Warm Turkey

Stage 8: Orumiyeh to Hakkari
Day 1: 95.6km Yüksekova
Day 2: 79.0km Hakkari


After 2 days in Orumiyeh, the weather cleared enough to make a successful break for the border. Once again, I fınd myself in a place where I know NOTHING of the language; I had to ask the border guards what 'thank-you' was, and still haven't worked out how to say 'goodbye'. I just say ıt ın Farsı; I'm sure they get the meanıng and ıt makes me feel better sayıng ıt ın a language other than English. At least I'm makıng an effort!







Good Iranian Road Sign






Bad Iranin Road Sign







'Turkey, please be good to me' I whıspered to myself as I crossed the fınal checkpoınt and ınto the 4th country on thıs route home. I was thınkıng maınly of the weather, and had wonderful ımages of a 40km descent ınto lush green valleys full of raınbows, good campıng grounds and chıldren running through the long green grass wıth smıles on theır chubby lıttle faces and carryıng burnıng sparklers. The realıty was a 16km climb and masses upon masses of snow. I did get to drınk tea wıth shepherds and eat bread wıth soldıers, so ıt wasn't all bad!





Hanging out wıth my new friends the shepherds















Turkish Soldier










The day ended nıcely wıth a long descent ınto Yüksekova. I'll let the pıctures descrıbe what I found.






























These guys are cleanıng the roof. How? By throwıng the snow down on the streets below whıle people are walkıng past. One soon learns to watch where one ıs goıng. I saw ıt beıng done from a 5-storey buıldıng!




The afternoons have been blue skıes wıth barely a cloud ın the sky. The same ıs not true for the mornıngs. Agaın, I'll let photos do the hard work.

The solutıon was to wrap my towel around my face and wear plastıc bags over both paır of gloves! It really worked.


Military are everywhere. About every 1-2km, groups of 2 are camped out by the sıde of the road. I was ın stealth mode (i.e. not singing/shoutıng/ramblıng ıncoherently to myself) as I passed one guy, caught hım by surprıse and watched as he jumped and ınstınctıvely reach for the rıfle that was slung over hıs shoulder. Since then I've taken to whıstlıng!

I've passed 3 checkpoints and had two vehıcles stop to ınquıre what the hell I was doing. On ınforming them that I merely wısh to cycle to Ireland, they bıd me a pleasant journey and drıve off as the ındıvıdual mannıng the machıne gun on the top waves goodbye.

The locals are all frıendly (have to watch out for the occasıonal snowball from mıschevous youths), and ıf ıt wasn't for the strong military presence, I'd say that BBC was simply havıng a laugh. I've asked at the checkpoınts I've passed and they seem to thınk I can make ıt through to Şirnak.

Once agaın, we shall see...

Final Score

Stage 7: Hamadan to Orumiyeh
Day 1: 86.8km Qorveh
Day 2: 92.8km Bijar
Day 3: 89.1km Takab
Day 5: Rest Day
Day 6: Bus to Orumiyeh (about 300km)

I woke up on the morning of Monday 25th February at the normal time of 6am. I ate my breakfast while staring out the window at the darkness beyond. In the 10min between finishing eating and being ready to leave, the snow had begun to fall.

I'd seen news reports that 3 days of snow were approaching, but had chosen not to believe them. An optimism had begun to settle that I would actually make it to the border, and I did not want to lose it. With only 5 days remaining on my visa, and a 4day cycle to the border, I needed conditions to be perfect. Faced with the harsh reality I decided, once again, to catch a bus.


The previous 3 days had been good. I'd started carrying my water bottles in my panniers, and stones in my pockets. The first is easily explained by the picture; it's a frozen river (I dropped a rock on one river from a bridge about 8m above [because that's the kind of thing I like doing] and it didn't even break the ice)! The second was for the dogs.

Luckily, nygmy bear-dogs did not make a return appearance. My only altercation with them was for one to lift its head from the carcass of a dead animal that 3 of them were devouring to bark at me from about 50m away; though it was still enough to install the fear of god in me! No, the stones were for ordinary, boring dogs. I was struggling uphill as the first band of 3 ran at me. I decided to be meek and mild and slowed down as they circled me, barking and growling while I shat myself. Eventually, a young boy emerged from the house and called them away with the help of a big stick. 2km down the road, 3 more came running. This time I decided to be a man, so reached down, picked up some rocks and started hurling them at my would-be attackers (while calling them names). It worked wonders, and the beasts remained at a safe distance (Dad will be so proud).

My knee, with the help of an elasticated support, has finally stopped giving problems. The terrain was rolling hills, with mucho up and mucho down, but the pain has gone (which is always good). Thank-you to everyone who offered help and advice.

So now I'm in the town of Orumiyeh, 54km from the border. It's still snowing, but I hope it to clear in the next couple of days. Now, all that is left for me to do is to try to acquire a map and ascertain the areas where the Turkish Army have decided to conduct "operations".

Final score:

Iranian Weather 17-12 Kieran, Sicander and Mr Stick
(It's a rugby score, and I at least get a bonus point)






Shadow Me







I wasn't tempted











Takht-e-Soleyman. A Zoroastrian site in the mountains near Takeb dating from 1500BC. I got to see the fire temple this time round, but felt a bit cheated because there was nothing but snow!











All this fell in about 2hrs!








View of Lake Orumiyeh from the bus. Isn't it beautiful?

What's in a name?

Stage 6: Kashan to Hamadan
Day 1: 115.7km Mahallet
Day 2: 123.3km Arak
Days 3&4: Rest
Day 5: 103.3km Melayer
Day 6: 87.5km Hamadan

Iliotibial Band Syndrome, I believe, is the name for my current condition. That, or a small tear in my cartilage.

After raising my saddle by half an inch, and keeping my bike one gear lower than I normally would, I took on the resemblance of a cartoon character; cycling in fastforward, but travelling in slow motion. At least, that's what if felt like. If anything, I think I covered the distance faster than I would have previously! Day one provided minor twinges and my optimism began to return, but day two changed everything. Again, with 25km to go, twinges turned to definate discomfort. There was none of the facial contortions of before (spinning helped on this front), but gritted teeth and muttered, un-publishable words helped me through the final uphill sections.


The snow fell during the final day in Arak, and I thought "Oh Shit!". But it didn't stick, so I though "Oh Good". I had, of course, forgotten the effects that night can have; I woke up in the morning to find 2 inches of snow covering all. One gets to feel all emotions while cycle touring, on that particular morning it was trepidation. Do I stay, or do I go?

Unfortunately, a bit of an incident had occurred the previous evening. One that left a bitter taste in my mouth and helped influence my decision. It was a metophorical bitterness, but it could oh-so-nearly have been an actual, literal one, with all hell breaking loose as a consequence. Let me explain...

Every country has good and bad people. Iran, it just so happens, has more good than other places; but bad do exist. I never really liked the young men working in the Guesthouse. They would continuously call me over whenever I walked past and continuousy babble away in a language they knew I did not understand. One can always catch the drift of what a speaker is saying by their facial expressions and body language, but this takes patience and energy; I was short on energy and my patience soon wore thin. I started making my excuses earlier and earlier. They did not take kindly to my lack of interest!

The night before I was due to leave I'd noticed that Mr Stick was missing from my bike. I was not impressed. Although I managed to (eventually) retrieve him, I decided that the hall was no place for Sicander, and my room would be better. I only wish I'd made this decision earlier. I went to fill up my water bottles and so tipped the old water out. A yellow liquid came out of one. "I don't remember drinking apple juice" is what (naturally) went through my mind. Then the smell hit me.

Words do not describe the anger and disgust that welled up. Water bottles are sacred; pure and simple! I am sure that when I return home and settle down to study the English translation of the Qur'an, there will be a passage that goes along the lines of "Thou shalt not urinate into the water bottles of passing cyclists or thou could find thyself on the receiving end of a beating from Mr Stick".

But what could I do? These guys were running the guest house. I had no proof as to who had done it. And even if I had, then what would I do? Stand before them re-enacting the urinatory episode to convey to them what I was so angry about. I'm sure they would have loved that. Instead, all I could do was let the adrenaline surge through my body and say to myself "I'm off tomorrow".

So, with a thoroughly washed, re-washed and re-re-washed waterbottle, I set off into the snow. It wasn't quite as foolhardy as it sounds; the sky was blue and I chose the main road which would have more traffic, should difficulty occur. But even still, I don't think I will do it again. The slush covers everything. It even stays trapped between the wheel and mudguards providing audible friction noises that are certainly not welcome whilst struggling up hills!

2hrs later, the ice and snow had been burned off the road and I was glad to have Arak behind me.




One good thing I can say is that tailwinds do exist in Iran.

...and how glorious they are!

Oh yeah. And dogs the size of bears; they also exist. I'd like to show a picture, but there's no way in hell I'm stopping to get one. Some might say pygmy bears, but I'd succesfully argue that they're a hybrid between pygmy and normal bears - Nygmy bear-dogs if you will.




Viva la revolution








I stripped and regreased my hubs safe in the knowledge that quality bike parts were available!

My dodgy knee

After the monotony of desert cycling, it was nice to get back into the hills as I headed west towards Mahallet. After a 60km climb, there was nothing more welcome than the sign shown to the right! A 30km descent followed into a town I was never going to stay, but passing through was very glad of my decision. It contained the largest collection of fools I've ever met in one place. Maybe it was something to do with the water, or maybe the cloud I'd descended into was an ever-present resident.

A kid tried to take my bike apart in front of my very eyes. A man would not let me go for 5 full minutes while he energetically spoke to me in Farsi whilst waving his arms in the air (though he did give me 3 figs). Two old men RAN over to me while I was stopped asking for directions only to stand there displaying toothy, vacant grins. Finally, I received an invitation to stay at someone's house who lived in Mahallet, only for me to arrive there and find out it was an orphanage - and one where I could not sleep. The only hotel in Mahallet wanted $18, but I successfully knocked $5 off this price. It was more than I wanted to pay, but given my state (it was a final 10km climb to the town), and their strong bargaining position ("if you don't like it, you can go on to the next town 30km away"), I had to accept.

I left early the next morning towards Arak. On the map, I had seen a short cut through the mountains that I could take, but after finally finding the correct turnoff (all the signs were in Farsi), I was informed that the road was closed due to snow. At least, that's what I think I was told, the people could speak no English!

No shortcut made this day a very long one; 123.3km in total, into a headwind for much of it. Iran appears to be shaping into the land of headwinds. Heading north from Toudeshk to Kashan I was pedalling into the wind. Going west from Kashan to Arak, I was again travelling directly into a breeze.

The long distances, hilly terrain and infernal winds appear to finally have taken a toll. The final 25km into Arak were sheer agony. Something happened to my left knee (oddly on a comfortable downhill section) that caused stabbing pain to occur every time I put pressure on my left leg. Given that I pedal at about 90rpm, and it took 1 and a half hours to cycle this final 25km, that adds up to hell of a lot of pain. Luckily, it just so happend that the more I pedalled, the less pain I felt, but if I stopped for a short while (even while free-wheeling), when I started again, the pain was 10 times worse, until it settled down again. As a result, I have taken the executive decision to rest in Arak until it feels better. I hope to head off towards Hamedan tomorrow...or the day after.

I guess it's karma for getting those free painkillers!

The Road To Kashan

Stage 5: Esfahan to Kashan
Day 1: 98.9km Toudeshk
Rest Days: Yazd and Toudeshk
Day 2: 103.8km Ardestan
Day 3: 116.9km Kashan

Obviously, one day in Toudeshk became two. It was a restful one in which I smoked qalyan, visited a mosque, hoodwinked a free clinic into giving me painkillers and had an interview for local TV.

It appears that Iranian people go nuts for free things. I had previously mentioned in passing to the brother of my host that given my inflexible legs, it hurt after a while sitting cross legged on the ground. With this titbit of information, I was whisked off to the free clinic and told to tell the doctor that my knees hurt due to cycling so I could get some ointment for them. I tried to resist, saying I was fine, but once an Iranian gets it into his head that he would like to do you a good deed, that deed will be done come what may. I emerged from the clinic clutching a packet of painkillers, but was immediately ushered back in to partake in some good old Iranian propaganda about what the foreigner thinks of Iran and the free clinic.

Nothing in life is free! (Though it must be said that the positive view I gave of Iran is indeed what I have experienced.)

So finally, I hopped on my bicycle and began my journey once again. Although a headwind existed for most of the 104km, it was a good day consisting of quiet roads, dirt roads and 60km of downhill! I arrived into Ardestan to find only one hotel charging US$20/night. Not wanting to pay, I emerged from the gates only to be called over to a group of men sitting doing nothing outside a shop. With them speaking no English, and my limited Farsi, I was invited to the house of one of them (not by the host, but by someone else!!). It turned out to be a man with what appeared to be a failing plumbing shop but with a palace for a house (methinks he had another source of income). He didn't appear too interested in trying to speak to me, which made the stay a fantastic one; I was able to sit there and read while he watched TV. He fed me and the following morning I made my way towards Kashan.

King George was bored, that's my assessment of the situation after the journey to Kashan. Since you've seen the photo at the top, you have seen the entire scenery from Ardestan to Kashan; a journey that was 116km in lengths, with 100km into a headwind! A mountain was off to my left; it remained there for 3 full hours. I swore at it, made rude gestures at it and even hurled stones at it, but it refused to move for that whole time. I spoke out loud to myself in 4 languages (English, Irish, French and splatterings of Farsi). I swore at the birds that flew faster than me. I sang to myself, but given that I know no more that single lines to songs, I soon grew bored even of that.

I arrived into Kashan tired, hungry and very, very ratty. I told everyone that honked their horn at me in no uncertain terms that I would see them next Tuesday. A boy on a motorcycle started jabbering at me in Farsi. For some reason, Iranians often take the phrase "Farsi balad nistam" (I don't speak Farsi) as an oppurtunity to test the truthfulness of the speaker by speaking very, very fast, for a very, very long time in a language that is not English. After 100km of headwind, this is not what one wants. I wanted to punch him, poke him in the eye, throw him to the ground and kick dirt in his face. Instead, I knew he was being as helpful and friendly as most Iranians are and only wanted to show me the way to a guesthouse. I followed him without a word and he brought me directly to the door before bidding me good day.

I remained ratty for my rest day and although there was quite a spectacular gathering to mark the anniversary of the Islamic Revolution, I could stay only for a short while before the constant bumping of people into me got too much. Some photos are below.


































<

Drudgery and Decadence

That's what describes the 98km cycled from Esfahan to a small village called Toudeshk. Not the decadence part, that came later; no, it started off with just the drudgery. It should have been relatively straight forward; the road was flat and the traffic was light. But a combination of a month of non-cycling, my recent addiction to all things chocolate and a sideways wind made the final half of the journey sheer hell.

It started off promising with a very respectable average speed of about 23km/hr, but in the final hour I was "pleased" to be going over 13km/hr. And speed was not my only problem. Boredom (for the first time) entered the equation. There is nothing more tedious that flat desert with an occasional truck roaring passed. How I missed the adrenaline of oncoming, overtaking Indian buses that had forced me onto the dusty road margins in days gone by. How I wished for the pleasant green of sugarcane!

But I got there in the end and the two nights I stayed in Toudeshk more than made up for the dreary journey there. Mr Mohammed Julali used to see cyclists camped by the side of the road and so started inviting them to stay with him (well, his older brother, if truth be told) instead of braving the elements. The home is a 200yr old traditional house (arched roofs and mud-brick walls surrounding a small courtyard) with a Persian Rug mid-way through completion in the living room and a spare room in which cycle and motorbike tourists are housed. Unlike other hosts, Mr Julali and his family are well used to tourists staying and so the uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, friends and first cousins twice removed are not called to share the experience. A weary traveler can sit by the gas fire in peace, join in the conversation or retire to contemplate life in the silence of the spare room without fear of offending anyone.

After 2 days I was more than easily talked out of cycling the 2 day journey to Yazd (I thought it would be good penance for all the buses I've taken; but 2 days of desert cycling, with only 2 more days of the exact same desert cycling back up the exact same desert road was just too much for even my masochistic self) and I, once again, hopped on a bus. Aboard I was glad of my decision; the temperature outside was shown as -5, and this was at 10am!!

I've spend the last 5 nights living in a converted mansion here in the oldest, still inhabited, city in the world. It is true that the dorm I'm staying in was probably the former wine cellar, and is linked to the outside world by a steep staircase and barred hole (a window gives it too much justice), but at less than 3 euro per night I'm hardly complaining. Plus, I get to recline by the fountain during the day whilst eating dates and figs, drinking tea, and even smoking the forbidden qalyan. It was lemon flavour today.

Though, once again, changes are afoot. The layers of fat I've accumulated over the passed 4 weeks are going to be shocked into submission. Tomorrow, I return to Toudeshk, stay one night, pick up my bike and scadaddle onwards. I have decided that I have waited long enough. It's now or never. Time to hit the road again...

You'll be glad to hear I've run out of cliches and so will just post a couple of pictures instead.









Desert Cycling; not good for one's complexion.












Mr Mohammad Julali with his elder brother Mr Reza Julali and his (Mr Reza's that is) two children.









Dinner in the Julali household









Mr Reza Julali's wife, mother, father and children. This is the first picture in Iran that I have been able to openly take of members of the fairer sex. Not that I surreptitiously photograph women...










Water Cooler in Toudeshk. The towers are for passive cooling - They're set to be all the rage in 21st Century Europe. This was built 200 years ago...








An even older building down an even older lane (this time in Yazd).









When I'm not roaming the streets looking for chocolate, I'm eating it here in my hotel.









True to form, I arrived at this Zoroastrien Fire Temple to find it...closed!










I climbed on a wall to get this photo (locked gates were not going to stop me!). Apparently, all that's inside is a window with a fire behind. True, the fire is meant to have been burning continuously for the last 600 years, but I can just tell myself that the next time I look through some random's window at their fire.