Spot the tent.
On 01-01-10 I left Mashhad. With a good feeling and the leftover 'oliebollen' of the night before (great cycle food!) I set out to Tehran, a bit more than 900 kilometres away. Nine days of cycling, back-to-back, with an average of more than 100 kilometres and two monumental sights a day. Statistics check, on to the description, which is more interesting anyway.
There are two roads connecting Mashhad (northeast) with the capital: one that runs through the mountains that demarcate the border between Turkmenistan and Iran, and one that runs through the desert south of these mountains. I am sure the road through the hills is very beautiful (and challenging), but weather-wise this wasn't very attractive with lots of rain as you get closer to the Caspian Sea. So road 44 through the desert it was.
I left around noon on that digital date. Getting back into the rhythm, warming up the muscles and habituating myself to the Persian driving habits, I made a bit more than 70 kilometres that day. I camped some 300-400 meters away from the road, close to Sharifabad in some fields, protected from the strong wind that had been bugging me by a small embankment. It rained that night. Not a bad spot, but nothing compared to the places where I would end the days to come. This part of the ride had some of the most beautiful camping spots so far.
The next day something happened that I could not believe.
A guy stopped his car in front of me, got out and told me to stop. Or, at first I didn't realise that he wanted me to stop, so I zoomed passed him. When I heard: "Wooohooohooo!" I slowed down and turned around. The man came towards me and gave me apples and cucumber. For your trip.
That's what the Iranians mean when they tell you they are very hospitable. At first I thought, "yeah, sure, like the rest of us", but then I asked myself: "Did this happen to me before?" And the answer is no. I met great people on the road, was offered to stay in their places (often after signaling that I needed a shelter badly), got tea in tea houses for free, the odd bottle of water, but never had people actually stopping their cars to give me food.
From left to right: vinegar peanuts (yummy!), two donuts, dried plums and berries, a candy-bar and a cake (the man spoke a bit of German and asked me a few times: "Kann ich dir irgendwo behilflich sein?"), then a meal of rice, lentils and some cuts of veal, and a package of cookies and a fizzy drink (Parsi Cola).
So my list of friendliest people has changed:
- Iranian (for the reason mentioned above)
- Igor, my friend in Tashkent, who crossed town to come and clean my bike. He also got a new saddle for me when mine broke (sorry mate, you just went down a notch, but as you're competing against whole populations, you shouldn't feel bad about it ; ))
- Ukrainian (remember that afternoon in the village with all the meals? The man with the golden smile even ran after me to hand me some walnuts. I am aware that my love runs through the stomach at the moment.. The other day someone told me: "You are not a man, you are an eating machine!")
The second day brought me to a deserted village that according to the signpost is called Kalateh Hajmola. The dwellings are made of clay. Gradually they crumble down. Dust to dust. I don't know exactly how long it has been, but that night the scent of a simple but nutritious meal could be smelled again.
The biker of Sabzevar
If I remember correctly I passed through Sabzevar the next day, where I met this brave biker. I made pictures of him while cycling, he made pictures of me with the camera on his mobile phone.
It was difficult to leave Sabzevar. At first I forgot my phone that I had put recharging in a tea house. When I got to the city limits I remembered it and cycled back. By the time my phone was back in my pocket and I got to the border of town, I made a quick stop to get some chocolate. The god of dental health care must have disagreed, 'cause right at that moment my rear tire exploded. I must have driven over a nail or something, both the tube and the tire had a puncture the size of ballpoint. I put my bike on the pavement, took the bags off and started preparing the repair.
In no-time I was surrounded by guys, who all started speaking Farsi to me at the same time. Or rather shouting Farsi at me. Annoyed as I was with the tire, I didn't have the patience to try to understand what they were saying, and it was pretty obvious anyway what had happened and that I didn't like it. I imitated one of them, and from that moment on it was clear to them that a helping hand was more welcome than all kinds of questions that I didn't understand. Like this the repair didn't take more than a quarter of an hour and when I was about to put my air tool to inflate the tube, one of them took it away from me and started pumping. A younger guy didn't think he did it fast enough, so he grabbed the tool and tire and started pumping frantically. An older guy who was standing behind me tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at the young guy and make the same pumping movement at hip height. It was a pretty funny moment.
That night I found another perfect camping spot. At sunset the vegetation of the desert coloured red. The snow-capped mountains behind it, the clouds.. Not to forget the mosaic of dry earth that served as carpet. It really is the stuff of fairy-tales.
When I got to Shahrud some days after, I decided to go and have a look at the village of Bastam. It's home to a complex of mausolea and a biker (part of the tombs can be seen behind the biker of Bastam). I came for the sight, but the cycle was what made it worthwhile.
In Semnan I saw one of the oldest mosques in the country. The minaret above stands very close to it. Work of art.
I think it was that night that I got to place that serves as the title picture of this entry. Fantastic sloping hills of soft sand (many tracks of motorcycles), an old sheep farm (the next day I had to sneak passed a monstrous dog; I got rabbis shots, but with the dogs that I have seen wandering about in Iran you don't want to mess..) and a massive rock sticking out of the ground that made my tent look very small.
Another constant on this ride were the caravansarais that date back to the times of the silk road. Some of them are preserved, but the majority is slowly being eroded by water and wind (and careless people I suppose; in many you can see the remains of bonfires and the rubbish of picnics and barbecues).
One afternoon I was having tea somewhere when the son of the house, whom I had showed my pictures, told me he knew a place that would interest me. It was the caravansarai on the picture below.
Outside, I met this desert person. I think the people of the desert are beautiful
The last night before I would paddle into town, I cycled up a hill where I found a radio tower on top. I don't think it was allowed to camp there, but I did so anyway as I didn't want to go down all the way in order to look for another place. I had a view over some hills.
This is a long exposure picture of the hills opposite my camp. In between you can see the reflection of the street lights of the 44. When I looked at this picture by the time I got to Tehran, it reminded me of dagger. A golden blade cutting through the night.
The next day I made the final etappe into Tehran. My friend Daniel, whom I've met here, wrote a poem about the 44 into Tehran on one of the days that we had agreed to meet and he was waiting for me. He doesn't think it is poetry, but I do:
تهران / Tehran
Roaring along 44, Tehran sucks you in, like a massive, sprawling organism of a city,
feeding on the foul mass of traffic which hurls headlong with reckless abandon
Towards the monster motor city. Passing through vile suburbs such as Pakdasht.
Once a quiet village, now witness to the hideous traffic which snarls endlessly round Tehran.
Chimneys belch out smoke, casting a sickly brown light from the low sun.
Cars, bikes and trucks hurl past, undertaking, overtaking, weaving through
one has no option but to join the locals in their lawless aggression,
tailgating, squeezing in, playing chicken with two cars to squeeze through a narrow gap.
Like a charge of wild steeds galloping home out of control.
Then slotting onto the system of expressways, superfast masses of cars
flowing under bridges, round twisted spaghetti junctions.
Moments only ...
And then I arrived at the meeting point (later I would learn that what follows is the lack of time to take the right exit, but I like the ending as it is). It is indeed pretty much like this. I describe it as skiing on a black slope and playing tetris at the same time. You only mind the people that are in front of you, and you try to fill every bit of space that the tarmac has to offer and that your predecessors haven't used yet. And all this at full speed. In Tehran it somehow works.
Spot the tent.
On 01-01-10 I left Mashhad. With a good feeling and the leftover 'oliebollen' of the night before (great cycle food!) I set out to Tehran, a bit more than 900 kilometres away. Nine days of cycling, back-to-back, with an average of more than 100 kilometres and two monumental sights a day. Statistics check, on to the description, which is more interesting anyway.
There are two roads connecting Mashhad (northeast) with the capital: one that runs through the mountains that demarcate the border between Turkmenistan and Iran, and one that runs through the desert south of these mountains. I am sure the road through the hills is very beautiful (and challenging), but weather-wise this wasn't very attractive with lots of rain as you get closer to the Caspian Sea. So road 44 through the desert it was.
I left around noon on that digital date. Getting back into the rhythm, warming up the muscles and habituating myself to the Persian driving habits, I made a bit more than 70 kilometres that day. I camped some 300-400 meters away from the road, close to Sharifabad in some fields, protected from the strong wind that had been bugging me by a small embankment. It rained that night. Not a bad spot, but nothing compared to the places where I would end the days to come. This part of the ride had some of the most beautiful camping spots so far.
The next day something happened that I could not believe.
A guy stopped his car in front of me, got out and told me to stop. Or, at first I didn't realise that he wanted me to stop, so I zoomed passed him. When I heard: "Wooohooohooo!" I slowed down and turned around. The man came towards me and gave me apples and cucumber. For your trip.
That's what the Iranians mean when they tell you they are very hospitable. At first I thought, "yeah, sure, like the rest of us", but then I asked myself: "Did this happen to me before?" And the answer is no. I met great people on the road, was offered to stay in their places (often after signaling that I needed a shelter badly), got tea in tea houses for free, the odd bottle of water, but never had people actually stopping their cars to give me food.
From left to right: vinegar peanuts (yummy!), two donuts, dried plums and berries, a candy-bar and a cake (the man spoke a bit of German and asked me a few times: "Kann ich dir irgendwo behilflich sein?"), then a meal of rice, lentils and some cuts of veal, and a package of cookies and a fizzy drink (Parsi Cola).
So my list of friendliest people has changed: 
The second day brought me to a deserted village that according to the signpost is called Kalateh Hajmola. The dwellings are made of clay. Gradually they crumble down. Dust to dust. I don't know exactly how long it has been, but that night the scent of a simple but nutritious meal could be smelled again.
The biker of Sabzevar
If I remember correctly I passed through Sabzevar the next day, where I met this brave biker. I made pictures of him while cycling, he made pictures of me with the camera on his mobile phone.
It was difficult to leave Sabzevar. At first I forgot my phone that I had put recharging in a tea house. When I got to the city limits I remembered it and cycled back. By the time my phone was back in my pocket and I got to the border of town, I made a quick stop to get some chocolate. The god of dental health care must have disagreed, 'cause right at that moment my rear tire exploded. I must have driven over a nail or something, both the tube and the tire had a puncture the size of ballpoint. I put my bike on the pavement, took the bags off and started preparing the repair.
In no-time I was surrounded by guys, who all started speaking Farsi to me at the same time. Or rather shouting Farsi at me. Annoyed as I was with the tire, I didn't have the patience to try to understand what they were saying, and it was pretty obvious anyway what had happened and that I didn't like it. I imitated one of them, and from that moment on it was clear to them that a helping hand was more welcome than all kinds of questions that I didn't understand. Like this the repair didn't take more than a quarter of an hour and when I was about to put my air tool to inflate the tube, one of them took it away from me and started pumping. A younger guy didn't think he did it fast enough, so he grabbed the tool and tire and started pumping frantically. An older guy who was standing behind me tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at the young guy and make the same pumping movement at hip height. It was a pretty funny moment.
That night I found another perfect camping spot. At sunset the vegetation of the desert coloured red. The snow-capped mountains behind it, the clouds.. Not to forget the mosaic of dry earth that served as carpet. It really is the stuff of fairy-tales.
When I got to Shahrud some days after, I decided to go and have a look at the village of Bastam. It's home to a complex of mausolea and a biker (part of the tombs can be seen behind the biker of Bastam). I came for the sight, but the cycle was what made it worthwhile.
In Semnan I saw one of the oldest mosques in the country. The minaret above stands very close to it. Work of art.
I think it was that night that I got to place that serves as the title picture of this entry. Fantastic sloping hills of soft sand (many tracks of motorcycles), an old sheep farm (the next day I had to sneak passed a monstrous dog; I got rabbis shots, but with the dogs that I have seen wandering about in Iran you don't want to mess..) and a massive rock sticking out of the ground that made my tent look very small.
Another constant on this ride were the caravansarais that date back to the times of the silk road. Some of them are preserved, but the majority is slowly being eroded by water and wind (and careless people I suppose; in many you can see the remains of bonfires and the rubbish of picnics and barbecues).
One afternoon I was having tea somewhere when the son of the house, whom I had showed my pictures, told me he knew a place that would interest me. It was the caravansarai on the picture below.
Outside, I met this desert person. I think the people of the desert are beautiful
The last night before I would paddle into town, I cycled up a hill where I found a radio tower on top. I don't think it was allowed to camp there, but I did so anyway as I didn't want to go down all the way in order to look for another place. I had a view over some hills.
This is a long exposure picture of the hills opposite my camp. In between you can see the reflection of the street lights of the 44. When I looked at this picture by the time I got to Tehran, it reminded me of dagger. A golden blade cutting through the night.
The next day I made the final etappe into Tehran. My friend Daniel, whom I've met here, wrote a poem about the 44 into Tehran on one of the days that we had agreed to meet and he was waiting for me. He doesn't think it is poetry, but I do:
تهران / Tehran
Roaring along 44, Tehran sucks you in, like a massive, sprawling organism of a city,
feeding on the foul mass of traffic which hurls headlong with reckless abandon
Towards the monster motor city. Passing through vile suburbs such as Pakdasht.
Once a quiet village, now witness to the hideous traffic which snarls endlessly round Tehran.
Chimneys belch out smoke, casting a sickly brown light from the low sun.
Cars, bikes and trucks hurl past, undertaking, overtaking, weaving through
one has no option but to join the locals in their lawless aggression,
tailgating, squeezing in, playing chicken with two cars to squeeze through a narrow gap.
Like a charge of wild steeds galloping home out of control.
Then slotting onto the system of expressways, superfast masses of cars
flowing under bridges, round twisted spaghetti junctions.
Moments only ...
And then I arrived at the meeting point (later I would learn that what follows is the lack of time to take the right exit, but I like the ending as it is). It is indeed pretty much like this. I describe it as skiing on a black slope and playing tetris at the same time. You only mind the people that are in front of you, and you try to fill every bit of space that the tarmac has to offer and that your predecessors haven't used yet. And all this at full speed. In Tehran it somehow works.
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