Tabriz came and went without too much to tell about, but Zanjan was a different matter all together. Early evening we came into Zanjan town and followed the one and only main road, to what appeared to be the centre. My LP travel guide indicated there was a cheap hotel somewhere in the vicinity, but try as we might we couldn't locate it. Each time we stopped for either a land-mark check or to ask directions, a large crowd would materialise out of thin-air. Many of their number would try to engage us in conversation. To ask where we were from, our names, our destination, whether we liked Iran or most favoured subject, about the bikes. Or if they didn't know any English, would simply stand and stare at us. A lifetime of being a customer in English pubs and shops, does not prepare you for such as I was experiencing here. I'm well used to doing somersaults in order to try and get noticed, when attention is required. But of course in dear old Blighty, the most common result is the exact opposite and normally leads to being completely ignored. What was happening to us was, that with no apparent effort we were being subject to an inordinate amount of attention, and made it more difficult to find than it would have been otherwise to find whatever it was we were looking for. In this case an elusive hotel. After a 2nd arrival back plumb in the centre following another fruitless search, we again stopped to try and decide where to go next. The usual crowd appeared as if beamed into place by a Star-Trek transporter. They were three or four deep and began causing some consternation to Bjorn, who appeared somewhat wild-eyed with it all. When that is I could see him, as he was buried in his own bee-hive of interested onlookers.
At one point a uniformed figure appeared parting the way through the throng, like Moses parting the Red-Sea. But instead of anything officious, he just asked if we needed any help. I guessed he was getting concerned at the disturbance that was being created by our presence there on his 'patch' of town. My pseudo-confident assurances, satisfied him enough for him to go back to directing the traffic. At one point a guy came out of nearby shop, and asked in heavily American accented but perfectly pronounced English if we needed assistance, but at the same time telling us our presence there was causing a problem. Bjorn was quick to point out it wasn't us that was the problem, but the people gathered around who were apparently attracted to us like a magnet. This chap then asked if we wanted to stay at his place rather than continuing to struggle to find any sort of hotel, the sudden discovery of which at that exact second, seemed as likely as finding the Scarlet Pimpernel in his alter-ego. At that particular moment in time we were no nearer finding a place to stay, than when we first came into town an hour before. So when someone was offering an alternative plan, I for one was all ears!
I can't speak for Bjorn, but my english reserve meant it was with reluctance that I agreed. What then ensued was worthy of an operation by MI5. A quick intro' told us his same was Ali, and that he was going to slip away without being noticed if he could. He told us he would get a taxi, return to where we were and that we should follow him at a respectful distance. It became clear he didn't want anyone locally, to know that we were going with him. Now I don't know about you, but a scenario like this had my internal alarm bells ringing. On the surface this bloke seemed okay, and if anything genuinely concerned. But my inbuilt protective cynicism urged caution. We followed as directed, but rest assured my right hand was ready to wind the throttle full-open, to head in a different direction at the first worrisome signs.
We rode as asked, at a respectful distance for something like 15 minutes. And finally arrived outside a locked double-door part-way down a back-street. It was hot, we were tired (so what else is new?), and we didn't have the foggiest idea where we were. The gates opened, we rode into a tidy and well maintained courtyard.
Smiling faces greeted us, which provided reassurance and relief. The sparkling eyes of an older gentleman put us further at ease. This older gentleman turned out to be Ali's father, and we were evidently going to be staying at his home for the night. Within minutes of our arrival were ushered to sit down outside in the shade of a tree, and were soon drinking tea and eating snacks with the family like one of their own.
We had a relaxing evening exchanging personal details, as to who we were, what we were doing and where we were going. In return found that Ali's father had taken part in the infamous Iran Iraq war, as a tank commander. He was a very reserved man who asked polite yet intelligent questions, with Ali sat close by translating word for word as we spoke. After talking with him for some time, found myself wondering what traumas this man had seen or experienced during that war. I considered whether he carried with him some of his fellow man's horror stories from that time. And as with other men of previous generations that I have met and who'd lived through war, he radiated a certain inner strength. Whether that was actually true or not, Ali's father is one of the most dignified individuals I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Whatever else happened in Zanjan, meeting this man had already given our visit enough purpose.
The only awkwardness of the evening, was a mild argument between Ali and his father, as to where we were going to sleep that night. I might add that Ali's wife Mesda was there too, and it seemed there was a split as to whether we would be stopping there, or moving on to Ali & Mastan's place. I gave them guidance, by letting them know we didn't relish moving again till tomorrow. There was no politeness or reserve at work here. It was the simple truth, and was happily accepted without further discussion.
And here's Bjorn during a photo-call with Nick Cage. Betcha didn't know he had a place in Zanjan did ya?
We had a total of 3 nights in Zanjan, and indeed did move across to Ali & Mesda's place on the other side of town after the one-nighter at Ali's parents place. This was one tremendous start to our time in Iran, as well as a bit of relief to my stretched travel budget, because we only needed to pay our way for food and drinks. Ali & Mastan were perfect hosts, with it allowing a view of an Iranian home behind the scenes I didn't expect to get. One night I had a really interesting talk with Mesda, and discovered some of her views as a woman living in a regime where femalekind are restricted in ways not acceptable in the 'West'. This was becoming a journey of cultural discovery, but the price was high. This was a 'dry' country, and my next beer wouldn't be till Turkmenistan. I was proud of myself in keeping the DT's well under control.
Getting ready to leave Ali and Mastan's place. The other guy in between me n' Bjorn was himself a keen biker. He gave us an escort out of Zanjan, stopping off on the way to pick up some nuts from his shop, to give to us as road snacks ...
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