On The Road

In the morning I have a very sparse breakfast and walk around town for a while. I find a very kitschy fountain

and it seems the town is gearing up for what I believe to be Khamenei’s birthday.

Another one of the ubiquitous roundabout statues catches my eye

and some propaganda posters are hard to overlook.

As promised I call Mohsen on my cell and he shows up ten minutes later to guide me out of town. I actually want to go the Katal Khor cave be he insists it is rubbish and I should go to the Ali-Sadr caves instead, which I already know are the worst Iranian tourist trap. I say no to that one and he insists on sending me off to Hamadan. I don’t want to hurt his feelings and follow him, figuring I can always turn and go to Katal Khor. As we say goodbye at the side of the road a guy comes up to me and wants to see me passport. OK, I hand him my passport and he walks away. I ride the bike to the roadblock ahead and him and another plainclothes guy thumb through my passport, clearly having no idea what they are looking at. He stares at my expired Iranian visa from a previous visit but never looks at the current one. Then he develops an unhealthy interest in my American visas. He finally asks which country I am from. I guess it’s not that easy to find out from the passport. So he radios back and forth with somebody else and finally declares I can go but I am not allowed to stop anywhere or take pictures. We’ll see about that. The way these two characters behaved, the way they dressed and talked very much reminded me of the East German Stasi. I guess small time secret service man on a power trip are the same the world over. Unfortunately, now I have to take the road to Hamadan and can’t turn back to take the road to the cave. I stop as soon as I’m out of sight and study my map and the Zumo map. Looks like I can make my way to the cave anyway. I see some civilian trucks with some military cargo under camouflage nets driving in the other direction. OK, that’s what this was all about. After a few kilometers I turn left on a dirt road taking me past poppies

and timeless mud brick villages

in gentle hills

until Zumo indicates I should take another left and sure enough there is a dirt road which I follow for a few kilometers. After crossing a sealed road I try to pick up the same dirt road behind a little village. I try a few roads but always end up in a river bed. I finally find a road and after a few kilometers two guys on a tractor just stare at me like I’m from outer space. A short time later I run into two teenagers and they tell me that this isn’t the road and I should turn back. I do and follow the sealed road a bit before making another left on a well maintained dirt road. This must be the one! I fly along for some time past some shepherds who’s dogs are chasing me. After another village my beautiful dirt road suddenly deteriorates badly and on top of that it starts to rain. I continue a while longer hoping the rain will stop. Well, it didn’t and the road turns into sticky mud which my tires and I don’t handle too well. So I decide to put my rain gear on and turn back. The cave gets flooded in rain anyway. Once I’m back on the sealed road I follow it in the opposite direction, which I figure will take me back to Bijar. Shortly before Bijar I run into a bunch of military guys at the side of the road. I decide to pack my Zumo away in case the road block guys are still there. I’m lucky and they are gone and I ride toward Hamadan in the rain. In Qorveh a guy almost runs me off the road just because he wants to invite me to his house. No mate, just want to keep going. The traffic from Qorveh to Hamadan is horrendous and at some point I have to take a five minute break to calm down. Luckily the city has an easy layout and is well signposted in English. I find me hotel easily and after negotiating the price down I park my bike in the looked Hotel compound and settle into my room. I have to dry all the stuff from my right pannier, which is not waterproof anymore after the fall at the Karaftu caves. And I thought it wouldn’t rain in Iran!

In the morning I just don’t feel like leaving and I don’t. That’s the beauty of traveling solo. After breakfast I set out to visit the town’s sights.

First stop is the 14th century mausoleum of Esther and Mordecai, Iran’s most important Jewish pilgrimage site. It’s looks a bit misplaced in the middle of a modern city.

The friendly rabbi greets me outside and after telling me to take my boots off leads me inside through the 400kg, well greased, stone slab door.

There are indeed two coffins inside

and a small meeting place. The rabbi gives the grand tour in a mix of Yiddish, English, French, and German, which reminds me of a colleague of mine from Berkeley who always talks and corresponds in the same language mix. So the guy makes me smile and we chat for a while. I learn that the Jewish community in Hamadan has 15 members from 10 families. I wonder what life is like for these people in an Islamic republic. After some more tourist show up I say goodbye and leave after giving a small donation.

I wander through town past stores

and spend some time on the central city square, basically a huge roundabout with a park in the middle, which has a very ugly relief of Khomeini and some scenes from the Iran-Iraq war.

I sit down and watch people for a while. The old guys meet and chat, the young people walk by busily and I see the ultimate Yuppie macho guy in an ill fitting suit. He wears a fancy Bluetooth ear piece, acting all important, and lets his wife carry the phone behind him. I have a look at a cop cruiser

and walk across town, past a shop window full of fake bavarian non-alcoholic beer

and some strange signs (any Farsi speakers here?)

to the mausoleum of Persian poet, physician and philosopher BuAli Sina, known in the west as Avicenna. He died in 1037 but the impossibly ugly mausoleum is from the 50s. Not a decade known for architectural highlights. The best thing that can be said about this place is that there is a lively park next to it.

I walk back to the hotel and take a nap. I wake up by some loud noise which turns out to be a pretty bad hail storm.

Yep, it pays to listen to your inner voice telling you not to get on the bike today.

P.S.: Who says kitsch and energy conservation can’t mix? Clearly the hotel owners have found a way.

I wake up to a blue sky and I’m happy that I didn’t leave yesterday. I get gas and find my way out of town with a local map I got from the hotel. Just outside town I visit some cuneiform rock carvings and a waterfall next to it.

The rock carvings are very underwhelming but since they were made in three different languages they have Rosetta stone like importances. I buy some very tart fruits from a vendor at the waterfall and give him some coaching in English pronunciation. There are a couple of small ski resorts nearby.

The road zigzags through the mountains

to the little village of Oshtoran, where I explore the mud walled Qal’eh Hamza Khan fortress at the side of the road.

I follow the road to Tyserkan

and I spend some time searching for Jewish prophet Habakkuk’s tomb. This town has only signs in Farsi and with the help of m local map I can actually find my way. As I walk up to the tomb I’m surrounded by a flash mob of male teenagers. All want to know my name, where I’m from and so on. I don’t really get a chance to look at the tomb, let alone take a good picture.

A girl of about 14 or 15 finally walks up to me and apologizes in very good English for the behavior of the boys and asks me if I need any help. I can tell that she’s nervous and it must have taken quite a bit of courage to step in front of the boys and talk to me. So I talk to her for a while and compliment her on her English. With the help of another girl I’ll get a map for my onward travel and one of the boys insists that I take a drawing of the tomb with me. So we find a place on the bike and off I go.

In Nahavand I’m looking for a local biker to show me the way to Haman-e Haji Agha Torab, a former bath house turned museum. The first kid I can stop after a while has no idea but two older guys are up to the challenge. They lead me through narrow alleys and the little 50cc has a hard time with these two. At least we are not racing through traffic. They join me for a tour of the place and it looks like they have never been inside before. The old Haman is a wonderful building with whimsical mannequins standing in for real bather.

I wish it would still be a working Haman. That would have been a treat. The place is secured like Fort Knox with several cameras in each room. My two saviors strike a pose for a picture and lead me out of town.

I ride on to Borujerd, which turns out to be bigger than I thought and I promptly get lost. I stop just before a roundabout to get my bearings and a kid on a bicycle stops next to me. I ask him for the road to Chagalvandi and he motions to follow him. Off he goes like a mad man. It’s quite hot and I feel bad to have him do this for me. At an intersection he asks me if I want some ice cream and I nod. So he guides me to a little shop where I get treated to an ice cream Shiraz style.

Repeated attempts by me to pay are refused and I thank my hosts and the kid leads me to the road to Chagalvandi. I say goodbye and realize he has put me on the main highway to Khorramabad, which I don’t want to take. I ask another guy and after a big powwow with some bystanders a guy leads the way with his car. He only leads me farther down the highway before he admits defeat. I wave goodbye, turn around and use the Zumo to work my way to the right road. The road turns out to be a dream. A scenic mountain road with no traffic to speak of. It’s late and I stop for fewer pictures than I should.

I roll into Khorramabad, the capital of the Lorestan province, just as the sun sets and find a hotel with pretty shabby rooms but secure parking. The manager talks my ear off about being a large man, i.e. paying large, but I negotiate the price down to a bearable level.

I walk into town and look for a restaurant. I see a sign in Farsi but can’t figure out where the entrance is. I ask a guy and he takes me up with an elevator to the restaurant. It turns out he works there. I order some food with him and he seats me at a table. I watch the families around me. The kids have a blast with a fake Christmas tree which sprinkles fake snow on itself. I sit at my table, wait for my food and drink some water when a bunch of guys take the seats around me without saying a word. I’m surrounded by grim looking guys who don’t even acknowledge my existence. This is weird. The guy who brought me up to the restaurant comes over and wants me to follow him. Once we are away from the table he apologizes profusely and seats me on one of the takhts. I’m still wearing my motorcycle boots and I don’t want to take them off after riding in them all day. Wouldn’t be fair to the other guests. So, I just sit at the edge and get awkward stares from the all women table across. There is something about traveling solo that Iranians don’t understand. I get this question a lot and they always ask why and then look very sorry for me. Going out to eat by yourself is equally foreign to them and some restaurants simply ignore you unless you go straight to the counter and order. When my food comes I’ll eat quickly and make my exit.

P.S.: While I’m writing this I’m watching the English news on Iranian TV. The anchor man does a very bad imitation of a CNN anchor man and sounds more like a speech synthesizer. The news selection of course is another story.