May-June 2015 Distance: 11'000km Ferry trips: 3 Vehicle: BMW R1200RT
After setting foot, or better said setting rubber, on all four corners of Europe the year before (see "2014" trip) it was time to proceed to new endevaours which involved a bit more effort in terms of visas and border crossings. Europe has spoilt us by making it possible to cross a border often without even slowing down, without even getting a stamp, your helmet off or even speaking to a border officer. Unfortunatley this is only possible mainly within European countries. Travelling to any country outside Europe often requires tedious paperwork and plenty of pre-planning. This trip was the first where a visa, documents and meticulous planning preceded the trip.
I always dreamt of seeing all the 7 wonders of the ancient world, at least whatever is left of them. Standing on any island in the middle of the Aegean Sea one would find 4 of these wonders within the vicinity of no more than a 200km radius, namely being 1.Maphsoleum of Alicarnasus 2.Temple of Artemis 3.Rhodes 4.Olympia. One more step south into Egypt and one would be at the doorstep of the other 2 wonders: 5.Alexandria 6.Pyramids of Giza. Having been to all these places throughout my years of travellig leaves us with the last and most distand wonder, the hanging gardens of Babylon. To my disappointment this is unfortunately (accoridng to common belief) located in Iraq, which looks more like a war zone than your average holiday. The next best thing and very similar in terms of history would be to visit the city of Persepolis. Conquered and sacked by Alexander the Great, it was time to step on my ancenstor's footsteps and get a feel of what he saw around 2000 years ago. That's how I took the intrepid decision in travelling there on two wheels.
The other important reason for attempting this trip was to see for myself if the image of Iran is well presented to us by western media. To most of us Iran sounds like a place dangerous and inhospitable. Nowadays it's much easier to research other people's opinions about places they have visited thanks to forums on the world wide web. After contemplating a visit to Iran the next step was to do some online research. To my great surprise all forums that I came accross stated the exact same thing, in general they asserted the reader that: "we expected a dagnerous and inhospitable place and it was exactly the opposite". That was an eye opener and a confirmation not to blindly believe everything we see on the news. A few people did tell me "don't go there" and "it's dangerous" so I had to go and see for myself. I assure you, Iran was more hospitable than anyone could ever have imagined.
It took a few weeks to sort out my paperwork for Iran. Having left the bike in Athens the previous year to hybernate (see Trips Done/2014) meant that the journey had to start by taking a flight from Zurich to Athens. I handed in my tent and motorbike gear as luggage and was relieved to see it on the conveyor belt uppon arrival. I then went to my brother's garage where I had left the bike the previous year, picked up mum, dressed her in motorbike gear, placed her on the back seat, key in, ignition start, the trip was officially on. Yes... you read that correclty, my mum (aged 60+) found out about this trip and once she realised that I would be travelling on my own, decided to share this experience by following me on the back seat [proof of this claim lies in the pictures below].
On the same day (still 1st of May) we took a ferry [ferry trip 1] from Athens to Chios and then to Cesme, Turkey. Did I say 1st of May? What a huge mistake! 1st of May in Greece is a good excuse (ok sometimes with good reason) for workers-unions to have a rally, and you guessed it... they were on strike again (as in 2014). The ferry did leave on the 2nd of May at 00:01 to respect the people's efforts which only caused a couple of hours delay on the arrival the next day. From Chios we boarded a small boat [ferry trip 2] that was leaving for Cesme. We had to leave the EU and cross onto the other side so the useless paperwork for the border crossing starts in Chios. I had to hand over my passport and vehicle registration to the border officer. This is when I realised the nepotistic culture of Greece. The border officer had one job: to type the registration data into a computer. Easy as it may seem this took a good 3/4 of an hour to do so. They guy was working as if he had never seen a keyboard before in his life. Typing every letter one by one with his right index finger, the left index finger was used for the sole purpose of the "shift" key and every two letters he had to grab the mouse, aim, click again, delete again, erase, re-erase, rewind etc. Come on, my grandpa could type faster than that! The ferry was supposed to leave at 8:00 and we were there an hour earlier. This registration felt like it took hours. I was finally handed back my documents, wished the officer a good life in the fast lane and boarded the ferry. Of course The Beast was the only vehicle on that ferry, and of course The Beast did attract inquiring looks from everyone on board. All the other passengers were girls with hand-bag in left hand & frappé in right hand. We were really the odd ones out. There was obviously a hand-bag sale on the trukish side, that would be my closest guess.
I always dreamt of seeing all the 7 wonders of the ancient world, at least whatever is left of them. Standing on any island in the middle of the Aegean Sea one would find 4 of these wonders within the vicinity of no more than a 200km radius, namely being 1.Maphsoleum of Alicarnasus 2.Temple of Artemis 3.Rhodes 4.Olympia. One more step south into Egypt and one would be at the doorstep of the other 2 wonders: 5.Alexandria 6.Pyramids of Giza. Having been to all these places throughout my years of travellig leaves us with the last and most distand wonder, the hanging gardens of Babylon. To my disappointment this is unfortunately (accoridng to common belief) located in Iraq, which looks more like a war zone than your average holiday. The next best thing and very similar in terms of history would be to visit the city of Persepolis. Conquered and sacked by Alexander the Great, it was time to step on my ancenstor's footsteps and get a feel of what he saw around 2000 years ago. That's how I took the intrepid decision in travelling there on two wheels.
The other important reason for attempting this trip was to see for myself if the image of Iran is well presented to us by western media. To most of us Iran sounds like a place dangerous and inhospitable. Nowadays it's much easier to research other people's opinions about places they have visited thanks to forums on the world wide web. After contemplating a visit to Iran the next step was to do some online research. To my great surprise all forums that I came accross stated the exact same thing, in general they asserted the reader that: "we expected a dagnerous and inhospitable place and it was exactly the opposite". That was an eye opener and a confirmation not to blindly believe everything we see on the news. A few people did tell me "don't go there" and "it's dangerous" so I had to go and see for myself. I assure you, Iran was more hospitable than anyone could ever have imagined.
It took a few weeks to sort out my paperwork for Iran. Having left the bike in Athens the previous year to hybernate (see Trips Done/2014) meant that the journey had to start by taking a flight from Zurich to Athens. I handed in my tent and motorbike gear as luggage and was relieved to see it on the conveyor belt uppon arrival. I then went to my brother's garage where I had left the bike the previous year, picked up mum, dressed her in motorbike gear, placed her on the back seat, key in, ignition start, the trip was officially on. Yes... you read that correclty, my mum (aged 60+) found out about this trip and once she realised that I would be travelling on my own, decided to share this experience by following me on the back seat [proof of this claim lies in the pictures below].
On the same day (still 1st of May) we took a ferry [ferry trip 1] from Athens to Chios and then to Cesme, Turkey. Did I say 1st of May? What a huge mistake! 1st of May in Greece is a good excuse (ok sometimes with good reason) for workers-unions to have a rally, and you guessed it... they were on strike again (as in 2014). The ferry did leave on the 2nd of May at 00:01 to respect the people's efforts which only caused a couple of hours delay on the arrival the next day. From Chios we boarded a small boat [ferry trip 2] that was leaving for Cesme. We had to leave the EU and cross onto the other side so the useless paperwork for the border crossing starts in Chios. I had to hand over my passport and vehicle registration to the border officer. This is when I realised the nepotistic culture of Greece. The border officer had one job: to type the registration data into a computer. Easy as it may seem this took a good 3/4 of an hour to do so. They guy was working as if he had never seen a keyboard before in his life. Typing every letter one by one with his right index finger, the left index finger was used for the sole purpose of the "shift" key and every two letters he had to grab the mouse, aim, click again, delete again, erase, re-erase, rewind etc. Come on, my grandpa could type faster than that! The ferry was supposed to leave at 8:00 and we were there an hour earlier. This registration felt like it took hours. I was finally handed back my documents, wished the officer a good life in the fast lane and boarded the ferry. Of course The Beast was the only vehicle on that ferry, and of course The Beast did attract inquiring looks from everyone on board. All the other passengers were girls with hand-bag in left hand & frappé in right hand. We were really the odd ones out. There was obviously a hand-bag sale on the trukish side, that would be my closest guess.
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The ferry arrived with a thump on the jetty on the turkish side and after a few formalities with the border control in Turkey and a stamp saying "Cikis" (=entry) on our passports, admittedly the border officer worked much swifter compared to his Greek counterpart, we were now on turkish tarmac. From Izmir it was a straight ca. 2'000km to Van, faster said than done, passing through a number of very interesting places.First came Selcuk, the city that gave its name from the Selcuk dynasty.
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Within a stone-throw away from Selcuk one can find a vast number of important ancient sites, which we visited, namely the Basilica of St. John, bulid by Justinian, the Temple of Artemis (one of the seven ancient wonders of the world), the ancient city of Ephesus, the temple of Apollo in Didyma, and finally, among other great sites, the city of Miletus, the birth place of Thales, Anaximander and Anaximenes. Dad being an avid and pasionate mathamatician by occupation, we were eager to let him know that we had visited the birthplace of these great scientists. After visitng all these sites the sun started to set down, which meant the end of site seeing. I checked my navigation and saw that our next destination, Pamukkale, was "just" a 220km ride east. "Just a 220km ride" is definitely not something I would say today. At the time I was young and enthousiastic and very keen on biking. We were back on the saddle and reached Pamukkale, which stands for Cotton-Castle, under total darkness i.e. breaking an important rule of biking: never ride in the dark.
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Left: theatre of Miletus Right: Didyma |
At Pamukkale we checked in at a camping place and pitched the tent. Being dark one cannot see a single trace of this cotton castle in the dark. The next moring we were both mesmerised by the pure blaze of white rock that shined under the hot sun. At first look one could mistakenly take this white hill for snow. The other thing that we realised after getting up was that we were not staying at a camping place but in the garden of a hotel which was claimed to be a camping place. What this snow-looking natural wonder actually is, is travertine. Visitors are only allowed to walk barefoot up this white hill with ankle-deep water coming from a natural well at the top.
Pictures: Pamukkale, which means "Cotton Castle" in Turkish
After reaching the top of the hill, one would be in the middle of a magnificent city called Hierapolis, meaning Holy-city. An interesting part of the city, appart from its amphetheatre, is its famous sawmill.
After reaching the top of the hill, one would be in the middle of a magnificent city called Hierapolis, meaning Holy-city. An interesting part of the city, appart from its amphetheatre, is its famous sawmill.
Pictures: the ruins of Hierapolis, including gates and theatre
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From Pamukkale we drove directon East, through Dinar, Aksehir and then Konya. Most cities we visited had a park in the centre filled with tulips. The next stop was the village of Sultanhani, its name deriving from Sultan + han, a resting place for caravans and their camels. Sultanhani has the only camping place in a 200km radius (GPS 38.2491, 33.5480). It was also the last camping place we stayed as from here towrads the East camping places become almost non existent. We arrived at dusk and enjoyed a nice meal by our great host. 130km to the East of Sultanhani lies Cappadocia, a place mum had not seen before. |
dug-in houses in Cappadocia
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The following day came Kayseri, more tulips, and then Malatya. Easo of Malatya come a small ferry crossing [ferry trip 3]. A year later the two sides of the river were connected by a bridge, namely the Nissibi Euphrate bridge. With the ferry we crossed the Euphrates, the river I had hear sooooo much about, when learning about early human history at school and how domestication of animals turned our hanter-gatherer habituals into farmers.
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No visit to South Turkey would be complete witouth having visited the town of Batman. Wes, this is the name of a town, in Turkey.
Joke of the day: After visiting the city of Batman (yes, it does exist, proof to the right) I mentioned it to a Turkish friend who didn't find it amusing at all. He said that it's just a name, nothing funny about it. Seriously, nothing funny? A city named Batman? No other city is named Batman! He still didn't understand the joke. Only when I told him Batman, as in "Batman and Robin" did the penny finally drop which followed by him bursting in laughter, holding his stomach from laughing seizueres. When he got back to his sences he then admitted that he had never thought of it in that way. Batman will never be just a name of a town for him, from now on. |
NANANANANANA... BATMAAAAN
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A quick Kodak-moment at the Batman sign, otherwise no one would belive me that this city exists, and then we were off to the city of Malatya, and then onto Mount Nemrut. Mount Nemrut is the burial site of a king Nimrod, statues were erected ca. 2000 years ago in his honour. There are two ways of getting to the peak of Mount Nemrut. Leavig Malatya there were clear signs along the way pointing towards the summit, it therefore seemed obvious to follow the signs. What I did not know was the this road was a dead end. Actually both roads leding to the summit are a dead end. A few kilometers before the summit we were stopped by a check point and were asked for an entry fee by a guard. This guard being the only human in the vicinity I tried to ask how the road looked and if the road would lead us to the other side of the mountain. Unfortunately he could not speak a word of english. The only information I could get out of his was "asphalt?" while doing the thumbs-up gesture, to which he confidently replied "asphalt!" while nodding. After crossing the gate the road became the worst type of steep, mud covered road. Then there was us, on a road bike, a heavy beast, equiped with toad tires, two of us, on a very bendy road trying to make our way up. There was snow left and right of the road, which was melting under the strong sun, which was the culprit for all the mud on the road. On very steep hair-pin turns I asked mum to get off the bike and tried to wrestle the bike up the hill. This bike also has a very heavy first gear so the whole trip ended up with a lot of reving, smell of clutch burning, putting up a fist fight in every difficult section of the extremely treacherous path. Our destination after this peak was South and my maps reasured me that the road does continue south. This unfortunately was biggest lie in the history of maps. We reached the summit and to my horror realised that the road became an extremely steep dirt road that was difficult to pass even on foot. After all this struggle we had to go back down again, someting I was not looking forward to. We took our pictures, had a break, and headed back down this road of hell. So long for the reasuring "asphalt" from the guard, I wanted to strangle him with my own hands but they were already so tired from driving the beast up this road. Going down a steep, slippery dirt-road is not harder but definitelly scarier as the road ahead feels a lot further away. The snow melting caused a number of ripples on the surface which were filled with water flowing downhill. I asked myself what would happen if we were to slip on one of these mud-filled ripples? I then decided to drive as close as possible to the hillside, which was covered in soft snow, which would cushion any possible fall. A split second later, speak of the devil, the inevitable happended. The front wheel fall into a pothole, being covered with mud made it impossible to see how deep it was, which made the front wheel veer off course and sent both of us flying in the air. In our bad luck we had some good luck as the wheel veered to the right sending us both to the left and onto the snow-covered hillside. We both landed on our side. The bike slid another couple of meters down the hill, which in turn gave a strong thump, a tumultuous uproar, the distinctive sound of the engine stalling. I got up and realised that we had gotten away without a single scratch. The only damage ware a few barely visible superficial scratches on the left pannier. I got up, took a picture of my first (and hopefully my last) fall and thanked our luck that nothing worse had happened. My heart of course was pounding and the adrenaline took a while to wear off. I continued driving down the hill untill I reached the guard. I anglrily looked at him and said "asphalt yok!" (i.e no asphalt) to which he answered with some gibberish.
Pictures: on the way to Namrut Dagi
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Fact of the day: a friend once told me that there are two types of bikers: A) the ones who have fallen and B) the ones who will fall. I can now say that I had just swaped from category B to a category A biker. I was lucky though as this happened next to soft snow. Falling off a bike is usally followed by painful and painstakig rehabilitation. My fall luckily was so soft that I couldn't find a single scratch on the bike, but nevertheless I had broken the hymen, there it lies, on its side, my first ever fall, a big moment for every biker. A massively overweight beast full of luggage & 2 passengers with road tires driving down a muddy & slippery hill. What was I thinking?! |
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Leaving our ordeal behind us we now had to do a huge anti-clockwise detour around the mountain. Afte the gate the road turned into good old tarmac again. Unfortunately that didn't last long, as soon as we started riding around the mountain we were back on dirt roads, this time they were dry so all I had to do was drive at a slow pace. We were thankfully rewarded with view like these (picture right).
We continued untill the village of Kocahisar, our luck was back and the road was paved from there onwards. The bumpy ordeal was behind us with only one tiny mishap and lots of experience gained. Every adverstiy stands for a lesson to be learnt. |
We continued driving East to Diyarbakir, then Tatvan, located right at Lake Van. Tatvan is situated at 1'700m altitude making this place in the beginning of May very VERY cold. Snow surrounds all the mountains in the vicinity. From there a steep road leads up to one of the highlights of the trip, the Nemrut Crater, a lake within the Caldera atop this inactive volcano. As if it wasn't cold enough, riding up this steep road brought us to an altitude of 2'400m. The wind was brisk so we took our photos, paused to admire the magnificenty view, and rode down into Tatvan again where the air got warmer by the minute. At the southest point of lake Van one can enjoy a fish platter fished from the neighbouring lake. The souvenir shops all along the way had pictures of cats, now I'm not a fan of this mean furry animal, but these post-cards depicted a cat with a peculiar look. The eyes were of different colour, this was the famous Van cat. It seemed that this cat was more famous than hiiii-hiiiii-Michael Jackson here, and to be honest, it's just a stupid cat man...
Pictures: on top of Van Volcano
The trip stared on the 1st of May and day by day we were getting closer to summer. Driving Eastwards in Turkey though felt like it was getting colder by the day. I later discovered that the plateaus of west Turkey were just above sea level, whereas the East was at an average altitude of 2000m making every day colder. This land upshoot would receede after the border with Iran, giving Western Iran cold winters. The whole plateau comes to a 200m flat desert once one reaches the city of Bam. This would be the desert of Lut where temperatures in summer can soar up to almost 50 Degrees.
Fact of the day: In the streets during my visit in the area of Van I saw as many Van cats, as Dalmatian dogs I had seen in Dalmatia (south Croatia), and as many Bernese dogs I had seen in Bern, accumulatively to the exat number of ∑(TOT.) = zero. That's right, this is as big of a lie as the barrel of Brandy around St. Bernard dogs which came from a painting from Sir Edwin Henry, the biggest con-artist of them all. Not to mention that Greeks break plates at weddings. If you believe this, you obviously haven't been to a greek wedding...
In Van I removed mum from the saddle and sent her on a one-way flight to the foreign town of Istanbul. The did the same with me when I was turned 18 when she sent me to the unknown town of London, so this was payback time. Unfortunatelly she was unable to obtain a visa for Iran due to the utter incompetence on the Iranian embassy in Athens (I hope they are reading this) which, after reassuring her that they had received her passport months before the trip, informed her a few weeks before departure the chilling words "passport, what passport?" and that was that. She did see all the above mentioned places though which made her very happy. Farewell mum. Iran here I come.
Dad was hugely relieved that mum was in one piece when she got back and gave her a warm welcome on her return (and probably a "don't you ever do that again" lecture). Don't worry, they are still happily married (at time of press) and I hope it stays that way. She never contemplated on travelling on a bike until now. Sha later admitted that she got heavily infected by the bike-bug and asked when the next two-wheeled adventure was going to be. She was driven on a bmw motorbike by her dad wen she was a kid, and it took around 50 years and 3 births later to repeat that experience, hence it's never too late. I think it's now time for her to get a bike licence and start doing some wheelies to relieve stress. (This is not to be taken literally because this is how you lose your mom/friend/girlfriend in 3 sec).
The trip stared on the 1st of May and day by day we were getting closer to summer. Driving Eastwards in Turkey though felt like it was getting colder by the day. I later discovered that the plateaus of west Turkey were just above sea level, whereas the East was at an average altitude of 2000m making every day colder. This land upshoot would receede after the border with Iran, giving Western Iran cold winters. The whole plateau comes to a 200m flat desert once one reaches the city of Bam. This would be the desert of Lut where temperatures in summer can soar up to almost 50 Degrees.
Fact of the day: In the streets during my visit in the area of Van I saw as many Van cats, as Dalmatian dogs I had seen in Dalmatia (south Croatia), and as many Bernese dogs I had seen in Bern, accumulatively to the exat number of ∑(TOT.) = zero. That's right, this is as big of a lie as the barrel of Brandy around St. Bernard dogs which came from a painting from Sir Edwin Henry, the biggest con-artist of them all. Not to mention that Greeks break plates at weddings. If you believe this, you obviously haven't been to a greek wedding...
In Van I removed mum from the saddle and sent her on a one-way flight to the foreign town of Istanbul. The did the same with me when I was turned 18 when she sent me to the unknown town of London, so this was payback time. Unfortunatelly she was unable to obtain a visa for Iran due to the utter incompetence on the Iranian embassy in Athens (I hope they are reading this) which, after reassuring her that they had received her passport months before the trip, informed her a few weeks before departure the chilling words "passport, what passport?" and that was that. She did see all the above mentioned places though which made her very happy. Farewell mum. Iran here I come.
Dad was hugely relieved that mum was in one piece when she got back and gave her a warm welcome on her return (and probably a "don't you ever do that again" lecture). Don't worry, they are still happily married (at time of press) and I hope it stays that way. She never contemplated on travelling on a bike until now. Sha later admitted that she got heavily infected by the bike-bug and asked when the next two-wheeled adventure was going to be. She was driven on a bmw motorbike by her dad wen she was a kid, and it took around 50 years and 3 births later to repeat that experience, hence it's never too late. I think it's now time for her to get a bike licence and start doing some wheelies to relieve stress. (This is not to be taken literally because this is how you lose your mom/friend/girlfriend in 3 sec).
As mentioned above, Iranians are very hospitable people. Because of the US and EU sanctions at the time (these were lifted a year after my trip) tourism in Iran was very low at the time. Even ATM's were not linked to the international banks, deaming all my credit cards useless. Credit cards were only useful for spreading butter on toast. It is therefore advisable to carry all the cash you need with you. I wrongly assumed that Iraninans don't like America, including american money, so I carried only Euros. I was utterly wrong in this decision. In the end one thing will never die out: the black market, no matter how many sanctions are imposed and how badly a country is opressed money always talks, especially a widely used stable currency like the dollar. Lesson learnt: when changing money in the streets always always carry US dollars.
As tourism in Iran is slowly picking up, most Iranians had not seen many tourists in their life, let alone a man on a german bike. I was stopped dozens of times on the streets and asked the same two questions every time: "Allemania?" and "how much?". Western cars are rarely seen in the streets of Iran, again due to the sanctions. Therefore people were intrigued to find a german piece of engineering on their streets. Yes, people were asking "how much" and if I was "selling it". No sir, I'm not going to get off my bike, hand over the keys and carry on on foot, even if you pay me 1'000'000 Rials (= approx 20 dollars as 1 dollar = 50'000 Iranian Rials), but thanks for the offer. I was asked this "how much" question anywhere between 5 and 50 times per day and it was slowly getting under my skin. I had previously read the book "100'000 miles of loneliness" where the author Maartern Munnik explains how the same question of "how much?" and "seel it?" popedp up a hundred times per day in south America so if you think I'm making this up get your hands on this book. He was so fed up that he ended up answering "one dollar" every time he was asked, which seemed to confuse everyone but definitely did the trick.
[back to Iran] Due to the sanctions there were mainly three car brands found on the steets: 1. old Peugeots which had remained from pre-sanction times 2.Saipa 3.Khodro. Looking at the bikes, most of them were some chinese brand I had never head of. Not one bmw, ducatti, honda, yamaha, suzuki etc. bike was to be found on the streets during my visit.
After crossing Turkey lengthwise I found myself at the Iranian border. I chose to cross through the Esendere / Serow border crossing as this was the closest one to South-Eastern Turkey. Leaving the turskish town of Van, one would have to drive through a windy road for 230km to reach the Iranian border. Before setting off I managed to get internet connection at Van airport and did some research about this Turkey/Iran border. There, to my disappointment, I read that this border is also know as the "smuggler's route". I also read that there were examples of armed abductions of tourists and that it's overall not a dangerous place but that it was just a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, which to be honest could happen also in Zurich. Don't believe me? You have obviously not heard of Franz Wrousis. While driving I always had the words "smuggler's route" and "wrong place at the wrong time" at the back of my head. On the way I encountered a man waving at me to stop with his left hand while holding something in his right hand. I immediately feared for the worst. I didn't know what was best, to slow down or speed up? This is when anxiety creeps in and thoughts of "can someone with a Kalashnikov aim and hit you while driving 100km/hr?" and "is this my last day on planet Earth?" My heart still racing, my eyes glued to his right hand, squinting in order to make out what he was holding while the distance between us was diminishing every second. I finally reached a distance where his whole body, clothes and face were fully visible and distinguishable. He was holding (did you guess it..?) a bundle of asparagus! Yes, the Kalaschnikov was a green plant. This happened again some time later on the same stretch, which also gave me chills as I thought that this time it could be a bad buy with a gun. Again... asparagus. It happened a third time before reaching the Iranian border which I could now confidently say "asparagus... you don't scare me any more". What did I learn: don't do too much in-depth research about a place you visit, you might get all the negativity which will only give you doubts about the trip and fear for the worse. It falls in the same category of "don't goolge your syndroms" when you are sick. Don't worry, a mosquito bite is not skin cancer.
Reaching the border at Esendere on the Turkish side I came across a very weird phenomenon, a line of around 100 (maybe more) Ford Transit vans parked one behind the other right before the border. Thinking that they were queueing up to pass the border I stopped behind them and joined the queue, only to realise that they were empty. I later realised that these were used for transporting the so called smugglers. These smugglers cross the border on foot, they buy petrol from Iran for ca 0,30 Euros / liter and bring it to Turkey, where petrol at the time cost ca. 2 Euros / liter. On they way back they buy potatoes and asparagus (sorry, no Kalashnikovs here) and bring it back to Iran. It's a way for lots of people to make a living. The border was busking with people carrying sacks filled with merchandise. The huge line of Ford vans were to take people, who usually cross on foot, from the border to the nearest town where they can sell their merchandise. (There is a whole article about it here).
After receiving the giric (= exit) stamp on the Turkish side on my passport I thought my troubles with Turkey were over. Knowing that I owed 2 hefty speeding tickets which I hadn't paid for from my trips in 2013 & 2014 I thought I had gotten away with it. As I got ready to leave the officer told me to go to the "police control" for a final check. That didn't sound good at all as the tickets I owed were for the same bike and same numberplate as the one I was sitting on. I went to the police control office where an officer punched all the details of my bike (numberplate, chassi number, registration numer etc.) into a computer, I in turn started to sweat uncontrollably thinking "here comes a big fine". Thankfully he only nodded and told me that I could pass on, what a great relief. I also questioned why use a computer with state of the art software linked to the whole country network if you can't even find a petty thief? This incompetence rewared me with a trouble-free entry. I then entered no-man's land. The place was overwhelmed by soldiers in camouflage clothing and marred by garbage and debris. I was first approached by a vexatious soldier (or so it seemed at the time) who spoke english (few people speak english outside big cities in Iran) who intimidatingly requested a ride on my bike. I refused but he did not take a no for an anwer. I reluctanlty gave him the keys, thinking that he would drive it to the border control fur luggage check, only to find out that all he wanted was to go for a ride around the block. Of course my heart was pounding as he left but was happy to see him return with a big happy grin on his face and the usual answer "Alemannia?". Intimidating as it may have felt, the soldier was nothing more that a very friendly and even more curious fellow human, I was wrong to jugde him so fast. He then introduced me to an interpreter who spoke english fluently. The interpreter offered to help me with the border documents. Without him, crossing the border would have been a task between burdersomly strenuous to totally impossible. After a few hours of useless and confusing paperwork, rows about stamps and signatures from the interpreter and the border officials, dozens of opening/closing doors, half a dozen on kiosks/stamps/formalities/sit here, follow me, go there, get a stamp, wait in line, the interpreter fighting with border offices, they shouting back at him (all looked as if it was the first time ever a vehicle was crossing this border) and all sorts of cumbersome bureaucratic nonsence etc. etc. I was told to sit on a couch and wait, after being offered some tea. Next to me sat a person wearing plain clothing and sipped tea, exchanging jokes with the border officers. Every few seconds he would take a cube of sugar, put it under his tongue, take a sip of tea, repeat. He had devoured a dozen cubes of sugar by the time I had left. I guess he was there for the free tea and the copious amounts free sugar as he did not seem to have a job there, dressed in civilian clothes. I hope his fight to recuperate from diabetes has a successful outcome. I looked around and realised that this building was so dilapidated that it could be mistaken for the worst prison in hell. The interpretor showed up again. I was given directions to stamp my passport at three different counters. Wondering why I need to queue up in three places I just followed orders, stamp in, stamp out, I have no idea what's happening. I finally had my passport and carnet stamped and was allowed one step closed to the border. The interpreter then asked me to ride my bike and follow him in his car, only to abruptly stop somewhere between border control and exit gate, somewhere where no one could hear us nor see us. He asked me to come in the car and sit in the co-drivers seat. I reluctantly did so, but must admit that I was not feeling comfortable. Three other iranians gathered around and blocked all doors. Needless to say my heart started pounding again, this time much stronger. He proceeded in requesting a 20 Euro baksis, which was unnegotiable, in exchange for my Carnet and my Passport which he firmly held under his arm. Seeing the other people towering outside the car, realising that I had no way out, I had no choise but to fullfill this obnoxious request. I then realised that this person was doing this for a living, i.e. did not work for the border office, just used his langauge skills to help foreigners go through the mountain of paperwork needed to cross the border. I then also realised that the 3 Iraninans outside the car wanted nothing more but to exchange dollars/euros into Rials and had nothing to do with the interpreter. I again judged wrongly by thinking that they were part of a group attempt to rob me. Once again people are extremely friendly in Iran.
Handing over 50 Euros and receiving over 3'000'000 Rials for it, officially making me a millionaire (don't believe me? click here) I was finally in Serow, Iran. Little did I know that this was the last time I could exchange Euros for Rials for a long time. No banks would accept Euros, no one in the street either, cards didn't work, I was doomed. I ended up feeding on bananas and keeping the budget low until I reached a more international city where changing from Euros to Rials was possible. Right after receiving my documents and passport for the exchange of the 20 Euro note, trying to avoid any unwanted attention, I quickly put all the documents in my open jacket, sat on the bike and drove off to make sure that no one would stop me and ask about the baksis. I stopped 500m after the border control where a bridge crossed over a river, put all the documents safely in the pannier, ziped up my jacket, and got ready to leave. I was then, to my surprise, approached by a speeding vehicle, a Peugeot so bushed-up you could tell that it had definitely gone through a war or two and miraculously survived, which came screeching towards me in full wrath. The driver slammed on the brakes, the co-driver came out with a potty in his hand (yes, a potty), me assuming the worst, assuming that my baksis with the border officer was not over, that people could have seen me and start asking questions, the co-driver raced past me and jumped in the river... ok now I was totally confused. He then proceeded in filling his potty with water, the driver in the meantime had opened the bonnet, the potty-man rushed back, now with wet shoes, and poured river-water into the car's refrigerator. Now everything was starting to make sense. The car drove off in the same neurotic manner as it came, clearly witnessing that the radiator had not withstood the war repercussions. The passengers proceeded in their journey normally as if nothing had happened. I was baffled in the middle of this quaint scene.
Fact of the day: every moment in Iran was a strange but fun moment.
Once setting foot in Iran meant that I had, for the first time ever, crossed a border that required more than a stamp on a passport. One more tick on the buck-list could be added. It was an important milestone in realising what it took to organise a world trip. Once in Iran all it took now was to press and hold on the throttle and discover what this land with its millenia-spanning history had to offer. The first town on the way was Urmia. There was really nothing to see there so I decided to drive to the next town, called Naqadeh. On the way the sun quickly set and limelight became total darkness. Iranian drivers did not switch on their headlights until it was totally pitch dark so seeing a moving vehicle coming towards me was not easy. I entered the city and looked for a hotel. The word "hotel" is probably the only word people understand in small towns. I finally found a hotel and checked in. I parked next to the pavement and realised that this town, as by most small villages and towns in Iran, had an open gutter along the pavement. If not careful one can easily fall in with the bike and receive a warm & stinky face palm as a welcome gesture.
I walked in the hotel and asked for a room. The manager took me to the 1st floor and opened an old rusty door, looked in, and gave me a disappointing face and said "oh, sorry, the room is not ready". He walked in, lifted a towel from the floor, and confidenlty said "ok now it is ready". I walked in and saw the filthiest room I had seen in my life! There was garbage on the floor, and generally undescribably filth that can only be shown in picutes, not in words. Anyway, this was an adventure and nothing would deter it. I jumped into the filthiest sheets, then shaid hey, why don't I just use my sleeping bag. I walked to the bike outside and got my camping matress and sleeping bag and slept in them to avoid all the fauna that lived on that bed. Then a old guy in this 60-ies who lived in the room next door approached me. He entered my room without asking if he could enter. He gave me some bread with philadelpia cheese end left. I took a shower. He later came in again without knocking, said a few things, gave me some biscuits, and left again. He barged in a third time, again without knocking. This guy would just not leave me alone. I then went downstairs to park the bike in a safer place and this guy just followed me everywhere. It was my first time in Iran so I didn't know if he was being polite or a bit too close. I just ignored it.
I was sweating from driving in the city so after checking in I decided to take my motorbike trousers off, revealing my shorts that I was wearing underneath. I ran out to get myself dinner only to be chased my the hotel manager who shouted with hands flying in the air "mister, mister, no shorts!". He dragged my back to the hotel and informed me that shorts were not permitted in public, not in Iran. I was baffled. I knew that women had to wear a head-scarf and cover their arms and legs but I didn't know that there was a dress code for men as well. I asked an Iranian friend before my trip what do I need to watch out for, for which he informed me that shaking hands with a woman is not encouraged, unless she does it first, and no cheek-kissing in the street. It was clear that he had forgotten the most important rule of all.
The next morning I woke up extra early in order to avoid the weird neighbour. I set the alarm for 7 and got up. I opened my door and the neighbour opened his and stared at me. I brushed my teeth in the shared bathroom, and the 60yo guy was staring at me very strangely. I entered my room and he followed me. I immediately said "NO" and pointed for him to get out. A minute later he opened the door again and I shoulted "NO OUT" and pointed to the exit. He then said something in Pharsi which I did not undestand, and placed his hand 5cm away from my crotch. It was now totally clear that this guy way not being too friendly, he definitelly wanted to cuddle. My heart started to race and my pulse went really high when I realised that his guy was a storker. I felt total disgust and for the first time in my life I understsood what women feel when they are storked by a creepy guy. I showed the guy the door, got dressed and left the hotel as fast as I could. I went downstairs, the creep followed me, I got on the bike, key in, I didn't even put on my gloves nor helmet, pressed on the ignition and rode off as fast as I could. Only after losing sight of the hotel did I get off to zip up my jacket, wear my helmet and gloves, and set off in ful lear. That was such bizarre experience... it did make me feel sick the next couple of days but hey, I did get over it.
As mentioned above, Iranians are very hospitable people. Because of the US and EU sanctions at the time (these were lifted a year after my trip) tourism in Iran was very low at the time. Even ATM's were not linked to the international banks, deaming all my credit cards useless. Credit cards were only useful for spreading butter on toast. It is therefore advisable to carry all the cash you need with you. I wrongly assumed that Iraninans don't like America, including american money, so I carried only Euros. I was utterly wrong in this decision. In the end one thing will never die out: the black market, no matter how many sanctions are imposed and how badly a country is opressed money always talks, especially a widely used stable currency like the dollar. Lesson learnt: when changing money in the streets always always carry US dollars.
As tourism in Iran is slowly picking up, most Iranians had not seen many tourists in their life, let alone a man on a german bike. I was stopped dozens of times on the streets and asked the same two questions every time: "Allemania?" and "how much?". Western cars are rarely seen in the streets of Iran, again due to the sanctions. Therefore people were intrigued to find a german piece of engineering on their streets. Yes, people were asking "how much" and if I was "selling it". No sir, I'm not going to get off my bike, hand over the keys and carry on on foot, even if you pay me 1'000'000 Rials (= approx 20 dollars as 1 dollar = 50'000 Iranian Rials), but thanks for the offer. I was asked this "how much" question anywhere between 5 and 50 times per day and it was slowly getting under my skin. I had previously read the book "100'000 miles of loneliness" where the author Maartern Munnik explains how the same question of "how much?" and "seel it?" popedp up a hundred times per day in south America so if you think I'm making this up get your hands on this book. He was so fed up that he ended up answering "one dollar" every time he was asked, which seemed to confuse everyone but definitely did the trick.
[back to Iran] Due to the sanctions there were mainly three car brands found on the steets: 1. old Peugeots which had remained from pre-sanction times 2.Saipa 3.Khodro. Looking at the bikes, most of them were some chinese brand I had never head of. Not one bmw, ducatti, honda, yamaha, suzuki etc. bike was to be found on the streets during my visit.
After crossing Turkey lengthwise I found myself at the Iranian border. I chose to cross through the Esendere / Serow border crossing as this was the closest one to South-Eastern Turkey. Leaving the turskish town of Van, one would have to drive through a windy road for 230km to reach the Iranian border. Before setting off I managed to get internet connection at Van airport and did some research about this Turkey/Iran border. There, to my disappointment, I read that this border is also know as the "smuggler's route". I also read that there were examples of armed abductions of tourists and that it's overall not a dangerous place but that it was just a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, which to be honest could happen also in Zurich. Don't believe me? You have obviously not heard of Franz Wrousis. While driving I always had the words "smuggler's route" and "wrong place at the wrong time" at the back of my head. On the way I encountered a man waving at me to stop with his left hand while holding something in his right hand. I immediately feared for the worst. I didn't know what was best, to slow down or speed up? This is when anxiety creeps in and thoughts of "can someone with a Kalashnikov aim and hit you while driving 100km/hr?" and "is this my last day on planet Earth?" My heart still racing, my eyes glued to his right hand, squinting in order to make out what he was holding while the distance between us was diminishing every second. I finally reached a distance where his whole body, clothes and face were fully visible and distinguishable. He was holding (did you guess it..?) a bundle of asparagus! Yes, the Kalaschnikov was a green plant. This happened again some time later on the same stretch, which also gave me chills as I thought that this time it could be a bad buy with a gun. Again... asparagus. It happened a third time before reaching the Iranian border which I could now confidently say "asparagus... you don't scare me any more". What did I learn: don't do too much in-depth research about a place you visit, you might get all the negativity which will only give you doubts about the trip and fear for the worse. It falls in the same category of "don't goolge your syndroms" when you are sick. Don't worry, a mosquito bite is not skin cancer.
Reaching the border at Esendere on the Turkish side I came across a very weird phenomenon, a line of around 100 (maybe more) Ford Transit vans parked one behind the other right before the border. Thinking that they were queueing up to pass the border I stopped behind them and joined the queue, only to realise that they were empty. I later realised that these were used for transporting the so called smugglers. These smugglers cross the border on foot, they buy petrol from Iran for ca 0,30 Euros / liter and bring it to Turkey, where petrol at the time cost ca. 2 Euros / liter. On they way back they buy potatoes and asparagus (sorry, no Kalashnikovs here) and bring it back to Iran. It's a way for lots of people to make a living. The border was busking with people carrying sacks filled with merchandise. The huge line of Ford vans were to take people, who usually cross on foot, from the border to the nearest town where they can sell their merchandise. (There is a whole article about it here).
After receiving the giric (= exit) stamp on the Turkish side on my passport I thought my troubles with Turkey were over. Knowing that I owed 2 hefty speeding tickets which I hadn't paid for from my trips in 2013 & 2014 I thought I had gotten away with it. As I got ready to leave the officer told me to go to the "police control" for a final check. That didn't sound good at all as the tickets I owed were for the same bike and same numberplate as the one I was sitting on. I went to the police control office where an officer punched all the details of my bike (numberplate, chassi number, registration numer etc.) into a computer, I in turn started to sweat uncontrollably thinking "here comes a big fine". Thankfully he only nodded and told me that I could pass on, what a great relief. I also questioned why use a computer with state of the art software linked to the whole country network if you can't even find a petty thief? This incompetence rewared me with a trouble-free entry. I then entered no-man's land. The place was overwhelmed by soldiers in camouflage clothing and marred by garbage and debris. I was first approached by a vexatious soldier (or so it seemed at the time) who spoke english (few people speak english outside big cities in Iran) who intimidatingly requested a ride on my bike. I refused but he did not take a no for an anwer. I reluctanlty gave him the keys, thinking that he would drive it to the border control fur luggage check, only to find out that all he wanted was to go for a ride around the block. Of course my heart was pounding as he left but was happy to see him return with a big happy grin on his face and the usual answer "Alemannia?". Intimidating as it may have felt, the soldier was nothing more that a very friendly and even more curious fellow human, I was wrong to jugde him so fast. He then introduced me to an interpreter who spoke english fluently. The interpreter offered to help me with the border documents. Without him, crossing the border would have been a task between burdersomly strenuous to totally impossible. After a few hours of useless and confusing paperwork, rows about stamps and signatures from the interpreter and the border officials, dozens of opening/closing doors, half a dozen on kiosks/stamps/formalities/sit here, follow me, go there, get a stamp, wait in line, the interpreter fighting with border offices, they shouting back at him (all looked as if it was the first time ever a vehicle was crossing this border) and all sorts of cumbersome bureaucratic nonsence etc. etc. I was told to sit on a couch and wait, after being offered some tea. Next to me sat a person wearing plain clothing and sipped tea, exchanging jokes with the border officers. Every few seconds he would take a cube of sugar, put it under his tongue, take a sip of tea, repeat. He had devoured a dozen cubes of sugar by the time I had left. I guess he was there for the free tea and the copious amounts free sugar as he did not seem to have a job there, dressed in civilian clothes. I hope his fight to recuperate from diabetes has a successful outcome. I looked around and realised that this building was so dilapidated that it could be mistaken for the worst prison in hell. The interpretor showed up again. I was given directions to stamp my passport at three different counters. Wondering why I need to queue up in three places I just followed orders, stamp in, stamp out, I have no idea what's happening. I finally had my passport and carnet stamped and was allowed one step closed to the border. The interpreter then asked me to ride my bike and follow him in his car, only to abruptly stop somewhere between border control and exit gate, somewhere where no one could hear us nor see us. He asked me to come in the car and sit in the co-drivers seat. I reluctantly did so, but must admit that I was not feeling comfortable. Three other iranians gathered around and blocked all doors. Needless to say my heart started pounding again, this time much stronger. He proceeded in requesting a 20 Euro baksis, which was unnegotiable, in exchange for my Carnet and my Passport which he firmly held under his arm. Seeing the other people towering outside the car, realising that I had no way out, I had no choise but to fullfill this obnoxious request. I then realised that this person was doing this for a living, i.e. did not work for the border office, just used his langauge skills to help foreigners go through the mountain of paperwork needed to cross the border. I then also realised that the 3 Iraninans outside the car wanted nothing more but to exchange dollars/euros into Rials and had nothing to do with the interpreter. I again judged wrongly by thinking that they were part of a group attempt to rob me. Once again people are extremely friendly in Iran.
Handing over 50 Euros and receiving over 3'000'000 Rials for it, officially making me a millionaire (don't believe me? click here) I was finally in Serow, Iran. Little did I know that this was the last time I could exchange Euros for Rials for a long time. No banks would accept Euros, no one in the street either, cards didn't work, I was doomed. I ended up feeding on bananas and keeping the budget low until I reached a more international city where changing from Euros to Rials was possible. Right after receiving my documents and passport for the exchange of the 20 Euro note, trying to avoid any unwanted attention, I quickly put all the documents in my open jacket, sat on the bike and drove off to make sure that no one would stop me and ask about the baksis. I stopped 500m after the border control where a bridge crossed over a river, put all the documents safely in the pannier, ziped up my jacket, and got ready to leave. I was then, to my surprise, approached by a speeding vehicle, a Peugeot so bushed-up you could tell that it had definitely gone through a war or two and miraculously survived, which came screeching towards me in full wrath. The driver slammed on the brakes, the co-driver came out with a potty in his hand (yes, a potty), me assuming the worst, assuming that my baksis with the border officer was not over, that people could have seen me and start asking questions, the co-driver raced past me and jumped in the river... ok now I was totally confused. He then proceeded in filling his potty with water, the driver in the meantime had opened the bonnet, the potty-man rushed back, now with wet shoes, and poured river-water into the car's refrigerator. Now everything was starting to make sense. The car drove off in the same neurotic manner as it came, clearly witnessing that the radiator had not withstood the war repercussions. The passengers proceeded in their journey normally as if nothing had happened. I was baffled in the middle of this quaint scene.
Fact of the day: every moment in Iran was a strange but fun moment.
Once setting foot in Iran meant that I had, for the first time ever, crossed a border that required more than a stamp on a passport. One more tick on the buck-list could be added. It was an important milestone in realising what it took to organise a world trip. Once in Iran all it took now was to press and hold on the throttle and discover what this land with its millenia-spanning history had to offer. The first town on the way was Urmia. There was really nothing to see there so I decided to drive to the next town, called Naqadeh. On the way the sun quickly set and limelight became total darkness. Iranian drivers did not switch on their headlights until it was totally pitch dark so seeing a moving vehicle coming towards me was not easy. I entered the city and looked for a hotel. The word "hotel" is probably the only word people understand in small towns. I finally found a hotel and checked in. I parked next to the pavement and realised that this town, as by most small villages and towns in Iran, had an open gutter along the pavement. If not careful one can easily fall in with the bike and receive a warm & stinky face palm as a welcome gesture.
I walked in the hotel and asked for a room. The manager took me to the 1st floor and opened an old rusty door, looked in, and gave me a disappointing face and said "oh, sorry, the room is not ready". He walked in, lifted a towel from the floor, and confidenlty said "ok now it is ready". I walked in and saw the filthiest room I had seen in my life! There was garbage on the floor, and generally undescribably filth that can only be shown in picutes, not in words. Anyway, this was an adventure and nothing would deter it. I jumped into the filthiest sheets, then shaid hey, why don't I just use my sleeping bag. I walked to the bike outside and got my camping matress and sleeping bag and slept in them to avoid all the fauna that lived on that bed. Then a old guy in this 60-ies who lived in the room next door approached me. He entered my room without asking if he could enter. He gave me some bread with philadelpia cheese end left. I took a shower. He later came in again without knocking, said a few things, gave me some biscuits, and left again. He barged in a third time, again without knocking. This guy would just not leave me alone. I then went downstairs to park the bike in a safer place and this guy just followed me everywhere. It was my first time in Iran so I didn't know if he was being polite or a bit too close. I just ignored it.
I was sweating from driving in the city so after checking in I decided to take my motorbike trousers off, revealing my shorts that I was wearing underneath. I ran out to get myself dinner only to be chased my the hotel manager who shouted with hands flying in the air "mister, mister, no shorts!". He dragged my back to the hotel and informed me that shorts were not permitted in public, not in Iran. I was baffled. I knew that women had to wear a head-scarf and cover their arms and legs but I didn't know that there was a dress code for men as well. I asked an Iranian friend before my trip what do I need to watch out for, for which he informed me that shaking hands with a woman is not encouraged, unless she does it first, and no cheek-kissing in the street. It was clear that he had forgotten the most important rule of all.
The next morning I woke up extra early in order to avoid the weird neighbour. I set the alarm for 7 and got up. I opened my door and the neighbour opened his and stared at me. I brushed my teeth in the shared bathroom, and the 60yo guy was staring at me very strangely. I entered my room and he followed me. I immediately said "NO" and pointed for him to get out. A minute later he opened the door again and I shoulted "NO OUT" and pointed to the exit. He then said something in Pharsi which I did not undestand, and placed his hand 5cm away from my crotch. It was now totally clear that this guy way not being too friendly, he definitelly wanted to cuddle. My heart started to race and my pulse went really high when I realised that his guy was a storker. I felt total disgust and for the first time in my life I understsood what women feel when they are storked by a creepy guy. I showed the guy the door, got dressed and left the hotel as fast as I could. I went downstairs, the creep followed me, I got on the bike, key in, I didn't even put on my gloves nor helmet, pressed on the ignition and rode off as fast as I could. Only after losing sight of the hotel did I get off to zip up my jacket, wear my helmet and gloves, and set off in ful lear. That was such bizarre experience... it did make me feel sick the next couple of days but hey, I did get over it.
|
It was now my first morning in Iran. Temperatures were pleasant for riding a bike in this time of year, being the beginning of May. I stopped at a petrol station in a village in the middle of nowhere. I then realised that petrol was at 30 cents (Euro) per liter, so filling up the tank in Turkey was a mistake. The people at the petrol station seemed very curious at my bike and started the usual "Alemannia?" and "how much?". After filling up they invited me for tea which I kindly accepted. I sat on a persian carpet and sipped tea while being asked questions in Farsi which I answered in English. We could not communicate for the life of us. Gestures with hands were also proving very difficult as our body language was totally different. Leaving the petrol station, after a few hours on the saddle, I found myself at the so called "Fire of the warrior Kings" city. |
Takht-e Soleymān city
|
Behistun Inscription
|
Continuing south I reached the Behistun Inscription authored by Darius the Great. There was no hotel in sight and no place to pitch a tent due to the rugged terrain that lay around, but a solution always comes to those who persevere. I was so exhausted from driving that I walked into a kebab shop to have dinner and asked if there was a hotel in the area. The owner welcomed me with open hands and told me that I could stay at his house and that his wife would cook for me, with the help of a fellow diner who helped with translating. I kindly accepted and when asked when will he be closing the kebab shop the following conversation ensued: |
-when will you close the kebab shop? (at that moment is was a bit after 8pm)
-eight o'clock
-but it's 10 past eight now!
-yes, eight o'clock
he then proceeded in showing me his mobile phone where I could depict the following
hieroglyph sign ۰۸:١۲, I scratched my head... what were those signs! I got my phone out and showed him:
-it's 20:10 now (which showed western numbers, not hieroglyphs)
-ok nine o'clock
-ok
(i did later learn the persian numbers which are kindly displayed here)
9 o'clock came and you guessed it... the shop was still open. at 21:05 I asked when he would close the kebab shop "nine o'clock", "but it's 21:05 now" "ok ten o'clock". At 10:05 needless to say the same thing happened. I realised that I wasn't going to sleep any time soon so I ordered a meal and sat on a persian carpet to quench my hunger. There were no chairs in the shop and everyone seemed to be enjoying their meal on the floor. At 23:30 the same thing happened "when will you close?" "eleven't o'clock" "but it's 11:30 now" ok I give up! I was feeling pretty tired so decided to take my matress and sleeping bag out of the pannier and lay it on the persian carpet, earplugs in, facemask on, all dark and quiet, I could finally get some rest. I woke up during a heated argument betweeen two diners only to realise that it was 03:30 in the morning and the shop was STILL open, and the owner who had invited me to his house was still piercing pieces of chicken through skewers. "close at eight o'clock" he said... I think I have trust issues, so I went back to sleep. I woke up again at 6am only to realise that everyone was gone, doors closed, the room was dark and I was now on my own, the sun was peeking through the gaps of the door frame. I was happy to know that I was not robbed so all good. I was also happy to see that the owned had closed the door, threaded the padlock through the lock, but hat not locked it, so I wasn't locked inside. I snoozed for another hour and heard the owner opening the door at 7am to start his daily job again. He had kindly left the door unlocked in case I wanted to leave. I hadn't paid for my meal the previous day so I paid him the last Rials I had and he wished me fairwell. He wanted the equivalent of 20 Euros, which compeltely destroyed our till then friendship. I gave him 10 Euros and sayd goodbye. I thanked him for his "hospitality" (if you could call it that) and drove off. Definitely a kind-hearted person but when it comes to time keeping they definitely deserve the Accademy Award of "give me 5 minutes", if there was such an award. I must say, the kebab owner was piercieng skewers till after 3am and opened his shop again at 7am trying to make a living. If westerners ever complain about working too many hours, you have no idea... never complain.
Having almost run out of local money I was in desperate need to exchange cash. As always, as soon as I parked my bike somewhere I would get overwhelmed from crowds of people who wanted to see this mysterious traveller, the usualy questions of "Alemannia?" and "how much" ensued as always (it was really getting under my skin now). Some people even ask for your number/email and promise to call you. This was no different in the city of Behistun. Running out of money I tried to exhange Euros to Rials. Unable to communicate I just did the internationally understood rubbing-finer technique, depicting the sign for money, and showed a 50 Euro note. People from the crowd pointed to a guy who could speak English, or at least he claimed he did. I was approached by someone who was willing to exchange money but kept repeating the word "dollar". The conversation that ensued was: Euros? Dollar. No Euros? Dollar. Can I exchange? Dollar. English? Dollar. Anoyone else who can help? Dollar!... and so on (if I told you the whole conversation we would run out of internet space). Communication was imposible. In the meantime around 50 people had gathered around to witness a guy on a exotic bike and people were shouting incomprehensible to me words, pointing, staring, doing gestures I couldn't understand, pointing again, analysing, laughing and so on. Still determined to exchange money I gave the man the 50 Euros, he in turn lifted it in the air, laughed, mumbeld some unknown words, passed it to the next guy, he did the same, passed it to the next and so on, until everyone had seen the note, lifted it in the air, said something uncomprehensible, laughed, and gave it back to me. That's not what I wanted my fellow human! I again gave "Mr Dollar" the 50 Euro note, the same thing happened, it went from hand to hand, ca. 50 people looked at it, had a laugh, then gave it back. I had no idea changing money was such a difficult task here. I tried again and the same thing happened, gave 50 Euros, received funny laughts, received the 50 Euro note back. These people were obviously very amused by a 50 Euro note and it looked like they had never seen one before. In the end no Rials and the same 50 Euro was still in my hand, bananas for lunch and dinner it is... again. Moral of the story: carry American dollars for goodness sake. I decided to proceed to plan B, I went to a petrol station, filled up, gave the man Euros, only to be frowned uppon. I got a Visa card out, to which I reveived an even more evil look. He said "only Rials" so I said that I didn't have any Rials. I then sat on the bike, twisted the key and said "you don't want Euros, ok goodbye!" threatening to leave. As soon as I threatened to leave suddenly things started moving. He consulted the person behind the till to find out what the exchange rate was. That took FOR EVER, petrol-man and till-man were arguing and exchanging words as if they were solving the Israeli-Lebanon crisis, I could hear Euros, Rials, Euro, Rial, Dolar, no Dolar? Euros? over and over and after a very long and heated debate they gave me the change in Rials with a VERY bad exchange rate. Well, at least I had what I wanted and I could proceed with my trip.
My immediate destination was Dezful, a town 350km to the south. I drove for a few hours and around noon I decided to have lunch. I saw a petrol station with a restaurant and had a break (the only decent restaurant I found along the way GPS 33.1340, 48.1710). There the waiter who served me asked me a few questions about myself but he couldn't speak a word of english. When I paid and got ready to leave he said "mobile" and requested a way to keep in touch. I tried with sign language to explain that if I gave him my phone number a conversation would be impossible as we don't have a common language. To that he just stared back and said "mobile", again I tried to explain, using all fingers, hands, feet and body langauge but some things you can only say in words. Maybe he understood because he replied "email" so I said ok, let's do this with email. I gave him my email and he noted it. That was that. I never got an email from him so hey. I number of people the next few days asked my for my email, no one ever emailed me, but it was a nice gesture. After the 5th person requested my email I stopped giving my real email and just gave "[email protected]" or "[email protected]" etc.
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I was north of Dezful at an elevation of around 1600m. This made temperatures quite cool for this time of year. Travelling south it started to get hotter every day. This became more prevalent when I crossed the pass from the mountains down to Ahvaz. After having lived through the swiss winter I was in for a shock. With a ca. 20 minute drive coming down the last pass into Ahvaz temperatures soared from a mild 20 Degrees to the scorching above 40. Sweat started to drip from my forehead and every muscle in my body statted to overheat. Exhausted from this sudden change of temperature I tried to find a place to cool down but unfortunately to no avail. Having an embargo imposed it was not a place where one could find a Starbucks or a McDonalds and enjoy the cool air-con and some free wi-fi. I saw that the city had an airport and opted for shelter there, thank God it was air conditioned, my clothes by that time were dripping with sweat. Of course when I parked my bike outside I was asked "Alemannia?", "how much?" and "give me your number" (I'm on a short fuse now). At the airport I managed to connect to wifi. I was immediately inundated with whatsapp messages from family and friends who had not heard from me for a least 3 days. I reassured everyone that I was in a far away lands, but still alive and kicking.
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mountain range of Ab-i-Sard
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strait south of Ab-i-Sard
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From Ahvaz there was now a 500km stretch to Shiraz, my end destination. Consulting my GPS device there were a number of ways getting there. I opted for the shortest route. I unfortunately run into some bad luck before Behbahan. Without warning the tarmac abruptly stopped and the road became a bad pebble-road, not ideal for my on-road tires on a heavy bike. The road turned into a windy path up a hill so I decided to ride to the top to see if the road would get any better. To my horror after driving very precariously for around one hour I reached the top of the hill only to realise that the pebble road continued for as far as the eye could see. I decided to drive back down and start from square one. Driving a heavy bike on a dirt road was not an easy task with the scorching sun looking down on me.
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Along this bad pebble-road I was easily overtaken by a local on his 50cc moped who could go over every bump at ease. I felt like a total new-be on my big-heavy machine. It then hit me, you don't need a 120bhp bike to travel around the world, you only need 120bhp to reach 200km/hr. I was on a gravel road doing 15km/hr and you could do that with 10bhp. I turned around and two hours later I was back on tarmac, what a great relief. As soon as I crossed over from gravel to tarmac I saw a dotted line on my GPS device which indicates a border. On the gravel side it stated "Kurdistan" and on the other "Iran". I realised that this was the Kurdish part of Iran, and just like in Turkey, when it comes to roadworks and infrastructure, unfortunately the goverment puts this place at the lowest priority. Life for these people is very hard. Things that we take for granted, roads, pavements, telephone lines, closed sewer, local amenities were here non existent. The only western thing they did have was electricity and mobile phones.
After reaching tarmac I followed a different path and this time road conditions were much better. This Odyssey had cost me some time so I had to press on if I wanted to reach Shiraz. Only later did I realise that I had spoken too fast. I passed the town of Omidiyeh and passed a sign that looked something like this جاده کار می کند پیش رو. to which I could understand absolutely nothing. I continued driving towards Shiraz only to realise that suddenly I was the only vehicle on the road. The sun was setting so I had to press on to find a hotel, as I couldn't pitch a tent anywhere here as there was no flat surface in sight, the place looked like the surface of Mars. Suddenly the road turned into a pebble-road again but being close to the next village I said that I would bite the bullet and drive through this rough terrain. The sun was setting and visibility was getting low and I could only see long shadows behind every stone on the ground. I pressed on, only to vaguely make out the shape of something that seemed to be suspended between two metal posts. To my horror it was a chain hanging between the two posts and the road was closed. The sign I had seen earlier stated "road works ahead". I slammed on the breaks and almost lost control. The bike came to an abrupt stop inches before hitting the chain. Two soldiers jumped out of a barack from the noise of screeching tires. I must admit that it was a very close call. The soldiers looked very amused and immediately asked the (you guessed it) "Alemannia?" question. I was not able to communicate but from gestures it was pretty clear that the road was closed for road works and that I had to turn back and take a different path. I let my heart beat calm after this close call, then went back the same way and around a mountain and reached Behbahan when the sun had already set. I now lay 300km before Shiraz.
In Behbahan I asked around for a hotel and found one. It was dark and the temperature felt like it was 40 degrees even after sunset. I entered the hotel carrying most of my belongings, still wearing bike trousers and boots. My forehead was dripping with sweat. I said no worries, in 2 minutes I will have a room (oh how wrong I was). At the reception desk there were about 10 people gathered around smoking cigarettes like chimneys. I could barely breathe with the smoke and the heat. I asked for a room. One obese man, who was probably the manager, got a key out and gave it to one of the smokers and gave a gesture for which room I should take. I followed him up the stairs carrying all my stuff (fresh clothes, bike jacket & helmet in hand). I followed the key man to the 4th floor where he put the key in a key hole, but couldn't open. He then proceeded in putting the key in every single door hole that floor had. We mumbled something and we went back to reception. The obese man shouted a few words, gave him a different key, and sent us on our way. We went back up the stairs, reached the 3rd floor, where he again tried to open the door, again to no avail. We went back to reception. He then gave him another key (none of the keys had numbers on them) and sent us again to the 4th floor. There he opened a door and walked in. "Finally" I said. My happiness was taken away from me as he walked out of the room, locked the door, and said "sorry this room is taken" and went back to reception for the 3rd time. I was slowly losing my patience. I was sweating and feeling hungry and thirsty, every minute felt like hours. He got a fourth key and we went back up the stairs, onthe the 5th floor, he tried a few doors that did not work, then tried one that finally opened. He looked in and said "this one has a toilette, so not what was agreed" and went down to reception again. I tried to persuade him that I'll take it no matter what, but communication was bad. Being on a short fuse I then became agressive and said "if I don't have a room in 1 minute I will go to another hotel" to which he calmly replied "look, I don't work here, I'm just a friend of the manager!" That was the icing on the cake. On our fifth try we finally found a room that fulfilled all the criteria: the key worked, it wasn't occupied, it was the room we had agreed. I checked the watch and realised that this ordeal had taken exaclty 1 hour! Now I know that people take things easy in Iran.
The next day I work up early eager to visit Shiraz. I got up and only then did I realise that the kebabs I had eaten the last few days were playing games with my intestine. I was in desperate need of a toilette. My room did not have one so I looked for the common toilettes. I opened the door to the common cubicle and to my disappointment there was a squat toilette. I hadn't used one for a number 2 since I was a kid. It was common site in tavernas in Greece till the late 80's, but not today. If you tell any greek male that you don't like squat toilettes the answer that follows is always "you obviously didn't do your military service". This was the only moment in my life where I wished I had. I wished I had gone through the army's potty training (in Greek it's called a yoyo, don't know why). I looked through all the cubicles and they were all squat types. I asked the hotel manager if there was a "western toilette" anywhere here, to which he replied that "we only have Islam toilette". I mumbled the famous words "my kingdom for a toilette" (approximately quoting King Darius). OK I had to bite the bullet, how bad could it be? Bowel movement started getting worse so I rushed in and thought how I was going to do this. I then realised that there was no toilette paper... yes, there were two obstacles before me. Squat-toilette and no toilette paper. BUT, there was a little water tap to wash your hand after you have washed you bum with it. No thanks, I said. I could live with a squat toilette but wiping with my left hand was out of the question, especially with the thought of what was going to come out, which was guaranteed to be messy. Of course I had thought ahead and brought good old western toilette paper with me, it was in one of the panniers of the bike. If I hadn't though ahead I would offer, like Darius said, my kingdom for a loo-roll. I rushed 4 stories down and around the back where I had parked the bike, and opened the panier. Thank god it was there, what a life saver.
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At that point it was more valuable than gold to me. I snatched it like a kid with candy, then rushed back into the hotel only to realise that I was frounded upon by everyone in the street. I was getting strange and angry looks by passers by and people were pointing and talking. I looked down and realised that I was wearing shorts and that my knees were exposed. I felt like a naked guy running through the streets with a loo-roll in his hand. That was embarraasing. I ran into the hotel and disappeared before the Islamic Religious Police got their canes out. I was lucky this did not escalate into an international incident. I finally had my toilette paper, my squat toilette and my about-to-burst small intestine. I squatted, shouted "fire in the hole" and then... (the rest of the story has been censored due to its grafic nature and disturbing images). Bowel problems continued the next few days but nothing I could not handle. To give you a perspective, every day felt like a Taco-Tuesday with extra chilly bonanza, but I must say I was getting used to it.
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the entrance of Shiraz
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Shiraz: Quarn gate & curious girl
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After the graphic nature mentioned above I was ready to enter Shiraz. Getting there was just a couple of hours of easy riding. In Shiraz I entered a different world to what I was used to in the last week. It was a place where tourism was picking up so there were hotels, hostels, wi-fi, english-speaking staff (hadn't heard english since liaising with the border interpreter) and even heard tourists speaking german on the street. I was finally able to... you guess it... exchange Euros for Rials!
At the gate of Shiraz two pretty girls approached me, one of them spoke english well, and we exchanged a few words. She was dying to sit on the bike and have her friend take a picture. Of course I let her. She then said goodbye and waved. |
Shiraz Castle
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Shiraz: Nasir al Mulk Mosq
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Shiraz: Nasir al Mulk Mosq
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Shat Cheragh mosque: inside
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To my great surprise, after visiting the Nasir Mosque, on the way out a passer-by saw me, saw my number plate and shouted "Züri?!" (as in the city Zurich pronounced in the local dialect). I confirmed that yes I came from Zurich, which he found hard to believe, so asked again "you drove from Zurich here? not by plane? Not by shipping the bike? Not by any other means?" and I reassured him that yes I drove from Zurich and that it took all in all around 4 weeks of driving, as apposed to a 6 hour flight like most visitors. It was a serendipitous encounter. I then bumped into some german visitors who kindly directed me to the one and only hostel in a 500km radius, which I unhasitantly chose as my shelter for the next few days (GPS Golshan hostel 29.6105, 52.5483). |
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At the hostel I met more german tourists and they told me that they had booked a guide to see the Shah Cheragh mosque, a mosque decorated with millions of tiny mirrors. We met more german and swiss tourists and visited this monument. |
Shat Cheragh mosque: outside
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A met a nice german guy at the hostel, so we went to the Bazaar together.
Shiraz Bazaar: carpets
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Shiraz Bazaar: spices
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Shiraz Bazaar: spices
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Funny story of the day: After visiting a famous shrine in Shiraz I was approached by someone who seemed like a tourist guide. He asked me if I needed a guide and if I wanted to exchange money. No, he did not ask me "how much" for the bike, as he had presumably seen a bike before sometime in his life. Euros? Yes Euros. Thank you Allah for sending the Messiah! I said to myself (I could sence the end of my banana days). I could not believe that I finally exchanged 100 Euros for a shoe-box filled with banknotes (ca. 6'000'000 Rials). Just as I couldn't believe my great luck, as he was handing me over the money he said someting that left me frozen... "have you seen persian police?" he mumbled. I was startled. A thousand thoughts went through my head that he was an undercover policeman and I was going to be put to prison for espionage/money laundering/treasons etc. Being stunned I couldn't move, the policeman repeated this time clearer "have you seen persian police?" which followed by a swift "do you want to see persian-police?" and proceeded in handing me over the agreed amount. I was contemplating of running away, leaving him with the 100 Euros, or face the facts. I feared for the worse. I was also totally baffled as to why someone whould ask such a question and still proceed with exchanging the agreed amount. Was he trying to catch me red handed? Was he trying to complete the exchange before getting out the handcuffs? I searched him precariously in case he was hiding a secret camera in one of his shirt buttons, all sorts of crazy ideas were racing through my mind, was this the last of my days as a free man? The whole situation manifested itself into high heartbeats and my arms and legs shaking. In a very kind voice he repeated the same question, I only then realised that this person was nothing more than a humble tourist-guide and had kindly asked "have you seen persepolis?" (not persian-police!) and was offering to take me there. I did explain that he almost gave me a heart attack and told him my ordeal. He laughed behind his mustache he explained that in Farsi it is pronounced "Persian-polis". What a great relief to feel free again. My knees stopped shaking and my face turned back to its natural colour. This will definitely go down as "the misunderstanding of the century" in the Guinness books. It was great to feel free again.
40km North of Shiraz was the much talked about town of Persepolis which I visited with great awe and wonder. This was also the southest point of my trip so after visiting this magnificent place, ticking another box on the bucket list, did a U-turn, I headed North for the rest of the trip.
Seeing the Portal of Persepolis I could swear that I had seen this gate somewhere before. If you don't have time/mood/baldness to visit this place you needn't worry, the other gate was "temporarily borrowed" just like the Elgin Marbles and is currently housed in the British Museum in room 5. The lion-like figures are called Lamassus. The Portal in Persepolis, also called the Gate of All Nations, faces West. The one that used to face East is in the British Museum. Walking through the West portal would definitely send you to the East one through a wormhole, from Shiraz to London in a blink of an eye. Needless to say I had no intention of abruptly ending my trip this way so I didn't dare cross it and walked around it just in case.
Seeing the Portal of Persepolis I could swear that I had seen this gate somewhere before. If you don't have time/mood/baldness to visit this place you needn't worry, the other gate was "temporarily borrowed" just like the Elgin Marbles and is currently housed in the British Museum in room 5. The lion-like figures are called Lamassus. The Portal in Persepolis, also called the Gate of All Nations, faces West. The one that used to face East is in the British Museum. Walking through the West portal would definitely send you to the East one through a wormhole, from Shiraz to London in a blink of an eye. Needless to say I had no intention of abruptly ending my trip this way so I didn't dare cross it and walked around it just in case.
Persepolis: gate of all nations
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Persepolis: the grand entrance
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After Persepolis I headed North through the Verzaneh Desert. One could take a camel ride through the desert and sleep under the stars. Due to lack of time I did not have the luck to experience this, but will hopefully do on my next trip. |
After Verzaneh desert came Isfahan, a city with such beauty few cities can match. If you are given only a few days to live, my advice is to spend all of them in Isfahan. A city that is as exotic as its name suggests. Again a place where more international visitors pass through, it was a place where one can find a hostel (not to be missed: GPS Amir Karbir hostel +/-32.6638, 51.6698) and liaise with other fellow travellers in a language other than Farsi. Although extremely hot, the city's mayor had gone to great lengths and stratigially placed trees on all main streets along the kerb which provided a very cool and shady shelter from the sizzling sun above. There one can visit the 40 column palace which has (place your bets now), you guess it... 20 columns! (explanation: the palace has 20, another 20 that mirror on the fountain surface, all in all 40). The biggest highlight of this city is a breathtaking 90'000m² central square called Naqsh-e Jahan which has a pearl of architecture on each side. Namely these are: the Qeysarie Gate and entrance to the Bazaar in the North, the Shah Mosque to the South, the Ali Qapu palace to the West, and the Sheikh Lofgollah Mosque to the East .
top left: Lofgollag Mosque Sheihk Lofgollag Mosque Ali Qapu Palace
Ali Qapu Palace Naqsh-e Jahan square Shah Mosque
Ali Qapu Palace Naqsh-e Jahan square Shah Mosque
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The 40-column palace, locally know as Chehel Sotoun.
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Interesting fact of the day: Where was ice-cream made for the first time? Italy? France. You might be in for a surprice. Ice cream is from Persia (article here) which was made two thousand years before Italy introduced it to the world. Of course these were times where electricity and cooling did not exist, so the Persians cooled their ice cream in vaults called Yakhchal, a type of underground evaporative cooler. They also used this technology to cool their houses with a system called Badgir (meaning wind-catcher). In a Yakhcal they were able to make Faloodeh (a desert similar to sorbet). Today one can enjoy Faloodeh or normal ice-cream typically made from milk, saffron and syrup.
Interesting fact of the day 2: Is Sorbet French / Italian? Worng, it's a Persian delicacy called Sharbat.
Interesting fact of the day 3: OK so if you had a time maching and could travel 2000 years ago you would find ice-ceam. But what other marvel of the human race would you find in Iran to support life in a hot place like this. You might think that aqueducts are a Roman invention, but you might want to think again. Yes, the Pesinas had them, called a kariz, and in arabic a qanat.
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The city also has a number of magnificent briges crossing Zayanderud river, the most famous one being the Si-O-Se-pol bridge which means 33-span bridge and has (any bets), you guessed it... ok this one actually has 33 spans. After spending two days in Isfahan, having seen most highlights of this city, I went for a walkabout through the centre. |
At lunchtime temperatures rose to above comfort for my liking. Having discovered Ayran at a turkish restaurant in London when I was a student, I thought that there must be something similar here in Iran. It is the most refreshing drink I have encountered in life so far. I asked around for Ayran but nobody seemed to know what it was. I then found a kiosk with some milk product in it and just pointed. Hoping that it would not be milk, as there were no latin letters printed on it, I was happy to confirm that it was indeed something very similar to Ayran. I am the biggest fan of this milky/yoghurty drink so I took every opportunity to indulge this. Having communication problems as no one understood the word Ayran I asked what would one call this drink in Iran. The worker at the kiosk could not speak a word of English so I started using hands and feet, how hard could it be, I said? It seemed impossible to communicate so I went to plan B: use hands and feet only and talk to him as if he were a 3 year old baby. I told him "me, Alex" pointing a finger towards my chest. "you?" pointing towards him, I got the answer "Ali". Salam I said. I then grabbed a chocolate bar, the only one with latin letters on it, which was called "Choco". I then preceded with hand gestures to explain, "me, Alex, you Ali, chocolate bar Choco" and then pointed to the bottle and said "and this?". OK the worker seemed to understand. He then took away the Ayran and replaced it with water. OK he obviously did not understand... I then said again "me Alex, you Ali, chocolate bar Choco", always pointing at what I was naming, like teaching a 2 year old the colours of the rainbow, then pointed to the bottle "and this?", ooooooh he said, and took away the Ayran and replaced it this time with two bottles of water. OK this guy did obviously not have a clue what I was trying to say. I did the same trick around five times using very simple hand gestures only to be presented every time with something different. This guy was not the brightest... the sixth time I finally succeeded when the penny really did drop and he could name the Ayran, which in Iran is called doogh. It made life a lot easier the next few days when I could just shout out "doogh" and would immediately be served with this refreshing drink. Please note a few important words before going to Iran to make your life easier.
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Feeling very sad to depart the city of Isfahan I headed North towards Qom, the religious capital of Iran. There one must visit the Fatima Masumeh Shrine with its countless mirrors and golden dome.
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My bowels started playing games with me the next few days. I was in need for a toilette break and to my great luck I saw a huge sign which looked like this placed outside a petrol station. I had never seen so many amenities in one place. I stopped at this petrol station thinking that it was a good place to connect to the outside world through wifi, only to realise that none of these amenities existed, except for petrol (ok that would be a bare minimum) and a squat toilette. I tried asking by pointing at the internet/phone/shower etc. signs where these places were, only to be answered in gibberish. A few kilometeres the same sign came up but again all amenities depicted did not exist. I saw it a number of times so I guess it was just fake advertisement to lure people in. In reality there was no toilette paper in sight, let along shower/wifi etc.
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A stone's throw away and I was in Tehran, the capital city of Iran. I entered triumpantly and full of joy only to realise that the bad driving I had experienced the last week was just the tip of the iceberg, actually even the tip would be an understatement. There were cars, motorbikes, mopeds and people everywhere. I wondered why traffic was that bad especially in Tehran and after a bit of research I asserted that Teheran was a place where almost 14 million people would call home. Yes, this city was bigger than Istanbul and bigger than Greater London. |
Teheran Bazaar
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If you have driven in Istanbul and found it shocking, then the worst Istanbulian driver would find Tehran equally shocking. Mopeds would drive against the stream on one-way roads, on pavements, between pedestrians, zoom through the smallest gaps between cars, the list does not end. There I was so fed up of the way people drove that instead of being extra safe I took a knife between my teeth and entered war-mode. I became the most vicious and agressive driver of them all just to show them that nothing intimidates me. A few months before the trip I asked someone who had been in Iran on a bike about advise and the first thing he mentioned was "you don't have to go to Tehran". These words kept popping in my head but once I got out of there in one piece, as always, any bad experince is now just a joyful memory scarred in my brain. Enough negativity for now, in Teheran one must visit, among other places, the Golestan Palace. I only stayed in this concrete jungle for two days in a hotel with a western toilette and toilette paper (what a great relief), before setting off to the Caspian Sea. I drove North and took the "Chalus pass" towards the city of Chalus. Tehran is built on the edge of a big mountain range. The mountains can be seen from almost anywhere in the city. The month being May meant that the peaks were still snow-capped. The Chalus pass is the road that connects Tehran with the Caspian sea. The road is a steep climb and reaches a height of 3'000m before descending into the Caspian. That is one Eiffel Tower higher than the highest pass in Europe, namely Col de l'Iseran (which lies at 2764m altitude)in France. Nedless to say that the views were both scary and breathtaking.
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The unexpected adventure started when the GPS stopped working because of the high surrounding cliffs. I stopped and asked two locals if this was the way to the Caspian sea only to get a "yes but..." something I didn't understand. There was no going back so I pressed on. A few km further on I saw what this person was trying to explain. The road had been closed off by an earth ramp. Cars would still go over it by gaining momentum and riding over it, almost flying off on the other side like we see in the movies of San Francisco. I got off the bike and walked on this earth ramp to assess the situation and see if this leap in faith was doable for a heavy bike like mine. It looked steep, muddy and dangerous. Consulting my GPS there was no way around this obstacle so I decided to risk it. I took off all the paniers and made the bike as light as possible. I reved the engine and sped up to the ramp in full wrath telling myself "it's either this or back to angry drivers in Tehran" I miraculously stood on the pegs to reduce impact, hit the ramp, sent me flying in the air, only to land safely on the other side with nothing more that a fast heart beat and shaky hands.
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inspecting the integrity of the Earth ramp
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A small croud had gathered around and gave me a round of applause for my succesfull jump. I was now officially a show jumper. I reached the highest point of the pass and started my descent. Snow was still melting on the side of the road so the road surface was full of water and torrents, the remnants after a long winter. An hour later you will never guess what happened... another earth ramp! I stopped again to assess the situation and this time the ramp was steeper and the soil softer. Even walking on it would make my boots sink halfway up the shinbone. A few minutes later fellow driver came buy who could speak very good english. I asked him what this was and he in turn explained that there is a hotel down the road and the manager doesn't like the view of unwanted tourists so he builds ramps to deter drivers. From all the reasons in the world I would never have guessed that someone would actually close the road for such a selfish and idiotic reason. I asked if this was a joke and he confimred that no, and that this is Iran... what can I say. He got his mobile phone out and called a nearby hotel and instructed some people to come with shovels. That didn't sound very promosing... Half an hour later three people showed up out of nowhere with... yes, shovels! They proceeded in digging their way through and another half an hour passed and the road was passable again. The ramp had very recently been built from the earth lying on the side of the road. Continuing north I saw a digger which must have been the culprit to the whole ordeal. I wanted to puncture his tires as retaliation but decided that this would have not solved anyting. Someone being mean to us is no excuse for us being mean back to them. With a few mud stains, half an hour time loss and a great story to tell I was on the road again.
Chalus, being a city by the Caspian sea, I assumed that it would be like on a beach town in Greece, which meant full of sandy -beaches, beach tavernas, and of course mojitos with little umbrellas in them etc., I was totally wrong. The beach looked deserted and full of debris dumped from numerous construction sites. It looked more like a dumping ground than a beach. I had saved the coordinates of two hotels on my gps, only to find out that these were run-down houses, no hotel in sight. I saw a humongous sign advertising a five star hotel and spent a good hour looking for it, only to realise that it hadn't been built yet... I continued West in search of a place to rest. The next city was Bandar Anzali where I started looking for a hotel. I saw a person sitting at the side of the road and asked "english" to which is replied "yes" and a long sentence in Farsi. "English" I asked again, "yes" followed again by a long sentence in Farsi. When asked again "english" the person would just repeat the same sentence slower and lowder. I asked "hotel" to which I got a "yes" and he immediately got his mobile phone out and made a call. After a lot of pointing and shouting there was no hotel in sight. The same thing happened with a second person I stopped "english", "yes", "hotel?", "yes..." (loud Farsi) who also preceded in getting his mobile phone out and to call someone. I don't know what these people did but probably they called their wife/cousin/someone they knew to see if they could find a bed for me for a night and maybe make some pocket-money out of it. At least that's what I made of the whole situation. I drove off and finally found a building that looked like a hotel and actually was a hotel. I got a good night's rest there.
Chalus, being a city by the Caspian sea, I assumed that it would be like on a beach town in Greece, which meant full of sandy -beaches, beach tavernas, and of course mojitos with little umbrellas in them etc., I was totally wrong. The beach looked deserted and full of debris dumped from numerous construction sites. It looked more like a dumping ground than a beach. I had saved the coordinates of two hotels on my gps, only to find out that these were run-down houses, no hotel in sight. I saw a humongous sign advertising a five star hotel and spent a good hour looking for it, only to realise that it hadn't been built yet... I continued West in search of a place to rest. The next city was Bandar Anzali where I started looking for a hotel. I saw a person sitting at the side of the road and asked "english" to which is replied "yes" and a long sentence in Farsi. "English" I asked again, "yes" followed again by a long sentence in Farsi. When asked again "english" the person would just repeat the same sentence slower and lowder. I asked "hotel" to which I got a "yes" and he immediately got his mobile phone out and made a call. After a lot of pointing and shouting there was no hotel in sight. The same thing happened with a second person I stopped "english", "yes", "hotel?", "yes..." (loud Farsi) who also preceded in getting his mobile phone out and to call someone. I don't know what these people did but probably they called their wife/cousin/someone they knew to see if they could find a bed for me for a night and maybe make some pocket-money out of it. At least that's what I made of the whole situation. I drove off and finally found a building that looked like a hotel and actually was a hotel. I got a good night's rest there.
After 2 weeks and 2'500km it was time to say good-bye to the Persian people. I probably spoke too fast when saying this as at the time I had no idea what was lying ahead of me. I arrived at the border at Astara (took around 3 hours of useless paperwork talking using hands and feet), crossed a bridge which marks the border between Iran and Azerbaijan, only to be told that I didn't have a visa and had to turn back... I had shot myself in the foot after organising so much paperwork on the way (visa, insurance for all countries etc.) and forgetting one of the simplest things: Azerbaijan required a visa. The only way out was back the way I came. Unfortunately it was lunch time in Iran so everything was closed for the next 2 hours. It took in total 4 hours to cross back into Iran, re-validate my visa temporarily, which gave me another week of stay. Yes, I wack back in Iran much faster than I anticipated. I then had to make my way to Georgia via Armenia instead of Azerbaijan, which did not require a visa.
After spending a good 8 hours at a border crossing back and forth I was on a very short fuse. Looking back now, these unfortunate events are only funny memories that have all passed and now are nothing more that a mistake to learn and will hopefully not be repeated. No mishap in life goes in vain. I proceeded with the trip after a humongous detour in order to avoid crossing through Azerbaijan. I headed West towards Tabriz, then North and into the only border crossing between Iran and Armenia, the Norduz crossing. There I could stamp my exit visa and my Carnet and enter Armenia. Suprrisingly the border crossing this time took less than an hour.
Weird fact of the day: except for the "Allemania" and "how much" questions every day I also encountered another buffling phenomenon. On the street lots of cars would flash their lights at me and sometimes hoop their horn. At first I thought that they were warning me that I had dropped someting, but everything seemed fine, every time. That happened from the moment I crossed into Iran to the moment I left. In every petrol station people would point at the front of the bike and mumble something in Farsi. Were they asking how much? Were they asking what kind of bike it was? Who knows. Every day people would flash their lights and wave and shout something. It only hit me on day when driving towards Isfahan when dawn started to fall. Most people wouldn't switch on their headlights until it was pitch dark. Actually, some people wouldn't switch on their lights at all! I then remembered my trip in Morocco in 2013 where I was told that many drivers don't swith on their headlights because, and I kid you not, lights "burn more petrol!". Yes it is true that the energy has to come from somewhere but are you willing to risk your life for a couple of pennies? That's a question I am not entitled to answer. It then hit me that the people were pointing at my front light and were trying to tell me that "my lights were on" during broad daylight and that I should switch them off to "save petrol". It would have been a lot easier and would have saved a lot of buffling if I had an interpreter. Now I know and now I share the story with you in case you find yourself in Iran on a bike which doesn't have an off-switch for the headlight (like all European two & four wheeled vehicles do today).
Info about driving through Iran: if you find yourself in this magnificent country with its rich history and its hospitable people you may want to note the following:
- while riding on a straight road (tarmac conditions are relatively good), minding your own business, out of nowhere speed-humps can appear as unwelcomed as a wedding-crasher. This can be exprienced also on a higway while you're casually doing 120km/hr, again in the most peculious and unexpected places. The first time I hit one I neerly took off direction moon, slightly faster and I would have entered into orbit with the International Space Station. After a few days I started sensing where these humps were placed and could forsee another unwanted moon crash-landing. They are generally placed at highway junctions and at the entrance and exit of any city. They usually come in rows of 4 or 5 so if you pass the first one expect a few more to come every ca. 50m. They are painted with white stripes which unfortunatelly fade away pretty fast, meaning that at noon where there are no shadows, they are barely visible, and of course at night totally invisible. A month later I changed my tires at a garage in Athens and the worker told me that the front wheel had been bent and was in need of realignment. This had probably happened from the first hump I went over (which I have now named moon-hump).
- a 3-lane road in Iran can EASILY accommodate ca. 2n+1 (i.e. in this case 2x3+1 = 7) rows of cars. Every time I came to a halt before a red traffic light, cars would drive next to me filling every tiny gap turning this 3-lane road into a 7-lave highway.
- while driving in country roads beware of the trucks. They are archaic and emit fumes of black smoke darker than a black hole. A cloud of dark smog will always follow these trucks and the stench of badly burnt diesel is unbearable. When going up-hill these delapidated trucks will be belching even thicker smog. I figured out that the best way to overtake these was to take a deep breath, pull the throttle, overtake as fast as possible, and breathe in right after overtaking. After a long day on the road there would always be a black line around the neck of my (then) white t-shirt. One could only assume how my lungs would be, had I been breathing in all that smoke. Holding your breath would in this case definitely massively icrease your life expectancy.
- driving a big bike does not mean that people can see you. In many occasions while riding in a city I saw pedestrians crossing the street disregarding any danger a speeding vehicle could possible impose on them. I had to slam the breaks more times that I could remember, to avoid a head-on collision with oblivious and obnoxious pedestrians who hadn't the faintest idea of physics and impact forces. Just drive assuming that you are totally invisible to the Iranian human eye. This is a mentality I also saw in India. Everything that happens in life is a direct decision of Allah/Buddha/Hindu God, so you don't need to look left & right when crossing a street because your destiny has already been written and you can't change it.
- ingore any signs of people pointing your head light trying to tell you to swith it off.
- regarding head lights, in some countries, especially in south America, I was told that it's actually illegal to drive during the day with the headlights on. Since you can't swith them off, there lies only one way to solve this problem: cover your front light with cardboard & duckt-tape. The biggest problems usually require the simplest, but ingenious, solutions. Or quoting Bear Grills: improvise, adapt, overcome.
Other info about visiting Iran:
- women should cover hair, arms and legs. Men should wear long trousers to cover their legs.
- never give a hand shake to a female, unless she does it first. No close contact in public.
- when asking a person for a hotel in a tiny village you might end up on his cousin's carpet.
- in big cities many young men speak english. In villages english-speakers are scarce (just like in Italy and Spain if you ask me...)
- you will attract as much attention by curious locals as Elivs would when walking in Memphis.
Architectural info about Iran:
- the mosques are decorated with a vault called Muqarnas.
Necessary documents for driving into Iran:
- while riding on a straight road (tarmac conditions are relatively good), minding your own business, out of nowhere speed-humps can appear as unwelcomed as a wedding-crasher. This can be exprienced also on a higway while you're casually doing 120km/hr, again in the most peculious and unexpected places. The first time I hit one I neerly took off direction moon, slightly faster and I would have entered into orbit with the International Space Station. After a few days I started sensing where these humps were placed and could forsee another unwanted moon crash-landing. They are generally placed at highway junctions and at the entrance and exit of any city. They usually come in rows of 4 or 5 so if you pass the first one expect a few more to come every ca. 50m. They are painted with white stripes which unfortunatelly fade away pretty fast, meaning that at noon where there are no shadows, they are barely visible, and of course at night totally invisible. A month later I changed my tires at a garage in Athens and the worker told me that the front wheel had been bent and was in need of realignment. This had probably happened from the first hump I went over (which I have now named moon-hump).
- a 3-lane road in Iran can EASILY accommodate ca. 2n+1 (i.e. in this case 2x3+1 = 7) rows of cars. Every time I came to a halt before a red traffic light, cars would drive next to me filling every tiny gap turning this 3-lane road into a 7-lave highway.
- while driving in country roads beware of the trucks. They are archaic and emit fumes of black smoke darker than a black hole. A cloud of dark smog will always follow these trucks and the stench of badly burnt diesel is unbearable. When going up-hill these delapidated trucks will be belching even thicker smog. I figured out that the best way to overtake these was to take a deep breath, pull the throttle, overtake as fast as possible, and breathe in right after overtaking. After a long day on the road there would always be a black line around the neck of my (then) white t-shirt. One could only assume how my lungs would be, had I been breathing in all that smoke. Holding your breath would in this case definitely massively icrease your life expectancy.
- driving a big bike does not mean that people can see you. In many occasions while riding in a city I saw pedestrians crossing the street disregarding any danger a speeding vehicle could possible impose on them. I had to slam the breaks more times that I could remember, to avoid a head-on collision with oblivious and obnoxious pedestrians who hadn't the faintest idea of physics and impact forces. Just drive assuming that you are totally invisible to the Iranian human eye. This is a mentality I also saw in India. Everything that happens in life is a direct decision of Allah/Buddha/Hindu God, so you don't need to look left & right when crossing a street because your destiny has already been written and you can't change it.
- ingore any signs of people pointing your head light trying to tell you to swith it off.
- regarding head lights, in some countries, especially in south America, I was told that it's actually illegal to drive during the day with the headlights on. Since you can't swith them off, there lies only one way to solve this problem: cover your front light with cardboard & duckt-tape. The biggest problems usually require the simplest, but ingenious, solutions. Or quoting Bear Grills: improvise, adapt, overcome.
Other info about visiting Iran:
- women should cover hair, arms and legs. Men should wear long trousers to cover their legs.
- never give a hand shake to a female, unless she does it first. No close contact in public.
- when asking a person for a hotel in a tiny village you might end up on his cousin's carpet.
- in big cities many young men speak english. In villages english-speakers are scarce (just like in Italy and Spain if you ask me...)
- you will attract as much attention by curious locals as Elivs would when walking in Memphis.
Architectural info about Iran:
- the mosques are decorated with a vault called Muqarnas.
Necessary documents for driving into Iran:
It took a lot of pain and perseverence to sort out all the paperwork. Once it's all behind you is when one realises that it was worth every second, except if you get there and get a "visa refused" stamp and get sent back the way you came from, i.e. what happened to me trying to get into Azerbaijan.
Sidenote: don't do what these guys did: Del Boy & Homer)
Sidenote: don't do what these guys did: Del Boy & Homer)
Armenia
Armenian / Iranian border
Crossssing from Iran into Armenia didn't take as long as other borders did. The river and the surrounding mountains were breathtaking (see adjacent picture). The first thing one realises when crossing the border is that all cars transformed from Saipa and Khodro into what else but the famous Lada. The remnants of a county placed to the East of the Iron Curtain were obvious. Of course not all cars were Ladas, driving towards Yerevan where peopel are better off ,the number of Ladas reduced and western cars became more frequent.
The first question I was asked in Armenia by the border contol was "cocaine, opium, hashish?" so I obviously assumed that this was a smugglers route. What do you answer to this question "no sir, I'm not smuggling drugs?!". They checked my panniers because they didn't believe me. I then proceeded to passport control where the border officer meticulously checked every single page of my passport again and again and again, flicking through every page, looking at every detail, squeezing between pages to make sure he hadn't skip one, digging his face into every page from a couple of inches to his nose, making sure that nothing was to go unnoticed. He flicked trough it from front to back and from back to front around 50 times. I thought that he was trying to look for a reason to refuse entry. My heart was racing. In the end all was good and I was allowed entry. In the ensuing days I realised that it was the 100th year anniversary of a brutal massacre of the armenian people. The band System of a Down had just performed a consert to raise public awarness about this fact and border controls were more strict. Back to my trip: that was passport and baggage-check behind me. Now I proceeded forward, believeng that the border control was over, only to come to another barrier 1km further down and stopped yet again by military personell. There I was asked for "insurance doumenti" which I handed over (a green slip fron the insurance company). I knew that insurance companies insure all over Europe, Turkey, Georgia but NOT Armenia. I was then asked how many days would I be staying, to which I replied "only 2 days" so the gave me insurance for a week which costs a rediculous 50 Euros! Come on, you must he having a laugh officer. I couldn't argue so off I was 50 Euros poorer.
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Driving through South Armenia was like driving through the Alps (with slighly bumpier roads) i.e. breath-taking views and snow-capped peaks. From there it was a straight path to Yerevan. Travelling North of Yerevan one would encounter the valley of the monasteries, an area overwhelmed by the remnants of religion and its followers.
From Armenia after a simple stamp at the border I found myself in Georgia. |
Georgia
The quality of tarmac improved massively as soon as I crossed into Georgia. A quick stop in Tbilisi, quite a nice town, and off I headed west to Kutaisi. There I visited the Bagrati Cathedral. I did see a lot of poverty in Kutaisi, anything I bought, dinner, drinks, even the hostel, cost peanuts. I was therefore very surprised outside Bagrati Cathedral when I saw the local priest climbing into his car, a four-wheel drive Cherokee Jeep. Not someting the average Georgian in that village was able to afford. After that I visited the Gelati Monastery. I booked a night at the Hostel Relax, I was the only person staying there. The doors didn't lock and I slept in a dormitory with 4 beds, alone. I must admit, the silence and the dark made it a bit creepy...
The next day I set of for Batumi, the last town in Georgia before Turkey. One thing that I did realise in Georgia is that it was FULL with patrol cars. Every 5 minutes I could see a police car with a speed camera checking people's speed. They would stop people and tell them "you were doing 61 in a 60km/hr zone", this was worse than Switzerland. On the way to Batumi on a very nice curvy road (paradise for bikers) I decided to step on it and overtake the snail-pace moving cars. I overtook a lot of vehicles, mostly at places that was not allowed (double-line in the middle). After a steep corner, while I was overtaking a truck, I say a police car flagging me down. After the bad experience with corrups cops in Armenia I decided to ignore him, I pressed on the throttle and vanished like think smoke. Of course my heart was pounding hoping that he wouldn't radio the next patrol car and get stopped for dangerous driving. Thank god that did not happen, I had gotten away with it.
When reaching Batumi I discovered that they sold Gyros, so it was time for a good lunch. I then headed over the border and back into Turkey.
The next day I set of for Batumi, the last town in Georgia before Turkey. One thing that I did realise in Georgia is that it was FULL with patrol cars. Every 5 minutes I could see a police car with a speed camera checking people's speed. They would stop people and tell them "you were doing 61 in a 60km/hr zone", this was worse than Switzerland. On the way to Batumi on a very nice curvy road (paradise for bikers) I decided to step on it and overtake the snail-pace moving cars. I overtook a lot of vehicles, mostly at places that was not allowed (double-line in the middle). After a steep corner, while I was overtaking a truck, I say a police car flagging me down. After the bad experience with corrups cops in Armenia I decided to ignore him, I pressed on the throttle and vanished like think smoke. Of course my heart was pounding hoping that he wouldn't radio the next patrol car and get stopped for dangerous driving. Thank god that did not happen, I had gotten away with it.
When reaching Batumi I discovered that they sold Gyros, so it was time for a good lunch. I then headed over the border and back into Turkey.
Turkey
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After a few formalities and the border I was stamped-in for Turkey, I headed to Trabzon. I met some german tourists and shared dinner with them. The next day I headed to the famous Sumela Monastery, an medieval Byzantine monastery.
I was very sad to see tonnes of grafiti and G+M = L.F.E scratched all over the walls... |
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I then headed to Hattusa, the capital of the Hittie empire.
The town is so big that a road has been paved around it so that visitors can drive around it and admire this old site. I then headed to Samsun, Bursa and then Istanbul, where I spent a few days. |
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I had spend 1 month on the road, from Athens, to south Iran, and now I was in Istanbul. It was a luck year as there were 3 bank holidays in May that year (1st of May, Ascension day & Pentecost) . My boss didn't allow me to take more that 12 consecutive holidays so I was very lucky. I managed to take 1 month of by taking just 11 days holiday. It was now Sunday and the plan was to leave the bike at a parking lot, fly to Zurich, work for 2 weeks, and then fly back to pick up the bike and drive from Istanbul back to Zurich. To my great horror, after doing some resarch online, I read that this was not Europe, and you couldn't just leave your vehicle in Turkey and leave. You can't e.g. rent a car in Turkey and take it out of the country. Living in Europe it would be as easy as ordering a Guinness, he it was different. On my passport there was an "entry" stamp for my vehicle. I decided that the best way would be to go to the airport and fly out of Turkey using my ID, pretending that I forgot my passport. At the counter before boarking the officer took my ID and scanned it, he then told me "where is your entry stamp?" I pretenden that I didn't understand. He then told me "the computer says that you entered Turkey with a passport, give me your passport". My heart started pounding. I gave him my passport, he flicked through the pages, stamped it, and off I went. It was as simple as that. There were so many "entry" and "exit" stamps from Turkey that it was a total confusion. With that passport I had entered & exited Turkey in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 (twice) so there were 8 entry & exit stamps. I was lucky he didn't realise this, otherwise I would not be able to leave the country.
So I flew to Zurich, worked for 2 weeks, and then caought a flight back to Istambul where my bike was waiting for me at the garage. I fired her up and headed west.
So I flew to Zurich, worked for 2 weeks, and then caought a flight back to Istambul where my bike was waiting for me at the garage. I fired her up and headed west.
Greece
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I was finally back on Greek soil. That meant that instead of Ayran I would from now onards quench my thirst with a refreshing frappé. Admittedly Ayran is better when it comes to quenching thirst but this was Greece's national drink so that was the only option. Finally being able to communicate with everyone in my mother tongue, getting around was much easier. Also surreal was the fact that I could overhear and understand any conversation around me. Eavesdropping had never been more amusing. Picture: in Turkish Greece is called Yunanistan, depicted on the sign |
Ioannina Lake bridge Noutsos or Kokkorou Vikos George
After that came Albania, Croatia, Italy, and back to Switzerland, where I parked the bike and waited eagerly for the next adventure.
Parenthesis: On my trip of 2014 I was also asked dozens of times "Alemannia" and "how much?" by people in Eastern Turkey. After my trip I left my bike at my brother's garage in Athens, left it to hybernate there, and cought a flight back to Zurich. I then received an email from him saying "my neighbour likes your bikes, are you selling it?" which was the straw that broke the camel's back. I replied that NO, the bike is NOT for sale, it does NOT have a "for sale" sticker on it, so can everybody stop asking if it is for sale. If you want to buy a bike my fellow human, go to a bike shop and buy yourself a bike! Have people never heard of an bike shop? That's like me asking you if you are willing to sell your iPhone while having a conversation on it with your mum... because I don't know where to buy an iPhone. Or looking at your trousers and asking you "are you selling those"! I hope you understand the ridiculessness of that question now. Little did I know that in the year 2015 I would be asked the same question dozens of times every day. After contemplating what the best answer could be, appart from "one dollar", I now think that "in what colour?" would do a pretty good job....
Moral of the story: for those who have asked me, and there was quite a substantial amount, "is Iran dangerous?" my answer will always be: "I guess you've never been there".
After that came Albania, Croatia, Italy, and back to Switzerland, where I parked the bike and waited eagerly for the next adventure.
Parenthesis: On my trip of 2014 I was also asked dozens of times "Alemannia" and "how much?" by people in Eastern Turkey. After my trip I left my bike at my brother's garage in Athens, left it to hybernate there, and cought a flight back to Zurich. I then received an email from him saying "my neighbour likes your bikes, are you selling it?" which was the straw that broke the camel's back. I replied that NO, the bike is NOT for sale, it does NOT have a "for sale" sticker on it, so can everybody stop asking if it is for sale. If you want to buy a bike my fellow human, go to a bike shop and buy yourself a bike! Have people never heard of an bike shop? That's like me asking you if you are willing to sell your iPhone while having a conversation on it with your mum... because I don't know where to buy an iPhone. Or looking at your trousers and asking you "are you selling those"! I hope you understand the ridiculessness of that question now. Little did I know that in the year 2015 I would be asked the same question dozens of times every day. After contemplating what the best answer could be, appart from "one dollar", I now think that "in what colour?" would do a pretty good job....
Moral of the story: for those who have asked me, and there was quite a substantial amount, "is Iran dangerous?" my answer will always be: "I guess you've never been there".
