Heading to Esfahan

I intended to leave my host early in the morning, to get the most out of the day, but it was such a pleasant morning that I left as the middle of the day arrived. Pretty quickly I arrived at Maneshan. And as I arrived at that place the sandstone mountains gave way to an incredibly wide valley. I realised that the place I had been traveling in was not beautiful because of some single breathtaking feature in the landscape, but rather because it was shifting and changing all the time. Just when you've started to become a bit bored with your surroundings a new river branches off, or a mountain has its layers of rock (between which the sandstone sits, like a silicon lasagna) jutting out in a different direction, or somewhere in the distance the soil has a different colour. But, as I said, those mountains finally parted, and in the center of the clearing they created lay the river Sefid Roud. Water basins lined the land close to the river, some made out of concrete, some dug into the earth. And powerful pumps causing wide and low fountains of water to shoot out of them. At first I thought I was seeing some kind of water storage for agricultural work. But a guy throwing something into the water and a conversation elsewhere taught me that these were all fish farms.

Soon I found myself on unpaved roads again, finally! Not that there was much traffic to begin with between the villages, but even less of it is always welcome. Although in Iran that also means that you get less enthusiastic people stopping their car on the side of the road and talking with you or offering you small but thoughtful gifts. I've received cookies, oranges, apples, dried fruits, nuts, wafers, pomegranates, bananas, and probably a couple of items more that I'm currently forgetting. The gift is always accompanied by a small conversation. Sometimes (it is how I learned of the fish farms) someone in the car (in that particular case the daughter of the family) can speak enough English to speak of more than just our places of origin. Sometimes a little German is spoken, which is fine for me as well, albeit probably a pain to hear for the person I'm talking with. Not only conversations are had, a lot of selfies are taken too. Once I've had a small family take a video of me as the man was standing besides me and talking about my trip as if he were a news reporter. I won't tell of all the people I've met alongside of the road in a chronological manner as, happy as it made me, it happens at least five times a day and might make for monotonous reading. For me, they're the bright moments of the day.

Several of those conversations were had as I made my way over those gravel roads. I passed by an incredible sandsone castle called Behestan (I don't know when it was built, as I've yet to figure out how to convert the Persian calendar to the Gregorian once), and made my way along the Sefid Roud until it carved its way for me through the mountains surrounding the valley.

I continued through the mountains, I think they were still made out of sandstone but now seemed more like hills and were covered in green shrubs. I passed many more villages. Most buildings are a single story high and square on all sides. They are a mixture of old clay buildings and newer brick-and-concrete ones. The walls are generally not decorated, occasionally adorned with graffiti in arabic script I assume to be advertisements, as there's usually a phone number written nearby. But sometimes the doors are incredibly ornate metal ones. The older clay buildings are mostly not in use anymore because many of them are deteriorated to a state where there are just a couple of walls still standing.

As I pass through them I'm invariably stopped and asked for an explanation of what I'm doing. Sometimes young (very young, for Dutch standards) boys on motorcycles, mostly sat in pairs one behind the other, quickly turn around and follow me out of the village. We try to speak, but we're mostly incapable of speaking much more than 20 words in eachothers languages.

In one particular village I was gestured inside a bakery. Immediately I was offered all kinds of sweets and a cup of tea by the owner and his friends. It was getting late, so after saying my thanks I was planning on heading out again in order to pitch my tent somewhere. I still wanted to cover 20 kilometers that day in order to reach Esfahan, so declined the offers to sleep with them. I felt grateful for this little chance encounter, and wanted to do something to return for the gifted food. A stupid idea popped into my mind, the kind of idea from a person not accustomed to all this hospitality, and decided I could buy some cookies for on the road. Naturally I was not allowed to pay after receiving them, even after insisting several times. I learned a humbling lesson that day. Hospitality is not a single-sided exchange. There are no weights placed in a balance upon sharing, there is no need to do anything except accepting, smiling, and talking. It always makes all involved people happy.

A change of plans

As the road continued there was a last reappearance of the sandstone mountains before the land became flatter and flatter as I went on. I was still trying to reach Esfahan to celebrate new years eve, and was somewhat on schedule for doing so. But soon I encountered some unforeseen obstacles. One of them was the most incredible saddle sore I've ever had in my life. It was nearly impossible for me to cycle, and resorted to sitting somewhat sideways on my saddle in order to give some relief to that poor affected side of my ass. It was my own fault really, not being as hygienic as I should have been with my cycling shorts, but that realisation didn't make the pain go away. I've also read about people pushing through the pain, developing a cyste and having to undergo surgery as a result. I certainly wanted to prevent that prospect!

While I was slowly considering what to do with that bodily development I cycled into the most rediculous headwind I've had in a long while. The sky was looking incredibly angry as well. I seemed to be cycling underneath a line in the sky that separated an endless mass of incredibly dark clouds on one side, from a clear blue sky and a shining sun on the other side. When the sun would set the landscape looked breathtaking. Golden sand and stalks of harvested wheat underneath a sky whose shade of blue was nearly black. Usually in a headwind I remind myself it is not as bad as cycling towards the North Cape several years ago. That tends to help in lifting the mood. I slow down a little bit and tell myself that I don't have to cycle the distance I had planned for myself that day. However this particular headwind was exactly as bad as on the north cape. I was in my second-to-lowest gear and traveling along at 8 kilometers an hour. I had a hard time keeping the positive spirit: my ass hurt, and I couldn't stop telling myself that I had to reach Esfahan on time. The next day I headed straight into the same wind. I took out my phone, checked the distance, and arrived at the conclusion that there was no way I would reach Esfahan in time.

And that simplified some things. Checking my map and the routes I found that I might reach Arak in time to catch a bus to Esfahan. That new plan gave me two potential resting days. The idea that I could give those saddle sores a single day to recover sparked a feeling of relief. Hence, probably a good idea. And so that same day I loaded up on enough water and food to last me for two days, and I settled into a dry riverbed hidden from sight and spent my christmas day there. I wasn't saddened by that day passing by by myself, but it did enforce the desire to spend new years with other people.

Towards Arak

And so I spent several days sitting sideways on the saddle. Only four of them to reach Arak I supposed. The landscape was mostly flat and agricultural in nature, and although the wind would occasionally still show itself, its intensity was diminished and it came sideways at me when it did decide to show itself. Along the way I finally managed to buy my favourite bread again: sangak. It is baked in a big fire-fuelled oven by laying down the dough on a slanted surface covered in stones. A couple of minutes later you're standing outside the shop with a warm and incredibly tasty flat bread with a surface texture created by the stones. Naturally, I wasn't allowed to pay for it, humbling me once more. It was a simple pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless, to eat it with butter and honey on the side of the road.

10 kilometers later I realised I had lost both my rainpants and one of my warm gloves. Somebody amazed at my bike I met at the baker had tugged briefly at the clothing strapped to the outside of my bags. I had thought nothing of it, but didn't check properly, and the bad-weather gear managed to get loosened enough to fall from my bike unnoticed. I backtracked those kilometers (and a friendly Iranian motorcyclist rode that same distance for me back and forth) but couldn't find them anymore. For a brief time I was angry at myself: the rainpants were gifted to me, and the gloves were warm and the fit just perfect for cycling. But, I realised, if I had to lose them somewhere, then this is the perfect place to lose them. I'm nearing the end of my trip and heading into the warmer and drier areas of Iran. Still not happy about losing them, though.

Gladly met

With the bike a fraction lighter, I closed the remaining distance between me and Arak until I was two days away. By pure luck and chance I realised one morning that my route was going past an installation where tourists are not welcome, and rerouted such that I would reach Arak from the north instead of from the west.

That day was overcast, slightly rainy, and I still had the wind coming from the side for most of the day. As the afternoon slowly became evening I was stopped by a particularly friendly pair of Iranian people. One of them spoke German and asked my if I wanted to join them for lunch. Yes, I wanted to reach Arak the next day, but I could cover the extra distance caused by the involved detour by waking up a bit earlier, and if I went with these people I could have a decent conversation and learn a bit more about Iran. So I enthusiastically agreed. Sadly we realised I would have to head straight into the wind for 20 kilometers to meet up in the nearest town. That would take two hours, and night would be very close by then. So I thanked them, explained the situation, and went on cycling. Not half an hour later these two were once more driving beside me. The passenger held out a bag full of food and drink for me that evening. I accepted, not knowing what to say, and finally uttered the words that I was very thankful, and it would've been very nice to get to know them a bit better.

An hour later, close to my planned camping spot, once more a different car drove up alongside. Same passenger, different driver. Since I said I wanted to meet them the guy managed to get a friend with a larger car to drive to me in order to put the bike inside and drive to the town they mentioned. The bike still didn't fit in the car, but within a minute or two a pickup truck was flagged down, the bike loaded inside and I was on my way to that little town after all.

I had a wonderful night and day there. We had a very nice dinner, I met several new people, had a shower, and got a good night's sleep. The next morning I explained that I had to get on the bike early to reach Arak in time. This quickly made way to an extended stay, as they told me they would arrange some kind of transport to Arak and happily guide me to the bus terminal as well. And so I had a little tour of the town, a coffee and many more conversations.

We flagged down another Zamyad pickup and we were on our way to Arak. Our chance encounter would not be complete without meeting the family of the friend who approached me in the first place, and to have a warm lunch with them. Then a hastily arranged third Zamyad of another acquintance brought me to the bus terminal within 15 minutes of the bus leaving. A hastily and warm goodbye followed. I was not allowed to pay for anything, even the busticket was paid for.

With a happy heart, a belated christmas, let's say, I was heading towards Esfahan. Hopefully it had some kind of new year's celebration for me in store.