first sight. A river, magnificent, century old bridges and a huge square (again a second, only the Tiananmen square in Beijing is apparently bigger), which used to be called 'Naqsh-e Jahan', meaning 'Pattern of the World'. It was rebranded to 'Imam square', but luckily for the city, the Esfahani's prove themselves to be resilient.

Some of my first impressions:

(Pictures: cyclebeasts at Khaju bridge; some of the guys had cycles of the brand 'Viva', and that's exactly what it felt like: alive!)

(Pictures: left-overs of the Friday mosque; I love the pistachio shell above the prayer stones)

Ironically it is in this city of details that I am the guest of someone who has a house like a museum. Really, I could spend all day gazing at the different 'exhibitions' in the rooms: classic Hollywood stars, dragons, butterflies, African statues, pieces of coral, stones, tons of books, music (there are piles of LP's right next to where I sit at the moment), aquaria, carpets... And this is just what I see if I look away from the screen..

To end these two roads that proved to have many exits, two messages of love. As Marvin Gaye sang to me today: only love will conquer all. Hate, coma, suppression.. And now I have to quit before this turns into a sermon.

(Musicians at the conference of 'Messengers of Peace and Friendship'; they intend to travel to 100 countries to spread the message of peace. The lead singer has a fantastic voice.)