I find internet in the evening at Ardakan, and email to the homestay I'm heading for tomorrow. I might make it there tomorrow. Or I might only make it to Nain. Nain is 110km along the edge of the desert. Then I turn west and go over the mountains to Toudeshk. Maybe 50km. That will take me from green to yellow to light brown to dark brown contours on the map.
I'm just finishing eating bread and watermelon for dinner when the phone rings. It's the man from Toudeshk. He is in Ardakan. At my hotel. I go down and talk to him. He won't be there, but I will stay with his brother's family. His brother doesn't speak much English but if there is any problem I can call him.
I'm away at 5:30 and the desert drifts by. I'm in my own world. I don't notice anything for six hours. Not even the milestones that are usually big excitement. Distance signs, and towns that are actually on the map are minor ones. Crossing between provinces is big. There is a dashed black line with yellow highlighting, and there's normally some big green signs, all Farsi. I've crossed from Yazd into Esfahan without seeing it. Turning a page on the map is big. One day I crossed a corner of a page and had to refold the map twice. That was a good day. Today I cross from the southern half into the northern half. I cut the map in two so the north wasn't completely worn out before I even got there. Round numbers on the odometer are the best. When I rolled over 1000 kilometres I didn't even look at the road for 800 metres. Today I pass 1500 and 1600km without realising.
It takes Nain to bring my head back to the bike. I curve around west of the town on the bypass flyovers. Third exit to Esfahan. Stopping in Nain never enters my mind. I loop 270 degrees under the flyover and there's nothing beyond, just heat and haze all the way to the mountains. I turn back and go into a petrol station, but they don't sell anything except petrol. I refill my empty water bottles. It's before midday but it's scorching. I need to eat. There's trucks stopped in the shade under the flyover. I don't want to stop with them. Beyond there's nothing. After a few kilometres I find a scrap of shade. An overhead sign across the highway. I put my back against the steel girder, and stretch my legs out in the just wide enough shadow. Lunch is bread with jam and butter. The butter is liquid. So is the jam. I try not to pour them all over myself. I enjoy the relative cool for half an hour. But it's only getting hotter. I have to go.
I have uphill for 30 km, then down for 15. I should be able to do the climb in 3 hours and the downhill will be nothing.
It's hot now. It must be 40 degrees in the shade. If there was any shade. The real mountains lurk ahead but I'm climbing. Straight road. Steadily up. I can't tell what the slope is. I know it's up from the speed and the pain. No matter how much I drink, my mouth is always dry. A momentary tail wind negates my self-generated breeze. I feel my body dessicate.
In a parking area beside the road is a white van with tinted windows. Unusual to see a van here. As I approach two European gentlemen walk around the back and watch me. They would look like paedophiles if this was Cambodia. One of them gives me a slow clap as I pass.
Did I mention it's hot? Salt has collected at the wrinkles of my squinting eyes. White crusts. I've tried to wipe it. I only succeeded in creating a searing blindness. My eyeball on a George Foreman grill. So I settle for blinking the occasional grain into a burning trace across my cornea.
I'm not squinting from the sun. I have dark glasses. I'm squinting to see the light. I should be able to see the light and go to it. There's no light. Last time I was dying there was no light either.
The road changes colour up ahead. Darker. There's one big woolen cloud. Please still be there when I get there. It is. And at the same time there's a parking area with a polished stone bench. I lie my back to it. Close my eyes. Don't twitch until the shade is gone. A beautiful half hour. But now it's cooler on the bike, generating breeze.
The proper climb starts. Somehow it feels better. At the top there's a truck to the side changing a tyre. I look at my front tyre and it wobbles. Now it's a pancake. Four weeks. 1600km. First flat tyre in Iran. That's a milestone. There's a curved piece of steel swarf through the rubber. It would have gone through anything. I take my time. Give all the tyres some air. Exchange glances of commiseration with the truck driver. He'll be there a while. I start rolling to Toudeshk.
I drift into the petrol station to ask where the Jalali house is. My rubbery legs can't kick out of the peddles. I have to jam my shin inelegantly into the high curb to avoid falling broadside onto the concrete. The petrol attendant calls a teen on a motorbike from the street and I follow him through the village to a steel gate in a mud wall.
Inside, the Jalali house is two sides of a courtyard, the other two sides are high mudbrick. Reza and wife Fatameh are very welcoming. Their kids Nasim (8) and Nima (6) are a lot of fun.
After tea, I go with Reza to the bathhouse on the other side of the village. There is only water to the house in the evening. I leave my things in the first room. It has a bench and hooks around the edge, and an empty footbath in the middle. I have a hot and very wet shower in one of the stalls in the next room. I'm not really sure what the protocol is now. My clean clothes are in the other room. My towel is too small to cover anything anyway. I walk out in my shower sandals. The three other men all turn away. I think one of them is trying not to laugh. Maybe that wasn't right. Or maybe it's just me.
I spend the evening and the next day visiting with family and friends, motorbike tours all over the village and the desert, sitting on the roadside talking politics (I only understood the names Ahmadenijad, Moussavi, Reza'i; and that there were some different opinions). It feels strange to pay when I leave. It was like staying with friends.
Orchards and wheat fields are fed by these channels, from a system of underground tunnels bringing water from the desert.
Skimming through dirt lanes and between fruit trees on the back of Reza's motorbike.
Wheat fields and the mudbrick village, Toudeshk.
Old caravanserai, with an unusual stone tower.
Water reservoir. The wind towers keep it cool through the heat of summer. There's a stone stairway two storeys down to the tap.
His and hers door knockers (men's on right), so you can tell who's at the gate.
Reza and Nasim. Heading into the desert, to wind through village lanes and see more ruins
Me with Nima
Nima, Reza and Nasim.
Politics and icecream in the evening.
I'm just finishing eating bread and watermelon for dinner when the phone rings. It's the man from Toudeshk. He is in Ardakan. At my hotel. I go down and talk to him. He won't be there, but I will stay with his brother's family. His brother doesn't speak much English but if there is any problem I can call him.
I'm away at 5:30 and the desert drifts by. I'm in my own world. I don't notice anything for six hours. Not even the milestones that are usually big excitement. Distance signs, and towns that are actually on the map are minor ones. Crossing between provinces is big. There is a dashed black line with yellow highlighting, and there's normally some big green signs, all Farsi. I've crossed from Yazd into Esfahan without seeing it. Turning a page on the map is big. One day I crossed a corner of a page and had to refold the map twice. That was a good day. Today I cross from the southern half into the northern half. I cut the map in two so the north wasn't completely worn out before I even got there. Round numbers on the odometer are the best. When I rolled over 1000 kilometres I didn't even look at the road for 800 metres. Today I pass 1500 and 1600km without realising.
It takes Nain to bring my head back to the bike. I curve around west of the town on the bypass flyovers. Third exit to Esfahan. Stopping in Nain never enters my mind. I loop 270 degrees under the flyover and there's nothing beyond, just heat and haze all the way to the mountains. I turn back and go into a petrol station, but they don't sell anything except petrol. I refill my empty water bottles. It's before midday but it's scorching. I need to eat. There's trucks stopped in the shade under the flyover. I don't want to stop with them. Beyond there's nothing. After a few kilometres I find a scrap of shade. An overhead sign across the highway. I put my back against the steel girder, and stretch my legs out in the just wide enough shadow. Lunch is bread with jam and butter. The butter is liquid. So is the jam. I try not to pour them all over myself. I enjoy the relative cool for half an hour. But it's only getting hotter. I have to go.
I have uphill for 30 km, then down for 15. I should be able to do the climb in 3 hours and the downhill will be nothing.
It's hot now. It must be 40 degrees in the shade. If there was any shade. The real mountains lurk ahead but I'm climbing. Straight road. Steadily up. I can't tell what the slope is. I know it's up from the speed and the pain. No matter how much I drink, my mouth is always dry. A momentary tail wind negates my self-generated breeze. I feel my body dessicate.
In a parking area beside the road is a white van with tinted windows. Unusual to see a van here. As I approach two European gentlemen walk around the back and watch me. They would look like paedophiles if this was Cambodia. One of them gives me a slow clap as I pass.
Did I mention it's hot? Salt has collected at the wrinkles of my squinting eyes. White crusts. I've tried to wipe it. I only succeeded in creating a searing blindness. My eyeball on a George Foreman grill. So I settle for blinking the occasional grain into a burning trace across my cornea.
I'm not squinting from the sun. I have dark glasses. I'm squinting to see the light. I should be able to see the light and go to it. There's no light. Last time I was dying there was no light either.
The road changes colour up ahead. Darker. There's one big woolen cloud. Please still be there when I get there. It is. And at the same time there's a parking area with a polished stone bench. I lie my back to it. Close my eyes. Don't twitch until the shade is gone. A beautiful half hour. But now it's cooler on the bike, generating breeze.
The proper climb starts. Somehow it feels better. At the top there's a truck to the side changing a tyre. I look at my front tyre and it wobbles. Now it's a pancake. Four weeks. 1600km. First flat tyre in Iran. That's a milestone. There's a curved piece of steel swarf through the rubber. It would have gone through anything. I take my time. Give all the tyres some air. Exchange glances of commiseration with the truck driver. He'll be there a while. I start rolling to Toudeshk.
I drift into the petrol station to ask where the Jalali house is. My rubbery legs can't kick out of the peddles. I have to jam my shin inelegantly into the high curb to avoid falling broadside onto the concrete. The petrol attendant calls a teen on a motorbike from the street and I follow him through the village to a steel gate in a mud wall.
Inside, the Jalali house is two sides of a courtyard, the other two sides are high mudbrick. Reza and wife Fatameh are very welcoming. Their kids Nasim (8) and Nima (6) are a lot of fun.
After tea, I go with Reza to the bathhouse on the other side of the village. There is only water to the house in the evening. I leave my things in the first room. It has a bench and hooks around the edge, and an empty footbath in the middle. I have a hot and very wet shower in one of the stalls in the next room. I'm not really sure what the protocol is now. My clean clothes are in the other room. My towel is too small to cover anything anyway. I walk out in my shower sandals. The three other men all turn away. I think one of them is trying not to laugh. Maybe that wasn't right. Or maybe it's just me.
I spend the evening and the next day visiting with family and friends, motorbike tours all over the village and the desert, sitting on the roadside talking politics (I only understood the names Ahmadenijad, Moussavi, Reza'i; and that there were some different opinions). It feels strange to pay when I leave. It was like staying with friends.
Orchards and wheat fields are fed by these channels, from a system of underground tunnels bringing water from the desert.
Skimming through dirt lanes and between fruit trees on the back of Reza's motorbike.
Wheat fields and the mudbrick village, Toudeshk.
Old caravanserai, with an unusual stone tower.
Water reservoir. The wind towers keep it cool through the heat of summer. There's a stone stairway two storeys down to the tap.
His and hers door knockers (men's on right), so you can tell who's at the gate.
Reza and Nasim. Heading into the desert, to wind through village lanes and see more ruins
Me with Nima
Nima, Reza and Nasim.
Politics and icecream in the evening.
A real flavour of village life. The ride sounded tough, though. Take care. Love, Mum
ReplyDeleteAh, yip. There's a sense of ascetic, body-winnowing effort in your cycle-writings SD. Interspersed with oases, both people and landscape-wise. Hope you're getting plenty of moments full of the absolute joy of being there.In amongst the fire-ants in your nerve endings. Thanks for the words and the pictures. Brightens a gloomy old chch winter...
ReplyDeleteHey Dan,
ReplyDeleteLoving your work! What an amazingly mad and fantastic adventure you are on! Last I heard you were in the ice and now here you are sweating it out in Iran. Brilliant stuff my gypsy friend!
Happy and safe travels,
Love Amy
Hi Dan,
ReplyDeleteHappy birthday mate...I guess you will be celebrating with some meat on a stick...
Hope the sweat rash is coming along ok...can you buy nappy cream there, or do you have to use goat's yoghurt or something?
Sorry I haven't sent you my blog lately...there have been so many exciting things going on for me here back in Auckland that I simply haven't had the chance to write it all down....soooooo many exciting things.....heaps and heaps....the highlight for me yesterday was when I went to check the mailbox and there was no mail.....wow.....a real thrill.
Good to see your beard is coming along nicely. Can you get shampoo there, or do you have to use goat's yoghurt or something?
I am glad you are enjoying the various ruins and historical sites. I have been loving all of your photos. Reminds me a lot of the ruins in Rome and the old ruins in Israel...and that's just your hotels I'm talking about.
Anyway, stay safe brother and hope you have a good birthday there.
Catch up soon,
love
Rich
Hey bro, it's Rich here again...
ReplyDeleteI was just wondering if you have had any incidents like constantly getting offered tea when you don't want it and in fact you don't even like tea or any hot drinks for that matter and you say no and they insist and you say no again and they say of course you want it but you really don't want it and they pour you some anyway and then you don't drink it because you never wanted it and you in fact said you didn't want it and then they ask you why you don't like their tea and you say you just don't feel like tea and they ask you if you want another cup because the first one has gone cold and you say no thanks and they say that tea is good for you and you say you know that it is good for you but you just don't want it and they ask why you don't like their tea because it's a special blend from the mountains of Yazd and you say that you just aren't very fond of any tea no matter where it is from and they say but this is special tea that you have never tried and you say that you are sure it is very special but you will give it a miss this time because you are not feeling like tea and they ask you if you are feeling ill and you say no its just that you don't feel like tea and they say that the best thing when you are feeling ill is a cup of tea so they pour you another cup and hand it to you and watch you and everyone in the room is watching you and you start to sweat and they say tea is good for fever and you sweat even more because the cup is hot and everyone is watching you and someone says get him a bigger cup of tea because he's very sick and the pressure is all getting too much for you and then someone else says you know what is really good when you are feeling sick? and you say "no" and they say "osh" and you say "it's a little hot for osh right now" and they say "the osh will cool your fever down" and this dosn't make sense to you because it is hot and anyway you don't even have a fever and you don't really feel like osh or any soup for that matter because it's the middle of summer and you're already feeling hot but then they come back with a hot bowl of osh and hand it you and you say no thanks I really don't feel like osh and they insist and you say no again and they say of course you want it but you really don't want it and they hand it to you anyway and then you don't eat it because you never wanted it and you in fact you said you didn't want it and then they ask you why you don't like their osh and you say you just don't feel like osh and they ask you if you want another bowl because the first one has gone cold and you say no thanks and they say that osh is good for you and you say you know that it is good for you but you just don't really want it and they ask why you don't like their osh because it's a special family recipe from back in the mountains of Esfahan and you say that you just aren't very fond of any osh no matter where it is from and they say but this is special osh that you have never tried and you say that you are sure it is very special but you will give it a miss this time because you are not feeling like osh and they ask you if you are still feeling ill and you say no its just that you don't feel like osh and they say that the best thing when you are feeling ill is a hot bowl of osh and a hot cup of tea so they pour you another cup of tea and pour you another bowl of osh and hand it to you and watch you and everyone in the room is still watching you and you are sweating even more now and they say that tea and osh is the best thing for extreme fevers such as yours....and then they move in with the osh and the tea and get closer and closer and closer towards you and others start coming towards you with bowls of osh and cups of tea...closer and closer...and closer....then you sit up violently in bed gasping and realise that it was just a nightmare.... Just wondering if you've ever come across something like that. I haven't.
No. Nothing like that. But I do seem to have had a few incidents where I get offered tea or I think I've been offered tea because all I understand is the word "chay" which means tea and I don't want tea because I've just ridden through the desert and I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating and I don't want tea or any hot drink for that matter so I say no thanks and they think I'm just refusing out of politeness or I think they think I'm just refusing out of politeness because I hear the word "taroff" which means to refuse out of politeness but actually I don't want tea because I've just ridden through the desert and I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating and the last thing I want is a hot cup of tea so I say it's not taroff I don't want tea and they they think it's great that I'm learning persian language and persian customs or I think they think it's great that I'm learning persian language and persian customs because all I understand are the words "Farsi" which means persian language and "taroff" and they bring me a cup of tea but I don't take the tea because I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating and the last thing I want is a hot cup of tea but they just keep holding out the tea and eventually I have to take the tea and now I'm holding the tea it seems rude not to drink it so I drink the tea even though I've just ridden through the desert and I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating and I don't want tea and then they say look at him all hot and dehydrated and sweating after riding through the desert he really needs another cup of tea or at least that's what I think they say because all I understand is the word "chay" which means tea and they bring me another cup of tea and now I think I should never have taken that first cup of tea because I've just ridden through the desert and I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating and I didn't even want the first cup of tea but they just keep holding out the tea so eventually I have to take it and now I'm holding the tea it seems rude not to drink it so I drink the tea and then they say that after riding through the desert getting all hot and dehydrated and sweating what I really need is a couple of nice hot cups of tea and a sleep or I think that's what they say because all I understand are the words "chay" which means tea and putting their palms together and resting their head on it with their eyes closed which means to sleep and I say yes because I've just ridden through the desert and I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating and if I'm asleep they can't bring me any more tea and the last thing I want is a hot cup of tea and it's happened to me enough times now that I know that when I've ridden through the desert and I'm hot and I'm dehydrated and I'm sweating what I really need is a couple of nice hot cups of tea and a sleep.
ReplyDelete