Esfahan

As Esfahan approaches the road gets thicker with trucks from the brick works and gravel yards. A truck laden with bricks pulls in front of me from a side road. I don't have to brake, but I ease off the pedals. Then I pedal on again to put my front tyre under the trucks brake light. We work up through the gears together. At 55 on a slight uphill the truck crosses to the left lane and I let it go, back to my usual place on the shoulder.

Three hours for 95 km takes me to Esfahan. It's my best run so far. Then there's another hour working my way through the traffic to the hotel district. The traffic gives me some consideration for my novelty value, but it still needs intense concentration. There's generally two lanes of moving traffic, and the suicide lane. The suicide lane is the lane nearest the edge where taxis and busses pick up passengers, cars double park, pedestrians loiter and walk out without looking, motorcycles ride in the wrong direction, car doors fly open, cars reverse hundreds of metres at high speed, cars u-turn irrespective of oncoming traffic. Riding in it is a paradox: to get anywhere, you have to ride like you own the road; to survive long enough to get anywhere you have to be ultra-defensive.

The next day my visa expires. I have to renew it at the Department of Aliens Affairs. There is a small notice pinned to a board at the hotel listing the requirements. I have gathered the photocopies of passport pages and passport photos. I go to the bank to make the deposit and get the receipt. I hope the account number is correct. I hope it's the right amount. I could go the the Aliens Affairs office first to check, but it'll waste a lot of time. I risk it.

It's across town to the Aliens Affairs office, and it takes a while to find the non-descript building. The security office take my camera on the way in. Inside the compound I'm directed to a window on the back side of the gate house. The uniformed officer looks at my passport, then sends me to a man on the second floor. I ask around till I find the right office, then this man looks at my passport and directs me back to the first man. Don't I need to fill in some forms? Oh yes, get them from this man. There's a small booth in the corner of the courtyard where I get a folder listing the application requirements (I have them all) and the forms to complete. Back at the first window the officer checks my paperwork, staples various pieces together, stamps everything, then sends me back upstairs to give it to Mrs whatsername. Come back in two hours.

I wait in the courtyard. After an hour and a half I go back upstairs. I've only just positioned myself against the door jamb when an officer walks through, sees me and says New Zealand. He wants me to follow. He takes me to an office. The guy behind the desk has enough brass on his jacket to rivet a steam engine. He's friendly, he asks about my trip. Do I have photos? They took my camera on the way in. I will go and get it. Is there a problem? No problem. He sends me down to the gatehouse with another officer to bring back my camera. We're up to Persepolis when a suited man enters the office and I'm dismissed.

I lurk at the office of the grumpy woman as other people harangue her with visa problems. She resolutely ignores me. After 15 minutes she tells me my visa is ready to collect from the first guy I was sent to upstairs. He takes my folder from the stack, dates and signs the visa extension stamps and I'm on my way. It's only taken the morning.

Back at the hotel there's a tall bespectacled man with a briefcase waiting in the lobby. He is hoping to find a native English speaker to take to his university class. I arrange to meet him here at 3.

We take a series of shuttle taxis to the edge of town. These are the taxi's that drive along major roads, so you just get in and out wherever you need to. Basically, they're the world's smallest buses. Seven taxis later we're not at Esfahan University, we're at some little institute of a few hundred students. The class has started and we slide into the back row. It's all adult students. They're learning when to use "a" or "an." A horse. An hour.

Behnoud puts up his hand. "Bebakshid" this time louder "Bebakshid!" Now that the whole class has turned around he's proudly announcing where he found me and offering me to read a passage to the class. It's not prearranged. It sounded like the teacher was expecting us but he's not. Behnoud seems to be angling for some extra credit. Now it seems slightly embarassing. I go to the front and introduce myself. There's maybe 60 students. I read a passage from the textbook. I restart twice. This time louder. This time slower. The passage is about village life in Ghana, and a dish called fufu. It says fufu in every sentence, sometimes twice. It's ridiculous. I get applause when I finish.

Class is over. I go with Behnoud to the Dean's office and she orders us tea. Then we go into a tutorial. It's the same teacher. There's about 30 students in a small classroom. I stand at the front and they ask me questions. About my trip. About New Zealand. Do you know who Mr Ahmadenijad is? Of course. Do you like Mr Ahmadenijad? Do YOU like Mr Ahmadenijad. Are you married. Would you like to take an Iranian wife back to New Zealand? That may be difficult on a bicycle.

We leave after half an hour. We get a bus back to the city centre. I almost follow the woman waiting at the curb with us in the back door, but the back is for women. It's separated by railing. I haven't seen anything in Esfahan yet, so I walk and talk with Behnoud through Imam Square and to the River and bridges until late in the evening.

Esfahan is famous for it's historic bridges. The river banks on both sides are parks and the bridges act as pedestrian thoroughfares and hang-out areas.

Imam square is surrounded by Bazaar and houses two of the most beautiful mosques and the Ali Qapu Palace. Jameh Mosque is also a fantastic example. I hang out in treed avenues and parks. Talk to the random people who approach me. Visit the cathedrals of the Armenian quarter. Before I know it I've been here nine days and I have to go.

Si o Seh Pol (Bridge of 33 Arches) built at the turn of the 17th Century.

Si o Seh Pol

Chubi Bridge (Mid 17th Century)

Avenues of Esfahan

Imam Square. Yes, touristy as.

Jameh Mosque. Built from the 12th Century onward, this part is 15th Century.

Inside the dome of Imam Mosque. There's a polished slab for stamping your foot and the echoes just keep ringing.

Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque

Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque

Imam Mosque

Ceiling detail from Ali Qapu Palace. For the acoustics apparently.

It's a pity there's no water in the river (the earlier photo with reflections is from a large stagnant puddle). According to people I met the government has sold the water to other countries or sent it to other cities for urban water supplies and irrigation.