Mundanities

Without a bicycle, travel in Iran is pretty much same same as elsewhere in the world, which is why i have been a little bit lax in updating this blog. In short, there is very little to report. I could, of course, go into the more mundane aspects of my life over the passed week which has consisted mostly of wandering round various cities trying (but failing) to spend as little money as possible, but not only can I not really be bothered to do so, I don't want to bore you.

In short:

-Applied for (and very easily got) 30 day extension for Iran. Cost: IR100,000 (about 8 euro).

-Bus to Esfahan for a tearful reunion with Sicander (the name i have now christened my bike; but due to a lack of champagne, I merely danced naked round it 3 times whilst waving a burning branch).

-A thorough washing off of the small amount of rust on my beautiful steed.

Drinking tea whilst wishing I was simultaneously smoking a qalyan.

-Wandering the bazaars of Esfahan.

-Pitching up (twice) to the mosque described by some as: "the most beautiful building ever constructed by man", only to find it has just closed (twice) - the photo to right is merely the door to the mosque.

But now it is all to change...slightly.

Yes, after more than a month of overeating and underexercising I am once more climbing into (or onto) the saddle. But, true to my current form, it is only a measly 95km I plan to cycle to a house in small town where cyclists are offered free accommodation in return for speaking english with the owner. I aim to spend a couple of days there before a short bus down to the city of Yazd where I will sejourn for five days before finally, finally, finally attempting to venture north.






Drinking tea, reading the paper; I could be back home!







A mosque in Immam Square (2nd largest square in the world after that one I can't spell: Tianneman [?!])


Old building down an old lane

The J-word

Hi my freind (Cieran Craven) I'm happy from familarity with you. I enjoyed from be with you and I learned very thing from you and use from your knowledge (you'r information).

I hope that I have were a good host for you. If I couldn't were a good host excuse me.

I'm very unhappy that you want leave my. I wish that you could stay with me more to I speack with you by English to learn English language (you were my teacher. you teach to my English language).

I hope you enjoy from your travel in IRAN and a long it in other places. You be succeed have a good time.

Your Iranian freind: Hossein doodman.

So goes the entry in my journal from a 23 year old, dark skinned Iranian student; a man who prays to Allah 5 times a day. A man who's Western perception of him is that he would like nothing more than to strap semtex to his chest and destroy our way of life. Our way of life where people lock the doors of their car during their 2hr commute to work; lock their houses when they're inside; and don't know their neighbours because they're too busy watching TV.

For 3 days I stayed with Mr Doodman and his fellow students in their dormitory in the city of Bushehr, on the Persian Gulf. For 3 days I was not allowed to reach into my wallet. I slept with them, ate with them at the university, and got tours of the city and hospital (they were all nursing students). They payed for my taxi fares around town and even fully refused to allow me to pay for my bus ticket when I came to leave. I met and spoke with 20-30 of them, and each one of them during the course of our conversations inquired about the reasons why the west thinks they are terrorists. The longer I am here, the harder it gets for me to even come up with an answer that even resembles sense.

There is nothing.

How these people have been labeled as terrorists is completely beyond me. The hospitality and warmth of reception that is shown to every foreign person that enters Iran in unrivalled in the West. It makes me ashamed to think that the Irish are considered to be a friendly race; we have nothing on the Iranians or Pakistanis that I have met so far on this trip. I almost feel disappointed that I am not Iranian and have not shown the same hospitability towards others in my country.

If this were the side of Islam that Jihad was trying to promote, I would be one of the first to pick up a tea-towel and belt.

But fear not of the cruel brainwashing that I must be experiencing here at the centre of the axis of evil, I'm still an atheist.



An un-named Iranian on the left, Mr Ali Salahi, Myself, Mr Hussein Doodman



Persian Gulf

Iranian Sunset

"Muscat, Oman, Dubai, Saudi Arab, Kuwait, Iraq, Bahrhain, Hormoz, Kish..."

I sat and nodded as the man who could speak no English uttered apparantly random country and place names while pointing out at sea. It was about the only way we could communicate, with country names being almost the same in both languages. I offered my part of the conversation:

"Hindi, Pakistan, Baluchistan, Iran, Kerman, Shiraz, Esfahan, Bandar Abbas, Turkie, Bulgarie, Yugoslavi, Italie, Suise, France, UK, Irlande"

We sat next to each other on the Persian Gulf smoking our qalyun (shisha) and "talking". After 2 days of rain, finally, I got to experience the great Persian pleasure of smoking flavoured tobacco. With smoking banned in all enclosed spaces, it is only in the relatively warm climate of the Persian Gulf at this time of year that a traveller can comfortably experience the flavours of mint, lemon, orange, pistachio and many, many more, whilst also increasing the risk of a long and lingering death.

Long live qalyun!

Will is gone and I'm surviving on the Farsi phrasebook I swiped from a hotel we were staying at. I've sinced moved to a cheaper place where the paint is peeling and half the rooms are unoccupied due to rain pouring down their walls. I'm in a dry room, I'm glad to say.

My bike is in snowy Esfahan, and I am now enjoying the more favourable coastal climate. I'm awaiting the PhD funding application process to commence and once that is nicely out of the way (was meant to be today, but in true Irish fashion, nothing has yet appeared on their website) I'm continuing (by bus) up the coast towards a wee fishing village called Bushehr. I aim to stop off at a few places along the way. Some have accommodation, others I must rely on the generosity of these incredibly generous people. Hospitality towards guests is second only to what we experienced in Pakistan. To avail of it I must make myself look less local and so, I am afraid to say, the moustache must go.

With my consort and bairn

Strange things start to happen when cycling in sub-zero temperatures in mountains.

For a start, water-vapour from my breath condenses in my beard before freezing. Then, the nozzles of my water bottle freeze closed before the water inside goes almost solid. This is soon followed by the realisation that whenever I stop for even short periods of time (about a minute), it is necessary to stop in at least 2nd or 3rd gear; this is due to the gear cables freezing up and needing to be able to tension them to break the ice. Finally, and worst of all, one begins to rue downhill sections.

Downhill cycling is what drives cyclists. The ecstasy of effortless movement cannot be understated, especially when one has worked so hard to reach the pass and achieve it. But, over the last few days, a feeling not unlike dread has descended upon me whenever I reach the top of a section. Temperatures of minus 4 are bad enough, but when one is motionless on a bicycle and travelling through them at about 25km/hr, they get that much worse. I'd like to say that my fingers and toes go numb, but that suggests a feeling of nothingness, and that is certainly not the case. Going downhill, fingertips hurt. But the feeling from the cold is nothing compared to the pain one experiences when they finally thaw out at the bottom of the section; it is truly excruciating. I wanted to cry the first time it happened and had to stomp up and down, not only to get feeling into my feet, but also to try and create pain elsewhere in my body to take some of it away from my fingers!!! Then it's back on the bike to start up the next incline.

I learned after the first time that my fleece gloves where not enough by themselves and so wore both pairs of gloves from then on. But my cycling gloves lack cover where they are needed most at the fingertips, but it does make the pain slightly more bearable. After the first time, it was only individual fingers that froze and thawed rather than 6 at once as in the first time. Added to all this is an inevitable brain freeze.

The scenery, however, more than made up for the elements. The entire region was frozen solid (even though it was crystal clear blue sky with sun shining) and I hope the pictures do it some justice. The first day was a 96km uphill starter and I arrived into Sepidan cold, tired and hungry. I stopped at a garage to ask for directions to a guesthouse, only to be told there were none. I decided to continue into the town to check for myself. The information was indeed correct, but as I pondered my predicament in a cloud of gloom, a truck's horn shook me from my depression. It was the guy who I'd asked for directions about a kilometre before.

With a series of pointing at myself, himself and making the sign of a pitched roof with his two hands (he couldn't speak any english), he invited me to stay at his house; I gladly accepted and then cycled behind his truck as he (slowly) drove the 3km to his house. There, I was treated as an honoured guest; meeting the entire extended family and talking on the phone to those who couldn't actually be there in person.


It should be noted here that almost without exception, english could not be spoken by anyone. Hamid, the elder brother of Amin (who had invited me to the house), had learned English from a dictionary on a computer and it led to some interesting statments (and he was the best english speaker amongst them):

"I go take douche"
"Are you aweary?"
And my personal favourite - after about 10min of researching on the dictionary:
"You go ireland; you come back in years. You come back here; this house. You bring with consort and bairn."

I believe it to be my invitation to return with wife and kids in a few years time. I'm just glad I've lived in scotland and know what a bairn is, or I would simply have been confused...






This is washing powder






I don't want to ramble for too long about the hospitality of Iranian people, but suffice to say it's very, very good. I've had another person not speak a word of English travel across town with me to deliver me to a hotel here they did speak English. Or there was the taxi driver who (again speaking no English) picked me up, dropped me to the bus station, came inside to speak to the people with me, invite me back to his house, feed me fruit, give me tea, drive me back to my hostel, pick up my bags and drive back to the bus station while i cycled behind. I didn't offer him any money, I know it would have been refused!

The last episode happened yesterday. I arose at 05.30 that morning and was about to depart for the 130km leg up to a mountain town when i looked out and saw snow falling. The town I was heading for was at about 3000m. I think you can guess my reasons, but if not:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7178192.stm



The day I caught the bus











This was breakfast; it's known by the rather cryptic name of "sheep's head stew". Tastes a bit like fish.







And finally, what you've all been waiting for...

When 2 become 1

What a joy to be in Iran, home of civilisation, and to have a Spice Girl's song ringing around one's head. Luckily, since I don't remember the tune, or most of the words (very similar to Ch-ch-ch-changes), it is not as bad as it might first appear.

Those of you who have been keeping abreast of Will's blog to get a more balanced view of our trip together will already have heard the news; for the rest of you this will come as a surprise (more so for some than others).

1100km of cycling, several days of buses, and almost bang on 2 months since we first met up in Delhi, it appears my unceasing wit and endless pertinent topics of conversation sprinkled with a few irrelevent observations have proved too much for the man. As we speak, his shiny metallic steed is speeding towards the greater Dublin area and he has decided to continue by bus and train.

He elaborates on the reasons and basic themes of his decision at his blog (you can find the link on the scroll on the left, immediately below the place where [should you desire] you can contribute money to the cause for which I'm raising money - plug done for at least another month; I'm appealing for the sympathy vote this time).

All that I will say is that I am indeed sorry to see him leave. It has been good to have a companion who has had the travelling experience that he has and has helped me ease into the cycling life. I aim to continue the trip (almost) as planned. The further north I go, the harsher the conditions will get and I will persevere only as far as I believe safe to do so. It may indeed prove necessary to again have to rely on public transport, but for the time being I shall be doing it on pedal power.

Once again, I am still in Shiraz. This digestion issue that we have both been suffering from is proving to be harder to shift than first believed. I am currently considering the drastic measure of antibiotics. We shall see. I am a firm believer in the body's natural capacity to fight infection, but a few more days of this, coupled with some gruelling cycling may leave me more like an extra in "Schindlers's List" than I care to be.

To help lift my spirits, I am considering shaving my so called "Jesus beard" and styling a hip and trendy moustache instead. This has nothing to do with the revelation provided from the Lonely Planet that full beards are perceived to "show an uncool affinity with the Islamic regime". If I go through with this, photos will soon appear on this blog, so watch this space...

Cheats and Culture Vultures

I can already predict some of the comments that shall be made before writing this, so in pre-empting them I shall say this: make them at your peril. On my return to Western Europe I shall not be below spitting in your fruit juice when you are not looking, or using my left hand to flick snot into your food with my left hand should we find ourselves dining together; and you do not want to know where my left hand has been while traversing the Indian sub-continent!! You have been warned.

My last post communicated the fact that we had taken buses only as far as fear of our safety allowed. I am afraid that that is not longer the case. Let me explain...

We set out from Kerman 3 days ago with the full intention of cycling the full way to Yazd, before striking westwards towards Esfahan, but the kindly intervention of an English speaking teacher appeared to lengthen our distance in our departure from the city centre. The term "cycling 3 sides of a rectangle" could be aptly used.

Having finally negotiated the incredibly complex American block style of city plan, we found ourselves on the road to Yazd. But road does not give it justice. Dual carriage-way comes close, but throw in 3-lanes in each direction, without proper hard shoulder, and you're just about there. Added to this was the slightest hint of a headwind and the fact that we hand't used our legs in about 6 days. We cycled just 24km before the brilliant thought struck us: Why? Why do this to ourselves? Why cycle along virtual motorways for 3 days, followed by probably another 4 days until we got to quiter and more scenic roads? So we talked ourselves into it.

We turned around, returned to Kerman, and caught an 8 hour bus to Shiraz which is to the West (and a little bit south). As far as I'm concerned, it's about equidistant from the Turkish border as Kerman is, and I'm sticking to that. I measured it with my eyes on the map.

It was a hellish journey and one which I did not think I would emerge intact. The aches in my legs I'd been feeling earlier turned out not to be from non-use for 6 days, but from the temperature and flu-like symptoms that developed almost as soon as I sat down. I was clammy and with about 3hrs to go, it started to feel like someone was twisting a knife in my abdomen. All I hoped was that the hostel we were aiming for was close to the bus station.

I have no real idea if the hostel was close to the bus station because we never reached there. Transpires that our "Shiraz Bus" was actually going to drop us 20km outside of Shiraz (at 10pm at night) before continuing on its pleasant journey to wherever it was it was headed (it was no longer a concern of mine).

So we cycled the 20km into town and eventually, at 11.30pm found a clean enough hotel where we haggled out a price that we were willing to pay. There we have stayed for the last 3 days. You may not want to know this, but I endeavour to reveal all the lows as equally as the highs on this trip, so I shall continue: "Pissing out my arse" is an apt description for my current situation, and apparantly my travelling companion is not faring much better.

So we are here to recouperate, but it is not progressing as rapidly as we would like and we are due to leave tomorrow to begin the 6-day cycle up towards Esfahan (nearly 500km). But we are not just lying in bed feeling sorry for ourselves (though that would probably have been a good idea). Today we went to visit the ancient city of Persepolis. It was constructed in the 5th Century BC and then burned to the ground whenever Alexander came rambling along this path. It lay buried and forgotten and now is reborn as a way to release hard currency from foreigners and locals alike. All the same, it is really incredibly impressive. I hope that the photos I choose to put up here do it some justice, but if not, go take a look at Wikipedia; I'm sure they have a lot better!


The entrance to one of the rooms for meeting dignatories


One of the many stone carvings (and even one of the less impressive!!)



Horsey






Guardians of Tomb



Tomb of Darius the Great (right) and some other famous guy (left). My ancient Persion history leaves an lot to be desired (as does just history in general)




I should note here that the entrance to Persepolis was extremely reasonable at about 30cents, but it was the taxi at 15euro that we have an issue with. It is possible to do it a lot cheaper using minibus to a local town, then a hired taxi to Persepolis, but our bowels did not lend ourselves for such an excursion, where haggling to such a tourist destination would surely have proved draining.

Quiet Quetta

We arrived into Quetta at about 8pm; 2hrs after nightfall. Everyone we have met both within and outwith Pakistan advises agains foreigners being outside at night-time. We had to find the police, FAST. Luckily the bus station is near to the army section of town, so we were soon on wide roads with armed men either side, who we figured were safe enough looking to ask for directions. Within 20min we found ourselves within a police station.

"Yes" confirmed the policeman who could speak English, "it certainly is advisable for foreigners to remain indoors after dark". Indeed, he was concerned of being shot himself after nightfall and would not walk round alone. A police escort could be arranged to take us to the hotel, but it would have to be a motor cycle. Due to strikes and the 3 days of mourning, none of the petrol station had any petrol, and the police vehicles had run out of fuel. A police escort to the border was not really an option, though it would be safer anyway to travel by bus. Police are a target in Baluchistan, as is the train that runs twice per month. The buses are run by Baluchi people and so were less so.

We arrived safely in our hotel only to discover that the kitchen was closed, but it was possible to go to a restauran around the corner, and the desk clerk reckoned it was safe to go. Having eaten nothing for 12hrs, and not being too enamoured with the prospect of not eating for a further 12hrs, we decided to go against all advice given to us about Quetta and brave it. We had that very day purchased some rather fetching, and incredibly warm, Pakistani shawls, so wrapped ourselve up in those and stepped out into the darkness...

After a very uneventful 20min, we walked back into the light with our stomachs full.


It was possible that we would have to spend 2 days in Quetta. A lack of petrol generally tends to restrict the movement of buses and it was unknown if there would be enough fuel the following day (Monday) when the pumps reopened. As it turns out, there was enough fuel, and buses did run, so by 4pm on Monday we were already to do our final leg in Pakistan.


It consisted of 13hrs packed into a bus travelling at night towards Iran. This was the most dangerous section of the journey and is where most kidnappings occur. Luckily, once again, it proved a very uneventful trip. We arrived in the border town of Taftan at 6.30am on the 1st of the 1st 2008. It has got to be one of the dullest New Year's Eve I have ever spent in my life, and that includes the one where we got flooded in in Mayo, watched Jurassic Park on TV, and went to bed at 11.45pm. Though, I guess it's probably a good thing it wasn't more eventful.

At 10am the border opened and we crossed into Iran.




We don't speak the language, we have no phrase book, we have no guide book, we have finally grasped the exchange rate, we are sure we have been ripped off numerous times already, but we are now in the city of Kerman. It means one thing at the moment: we are out of Baluchistan. We are now in places where we do not need police escorts and are safe to be seen on the streets after night. And so I shall leave it here. For one thing, I need to go buy a guide book!

(Paul, I hope these last 3 blogs go in some way to explaining why we "cheated" and took one or two motorised vehicles [well...6 police vans, 2 buses, 2 minibuses, 2 taxis, 1 truck and 1 comandeered pickup truck])

Police Escort

They say that a picture paints a thousand words, and god knows I don't want to write 8,000 words, so I shall describe the police escort towards Iran in a semi-pictorial manner:



One of our first escorts in the province of Punjab (a very safe and stable province).








Again, escort in the province of Punjab (on way to DGK)





This was our escort 30km west of DGK where we have already entered the tribal region. At first, it was a guy on a motorbike, and we were requested to cycle the 35km to the next checkpoint. After our protests, they eventually found this pickup.



Yes...em...
Even after our protests, they couldn't find a police vehicle/pickup, so this was our mode of transport. The police escort (1 man with no gun) travelled in a second truck behind this one. Only trouble was that our truck travelled faster than his, so we got dropped off near sunset, in the middle of nowhere, with no escort!



10min later a private pickup with our policeman in the passenger seat pulled up. We piled into the back and descended into Baluchistan. Will was as happy as he looks!



Baluchistan Police. In the words of the people we stayed the night with "They have no vehicles, they are more just for show. It is the Tribal Leaders who police this area"



After these guys, we got a motorcycle to cycle alongside us for the 4km into Rakhney, the first town in Baluchistan. We called into the police station only to find out that no-one had informed them we were coming. They had no vehicles to take us any further. We would have to stay the night there.

Only one person spoke English and he explained the situation to us. Baluchistan is a bit of a rogue state. They would like independance, but due to their mineral wealth, the government is a little reluctant to give it. They are also reluctant to invest in Baluchistan so roads are poor, education is poor, and the police force is poorly equiped. He said we could spend the night at his and continue on in the morning.

On arrival at his house we discovered that it was actually the house of the Tribal Leader for the area; we had been talking with his nephew. The leader himself was off on the campaign trail for upcoming local elections but his son and two of his nephews (the one at the police station and another cousin) fed and entertained us for the evening. They were among the best people we met in Pakistan, and we met some very very good people. All 3 could speak excellent English, and we learned much about the Tribal system and the problems within Baluchistan. It was a pity we could only spend one night there.

In the morning Imtiaz (the first nephew we met) took us to the bus station and organised for our trip to Quetta. We would be conducting this part of the trip without our police escort, but had his assurances that this section of the road was safe. Within and beyond Quetta was a different story. Its close proximity to Afghanistan and lack of a properly controlled border (it's over 2000km long) meant that certain characters migrate from Afghanistan and can cause problems for foreigners in that part of the country. AK47's are in abundance and kidnappings are not too uncommon. His advice was to contact the police in Quetta and go from there!



Nephews of the Tribal Leader in Rakhney. Imtiaz on the left Hassan (a different one from before) on right. Ol' blondey is Will.



One of our minibuses to Quetta (we needed 2). It was an 11hr journey. The first 5hrs included 4hrs of unpaved roads!

As A Brother

And so I must delve back into the past, before my previous post, but after my previous previous post to fill people in on what has happened to the journey and why I let slip that our bicycles have been travelling club class on the top deck of buses travelling along dodgy Pakistani roads, and steerage in the holds of Iranian buses, while we have both experencied numb posteriers from sitting for too long in uncomfortable seats.

"Officially the road is safe and it is fine for you to cycle. But as a brother, off the record I advise you not to take it and not to stay the night here"

So said Hassan, the man in a suit with impeccable English who had got his driver to stop his car having seen us by the side of the road, surrounded by curious onlookers, and about to try and find a hotel to stay in Dera Ghazi Khan (DGK to those who have been). We never found out his last name; he worked for the police, but not of the uniformed kind.

It turns out that although DGK is in the province of Punjab, it is actually within the tribal zone of Baluchistan, and as such people obey the rule of the tribal leaders, not the police. Foreigners entering into DGK and its surrounding areas should have an armed guard. We would have known this if we had visited the DCO (government official) in Multan; we had not and so did not.

So, 20 min later, having spent 6hrs cycling over the plains, crossing the Indus river and arriving into DGK, we decided to follow the advice of Hassan and found ourselves (and our bikes) travelling back along the very same road in the company of Policemen with semi-automatic rifles. I am glad to say it was my first experience in the back of a police van. Over the 90km stretch, we experienced 4 such vans and men with guns as each one could take us only to the limits of their district before handing us over to the next group.






Will loading his bike onto the first police escort at DGK







It took just an hour and a half to return to Multan and, 30min after our arrival, we got a telephone call from the front desk asking us not to leave the hotel. A top politician had just been assasinated and it was advised that we do not leave the hotel. I'm sure you have all seen the news, and so shall continue on this thread no further.


The police arrived the following morning to say that all buses and trains were cancelled due to the unrest that had occured in some major cities as well as the 3 days of mourning that had been announced by Presiden Musharraf. We were not going anywhere. The police made to leave, but discovered that protests were being held on the street outside, and they decided to remain safely behind the closed gate of the hotel and drink tea until the crowds had moved and the fire was out.

And so we played the waiting game. We were advised not to leave the hotel without an armed escort (there was a guy with a shotgun protecting the hotel), and all entertainment channels were myseriously removed from the TV. In short, it was a very boring time.

But it was not to last long. The following day (2 days after the assisnation of Bhutto, it was a Saturday but the date escapes me) the police arrived at the ungodly time of 9am to awaken us from our slumber. We were leaving for the Iranian border that morning; everything was organised. We would get police escorts right the way there, leap frogging between districts. It was, after all, "their duty" to ensure that we arrived safe and sound at the border. And so with our bags packed, we departed west.