18.11.13 Soon it's day. Arriving in a new country, taking the first steps. A stone silhouette at dawn resembles a veiled woman. Looking for breakfast and shopping for the day. A stealthy grip on the head, the scarf is still sitting right? Amusement over imitated products: Tack tack for KitKat, Katrin for Knobbers, Pitbull for Redbull. We listen to the silent call of the muezzin. It's a long time since we heard him. Rapprochement with Iran.
19.11.13 Rain. We remain in Jolfa, 5 dollar hostel. The room is a cell, barely enough place for two beds, a table, a gas stove. On the floor it smells of urine, we hear the neighbor spitting out, for half an hour. On the walls, graffiti on Farsi. We can't read anything anymore, are able to find accommodation or internet cafes only with the help of locals, even if we stand directly in front of it.
20.11.13 Stop at the gas station after Marand, it's cold. Are immediately invited to tea and food, a payment is vehemently rejected. Someone calls a friend, Akbar Naghd, he comes with the bike from the city to show us his photo collection. 275 cyclists who have passed here in the last ninety months. A crossroads between Europe and Asia. They are all united in the photo books of Akbar. Turks with foldable bikes and backpacks, the couple who had a fatal accident in Cambodia, the Japanese, who rode around the world in ten years. 275 stories and fates in four different photo albums. We will also be photographed and end up in the album.
21.11.13 We can't find a place to stay, there are still 30km to Tabriz left. Night Ride: Restricted sense, the roar of trucks on the four-lane highway. The world is reduced to a cone of light, red diodes signs, car headlights, noise. From right another road, a light tube. We cycle in a same light tube. Two light signals in a fiber optic cable. And then we have a flat tire. It's 8 clock. We are still four kilometers away from the center. On a traffic island we pack off the bike, a big nail sticks in the tire. During the repair appears Ervan, bringing us hot tea. He works in a kebab shop around the corner and doesn't give up until we follow his invitation home.
22.11.13 Breakfast at ten. We watch TV: English Channel. It is reported that 56% in the U.S. were for an easing of Iran sanctions. Iran is represented as a bomb. In the bomb it has percentages. Someone paints with red felt tip pen a line at the top. Ervan finds Americans "stupid". He switched off the TV and invites us to stay with him. At his own expense, as long as we want.
28.11.13 Headwind, an implacable opponent, rips us, rushing in the ears. A crossroads stretches its arms in all directions. Several times cars stop: “How do you do, where are you going, how do you like Iran?” And again and again, " I'm so happy to see you here! Welcome to Iran, welcome to my country!" In the evening we are invited on the spot. We end up in a family of teachers with a lot of power, it is noisy and there is an easy mood. Three generations, twelve people. On the wall hangs a picture of the religious leaders of the country. They have full power even after the election of the new President this summer. In most village entrances there are big posters of them. No eye contact. One looks away, the other can be seen in profile. They want to be seen, no doubt, but themselves they want to see anyone. They are used to look away probably. The family insists they would love them, their leader. Pride in their eyes. Conviction.
30.11.13 We are stopped by the police. Passport control, then further to the police station. Resistance is useless. In the office, our data are entered into the computer. The guy behind the table exudes negativity, condescending, pompous, greedy for power. A simple soldier translates petty issues in English. After that nothing happens. For one hour the chief of police is treating important things while we chat with the soldier. He is interested, thinks that many have a false image of the Iranians. He asks us to give a statement about his country. Brigitte tells him that the Iranians are the most hospitable people in the world. The soldier translates into the room. The faces light up, appreciative glances, whispers, a smug grin of the chief. Yes, the Iranians like to hear compliments about their country. After one and a half hours we are dismissed. Nothing further happened. Upon leaving the soldier tells us that he hates the police, that all here are against America, but he is thinking different. The information flow rapidly between the door frame. In parting, he whispers his name. A rule violation. A small act of rebellion. His military service lasts two years.
1.12.13 A woman talks to Brigitte on the street, organizes her sister as a translator. A little bit later we sit in an elegant living room and nibble sweets. All women are wearing the obligate hijab, but soon more and more cockiness gets visible under their headscarves. While I'm staying with the men, Brigitte accompanies the women in the beauty salon, owned by the sister of Mehri, the hostess. Once the women are among themselves, the headscarves disappear, ripped jeans and tight shirts come out. There is laughter, discussing the latest makeup colors and fashion styles, by the way hair will be cut and eyebrows plucked. And in the end they say "... no, no money, you are family", while the black headscarves are pulled back over the head and the women are transformed back into dutiful Iranians.
3.12.13 We're riding on an old caravan route. We see it on the landmarks it heads for again and again, on the wadis, which its follows. An ancient caravanserai, half decayed, sprayed graffiti on walls, blackened with soot. Silence around us, only the wind that sweeps through the stones. You can feel it, the people who have take a rest centuries ago, the dromedaries shout during loading, hustle and bustle, the smell of grilled kebabs wafts through the air, men drink tea in the shade of the arcade ... Nothing remains except ruins. The smog in the cities is destroying the last buildings of a great time.
7.12.13 In front of the Imam Mosque in Esfahan we meet a man. He speaks German, is a watchmaker, has worked for three years in Freiburg. Ah, Switzerland, good watches there. He had slaved away too much in his life, 18 hours a day, now he had arthritis in his hands and back pain. He had just wanted a nice house, a fast car ... But he had made a mistake. He had lost everything by the sanctions of the U.S. and the EU. 80% loss of value of money in the last three years. In return the gasoline now was subsidized, cheaper than water. Not the foreigners would have made the Cultural Revolution. The Iranians themselves to blame. Everything Shit, Iran Shit. Disappointment in his eyes. Resignation.
13.12.13 Zagros mountains, eventually back fresh air and varied days. It's snowing. Nomads driving up herds of goats the mountain slopes, women in colorful skirts collect nuts. Four days we are on the road since Esfahan. We sleep in a small mosque after we have been lead there by a few teenage boys who said good-bye with a crusty bread as a gift to us. On the night knee pain from the utmost and muscle spasms. Time for a break.
13.12.13 One last pass and then we whiz down to Shiraz. A big sign: Welcome to the healthcare city. Shortly after the smog cloud begins. 30km to the city center, stinging lungs, like a pinball machine ball we hop around looking for a hotel. We find paradise. The breakfast buffet, like a mirage in the desert.
21.12.13 A day, as would be replaced all the air masses over Iran. Gray dust hangs in the air, turn the landscape to a sepia image. Stone desert. The last two days we slept under bridges. Without a tent, it was warm. Today we take shelter in a Red Crescent station. We are lucky, a young English student opens the door, who is earning some money for two days. We make English Lessons together. The tasks are too difficult. He usually has to guess, there are no explanations in the text. He shows Brigitte photos of his girlfriend. Without scarf, in miniskirt and high heels. It was the girl next door, which was great because whenever the parents are gone, she'll come over to him ... We laugh a lot.
25.12.13 No ship from Bandar Lengeh to Dubai at Christmas. Too much wind. Always too much wind the last few days, we have noticed. Today we try out the harbor of Bandar Abbas. And for this we need to change our tickets. After a long search we find Mr. Zenjah in his office. Double chin, mustache, an elderly gentleman. Is drinking tea behind his table with people who come and go. I sit on a chair. After fifteen minutes he has typed my name. New colleagues come. I'm starting to stare at him. He takes me back true, makes a phone call to Tehran to confirm the rebooking. Colleagues go, the tea is empty. My last name is now already on the paper. New tea is served, staring doesn't help anymore. He starts to smoke. My finger drums triggers a second phone call to Tehran. I pray that Mr. Zenjah eventually finds the Print button. The ferry leaves at nine. There, Mr. Zenjah will have the main command for the passport control... Last hours in Iran. Outside the muezzin's call, muffled by the windows. Leave a country, go final steps. Soon, it's night .
© All contents of this website are owned by Brigitte & Ivo Jost, Hauptstr. 82, 3854 Oberried, Switzerland.
The operators of linked pages are solely responsible for their contents.