To Jana

ACCNOWLEDGMENTS

With special thanks to Mr.Amin Mohamadi who lent me his computer for typing this story, Bernard and Sandra for their encouragment to write the story and Mr. Noroozi for his funding the cycling to Ashgabad. Also many sincere thanks to my dear friends, Pavel, Jana, my brother, Shafie and everybody else who helped me in the journey.

PART ONE

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As far as I can remember now, I was in the sixth years of age when I stubbornly learned riding a bicycle. I did not have a bike of my own but I luckiIy had an easy access to our neighbour's. I could borrow Pooran's small, red and flimsy bike. She was a lovely little daughter of our tenant who lived next door. She was my play mate who lend me her bicycle when I wanted to ride it.

Instead of having a joyful riding, I used to hurt myself on the street. I did not care about the bumpy surface; it was not smooth enough for an easy learning. I kept trying again and again. I did not give in. I was quite independant in learning to ride. Nobody supported me in the painful exprience. It took me for an unknown while to get rid of the tough game of fall and ride. At last, some day I achieved a short-lasting balance. Now only a blur memory has remained from the wonderful moment of the ultimate take-off. I finaly rejoiced to see myself released from the ground. I was flying yet managing to keep balance. No longer I was able to reign the restive gear. I could ride ! It was a milestone. I was expriencing a new kind of traveling full of excitement.

Perhaps when I first had my bike I never thought of going to long journies by bike. My interest to road adventures, goes back to the very early years of primary school. As far as I recall now, I very much liked the picture of a mountainous road painted in our neighbour's drawing room. The wall picture depicted a mountainous road that was meandering through a tunnel. Whenever I saw the picture I got impressed by wonder of traveling. I got awfully excited by traveling with my family.

My ever first attempt for a long cycling distanced 50 km. I lived in Mashad in 1980s. I had a new Japanese bike. In a Friday morning, I dared to cycle out of the city, the courage that I had never taken before. Come what may! In the early morning, I left home to do something adventureous and unprecented. I hastened to leave the town to the mausoleum of FERDOSI, the great Iranian poet. The mausoleum is in the town of TOOS somewhere about 25 km east of Mashad. I never thought that I could travel by bike even to long distant places. I triumphantly cycled back home soon after a flying visit to the monument. 50 km cycling was a great record for me. When I realised how soon I could travel 25 km by bike, I was nearly temped to ride 100 km more to the next town of Qoochan ! A passion to travel, a passion to discover and an immortal passion to travel again and again.

Now my PEUGEOT 200 ENERGY mountain bike is the agreeable and faithful companion of my road adventures including the recent one that I created on Dec 1996. I wish you enjoy reading story of my solo-cycling around the two Iranian deserts of DASHT-E KAVIR and KAVIR- E-LUT.

DEPARTURE ( GONBAD KAVOOS )

" BOOYE JOOYE MOOLIAN AYAD HAMI "þ

"Here comes the scent of MOOLIAN brook

" YADE YARE MEHRABAN AYAD HAMI "

" Here comes memory of the good comrade. "

( ROODAKI )

Maybe the documentary that I and my brother,Shafie saw about the ' Silk Road ' was the first cause that aroused great enthusiasm to Uzbekistan. It had been produced by a Japanese expedition that traveled the route to China in convoy. The serial was shown by Iranian T.V in the years of the ex-Soviet Union. I and my Shafie did our best not to miss any single episode of the serial. We had been craving for traveling to the Rpublic on the two wheeled. ' Voyages D'un Fauk Derviche Dans L'Asie Centrale ' is the travelogue of VEMBERY Arminius, the Hungarian adventurer whose adventures in the Central Asian Republics ( March 1863_March 1864 ) also stimulated us to follow his itinerary to Uzbekistan.

As usual, we were out of money. We needed money for visa and the other expenses of the journey. A friend of mine introduced somebody as our prospective companion who agreed to pay US$ 390 for both his Turkmen and Uzbek visas. We charged him as much as the Touring Agencies charged for one-month Uzbek visa and ten days Turkmen (transit) visa in total. No longer I could get both my own visas and Shafie's by the money.The real price was US$ 65 for the Uzbek visa and US$ 10 for the Turkmenistan' visa.

We even had another US$ 390 when somebody else wanted to join our expedition. I made a mistake when I did not let the latter one know that we had charged him according to the contemporary fee of the Touring Agencies of Iran. He felt that he had been cheated when he found out that we had charged him more than the real price of the visas. He wanted us to return his US$ 390 after I had got his visas of Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. Shafie insisted me to return whole his dollars.We did so. In fact we could return the sum only by the US$ 390 that we had got from the first one. Now we had our visas but did not have even about US$ 80 for our Exit fees to leave Iran.

It was too hard to get the Uzbek visa simply by filling a visa application form. A few times I called on the Uzbek Embassy in Tehran. I finally convinced the consul that we were honestly going to visit his country as cycletourist. " Mr. Consul, I and my brother have seen Europe but we're sure that we will enjoy ourselves more if we see Uzbekistan. We'll get our travelogue published in our newspapers and magazines if we can get your visa." I assured the consul. He finally agreed with our visas and asked me to send him one copy from our travelogue published in our press.

Neopan is one of the factories of our hometown that helped us with about US$ 100. It was too little to fund such a journey. Nevertheless I and Shafie were determined to go. We phoned the first prospective companion to inform him that we were about to set out. He already changed his mind and claimed his money back. " You can not move with the sum. I don't go. " he said. One year later I still suffered agonies of his suing me for fraud. He gave up persuit of the case when he made sure that I did not have money.

A few days later, I and my brother, Shafie were in a bus leaving our hometown, GONBAD KAVOOS, to the border town of QOOCHAN.The town is nearly 400km northeast of Gonbad Kavoos. As one of the four overland crossing points into Turkmenistan, the small border village of BAJGIRAN lies roughly 80km on far north of Qoochan. As usual,we had no difficulty with finding an accommodation at the athletic dorimtory of the town.

Despite setting out at the windy dawn of Nov 6th, 1996 we failed to reach the border in the same day. It was absolutely dark everywhere outside Qoochan. As we cycled out of the town, we pulled our bikes over. The only thing to light up the dark road ahead us, was a dusty lantern. Once we lit the magic lantern, our eyes lit up in joy; the wheels started rolling and their rolling surprisingly brought about an exciting scene that we had never seen before; bicycling on a dark and quiet road that was simply lit up by such a flickering light of the lantern. Dangling at the end of the strap beneath the back pannier, the lantern kept marring the prevailing silence of the road by alternate sqeaking rhythem of Ding,Dang,Ding,Dang,............

Tremendously charmed by the glimmer of the light, we did not care how cold the gust was blowing, how frequently it blew our lantern out and how hardly we had to light it over and over.

The cold gust went on tormenting us. Taking the last resort, we wore all the clothing we stocked in our panniers. The gust was persistently swirling into my ears. It was painful indeed. I helplessly wrapped my head by a bulky turban. Having ridden against the stiff wind for a good while, we gave in then bussed straight to Bajgiran. Our transit visa had already commenced from 29.10.1996 whereas we hit the border on Nov 6th, 1996. To our estimate, three days still remained from our visas, but it came false.

BAJ GIRAN

We soon finished with the Iranian customs. My heart began racing. A passion to see the once-prosperous Disny Land of ex-Soviet Union.

On exiting the customs area we were warmly seen off by a small group of soldiers at gateway of the customs. They were already expecting us to yell ' Khoda Hafez ' or good bye. A couple of them were from our hometown. In joy we headed to the border point on top of a pass ahead. As we rode up the pass, we faced the border fence now just in front of us. The fence was flanked by both of Turkmen and Iranian soldiers on each side. The more we neared the fence, the more our hearts raced.

" NO ENTRY ! " ( The Zero Point )

A young Turkmen officer halted us as we stepped into the Turkmen side. He solemnly walked up to us then checked our 'Dacument'. After a glance at our passports, he paused - a breath_ taking moment. He indifferently said us : " you can NOT cross the border. "My heart sank. It was overwhelmingly despairing. He went on reasoning: " your Turkmen visas are already expired !" To make sure, he piontlessly radioed to his top then concluded with' NO ' again.

No other choice but to get back .There is worse to come when I thought how shyful it would to be if we were seen by the same people those had just seen us off. I terribly felt shy of parading back the very soldiers. We could not furtively evade the pitying stares of the people. At last we sailed down the very pass back to Bajgiran customs. The more we approached the gateway, the quicker we peddled.

On leaving the customs, I dropped in on Immegration office. Invalidating our Exit stamps was not something illegal. I was arbitrarily refrained from doing so. I wonder why?! As a result, we would have to repay the Exit charge of about US$40 at some another exit for two of us. We had not exited at all or we should have had Entry stamp of Turkmen customs. No point to argue with the ......... people anymore.

Once we left the customs area we boarded an empty truck parking in front of the customs.

A few days later I went back to Mashad, the center of Khorasan province that governs the Bajgiran border area. I was determined to resolve both of the exit extra-charge as well as to get our visas extended at Turkmen consulate in Mashad. To pull the first string, I initially met the colonel chief commander of the province Disciplinary forces. Thanks to him who intently listened to my complaint then contacted the border commander straightaway. In the end he assured me to have a troubleless exit with no extra charge.

PART TWO

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QOOCHAN

Having finished both of the two works, I hastened back to my rendezvous with Shafie in Qoochan. He had just arrived from home and was unloading our bikes when I joined him. Snow laying thick on the ground. The sorrounding was disappointing. The unexpected fall of snow in the previous day, took me by such a surprise that I almost changed my mind. It would be shame if we were put off simply for the sake of the unwanted snow. Unlike me, Shafie was really earnest to go ahead. Always I do admire him for his decisiveness and never regreted to give in to his want that time too.

No hassel again with accommodation at the dormitory of Qoochan's Sport office. To avoid missing even one day as well as to spare us the snow mountainous road we took the border-bound minibus in the morning. Our guess came true because we saw a couple of Turkish trucks those were stuck in snow. As we predicted this time we had a guarranteed crossing through the border without any extra-charge though the name of BAJGIRAN literaly means Bribe-Takers !

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN INTO........ (TURKMANISTAN)

We thrilled as we crossed the border point. No longer we were inside the once-forbidden land. Except the newly-asphalted road, everything smacked the Soviet days. I tried not to escape looking at anything around us. The landscape was imposing. The humble white single-story buildings of the Turkmen customs of HOWDAN remined from the days of they so-called SAYOZ. Some Turkmem soldiers were lazily carrying blocks of concrete to the half-finished building near by. They sometimes turned to take a look at us. We were smoothly flowing down to the customs ( of Howdan ) or as they so-call ' TAMOZHNA'.

The impenetrable borders of the ex-Soviet are no longer open to strangers. We hurried to cross the customs before it was locked at 4 p.m. ( now it is open round the clock. ) Unlike Bajgiran customs, we had to hang around there for a few hours. There was a rowdy pileup noticeably a noisy throng of Turkmen women traders. They seemed they had been sticking around for ages. They were surrounded by their own Iranian-made merchandise, wrangling one with another to push their things forward.

To our surprise, we were led into a small room where a couple of Turkmen customs officials were waiting to frisk us. They asked us to empty all the contents of our pockets as if they were looking for something in particular. For what I had already heared about the notorious greed of the Turkmen officials, I fixed my eyes on our things those were messed around by the careless men. They tactfully questioned us:

" Do you smoke opium, so what about cigarette ? "

Thanks to the Almighty,nothing vanished there.

At some check points we pulled our bikes over the slope. The Turkmen young soldiers looked pitiable in their long and brown cloth coats evidently from the former communist patrons. Checking passports and of course pleading with passengers for cigarettes or as they called as' Chilim ', are their usual job.

Nearly 5 km next to Howdan, we let our bikes roll down the way that snaked through the mountaineous road to ASHGABAD. No need to make much effort to pedal our bicycles. On top of the last round of roller-coaster, suddenly the imposing landscape of the green Ashgabad appeared ahead. A panaroma postcard of the town that was overwhelmed by green background color. A reservoir on the west corner was out-standing. It was so amazing indeed; the big iron-work sickle and hammer was still standing upright in the nearby garrison. It reminded the bygone days of Sayoz.

ASHGHAD

Despite neighbouring the arid desert of QARA QOOM, Ashgabad is surprisingly a green spot. We noticed an Iranian flag fluttering in the Iranian Transport Terminal.While pulling into the town, I got a paradoxical impression that is to say, I was exhilirating for seeing somewhere enigmatic that I had been craving for many years. On the other hand, I was badly regretting that I already missed the days of the ex-Soviet. To find out what those days of Ashgabad looked like, I aspired I would have come before the season was over. Pity. those days are already gone.

I had to be content only with cherishing those prosperous Soviet days of Ashgabad, the only pleasure that I could take it during the very impressive moments of our arrival into the New Ashgabad. At first sight, the town plainly revealed some facts about its past and the present. Most of the things around us seemed as if they conservatively were keeping their former communist mood except pictures and statues of Lenin now replaced with ' TURKMEN BASHII ' as the present Turkmen president so-called himself as the Turkmen's Head. In addition to a couple of high-rise buildings. Anyway I still marvel the huge Russian style buildings in their pecuialr bright colors. Thanks to them, they are irresistably retaining the signs of the former era.

I had a heart-felt maybe an overdid sympathy for the Russian residents of the Republic. They seemingly live in bias. The new Impartial-Independant Turkmenistan sounds a nightmare to once-ruling class of the Russian nationalities. I got more interested to the Russian as the people of high culture, Dignity, Diligance and Contentment. There was a fairly good selection of out-dated city coaches and trams those were still creeping on the wide and quiet streets of the city.

Quit looking only at the dark side of the things ! The streets were criss-crossing. They turned to paradise when beautiful Russian girls, with their blue eyes and blond hairs gracefully walked under the trees those lowered in a tunnel-shape. Great! Contrary to what you most likely see, the neat appearances of the Russian inconsisted their living areas. Imagine,a pretty well-dressed Russian girl who is coming out of a filthy flat.

Being overdue, we dashed off to the sport headquarters locally known as ' sport committee ' or its Turkmen equivalent ' sport Kamiteti '. The Committee was opposite ' TEKE ' bazaar now near the town Rail Way station or as they so-called ' WAGZAL '. We were supposed to report ourselves to the headquarters to get a lodging at the athletic dormitory of the then-closed sport committee. There was a special department of Turkmen police or ' PROKLATOOR ' stationed at the ground floor of the committee's building. It helped with putting us through toMr.Assistant Manager though it was later night. We were expecting for a while to hear from the committee Manager.

The police station or MILISA was the very place where we witnessed the scene of the drankard Russian man. We hung around long enough to get some idea about our surrounding. A Turkmen pretty girl was flittering with a Turkmen policeman at the doorway. Shortly after, a pair of men from the sport committee turned up.Being fatigue, we prefered to take a cozy room in the committee for the over night sleep. The same feeling of being in the Ashgabad of the Soviet accured to me again. IGOR, the Russian employee of the committee who supplied us with an electric kettle, some tea, tea spoon and some sugar that is priceless for them these days.

I was terribly panicked by the big bangs those kept blasting late in the night: " Is it a bloody coup d'etat. Are we trapped here? The government forces must be fighting against the rebel forces.We're not lucky." When I asked the people of the sport committee about the blasts, somebody told me that a store of chemical materials was burnt in the night. All the time, the dark and narrow hallways of the sport committee were reminding me the terrifying stories of the GOOLAK Archipelago of Soolzhnitsin, the horrible K.G.B etc.

CASUAL FRINDS

Being the first Iranian cyclist ever cycled to the New Independant or as they so-call it BITARAP Turkmenistan, we were warmly welcomed both by the committee and the Iranian Embassy in Ashgabad. To make sure if the Embassy would finance us for the rest of our cycling to Uzbekistan, we called on it. We saw another disgusting scene on the way to the Embassy. There were some Turkmen women sweepers. In the end of a sub-official talking with one of the Embassy staffs, we put forward our trivial holy gifts. I had purchased the things in the holy city of Mashad with the cynical intention to allure the Embassy's lavish help. The gifts consisted of some praying-ware meaning a number of small tablets of compressed earth used in the Shiit Muslem's praying. We call it ' MOHR '. The second item was square-shape pieces of prayer rugs or its Iranian equivalent, 'JANAMAZ '.The third item was some Rosary or as it is known here by the name of 'TASBIH'.

We were having our last talks at the Embassy's gate when Mr. Embassedor turned up. He walked up to us, shook our hands and wished a good journey to us. Then he was whisked away in his Mercedec Benz. The member staff stretched his arm to shake my hand for good bye. When I shook his hand, I sensed a stiff folded piece of paper that gently pressed into my palm.A US$50 banknote. " A small gift on behalf of Mr.Embassedor. " he said grinninly. In addition to another small gift of Manat 100,000 ( nearly US$ 20 the contemporary rate ) given by Cultural department of the Embassy.

Yet we came across with another pair of bigger and more pricy gift as we left the generous Embassy. A cyclist couple from CZECH Republic.They indeed worth much more than the alms we got from the Embassedor. Without hesitation I myself initiated breaking the ice. Starting a short conversation culminated to a prolonged company. I was fortunate. We hastily briefed our plans for the day including our T.V interview that we were going to have soon after. They turned down our offer to join us in the interview.

Both of Pavel and Jana displeased such a T.V interview. They were also regretful with the T.V interview they had with the television of Azerbaijan Rep

Only after our interview with the Turkmen T.V, we entitled the Czech couple about their interview with T.V of the Republic of Azerbaijan. Also in our T.V interview we were expected to flatter and talk in praise of HIM as well as they so- called Impartial and Independant or GHARASHSIZ Turkmenistan. We talked but not in favour of their ballyhoo.

The couple had paid off U.S$ 75 for a fortnight Iranian Transit visa for each. JANA, the lovely young woman with blue eyes and pony-tailed blond hair. Her ever-smiling face made her looked more lovely indeed. PAVEL was the Robinson Crosue of our team we dubbed him so as soon as we saw him in his shabby appearance. They had cycled past via the Republics of SLOVAK, UKRAIN, RUSSIA, GEORGIA and Azerbaijan.

Unlike the arrival night, the committee provided us with accommodation at the dormitory of the sport college or as they call sport OOCHILESHII '. Thanks to the letter of Recommendation that our sport office in Gonbad had given us. We invited them to join us at the OOCHILSHII that was arranged also by Iranian Embassy. We wished not to part their company even for the night. We enjoyed ourselves a lot. After dinner we called them to our room. We had a small party. I began playing my Azerbaijanese Tambourin or DEF and Shafie accompanied me by singing Azerbaijanese folkloric songs.The performance was getting heated. The more we got heated, the more it grabbed them . At first they were sprawling on our beds and were indifferently listening to our music. They gradually began tidying themselves. In the end they suggested us to give the performance in CZECH and make a good money. Though they did not break their solemn promise, we still are not able to afford the travel cost.

THE FIRST FAREWELL

In the morning we bade our first sad farewell by seeing them off on a street of Ashgabad. We shifted back toward Uzbekistan. They were heavily riding southward for the Howdan border point. It seemed as if our legs did not agree with us. Neither our little fund nor our real want, got along with our intended itinerary that was going to foil. On the other hand only one more day remained from our Turkmen visa. We went to suburban Ashgabad in order to hitch a lift to the Uzbek border town of DASHOWZ. We stayed only for a little while then agreed to forget Uzbekistan and return in trace of the couple.

It was too late to catch up with them in the day. So we got accommodation in the Iranian Transport Terminal of Ashgabad, the place where we slept that night. A friendly Iranian guy put us up for the night. It was kind of him to offer us a joyful night . " Let's go back to the downtown and enjoy ourselves". As usual a ( Turkmen ) prostitute was not of any appeal to me that night. Or it would be the first exprience I would ever have till then.

To make sure we would be able to cross Howdan TAMOZHNA before it was closed at 4 p.m, we asked for lift as we cycled a bit far from the Terminal in the following morning. To our surprise Pavel and Jana were still wandering at Howdan. " We had to return from here yesterday evening because it was already too late to cross the border. " They told us. No longer we got together, no matter how long it would take to get through the customs. We took advantage of the opportunity and I entertained ourselves by my tambourin. We also served our Czech friends with hot tea . After having sipped some tea we got warmed a bit. I and Shafie were fully appreciating their company once again. We were pretty sure that in the coming days we would have enjoyable cycling together with them.

At the beginning, we were a slow-motion of struggling the uphill to the border point of Bajgiran. But soon after we had the angle of salvage just in front of us. An Iranian lorry whose recklelss driver vulanteered to tow us, slowed while overtaking us. In fear we reached our hands to the ropes those were tightly looping round the hooks of the lorry's trailer. We grabbed the ropes. It was getting too hard to continue the risky situation. We split. The driver who looked drunk, finally stopped in the middle of the steep. We hastily began strapping our bikes to the back bumper of the lorry in paralel except Shafie. He prefered to zigzag and ride back and forth to snapshot the exciting moments.The lorry went on towing us till we slipped into a dense fog on top of the border pass. In the end we unstrapped the bikes and headed to the border point just a few more steps ahead.

Crossing border made another sense to the couple. They warmly bear-hugged eachother and cheered as we crossed the border line of Howdan into Iran.

Now it sounds quite usual to see foreign tourists from around the world those cross the borders of the ex-Soviet Union. We saw a small group of French tourists at Howdan those were bussing back from Uzbekistan. They were on their Mediterranian tour. Most of them were ' grand mere. '

......... BACK INTO THE PAN ( BAJGIRAN

Once again with the French tourists in the Clearance lounge of Bajgiran customs office. Two customs officers were pocking their heads sniffing for anything Un-Islamic. They snatched a couple of Men's dress show journals. The grand - mere themselves naively declared the journals. In vain they argued to retrieve their journals from the stubborn people. The ladies looked unaware of the tough Iranian Import restrictions against books or journals of any kind with " Indescent Picture". Now whenever I remeber the event I blame myself because I think that I could be of some help to the desperate tourists. As a matter of fact in such cases cyclists of any nationality are exception so that the stern officials likely show leniency to them.

At the night we stayed in one of classrooms of the village school in Bajgiran. Being aware of the Iranian accommodation rules at border areas, we called at the village police station or as we now call it ' NIROOYE ENTEZAMI ' Especially as a foreign tourist, it would be better for you to let the local police know if you are going to stay at the border area. In the morning we were seen off by the cheering students and less excited teachers of the school.

Each slope was a great relief for them. They used to shout a long "SKOOOPKA" when we reach top of a slope. I and Shafie have learned the Czech equivalent for slope.

Though hardly scrambling the snowy mountaineous road with the couple, it had a great relish for us indeed. Jana cooked some Noodle for lunch. They surprisingly turned down our offer to share our tinned food plus a soft piece of Iranian bread, much fresher than their Russian balck Khleb. Shafie could not make out of their preference. He grabbed a piece of their bread then pretended as if he was going to throw it away. In the air, one of them snatched it from Shafie's hand. They looked offended. Later on I myself did learn how I should appreciate evey bit of bread left-over.

She seemed suffering from a chronic stomachache. She never wanted to see a doctor.

IMAM QOLII

We were cycling near the next village of Imam Qolii. That part of the road was dusty so that we had to move slowly. Anyway, we had an enjoyable riding on the road meandering at the bottom of the vally. We were riding so close to the rocky mountains that I felt ourselves as very little things. It was already dark and we lit our lantern. I had to lag just behind the companions or I would lose the track in the dusk.

How fantastic was the cold night when we were warmly hosted by the only primary boarding school of the village. The teachers of the school asked us to partake of the dinnner consisting Hamburger with tomato sauce and pickled cucumber. A very good appetite for our wild snabs. Then I proposed to join the student's gathering in the school hall. They were going to recite some verses from QORAN.

Though wearing a headscarf, our female companion had to cover whole her body with 'CHADOR ', the one-piece clock traditionally associated with Islamic Republic of Iran. At first, I myself tried on the chador to show her how to wear it. As a European woman enveloped in the Chador, she looked funny. I was also called to read some verses from the holy book. I mounted a pulpit that had been placed for the purpose. I finally interpreted Pavel's brief address about their own odyssey.

PART THREE

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THE SECOND FAREWELL ( QOOCHAN )

Once again we had to part from the nice couple and say good bye to them. The sad moments once again was coming along. I told them that I very much liked to join them in their cycling through the deserts but they did not like me so. They were to head to MASHAD then southwards for Pakistan and India. They were going to turn notheast through China, Ghazaghistan, Russia, Poland and Slovakia back to the CZECH Republic. I felt with a great pity for leaving them so soon. We saw them off offering a pair of caps to them in the last moments.

" AHOY, AHOY ! " We shouted to them while waving.

We took a bus back home right then. I got down to write the good memories of being together with them for five days.The more I wrote, the more passionat I got to join them again. At last I could not help deciding to join them. I failed to resist against the impulsive temptation and a powerful force that finaly drove me out of home.

DESPERATE SEARCH ( MASHAD )

"Shafi, I've already made up my mind to go to Mashad. Send my bike as soon as I let you know that I have found them" I asked Shafie.

It was two days passed from the day when we saw them off in Qoochan. Their residence in MASHAD was as much known to me as a needle in a barn. I went to the lenght of tracing them anywhere I gussed, visa office, the newspaper where the had been interviewed, etc.

I even took the shuttle bus to the next town of TORBAT-E-HEIDARIE.All the way to and back from the town, I kept zooming on the road. I never missed any police station enquiring about a pair of foreign cyclist or ' Docharkhe Savar-e-Kharejii '. Nobody had seen them. Twice I had already called in at the suburban police station of Mashad to make an inquiry about probable passage of a pair of foreign cyclist.

" I must leave a notice to them ! " " Pavel and Jana, please call the following Tel No, as soon as you receive this message ! Thanks. Rafie. " It was the idea that timely occured to my mind in the second enquiry. For convenience, I wrote the notice purposely in English and asked a young policeman simply give it to a pair of foreign cyclist if he happened to see them passing by.

I had a good reason for re-joining them. I could gain more exprience and learn much about cycle-adventuring in the wild life. They were very skilled in cycling and had a very good sense of orientation in finding suitable campsite. I was sure that I would be able to take advantage of their company and learn how to deal with the difficulties of cycle-adventuring at any circumstance. In brief I wanted not to miss the rare opportunity at all.

It was the fourth ceaseless day of my quest in such a big and crowded city like Mashad. I nearly lost the hope of seeing them once again, when I miraculously received a message warning they have left the city just the day before. I had a ticket to get back home in the night. " Never mind, I was destined not to see them. " I tried to sooth myself. I went to bid a good bye to my host whose phone nomber was left in the notice.

" Hey, Rafi you've got a phone message from police station. " my host said.

The message was warning their passage towards Zahidan just the day before ! Oh, great, My plan finally worked !

The message was from the same Traffic police station where I had left the notice to Pavel and Jana in the previous day.

My guess came quite true. I predicted that on leaving the city, they would inevitably pass by the police station.

I immediately gave a ring to my brother at home. I insisted him to send my bike together with panniers etc, with the first bus coming to Mashad. " Never haggle with the driver about the fare. Do your best to send the bike right now ! " I urged him. It was about 11 p.m when I received my bike. Right then, I took a bus to the next town of TORBAT-E-HEIDARIE.

PART FOUR

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REUNIFYING ( TORBAT-E-HEIDARIE )

It was mid-night when I got out the bus in the town. The streets were quiet. I fixed the panniers. I asked a passerby the way to the sport complex in stadium. It was mid-night and I perfect realised that I would surely disturb the watchman who was asleep in the complex. But it was cold and I had to knock the door. A man came up and opened the door. He did not look bad - tempered. As I showed him my membership card of Cycling Federation, he let me in and led me into a room to sleep in.

In the morning I began riding around the town asking the people on street about a pair of foreign cyclist. The town was small and people should most probably have seen them if my friends had ever arrived in the town. Nobody had seen them ! What's happened to them ? They should have reached here so far. I was impationatly roaming on the streets. Perhaps they have already missed the town and never arrived in it.

" I'd better expect them somewhere further ahead on the main road. " I thought. I put my bike in a truck and drove out of the town. All the time I kept focusing on the road. They were quite disappeared. I drove about 50 km out of Torbat-e-Heidarie when I asked the driver to put me down at the village of MAHNE. I was too exhausted to move anymore. I took a respite in the nearby filling station. Then I had a chatting with a few boys. Some boy joined us later and said that he had seen a pair of foreign cyclist just at the other side of Torbat-e-Heisdarie.

" What a relief, I'll surely see them tommrow. " I predicted. I set up my tent inside the nearby mosque by the road. In the morning I packed my panniers, sat by the road and expected them for many hours. I lunched in the short shade of the mosque'wall. There was a kind woman who was keeping the nearby shop. She offered me some hot meal for lunch and some sugar. Her two children were playing in front of the shop. Perhaps she has noticed that I had been expecting my friends.

Sometimes for a change, I took my look aimlessly at the Safron farmlands around. There was an old man who was holding an empty and big sack. He was carrying it to purchase Safron from the farmers and fill them in his sack. The safrorn pickers have to start their work at early hours of morning before the sun rises up. Safron in fact is the stamen of the flower. When farmers gete the flowers accumulated, they stuff them in bulky sacks then take them to home. As the next stage, the stamens are plucked.The stamens now-safron, is dried and finally packed for sale. The flower has a long life onion that lasts for about 7 or 8 years, during the period that safron farms should be kept irrigated. I was told that a safron plucker earns about US $ 2 per day.

I was having my lunch when somebody drove up to me and parked his huge motorbike by me. He invited me for lunching in his home near by. I thankfully turned down his invitation because I was afraid of missing the couple if I moved somewhere else. " In the case I fetch your lunch here. " he said. He shortly drove back. He looked radiant.

" I just saw a pair of foreign cyclist riding on the dirty road. " he burst saying. I hastily finished my lunch to join them.

Another great moment of reuniting. I was downcounting the moment to see Pavel and Jana again. They came but they looked as if unhappy with seeing me again. Straightforwardly I requested them to let me accompany them as long as they liked." I promise to leave you anytime you want me even at the mid-night. " I explained to them that I meant just to take their company in order to learn from them how to deal with road adventures. They did not promise to let me accompany them all the way to Zahidan.

" Just for trial and for a couple of days, you can come with us then you should leave us when we wanted you so. " Pavel said. I myself wonder why they did not want to let me go with them all the way to Zahidan !?

Food, was almost the single money-consuming item of our travel cost and its sharing was a matter. I did not know how we would share our food supply and its cost for the rest of the journey.

Their diet was quite different than mine.They often used to eat sunflower oil, onion, salt, and bread. At first it amazed me how they could eat all the junks.To me it was disgusting to take the diet but I got accustomed to it later on. I already came to terms not only with such a recipe but also with lots of other things during the journey. The recipe was so cheap and nutrient that I took it as my regular diet for the rest of the travel. Of course, they made the best use of the other supplementary foods. I resolved the enigma of their food consumption only when they offered me some walnut kernels. They had brought them from the Republic of Georgia. In contrast with my precetion, they had a very good and energetic food consumption. I beleived in the fact when they quickly climbed a rock nearly with 90 degree angle. ( see page , The Assassines )

The side mirror is so indispensable part of my bike that I never feel safe on road without it. The other part that made my cycling very convenient was the enclosure of the handle bar that my brother made it by welding two gas pipe joints together. The piece rose the handle bar. The risen handle bar was a great relief in the long riding indeed. No need to break my wrist on the handle bar.I also had a better control with the modified handle bar. We had to make the bar because both of my own bike and my brother's were rather small to well fit our own sizes. Though I got very good service from my bike, I did not serviced it in the journey except lubricating brake and gear cables. Unfortunately I did not know how to do the services. I remember that just before leaving Birjand, I went to a cyclist's home to get the gear cables regulated. Luckily I never had a critical problem with my bike whole in the journey.

My panniers did contain not only my food supply for a couple of days use, but also the other assorted things even needle and thread. I beleive that my panniers should be perfect. People used to call my bike as a " mobile home ". I kept myself well supplied with my needs on the move. Those things often were offered to me free of charge specially when I spoke English and stimulate people's generosity. I usually used not to shop all my daily food consumption from one place. As a result, shop keepers usually became so generous that they did not charge me, as a foreign guest or MEHMAN, only for the sake of a couple of things those I picked them for one-course meal. Therefore I was confident of a free shopping simply if I cycled one street to the end. Almost at the beginning of our triple-cycling, I imitated my companions in purchasing one liter sunflower oil. The oil lasted almost for whole the journey. I also used vegetable oil for cooking.

THE STARTING POINT ( MAHNE )

It was Nov 26th,1996 when we started our triple-riding from MAHNE and finished it after 6 days in BIRJAND. In Mashad, I already exchanged my US$ 50 to nearly Rials 200,000. our currency. Then I sent about US$ 30 of the sum to my brother at home. That's to say, I had only about US$ 20 in Mashad and Rials 80,000.in the village of Mahne, where I precisely started 3000 km cycling from.

Consulting my map, I found out that there was no residential spot as far as about 50 km. I already intended to stop riding only when we reach the next stop, OMRANI. Somewhere on the way, we took a dirty track off the asphalt. We stopped then they survayed around. I thought they were looking for a campsite near by. Perhaps it was for the sake of my insisting, they agreed with me to move on for a better place. I still did not realise that unlike me, they were not particular about a pre-planned campsite. They never bothered to pre-arrange their next campsite at some particular locality. They were free birds with such a good sense of orientation that they could readily spot somewhere suitable for settling. Now I regret that how I put them in a very awkward position by advising them to reach my intended OMRANI. Later on, I gradually tried to adapt myself with their method of cycling ; ' Slow and steady '.

' Pssssssssssss.....' Puncture, in fact the first puncture that betrayed me, I CAN'T MEND PUNCTURE AT ALL ! Shame on me ! I felt too shameful to say that I could not afford a puncture. They began fixing it and I only stayed aside and watched their instant operation. They looked fond of riding on dusty tracks.

It already became dark and we were still riding on the nasty road. No longer I could easily feel their dissatisfaction with my suggestion. I thought in the very first day, they regreted to having let me cycle with them. For the second time, they stopped riding and searched around but did not find anywhere camp worthy. Cycling on a crowded road specially at night could be as much dangerous for us as a night flight for a bird.

What a relief, the glimmering lights of the nearby building. I was sure that we would get an accommodation overthere. We took a short pathway to the newly-built forestry check post of Omrani. We were welcome by a pair of men. For the night, we had a clean kitchen to cook our dinner. The men were our wandering ghosts who kept staring whatever we were doing. They were so curious to find out how we were cooking our dinner. Jana knead the bread dough and quickly baked some bread.

I dinned with my companions. It was bed time. As I always expected from our host, the two men politely warned me not to sleep with my companions. Pavel and Jana asked me about the reason so I had to explain to them the fact that it was disapproved and Un-Islamic to share my sleeping place with a forbidden opposite sex. There is no ban only on either of one's mother, grand mother, daughter and aunt. They are called MAHRAM in Islam. According to Islam, you can touch either of your MAHRAM's body, shake her hand or kiss her. So according to the rule, I could NOT sleep in the same room where Jana was going to sleep because she was not MAHRAM to me. She was NA-MAHRAM. Some of the Muslim show special sensitivity to the matter. Exactly for the same tricky matter of NA-MAHRAM, people always could not help disapproving my cycling with Jana. It was really too difficult to convince the corrupt minds that I never meant sex affairs in their company.

"Hey , Come on, tell us the truth, how many times have you made her ? "

" Hey , don't try to lie us ! "

" Confess it ! Be sure, we'll never tell anybody else.

“ Between ourselves ! "

I was usually cross- examined by similar questions. To prevent from being alleged to the bad affairs, I had to sleep somewhere else as long as such corrupt souls were snooping around. In the morning the men advised us to pay a visit to ruins of a storm-stricken village near by. The ruins was easily seen from the main road. There was a military check point in the neighbourhood. I had never seen a storm-stricken area before.I was very curious to find out what the village looked like. What happened to the poor villagers after the storm ? My mind could not help simulating the scenes of the storm in a very tragic way. The nice facad of a mosque and a big, brick and conic-shape natural fridg were the scarse surviving things of the village. In addition to the silent ringdoves sitting on the ruins.

The place that to Heav'n his pillars threw ,

And kings the forehead of his threshold drew-

I saw the solitary Ringdove there ,

And " Coo, coo, coo, " she cried; " coo, coo, coo. "

( OMAR KHAYAM )

GONABAD

Rim of Pavel's bike already had a crack. Before the next town of Gonabad, we had a stop to repair it. He failed to fix it completely overthere. In the town, it took us for a while to get the rim fixed at a bike shop. The local people was a generous help.

As usual, our presence magnified a crowd of people around us. Somebody from the boarding school of the town invited us to get accommodated in the school. The darkness was falling and we agreed about the school or MADRASE. We were about to go there when somebody neared us. He imperiously wanted us to show him our Identity cards or KARTE SHENASAII. Though he was not wearing a police uniform, I instinctly guessed he should be an agent. Accompanying a foreigner or KHAREJII can easily raise suspension. As always, I did hate to be a mobile case for such suspecious eyes.

As usual, we were welcome cycltourists or ' Docharkhe Savarhaye Jahangard ' among the students and the other people in the school. They gave us a room for the overnight sleep. We cooked our dinner in the kitchen or ASHPAZ-KHANE.

" RAFI, BIA, TELEFON AZ ETELA'AT E ! "

" Rafi, come! It's from the security office. " Somebody called me to answere the phone. It was not unlikely to have such a call. I had no doubt that the agent has done his own job. Somebody from the office was on the line. The ghost questioned me about our journey, our arrival and the departure time next day. Indeed I was so nervous that I decided to part from my companions no longer. The phone call stimulated my ever-lasting paranoia. Will they interrogate me or will they want me to leave my friends ? I could not help being nervous about the consequencies. A killing paranoia. My companions looked indifferent to my suffering.

" SHOMA-KE BA-MA MIKHABID, NA ?! "

" You'll sleep in our room. Won't you ? " one of the men of the school politely warned me.In the morning I was hesitant about parting from Pavel and Jana. I never liked so. Pavel and Jana took advantage of the opportunity and played volley-ball with the students.

We packed our panniers and went to see the nearby mausoleum or KHANEGHAH. In fact it was the place where Dervishes used to get together for their rites. When I stood at the threshold, I saw a very beautiful landscape in my front. A very nice garden with tall cypress trees, the empty rooms all around and the mausoleum in the middle. It was quiet everywhere. People said that after the Islamic revolution the shrine was sealed by government. They did not like us to visit the KANEGHAH. They did not have a good opinion about the dervishes. As a proof, they said : " Mister, followers of the sect used to submit their brides to the Big dervish in the wedding night. They beleived that it would bring a good luck to the bride if the Big dervish prior to the poor groom, had a sex with her !? "

Somebody was zooming at us like a cat waiting for a mice in ambush. There was a car at the door. As we went out of the Khaneghah, I came up with another watching eye in the car. We were under surveillance. The wandering ghosts have already come. What do they want ? Why don't they leave us alone ? Maybe my fear was out of place. I think that they had come for my foreign companion's safety. Later on, I got to know that military forces of the border strip had been commanded for safe passage of my friends NOT me " BADEMJANE BAM AFAT NADARAD ! " that literlay means; " Aubergine of Bam is pest-resistant ! " or " Bad thing never dies. " its equivalent in English.

If you travel from Mashad southwards, Gonabad would probably be the first town where you can see 'BADGIR'or tall wind towers of roof tops of houses. They are for catching even the lightest breezes and to funnel them down to the underground living rooms. In hot summers they are necessary. It was the first place where I saw the Badgirs. There was also an old visit-worthy mosque in Gonabad.

We were hungry and tired. The roadside parking had a couple of cement bench for sitting. I bought a pot of carrot jam and somethings else for eating. A car stopped in the parking. The occupants looked curious about us.Those days I was carrying a couple of books that I had purchased in Mashad. Just after a short conversation I asked them if they could post my books back home. I trusted them as I had also trusted a bus driver in a cycling once before . The family accepted to do me the favour. My companions got amazed by my trust to the stranger. They were no longer burden. I found out that they had posted the books to my home. Pavel and Jana were amazed how easily I trusted the family. I took a pride in my compatriot's honesty when I told my companions that my brother has received the books later on.

" KHODA GHOV'VAT ! " was the phrase that I taught Pavel. It means; " May God give you strength ! " It is told to somebody who is working or doing his or her own work. It is told to encourage somebody in his or her work. " KHODA GHOV'VAT ! " Pavel had learned to wave his hand and yell out encouragement at the farmers those were working on their farmlands.

" I wish I would cycle with a foreign female cyclist across the world. " I expressed my wish to the pair while riding together. " We know a CZECH girl but she is rather fat to cycle with you. " they said. " Never mind ! I have a solution, she would be well fitted if she cycles with me for a few days ! " I said. We laughed but I was serious. They told me about St Valentine's Day. I had never heard about the Day before. It sounded interesting.

Plants, soil and the nature on the whole was Pavel's interest. He sometimes pulled his bike over to take a look at a juicy thin plants at the desert lands. He looked relaxed and strong. They were quicker than me in setting up their tent, packing their panniers and getting ready to set off. Though I could not catch up with them in the works they never blamed me for being slow.

KHEZRI

The darkness was falling. We derailed off the road hastening to somewhere for camping. I was carefully tracing down Pavel and Jana and striving to keep track of them in the darkness. We stopped in front of a ruin. Pavel took around his small torches. Its beem searched around on the surface littered by sheep dung. It looked too dirty to camp there. We passed by a four-walled. A water pump engine was rumbling in it.

Somewhere further ahead Pavel suddenly stopped. He began surveying around. He was looking for somewhere in distant. We soon heared the dogs those began barking in the distant. We could not see them in the darkness. We only heared their barking was getting louder. They were coming near. The sound of the little bell was warning that they should be sheepdog. Unlike me, Pavel and Jana looked quite indifferent to the barking. Pavel began riding just to the same direction where the dogs were barking. He had seen the light flickering in the distant. I was not nervous about the dogs because Pavel and Jana were by me. We traversed the bumpy land then took the pathway that was leading to the very locality of the glimmering light. Fortunately we did not encounter the dogs.

There were two men lying around the fire. Their faces were not clearly seen in the flickering light of the fire. At the first sight, I predicted that we would have a good night. As always, we were welcome. The water engine was noisily working in the nearby room. Everything was already prepared for cooking. We were lying around the nice fire, dinning , drinking tea and then chatting.

One of the two men was shepherd and the other was the owner of the property. They offered us some bread and some salty roasted seed of sunflower. They shortly left us. I sang some songs in my mother tongue, Azerbaijanese and they sang in their own Czech language. They prefered to sleep inside the room. No matter how noisily the water engine was working, I had a sound sleep. I was never disturbed by the noise, as if no engine was roaring just near by.

Somewhere on the way to Birjand, Pavel and Jana suddenly pulled their bikes over. They had noticed SARB tree earlier than me. We all climbed the tree then began greedily picking its fruits. It seemed that the locals never cared about the fruits of the tree. The couple told me that ELEAGNUS EDULIS was good for digestion. I picked as many of them as I could. My shirt was swollen.

THE ASSASSINES ( QAYEN )

In the next town of Qayen, we explored one of the enigmatic castles of the assassines of the Hasan Sabah. The following excerpt is from the famous guide book of ' Iran, a Survival Kit ' of the Lonely Planet Publication :

" The cult was founded in the 11th century by Hasan Sabah ( 1040-1124 ), known in western folklore as the 'OLD MAN OF MOUNTAINS ' . This heretical and widly feared sect sent out killers throughout the region to murdur leading political and religious figures. Its followers, the Hashishiyun, we so-called because of their leader's cunning ruse of taking into beautiful secret gardens ( filled with equally exciting young maidens ) getting them stoned on hashish and then sending out in their homicidal assignments under the illusion that Hasan Sabah had the power to transport them to paradise. The word 'assassine ' comes from the name of the sect. The cult at its height extended from Syria to Khorasan. ( the same province where we came across with the castle next to Qayen. ) Untill 1256, when the Mogols captured its castles, the assassines spread fear throughout the region although some scholars claim that reputation was exagerated. As one might expect, the out law mountain hide ways were designed to be impregnable to visit them. "

The castle is regarded as one of the headquarters of the cult in north west of Iran. Despite its importance, nothing is mentioned about it in the 1st, edition Aug 19992 of the Lonely Planet.

We were biking out of Qayen namely about 300 km south of Mashad. We decided to take a rest on the foot hill that was seen at the end of a mud track. I suddenly noticed a few castle on top of the mountain. A passerby told us that the castle belonged to the Assassines of the Hasan Sabah. I never expected that there might be the Assassine's castle in north eastern Iran. Then I passionatly explained to Pavel and Jana about the Assassines hoping to coex them to see the castle. At first I thought that they agreed to go there only for a short visit. We took a dusty track to the foot of the mountain. There was a place of pilgrimage or ZIARATGAH on top of the hill at the mountain's foot. The place's name is ZIARATGAHE ABOOZAR. It looked desolate. For the locals, the castle is associated by the name of Ziaratgahe Aboozar.

We had to push our heavy bikes on the steep path way. To cut short the way, we lifted the heavy gears on our shoulders and finaly walked our bicycles up to the Ziaratgah. There were some abandoned rooms in the backyard. We left our bikes locked in one of the rooms then got ready to climb the mountain. Before climbing, I consulted my guide book to give my companions some more information about the assassines. We ate something to get some energy for the climbing.

Both of Pavel and Jana were fond of climbing. They gave me a ski pole. The surrounding was inspiring the thriving days of the formidable sect when they reigned the region. Breathlessly lagging behind Jana, I hardly managed to scramble half the way to the top. I finally asked her to lead me down to our campsite in the backyard.I was bone-tired but I got thoroughly relieved when I found myself in Jana's warm embrace. It was the first time that I was seeing a NA-MARAM girl in my embrace. May God forgive me for the Un-Islamic embrace !

The darkness was falling. Pavel joined us later on. We did enjoy sitting around the fire, sipping our hot tea and chatting. Undoubtedly it was the unforgettable romantic night of whole the journey. The gust was howling so wildly that it overwhelmed me by the weired illusion of being haunted by ghosts of the assassines. Anyway I felt quite safe simply because Pavel and Jana were beside me. I was cold. My tent rustled as I wriggled in it. They already crept into their own tent and were about to fall asleep but the rustling noise of my tent was disturbing their sleeping.

" Rafi, come to our tent if you are cold ! " Jana called me. I turned down the offer though I was cold. As a matter of fact, such an offer by a stranger or NA-MAHRAM girl was embarrassing to me indeed. For some corrupt preception of Iranians, such an offer can easily associate having sex with your bed-sharing partner.

In the morning, I could follow them to the top of the neighbouring mountain. We took an easier track to the summit. We were victoriously standing in the once-impregnable castle of the appaling sect. A superb panorama of the vast plain of Qayen came to view beneath us. There were also a couple of more castles seen on top of the nearby ranges. During our visit to the castle, I felt myself attached to the adventures of the pioneer terrorist regime of the country.

A pro-environmentalistic hint:

I always recall how they taught me what I must do with a chocolate wrapping. As we descended the castle, we took a short rest at the foot of the mountain. I offered them some chocolates.I opened mine and carelessly dumped it. They soon frowned at me like a guilty child. " It's not too difficult to keep it till the next dustbin. " They blamed me. It was such an unforgettable lesson that I always remember it when I wanted to litter around again.

" It's time you leave us. " Pavel warned me in the evening. I asked him to let me stay with them till the next morning. " O.K. " he said. The time of another farewell had come. Why parting !? I actually did not know why they wanted me to leave them. I no longer did appreciate the last night of being together. We walked our bikes across a farmland. Pavel began looking around . There was a cottage in the land. There was not enough room for three of us. Sleeping in our own tents was not less exciting than sandwiching ourselves in the cottage. Without a sleeping bag, I was desperately exposed to the tormenting gust of the night.

In the morning, we were cycling close to the traffic police station at the entrance of the next town of Birjand. There was a soldier who was patroling in front of the station.He began shaking the STOP sign that he was holding in his hand. We pulled our bikes over and propped them against the wall. We went into the station or POLISE RAH. We had never been stopped by Police Rah before. I got more bewildered when we were friendly welcomed by chief of the station. He questioned me about our journey and got my address. He revealed that they have also been commanded for my companion's safe passage through the border area. Admirable.

THE THIRD FAREWELL

The countdown was already started. Once again I had to say good bye to my friends. " On our way to Zahidan, we'll

turn to the town of Zabol " Pavel said. They were going to see the mountain of KOOHE KHAJE. I wished a good cycling to them. They left me alone just before the toughest portion of the way to Zahidan. The beginning moments of our parting was so hard that I could not help remembering the great days of being together. All the time those memories kept runing in my mind. They cycled away and I only could see them off with my pitying look.

PART FIVE

wwwwwwww

MAKING DECISION ( BIRJAND

" If no one listens to your call, walk alone ,

If in fear they cower, mutely facing the wall,

O hapless one,

Open your mind and speak the wilderness, they turn away

and desert you,

O hapless one,

Tread firmly on the thorns along the bloodlined track,

and travel alone

If , in the storm-troubled night, they dare not hold aloft the light,

O hapless one,

I quit your own heart with the lightning and pain

and yourself become the guidance light."

( Rabindranat Tagor )

I was beset by hesitation. At first I was supposed to cut short the journey in BIRJAND and return home by bus. Lacking enough pre-arrangement, I doubted if I could end up cycling 2600 km back home. It was hard for me to make such a decision off-hand. Once again, I opened my map to study my route around the deserts. " If I cycle around the deserts I will see interesting towns on my way, BAM, KERMAN,YAZD, etc.They are the towns those I had been longing to see them for a long time.Very good! Let's go!" I uttered the sentence, simply followed the route with my forefinger then made up my mind. I beleive that I could not manage to end up the long journey back home if I did not take it easy.

I no longer felt quite relieved from an agonizing hesitation. As a result I could easily start making arrangments of the cycling before departure.

I was short of food stuff, and I also needed to get my loose panniers well fixed for the extented journey. In search of an ideal food formula full of energy, I consulted with a traditional herbalist in the covered bazaar of Birjand. He prescribed me a complex recipe made up of some various kinds of exotic ingredients. It was not worth the price nor the attemt to get the prescription filled. I gave it up and shopped somethings else including some grains.

My second basic attempt was to get my panniers well fixed. They did not firmly settle on the carriers.Thus I never felt easy with them at all. I started working out a proper design. Once a good and simple design occured to me, I initially tried to execute it on a modle. Simply by a piece of copper wire that I bended the modle in a........ ....shape, I also made three hooks on top and one in the bottom like this .........

Each actual structure was placed inside pannier. To get the hooks through the panniers, I made three tiny holes on each. As I made the design quite clear for myself, I hastened to look for a blacksmith who could undertake execution of the design. I was walking around to find some blacksmith for the purpose. In the garage of a blacksmith, his neighbour came in and volunteered to do it. At first he supposed that I meant only one but after making the first, I asked him for the other three. He found himself in such an emergency case that he accepted my request. It took him several hours hard work of welding the wire structures to get them well-fitted with each carrier. In the end the modified panniers fortunately clung stable on the carriers as desirably as I had meant.

With regard to my little fund, it was very kind of him to charge me nothing for his delecate work. To return his favour, I offered him the postcard that I had bought from Luxembourg. I never forget his generous help. KHEILII MOTASHAKERAM !

The supplementary phase of the project was to get all edges around the panniers punched. It was in order to get the panniers tightly strapped to the structures. On the whole, it took me two busy days to finish the work. Nevertheless I immensly enjoyed my stay in Birjand. People was a great help indeed.

When I got through with the works, I got prepared for another departure. In the first day I cycled about 110 km, maybe long enough to catch the couple up. Everybody who saw me he used to say that he has seen the couple there just the day before. It meant that they were only one day ahead. Like a forfront shadow I failed to reach them. The wind luckily agreed with me that day.

During a stop by the road, a Turnip farmer offered me a couple of big turnips. At first I unwillingly accepted them but I did not turn down the rest as soon as I ate one. Unlike what I had seen before, they were actually not only big, but also sweet.

SAHL ABAD

I finally set out in the second day of my preparation in. Birjand. It was twilight. I pulled my bike off the road and took a rest just by a pool that contained lots of small hungry fishes. There were some women those were filling their jugs with water. An old woman advised me to stay in the village that night. She said; " It is getting too late to go on cycling." But the flickering lights in distance was indicating that there must be another village near by.

I saddled and moved on. It was too late to do anything. No longer I was trapped in the darkness of the road. I already made an dreadful mistake. I was struggling with the utmost effort to reach the unaccessible mirage. My heart sank when I realised that the flickering lights simply belonged to the coming vehicles. I badly felt frustrated. I had to move on but how far? I was still cycling ahead. Beam of a motorbike in the bush off the road gave me some hope though it could be the red light of danger too. The beam of the light quickly turned to me as I loudly whisled to call them for inquiry. It neared. They were two men dressed lik BALOOCHIs. I spoke broken Persian to pretend that I was a "MISTER."

In reply to my enquiry about the distance to the next village, they said: " It is about 20 km far from here." They roared away on the dark road. Soon after I heared a car that was coming slowly. "It can be a help." I cherished the hope. At the meantime, I heared the motorbike again. It was probably about to return when the car came along. Thanks God, their second meeting could be harmful. I was lucky, the car was patrolling Land Cruiser of Disciplinary forces. The car stopped. One officer and two soldiers were on board. I asked them about distance to the next village.

" Only about 20 km, you can stay in the check post of the military forces." the officer replied.

"That's all right." I said." þ

“ Hey, you stupid, you can't see one meter ahead of you, so how will you cycle 20 km safely on the road that's absolutly dark? I suddenly woke up.

I hit a nasty trouble. As a matter of fact, I turned to blind as soon as a beam of light directly hit my eyes in distance. Consequently I had to stop cycling till the vehicles came and went to hell.

Catch this car before missing your last chance! " As if somebody gave me a fillip to get a move on.

I immediately raised my hand before they left me alone there. It was severly cold that night. They helped me with lifting my bike in the back of the pick-up. There was only a standing tripod of a heavy machine gun in the back. The rear wheel of the bike was dangerously perching on the back edge of the vehicle. There was too little room to place whole the heavy bike in the back. I was strongly graspping the tripod by my right hand and with difficulty I was keeping the unstable balance of the bike by the other hand.

Despite my request, the officer carelessly drove faster than he first promised. While driving, I singlehandedly could unstrap the elastic rope that was looping around the mattress on the front carrier. Then I entangled the hook that was in its end, around the bike's front body. It was a tricky situtaion. To some extent, I made sure the bike would not skip out of the Land Cruiser.

I could not do anything to warm my freezing ears.I gave them up. I had to handle the situtaion somehow. The Land Cruiser finally stopped. They helped me with unloading the bicycle then pointed at the glimmering lights of the next village of Sahl Abad.

" Now you have to bike only about 5 km. " They said.

They were going to patrol across the villages near by. I thanked them for the lift they gave me.

Again I found myself alone on the dark road.

Like eyes of a pack of wolves, the sinister lights of the vehicles were still glittering. I could hardly see one meter ahead.

I was helpless.

Again the blinding lights. The blure white line in the middle of the road was the only thing that I could hardly saw. I was keeping the track and used to stop as soon as a nasty light loomed in the distance. Very carefully I had to ride on the bumpy road. Once I desperately lit my lantern but it was blown out soon after. I did not have a head light either. Any mind distraction could cause a terrible accident. I was deprived of moon light that night. I was cursed.

A nasty crash! Just all of a sudden, the only thing that I felt in the moment, was simply a headlong crash in the dark. With the utmost strength I clenched my fists. I clinched both of the brake handles. Thanks to the Almighty, the special brake shoes gripped just on the spot. The unbriddled gear miracelously halted in the middle of the slope. I never noticed the moment when I diverted from the road. As I came round, I began looking for the main road

Oh my Lord, where is the road? I was terribly confused. First to the left I looked for the road. If I have crashed in the right side of the road, so it must be on my left side. For a few moments I felt extremely helpless indeed. I found the road only when I turned my head to my back. Thanks God, the road was there just behind me. No longer I was very happy though the road was still nasty for me.

Anyway I was quite safe. ALHAMDO LELAH. I hauled the bike out of the ditch then checked everything. What a great loss ! The turnips were missing. I was too tired to look for them anymore.

I stopped in front of the check post. Being exhausted to death, I was really unable to answere questions of the sentry at the door. So, I asked him to call his officer at once. Unlike the others, the officer looked more understanding. I asked him if I could camp inside the post. For a moment he thought then he let me sleep inside the barracks. I immediately cooked a fast dinner then crept into my sleeping bag. I was sleeping among the other soldiers. A few times at the midnight I sprang out of my sleeping bag. An officer shouted at the soldiers to wake them up. They were supposed to go to their posts. In the morning I found out how freezingly it was cold the night before. God spared me, outside the barracks, my bottle has been frozen to stone. Unlike the night temperature, it was not much cold during the daytime.

From the village of MADE KARIZ, the landscape abruptly shifted from steppe to vast arid lands.

I had not given up the profitable daily hobby of picking the coins I found all along the road. Till Birjand, I was with the Czech couple and the probability of finding a coin was one-third for me. But next to the town I was alone and had a monopoly for collecting the coins.

Either of Jana or Pavel who happened to find a coin, he or she yelled " hoooooraaaaaaa ".

For example even coins of Rials 100 was important to them because they said that they could buy a bread. At first I did not take their cheerings serious but later on I entitled them. No longer,any kind of coin was really valuable to me too. I greedily used to collect every coin that I saw on the way. Unwittingly I have got used to brake for every kind of coin.

Once I noticed a Rials 100 coin that was awfully pressed into the asphalt by half. Paying no heed to the steep road, I stopped then began kicking the coin by my army boot. My purse was well filled with the collected coins. In Zahidan, collection of the coins worth about Rials 4500.

The enigma of the coins was disclosed in Zahidan. I got to know that all of them in fact were Alms. Baloochi and Zaboli passengers are used to kiss their alms then throw them by the right hand in order to detter any manace of the roads. To this account, I no longer was almsman of the road. Who deserved the alms more than me at the circumstances? Next to Zahidan, I never found a single coin at all !

Next to the village of SEFIDABEH, the couple were supposed to shift toward the town of ZABOL.They wanted to pay a visit to KOOHE KHAJEH mountain. I was at the brink of the longest part of the route across the desert of Kavir-e-Lut. Nearly about 100 km was the distance where I was going to cross non-stop. There was no residential area on the way. The small village of Nehbandan was the start point of the distance.

DESERTS, LANDS OF INSPIRATION

Dr.Alfons Gabriel and Mrs Agnes Gabriel Komer. were the Austrian adventurous couple who traveled across the two deserts of DASHT-E-KAVIR and KAVIR-E-LUT on camelback. They made their first journey on 1928 and the second on 1935. The following is an extract from his DRUCH PERSIENS WUSTEN:

" Deserts possess peculiar attraction of their own and these soulless areas where redicule humanitarian criterions , have tremendous ipact on our thoughts and observations. The world that we are to seek for it. is like a solitary and motionless star those are rid of the ephemeral matters of any kind, beyond death and life. For those who are stranger to deserts, they make no sense but fear and worry to them. On the contrary, for those who are acquainted with their beauties and fears, they place an unsoothable passion in return in their hearts. "

Desert is so imposing that no body can get away without an impression. I took advantage of my solitude in the deserts, and went to think of metaphysical subjects like God, Human, the universe etc. I got impressed deep from inside when I though who I was, what was the reason for the creation of the world, world of Being. Compared with the endless world around me, I was Nothing at all. The enormous yolk colored sun sets for the sake of human and rises for his sake too ? In the case I will not be Nothing. I had come to terms not only with nature but also with anything else in the world. I was emancipated from the materialistic world. I was free from the worries and the noisy world of my life. No longer I had a very nice feeling. I used to repeat

the mystic poems of the great man, MOWLANA JALALEDIN ROOMI :

Ney Nagooyam Zanke To Khamii Hanooz

Never I will tell you ( the secret of, the world ) because you are still unrippen. "

Dar Bahario Nadidasti Tamooz

You still are in( the nice )spring, and not have seen ( the hot )

summer yet."

In Jahan Hamchon Derakhtast Ey Keram

Oh my dear, The world is like a tree.

Ma Baroo Chon Mivehii Nimkham

We are its half-ripened fruits.

Sakht Girad Khamha Mar Shakh Ra The unripen fruits tightly attach the branches.

Zanke Dar Khamii Nashayad Kakh Ra

The unripen don't deserve palace.

Chon Bepokhto Gasht Shirin Lab Gazan

By ripening it becomes sweet.

Sost Girad Shakh-hara Ba'adazan

Then it loosened its grip on the branches.

Sakht Girio Ta'asob Khamii Ast

Fanaticisim is Immaturity.

Ta Janini Karat Khoon Ashami Ast.

Bloodthirst is Embryo's job.

Pashe Key Danad Ke In Bagh Az Kiast ?!

How mosquito knows since when the garden exists?

Dar Baharan Zado Margash Dar Deyast

When does it die and when does it revive?

```````````````````````````````````````

Kerm Kandar Choob Zayedast Hal

The worm that is born now,

`````````````````````````````````````````

Key Bemanad Choob Ra Vaghte Nahal?!

How will it remain in the tree's seaso

The more I repeated them, the more I got the divine impression of the poems. I could not help weeping . Then again I read them loudly over and over.

The climate was fine all during the journey particularly at the desert terrains. Deserts turn to gruesome hell in summer. Above all I had long been pondering to come to terms with deserts. I needed to get myself immersed into the peculiar silence and serenity of deserts. Actually it was my ambition to get myself concesiouly involved in the real adventure of solo-cycling at the deserts.

At first sight desert might look tough, boring or spooky but it can offers you an ever-lasting pleasant impression. A good patience is essential to the solitary adventuring especially at the uninhabited areas. þSometimes I came to the think of cutting short the journey and got back to the bed of roses. But before any attempt, I used to remember " No pain, No Gain." The more I cycled, the more I enjoyed cycling alone. I was gradually getting the secret of an appealing cycltouring even at such barren lands of Nothinglessness. Many people got puzzled by my journey especially when I used to tell them that it was self-financed only with the little sum of US$ 10. People often used to call me " Bloody fool ".Some others sympathetically tried to frighten me by relating some stories about the armed drug traffickers those still were lurking at large. Many scorned that kind of travelling as a Mere self-torturing.

NO MAN ZONE

Honestly speaking, at the beginning I was apprehensive about the overwhelming loneliness that prevailed thoughout the limitless NO MAN ZONE . How pacifying the sporadic herds of the camels were. They were calmly grazing alongside the road. Sometimes it happened that the rolling sound of my bike scared them away. Once I suddenly noticed a herd of them those were gracefully walking across the main road. One of the giants carelessly stopped just in the middle of the road. He began gazing at me as an extraterrestrial creature. At one point, I was actually frightened by the Dinosour of the desert looming ahead. we stood face to face, staring at each other sheepishly. The camel looked unhappy with intruding his serene realm. Perhaps it was because of my shabby appearace that finally scared the poor creature away.

Owing to the far-distant residential quarters of the desert area, I had to take a shelter in the white cylindrical check towers or as Iranians so- call ' BORJAK-e-DIDEBANII'. The towers have been planted at every 15_20 km intervals. They stretch all alongside the main road from the small town of Nehbandan till Zahidan then westward to FAHRAJ of BAM the very route that I took it on the way back home. Most often I was put up for the night by the gloomy residents of the towers. I used to entrertain the soldiers by playing with my tambourin.

Now I am reasonably convinced that the border area is not a serious menace to foreign tourists including cyclists. Most likely Iranian border forces are generous help . The border security forces were seemingly obliged to safety passage of my fellow-cyclists throughout they so-called Sensetive border zone.

I earnestly beleive that the out-lawed armed drug traffickers tend to turn a blind eye to foreigners those travel at the area. Though very occassionlly sheltering in one of the towers could be Out of the frying pan....., I felt safer there anyway.

The likelihood of being harmed by the armed traffickers was not worse than the killing toothache that kept torturing me for several days. No longer medicines was of slight effect. For an instant pain killing, locals recommended me to smoke opium. Cauterizing was the other usual way of pain killing among the locals. As a proof, they sometimes opened their mouth wide and proudly exhibited collection of their yellowish cauterized teeth.

One of the things that I terribly needed, was a transistor radio to learn the latest news by my favourite B.B.C World Service. It was very useful and portable thing to fresh up my English as well. I wanted to make the best use of my time even while cycling. I enjoyed listening music while riding though it could be dangerous on heavy traffic. Fortunately my bike was equipped with a mirror. It was very necessary to have a better control around.

ZAHIDAN

It was the fifth day of cycling from Birjand when I hit Zahidan. It was getting dark when I arrived into the town. Always arriving into a strange town at night was confusing. While pulling into Zahidan, some vendors welcomed me by stonning my bike. I was carefully riding in the dark. The second accident happened when the bike was derailed. I hardly twisted the handle bar to get it back to the track again. The bike skidded on the sharp edge of the road's shoulder.

I was lucky that no vehicle was following me at the moment. I immediately grabbed the stewpan that was rolling away on the road. I fell on the ground and got a couple of torn spots on my jacket The streets were nastily quiet . It was late night and I was still looking for sport office of the town. There was a rudy crowd of teenagers at the office gate. Some of them were threateningly holding sheath kinves and some others with machetes. The situation was tricky. The more they got closer, the more agressive they looked. Suddenly one of them chopped my sign flag when I attempted to get away. By a shower of empty tins and rabbish they saw me off. I finally found the town's stadium. The first impression was not pleasant.

The tooth was still giving me hell.

The first priority was to see a dentist. Some people advised me to smoke opium. Once for ever I tried the remedy. I could not help puffing its disgusting smoke out of my mouth. The night was a horrific torture.

It took a couple of days to get better. To have a free medication, I got a letter of recommendation from the sport office. In order to take an urgent appointment from the dental clinic of the town, I disguised myself as a foreign cyclist. I was really craving for a sound sleep.

All the time I was thinking of Pavel and Jana. They should have returned from ZABOL. I wish I would join them once again before they would leave to Pakistan. Somebody told me about a cyclist couple those were staying in a hotel?! Could they be Pavel and Jana ? But to best of my knowledg they never used to stay in a hotel.Their cozy hotel was always their small tent. As far as I knew they never used to spend their dear fund for accommodation or expensive food. They were godess of economy. Nevertheless they were strong enough to climb a steep rock as they did so at the castles of the Assassines. Their regular fast food was simply sunflower oil, onion, salt and bread. The only thing that they used to pay for, was bread and sometimes carrot jam. These were the important lessons that I learned and applied them in the rest of my cycling about 2000 km back home. How to spare my little fund, was one of the significant Secrets of my cheap journey.

At last I was convinced that they were not Pavel and Jana. My residance was the town's stadium. I stayed with the doorkeeper of the stadium who was an old Baloochi man. At the night, two Iranian mountaineers joined us.

In the morning I asked them to direct the Czech couple to my residance if they happened to come across with them on street. In the evening I was coming back from the clinic when two small boys waved their fingers in V-shape. They were trying to get across something. Soon after I found out when I reached the stadium.

It's incredible. Oh, my God, my dear Pavel and Jana are overthere !?

I got so extremely happy that word could not express it. We reunited after 10 days having parted in Birjand. We warmly hugged eachother. I triumphantly explained to them how I modified my panniers and how I crossed the desert to Zahidan. They asked me if I ever saw the arrow that they had drawn on the asphalt to show me where they had turned to Zabol. They pitied when I said " No".

What a bliss! I had lots of interesting things to recount them. We called at the Pakistani consulate to find out if they could cross another southern border point into Pakistan. They meant to take a short-cut to Karachi. They had to take the single route of crossing through Quetta. I served them with hot tea. Three of us were extremely happy indeed. It was the time to find somewhere for camping. We had a short rest in park. We sat in a roundabout and began spining so fast that I asked Pavel stop spining. I was getting dizzy. We were enjoying the last hours of being together. God knows when and where we would be able to see eachother again. The yellow Tasbih or rosary was the thing that Pavel offered me as a keepsake. In turn, I offered Jana the Afgan coin of ZAHER SHAH that I had found on the way to Zahidan.

We went about 3 km out of the town. We were riding on the road leading to the Irano-Pakistani border of Mirjaveh. Two deserted four-walled was seen off the road. It was the last night we were together. In the night, Jana told me about their hosting Zahidani man. She blamed the people. "our hosting man kissed me while waking me up in the morning. We had a quarrel with him. Somebody else on street in Zahidan groped me. Do they take it for granted any foreign female (cyclist) is fille de joie ?! " She wondered why Iranian men thought so.

To be honest, I had no answere. Unfortunately it is true especially at low-cultured parts of Iran like Zahidan. For better explanation I'd like to quote an excerpt from the Lonely Planet :

" Many Iranian men are sexually repressed, and many of them do have distorted ideas about Western women, but it is very wrong to think that every male will be after your body. If you keep strictly to the dress and social codes, you will go a long way toward earning the respect of local people and likely to suffer any serious harrasment. If you consistently break the sacred taboos many people will consider that, by showing your scorn for their traditions, you have lost any right to their respect and fair game for any sort of attention. Traveling around Iran is more difficult for a woman than a man in many ways, and you will certainly have to make more of an effort in social and local people and officials in eastern Iran, in conservative, undeveloped places like Zahidan and Zabol. If you are coming from Pakistan, these maybe your first impressions of Iran, and lit will be shame of you are put off spending more time in the country as a result. The rest of Iran is a different place altogether. Islam and in particular the Iranian interpretation of Islam , does not impose a number of strict constraints on women, and I would not advise any foreign woman to visit Iran unless she is prepared to fit in with the social code. You may not agree with all or any of it , but if you are not preperad dto observe the rules, you are going to have an extremely unpleasant time. Iran simply is not the country to make a Feminist statement. "

THE LAST FAREWELL

Parting company was always the sad moments of the journey.

We had already parted three times: once in Ashgabad , the second in Qoochan , the third in Birjand and the final was no longer culminating to a sorrowful climax. It was very hard for all of us to say good bye after having been together for 28 days. Very sadly I hugged Pavel then Jana. She was nearly wept.

" Poosa,Poosa, kiss me I mean ! " she whispered. I felt she was weeping.

It was her last request while parting from her embrace for good. Actually I could not help turning my head for another look at them. As usual the farewell moment was LAMENT. We all saddled. Once again I stopped to catch the last glimps of them before they vanished in distant. They were heavily heading for Pakistan and I was returning to the boring Zahidan.

Their company was a training course that I gained self- confidance. No longer I could afford the rest of the way by my own. I had discovered the secret of getting by the remaining Rials 15,000 (about US$ 3 according to that time's rate. ) Undoubtedly I will be able to wind up 2000 km cycling the rest of the route with the little sum of money. I was pretty sure. I do owe such a capability to Pavel and Jana's company. Thanks to them.

Staying in the town had become very boring indeed. I had an appointment with my dentist for the next 5 days. I left Zahidan on Dec 13th, 1996. I had intended to get back to see my dentist. I planned to cycle during the 5 days then leave my bike somewhere safe then get back on the schedual.

The second part of my journey was going to begin. I had cycled nearly 800 km to reach Zahidan and needed about 2300 km to ride back home. I phoned Shafie to get him to send the things I needed for the rest of my journey including a walkman and tambourin. Listening to Western music had a great relish at the beginning of the 2300 km back home. I got energy from music and was cheering and dancing on my bike. Drivers those who saw me dancing,, they also got so excited that they blew a big horn or blink their head lights. 'BAM 230 km ' was what the signpost read to cross the (southern edge of) Kavir-e-Lut.

Soon after stopping in the roadside parking area, a pick-up truck drove to me. I was drinking cold tea.

" Salam Mister, In Chie ? Chi Mikhori ? Whisky, Whisky? Are, Are"

"Hello,Mister,What's this ? What are you drinking ? Whisky, Whisky ?Yes,Yes ? " One of them kept asking me. I pointed at the bottle and said : " Whisky, Whisky ! " I aroused their appetite.They implored me to let them sip just a little.

" No, " " Whisky but Risky ! " I laughed kiding them.They were thirsty for whisky.They nearly snatched it. I began fooling them. I was listening the Modern Talking by my walkman. I danced a little then took the cassette out of the walkman and put it into the car's recorder. I turned up the volume and began knocking on the rooftop of the car. I was strongly knocking on the rooftop with my open hands. " Hey, Mister Stop damaging it for God's sake! Stop ! " I caught his hand and began dancing with him.He got excited by dancing with a foreign cyclist " No, Chaii ! " I told them the truth that I was drinking tea.We danced together then I pointed to the sunset meaning it was getting late and I had to set off.

As usual, I was warmly welcomed by the BORJAKs all along the main road. I used the towers to take a shelter at nights. After 50 km on the way to BAM, I had a stop in Borjak next to TALLE-SIAH. Though it was forbidden to the soldiers, they sometimes let me to make a small fire for cooking my dinner. Their food was not so healthy so I had to avoid eating it as far as it was possible for me. The officer of the tower told me that he has seen a pair of foreign cyclist on the way from BAM in the day. We had an enjoyable night with the soldiers. I played tambourin to strengthen their moral as they alway enjoyed it. In addition to my tambourine, the Baloochi officer got sheer joy by smoking some opium with an amazing appetite.

In the morning I was expecting them. All the time I was looking at the horizen. The signpost back to Zahidan read: ' Zahidan 75 km '. I pulled the bike over as I saw the nice sight of some rocks just by the road. It was very interesting to see such a stony rock at the flat desert. It was worth taking a couple of slides. While getting the right position for photoing, I noticed the pair those were sailing down the slope. They came and flanked my bike.

" Don't move please, I am going to take your picture ". I yelled.

" Where do you come from? " They asked me surprisingly afterward. They looked bewildered. Perhaps they did not expect to meet a care-free Iranian cyclist there.They looked very excited for the accidental meeting.

Because of my accent, they said that they had taken me for an American.

I have cycled past 75 km from Zahidan and they urged me if I would cycle back with them to Zahidan.

" You know the town and the locals. " the German couple reasoned.

RETURN TO ZAHIDAN

Soon I gave in and they became happy. One of the reasons that I agreed to accompany them, was the appointment I had with my dentist. I had already intended to cycle till the day of my appointment then leave my bike somewhere ( maybe at a military post ) and hitch hike back to Zahedan on the schedual. Leaving my bike anywhere else but by me, was not a good idea.

Bernard, electronic engineer and his spouse, Sandra computer engineer. Their neat appearance indicated that they were less adventurous than the Czech couple. Comparing with Pavel and Jana, the German couple seemed more fussy of appearance and the comfort in their journey on the whole. For instance, they served me with good cheese. Sandra was thoroughly dressed according to Iranian Islamic dressing code or HIJAB. She was wearing a long overall or as Iranians call MANTO.The more traditional kind of Islamic dress for women is CHADOR. She seemed uneasy in the MANTO. Though female foreign cyclist is less included in the tough and compulsory Islamic rules of HIJAB especialy on the move.

Anyway I was happy to have met another foreign couple. The second puncture was fixed by Bernard. It was shame I myself could not mend the tyre flat yet. It was the time to find somewhere for camping. We took a track off the road. There was a farm house. It looked deseted. But we found out there was an aged Baloochi farm keeper. The old Baloochii was living in the desolate farm houses alone. He did not have even a watch dog. He looked very relaxed and suspicious to us. Eveywhere was sand. Like a ghost, he was mutely chasing us everywhere we were looking for a campsite among the short and well-adapted trees of desert namely Salt tree or'TAMARSIK'. At first he did not look helpful but he ended up showing us a doorless barn for the over night camping. There were billions of stars in the clear sky. Sandra cooked some Noodle, I think. It was a typical wild life.

My tent became source of laughing and amusement that night. The couple already crept in their tent to sleep while I was still trying to set up my tent. I made a lot of effort to hammer the pegs of the tent. I needed a soft place to hammer them. Unluckily, both of the floor and the walls were made of cement. None of them was penetrable. Once I tried to tie the straps of the tent around my bike but that was not a good idea as well. The bike heavily fell on the tent. My works sounded ridiculous and made them laugh at me. At last I crept into the tent and used it like a double-layer sleeping bag. At the mid-night I could well sense the rats those were cruising on my stomach.

In the morning, we made our way to Zahidan. The couple had told me that if we found a cheap hotel, they would treat me. I never had any difficulty with accommodaion. Being a permanent member of Cycltourist Committee of the Iranian Cycling Federation, I was always provided with free accommodation at athletic hostles of the town.

Zahidan is one of the featureless towns where foreign travellers try to cross it non-stop. They usually become a panaroia as they arrive into the town. I had the same feeling there myself. So did the German couple, I suppose. Once a boy was about to touch Bernard on a street, he jerked his hand. He looked as if panicked. I tried not to do anything that made them inconvenient. We took two rooms in a hotel. I invited them to the dinner that I cooked.

In the evening, we went to the town Rail Way Station to buy their tickets to Quetta of Pakistan. They wanted to take the train from Zahidan to Quetta in order to spare both the bumpy road and the un-Hygienic Pakistani border areas. On the safe side, they were also going to take anti-Malaria tablet. They had also a handy water filter. I and Sandra were sitting in the ticket sale's room of the Rail Way station. The saleman simply needed their passports simply to write their names,etc. She jerked her hand away when he extended his hand to get their passports. She persistently refused to give him the passports. She held them in her own hand and just let him look at them. She said to me that they were affraid of getting their passports robbed because they did not trust any body.

In the morning, we packed our things and went to the Rail Way Station. We were a couple of hours early so we took a seat at the Station or its Iranian equivalent 'Istgahe Rah Ahan '. We had enough time to talk about the matters we were interested in, for instance: the distinctions between the Iranian culture and the European culture. Sandra unexpectedly said to me : " Last night we commented about you! At the beginning, when we met you on the road, we became so glad."Later on, we thought that you were an Iranian anyhow. " She went on.

" But in the end, we concluded that you were different from the other Iranians."

" Unlike the others, you behaved us courteously . " She said. She beleived that Iranians tend to impose themselves to the couple. In turn, I told them about the attitude of the European who we met in our first trip to Europe on 1996. How strange we felt ourselves there. It was the first banquet we had ever been invited by a European family in Paris. We had to be so careful not to offend anybody there. We really felt uneasy among sophisticated Parisian host and the other guests. That night we did not savour the four-course French cuisine. Honestly speaking, we were awkward in using table-ware. While wrongly raising his table knife, the lady guest who was sitting opposite Shafie could not help waving her forefinger to warn him. We terribly felt ashamed. I never forget her scornful look. I told Bernard and Sandra: " Whenever I recall the banquet I feel an essential need to understanding each other's Likes and Dislikes.

The old train was bound for the border crossing point of Mirjaveh where they were supposed to change their train to Quetta. To see them off, I cycled along the train to the end of the platform. I waved for the last time. Auf Wiedersehen !

I missed my new friends but I beleived that my journey was worth the effort at least for one thing, making good friends like the German and the French couples.

Being too bored to stay in Zahidan any longer, I canceled my next appointment with my dentist and left Zahidan in the same day. My tooth was not paining.

PART SIX

wwwwwwwww

( THE SECOND LEG OF THE JOURNEY )

LEAVING AGAIN.......

I was very happy to be leaving Zahidan. I had wound up the first leg of the journey and was destined for the west, north, and northeastern parts of the country. I was going to cross the second desert portion of the route 250 km through the southern tail of the Kavir - e - Lut.

It was the nasty part of the way where Alexander could hardly survive from his serious Hepatit C. He and his fellow-cyclist, Silva were the two French who biked around the world in the year, August 1994. PEUGOT Cycle representing office in Tehran, was the place where I met them by chance. Having terribly weakened, Alexander had been hospitalised in the town of BAM then in Tehran.The people of BAM was of great help. He has been relatively recovered from the disease after one month period of convelesence. Despite recommendation of the French Embassy's physician to fly back to France, they were determined to end up the journey by bike. Just the day before, I decided to accompany them them to the Irano-Armenian border point of MEGHRI. It was the first time I ever cycled with foreign cyclists..

It was the ideal season for cycling at the desert area. Summer is the worst time of the year for such adventuring through the hell.

I was slowly riding to the military check point of Talle Siah when a white Land Rover overtook me. Its sign plate indicated that the residents of the car, should be foreign tourists. " What a pity ! I missed it . " I said to myself. I immensely did appreciate meeting a foreign tourist there indeed.

I hurried to catch the car up before it left there. A young couple was on board. They were talking to one another. I stopped a stone's throw of the car. " Hello," I took them by surprise.

They couple were on their way back from China. The more we talked, the more we arouse the sinister curiosity of the security forces standing in front of the check post. The forces usually tend to meddle in such cases especially at border areas. They initially took me for a ' KHAREJI ' or an outsider. "Look out, they don't exchange anything!" One of the security officers shouted at the soldier.

They could not help interrupting our conversation for three times.They literally meant to deter any exchang of secret information. They always obssessed with the idea that foreign KHAREJIs come here for spying. When I showed my passport, they wanted us to leave there and talk somewhere else. The commander of the forces admired my English and said :

" What a good spy you can be ( for us) abroad ! " God forbidden !

Somewhere further ahead, we stopped for talking. I enjoyed KARINE and LAURENT's company eventhough for a short while. They were in a hurry to get to BAM before the night fall.

Bon Voyage! Au Revoir !

They drove away and I was alone once again in the gloomy evening.

Unlike the first time, I was not a welcome guest in the very Borjak that I slept 3 nights before. There was only one soldier on top of the Borjak. " He is the soldier who implored me last time to exchange his radio with my walkman. He got furious when I ignored his request." I remembered.To take his revenge, he did not let me in. From top of the tower, he pointed to a deserted mosque off the road. It was the only four-walled place to camp that night.

It was getting dark and I had to walk to the mosque. It was not far from the road. I knew that I was still at the border zone and in fact whithin the domain of the armed drug traffickers. It was the first night that I was going to camp alone. Honestly, I prefered to stay there in the tower but I had to be alone. " I should go and stay at the mosque tonight. Come what may!" As if somebody stimulated me. I was determined to make sure if I could dare taking courage of sleeping alone at such an area. Though I had not encountered any serious danger of the region, the fear of murdur or robbery by the armed bandits avoids at least the Iranian to take the risk. " If you claim to be an adventurer, why fearing? " I asked myself

Illigal trafficking of Afgan infilterators is the other profitable job that is flourishing at the area. This matter along with the intricate matter of drug trafficing, are the two problems that the government campaigns against them. I witnessed some small groups of the illegal Afgan infiltrators those had been detained in the military check stops of the border area. They looked miserable. Some of the poor people go to absurd lenght of trekking days and nights to cross the border into Iran. Sometimes they are caught before getting out of reach of the Iranian border forces.

At last I took the courage and camped inside the mosque. There were only walls and a ceiling remained from the mosque. " Nowhere better than this altar to set up the tent. " I distinguished. The floor was littered with sheep dung. The mosque lacked any door and window to keep it warm and deters the wind. I swep the altar for putting the tent. Soon after I made a fire by the wood that I had picked from the roadside. I finished my supper then slipped into the tent. A cold wind was howling outside. Though thick wrapped in all the clothing I stocked in the panniers, I was still being tormented by the gust. The worse came when I actually heared weired shrieks. I had never heared such voice beforehand. No idea I had about them.

The same illusion of ghosts of the Assassines came to me. Heaven forbidden! the mosque has been haunted ?! I pomped out of the tent to find out. The guffaw-like yelpings used to pause instantly I stepped out of the mosque. The ghosts were fooling me?! I wondered how I finally could sleep that night. Somewhere else, I also heared the same shrieks. The shrieks were really intellegent because as soon as I stepped out of the mosque, they paused. Then they resumed as I returned into the mosque. At lenght, to restore my moral, I took my tambourine and began playing with it as strongly as I could. For a while I went on playing with it. I sensibly heartened in the end.

The shrieks remained something of an enigma to me till one of the recent trekkings when I found out. They were in fact the yelpings of jackals. Jackals perform their jelping in chorous and have a very keen sense of hearing and smelling.

The sunrise was in fact a revival for me especially after the uneasy Night of the JACKALs. I really managed to keep my decision and I dared to sleep in solitary. I was Triumphantly leaving the campsite. No longer I had gained a dear self-confidance. I assured myself the night that I would never fear any longer if I survived the nerve-racking night.

NOSRAT ABAD

It was the village where I met a very hospitable Baloochi. The Baloochi village of Nosrat Abad lies 110 km west of Zahedan. It is located in the Kavir-e-Lut. It enjoys a long history. Dr.Alfons Gabriel's expedition were warmly welcomed in the village on his travel across the two deserts on 1935. The hero of my story is Mr.Narooyii, the Baloochi man whose civilized behaviour awfully impressed me. It consequently changed my point of opinion about Baloochi people. His shop in the village was the first place where I took a rest on my arrival into the village. I bought some potatos and onions.

Some of the locals told me about the ruins of a castle at the outskirt of the village. A few boys accompanied me. We walked through an abandoned village. I was told that in a course of ( anti-norcotic ) drugs campaign of the government in 1990s, all inhabitants of the village had been forced to leave there. None of the evacuees can return to their home again.

Despite all the campaigns, drug trafficking still is the nomber one money-making job of the locals. It is said that the locals have no option but to take the job because practicaly there is no agriculture on the barren lands. The teenagers told me : " You can pay only about Rials 600,000. for one kilogram of opium here. You can give your order even to a young boy. He can easily provide you with the order. "According to Dr.A.Gabriel's remarks, Nosrat Abad enjoyed prosperous age when he was warmly hosted by the hospitable head man of the village on 1990s.

On the way back to the village, my eyes lit by joy when I saw an enormous pile of dusty dates those were spread on sacks. They were hard as stone. I asked the companions if I could have some. They said that I could as much as I wanted.

" Only our sheeps eat these. " They said . " So do I, but not like your sheeps. " I said.

I greedily began collecting them. I filled a rubber bag of aboudt 3 kg. When I put it in the panniers, I realised that I could hardly move my bike. Anyway I thought that it was well worth the effort. Right then, I had a good idea how to use the stone dates; each time I used to wash about 10 of them then keep them in the rubber bottle nearly half containing water. Half a day riding on the bumpy road, was enough for the dates to be well shaken and extracted to its delicious nutrient syrup. It had a natural and unique savour that I had never tasted before. The pannier contained some of the dates even the day when I arrived back home.

We got back to Mr.Narooyii's shop. It was getting too late to set out again.

One man and a soldier of the Disciplinary forces was coming up to me. I was whiling away in front of the shop. The man seemed to be an officer. It was quite usual to be questioned by the forces particularly at the border area. He asked me some convential questions including about my academic degree.

" I'm not much educated. " I replied. I meant that I did not hold any note-worthy degree. He took easily offended. He said: " In that case I,who has studied only 6 grades of primary school,am illiterate, you mean. " You, soldier, take him away to the military station or ' PASGAH'. I'll be there soon." He barked . I got terribly perplexed.

" He is my guest. You'r taking my guest away from my residance and It is not good. My host implored HIM to let me back. The officer assured him to release me soon. He shortly joined us at the military post. He began snooping around my bike looking for something illegal. " Your panniers are military sacks. Their use by civilians are forbidden. " I said that I had bought them from a bazaar in Tehran. " Have you paid something to your host for accommodation or food?! " The stupid asked me in low voice.

I got awfully offended at the question.

" Is it usual among Iranians to charge their guests for their hospitality? " I rebuked him.

There was another more educated officer who related me the irony of a soldier who obtained his Exemption card ( military service ) by pretending to be a psychopath. To get the card, he used to pretend to be looking for something in the rabbish buckets of his garrison. He was finally recognised as a psychopath. While receiving his card, the soldier said:

" Ah, here it is in your hand while I had long been searching for it in the rabbish tin. " The officer said grinningly.

I did not understand what he exactly meant. But I was sure that he meant the hint for me.

Encountering any casual four-walled at the endless and empty land was a great blessing. The road had two fearful and very marked features. They were abundantly looming along the road; cartridge-shell of heavy machine gun and pen-size paper tubes for smoking opium, the ominous sign of instant death and the other the gradual death.

" KAHOORAK" the next stop on the map where I stayed for the stary night. As usual I was welcomed in the Borjak with two big full water tanks in the front. They usually contain clean water for drinking. The soldiers of the Borjak had fried hen for dinner. I wish I would never accepted their offer because I got a terrible stomach ache the day after. From then on I decided not to eat the food that was offered in the Borjaks. About 50 km I had to ride through the no-man-zone to reach the next military check post of SHOORE GAZ. " MILE-NADERI " ( 1100 A.D.) is an ancient brick tower standing by the road. In B.C. 325, KERATEROS, one of the commandors of Alexander The Great launched his army from GHANDEHAR via Dasht-e-Lut ( ZABOLESTAN ) on-route DJIROFT or ROODBAR to negociate with king of the region. He made way with the rest of his army and his elephants.

SHOOREH GAZ

Shooreh Gaz is notorious for its unbearable summer. I had a respite for drinking tea and a quick lunch that I cooked under the shadow of TAMARISK trees. I was sure that I would hit the next shelter before the night fall. The burnt-out wreck of an oil tanker was still smoldering near the ShoorGaz military post.The Borjak was seen on the horizon nearly 20 km far from Shooreh Gaz. While cycling close to the Borjak, I noticed an armed officer who standing on alert. He was holding a walky-talky in his hand and a pistol on his belt. He looked suspicious to me.

Straight to him, I rode before he stopped me. I gaily asked him if he wanted guest ; " Mehmoon mikhai ? " A few Baloochi passengers were getting ready for the dusk praying at the parking area near by.

" No " He frowned. Another soldier joined us. His frowning faded when I introduced myself.

" Excuse me, you looked like Afgan ( infiltrator )." He revealed later on. He served me with a sweet watermelon apparently offered by the Baloochii passengers. The offer was on the occasion of the longest night of Iranian calendar or the night of YALDA or " SHABE YALDA ". In addition to various kinds of dry nuts, watermelon is the main item of the things that is served in the longest night of year.

" Tonight we are expecting a revengful counter-attack of armed drug traffickers. They probably hit us back tonight for the 80 kg opium that we seized yesterday. " The Kermani officer told me.

The news was not welcome for me who had never been involved in such an adventure. Anyway I felt safe in the Borjaks.They looked indifferent about the consequencies. As always because of security measures, I was not allowed to make fire for cooking my dinner.

There were a good deal of photos of Iranian actresses and some smart babies all around in the tower. They were in fact the photo slips of the family journals. They were the only entertainment of the soldiers.To make the demoralizing towres a bit more tolerable to the soldiers, I always resorted to my tambourine. While dinning, we heared a pair of soldiers those were coming from the next Borjak to borrow playing card. They noisily climbed the stairs up to the surface in the middle of the cylinrical tower where we were sitting on.

" Let me fool them, I want to tell them that you have come from Italy ! " The officer asked me.

" Hey, come up, we have a Mister from Italy! " He called the pair to hurry up.

They wildly raced upstair to see the Mister.

In almost darkness of the Borjak, the pair could not recognize me because they could not see my eyes well.

" Hey Kharkosse! hello, Italia,Italia Yes, Yes ? Bajio,Bajio? Maldini,Maldini?......................" They barraged me.

Each question began by a prevalent Iranian swear word.

" Hey Kharkosse, agar dokhtar boodi, haminja tartibeto midadim ! " " Hey Kharkosse, if you were a girl we would made you right here." The pair boisterously laughed. I nearly burst a gaffow. In the case, I would surely betrayed myself but I hardly could restrain.

The photos that I had taken in Europe, was a source of their entertainment. Any bare spot in bodies of the European girls or women easily arouse the young soldiers.

Contrary to what I feared from, we spent a calm night. The soldiers kept on alert and patrolled on top of the tower by turn whole the night.

Though the two soldiers did not borrow the playing cards, I was sure that they would tell their fellows exciting story of meeting an Italian cyclist just in the next Borjak. I was also sure that I would have trouble with them if they saw me in the morning.

What I worried about its happening in the next morning came true. Though I did my best to ride as quietly as possible, I failed to evade the snoopy sight of the soldiers of the next Borjak.

They wildly rushed to me as soon as they noticed me. To coax me show the photos, a couple of them fetched some bread and water. They surrounded my bike and tried to make an access way to the pictures. The more I refused to show them, the more the got angry.

" Hey Mister, if you show your photos, I'll show my aunt's !" A bulky soldiers came up to me and desperately implored. I reluctantly left them. When I turned my head, I found my sign flag already broken. Tit for Tat. I got angry but never tried to fight them back. It might serve me the right.

I was appreciating the final days of cycling at the inspiring lands of nothinglessness.

BEEEP,BEEEP,BEEEP.... defening horn of an oil tanker roared from behind and shattered the silence of the desert. He was a reckless Baloochii driver who was signaling to stop me. Yet he had released his hands off the steering wheel and was passionatly moving both of his hands up and down to halt me. " Hey Mister, Negahdar ! " I pulled my bike over then took out my bottle to drink some dates syrup while parking his tanker and getting off.

" Chetorii ? Chi mikhori Mister ? " He asked me how I was and what I was drinking.

" Abe Khorma " I pointed at the bottle.

" Ino bendaz, bia berim to mashin Teryak hast... " He asked me to give up the bottle and follow him to his tanker. He was going to offer me some handful opium, to smoke and ride quicker, as he cupped his hand then vigorously tapped his arm to exhibit power of the drug.

To ask him if he would want some money, I rubbed my thumb against forefinger and said ; " Chande,Chande ? "

" Nemikhad ! " " No need ! "

" Come on, no need to pay any." He assured me.

" This is my Teryak. " I turned down his honest offer pointing at the bottle. It sounded bewildering, why did he stop? Was it just in order to help me cycle faster and easier!?

The lands were misteriously covered by colourful volcanic stones. The landscape in the distant, was really tempting me. The castle-like hills looked enigmatic. I had a stimulating passion to leave my bike by the road and go to explore them. I was thoroughly thrilled to find out. My passion ended up with a few beatiful stones that I collected on the ground.

Then again cycling on the quiet road to the next town of FAHRAJ, the first town that you see after crossing the desert of DASHT-e-KAVIR.

No longer, I was at the edge of the endless terrains heading to the noisy urban life again. Good bye serenity!

BAM

The shady palm trees of the streets was extremely welcome especially after crossing the barren lands. Another striking fame of the town is the old citadle or " Arg-e-Bam ". It is surprisingly well-preserved. You can have the widest and the best view of the town from top of the highest point of the citadle. The highest point of the Arg-e-Bam belong to the residence of the ruler then down to the bottom, the citadle were inhabited by the lower ranks respectively. The poorest part belonged to the poor.

The citadle might have been a safe place for its resisdents in the past, but it was not that much safe for a Japanese girl who was recently kidnapped from the ruins of the Arg-e-Bam. It was said that the tourist was released intact later on. After the event, a few armed police forces were keeping the citadle round the clock. Because of neighbouring the vast deserts as the impenetrable hide-out of kidnappers and drug traffickers, Bam is liable to such abduction attempts. Foreign tourists are usually the ideal target to get a good deal of ransom.

I was not completely relieved from the nightmare of my tooth ache. Bam was the town where I tried my chance once again. As I had done before in Zahidan, I got a letter of reccommendation from the sport office of the town then went to the health office. To get an additional influence, I spoke English to head of the office.

The letter nearly betrayed me when he phoned the sport office to make sure. Luckily he did not realize the fact that I was taking advantage of my English to benefit from spicial hospitality of Iranians including in medical treatment. He ordered one of his young dentists to treat me. Like some of the other governmental health centers the country, they were too poorly equipped to fill my tooth free of charge. The dentist sufficed to a surface treatment.

On the way to my residence at the sport office, I tried my chance once again. There I noticed a dentist's sign on the street. It was absolutely worth the effort when you have a terrible toothache.

Again I confidantly played the role of a miserable foreign cyclist this time from England !

There was somebody sitting next to the dentist who could speak English. He was a Belgrad graduate physician who looked benevolent like the other fellow Iranians.

" Doctor, please treat the poor if you can! " He sympathetically asked the dentist.

" How can you afford your journey with little money ?" He questioned me.

" The British Embassy in Tehran will fund me for the rest of the journey." I answered.

What a relief, thanks to the dentist who spared me from the horrific pain. No longer, I did enjoy a cozy sleep.

Bam is noted for its main product, dates. On leaving the town, I stopped cycling as I noticed a freez storage complex. Workers were unloading tempting packs of dates out of a truck. After a frantic haggling with door keeper of the complex I paid Rials 2000 for 1kg the best quality dates. In the second evening of my stay, I slowly slipped out of the town looking for somewhere to sleep. A caravan was parked by the road, it can be somewhere not so bad for an overnight sleep, I thought.

The caravan was Quarantin check post of Veterinary office of Bam, and was occupied by two staffs. One of them told me that Mr.AKBAR his neighbour in Bam is fond of meeting foreign tourists. He was the man who was a great help to Alexander, one of the two French Round the World cyclists. Alexander got criticaly inflicted by Hypatit C in their risky attempt to cross the desert of Kavir-e-Lut presumably in hot season ( August 1994 ).

In the night I asked the office staff to take me to AKBAR's home. AKBAR really looked fond of meeting foreign tourists. He showed me an album that contained photos of the foreigners he had met in Bam. He had fairly good command of English speaking , so did his little son. Every body knew Mr.Akbar by his nickname " Akbar Engilisii ".

The police station of the next village of TAHROOD or Pasgahe Tahrood, was the place where I first enjoyed standing under rain in the night after 34 days of being away from home. I also enjoyed the following night with the Disciplinary forces of the Pasgah.

December 26th, (1996) is an important religious feast that the Shiit muslems celebrate the birth day of the 12th, IMAM MAHDII.The night before, I reached RAYEN's Pasgah. The forces cheered sang and danced when I played dance musics with my tambourine or DAF. While getting the things packed on my bike in the cold morning, I took a glimps at the poor young guy who was miserably looking from behind bars of underground cell of the Pasgah. His crime was kidnapping whose punishment is heavy.

I had a respite in MAHAN. Taking me for a foreign cyclist, a pair of men approached me. I was about to move on when one of the them took a cigarette out of his pocket then began stuffing something in it.

" It's heroin. " he said. It must be easily available here around, I thought.

I went on cycling to KERMAN not knowing about the interesting monuments of MAHAN.

KERMAN

In the evening, I arrived into Kerman where at every corner people were frantically celebrating the feast or as we so-called NIMEYE SHA'ABAN.

In the night, the disciplinary forces of Kerman had turned a blind eye to the cheering people who were playing handy musical instrument, (TurkishTimpo ) dancing and enjoying themselves. It was for the first time that I was ever witnessing such a cheerful religious celebration of the public. There were lots of colorful glimmering lights surrounded by the people.

I cruised through the noisy streets to the sport headquarters. It was already destroyed except the building where the workers were residing. I knocked the door. They were from Northern Iran. They helped me drag my heavy bike up the stairs into their residance. Among the fellow-region hosts, I felt quite at home. Story of my cycling around the deserts really interested them. They looked too dull to join the cheering crowd of the people on street. My Tambourine was the source of joy and entertainment to the soulless workers. They spontaneously sprang clapping and dancing over and over.

There was an old man who kept accompanying me by singing folk songs of his hometown. In the end of the bliss, the man thanked me very much and said : " God bless you, I have never been in such a gaily mood so far. "

In addition to the peasant workers, the police guard of the headquarters joined us. Culminating the climax of the concert, he hastily took off his uniform, threw them and began dancing the fameous Iranian dance of Waist or " GHERE-KAMAR ". I played the famous Iranian dance music of " BABA KARAM " and he nicely performed the relevant dance in which, dancer keeps spining his or her waist in accordance with rythem of the music. I rejoiced the party. In final, the police officer who really looked in high spirit, pressed a piece of paper into my palm apologizing if it was little. He also offered me a pair of socks. I opened my fist as I left him alone in the entrance room.

" Oh my God , Rials 5000 ! " I sighed.

It was really unexpected from a police officer to be that much generous, but anyway he proved that he could be so for the sake of his own pleasure and enjoyment.

MAHAN

The mausoleum of SHAH NEMATOLLAH-E-VALI and the garden of BAGHE-SHAZDEH were the two places those many people in Kerman frequently blamed me for not having visited them. Everybody questioned me so much about them that I decided to cycle about 70km to and back to see the places.

Both of the two tyres were already so worn out that they got easily punctured.

The actual usage of the mausoleum was praying place of Dervishes. They used to get together in the KHANEGHAH and perform their special ceremony, whirling around over and over or SAMA'A. Tourists are not allowed to get accommodated in rooms of the mausoleum. I was exception that night. Somebody asked me to kid his collegue who was in charge of keeping the Khaneghah. He asked me to pretend that I was a foreign ( tourist ) or KHAREJI. It worked quite in my favour. Only in the case I was allowed to stay in. I had a great night, I cooked my dinner , drank hot tea and enjoyed the romantic night of the Khaneghah indeed. In the morning, I left there to pay a visit to the BAGHE SHAZDEH at suburb of Mahan. It is a large and beautiful garden with a romantic architecture where the pleasure-seeking rulers of the QAJAR dynasty enjoyed themselves. Yet you can get a marvelous sight if you stand in front of the entrance.

After all, the friendliness and hospitality of the local people was never less beautiful than the interesting places I visited in the journey. For instance, on returning from the Baghe Shazdeh, I asked a peasant farmer if he had some milk. Being invariably hospitable, selfless and helpful specially toward foreigners, he led me to his home near by. As a KHAREJI, everybody chased me with his or her curious look untill the man's home. As we reached the home, I was surrounded by the pocky crowd of neighbours and the passerby who tried to find out what was what.

" CHI MIFROOSHE? " a curious old woman asked the crowd what I was selling around.

The man brought me a good selection of natural dairy plus some home-baked bread or " NOON-e-KHANEGI ". Great indeed ! It was for ages that I had not tasted cheese.

" KHEILI MOTESHAKERAM ! " I very much thanked him and his family.

There was a small playing ball dangling on the handle bar of my bike. It was the last one that remained from the the three those I had found at the desert of Zahidan. I had purposely kept it in order to please children at some time. And it was the right time to give the last one to the little son whom the man was holding him in his embrace.

I felt extremely satisfied when the child grasped the ball and smiled. The man's smile was also sensibly indicating his satisfaction and pride in front of the bystander's sight.

Heading to Kerman, I began whistling. My whistling was the sign of my joy but the unwanted whistling of the front tyre was so bad. " Psssssss...... " I was going to get accustomed to the noise day by day. I heared the noise while I was heavily riding on the uphill back to Kerman. After mending the puncture, I went on cycling for a short while then took a rest off the road. Unnoticeably I fell sleep under a tree. Noise of the grazing flock of sheeps and goats near by , woke me up. Something was glimmering within my hand's reach. I gently extended my arm, fumbled for the shiny object and pulled something fairly heavy out of soil. I was still sleepy and had not recognised the heavy piece of metal in my hand yet. At first I likened it to a hand gun lighter but the more I zoomed , the better I recognised it

" Oh, my GOD, a real automatic handgun ! " I got paniced. It looked like a hand-made hand gun. Anyway, it was really smart and hand-fitted.

" Wonderful ! I better keep it as a keepsake from the journey . " I exhilirated.

I carefully brushed and washed it by oil. Its loader was awfully rusty but because of being brass-made, the hand gun's outer part was quite safe. I thrusted it in the back pannier and hastened to reach Kerman before the dark viciously fell on the crowded road.

I was desperately struggling to reach the police station or PASGAH. It was too risky to go on riding on the dark road any longer. I pulled my bike over and looked around to spot somewhere for camping. It was too late to search for a suitable campsite. In the dark, I always becomes a hapless blind mice indeed. That is my permanent anexiety. There was a room that I hardly recognised it. There were a few more rooms around too. Desperately fumbling for somewhere warm, my option ended up with a smelly toilet ! It was too malodorous to stay there for the night. I had to pack my things and reach the next police station nearly 5km ahead. Despite the high probability of being crushed by a vehicle, I took the risk and cycled to the Pasgah. I was sure that I would be welcomed by my fellow-countrymen, but my expectation came untrue when bad-tempered commonder of the Pasgah refused to let me in for the overnight sleep. It was so cold outside. If I stocked my sleeping bag, I could have a cosy tent in the cold night. So frustrated indeed ! As the last resort, I took a truck straight back to Kerman.

Whole the following day, I stayed in the sport headquarters (or as we so-call, TARBIAT- BADANI ) and took a good rest.

The old covered bazaar of Kerman is worth-visiting. Unfortunately the Caravansaray-e-Vakil in the bazaar, looked as if it has fell in oblivion. Despite being at the heart of the bazaar, it surprisingly has turned to haunted place. On the contrary, the famous Carvansaray of Ganjali Khan was under reconstruction. Pity, I was not allowed to take a complete look around the beautiful carvansaray. Somebody showed me some bullet holes on the facad of the carvansaray. They remain from the horrible and bloody attack of AGHA MOHAMADKHAN-e-QAJAR, in which he massacred many people and could hardly seize the town. When the ruthless Qajar seized the town, he ordered to take out eyes of many people who defended their town against his attack !

One of the things that interested me in the public bath or 'HAMAM-e-VAKIL ' in the bazaar, was the fine hand-made bath ware. They consist of wooden combs, wooden sandals and the other fine works those proved the fact that the people attached a great importance to their good health and sanitary affairs in the past. The things now are kept in a small vertical window at the entrance.

THE KERMANI RABBI

In the last day, I consulted my guidebook, LONELY PLANET to arrange a visit to the town's church. It must be in the neighbourhood. But I found myself in a synagogue instead and among the little crowd of jewish

prayers. It was Saturday evening. Two guys were staying in a narrow alley or " KOOCHE ".

" Mister, INJA FAGHAT YE KELISAYE YAHOODIYA HAST. " They said that there was only one synagogue.

They knocked the opposite door.

" BIA, IIN HAMSHAHRITOON KELISATOONO MIKHAD ! " The pair asked the girl behind the door to come out and show her fellow-religion ( me ) their MASJIID.

The door was gently half-opened, a hand extended out and pointed at the corner further ahead. Just next to the corner, I came across a signless building. I walked up a few stairs up to the synagogue. Being rather nervous, I gently knocked the door and expected an answere.

" BEFARMAYEED TOU ! " No longer a polite voice called me in.

I was still expecting somebody come and answere the door. A lady came along, pocked her head around and soon went back as I began speaking to her in English! Perhaps she never expected to face such a shabby appearance in front of her. ' DANIEL' , was the middle aged rabbi of the synagogue who came and himself politely attended me. A couple of jewish teenagers joined us.

" I come from England and I'd like to see your synagogue. " I said.

" Yes, I'm christian . " I said in reply to his question about my religion.

" You're welcome. " They said to me then helped me put my bike in the basement.

The white Triangle of David , was the brand that startled me just as I stepped into the synagogue. It was neatly sewen on a black velvet table cloth.

In the first sight, the sign did associate nothing but Isreal, namely the No.1 enemy of the Iranian conservative statemen. In one side, there were a few people sitting around a long rectangular table. They were reading the Old Testament or Torah in Hebrew language. As I arrived, ,they all turned to look at me. Daniel respectfully led me to take a seat next to him. The ceremony finished soon after then I was surrounded by the jews.

I was questioned about my journey and etc. They served me with a few slices of sweet watermelon and a couple of ripe dates. To perfect their hospitality, the rabbi invited me to his home, the very house where I first inquired about the synagogue from. Before leaving there, they wanted to show me the content of the gleaming boxes those were standing on the shelves. The boxes seemingly contained old manuscript of the Testament. They looked highly sacred to them and were kept with caution. I wonder why they relinquished later. To find out what a jewish life looked like, I willingly accepted the rabbi's invitation.

The house was simple and rather in a mess. It was the same house where I first inquired about the synagogue. Daniel looked satisfied for having invited a foreign tourist to his home. I was abundantly fed with some traditional meals of Kerman plus some wine that I hardly sipped it out. In addition to the opium he offered to smoke but his wife warned him not to do that.

" Dady, he might be an Iranian undercover agent ! " his daughter warned him.

" Don't worry ! this is not the first time that I have invited a foreign tourist. I have invited the other foreign tourists before. " he assured his intelegent daughter.

Sometimes they spoke in Hebrew. Daniel showed me the English version of the Old Testament published in UK. While leaving the family, they gave me a bag full of tangerine. Daniel's wife told him that I was in a dire need to a pair of trousers.

It did not fit me so they fetched a jacket instead. Being rather heavy, I rejected it. There was a small crowd of the fellow- jews in front of the synagogue. They helped me brought my bike out of the basement then saw me off. While bidding an emotional farewell, Daniel preached his fellow jews " God has ordered us in the Testament to help ( the needy ) strangers. "

He prayed : " May God keep you ! " thrusting a Rials 2,000. banknote into the front bag of my bike.

They told me that there were only 10 jewish families living in Kerman. I was very regretful for having rejected the offer of Daniel's family. In the morning, I went back to his home and got the jacket simply with the aim of having a " YADEGARI " or keepsake from the rabbi. The jews also offered me a blue knitten yarmulka as a keepsake.

It was exactly 40 days that passed from the day when I left home. I was terribly homesick. I could not help missing Shafie, my hometown and all whatsoever I was attached with them. After having cycled 30 km, I reached one of the main junctions of BAGHEIN, the spot where the trucks take the fork southwards. I had a pause at the junction where I decided to cut short the journey and hitch a truck back home. Contrary to what I supposed before, I blamed myself for such an easy decision. I had cycled past the tough portion of the journey and it was shame to give in such easily.

" No, I should go on cycling all the way back home. " I got heartened. I made up my mind to stop riding only after about 1500 km, when I got back home.

I was still carrying the hand gun. Those days coincided with the public warning of the government by which it banned illegal possession of firearms or weapons of any kind. As I left the juction, I pulled the bike over , looked around , took the handgun out , dropped it on the ground , and stamped it over and over under my army boot. It was no longer buried under the ground.

" What a relief ! now I can carry as much foodstuff as the handgun's weight instead. " I told myself.

It was December 31st, 1996, there was only 10 days to the Fasting month of Ramazan. Muslems tend to welcome the month by fasting a few days earlier. Traveling in the month requires to be more considerate and avoid eating and\or drinking in public's view.

The sunset was indicating that it was the time I should begin looking for a campsite. But I had some time to cook some meal before. While cooking, a tractor turned up.

ROBAT

"IN NAZDIKIA, ROOSTAII HAST ? " I asked if there was a village near by.

' ROBAT ', name of the village that was seen in the distant. Without a warm sleeping bag, I had to prefer a four-walled to my own tent. My arrival into ROBAT, brought me into focus of the public's attention, the regular hobby that I did not like it. I suddenly took glimps of a juvenile who slipped my glass brush out of my front pannier. I grabbed it from his hand. To pretend to be so furios, I turned to the mosque in the neighbourhood and began a rehtoreic rebuking the crowd ;

" You .... Muzlem....go .....Masjid......pray.......Allaho Akbar.......and steal my brush.........?!

I angrily pointed at the brush and jerked my hand out of the pannier to show the action of stealing. Everybody was numb. Of course, all the people around was not wicked.

Some of the children noisily escorted me to a backery. I had well learned how I should get my bread supply before the backeries were closed in the late evening. The old mosque was the place where the people advised me to stay for the overnight sleep. I did not want to disturb the prayers so I sqwatted outside the mosque to let them finish their praying or 'NAMAZ ' and come out. The procession of the prayers came out being led by a young Mulla or cleric. They made a human ring all around and barraged me with different questions about my travel.

" Hello, How are you ? " the mulla unexpectedly surprised me at the beginning. But it was the question he asked me in English once for ever. Then he switched little to Arabic, the language I barely knew a few words and could communicate with one another. To please him, I told him that I was muslem and am an Iranian origion. In addition to what I talked to him about great Iranian Intelectuals and philosophers. I asked him if I could sleep in the mosque.

" No, you are our guest. You're welcome. Let's go please to home! " He friendly asked me to take their company.

" It sounds amazing to be invied by a Mulla to his own home." I was contemplating while nearing the corner ahead.

" Hajii,........... " he whispered to headman or KADKHODA of the village about accommodating me in his home. As I myself was suspecting , the mulla dodged doing the hospitality himself.

" Go with this hajii. He'll put you up for tonight. " he was going to leave me alone with the old man who never knew any language except his own Farsi. The Kadkhoda had to use the sign language. I followed him into his home. His name is Ali. He led me into a room that seemed to be a granary.

Like a waiter, he was standing by. He asked me if I wanted anything. To pretend that I did not know Farsi, I began looking up the food list of the LONELY PLANET. I tried to order a good selection of the grains and the others those I anticipated that I would need in the following days. Who knew when and where I would come along with such a generous host once again? Soon after, he came back with all the things I had wanted. In addition to a bowl of hot meal and a bowl of pistachio that he offered me too. His son-in-law was the only one who joined us in the night later on. Ali looked to be a strict muslem. His son-in-law was enthusiastically listening to me how I found the hand gun. In the end, he pleaded with me to show him the place where I had dumped it. He was serious in his request.

The three pomegranates clinging on the wall were irresistably tempting me.

" You're welcome ! " Ali said as I coaxed him to offer me them. I had a quiet night . I did not have to relate story of my travel and answere to a hundred and one questions of my host.

Early in the morning, Ali had already left home perhaps to his farmland. Nobody was around to see me off at the door. Iranian women, specially of religious families tend to shy away from the stranger opposite sex. I rode out of ROBAT to join the main road. I was standing up and passing urine when I suddenly noticed the Kadkhoda who was driving up to me. I got embarrased and hastily finished the Un-Islamic taboo.

I said " KHODA HAFEZ " to Ali and thanked him for every thing.

RAFSANJAN, the town of the laughing Pistachio,

The town is worlwide noted for its pistachio or ' PESTE ' and also for being birth place of the former Iranian president, Hashemi Rafsanjani.

All during the 62 days of my cycling around the deserts, I had to take a tough policy for grudging my little money. I used to fully appreciate any penny.

" BEEEP,BEEEP,....." was the familiar warning to halt. Once again I must stop, this time for a pair of boys in good appearance.They got out of a new modle Japanese pick-up truck. As usual they were also fond of something as a keepsake or YADEGARI.

" Mister, Mister, dollar, dollar,....? " they asked me if I had dollar to exchange with their rial.

" Sorry, no dollar. I have only Rupee of India, Hindustan...." I said.

One of them took a good number of banknotes out of his pocket and initially gave me Rials 2,000. To keep up with his fellow, the other one handed me Rials 1,500. and the Rials 500 more. In turn, I gave them only the one Rupee coin that I already found on the road. Rials 4,000. for one Rupee, was a good bargain. It was a big money for me because I could buy about 80 breads or ' NOON '.

Like a sunworshiper, I no longer got accustomed to simultaneous looking around in search of anything of some use. The right eye searched the right side of the road and the left eye had to keep track of the traffic from front, back and the left sides.

Thousands of the pistachios was strewed mostly along the right shoulder of the road. It was such a marked scene that nobody could reluctantly pass by it. By the first sight, I quickly pulled the bike over, propped it against a signpost and hastened to collect them before any passerby noticed the treasure. Like a skylark, I kept very close to the road and ran off only when a vehicle cruised by. At first, I shook a few of them to make sure they ever contained something." Hey, they were rattling ! " How precious ! I wondered how stupid owner of the pistachios has given up all these expensive things.

I got tired of crow-like picking of the pistachios. My bag was almost full when I came to the think of another testing them. The more of them I shook , the less of them rattled ! I felt as if I have been terribly fooled by somebody invisible. I no longer stopped the absurd game, put the picked pistachios in the back pannier and moved ahead. Shortly after I pulled the bike over and began testing them one by one then two by two and ultimately three by three. Out of about 2kg, only about 300gr rattled . It was fairly worth the effort.

Rafasanjan now looks more prosperous than before the Islamic Revolution. Apart from consulting Lonely Planet, sometimes you have to discover yourself. Respectful approach to adults can encourage them to supply you with useful information. Limpit waters usually are not at easy reach ! The better you know the likes and dislikes of the people, the easier you can govern their hearts.

In Rafsanjan, I stopped in front of a green grocery and began looking for some less spoiled fruits. I was looking for some half spoiled fruits those did not cost me anything. I found a few oranges and sweet lemns then I sat in front of the shop and began eating them. The shop keeper could not help offering some more fresh fruits. In such a case, shop keeper prefers to give up charging only for a couple of stale fruits rather than being blamed by his neighbours for not being benevolent to such a miserable or ' BICHARE ' foreign KHAREJI tourist. The shop keeper himself brought me some more juicy orange, tangerine apple and sweet lemons. He offered me so many that I could hardly stuff them in the panniers.

" I've heard that the president's father has recently died ? " I asked him.

" Yes, his mother now is living with the president son in Tehran. " he answered willingly.

" Why did you take my photo ? " he asked me in a low voice while leaving him.

Dried pea was the first grain that I found on the road just out of the town. Unlike the misleading pistachios, the pea were safe and edible indeed. In my treckings and bicyclings, grains always make up the main nutrient part of my cuisine.

On leaving the town, I came across with the best quality pistachio of the world, the laughing pistachio of Rafsanjan or PESTEYE KHANDANE RAFSANJAN. The Pistachios were laughing to me who did not have money to buy them. In fact they were smiling to their own retailers those were selling them Rials 1500 or US$ 4 for one kilogram Not me. I could only pass by them with pitying eyes.

' University of RAFSANJAN ' was the place where I took my first chance to sleep the night there. Most of the students and teachers got perplexed when I talked to them in English. I was wasting my time there. The longer I stayed there, the more I raised their curiosity. It was getting dark but I had to go on. I had to focus my attention and zoom on the road with the open eyes. Fortunately some flickering lights in the distant gave me some hope. Nevertheless probability of a nast accident still looming ahead. Cycling always turns to a breath-taking torture if I attempt to do it the dark road. I was a helpless blind bird. Because of getting a better place, I easily missed the tent just by the road. As I turned to the tempting lights of the tomb, the bumpy road made me give it up.

" SILIYE NAGHD, BEH AZ HALVAYE NESYE ! " the Persian proverb says : " slap in CASH, better than money in DEBT ! "

Therefore I opted the first, namely the tent that was quite In CASH ! I got back to the tent and found out the occupants were Kurds of western Iran. And I also realised that the peas those I collected on the way to the tent, belonged to them. There were some small piles of grains on the pieces of clothes in front of the tent. They were for sale. The men had brought the grains from the far western province of KERMANSHAH. It was a good opportunity to meet some Kurds. For dinner, they half-fried some good amount of fleshy dates. I had never tasted such a food . It tasted excellent. We talked about their hometown, tradition, custom and etc. One of them had something to talk about the bizzar Dervish cult whose followers have good appetite to eat different kinds of things including pieces of glass !

In the morning, I left the 21st, campsite. I predicted to see some very interesting places in YAZD or " The Pearl of Desert " as Iranians call it. I still had about 250km to YAZD. Apart from interesting places, mingling with people of different cultures, made my snail-rate cycling quite meaningful.

The next stop was the tiny town of BAYAZ. This time my casual host was MASOUD, the boy who worked in a small garage that produced alminium doors and windows. To give a reason to his hospitality, he told his friend : " Despite being a christian, I put the ' Mister ' ( me ) up just for the sake of Allah. He beleived in Allah who will return his good deed in resurrection. He warned me to cut my finger nails before arriving in YAZD. " Because my fellow-Yazdi people disliked long and dirty nails.

My tough job in the next stormy morning, was to challenge against it. I could manage to ride only 66km to the military check post of SHEMSH. luckily the post was not abandoned. There was a pair of soldiers those looked after the post which no longer worked. Their only duty was to keep an eye on the remaining junks of the post.

Army forces were always a great help. I never attempted to fool them about my nationality.

The old carvansaray of Shemsh was a very marked milestone by the road. It dates back to the very prosperous dynasty of the SAFAVID. Most of the carvansarays those existing now throughout Iran, belong to the dynasty. The entrance gate was closed and it looked haunted. The high brick wall around the carvansaray has made it impenetrable. I ultimately scrambled and slipped through the opening over the gate.

I was overwhelmed by the mistifying surrounding when I stood in the middle of the carvansaray. The area was irresistably reminding the thriving days of it. Now government seems to pay more attention to rehabiliaion of the caravansarays. The ruins opposite the carvansaray looked to be part of whole the complex. The carvansaray of Shemsh, is not only starting point of the next province of YAZD but also the beginning of a much better road. A small pack of sesamoid cake in the cold morning, was appreciable. It might be the only thing of some value that I ever found it since the day I left ZAHIDAN. I had to keep it in my mind that I should not give up anything of an imminent use.

MEHRPADIN ( MEHRIZ )

Though you may hardly spot MEHRPADIN on your map, but compared to MEHRIZ, it offers more interesting things. One of the locals showed me the mini-citadle where long had been inhabited by rulers of the region. The citadle was well preserved despite elaps of many years. The most spectacular part of the residance, was the three consecutive wooden gates of it. That is to say, to get into the citadle, you have to cross through three huge gates one after the other. The internal architecture surprisingly looked like the citadle of BAM. In one of the rooms, the guy showed me a hole that already excavated for its treasure. The other thing of some interest, was a tree with about 2000 years old.

Filling station in MEHRIZ was the noisy place where I stayed over the night. They are usually too noisy to have a good sleep there. Without enough money I did appreciated it specially in cold weather.

YAZD

I had never seen the town before, so I was longing for its nice people, muddy houses, narrow KOOCHEs and the intact architecture of the town. Upon arrival, I directly went to the town's sport headquarters. It was the only governmental office where I spoke English there. Actually I do not know why I prefered so. I showed my membership card of the Iranian Cycltouring Committee of the Cycling Federation and was given an accommodation in the sport hostle at the suburben area. Because of the nice dialect of the people and their good behaviour, I had a good feeling and prejudgment about YAZD. I did not take as much pleasure from interesting places as I did from meeting the people. I rejoiced zigzaging across the narrow alleys of the town. Unless you recall history of the place, you can not enjoy your visit very much indeed.

YAZD is the capital of the Zorostarian minority of Iran. In a random visit to an Islamic seminary or ' MADRASEYE ELMIEH ' , I met a few Islamic clerics or mulla. Like the other Iranians, a crowd of Mullas was magnified around I and my bike. At first, they took a suspecious look at me and my things then began my cross examining.

To prevent suspicion and any bad consequency, I took the initiative and told them that I was a muslem.

" I'm Sunni muslem from France. " I said it in reply to their predictable questions about my religion.

" No difference between Sunni and Shiit muslem. " one of them preached me.

My little Arabic knowledge was a great relief there. I concluded our talk with the following question : " Can I sleep here for tonight ? "

In contrast to what he said about the equity between Sunni and Shiit muslem, he notified his fellow clerics not to let me sleep there because I was Sunni ! ( pity, I could not say that I was not sunni. I am Shiit. )

With regard to their dealing with the matter of Sunni and Shiit, the Kermani rabbi's hospitality sounded more appreciable.

On my way to the sport hostle, I met four Italian tourists in their car. They were on their driving to Pakistan. We made an appointment to meet one another at the round about near by, but they did not come along. I expected them for a good while. Meanwhile a crowd of people gathered around to watch me. Somebody in the crowd was intent to make me confess that I was Iranian. He kept bothering me saying :

" Hey, look at him, he is a fellow from Tehran. Don't beleive him ! He is only pretending to be KHAREJI." I was going to lose my temper. I cursed the Italians and returned to the hostle.

To see an identical Yazdi house, you can see the house of LARIHA. Worthwhile !

In the third day of my stay, I left the beautiful YAZD though you can not discover its beauty only within a couple of days.

MEIBOD

It was the next town where I had an eventful night of my arrival. I never forget the night. After a look around at the ruins of the castle in the downtown, I halted in front a traditional bakery. In Iran, there are two kinds of bakeries. Mechanical and Traditional bakeries. In the latter one, bread is baked in a stone or mudy oven.They are popular because bread's taste remain natural. I wanted to cook my dinner on the oven. The baker or as we call him " SHATER ", was helpful enough to let me cook on his oven.

The kind of the bread that he baked is called as:' LAVASH'. It is in oval-shape thin slice. Another traditional kind of bread is well known by the name of ' SANGAK '.

Don't forget to eat your grill or ' KEBAB KOOBIDE ' with SANGAk !

Take it for granted home-made breads of Iranian villages are delicious. Every part of the country has its own kind of bread. Bread and salt are so sacred to Iranians that they tend to take oath upon their sanctities.

Yet we had an enjoyable chatting together in the bakery or 'NOONVAII '. Soon after stopping in front of the ' NOONVAII ', a crowd of people was immediately made up by the curious passerby. At the meantime, a police van turned up. An officer popped out of the van to scatter the crowd ?! He wanted me to get away and not to cause a pileup. Everybody supposed that there must be an amusing fighting or " DA'VA "!

Casul acquaintance can readily bring about intimacy providing you know how.

How nice and enjoyable was our talk ! The people tried to arrange an accommodation for me.

' GHARIB KHANE ' or as it literaly means; stranger's home, was the place where somebody advised me to sleep there in the night. It was for the first time that I was ever hearing such a phrase. It actually sounded promising. People said that in the past, ( poor ) strangers those had nowhere to rest at night, they took shelter in the Gharib Khane for overnight sleep. They were free of charge. Yet, Gharib Khane was equipped with heating and cooking facilities etc. Indeed, it was so amazing to me that there still existed such houses yet.

It was already late to get somewhere for sleep. Somebody showed me the Gharib Khane in the neighbourhood. We walked through dark KOOCHEs or alleys. There was nowhere seen around but us. We stopped in front of an old building as it was obvious from its flimsy wooden door. We opened the door then took a look around. It was cold inside and I had to do something not to let the wind in. The man helped me drape something on the window.The Gharib Khane lacked the facilities mentioned above. I did not have sleeping bag and I had the fear of a cold tent again. It was a single room like a mosque. I crept into the tent and tried to warm it by my body's temperature. I wore all the clothing I had. I was cold anyway. My bed was gradually getting warm up when the door was violently knocked.

" Who can be there at the door by now ? " I asked myself.

" BIA, DARO BAZ KON ! " a bossy voice called me to go and open the door.

" AMADAM, AMADAM..! " " Coming, Coming ! " I yelled.

There were three men at the door.

" We are neighbours. We wanted to find out who was here. " They said.

I showed my Cycletouring membership card and assured them that I would leave there in the morning.

" For now, you can stay here. " they said with hesitation even after checking my card.

They disappeared . I closed the door and crept into my cold bed.

Shortly after, the door was knocked again.This time, a young police officer with the neighbours. He initially checked the card, asked some questions about my travel and drove away .

" What a relief ! They fucked away, now I can go to sleep. " I hoped. But I shortly heard the police van at the door again for the second time.

" What else ? " I opened the door and asked the officer rather angrily.

" The neighbours phoned us. They say that they do not feel secured as long as you stay here around. You better go to a hotel. " he softened his voice.

" I'm not a cannibal ! I myself know perfect that a passenger should be accommodated in a hotel but I can't afford it because I don't have enough money for hotel. Understand ?..... "

He asked me if I could sleep in police station or PASGAHE NIROYE ENTEZAMI ?

" NEVER MIND ! " I replied.

I got so terribly exhausted and badly felt sleepy. I had to pack my pannier again and move to the Pasgah. I was reasonably expecting to have a cozy place there. So I was not dissatisfied.

Nobody was on street at the late hours of the night except me. Everybody should have already settled in his or her warm bed.

The officer's collegue was on call that night. Because of a quarrel between a couple and somebody else, his room was noisy.

" You can NOT sleep here. My collegue says that civilians can not sleep at military areas. " he pardoned me.

At the meantime, his collegue settled the quarrel and asked me if I would like to go with the couple and be their guest for the night.

Willingly I accepted the offer. On the safe side, the officer kept my passport and the membership card till next morning.

" What about this jack-knife ? " I sneered while jerking it out of its sheath and robbing non-blade side of the glimmering knife against my throat to show-off.

" Hey give it to me too ? " the officer shouted but not seriously.

" There'll surely be some another one in their ( the couple's) house ( for killing ) even if you get mine. "

I assured them that I was simply kidding (them).

I left the Pasgah with the couple whose car was parked at the door.

My prospective host tried to show me the way to his home.

" No hurry, I'll follow your car. " I said to them.

Their car did not start. They tried again and again. I suspected. The car was half-switched then again and again. I shortly took the hint; there was no wrong with their car, the real wrong was with themselves, their own want. I made sure they have changed their mind.

" They have changed their mind. Please, give me my papers. I'm off somewhere else." I said to the officer.

" Hey, you panicked the poor couple when you showed your knife. " the officer revealed.

No point to assure them that I never meant to harm them.

" Where are you going now ? " the officer asked me.

" Anywhere I can sleep. " I said.

" Anywhere, now ?! No, you can't go ANYWHERE ! We are holding your responsibility for your safty. "

" Nonsense, I can't sleep here. I can't sleep overthere. I can't sleep anywhere else I like. So, what shall I do now?!

I got furious.

I finally got my passport and the card back then got out of the Pasgah. I had not intended anywhere in particular to go. There was a sentry patroling at the door. He pointed at the filling station or POMPE BENZIN near by. I went there.

" You're welcome " The man who worked at the filling station called me in. His "welcome " relieved me from the prolonged matter of my sleep in the night. I sprawled in the man's warm room. I felt quite relaxed.

I had got rid of the Pasgah and its Do this! and Don't do that ! rules.

Like a wandering ghost, the young officer suddenly appeared again ! He parked his motorbike and opened the door.

" I came to make sure you're all right. " he reasoned. His ultimate action was admirable indeed. No longer he left me alone for ever. ' KHODA HAFEZ '

ARDAKAN

Unlike Meibod, I enjoyed a troublless and brief visit to Ardakan. Again I took more pleasure from cycling in the criss-crossing KOOCHEs in the town. Unfortunately, some old parts of Ardakan have not been spared by the indiscriminate destruction of bulldozers. In a narrow alley, I happened to get into an old house. I was welcomed by a hospitable family. I took a look around the large house whose some parts were already demolished. Though they were deprived of a luxuary house, I do beleive they had golden heart. I swear. The family was so hospitable, or ' KHEILI MEHMAN NAVAZ ' indeed. They seemed that they had to work hard to keep the heavy wheel of their life runing. The daughter was weaving a silk carpet. She was sitting in front of the vertical frame of the carpet. The family looked excited to see a foreign cyclist in their home. Like most Iranians, they served me with tea or ' CHAII. '

Like a covered trench, a narrow Kooche was tunneled under a house. In fact, Kooche was the underground of the house above it. There were some houses those were no longer haunted. Pity.

A traditional confectionary or as Iranians call it ; ' HALVA PAZI ' was the last place where I poked my head around. I got some knowledge about how a popular and nationaly-known' HALVA ARDE ' was cooked. YAZD and the other towns of the province, have almost got monopoly of the Halva Arde. This kind of Halva looks like a bright yellow (vegetable) oil.

At first, I parked my bike or DOCHARKHE, then walked up the stairs into the Halva Pazi. The confectioner or 'Halva Paz', did friendly welcome me as a foreign cyclist or DOCHARKHE SAVARE KHAREJI. My untidy appearance looked so miserable and a cause of heart-rending to Iranians including the Halva Paz. A young boy passed by the Halva Pazi. He was carrying a bowl of soup or 'ASH ' in his hand. The Halva Paz got the bowl from the boy and offered it to me. Such a manner of hospitality is in common among Iranians. Everything for guest's comfort !

Because Halva Arde's cuisine is both time and energy consuming , its price comes out expensive ( in Rial not dollar ). In addition to the soup, the Halva Paz saw me off with a small box of the nutrient Halva Arde.Great!

There was big twin potholes those contained the Halva.

Looking at the Kooche, I saw an old man riding an ass. He was coming from the Kooche up to me. I got out of the Halva Pazi to get him stop and let me take a ride.

" Hajii, stop please ! Let Mister take a ride ! He dose not ride ass in Europe." people insisted the Hajii. He got down and let me ride the ass down the alley.

As I got on the ass, the people around began laughing at Mister. Like a child, I got exhilirated I got a short ride.As I got off, I grasped the animal's hand and began shaking it and thanking it for giving me the ride. The people burst laughing again when I thanked the ass in Farsi: "TASHAKKOR, TASHAKKOR."

Just near the Halva Pazi, I walked the stairs down to the bottom of a SARDAB. The word literaly means ' The cold water Storage ' in fact the place where people of the desert region used to get their cold water supply from the underground water network know as GHANAT. Most of the Sardabs are currently out of use including the one I went down not for cold water. Instead I picked a pair of outworn slippers out of the rubbish-heap in the Sardab, already reduced to a dump.

' HAFTADOR ' was the next village whose tiny shrine was the place where I took shelter for the overnight sleep. I had never slept beside such a quiet sanctuary before. As a result, I had an unprecedented overwhelming feeling of fear from breach of the shrine's sanctity. It was in that night when I heard the mystifying yelping of the jackals for the second time. I was not alone in the shrine, the old man who kept there, was with me. I left my bike locked in one of the rooms of the shrine.

The altitudes were tiring me. The worse came when I got a puncture. I gently lowered the bike on the ground. After the daily hobby of mending the puncture, I looked for the suvenir of Ardakan, Halva Arde in my panniers. I applied the Halva on a slice of bread then added some Halva Shakari on it. Very delicious specially for me who loves sweet. The other thing that I did was to find a pair of trausers just near by. It was greasy. I needed some trausers to wear on my pants whose seat was quite worn out. Its waist was indicating that it had belonged to a bulky truck driver. No matter how greasy or how big it was, I scissored the legs of the trausers and made a pair of shorts out of the outcast junk. Imagine how funny I looked in the loose-fitting short !

NAIIN

Like Meibod, I had a troublesome night in the nasty town. While mending a puncture opposite the mosque of

MASJID-E - JAME'E, a man came along up to me. He took me for a ' Docharkhe Savare Kharejii. ‘

]

He began speaking English fairly well. " I come from England but my parents are Iranian-born. " I lied.

From the very beginning, I suspected him to be a vicious agent. He never attempted to split away. He was pretending he was helping me with arranging accommodation at the town's sport hostle. We went together to the stadium. For a moment he disappeared then he turned up with a police officer. As usual, I showed them my membership card of the Iranian Cycling Federation. It took them by surprise. I stressed that I was an Iranian origion and as a proof I showed them my Iranian passport as well. They looked convinced.

" Let him go away, Don't look for trouble ! " the officer advised the nasty bug before leaving us.

I got rid of the man then began looking for somewhere to sleep no matter where. I initially called at a filling station in the noisy downtown. Somebody directed me to go to the adjacent shrine or ' IMAM ZADE. '

The shrine was provisionally occupied by university students or ' DANESHJOO ' of the town. They used to sleep on grave stones of the shrine.

I was pretty sure that my presence would disturb their studying. They took advantage of the opportunity and whiled away the night gossiping over and over. They kept questioning me as a outsider or ' KHAREJII 'about the appealing wonders of the outside world. Iranian university students can not go abroad unless they finish their two years compulsory military service. They passionatly wanted to know if I had ever seen one of their favourite singers. They were staring at me and carefully listening to me. They would surely do much better in their studies if they listened as passionatly to their teachers as they were listening to me.

" Hey Mister, DARIOOSH, HAIDEH........., RO DIDI ! "

" Hey Mister, Have you seen Darioosh , Haide, etc, ?

I had to give reasonable answer to every kind of their questions. It was a tricky task.

The stiff wind never agreed with me next morning, it never stopped blowing against me. I was striving to break up resistance of the gust. I had never encountered such a powerful wind before whole in the journey.

In the day, I could ride only 30 km to the next village of ' NEYESTANAK. ' When I surveyed around to spot some suitable place for sleeping, I prefered to try the poultry farm just by the road. I have realised that the military bases of urban areas did not welcome me as much as they used to do before at the border areas. No longer I was miles far away from the border zone so I gave up the military centers as my first choice for sleeping.

Poultry breeding seems to be a profitable job. There are some priviliges that the government grunts to the similar producing industries.

Unlike the previuos day, I had a smooth riding in the morning, the wind was pushing me forward so that I easily made about 90 km in the day.

I was riding fast and getting close to the roadside parking area when I overtook a slow truck. As it sped up and overtook me, it instantly stopped at the parking, opened the door and beckoned me. I feared that because of having overtaken him, he had probably meant harm.

" BIA, SAVARSHO Mister ! " he asked me to hop in. He never meant any harm, yet he offered me pistachio. He was simply curious to know where I came from and the other conventional questions of

" AZ KOJA ? BE KOJA ? meaning " where from and where to ?..............etc.

ARDESTAN

One of the funny memories of the journey occured in Ardestan.

It was January 11st, 1997, namely the first day of the holy fasting month of RAMAZAN. Specially during mid-day hours of the fasting month, streets are quiet. To ask the way to the ( Cathedral ) mosque or MASJID-E- JAME'E, I halted in front of a small crowd of people at the street corner. At the meantime, I attempted to drink some water.

I was well aware that it was Un-Islamic and insulting either to eat or drink in public in the fasting month, though passenger can break his or her fasting in journey.

As a Mister, every movement of mine was under scrutiny.

I dared to pick up my bottle, slowly pointed it to my mouth then rubbed my thumb against my throat repeating ; " Ramazan, Ramazan ?! "

Only a couple of people took a hint. They immediately interpreted what I meant to the others around.

" He's meaning that if he drinks the water he'll lose his head. "

" Ramazan, Ramazan, no, no, ! " they chuckled to themselves.

" Mister, BOKHOR BOKHOR TO AZADI ! "

" Mister, Drink, Drink, you're free ! They unanimously convicted and assured me.

In a glance that I took around, I noticed a frowning bearded face that looked quite resentful with my careless drinking but could not do anything, because he could not oppose the majority. He could not disguise his anger. As I rose the bottle to drink, he could not help expressing his resentment in an extreme pitying tone :

" EY BADBAKHT, BOKHOR! BARAYE TO CHE FARGHI MIKONE ?! "

" You Poor, drink ! Dose it make any difference to you ( christian ) ?!

" In any case, you'll be at the bottom of Hell ", it was what he undoubedly meant. Noting that some of fanatic Muslems like the guy, beleive that christians_ whether sinful or good doer_ will go to hell simply because of being non-muslem !

It was really so difficult for me to restrain myself from letting a loud guffaw in such a tricky circumstance. If I did I could face bad concequencies indeed. I could burst a laughing only when I cycled clear out of the town. The better I imagined the pitying manner that the man blamed me, the louder I laughed.

I actually found MASJID-E-JAME'E woth-visiting. It is the beautiful heritage of SELJOOQ dynasty. Its relief stucco work on vaulted ceiling is one of the spectacular features of the old mosque. The other peculiar characteristic of the Masjid is the brick networks of the walls in some parts of it. You can readily get a pleasant spiritual inspiration from the architecture in addition to a brick dome , a beautiful ornamented prayer hall and alter or MEHRAB and a simple minaret.

ARDESTAN is also noted for being birth place of the famous grand AYATOLLAH MODARRES who was elected as parliment or MAJLIS, deputy from Tehran. It was during the secular regime of REZA SHAH PAHLAVI who assassinated the Ayatollah in exile when he stood against the Shah.

MOGHAR

Having cycled 30 km next to Ardestan, I reached the small town of Moghar. It is just neighbouring the desert of DASHT-E-KAVIR. It was late evening and I had to find somewhere to sleep. As usual, I purchased my bread supply. I did not intend anywhere in particular. In front of the bakery or NANVAII, my bike was completely surrounded by a pocky crowd of people. Once I noticed a boy trying to zip the front bag open. Giving my knife a sharp jerk, I dashed to the poor boy of aboud 24 years old. To scare him away from my bike, it was a good detering show of power but I never recommend it for everybody and at any situation. The boy got really panicked when I rubbed the knife on throat threatening to cut his throat if he touched my things.

Since they had taken me for a foreigner or KHAREJII, I got away with no hostile reaction of his fellows around. Sometimes show of power can cause serious troubles to you as a foreigner if do not know the usage. Generally speaking, Iranians are very sensitive to use of knife of any kind. In most cases, they tend to show patience and leniency to strangers specially KHAREJIIs.

The best season of mosques ( in Iran ) is during the holy month of Ramazan.

Most often there were some people those voluteerly guided me to some places to sleep. I was escorted by some people to a Masjid whose neighbours got together soon after. The neighbours brought me some grain, some thin kind of home-baked bread ( LAVASH ) and some fruit. It became interesting when an old couple also joined the crowd of the young people.

Holding his walking stick, the aged man could hardly walk the stairs up the platform to me.

I was cooking my dinner and the crowd was carefully gazing what I was doing. Some rice, lentil, potato, onion and etc, were the ingredients of my dinner.

The old man slowly sat by me. His wife looked bright and much cheerful that her husband. She burst laughing as I hugged his spouse and tapped his shoulders. I did immensely enjoyed mingling with such lovely folks specially in such a close and friendly manner. Children kept zooming on every movement of my body.

" Hey, Look ! how he is cutting the potatos ! ............ " Everything that I did look interesting to them. It was really difficult to keep quite indifferent to the people's talks about me.

Somebody solemnly mounted the platform and came up to me. He opened my Lonely Planet and looked up some word to show me. In the page of Useful Words & Phrases, he pointed at the word ' JASUS ' then turned his forefinger to me.

" SPY ? " he naively asked me.

" No, No, Not JASUS " I also naively answered.

I made sure that the Masjid was going to be locked in the night, so I packed my panniers to get a move on.

I Ieft the Masjid in a random search for somewhere else. I cycled on the street that was leading to a roadside restaurant. I dare say, all Iranian roadside restaurants have a room or ' NAMAZK-HOONE ' for praying. Like the other roadside Namazkhoones, the restaurant's Namazkhoone was too small and too noisy to sleep in it. I was desperately hanging around when a pair of boys with their motorbike came up to me. They were argueing with one another about hosting me in a snackbar where one of them worked.

" Let's call him to sleep in your snackbar, Come on, Come on ! we can tease him and get amused tonight. " One of them urged his fellow.

" No, how can we trust him, there are lots of things overthere in the bar ; cash, cigarette,......." the bar man refused the suggestion.

" Clear the cash and the cigarettes and give up the others ! " the guy finally coaxed his fellow into putting me up for the night.

" BIA BERIM MISTER, EMSHAB OONJA LA,LA!” " Let's go Mister, tonight sleep overthere ! " the guy tried to make me understand by sign language. They opened the door of the snackbar or as Iranians call it : ' SANDIWIJI. ' Some of the neighbours joined us in the night party later on.

As always, our talks were focused on the joys and entertainments of the people overseas. Taking me for a KJýHAREJII, they were frankly complaining about some restrictions in social affairs of the country. Sex affairs was their favourite subject to talk about.

" Rhein, Rhein, Do you know the German river ? Lots of naked girls and women lie on the shores in summer........." I tried to describe the joy of the riverside to them. They were passionatly listening to me.

" Mister, Mister, these men fucked our country or we had such beautiful seasides like yours. " they sighed with great pity as they were pointing at the pictures of the Iranian leaders on the wall.

My photo album was an entertainment for them.

" Mister, sometimes I furtively slip into my fiance's home for dating. I tightly hug her and........... " the thing he proudly recounted to me as if accomplishing a do-or-die operation. He meant to prove that their life was not quite joyless.

They were going to leave me alone in the hotdog. They told me that they were going to lock the door till 7 a.m. I lined up the chairs, unfolded my matress on them and fell sound asleep. Punctually at 7 o'clock, they opened the door.

As a short-cut, I took the eastern road straight to KASHAN. The new road is direct and expressway. I regret that I did not visit the interesting places of the town including the famous and beautiful garden of BAGHE FIN.

QOM , the town of Blood and Uprising

As the Mecca of the Shiit muslim, QOM is the town of ' Turbans '. I had a background information about the xenophobic and religious climate of the town.

A tricky situation came up while pulling into the town.

" Hey, Mister AZ KOJA ? BE KOJA ? "

" Hey, Mister where from? Where to ? " a curious juvenile shouted while he was wildly rushing up to me. I was hastening to dodge the nasty traffic congestion of the town's entrance. The road was narrow and I had to ride with the utmost care.

" No " I ignored his expectation for a pause. He took offence. What a relief, I got away. Riding just next to the truck parked by the road, I heard the sound of runing from my behind. I took an instant glimps back to find his fellow who was wildly running up to me and jolting a piece of board in the air. It was a tit for tat action. He was almost catching up with me when his board escaped me but by the single blow, it chopped the signal flag in the back end on my bike. I got away with the second attempt and stopped somewhere further ahead. I fought down my anger with the pair's awkward action. I was quite confidant that I could take them by a shattering surprise if I returned to tell them the fact that I was Iranian, not an outsider. I gave it up.

I came up with another hostility just after the first one. A tripple-occupant motorbike buzzed down alongside me. It slowed down. Three boys were on board. They looked as much nasty as the preceding pair. Aýgain, I was fired by the same conventional questions of AZ KOJA? and BE KOJA ? And again, like a foreigner, I shuddered to their questions and warded the intruders off. They sped away on a short fuse.

Shortly after I felt a vicious kick that was suddenly thrown on the left rear pannier. I hardly managed to keep control of the gear. In fact it was a revengful hit-and-run attempt that the three fierce juveniles relieved their own anger. They drove away swearing loudly at me. Soon after I ran into them standing by the road just ahead.

On the spot, I took them by such an embarrassing surprise that the two passengers never got round to warn their fellow before I grimly tapped him on the shoulder. He was scared out of his wits finding me in his front. Perhaps he expected a punch on his face at the critical moment but I prefered a short shattering scold. They were completely numbed by an unpredictable shock. To their great surprise, I burst out speaking Farsi ! They ghastly looked sheepish. No choice but to drive away. It was a very funny scene; they stopped somewhere further ahead then took their final glance at me. To scare them off, I beckoned to them. They slid away. Solemn word spoke louder than hostile action.

Despite the hostilities, by and large, Iranians in most cases are helpful.

In order to evade frequent questioning of people, sometimes I prefered to speak English though I made some unwanted troubles for myself. I have figured out that disguising myself as a foreign cyclist, sometimes could guarantee my safety specially at the border area. Anyway, it was a blessig in disguise to find out how foreign tourists are behaved here. Occasionally my compatriots turned out to be hostile against me as an outsider or Mister KHAREJII. I personally think that it was because of the same subtle fact that is hinted in the following precept of ' Iran ' of the Lonely Planet.

" If you observe the simple courtesies as you would in Western societies, and keep within Iranian law, you will be doing more than many modern-day foreign travelers in Islamic countries, and you will be respected by the vast majority of Iranians with whom you come into contact, At the same time, there are inevitably different ways of doing things in a country with such an ancient civilization s Iran's. Iranian etiquette is complex and Iranians are very forgiving of innocent gaffes by foreigners, but the rewards for learning the rules will more than repay the initial investment in time and effort. Iranians are on the whole, extremely hospitable to foreigners-almost embarrasingly so sometimes-but you have to do your bit. The theory is that any one for whom you do a favour has a Duty to do another for you at some other date. Of course, in practical terms, there is no way that foreigners can repay in kind all the Iranians who give them a meal, hospitality or accommodation, but the principal remains. One simple way of showing gratitude is to respect the Iranian social code in your dealings with Iranians."

Universities of QOM have not been excluded from the tough Islamic sex-segregation and dressing codes. Because of bein the most conservative religious town of the country, these rules are absolutely compulsory specially for governmental employees.

After 55 days having left home, I felt at home because I was going to stay with one of my relative members at the university hostle. My appearance looked so untidy that he did not recognise me at the first sight.

Anyway I was in hurry to get back home and meet Shafie. I was homesick.

It was in the early morning of the second day when I packed my panniers to depart again. I took my bike out of the dormitory when a police car noticed me and pulled the car over. He called my friend seemingly to find out. The car got away.

" Rafi, they asked me if you carried a firearm ?! " he said to me.

My first attempt to take the QOM_ TEHRAN expressway was foiled at the outset. I failed to evade the traffic police post at the beginning of the expressway.

" Don't let the Docharkhe Savar through ! " the loudspeaker of the check post announced. I had to get back to the ordinary road.

It just began raining. I had no interest to ride the way to Tehran. It took me for a good while to take a pick-up truck in front of the other police check post. The driver gave up charging me for fare when I honestly told him : " Sir, I am short of money: " " AGHA, POOLAM KAME ."

PART SEVEN

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( The Third Leg Of The Journey )

TEHRAN

I arrived into Tehran through the southern entrance where the grime and poor face of the capital is quite obvious. Unlike north of Tehran, the southern parts are deprived of the speedy developement projects those are under way in north of Tehran. Azerbaijanese makes up majority of the poor population in southern Tehran. They are attracted to the capital with the hope getting a better life overthere.

It is extremely risky to cycle in Tehran not only because of the over-polluted air but also because of the careless drivers. You are exposed to be swallowed by the heavy traffic specially during the rush hours.

Avoid getting stuck in the traffic congestion during the rush hours !The representing office of the French PEUGEOT CYCLE in Tehran, may supply you with spare parts of your modern bike.

In the next day, I got rid of the pollution whirlpool. While cycling on the main road, the magnificient mountain of DAMAVAND suddenly came to a clear view.

I spent the night in the inquiry room of the university of the next town of MAMAZAN. I saw lots of Afgan refugees those seemingly worked in small private industries and\or on farm lands of the region.

GARMSAR

In the town, I had to get a seond-hand tyre. On the other hand, I had too little money ( POOL ) to purchase a new one. I paid Rials 2500 for a second-hand Indian tyre.The shop's owner came later and asked his worker how much he had charged me for the tyre.

" I would never sell you the tyre less than Rials 5000. God helped me. I had a casual interview with a local newspaper. The first was already made in BIRJAND. Garmsar is the start point of the northern desert strip that stretchs about 650 km to the town of SABZEVAR in east. Salty pieces of lands were the very marked features of the GARMSAR_ SEMNAN road. At the first sight, they looked like the piles snow.

32 days ago, I was in extreme south of the two deserts, but now, I was bicycling on top of them in north. That's to say, I was still circling around the deserts. I was missing the green lands of my home town in north. If I wait a few more days, I will see them.

DEHE NAMAK

'Dehe Namak ' or as it literaly means : ' village of salt ', is a sub-abandoned village whose residents looked to be only some aged people. It was the last village that gave me the inspiration of desert.

The sun was going to set when I reached the village. There was a Turkish truck stopped at the roadside parking area. The driver was sitting on his stool and eating olive and drinking tea. A short talking was a good hobby.

I had to hasten to the village before everywhere became quite dark. There were some boys those were playing football in ruins of a carvansaray. They directed me to get accommodated in the village's masjid or mosque. Being mysteriously quiet, the village looked haunted. Some old villagers were squatting around a fire. I still had not overcome the mystifying inspiration that I had got from the village. The language that the villagers were speaking was strange to me.

There was nobody in the masjid except a couple of juvenile who had come to see a foreign cyclist or Docharkhe Savare Kharejii.

Shortly after settling in the masjid, one of them invited me to his home for the night.

In the misty morning of the following day, I relished riding on a deserted road then I shifted to the main road. The closer I cycled to home, the more I thrilled.

SEMNAN

The town always associates the skeleton that I saw in the museum of the town. Like some good deal of interesting places of Iran, nothing has been mentioned in the Lonely Planet about the skeleton which I saw in the town's museum.

" Semnan lies on the northern edge of DASHT-E-KAVIR desert and owes its origions and mixed fortunes to its place on the historic trading route between Tehran and Mashad."

That was the brief information that I got from the guide book about Semnan. I randomly got to know there was an old public bath or ' HAM'MAM ' ( 1430s ) currently used as museum of the town.

To my great surprise, there was actually a 4000 years old skeleton of a pregnant woman.

The poor mother had obviously died while giving a futile birth to the child who was fatally trapped in her mother's womb. The fetus - as it was seen - was misplaced upside down. For the skeleton had been unearthed just as recently as a couple of years ago, nothing has been written about it in the recent edition of the Lonely Planet.

The skeleton lays on its left side in a touching state of being jammed like this:.................... The hands and feet each were tightly clawed into one another. The whole condition of the skeleton clearly indicates the fact that its poor owner must had given a very tortureous birth to her unborn baby. The apple-size skull of the fetus was partly stuck out of the skeleton's pelvis. A nomber of tiny pieces of the finger bones were cut off the fetus and were laying just behind the skeleton. It looked more vicious with a bluish metal ring in her finger. Existance of a bluish pot of the same quality by her skull, was questionable too. The pot was as much big as a jam pot. It is said that the woman had been buried according to some mystic funeral rite of her own tribe.

I was told that the skeleton was first excavated in the next town of DAMGHAN but later it was transfered to the HAM'MAM in the covered bazaar of SEMNAN.

KALATEYE HASANABAD ( Chasht Khoran )

There was about 30 km steep road that slightly began as I cycled out of SEMNAN at noon. I was challenging the steep up the hills one after the other. The hills looked endless. In fact, the flat part of the route already finished in SEMNAN and I was going to cycle up and down the hills.

My race with the sun's setting seemed to have already begun and my adrenalin has been activated. Once I reached the first village, I inquired from a shepherd man about the nearest residential area. He was grazing his livestock by the raod.

" Only 2 km further ahead . " he said.

I was struggling to reach there before I became quite helpless on the dark road. I was losing my patience any longer.

In extreme desperation, I finally sailed a slope down to the muddy houses that is called : KALATEYE HASANABAD. There were some deserted houses whose roofs and stables were not vacant at all. There were somesheperd dogs tied on every roof and every stable. They dangerously began barking in chorus as I turned to walk down to Mr.ALI's home. He is the only man who lives in the tiny farm houses.

The closer I walked down to the houses, the louder the dogs barked. One man came out of a houses and slowly walked into the other house. His black dog was following him. It was seemingly the only dog that was roaming around freely. I waited till the dog and its owner went into the house then I went to knock the door.

" KIYE ? "

" Who is it ? " he called.

" MEHMOON NEMIKHAII ? "

" Don't you want a guest ? " I replied in Iranian manner.

" You're welcome ! " he said opening the door.

He said nothing more and mutely led me to his room. It was already the time of the night praying or ' NAMAZ-E-MAGHREB ' and also the time to break fasting. I got astonished at the first glimps that I took inside the room " KORSII, Oh my God, KORSII ! "

As much it was warm inside the dim room, it was cold outside. I entirely felt relaxed as I extended my legs under the cozy KORSII. It is a low-lying table that is usually covered by a large woolen quilt. You can tuck only your body under it. Because of containig the poisonous gas of carbon dioxide, you should avoid poking your head under Korsii specially when you fell asleep.

The fuel of Korsii is either coal or mostly at rural areas, livestock's dung. Korsii is kept warm by some amount of the dung smoldering in the pot hole in middle of it. Korsii still has its fans specilly at remote villages those lack modern facilities of heating in winter.

The surface of Korsii is usually large enough to use it as a dinning table and having your meal while getting leisurely warm up under it. So did I in the night.

The dinner on ALI's Korsii looked as neatly set as if it was done up by a matron.

' KALLE PACHE' or as it literally means : ' ( sheep's) head and totters ', was the boiled head and boile feet of a pair of lambs in a big plate. It was the interesting part of the king-size EFTARII or the meal that the fasting people dine after breaking their fasting.

There were a pair of lamb skulls in a plate with open jaws and a pair of tongues those were out .They were pulling a wry face to me. Tongue, brain, kidney, liver and heart are the favourite parts of a sheep or lamb in an Iranian menue. There was also a good selection of dairy on the Korsii such as: 'AGHOZ ' the concentrated milk that a sheep gives just after giving birth to her lamb. It is delicious and nutrient indeed. I began my dinner by devouring half a bowl of the ' AGHOZ '.

We began chatting only when he broke his fasting. We gossiped about our own living, family matters and etc.

ALI told me how his neighbours abandoned the KALATE and how he has been keeping his sheeps and goats in the deserted houses. His family lives in SEMNAN and he sometimes joins them for a couple of days. He breeds about 200 livestocks those he shares with his brother. He has the tough job of looking after his garden just by the main road. There is also a pool that is always irrigated by the underground ( drinking ) water that is running through subterranean channel or GHANAT. Some inconsiderate passengers pick up the fruits of his garden, stone his dogs and etc. They bothered him. The garden is just behind his home. Once his dogs near the pool began barking, he hastened to the roof to shout a long ' HEEEEEEEEEY ! '

He showed me around in his garden that contained different kinds of trees such as : apple, nectarine, mulberry, almond , vine and etc. He never uses chemical pesticides. He beleives that use of the chemicals changes the natural taste of fruits.

" I'm almost singlehanded here. Everyday my brother commutes from Semnan to take milk for selling it in the town. He is the only one who helps me here. " he explained.

He luckily lives just by the main road, a very easy access to Semnan in emergency. He has hired two shepherds to graze his flock of sheeps and goats from early morning to the dusk.

" For economy, my father must have planted mulberry instead of these almond trees because the latter one needs more water than the first. " he pointed at the almond trees with pity. Because of being at the high altitude, mulberry can easily dried by the sun light. You can appreciate the dried fruits like mulberry in winter when you eat them with your tea. Great !

In addition to the dried fruits, Ali served me also with salty burned almond. The combination of all the served different foods, the warm Korsii , the barking shepherd dogs on the roofs, and the freezing cold of outside, made our chatting in the blure light of his room, extremely enjoyable indeed.

Ali passionatly related the story of a man who he had put him up for the night in the same home several years ago.

He continued : " The man was a rebust middle-aged pilgrim who was trekking the long way from the eastern province of Azerbaijan to the holy shrine of IMAM REZA in MASHAD. In the morning he got ready to leave us . Meanwhile I was busy with my own works next door. Suddenly one of my workers rushed in and asked me to get back home at once. The guest was wildly slapping on his own face and saying some words in Azerbaijanese. The workers had already tried to prevent him from hurting himself. He never understood Farsi. As the last resort, the workers asked me to step forward and do something to calm him. " Ali, we don't have beard but you have. Perhaps he stops doing so for the sanctity of (your) beard. " people begged me to fondle my beard. "

He was still slapping on his face. Nobody dared to approach him.

He finally stopped slapping himself his face. We could hardly realised that by such frantic self-hurting , he was demonstrating his deep regret for not being able to recompense our hospitality by money.

We assured him somehow that he was welcome and did not need to pay us for hosting him. The pilgrim dropped in on us on his way back to his home. " Be sure, I'll never slap my face ! " I said laughing.

Ali woke me up for the food eaten before the dawn of the fasting day or ' SAHARII. ' He looked unhappy with me who did not pray or ' NAMAZ '.

In the morning he served me with fresh dairy including a plate full cream. In addition to a handfull piece of cheese that he offered me to eat later on way. He was self-sufficient for every foodstaff except bread or ' NOON ' and grain. It was not the last visit that I paid to him onc for ever, sometimes I drop in on him on-route to Tehran. In the most recent visit, he no longer looked too weak to keep all his belonging in his KALATE . He asked me if I could find a good customer for his livestock and his garden.

" KHODA HAFEZ " and " Baraye Hamechiiz, Vaghe'an Kheilii Moteshakeram ! "

Thank you very much indeed for everything !

No matter a tough riding about 20 km up to the pass called: GARDANYE AHOVAN , I had regained enough energy to afford the ride the heavy bike, because I had a perfect dinner and also a perfect sleep in the night before.

It was a rlief, the rest of the road after the pass was flat. As I reached top of the pass, I saw two adjacent carvansarays just by the road. One of them was brick-made and well-preserved but the other that was made of colossal stones was ruins. The first one dates back to the prosperous era of SAFAVID and the other's age goes back approximately to 2000 years ago, the vigorous reign of an Iranian king known as ANOOSHIRAVAN the Just. The first one was locked and the wall around were too straight and high to scramble them. I gave it up and went to try the other carvansaray in the neighbourhood. Nothing in particular interested me inside the next one. I enjoyed the fresh air of the altititude instead.

DAMGHAN

Damghan's very first name is SHAHRE SAD'DARVAZE meaning " The Town of 100 Gates." It indicates the flourishing days of the town in the past. The pre-historic mound of ' TAPPE HESAR ' near Damghan, proves the ancient history of the town. The mound is the very place where the skeleton has been excavated from.

In a rail laying operation near the town, a pre-historic cemetry was unearthed. It contained some exotic kind of graves made of stone boxes. They contained the remaining pieces of the skeletons. I had already seen the similar boxes at the historic mound of ' HEGMATANE ' in HAMADAN. There were also lots of pot shreds on Tappe Hesar.

In the following day, I came across with two men on my way to the excavation site. They volunteered to show me the empty grave where the skeleton was exhumed from. I willingly lay in the very grave and tried to take the same position of the skeleton. Unfortunately one of the men photoed only my head. Pity! There was also an unknown ruins of somewhere in the vicinity. A fox suddenly appeared out of blue, took a hasty look at us then ran away. It was soon lost from view.

We left TAPPE HESAR and were walking back to the town. I had to stop to mend my tyre flat. While pumping the tyre, I kept talking to the companions. Unnoticeably I lost track of my pumping and this time I caused a defening tyre blast just while settling the rear tyre in its place. ' PAAAAAAART ' I got terribly scared off the blast. Luckily, I stocked a new tube to replace it soon.

It was exactly the 60th, day of my cycling around the deserts.I was going to wind up the ultimate leg of the journey soon.

' MASH HASAN ' was the man who put me up in the 60th night of the trip. It was his seasonal job to look after the road construction machineries those parking in front his watch room. Many locals like Mash Hasan, have to leave their home towns (in winter ) in search of some seasonal job.

PART EIGHT

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A GOOD BYE TO THE DESERT

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( KHODA HAFEZ, KAVIR ! )

SHAHROOD

It was the town where I spent out about Rials 200, the money that was remaining from whole the $ 20 that I had at the beginning of the journey in MASHAD. Grape syrup or as it is known among the Iranian by the name of ' DOSHAB ', was the last thing that I bought in Shahrood. I knew that it contained enough nutriment to the tough cycling up the pass ahead.

Shahrood was the final point where I changed my course northwards back home. And, it was also the point where I had to make the last sad farewell to the mystifying desert. No longer I had to bid a good bye to somewhere I was pretty sure that I would miss it. What a great, great pity that I was leaving those lands that soon. For a moment, I really felt myself like a child who was going to lose his mother for ever. I tried to sooth myself by cherishing the hope of returning to desert some day.

The mausoleum of the Iranian famous poet, BAYAZID in BASTAM was the last place where I paid a fly visit to it in the nearby town of BASTAM.

I hastily cycled out of the town. The frantic race again began between my tired legs and the sun that was hastening westwards. At first I was sure that I could reach the Toll-House of ' KHOSH YEILAGH ' on top of the pass before the night fall. But the unexpected gust was not blowing in my favour. I kept drinking the syrup of DOSHAB to retain my strength. It was only about 30 km left to reach the toll-house or RAHDAR -KHANE. With an awful thrill, I was challenging against the gust. I did not want to give in. Adrenaline was getting its maximum rate in my blood.

I reached a water pump station where I got some water. I would surely sleep there that night if the man welcomed me. It was twilight and I had managed to ride only 10 km. Getting dissapointed, I stopped in a parking. The more I moved ahead , the colder it was getting. No building was seen around. I was trapped. There was a car in the parking . The driver firmly advised me to take some vehicle to get to the Rahdar Khane because it would become so cold soon. He himself stopped a truck and asked for a lift stressing :

" Please, take him to the Rahdar Khane, No, further down to the next village of KHOSH YEYLAGH ! "

" Don't care him ( me ) if he asks you drop him at the Rahdar Khane. He is crazy ! " he insisted.

" Hey, stop! Please, stop here ! " I called the driver to put me down in front of the Rahdar Khane. I was determined to enjoy an effortless diving approximately 10 km from top of the pass down the meandering road to the bottom next morning. I should sleep in the Rahdar Khane tonight. The windy weather already turned to snow storm when the truck reached the Rahdar Khane. No matter how wildly the stom was howling, because I was just in front of the Rahdar Khane.

I had no doubt about a ' welcome ' specially in such a stormy night. My surrounding area was reminding me the documentary films about the nights of the Poles. Clanking sound of my walking on the snow was so exhilirating.

" Come in and get warm for a while ! " the two toll-men inside the Rahdar Khane called me in.

They looked suspecious about my cycling the long way around the deserts.

" I'm afraid, we are not allowed to accommodate strangers here ! " one of the pair said.

" It's only 100m to the next toll-house. Go overthere, we'll just inform our collegues by radio. " they tried to persuade me to go from there.

" How ruthless they must be ! " I thought while leaving the house.

The gust wildly slapped my face as I opened the door. It was so densly foggy that I could hardly saw my front.

The road was light by sodium gas lamps. Nevertheless it was 100% risky even to walk on such slippery surface of the road. The storm was forcefully pushing me to the valley at the right side. On the other hand, the bald tyres of my bike was another potential danger. Both of the tyres and the storm scared me back to the house. It would become a kamikaze attemt if I walked a few more steps ahead. God helped me, I carefully pushed my bike back on the frozen asphalt to the house.

I was expecting for a vehicle to give me a lift to the next village. The window of the house was opened and one of the toll-men called me: " You're not gone yet ? “

“ Come in ! “

" Excuse us, we took you for a false cyclist from somewhere right near around. We did not realise that you had really been cycling back from a long distant way. " They pardoned me.

" Given you went ,Be sure, we would radiod the next Rahdar Khane. " they accounted for their behaviour. They confessed that in such an emergency case, they must help the passengers by supplying them with food, accommodation and etc. I dinned with the men then went to sleep. The snow storm was still howling outside. I was thinking of the joyful cycling of the next morning back home.

When I left the Rahdar Khane, one of the men was already clearing the road by his buldozer. To my surprise, it was sunny. I looked all around the pass, everywhere was covered by snow. It was too dangerous to let the bike surf down the road. I double feared when I thought how dangerous it could be if I attemped cycling on the road the night before. I also realised that free cycling down a slope, could be as much dangerous as slow riding on uphill. Both of the brakes should be half clinched or I would certainly have a fatal crash to the bottom of the valley on the right. Anyway, I could keep the control and was enjoying gliding on the road.

I was so much thrilling for the last day of my cycling that I instinctively began singing . I was loudly singing the English songs those I was making them by my own and right on the spot. They were quite on live :

" I'll be there, you'll be there, ........... "

" Never, Never, I will never forget you, ........... " I went on crying while surfing down the quiet road.

I was really flyin g so high, and enjoying the final kilometers, but it was a great, great pity that I could not share my joy with my very good companions; Pavel and Jana, Bernard and Sandra. In the very exciting and emotional moments of my journey, I was missing them all indeed. I was terribly missing Pavel and Jana.

The landscape around totally varied as I cycled down the pass into the mountaneous part of the road . Unlike the desert roads of the south, the nature still was green and alive here.

After about 16 km effortless riding, I hit the last check post of the Disciplinary Forces or ' Nirooye Entezami '. I was checked neither by the last post nor the ones before. It was rather incredible to the forces of the check post that I was cycling back from around the deserts as much unlikely as it sounded to the toll-men of the Rahdar Khane too.

The last post was the beginning of the NODEH forest or its Iranian equivalent as : JANGAL-E-NODEH.

The forest was bald and no longer as much soulless as a beautiful bald girl.

The closer I got to home, the more I got thrilled. The countdown to my arrival into home has already been started; 35 km, 34 km, 33 km,32 km,........

Contrary to what I predicted before, the DOSHAB was not well enough energising to finish the rest of the journey back home. I already stopped singing. Instead of singing, I was thinking of the steady days that I was going to have any longer. Therefore, the beginning and the end of a journey sounds alike.

The green fields were good welcome of the nature around. When I recalled the barren lands of the deserts and compared them with the green lands in nothern Iran, I realised what a great difference was between them.

I could buy only 1kg grape and some little amount of bread. There was only Rials 100 (wothing about one eighth of a cent) remaining from whole the $ 20 that I had in Mashad.

As I cycled out of the last town of AZAD SHAHR , the roadside sign read: GONBAD KAVOOS 15 km. Another countown to home ; 14 km, 13 km, 12 km,............

I never bothered to tidy myself up before cycling into the town.

I cruised through the streets to the town's cemetry, the first place where I had already planned to go. Mum was the first one whom I had intended to pay homage to her grave and read FATEHA, the famous verse of the holy QORAN that is read for the dead.

I did not know if she would ever agree with such a lenghty cycling if she was alive.

There was not any welcome-to-home ceremony for my returning. Shafie was in TABRIZ when I arrived back home. I missed him by then .

Because of riding rather fast, nobody could recognise me in such an untidy appearance.

" BE KOJA ? "

" Where to ? " somebody yelled.

" HIJ'JA "

" Nowhere " I sadly murmured.