IRAN Part 4 ...

A Brief Encounter in Tehran

We left Zanjan with a fairly good feeling already for this enigmatic country. Thinking that the welcome shown to us by Ali's family, was amazing by western standards. But the truth of the matter, is that the extent of hospitality the Iranian people were capable of, was yet to be discovered. Our next destination was Tehran. A city with traffic problems enough to give any western road planner the raving collywobbles. A city that would put the fear of God into any mild mannered motorist. And a city to put my scare-o-meter of mad drivers off the scale. The trepidation felt upon first entering Iran not only returned, but increased along with the density of traffic as we neared Tehran city. Tehran was definitely not a city to enter by motorcycle, if you are of a nervous disposition.

Once more my trusty travel guide was to give me a flavour of what was likely to be encounterd on the roads of Tehran. In short traffic. Lots of it. In fact, lots and lots and lot of it. As soon as we were within 30 miles of the city two things happened. The first and most predictable, was that the number of cars increased on the motorway we were on. More cars were coming on at each intersection, and few if any seemed to be leaving. The second thing was the speeds were getting faster. Our leisurly pace of 90/110 Km/hr up until that point allowed us to creep past most of the motorway traffic, but also allowed the few speedsters to go past us with ease. As we neared Tehran this speed was no longer adequate. It began with more speedsters who had no intention of slowing to go round a feeble motorbike. Then more worrying was that we found that the heavy lorries would thunder-up level, doing only a few Km/hr more. If not alert to their intrusive presence, would result in us having thick black smoke spat directly into our faces. Even more alarming still, was that they came from either side. I found I had to watch both of my left and right mirrors for overtaking traffic! To compensate, we now had to keep up with the majority of traffic, only letting the odd mad driver go past. It seemed to be the only strategy in order to not be overwhelmed. The problem with this of course, is that the few sign-posts in English hurtled by way too fast, increasing the likelihood that we would miss an important turn-off. It mattered little though, as we'd already decided we were going straight to the middle of this mad city. Follow the cars, and where there were more cars we went. Another clue was the air quality. The more choking the fumes, the more likely we were heading in the right direction.

We felt we were getting closer, but as usual decided to pull over to confer and try to find a land-mark that might give us a chance of hunting down our hotel for the night. No longer had we stopped for more than a minute, when a yellow taxi pulled up. Winding down the window in the back of the car, was a rather pretty young lady. She was seen to be wearing an elegant and expensive looking head-scarf, that had rode back on her head to show off perfectly conditioned jet-black hair. She then asked us where we wanted to go. Now I remember some things about this encounter, but unfortunately didn't remember nor had the foresight to write down her name. Though having said that, the things she told us, along with her demeanour, meant it would be diplomatic to change her name anyway. During the first few minutes of this spontaneous interview, it became clear that even though this lady was apparently trying to help us out, she was in fact looking for something herself. The intensity of the gaze, the flirtatousness of speech told me she was definitly after something. It quickly became evident what this something was. Which was I believe, to get out of her current life and predicament. It seemed that there were serious problems between her and her husband, though my initial assessment was, that she was too young to be married. But of course having said that, I was again using western standards. She told us that her husband was 'with' another woman. “An older woman” she stressed. She enlarged on that for a moment to make sure that we got the point, then suddenly said that she would like to invite us to her home. Now, can you imagine ... put yourselves in our position for a moment. Gone on, you can do it. .... There we are a couple of road-grimy motorcyclists. One over fifty years of age, the other a relative spring chicken in his early thirties, and a very attractive and very much younger lady with come-to-bed eyes, starts talking about taking us back to her home! The latent thoughts remained where they were, due to a life-time of frugual living, moral training, buddhist studies and spartan living. My powerful moral fibre had honed me for moments such as this, so would be able to resist the offer with ease. But there was no need to fear, as she soon went on to say how much she would like to take us home, but if her husband found out then ... she mimed the knife being drawn across the flawless skin of her rather shapely throat. It would be hard to imagine anyone carving a slice around such beauty, but took her at face-value. Who knows what kind of lunatics reside in a city, which is happy to put up with such crazy traffic. Eventually the conversation petered out. Mostly because we had one thing on our minds. No ... not that you single-brain-celled person you. It was finding the bloody hotel. All we wanted were directions to a cheap and preferably clean hotel, but it seemed that our pretty young lady with well spoken English was running out of things to say. I guessed because she'd aired her marital problems, along with ill-advised thoughts of fantasy for entertaining two bike-riding travellers, and didn't know where to go from there. Seeing as she was the one that engaged us, it was her perogative to pursue or finish the conversation. We just sat looking at her for a moment, till I brought the subject back to the immediate problem of finding somewhere for us to stay. We thanked her for her interest and wished her good luck with ... 'life' I suppose, then urged her to continue on to wherever it was she was going, proffering her our thanks. The slow exit of the taxi left us looking at one another with questioning expressions, but it did allow us to get on and fumble our way around the city again. She left I felt taking with her a good deal of sadness, but also with the thought; that anyone who could be that forward wouldn't stay 'down' for very long. I'd put money on the fact that in the not too distant future, some young (or maybe not-so) Tehranian was going to be getting the ride of his life ...

My original travel plans saw me avoiding Tehran, as no more than a 'via' in order to get to places of more cultural interest. But things had changed in that the family of one of my Kurdish friends resided in this city, and it was graciously offered that we'd visit and perhaps stay with them briefly. We also had the matter of trying to arrange our Chinese visa, and Tehran it was agreed, was a good as place as any to get it. Little did we know what our visit to Tehran was going to bring.

We eventually found a well appointed but shabby hotel, nestling in amongst the taller buildings of one central Tehran's main 'drags'. Luckily it had a pull-in wide enough to get our bikes off the streets. Bikes that seemed to attract attention like magnets, and made slipping in and out of our temporary places of residence unnoticed, something of an impossibility.

IRAN (Part 3)

Alamut castle

Photobiker: Bjorn Holland

And here follows an episode that I'm not particularly proud of ... Though having said that, have achieved a number of much dodgier lows during my life, that put this one on the distinctly tame side of things. Nevertheless when I think back, believe I could have done things a lot better ...

A couple of years back I read a rather compelling and at the same time controversial novel by Dan Brown, called the DaVinci Code. In it a 'baddy' was trained as an Assassin in one of the remote and little known castles of Alamut, found in North West Iran. Having been caught up in the story of this enigmatic sect of religious nutters, was compelled to seek more knowledge. I subsequently found out that they evidently plied potential male converts with marijuana, (hashish) and once 'high' led them to a secret garden full of nubile lovelies, instilling them with promises of an eternity in paradise after they die. Of course these somewhat naïve youngsters went for it, and became the legendary stealth murderers without fear. After all why worry about dying, when you're going to spend forever in a paradise being serviced by a small herd of gorgeous nymphets! Anyway, to finish giving some background on why we were there in the first place, there is some knowledge available about these loony's who lived in the mountains, but due to the inaccessibility of the location and the secrecy surrounding their practices, much still remains guesswork. What I do know is that the authorities of that time, were unable to subdue all of the castles due to their remote locations. Negotiation and time however, did what military might was unable to do in taming the sect of the Assassins. But their final fate mattered not, as I was already intrigued, and had it mind to find out more by going there myself ...

After leaving the main road between Zanjan and Tehran, found that it led the way directly towards the distant mountains. It wasn't long before we began to climb, and started winding our way up a steep hill, that took us deeper and deeper in between the dark peaks. It started out well with me watching our path on the GPS that was set to a smaller scale. The track began to look like one of those kids puzzles where the kitten had to find his way to the ball of string by following the route of one tangled piece. The tortuous series of esses, weren't advancing as too much as the crow flies, but was counting up the kilometres. Estimates of how long it was going to take wasn't too far out in the end, though much depended on the road conditions. Fairly large sections were still under construction, that led to some rather interesting moments going around bends with steep drop-offs. I've gotta say that the ride though 3 hours in total, was over in what seemed no time at all, as it took us through some spectacular mountain scenery. When the road surface was good enough, we were able to drift our way around sweeping bends. The road threw everything at us. 180-degree'ers, switch-backs in both combination and series. In fact near continuous good motorcycling, the like of which makes a ride worthwhile for it's own sake. The only criticism might be that we weren't able to get much above 50 Km/hr as no sooner had we gone round one bend, the S's would continue straight onto the next set of S's. On several occasions during the ride we could see a road on the opposite side of a big valley. Following it with the eye whenever possible, it was deduced as the one and only road. Our road. And indeed ended up following up and down along and around the seemingly endless valleys, in order to get to our destination.

Above the clouds, on the road to Alamut ...

Eventually we ended up in Alamut village, a place short on ... well, it looked about it was short on everything as it was so remote. We'd passed many small villages, but they gradually got fewer and each successive gathering of ramshackle huts looked more and more ramshackle. The narrow road went upwards towards a cleft in the mountains. A sheer cliff appeared when we'd cleared a patch of trees that lined the roadside. After winding our way through the village of Alamut we could see the castle right in front of us. All that could be seen of it was a pile of stones on top of a lofty crag, but nevertheless it dominated. Thunder rumbled and heavy clouds closed in. Somewhere high in the mountains a dog howled, with what sounded to me like a pack of kids answering with their own wolf-like howls. The place was not short on atmosphere.

Having bought provisions in readiness for a nights camping, steady rain had begun to put a damp squib on ideas of a night under the stars in the mountains. And to be honest we hadn't passed too many spots that looked appealing enough to pitch a tent. So we decided to take a room at the local pension. We came across a guy in a car, so asked him for directions. He turned out to be really helpful because he jumped into his car and drove in front for some few minutes, to make sure we found Alamut. When he stopped, he got out and approached another man, who we guessed to be the pension owner. The owner then turned to us and went on to quote what we thought to be rather a lot. A lot of money that is, when compared to the standard of accommodation on offer. Bjorn meanwhile went on to check the room and reported back, to say it was 'basic'. But of course the dampness and impending dark, persuaded us to accept, and in we went. Now, the rather helpful chap with the car continued with his assistance, and insisted on carrying our gear up ... and up ... and ... There were quite a lot steps, as the whole village and surrounds sat on little more than a series of precipitous ledges. The 'hotel' was on one these ledges and connected to the road, by some poorly concreted steps of varying step-height. After paying the owner upfront for the room, Mr helpful then surprised us with demands for a further IR100,000! Standing there with the pension owner in front of us we initially said no, so there followed some discussion between them, after which he pressed his demands once again. And here's where it starts going wrong. We paid him ...

Watching him walk off, had that sinking feeling that someone was taking the p*ss with us. The $ sign alarm bells that reminded me this travelling lark isn't open-ended, rang for all they were worth.

Looking around our rather meagre room, ... And you do need to trust me here, in that I'm being kind with this description. The bed was 'hard' with a mattress some 20mm in thickness, though again using the term mattress is doing that tatty bit of bedding kindness. It goes on ... Ancient gas boiler, with soot marks coming from the pilot-light hole. But surprise of surprises did actually give out hot-water after our host lit it. He did it like this ...

With him muttering away in Farsi (or may have been a local dialect for all we knew), as he shuffled back and forth was doing little more than getting under our feet. He continued to talk to us even though clear we could understand very little. We tried to get organised, but he just kept getting in our way. While I wasn't able to make much progress of getting out of my damp bike-gear, to the chance to have a look at the ablutions area (sorry as the word bath-room might give the wrong impression). It was not very inviting at all. The grubby looking toilet had to be negotiated before you could get to the shower area as it was right in front of the door. The dribbly shower was an ancient tap furred up with lime and had well-stretched pipe and shower head of equally ancient origin. This quick description of one aspect of our room, is to give you some impression on what I was seeing and how it made me feel at that point. And what it was, was pretty pissed off. We'd ridden some three hours off of the main road, to arrive in a pretty desolate place with no particular plans. The original idea was of spending a couple of days in or around the Alamut ruins, but the dismal weather and depressing accommodation just me feel as though I wanted to get out of there as soon as humanely possible. Adding to this, was that we were being charged an inordinate amount, and further that we'd been taken severe advantage of, by one of the locals on the make. And this grumbling old fella was not doing much to help, by bumbling around when all I wanted was a beer, some food or simply something to distract me from the dinginess surrounding me. Interrupting his waffle, asked if there was any hot-water by pointing at the taps and boiler. In my enquiries was ready to give him a hard time and re-negotiate rates if there wasn't any. But he leaped into action and in lighting the boiler turned out his pockets to retrieve a box of two matches. Wasting one match I was amazed that he managed to catch the pilot-alight with the 2nd. He was quite chuffed of himself too, as he proudly turned on the tap hovering shakily over the top of a dirty steel-sink. A few seconds later steamy water was streaming down the plug-hole. Leaving it running as well as forgetting his pocket-contents and his empty box of matches, he took his gangly frame and worried expression out and away, for which I was grateful to finally get the space we'd forked-out so much Rial to rent.

And then it was, that I noticed in searching for matches and tipping-out the contents of his pockets onto the *work-surface, it included the money we'd given him only a few minutes earlier. Ching-ching. Pay-back time, ya Rat!!!

* I've gotta tell ya, that this 'work-surface' was a tatty flat piece of board with years of dirt grimed into scratched laminate, that should never in a million years be used to preparing food!

Now here you have to bear with me, as I'm trying for all I'm worth to play this down because ... well, I feel pretty shabby about all. And I know you've guessed what was coming. So yeah, we took this money back. I do feel guilty about it. Not too much I might add, as the room was over-priced for what we were getting. In reality he was unreasonable in his demands, when comparing it against other places such as our last hotel in Tabriz. But the truth of the matter, is that the real sting, was the guy who'd helped us find the place and subsequently helped us carry our gear up. We neither engaged him for his services as guide, nor as porter. So it was his decision to help, and could not expect to be paid seeing as we'd not agreed a verbal contract. We did not need to pay him. In hindsight, the banter between him and the owner was probably this guy trying to get money out of the pension owner. Who'd obviously told him no, and that if wanted anything to try and get it out of us. Which we foolishly allowed him to do. We should have done the same the same as the pension owner, and told him to take a flyer too.

In continuation of trying to justify things, will relate one incident that occurred after dark ... With the rain persisting, the evening was pretty miserable and so therefore didn't expect anyone to be wandering around outside. I had cause to retrieve something from the panniers that had been left on the bike, so wandered down wearing my running vest and shorts. Now in central Tehran or indeed any other city or town in Iran this would have been a no-no, but guessed that a rainy night in the middle of nowhere, it wouldn't create too much of a problem. After diving outside, was picking my way through the muddy path in order to find the steps back down our bikes. I then noticed our pension owner outside with a towel over his head, huddled over a tatty old BBQ. With smoke billowing around his head I nodded at him when passing. He nearly choked but not from the smoke, but the fact he could see my bare arms, shoulders and legs. He started gesturing at me to try and tell me, and I'm guessing here, that his missus and kids weren't too far away in the house. Sod you, I thought. They're hardly likely to come outside, and even if they did would most likely dismiss me as another western Touro' that doesn't know any better. But it was too late for him as far as I was concerned. His OTT reaction under those circumstances had turned my brain against him. And so continued on my way thinking what a bloody twerp he was. F'cryin' out loud, he was living in the dark ages so far as I was concerned. But immediately my mind turned to the money, left on the side in our room.I should say that at that moment, I fully expected him to return to the room and ask for his money back after remembering his oversight. But up till then was no sign of him doing so. In fact in confirmation that he'd completely forgotten what he'd done, when I came back up some five minutes later, distinctly saw him rummaging through his pockets as if looking for something. I used a bit of quick deduction and realised he had no idea where he'd put whatever was in his pockets. Neglecting to mention he'd left his cigarettes behind too ... so was possible that he could have been looking for those instead. But of course reason tells me the most important thing, would be a wedge of dosh he'd taken from us only a short time earlier. Then and there and because of his rather negative reaction towards my less than adequate dress, decided to take the money back so long as he didn't ask us for it again. My ego felt been bruised and felt he'd been disrespectful towards me, after all knew I'd never be flagrant in someone else's country or home by ignoring their sense of decency and displacing it with my own standards. Stuff him, I thought, as I watched the silly miserable bugger smoking his tatty bits of meat in the rain. It's a grotty little pension anyway, and with little sign that any money goes into making things better for his guests, he doesn't deserve my respect.
But of course I was wrong. The next day came and for many reasons we decided not to make the hike all the way up the crag, to see whatever was left of Alamut castle. I'd read it was mostly rubble anyway. And anyway the discussions of the previous evening, led us to the conclusion that obtaining a Chinese visa was higher up the list of priorities than it had been up till then. So were keen to get on to Tehran and to make a start with that side of things. As well as that, the incident with the money had tainted the already morbid atmosphere of that damp and desolate place. It would be good for our brains to get away to more brighter surroundings ...

Our host re-appeared as we packed the bikes, and did what he could to help getting us down the precipitous bit of roadway into his shabby place of refuge. Looking at him again, saw a simple man. He didn't appear as I'd imagined the night previous of being an ignorant person with little empathy or interest in his patrons. He seemed almost hurt we were going so soon, and it prompted thoughts of going back to the room and leaving at least some of the cash I'd pocketed. But I didn't do it, instead hardening my resolve to finish getting myself and the bike packed ready to leave. We left and I carried with me some regrets about this deed. It needn't have been that way. I could have done things better I'm sure of it ...

We rode back to the way we'd come in, and after a while the concentration required to keep us safely on the road, took my thoughts back to a more positive frame of mind. I couldn't keep this positive injection of energy going for too long , and found that after an hour or so I started getting tired. Looking at the clock on the bike, there was a good couple of hours of the windey stuff still yet be dealt with. With drowsiness clouding my mental horizons, the journey back wasn't quite the same fun experience that it had been the day before, so was glad to be back onto straight roads once more. The clouds receded and at the same time the heat had returned. Coming down from the highlands our focus turned to getting ourselves to Tehran. With the mountains dwindling in our mirrors, we hit the motorway heading east. A big city beckoned ...

Here's a couple of pictures where we decided to have a power-nap, while on route to Tehran!

(IRAN Part 2)

Zanjan

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 ...

IRAN (part 1)

IRAN

When we first enter ...

It was with a certain amount of trepidation, that we crossed the border into Iran. Our views on this country are well tainted with recent history of disagreements with world, and in particular American politics. And while there is little doubt that some of the country's laws are extreme, was hoping it did not reflect the true feelings of the populace within it's borders. I knew a little about the plight of the Kurds, but mainstream political issues still dominated my limited knowledge, giving are rather negative impression of what to expect.

The border formalities were a pleasant and relatively well-ordered process. With us being introduced to a very nice young lady, who'd been appointed to deal with us english speaking touro's. She took us through the requirements that included insurance for the bikes, and then helped us get our carnet stamped. The only downside for the whole affair was a grumpy carnet stamper. Leaning forward in a conspirital tone, she told us that he was often like this, and not to worry about it. I liked this young lady a lot and had an idea I was going to like Iran too. As border crossing's had gone to date, this one was reasonably efficient without any major difficulties, and to give further weight in the right direction, was completed in good time. It was an encouraging introduction to the Islamic republic of Iran.


After leaving the border post buildings area, we came to what looked like another check-point. A couple of non-uniformed yet smartly dressed chaps came out with smiling faces. The smiling continued as they questioned us in a clearly friendly way. It became quickly obvious that they were genuinely interested, rather than trying to impress us with their authority. I was offered tea, which I found while travelling this part of the world, a good way to break down cultural boundaries. Going into the guards booth discovered that even though it was fairly compact and bijou, I was still nevertheless offered a seat. Sitting supping a rather nice cuppa, I was happy to provide answers to their questions and satisfy their evident curiosity. The tea was good, as was the brief yet amiable banter. We went on our way with more confirmation that our visit to Iran could well be a pleasant one.

Our first taste of Iranian tea ... and famed hospitality!

As a motorcyclist the roads are always a point of interest whenever you enter a new country for the first time. Iran was no different. I do remember noticing how green everything seemed in comparison to Turkey. At the furthest reach of Turkey things were definitely on the dry side, with little evidence of agriculture. A short ride into Iran and things had definitely improved, with pockets of edible growing things all over the place. It wasn't exactly lush, but irrigation was a quantum leap ahead this side of the border. So for us the feeling of a journey through arid semi-desert, had left been swapped for something more verdant.

Tabriz
Tabriz town was our first night's stopover, and while on route there we did get a few clues as to what was to come. Each time we had to slow or go through a village, heads turned, and if for some reason we had to come to a halt, the people in the vicinity would be intent on either speaking to us or shaking our hands. These were people who clearly welcomed visitors, but didn't always know quite what to make of them when they suddenly appeared. Hardly a surprise though, as we arrived on *shiny-steeds, were garbed in odd looking clothing and with unshaven faces that were framed by our storm-trooper style helmets.

* Not really... but please excuse my authors licence, as most of the shininess on our bikes had long since been buried under several layers of road grime.

First hotel was a nameless characterless place of refuge, but the manager did let us put our bikes inside the lobby. A routine that was fast becoming commonplace. While adequate facilities, we did have to wear the cost of a room big enough for a small family, or band of travelling salesmen. Dollar signs ching-chinged in front of my eyes once more. And once more began getting nervous as to how long my travel budget would last. Looking at a map of the world, there was still a very long way to go. And as it wasn't one of my happier thoughts, pushed it to one side for the moment. But with a promise to myself, it wouldn't be too long before I'd need to review things.

One other issue was, that now we were getting deeper into the less charted countries of travel-land, found that we couldn't always get internet access too easily. We asked about internet, but got a firm no from the manager of this the first Iranian hotel, with few clues from him as to whether there was anywhere locally where we could plug into our respective friend and family networks. After advice before leaving the UK, which told me that there was 'wireless internet everywhere', it had prompted fantasies of hour-long chats over Skype every few days while off on my travels. Well that might've been so, for anyone with resource enough to stay in 'quality' hotels when hopping from town to town. But our tight budget's drove us to investigate the cheapest hostelries. It seemed then, that following the trail of the fleas and cockroaches, was to lead to a big disappointment regarding on-line access.

Dog-Biscuit and Far Eastern Turkey

Dog-Biscuit and Far Eastern Turkey

We arrived in Doǧubayazit situated in far eastern Turkey, to find it's a fair resemblance of it's Lonely Planet travel guide description. If I recall correctly, it goes something like; 'a dusty little frontier town' ... Riding to town was a not-so welcoming sight. The first thing I saw was ...nothing. Well, when I say nothing, it was because I couldn't see a thing due to the real live full-on dust-storm, which had quickly blown up. How did they know?

Star Wars ....It put me in mind of that scary frontier town on Tatuin, in the very first Star Wars film. You know the one ... where the heroes walk into town, and all the inhabitants look as though they'd cut your throat for a fiver. The band are playing in a seedy looking bar, and only stop when someone gets their arm cut-off by Sir Alec Guiness, AKA Obe Wan Kenobi (nobody's called me that for years) after whipping out his light sabre. The band resume playing, and the background chatter filters back ...

Just before entering town I'd pulled over to wait for Bjorn, who'd stopped to take photo's a few Km's back. The wind was still making travel conditions difficult. I watched the fairly spectacular, if somewhat purturbing sight of a huge reddy brown cloud of dust that created an opaque curtain, and which obsured everything apart for Mount Arrarat looming high above. I knew that this lofty peak was close, but didn't expect it to be so imposing. There were cars coming and going along the main route in, but the point of focus came and went in the hazy gloom. Across the road a small band of people, mostly women and youngsters were digging and filling wheel-barrows with something. Tatty looking buildings could occassionally been seen a short way beyond the activity, and depending on the density of the dust came and went from view. The 'something' remains to this day unidentified, but whatever it was, it was being transported across to this ramshackle township. The thought occurred, of what life could be like for these people. And went on to wonder if weather conditions like this were a regular event for them? If so, then I couldn't imagine this would be a nice place to live ...

First impression's then weren't too good, and were confirmed shortly after entering the town with my travel buddy, who'd caught up a few minutes later. Shortly after riding in, we pulled up to confer, and were instantly accosted by a handful of predatory boys aged around 10 or so. “Money!” came the demand in clear conscise English. Yeah, right? ... As if we were going hand over a big wad of dosh upon casual request? Largely we ignored them, and after a brief parley, rode towards the centre. Again, the image of Star Wars came to mind. Small densely packed streets with people busy about their business, though shouts and whistles in our direction meant we were'nt going to blend in unnoticed. Bjorn's assumption that we were going to find a really cheap hotel, were dashed by the first place on the main drag who asked for 60 Turkish Lire. Crikey, that was steeper than the last place in Erczinum, which definitley had more going for it. Second attempt at haggling with Hotel Arrarat was pretty much the same, but we eventually found a small and accomodating, and more importantly with my dwindling funds, a cheap hotel.

But as it turned out, it wasn't as dodgy as it's first tawrdy impressions hinted at. Though it most definitely had an 'edge' that we'd not detected during our stay in other parts of the country. A conversation over beer and kebap during the latter part of the evening, found us agreeing that we'd crossed an invisible barrier over the course of the day. A barrier where conventions we were used to existed one side, and something else on the other. It had to be somewhere before Agri, because a short fuelling pit-stop earleir that day saw a crowd of guys surround me while I was filling up.

They seemed pretty animated, as I must have been quite an unsusual sight in their quiet unassuming servo'. One of their number tried for all his worth to flog me an aging and well-used pair of Zeiss binoculars. ????? Now, did I honestly look as if I was the kind of person who's sole purpose for coming to Turkey, was to find a good pair of binoculars? Or perhaps I was being unkind, and this was the holy grail of the binocular world, with magical powers to see into the future ... or distant galaxies maybe? Or maybe looking into them was akin to seeing god? The prospective salesman actually called over one of the local police, who'd been sat minding-his-own. I guessed he was summoned to add weight to the negotations, but I'd already picked up on the fact he was a kind of mate of theirs, and therefore not in attendance in his official capacity. Some minutes whizzed by, as this somewhat bizzarre scene unfolded, which had all the hallmarks of going on for hours if I let it. Guessing this was simply some kind of entertainment to break up a dull afternoon for the gas-pump gang, decided to terminate matters. And so I said to the 'Arfur Daley of Agris' that 'I had to be off', and knowing he wouldn't understand, told him I just 'didn't have room for his wonderful bino's, no matter how much of a bargain they were'. Hitting the start button, bid them all adieu and rolled out back onto the road again.

Somehow, even though there was only the one main road, Bjorn and I lost each other. Looking in my mirror could no longer see the fuzzy reflection of a motorcyclist behind me, so slowed down to see if he appeared. He didn't, so decided to stop and wait for him to catch up. 10 minutes go by and assume he's stopped to take photographs again. I dawdle on doing 50/60Kms/hr for half and hour and then stop again. Another 20 minute wait and am starting to wonder if there's a problem and should go back. Not so, as he rocks-up some 10 minutes on, motoring at a rate of knots. He'd obviously been going some, to catch me. It turned out he'd followed the sign for one of the towns on our route, but the main road skirted it as a ring-road. So instead of the leisurly tour I'd had to get where we were, he'd found himself fighting the rush-hour madness of a local bazaar town.

Now I've been across a few poorly maintained roads during my many years of motorcycling, but to ride through road-works that went on for tens of kilometres was a novelty. There were a few slightly hairy moments as I had weave quickly around axle-deep deep pot-holes, as well as sudden changes in the road surface where it went from solid to loose and on occassions dangerously large chunks of gravel. Again, for those not familiar with some elements of motorcycling, dealing with loose surfaces ranges from something like fun and exciting on a Sunday afternoon's off-roading, to scary as hell at the end of a tiring days travel. One stretch was around 5K and was simply gravel spread rough-shod right across. And I do use the term 'road' with some prudence. To be honest, it wasn't so much road works to maintain the bloody highway, as road-building. Once more my western expectations had caught me out. What I was experiencing was the building of a motorway, while I was riding on it. Most novel!



Yeah, that's me in front of the wagon. I was fed up of eating his dust, so blatted past on a very loose surface!


Doǧubayazit was our last Turkish town. The migration eastwards continued, with the next country on our list being Iran. Potential owner of nuclear power, thorn in the side of the Yankee empirical war machine and with a leader that seemed to take great joy in baiting Bush & co. More importantly though, Ave'mydinnerjacket's eyes are too close together. Another border crossing beckoned.

Goreme valley and the land beyond

Garfield in Cappadocia (or is it Capadoccia?)

The ride from Bandirma to Capadoccia went without incident, though was both a warm ride and a long one yet again. As it was dusk and didn't want any night riding, it was decided to take a stopover in a small town just before Goreme. That way there was only a short stint the next morning, to get to the intended destination. Glorious sunshine and a clear blue sky heralded our arrival.

The spectacular scenery of Cappadocia hits fairly quickly, and after a 20 minute ascent past hilly scrub, the surrounding land gave way to something resembling a moonscape. The rocks appear to have been carved into the land or set in place by some gigantic hand, and to add to the effect, the shaping of the rocks had been added to by man. The term Fairy Chimney's had been coined to describe the style of building, in which people had made their homes. Research shows that Troglodytic living has been a tradition in this place, going back at least a couple of thousand years ...

We took a modern cave-room in one of the modest paynsion we'd short-listed, so air conditioning wasn't needed. It stayed a fairly even temperature night and day, and became a cool sanctuary after a day’s exploration. Bjorn booked a balloon flight, so an early start saw him disappear for an arial-photoshoot. Later that day we rode along to the open air museum. The museum it turned out, was a monastery who's history spanned a couple of millennia, and was evidently a place of Pilgrimage during much of it's time as a place of worship. While often primitive in style, the paintings inside many of the cave-churches were an evocative reminder of the lifestyle of earlier inhabitants. There was evidence too, that mealtimes were very important for these early inhabitants, as dining tables and benches had been painstakingly carved directly out of the rock inside several of the caves. Christianity was the influence, as there was a representation of the last supper painted onto one of the walls.

Cook-up at the paynsion

Goreme valley turned out to be another unexpectedly pleasant spot, and wouldn't hesitate to recommend anyone visiting it. There's enough to see and do to keep most visitors interested for the better part of a week. And although it's a touristy, didn't find it prohibitively expensive. Travelogue over, and back to the BLOG.

A 2-night stay, and we were once again on the road East ...

Two more towns, two more stopovers and our migration across the map of Turkey was nearly complete. There was a definite change somewhere after Erzincum. One of the hotels asked us not to bring our beer inside the building to drink, which was an indication that the mood of the country was becoming less moderate. The other more dramatic change was that we were shrinking into the landscape, as the scale of everything increased. The mountains were bigger and loomed ominously in the distance, across often windswept and desolate looking plains.

This wind was to add to the factor of difficulty on some rides, with us sometimes having to compensate by riding at an angle several degrees off of vertical. A truck goes by and we fall away, as it briefly blocks the incessant gale. Eventually we get to learn to judge the moment, and are able to make the necessary adjustment. So neither fall off the road, or depending on the direction of the blow, veer dangerously in towards the oncoming traffic.

With Turkish earth moving under our wheels eating up the map eastwards, the Iranian border beckoned. But before that was one more stoppover in demi-Asia. Dog-Biscuit!

Bandirma, Bora & Istanbul

Well Hi everyone ... Bout time I got in on the act. Here's a photo taken from on top of an Istanbul'ian tower. The name of which escapes me right now ... Please note the Sightsavers International T-shirt, so still 'plugging away' on their behalf. If you've got a spare fiver, then please bung it their way, as the donations have slowed to dribble since I've left the UK.

http://www.justgiving.com/lenz And here's the link again to make it easy for ya!

You'll be glad to know I'm finally getting my act together, and so there should be more piccy's appearing in most of the 'postings' from here on in.



Anyway .... on with the BLOG!

Bandirma, Bora & Istanbul

“I've been this way before” I think, as I stand on the deck of the ferry crossing the narrow strait towards the 'Asian' side of Turkey. God, it looks familiar ... maybe even the same ferry and the same spot on the boat, where I had a leg-stretching wander, on a long bus-ride to Istanbul from Dalaman airport. during a previous visit.

Ferry crossings are something that I generally enjoy. It's usually a break in any journey, to get out (or my case off) of whatever you're travelling in, whether bus, car or whatever and move legs and limbs that have been fixed in one sitting position for sometimes hours at a time. Most of my ferry crossings have been across La Manche, and were a welcome pause during the mad dash to visit my kids in France. This was different though as I was a long way from home, and a very long way from the final destination in Ozland.

Long tiring rides were beginning to become something of a routine, so once more would be glad to come into land. There was a prospect of stopping for a few days to catch up with myself and my emails, as well as a 'phone-home' sesh' on Skype. Coming off of the ferry I could've easily stopped, laid down and slept right there and then. I didn't want to go on, but forced tiredness and monotonous scenery into the background, in order to continue and finish the day's riding in Bandirma.

Two hours or so after getting off the boat, I arrived there. My first impressions weren't too promising and appeared to confirm Lonely Planet's downbeat description. Installing myself into a hotel on the main street, head off out for a nose-about and spotted Bjorn riding into town. After blatting our seperate ways across Europe, we'd met up at long last ...

With Bjorn in on the act, we renegotiated the double room discounted rate in the hotel. Accomodation organised, it was time for the serious business of finding beer and food as well as discussing plans for the next few days.

There was purpose in coming to this rather non-descript place. The reason being, because it was the home of local motorcycle enthusiast Bora Eris. During an episode of researching availability of spares and servicing a few months before leaving, it was found that Turkey could well be the final-frontier for a long time to come. Feedback from the Horizon's Unlimited website, by one of the Turkish members indicated that Bora's a good bet to organise not only tyre supply and fitting, but just about anything else for the bikes. In short was told “He's the Man!”.


Top-bloke Bora Eris

And here for all your help Bora, is a good plug ...

Contact Bora Eris (Bora ERÝÞ) on his website, or email: boraeris@eris.com.tr
or call: 00 90 532 291 20 50



As a keen biker and local entrepeneur with a thriving tyre business, he's a darned nice bloke too, and helped with much more than business ethics normally dictate. And with it being our first steps out of nice safe Europe, was a 'must' as a stopover. It was our last chance to take stock of all bike'ish things, before venturing further east. High on the list for me, was new rubber to replace the part-worn Conti's on my travel bike. With Bjorn getting some nice fresh oil in the engine of his own Beemer.

I've put this photo in of me as I've got an very odd expression. And no, I don't know what I was thinking or saying!


















We found that business with Bora was always a relaxed affair over endless cups of çay, and feel sure that anyone else on motorised two-wheels who found themselves in this part of the world, would do well to drop in and visit him. I've little doubt Bora would give them a good Turkish welcome, as well as helping with any bike servicing requirements. This is business with a personal touch almost unknown in the UK, and found that I liked it very much. Bora's leading-hand Hussein even washed the road-dirt off the Dakar too, making it nice and shiny once more. Though Garfield's appearance was already getting too grimy for retrieval. The marmalade puss with the Rochdale scarf, was doing his best impression of the Cheshire cat by slowly disappearing. But it wasn't into thin air, as in the famous fairy tale. Garfield was slowly being hidden under a layer of road-gunge.

Some time before setting off from the UK, had chance to meet up with another HUBB member Graham. And while I knew he was coming this way, didn't really expect to see him, without making specific arrangments. So was pretty surprised when I spotted a familiar pair of bike-strides walking towards us, when returning to the hotel after an outing. And yup, you've guessed it, the trousers had Graham's legs inside, with Graham firmly attached. Taking the chance to catch up, it turned out that he'd met up with another long-distance biker on route here. That evening we were taken along to a resort town just along the coast by 'Top-Man' Bora. More beers and a chance to ava'chat and bore each other to death with our travel stories. It turned out that Graham's new travel buddy Andy, had rear-shock problems, and had recently had a brand new replacement fitted in Germany while riding through Europe. This is unusual on such a young bike, and gave some small concern that everything was not as robust on our chosen mounts as reputation suggests.



Graham ..... And Andy



















Stop Press: We're now in Khorag, Tajikistan, and guess what? There's hydraulic-fluid leaking from the rear-shock on Bjorn's bike. This gives us one major head-ache in sorting it out, as it's a specialist job to repair, and we're not going to get a replacement easily or cheaply.

Any BMW exec's out there who're reading this ... Then take it from me, that any bike with rear-shock problems that has less than 30K on the clock, is un-bloody-acceptable. Now come on, be honest! Can you imagine if this sort of thing happened to Range-rover or Land-cruiser owners? There would hell to play, and would get crucified in all the motoring journals. So get yer shit together, get your shock absorber specialists together, and kick their bloody arses till they get it right!!!!! Whinge over, but will keep you all posted on events as they unfold.

Meanwhile, back to our heroes in Bandirma ...

While in Bandirma we took the chance of visiting Istanbul. With Bora's help and direction left the bike's in a lock-up, so we were able to take the boat across the Sea of Marmera, for a 3 day Cook's tour. This was my 2nd visit to this thriving, teeming metropolis, and what a fantastic city it is too. It still retains much of it's West meets East character, that has made it a centre of trade and one of the most popular Silk-Route destinations for millenia ...

Bjorn taking photo's of our 2nd favourite beverage, çay (no guesses for 1st fave').

And here's the resultant piccy! (courtesy of http://www.panomoto.com/ )

Making our way directly to the Sultanahmet district with back-packs, found a decent hotel with ubiquitous roof-top terrace over-looking the Bosphorus. Personally I wasn't bothered about doing a great deal of sightseeing while I was there, as I'd been to most of the well-known places in that locale, on my first visit some years ago. But found I was still impressed by the outside of Aya Sofia, it's domed edifice simply oozing history. It's stones worn down by footsteps and time from the Crusades and earlier. Having witnessed the ebb and flow of Christondom versus Islam, the power struggle of religion was part of the fabric of this wonderful building. My best memory though, was the power struggle on the football fields of Vienna. The European cup was in full-swing, and at the time Turkey was doing quite well. It was a chance to have a couple of cold beers and sit in the streets shouting at the wide-screen TV, along with all the other drunks ...

The Bosphorus ... A lovely bit of waterway. Full of romantacism, history ...and other unidentifed floating 'things'.

Afor closing this chapter of the blog, will make mention of The Cistern. Having somehow missed it first time around, was glad to have made the effort to visit this oddity. Walking to the entrance in the oppressive heat of the afternoon, we failed to gain entrance on the first attempt, as the bus-load of people trying to get in buzzed like bees around the kiosk. Nothing's worth that much queuing, so we 'pulled the plug' and went elsewhere that afternoon. I'm so glad we went back though, as an early start next day meant there were'nt too many other people in there with us. The place most definitely had atmosphere. The silence of which was broken with some quirky synthesized music, that echoed it's way among the stone pillars, instilling the whole place with a rather spooky feel.

Justice done or not, here's a photo of the Istanbul Cistern (sorry, but there's no eery music for accompaniment)

Carp swam like ghosts in and out of the shadows formed by the support pillars and low coloured lighting. A description and photo's of what essentially is a simple area of underground water storage, will not do it justice. Particularly after wandering into one of the far corners, where the medusae were located. There you can see the faces of two Gorgons carved into seperate stone blocks, that are sat under a couple of pillars. But they remain as testament to the continuing superstitions of the builders, during the Roman period of the city. Their writhing serpent visage prevented from working any black magic, because they'd been set in place off of the upright (one on it's side, the other upside down). So much for Constantine's faith in a Christian god!


Beware the power of the Gorgon! She's gonna getcha!

A boat ride back to Bandirma, another night in the hotel, and we say our goodbye's and thanks to Bora, before heading further south east towards Capadoccia. The quest for Fairy Chimney's was on ...