Having cycled so far we were both absolutely gutted to be transported over the border. It was a strange feeling to be entering a country we were both really excited about seeing and which was immediately different but to feel so low about it. I also wasn't used to travelling 250 miles in a day and my head was swimming trying to take in the rugged scenery, truly terrifying driving, the women in black chadors, giant concrete fruit, queues for the daily ration of petrol, people carrying bricks of cash, Tracey in a headscarf, eating a strange lunch sitting cross legged without shoes on a day bed and the Farsi language we could neither read, speak or decipher.
In Tabriz we found ourselves staying in the same place as Rob and Julie, Australian cyclists who were also a doctor and physiotherapist! The good news was they thought that there was no fracture or serious ligament damage to Tracey's knee (but that we should get an x-ray to check) , the bad news was that they felt it could be another 3 weeks before she should ride again.
Not to be outdone I ate a boiled sugar beet with a maggot in it and next morning collapsed whilst pissing in the communal squat toilet - anyone familiar with Iranian toilets or incontinence will know this was not a good move. There followed a spell of vomiting and feeling like death and both of us spent most of the day in bed - the sick and the wounded!
Once recovered Tabriz was pleasant for a large city: the weather was warm and sunny, there is a fantastically large and atmospheric bazaar (though Tracey did not appreciate having her bum slapped by a lecherous butcher selling sheep's arse) and a museum with interesting Iranian artifacts from some of the earliest civilisations. The people were amazingly friendly - stopping us in the street to welcome us to Iran/Tabriz and ask where we were from - something which has continued throughout the country.
From Tabriz we took the 1st class sleeper train to Tehran (15 hours, 400 miles), though the bikes left several hours later on the 2nd class train. We passed flaring oil refineries and the flat plain of Orumiyeh salt lake as darkness fell and once again felt excited to be travelling but disappointed not to be cycling - a feeling that would be with us for the next few weeks.
Tehran is perversely the dullest, friendliest, most dangerous and polluted capital city I have had the misfortune to spend a week in. Dull because the religious hardliners seem to want to close any public place where young people might possibly meet and flirt. In a city of 15 million there is hardly a cafe to sit in (and of course no bars, clubs, etc). The parks are pleasant but what the hell do you do of an evening or when its cold? There is little to do but talk to friendly students and paup the streets from museum to museum past giant murals of the Ayatollahs, martys from the Iran-Iraq war and anti USA slogans and put your life in someone else's hands crossing the roads through the choking din of the traffic clogged streets.
The roads are 4-6 lanes wide, solid with moving cars, buses and motorbikes and there are no pedestrian crossings - you literally have to make an act of faith and step out into the moving traffic whereupon vehicles either swerve around you, slow down or stop as you shuffle between the lanes and surely only Chaos Theory can explain how each time you get to the other side safely. This IS a terrifying experience for the first couple of days after which it starts to seem normal! The traffic and pollution is horrendous and driving terrible - we saw two accidents. In the tranquil oasis of the Iranian Artists Forum there was an excellent exhibition of anti-traffic images that could not have been more fitting.
The first snows of winter dusted the mountains that overlook the city and Tracey had her knee X-rayed at the hospital which showed no fracture. We spent an unfortunate amount of time tooing and froing between the British, Pakistan and Indian embassies applying for visas and waiting around for them to be granted. During this time I started to lose the will to live and convinced Tracey that an overnight trip out of the smog to get some mountain air and relax in a thermal spa was what was needed. I had not factored in rain/snow and the cold of being over 2500m high. We couldn't see the highest mountain in central Asia (Mt Damavand,5671m) due to being in the cloud, in fact we could barely see the ends of our noses, but this did not seem to trouble the taxi driver who sped around wet, rock strewn hairpin bends on the mountain road up to the muddy spa village of Ab Kharm. We couldn't afford the spa hotels and found ourselves in a fairly bleak freezing cold room sleeping in the traditional style (a thin mattress on the floor). The sulphurous volcanic water was too hot to sit in and it was pouring outside. We were so desperate we made our own backgammon game with nuts and raisins as markers. We had reached a low point on the trip. Back in Tehran we found that the hotel staff had been through the entire contents of both our bags - though we are still unsure if anything was stolen.
I was so glad to be taking the sleeper train from Tehran south to Esfehan (8hrs, 300 miles). We had been told to arrive 2 hours early to book the bikes into "cargo" whereupon they would arrive 3-4 days after us. However when we got to the station "cargo" was shut! We saw the station manager who was brilliant and got our bikes on the train with us at no cost. We shared a 6 birth cabin with two young Iranian couples and I amused Tracey by causing a musical chairs scenario through my failure to grasp seating etiquette between men and women.
After Tehran, Esfehan seemed wonderful and it is one of the great cities for Muslim architecture. We spent some days sightseeing mosques, palaces, bridges, temples, bazaars, bathouses and tearooms around the famous Immam Square. We agreed to help out Ali an Iranian english teacher and visited his language school to speak with three classes of young women, which I enjoyed and found quite revealing. Ali also helped show us around the city and sample the many flavours of non-alcoholic beer - pomegranate was the best!
We had hoped to continue on bikes but Tracey's knee was still not 100% so we took a 7hr bus ride south to Shiraz and sped through high desert plateaus where the Zagros mountains reared straight up from the flat valleys in steep rocky cliffs. Alas the shiraz wine that inspired some of Irans most famous poets is no longer to be found. To distract Tracey from this fact we visited more mosques, bazaars, shrines, palaces and gardens and took a tour to Persepolis, one of the world's great ancient sites - a huge complex of ruined palaces and tombs from the Archemenid empire (550-350BC). It is hugely impressive, the kind of place that still has you imaging and thinking about it days later.
We took the bus back to Esfehan and Tracey's knee finally felt well enough to ride. Four weeks after her accident we were around a 1000 miles further on and glad to back on the bikes heading out into the desert, the wind through our wooly hat/headscarf, the trucks blasting in our ears and the world below our wheels.
