On The Road

I know it will be a long day so I leave Khorramabad early, apparently too early to get some breakfast. I get gas at the other end of town because the gas station in front of my hotel has been closed since yesterday. With some help I get out of town and with a lot of asking I find the road through the Zagros mountains. The mountain roads have been spectacular so far and I want to continue to ride them as much as possible. It’s another beautiful day and along meadows sprinkled with poppies,

past nomad’s tents

I ride to the small village of Bished

where I park my bike and take a ten minute hike to a waterfall below the village.

The waterfall is stunningly beautiful, just don’t turn around because the place is completely trashed. People have managed to haul the junk here. Why they can’t take it with them I will never understand. On my way back to the bike a family starts talking to me and we study the map together. As I thought, I have to ride back 20km before I’ll be able to continue through the mountains to Esfahan. The men tells me I know the roads better than him. I don’t know about that.

In the next village I see a bunch of dead sheep lined up at the side of the road and blood stains on the road. Intended killing or road kill? Probably the later, otherwise they wouldn’t be laying in the midday sun, I hope. A dog is taking a bite.

I carry on for a while and eventually make my way down through some switchbacks to dusty Sefid Dasht, which sits in a small valley surrounded by high mountains.

The town looks a bit rough around the edges, as you would expect in this location. I stop and buy some cold drinks and food, since I haven’t had anything to eat yet. I ride out of town, up the mountains on the other side and the road deteriorates rapidly. I drive through a number of goat herds and the herders confirm that this is my road. I spot a shaded place next to a little stream and decide to take my lunch break.

After lunch I find myself once again on good tarmac after a few more kilometers. I pass many nomad tents and tiny villages

with beautiful mountain backdrops.

Once again the tarmac disappears and I find myself on a dirt road. I come across two guys trying to fix a broken down dozer and confirm once more that this is my road. They invite me for tea but I want to keep moving. I just hope the dozer hasn’t been broken for long and the road is in a reasonable shape. I climb up a mountain again and reach the pass at 2960m. The road forks a few times on the way up and I stay on what looks like the most used road

On the pass I meet an older couple from Aligudarz who confirm my choice of road and invite me for tea and cookies. As I come down it’s just dry dusty mountains.

The road now alternates between dirt, excellent tarmac, and disintegrated tarmac and I have to go slow, never knowing what is around the next bend. As the area flattens out I look back one last time before heading to the highway

OK, one more look

Once I reach the highway I’m surprised how well maintained it is and how little traffic there is. It’s four lanes with about 200m between the opposite directions. I let it rip and sure enough I get pulled over by a cop with a laser gun. Luckily I was only doing 110 km/h in that section which is the speed limit. He wants to see my passport and asks me where I’m from. Ah Germany, he points to his parked Mercedes and says “Very good”. He then gives me the sign to go slow and waves me on. Very nice cop. I see a few more radar traps along the way but they leave me alone. At one point the semi in front of me decides to switch lanes for no apparent reason, as they often do, and I have to hit the breaks hard. As I do this my pants are getting wet. Oops, what just happened? Not what you think. I hit the breaks hard enough to slide forward in my seat and the mouthpiece of my camel bag gets caught between me and the tank bag and releases some water. Nice and cool. I should do this more often.

At a gas station I have something to eat and have a chat with a Kurdish biker gang (their words) on 50cc motorcycles. I use the Zumo with the Iman Square GPS coordinates and the location of the river to find the way to my hotel without a single wrong turn. Just 1km before my hotel an overzealous cop pulls me over and wants to see the passport again. He doesn’t say a word and waves me on. I check into the trusty Iran Hotel, where I have stayed on my last visit, and three of us maneuver the bike up some stairs into the lobby where it now sits under the hijab. After a shower I walk down the street to the Venice restaurant. The only thing authentically Italian about this place are the snotty waiters – one with a recent nose job – but they have a salad buffet and pasta. A welcome break from the monotonous Iran restaurant kebabs.

Because I have been to Esfahan there is no real sightseeing pressure and I can just relax and enjoy the city. I settle into a nice routine: Go to a park, read, eat ice cream, nap, start over, maybe do a bit of sightseeing early in the morning or late in the afternoon. The Iran hotel is reasonably priced and there is no rush to leave town. Compared to my last visit in early March the parks are now green, the fountains are on and Esfahanis and local tourists are out in droves, especially in the evening.

This is the only place in Iran were I see no camping signs and surprisingly it is actually enforced.

Especially Imam square comes alive around sunset. It’s just filled with people having picnics, playing games, smoking a qalyan and generally having a good time.

The boys and girls play football

One of the nights I’m there, taking pictures of the Imam mosque, I hear someone shouting my name. Hm, that face looks familiar. It’s the guy who gave me some free ice cream in Borujerd. He is here with his extended family and I’m introduced to all of them and we take a group shot. Mum asks me how old I am and is very worried about me, traveling all by myself. She points out that her son, who is the same age, at least has a (very attractive) fiance. Not much I can say about that.

Another day I go to the Khaju bridge for sunset and listen to the guys sing and recite poetry under bridge. The singing sounds very unusual for Western ears. A bit like a stuttering yodel attempt with a sour throat but at the same time it is actually very melodic and it sounds like it is very hard to do. Most of the songs are an interaction between two or more guys under different arches of the bridge or some distance away. Even if you don’t understand the words it’s just beautiful. I’m glad some kind soul told me about this daily ritual the last time I was here.

I spend half a day looking for a lens cap to replace the one I lost a few days ago. The first one I find costs $10 and I tell the guy to get back to watching TV because he is better at that than running a business. I finally find another used camera and repair shop not far from my hotel and have a lovely chat with the old chap running it, reminescing about the old Russian Zenit and East German Pratica SLRs I used to own and he still sells. I’m briefly tempted to buy a medium format camera but with space limited on the bike I decide against it. Nearby is a top photographer and I consider to have my portrait taken.

I do get around to do some sightseeing eventually:

Imam Square at night

Chehel Sotun Palace

Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque

Imam Mosque

Bazaar

During my extended stay in Esfahan I had plenty of time to take some pictures of the locals. Other tourists miss the obvious shot

If you think all the women shuffle about in black with their faces fully covered your are very much mistaken. Esfahan women can be very fashionable and they are not afraid to talk to you or even flirt with you.

Men holding hands is very much OK in this part of the world

Some wear black,

some wear something more colorful

The kids are having fun in the fountain. A gardener tries to keep them out with not much success.

Local bikers