Real

This is Malouka. I asked her to smile for the picture. Instead she imitated my gesture. At the time I thought, why doesn't she understand? Later I understood what she'd meant. Why do we have to smile at pictures?












I finished the book I was reading. Mixed feelings, as I really liked it. You want it to continue, to keep on giving you that feeling of involvement in the lives of the characters in the story. On the other hand, the end was good as it is, it sort of had to be like this, although it wasn't predictable. I think that's what defines a good end. Have to find a new read though, as I am facing a train journey to Quetta that might take up to 45 hours.
One of the characters of the book I'm talking about, 'Sunset Oasis' of Bahaa Taher, an Egyptian author, is Maleeka. She lives in a isolated desert community. Large amounts of sand on all sides separate the people of the oasis from anyone else. Like often is the case with small, isolated communities, where people have to put up with one another for far too long, superstition, rivalry, and boredom take over. Maleeka however, was untouched by these shortcomings. She is described as inquisitive and cheerful, eager to learn and bustling with energy.
Stricking to arrive in a small village, and see Malouka, who's chasing goats, frolicking around, and building little houses from the rubble that's left of the latest construction. It was as if the Maleeka of my imagination had come to life, only to have her name changed in Malouka.



But before all this I spend a weekend in Shahvar, a small village close to Minab where Parvis, Abtin's friend, who I'd spoke with on the boat back from Qeshm, had invited me to a garden. A garden should be understood as a small farm in the countryside. This one had a swimming pool that we filled with a ground water brought to the surface by an electrical pump. A reasonable sized pool filled in less than an hour with fresh water. Impressive.


(Picture: cyclist after the rain in Bandar Abbas.)

This weekend it also became clear to me how the smuggling business works. I'd heard that the harbour of Bandar Abbas sees a lot of illegal droppings at night, but I hadn't really asked myself the question what might be smuggled in. Of course: alcohol. And these guys know where to find it. There's something delightfully dodgy in driving into town in an old Mitsubishi with blinded windows - four men eating sunflower seeds as if it's a virtue -and asking some guys that hang about underneath a street light where the beers can be found. Red Horse, 8 percent Thai beer in half liter cans. A whole day long.


(Picture: the night before; from left to right: Abtin, Parviz, Koen, Saeed, Hashen, Hossein and Mr. Grant.)

Then I continued (slightly dried out, but this type of pain is easy to bear) to Sirik, where I camped that night on the very last dune before the waves of the Persian Gulf. Nice and quiet, I thought. Not. This was Sunset Boulevard. Pick-up's, motorcycles, a herd of dromedaries (they call them camels here, but they only have one hump)... And all of them came to have a look at my temporary home. I welcomed them, feeling that finally I could do something in return. And it kept some of the musquitoes at bay, as I wasn't the sole target anymore.
Another thing that has changed during this journey. In the beginning I was anxious not to be found by strangers. Now I find that it adds to the atmosphere when a passerby stops and sits down for a chat. One problem remains though, the language barrier that we have to bridge for the chat to take place. Many things were told to me that I didn't understand. I wish I could download Farsi into my brain and that I could have a conversation with these people. Not being able to read the script makes it really hard to take on a new language. I worked my way around cyrillic, which is not that remote from the Latin script. But Farsi.. I don't make it passed question number 2 of the standard Q&A time I've described before. So I guess what they want, what they mean. But what's real? I've got hunches, but no certainties.
In this respect I am looking forward to Pakistan. I've been told that 1 in 3 speaks English. I know it's a sad fact if you put it in a historical context, but I welcome the practical implication of it.


(Pictures: two dromedaries shaping the four of diamonds, and their shepherd. If I were to wear a turban, it would choose one like he has.)

A few days after I'd read about Maleeka, I arrived to Gezmi. I actually was on my way to Vanak, a small village that's situated at the coast of the Gulf of Oman, but when I finally reached the sea, there was no road that would lead to Vanak, other than the beach itself. Ali, a fisherman who was done for the day, came to me and asked me where I wanted to go. Vanak I said. "Hmm, beach, or my house", was his reply. As I had tried cycling on Sunset Boulevard before, the answer was "your house". His house was in Gezmi, a village so small that it didn't show on my map.


(Picture: Ali, behind him the house where I slept that night.)

Ali is Baluchi. The Baluchis form a proud ethnic minority, who mainly live in the southeast of Iran, but who belong to a much larger community that inhabits also Southwest-Pakistan and southern Afghanistan. It's my impression that Baluchis have large families and many friends. I spend most of the night in a room full of boys and men, all wearing the traditional shalwar qameez, a long dress shirt and baggy pants of the same colour and cloth. Sometimes someone left, only to make room for the next guy to arrive. I complemented them on their dress, and immediately someone went to get me a set of other cloths, but instead of bringing me my own qameez, they brought me a red polo shirt and a pair of training pants. I felt more a tourist than ever before during this trip. Their intention was to make me feel comfortable.


(Picture: guys in Minab having a good time.)

Which brings me to the 'tourist vs. traveller' discussion I've been having. When I first set out on this journey, I told myself, you're a tourist like all other people that leave their home to see another part of the world. Sometimes I talk about this with other tourists/travellers and for some of them, the word 'tourist' indicates too much 'mass' and 'tour groups'. They refer to themselves rather as travellers. I told them, your style might be different, but still, you are doing basically the same.


(Pictures: Sarah and Malouka, and Sarah wrapping her headscarf around her head.)

However, the other day whilst listening to a tour guide that had to accompany a group that I joined when we left Yazd (police order!) I defined the concepts of tourism and travelling anew. The man asked me what I knew about this and that, and then started to spit out information as if someone had pressed 'play'. This really raised an aversion in me, and I tried to figure out why. I like to find out for myself, first of all. But I also like to learn. But why couldn't I accept it from this man? I guess it had to do with the standardised way in which he brought the lesson. I was nothing more than another foreigner who he would fill in on the details. And of course this information came at a price. Not that I was paying for it, but that notion is still there when you listen to a professional. But why would I deny this man his way of making a living? I find it intolerant of myself, but apparently I like to learn from normal people, not from professionals. Somehow it gets more real like that.
Here's how I theorised what I tried to explain above. Picture an x- and y-graph. On the x-axis you put 'money', on the y-axis 'time'. With the help of these two indicators, you can estimate if you are more of a traveller or a tourist. The closer to x (much money, not much time), the more you are a tourist. The closer to y (not a dime to spend, but bags of time to give), the more you are a traveller. I think I'm somewhere in the middle: people won't get exactly rich by meeting me, but I've got quite a bit of time to spend with them.
Where's the need for all this? I don't know, if you are solo-cycling your mind sort of wanders off from time to time and you start conceptualising things.


(Picture: Abdul Rafaq who invited me for lunch on a 30+ degree afternoon. Rice with some chunks of fish, tomatoes with onion and a plate full of fresh watermelon. It hit the spot. Not to forget the fresh lemonade that tasted as if little angels peed on my tongue.)

I don't now how to link it to any of the above, but I was confronted with a very sad reality on one of last week's nights. It all started in Jask, where I found out that I had forgotten a USB-stick in the internet shop in Bandar Abbas. On a number of occasions I told people that asked me upon departure: "you didn't forget anything?", that things you forget you don't really need. Well, I proved myself wrong. I wanted that USB back, as it has 2 gigabyte of travel guides of which I make print-outs when I cross the described territory, and a lot of music gifted by people along the way. I could have done without these things, but I just didn't want to. So I did the maths. It will cost me a day to go to and from Bandar and 18 dollars for the taxi. Replacing the flash drive would cost more. And I've got time. So I parked my cycle at the Iranian Red Crescent (golden guys, no matter where you knock on their door), and got myself in the car.
On my way back I noticed how the jagged mountains that I'd crossed before resemble shark fins. As if a school of giant sharks had fossilised when the ocean they were swimming in turned to sand.

Got to Bandar. Made the pick up. Hurried back to the taxi stand.


(Pictures: gecko at the beach and Koen in the taxi waiting room.)

On my way back Hossein the cab driver kept me company; or the other way around, depending how you look at it. After a long wait at the taxi office in Minab, the connecting station, his car had finally filled up with a mullah and his family. This man.. really, as if he had walked straight out of Bin Laden's cave. Strong black beard, a turban wrapped loosely around his head, long white cloths draped around his slim body and a pale green fisherman's jacket (one with many pockets on the front side) to complete the picture. Only the Kalashnikov hanging careless on one shoulder was missing. His wife was dressed in an all concealing black burka. His children liked kebab. Nice people actually.
They got out in Kuh Mobarak, halfway to Jask. Immediately after Hossein turned up the volume as we continued our way. About 20 kilometres further we came across a truck that was driving slowly on the emergency lane, confused. Another 100 metres down the road we understood why. It had hit a dromedary. A pragnant dromedary, and the impact of the crash had torn open the stomach of the soon-to-be mother and had thrown the unborn calf on the tarmac. From the darkness of its mother's womb to the dark of night. It hadn't see the sunlight once. Food for the fossilised sharks.
Hossein and another passerby understood what had to be done in order to prevent other accidents from happening. They went for the box of tissues that can be found in every Iranian car and prepared to drag the animals from the street. I, first in shock, then helped. An adult dromedary weighs more than 200 kilos easily, so it was hard labour to get her removed. Luckily she had died at once, as many of run into animals live on for some time in agonising pain.
The smell of the dromedary got stuck into our skin and could still be sensed the next morning after we had washed our hands multiple times with soap. (Hossein had invited me to his house, as the events of that night had created a bond.)


(Picture: Hossein's mother in a traditional Bandari burka.)

The last couple of days of cycling to Chabahar were warm. I camped in this dry territory, where some trees have stuck it out for years on end. A big contrast with some of the fertile parts I crossed. Whenever there's a sweet water river running through this area you can find date palms, bushes, even banana plantations. (No bridges, so I had to wade through the water, which was fun!)


(Pictures: my tent and my feet.)

Driving into Chabahar I came across Sarakhs Square, symbolic as this was where I finished my ride in Iran, and Sarakhs, is the village where I entered Iran some 11 weeks ago.
In Chabahar I didn't do much more than booking a ticket for the bus to Zahedan. On the station a special encounter awaited me though. Cami was waiting for the bus to Tehran, barely recovered from the stroke of bad luck that had come his way. His smuggling business had just come to light, which had cost him a great deal of money and made him lose all he had. He and some associates smuggled cheap petrol from Iran to Pakistan with a fishing boat. According to Cami the fishing ship had become obsolete as there was no more fish to catch. During the last couple of years foreign ships had come (Korean, Japanese) that emptied the Gulf. "We're heading towards zero point", he sighed.
This wasn't the only setback in Cami's life. He has been a political prisoner for 10 years, after which he managed to get to Europe. There he stayed for several years; in Oostende in Belgium among other places. He reminisced cycle trips he used to make from there to Brugge and Blankenberge. "A lot of wind!", he told me. And in this one of the biggest errs of his life lies. He went back, sick of the bad weather. How he'd like to live now in the miserable weather conditions of the Flemmish countryside..
We spoke frankly about several more things, and at one point he told me flat out: I might be a communist. At that moment I knew for whom I'd been carrying one and a half kilo of 'selected works' for more than 5000 kilometres.


(Picture: Cami the commi)