Persepolis

Persepolis was one of three capital cities built by the Achaemenids. It was used during Naw Ruz ceremonies (around 21 March), when subjects from the various nations under Persian rule would bring offerings. It would have been a much more pleasant time to be there. In May it's stinking hot.

What remains after Alexander the Great torched the place (returning the favour that Xerxes had earlier paid Athens) is an extensive stone platform, stone stairways, columns, door and window frames, and the stone foundations of buildings that were built largely from mud brick and timber. There are two tombs in the style of Naqsh e Rostam cut into the hill behind.

Unfortunately, most of the site is roped off or behind glass fence panels. So it's not possible to walk through most of the arches. Also, a high steel roof covers the middle part of the site, with a large portion of the carvings. So it doesn't feel untouched. There's no sense of discovery as you wander around.
The Achaemenids were Zoroastrian. This was the first monothiestic religion, and there are several carvings showing the Achaemenid kings, supported by people of different nations, under the blessing of Ahura Mazda, symbolized by the winged ring at the top of this picture.

The carvings show delegations from 23 nations, including Ethiopians, Arabs and Indians, bringing tribute. They can be distinguished by their different dress, hair and beards. It's depicted as a friendly affair, each delegation being led hand in hand by a Persian usher. The carvings are also liberally applied with flower motifs and stylized, but botanically detailed conifers. It gives some indication of how different the setting would have been back when the fertile crescent was still fertile.

I spent two days at the ruins, sitting out the heat at the middle of each day in the small museum, which is a reconstruction of one of the original buildings, and eating ice cream at the coffee shop.

At night I camped at a sort of tourist village, with bungalows scattered through a treed compound. A lot of people camp on the roadside, at Persepolis and anywhere, but it was worth the five dollars for the feeling of security, the hot shower and to put the tent on grass not dirt.

The second night was a Thursday, and on Thursdays and Fridays there is a much talked about light show. In the evening the site closes, everyone leaves, then buys another ticket and returns to sit in a grandstand at one end. It seemed to tell the story of one of the Achaemenid Kings through an antiquated PA system. It was difficult to tell, being all in Farsi. At one stage there was a sound of a horse galloping and later a battle with yelling and swords clashing. The light show was probably built by the last Shah, and consisted of various parts of the site being lit up in different colours, apparently without regard to the music or storyline. Anyway, it was all so far away from the grandstand and cut in half by the steel roof structure, it was wholly unimpressive. I spent half of the long 25 minutes with my head tilted back looking at the stars. It was the clearest night. The show concluded with what seemed to be the national anthem. I would have been more certain if Iran had won some olympic gold medals. Half the grandstand stood up and sang. The other half stood up and left.

Naqsh e Rostam and Naqsh e Rajab

Persepolis is 60 km North of Shiraz, and Pasargadae another 75km North of that. No point going there and back to Shiraz, so I have a change of plan, to see the ruins, then head west winding my way to Esfahan through the mountains. I'm riding with my head down, and miss the sign for Persepolis, so first I visit these smaller sites 5 km down the road.

Naqsh e Rostam has four tombs hewn into the cliffs. They house kings of the first Persian empire, the Achaemenids, who ruled from 550 to 330 BC. There's also a square stone building of unknown purpose. Carvings depicting victory over the Romans, and various other inscriptions have been added during the second Persian empire, the Sassanians 224-642 AD.

Naqsh e Rajab is a small rock alcove, hidden from view, with a few Sassanian carvings. Why they chose to put them there is anyone's guess.

Shiraz

Shiraz is touted as a beautiful city. But really, it's not even by the coast. At it's heart it's a city of gardens and tree lined boulevards, in a fertile valley surrounded by arid mountains. But now, it's crawling up the lower mountain slopes and filling the valley with smog. Still, it's a major tourist draw. Occasionally, at one of the big attractions, a grey haired gaggle dressed in desert colours, with zip off trouser legs, will whisper past, en francais. But mostly it's people from all over Iran who flock here. And it feels touristy. I'm asked for directions three times in the week I'm here. It must be time to trim that beard.


The city centres on the Arg e Karim Khan, Built in the mid 18th century when Shiraz briefly became the capital city. Inside, is a courtyard filled with orange trees

The Vakil bazaar is an interesting mix of tourist trinkets and everyday items. But the architecture is just as interesting as what's on sale.


There's a number of famous mosques, The Nasir ol Molk mosque is one of the most photogenic.

And the Vakil Mosque

The two big attractions for Iranian visitors are the tombs of Hafez and Sa'di, poets from the 14th and 13th centuries, though the tombs are nowhere near that old.

It seems to be a popular ritual to touch the tombstones and recite something, presumably either poetry or prayer.

Not being familiar with any of the poetry, it's hard to get too excited, but the gardens are pleasant enough. Actually, my favourite place in Shiraz was this underground teahouse in the grounds of Sa'di's tomb. A hole in the centre looks through to a fishpond a floor below.

But of course the most interesting part is the people. In Shiraz, the chadors have largely given way to headscarves and manteaus. A manteau is basically a housecoat from the 1950's. Normally thigh length, dowdy ones may fall below the knee, and particularly racy versions finish just below the bum. They usually have long sleeves, but there's also short sleeved or sleeveless versions worn with a tight sleeved top underneath. Worn with trousers of course.

In the evening the city comes alive, and there's a distinct asian flavour, with street vendors selling anything they can from blankets lining the footpath.

The traffic has an asian flavour too. Four lanes of traffic use three lanes of road in each direction. To cross the road you have to drift across and let the traffic flow around you, asian style. There's a few perilous differences here. The traffic here is almost entirely cars, and it's flowing enough that the cars are moving fast. The most difficult thing is that every car, private or taxi, stops to pick up passengers, so if you're standing at the roadside, every car comes towards you and toots it's horn. So there's no way you can judge a gap in the traffic. It's like trying to observe an electron. The act of observing it changes everything. It's no wonder the road toll is astronomical.

Shiraz has any number of gardens, parks really, and is famous for them, in Iran. Inside tall walls, they have lawns, trees and flowerbeds. In the shade of orange trees couples sit at angles so acutely inwards they can only be in love. Walking along a gravel path I hear a whistle. Two shrills. A referee. Then again, louder. It's more like a police whistle. The whistle blows keep coming in pairs as a uniformed guard locomotives towards me. I just had my shoes off, walking across the lawn. It was spongey and damp. Fantastic after all that desert. There are small placards staked around the edges, which probably say keep off the grass, but how would I know? I'm ready for the engagement, but his stride doesn't break. The whistles give way to remonstration and arm waving as the guard stops across a flower bed from a young couple sitting against the mudbrick wall. As I had passed there was a whisper. Lips may have brushed a cheek. The couple stand and walk away, the width of the path between them. The park is punctuated with whistles for the rest of the evening, as couples cross some invisible line of demonstrative affection.

Lar to Shiraz

I have a rest day in Lar. It's Friday. I do laundry. I wander around. I buy sunscreen from the pharmacy using only Farsi. I try to find something to eat that isn't meat on a stick. The town's alive in the evening. I buy Osh e most from a guy on the street. It's the best thing I've ever eaten.

Again, I leave town at 5, in the dark. Only now I don't know what time I've been starting because it took a couple of days to remember Iran time is half an hour different to Dubai time. Then longer to figure out which way it's different. Then later I find out Iran is on daylight savings time. My Afghan friends told me the way I was planning was very long and winding (read mountainous). So now I'm heading towards Jahrom. Floss says 155. The signs agree. I'll probably stop at a small town after 110km, Mansur Abad, then go past Jahrom to the next city the following day.

My legs are rested. I feel strong. When I climb I know I've climbed longer, higher, steeper, harder, hotter. I pull off the road into Mansour Abad. I could push on to Jahrom but it would turn a good day into a bad day. Its a small mudbrick village. It's still early. Not hot yet. People are around.

Old men sit on a step in the shade. I stop. I ask where there is a hotel. There is no hotel. I knew this. People gather. We talk. Eventually I'm handed a cell phone with English on the other end. The voice wants me to visit it in Joyum. 5km away. How will I find you? The voice is coming to me. Soon a car arrives. The voice is the English teacher at the high school in Joyum. He invites me to stay with him. I follow the car 5km.

Entrance to the Eshghi courtyard

Eshghi is alone at home. His wife is with her parents to have a baby. It's due soon, maybe a few weeks. I tour the town on the back of his motorbike. We visit his brother in the grocery store. And his brothers in the computer store. And his wife. We eat lunch and talk and sleep. He wants me to stay for a few days or a week, so he can practice his english. I can't. In the evening we are visited by Friends. Cousins. Inlaws. I will stay another day.

Lunch with Eshghi Junior and Senior

The next day I spend the morning at home with his father. In the afternoon we sleep. He wants me to go to the grocery store with my bike and cycling clothes. It will be great advertising for his brother's shop. I do. I'm a spectacle. Everyone in town knows the Farangi on a bicycle was shopping at Eshghi's grocery store. I stop in at the computer store on the way back.

Later we make more visits, then we go to an orchard for a party put on for the school's teachers by the head master. We sit on carpets under the trees. Eat kebab and talk.

In the morning I leave after It's light. The father wakes up to make me tea, so I don't want to be too early.

Brown wheat fields start to appear. Jahrom 45 becomes Jahrom 75. The signs are messed up. The roads don't match the map.

Harvest. How wheat or anything can grow here I have no idea

I stop in Jahrom. Find a hotel. Try and send an email. Eat pastries and icecream. I'm on a small wire infested balcony when a young woman asks if I want to use the internet tomorrow. I think that's what she asks. Come and see the manager, he speaks English. I think it's the manager of the hotel. It's not. There's a small office on the roof. She is the secretary. We talk for a while. He is a business man. He has just come back from China. He has to visit his building later, on the other side of town. If I want to come with him he will take me sightseeing.

I meet him in the lobby. We drive to the building. It's a construction site. There is one shop open and he is selling security doors, bathroom fixtures, tiles. We talk with his store clerk and the secretary. The secretary's husband. Her sister. Around 9:30 he takes me back to the hotel. There's no sightseeing. There's no sights to see. I eat meat on a stick.

The rig

Cockpit view. The mirror is my favourite thing in the whole world. See that truck coming?

I leave in the dark as usual. Hotelliers hate me. It's 170 to Shiraz. I'll stop half way at Bab Anar. I get to Bab Anar and i don't like it. I keep going. With 100km to Shiraz the signs change and now it's 110. When I've ridden 100km I stop at a lone shop with trees and a fountain. The fountain has donkey shit floating at the edge. I splash the water over my head anyway. I eat and drink cold things. I get back on the bike.

As I approach Shiraz there's more people around. More traffic. More trucks. In the afternoon I'm escorted by fleets of boys on motorbikes. They're going to get themselves killed. Or me. That would piss me off. The day gets long and I get sick of boys on motorbikes. This is why I don't ride in the afternoon. As I get closer to Shiraz the wheels turn faster. I'm a sliver bullet. I'm gone before voices reach me.

By the time I weave through Shiraz's leafy avenues I've been in the saddle for 11 hours. People still wave and shout, but it's different. The voices are different. There's a hint of a sneer in them. I'm in the city.

Chay mikhoram

To Lar

230km to Lar. Maybe two days. It's dot size says city. International Airport. There are three towns around half way. Probably aim for the furthest. Bastak. Should be 130km. Gotta ease into it. Then 250 Lar to Firuz Abad. Two days. Maybe a day there at the ruins. Then 110 to Shiraz.

That's not how it turned out.

After a day of preparation in Bandar e Lengeh, I'm on the bike at 4:30am. Still dark. I find my way out of town. I've done 15km already. It's starting to get light. Bastak 155. The dental floss was wrong. Should still make Bastak today. Flat. Making high 20's when the grade's with me, low 20's when it's against me. Good speeds. Easy.

55km of coastal plains. Now there's a climb. Should drop down the other side, then follow the valley to Bastak.

Still optimistic. Ignorance is a wonderful thing.

Goodbye to the coastal plains

Hello world of pain

The road ahead is not flat

There's no river valley. The river is in a gorge winding through crumbling hills. I die. I live again. It's hard to explain the highs and lows of cycling across country. Elation. Despair. From 9am I'm looking for shade. At 10:30 I find some. It's a truck stop. A few deserted buildings. A toilet block. A simple mosque floored with carpets. A guy cooking kebabs over charcoal. I've already drunk 7 and a half litres today. I'm in an oven. I'm done.

I spend the whole day on a wooden platform or under a tree in the yard, talking to motorists who stop for cold water or prayer. Most have no more English than "Hello Mister. How are you." My Farsi doesn't add much. Donkeys wander in from the road.

I leave as the light comes. 5:30. Should be 75 left to Bastak. It's gentle for a few then a big climb. My legs haven't rested. They pick up where they finished yesterday. An oncoming truck decides to overtake another. I take to the gravel. It's too steep to start again. I walk up. Too ashamed to wave back to the cars. After a hairpin I can get back on and ride through the top. The descent is much smaller than the climb. Then it undulates. Bastak 25. One hour. Bastak 15. One hour. Bastak 8. One hour. I'll be on my stomach, 100m from Bastak, still one hour away. The traffic still beeps and waves. I'm not waving now. Not even a nod. I can't spare it. It's just me and pain. After forever, I roll into Bastak. It's 9:30.

As the buildings gather there are two men with cars to the side of the road. They want me to stop. This time I stop. They are from Khalij e Fars TV. They want to film me. They call around for someone who speaks English. They get shots of me riding into town. Then I interview myself to the camera. I follow them into town and into the station office. They want me to meet the Station Manager. First I put trousers on.

Inside, I meet the whole building. Into and out of offices. Shaking hands. The one who speaks English eventually pushes through and relays my story. He's a Doctor. Eventually, I'm shown to the Managers office. He holds court. People come and go. Talk. Are granted favours. We drink tea and eat sweets. Eventually there are no more people and I leave too.

The cameraman and the Doctor want to interview me for the camera. The interview starts with an explanation of how Iran is a peaceful country. With very good democracy. And how President Ahmadenijad wants peace. The cameraman keeps interrupting, and the speech starts from the beginning. Then there are the questions. Finished the interview, the Doctor offers that I stay at his house. I follow the car through the town, the cameraman hanging out the window to film me. The Doctor lives with his brother in a new apartment. It's not quite finished. It's a bachelor pad.

I shower, and the cameraman is back. He wants to show me something for five minutes. We go back to the TV Station. I go into the managers office. There are two men. One smiles. One doesn't. Oh crap.

The smiling one asks to see my passport. He makes four phonecalls, land line and mobile, telling details of my passport and visa to the other end. The calls are interspersed with questions. My itinerary. Occupation. Reason for being in Iran. Meanwhile, the one who doesn't smile harangues me at length about papers for my bike. How can you travel by bicycle with no papers? When you got the visa why didn't they give you papers? In Iran we have very strong security. His voice gets louder. He's leaning forward. My voice gets louder. I'm leaning forward. I'm wanted on the telephone. I start to ask "Who is this?" but it dies at my teeth. I answer the same questions. The Doctor comes in. He starts the speech. Then asks the same questions. The cameraman is nervous. He can't look at me.

The man who doesn't smile says in another town they may want to see papers for my bicycle. I should ask the Station Manager to write me some papers. He's trying to help me not screw me. There's air in the office. I drink tea. The smiling man says everything is ok with my visa. No Problem. I can go. He will make a copy of my passport and the cameraman will bring it to me later. Thanks. I'll wait. He really wants me to go. I wait.

With my passport, I'm dropped back at the Doctor's house. It's 1:30. He's home for lunch. We eat. Then sleep. I wake up when he gets home from work again and he shows me around Bastak City. It's not a city. He tells me what he really thinks of Ahmadenijad. And the state of Iran's democracy. He's a Doctor of political science.

In the evening we eat dinner. My clip should be on the 8 o'clock news. In the human interest section I'm trumped by a riderless horse at a racetrack galloping into a ridden horse, cartwheeling all three, and a goalkeeper who throws the ball at an opposition player, repeated in slow motion. Maybe on the 10 o'clock news. Then we have visitors. I don't see the news. I'm not entirely sure if the whole TV thing was legit.

Friends from Bastak

I leave in the dark. It's 120km to Lar, with two hill sections. I climb gently out of Bastak, then drop into a long winding descent. I crack 77km per hour. I hope this is one of the hill sections. I pass police cars and checkpoints without stopping. I cross a wide flat mountain basin.

Much better looking back

A car with man and woman pass. A girl with bowl hair and earings stands on the back seat looking back at me. The car slows down and pulls over. The man waves me to stop as I pass. I call Salaam and ride on. The car pulls out and passes me again. So far so common. The car stops again and the man waves me to stop. I stop. We exchange greetings and he says he's a police man. This is the scam. Fake police. Want passport or money. But with wife and kid in the car? I show non-understanding and he shows me a green covered booklet with an emblem with guns and repeats. Police. I still shrug. He pulls up a shirt from behind the seat. It's green. With badges. Okay. I make conversation. He says something which I think means police station. We fail to communicate until we stop trying. I say khoda hafez and ride away. This time when the car passes it doesn't stop.

I reach the second big climb. It's the range that divides Bushehr and Fars provinces. At the top there's a guard house. I don't see anyone. I try to negotiate the chicanes of tractor tyres, judder bars and tyre spikes quickly and quietly. I can't do both. I go for quickly. As I bump over a judder bar I see a person in the doorway. Don't look. I pass the last tyre spikes and change up gears, trying to accellerate without making it too obvious. Then I'm pointing downhill. Flying into Fars.

I grind out undulating miles and it gets hot. There's a town. It's the last town to stop at. Lar is still maybe 45k. I'm going to stop here. I don't stop. I find a spot of shade and stop for lunch.

Finding shade for lunch

It's still getting hotter so I don't stop for long. I crawl my way up to Lar. It keeps getting hotter. There's a parking area with trees and a family are picknicking. I see a sign P 1km. I'll rest there. There it is. No, P 500m. This is it. No, P 100m. P. There's no trees. No shade. No stop.

12 km to go. I just have to climb this hill and roll the last 12 km into Lar. A motorcycle slows. He wants to pull me up the hill. How I've imagined holding onto truck bumpers are car windows. He holds out his hand. I grab it. He changes up the gears without the clutch until we can't go faster. A car comes, and we let go. He drops behind and I pedal on, energised. From the top I do roll all the way into Lar.

Riding towards the centre a grey beard and salwaar kemis yell at me from a motorbike. I give the usual Salaam and ride on. He's next to me again and yelling. He drops behind. He follows me at a distance. I watch him in my mirror. He's on a cell phone. Finally he's gone. I've, gone the wrong way. I'm heading to the airport. I turn around. There he is. He pulls beside me. Now he has a boy and a teenager on the motorbike. They're Afghans. The teen has good English. We talk about the troubles Afghan refugees have. The lack of human rights. Whether it would be better to try and go to Europe. What it is like for refugees in New Zealand. The Beard keeps wanting him to ask me to help getting a visa, but he doesn't ask. They have a wedding party tonight. I'm exhausted. They tell me where the hotel is. There's only one and it's easy to find.

Lar. This one speaks for itself really