Pedal the last 100+ kilometers to the country’s second largest city, helped by a good wind in the back. Dirty industrial quarters line the road for the last 20 or so kilometers, before giving way to city proper.

Hospitalityclub-host Mehdi meets me in the suburb where he lives, and he takes me home to his flat where I’ll rest up the next few days.

I will go back and forth to Tehran by train for a ten day vacation with my parents before returning here by late April to resume cycling north.

Pass by a beautiful valley, where blooming apple trees attracted domestic No Ruz-tourists in numbers for pick nick. Fresh apples, dried apricots and nuts are sold along the roadside. Ali, a random man out with his wife, invites me to share their lunch pick nick.

Camp by police checkpoint, next to a Red Crescent caravan.

Say goodbye to my wonderful hosts in Bajestan after a morning walk with Yaser and Moslem around the nearby ‘Victory roundabout’ – one with a bit of grass and trees, and of course also the odd tent of a family celebrating Now Ruz. Three laps. The name ‘Victory’ refers to the Iran-Iraq war, and photo portraits of the town’s young men who died in the same war, put up on small billboards along the towns few boulevards, remind its citizens of that same struggle, too.
Camp the night next to a police checkpoint caravan in Mehene, just past Feazabad.

Daughter Ahsam is quick to invite me to her family home in small-town Bajestan when I ask for directions ahead. Her fellow sisters, one brother, Yaser, and their mother greets me, and lets me stay the day/night. I end up hanging out with Yaser the whole day. He and his best friends, brothers Moslem and Mohsen, take me on an unforgettable tour around town, and I wish I was 19 years old, too. Later, friend of family Mohammad from Tehran shows us to a nearby village, where his father stays and herd sheep. Beautiful!

No escort today. Boring desert cycling. Camp at a police checkpoint, next to a Red Crescent Youth Organization tent. The two teenagers who work in the latter take me for a motorbike tour through town in the evening. Nice!

After 50 kilometers of escort – the police in a car, following me from behind – the police get tired of my slow speed and decide that I have to join them in the pick-up. 85 kilometers by car. Reach town Deyhuk an hour later.

Camp the night at a roundabout, next to a police station. The mosque park on the other side of the road is packed with twenty or so camping families with tents, and by 15:15, they toast the No Ruz – Iranian New Year 1388 – by raising a glass of mineral water.

Just 20 kilometers outside Ravar, a police car with two officers wait for me by the roadside, their trunk already open. I instantly get it. I’d known beforehand of the fact that drug smugglers roam the area, and that they’ve occasionally kidnapped, but never harmed, foreigners. Because of this, the police wants to escort me part of the way. As one of the officers drives, the other one scans the desert horizon with a pair of antique-looking binoculars, looking for those smugglers. When I ask them to be let go to cycle again, they repeatedly say: ”Danger”.

After some 75 kilometers, I’m let go. Another police car stops me just an hour further north, but I’m allowed to continue by bike. The last 20 kilometers, I’m again escorted, but this time the police vehicle follows me behind instead of actually driving me. I end up camping at a police checkpoint. The village Nayband which is marked out on the map, turns out to be a police checkpoint with an adjacent prison (!!).

Along the road, Mehdi, his wife and her English-speaking sister Akram invite me to their home in Ravar. Arriving in the late afternoon, they treat me like a king with great food, snacks and drinks, and wonderful company throughout the evening. Sleep on mattress on the living room floor.

My plan was to cycle north through the Kaluts desert but plans change when parked at a police checkpoint a truck runs over the wheel of my trailer. It’s completely smashed. He gives me 20 dollars on the spot, and a ride to main-city Kerman some 120 kilometers further west. A new wheel is five bucks, and a night in a hotel is another five. My route changes to follow the more western desert road past Ravar and Ferdows. Today, I also experienced my first real rain since Slovakia, I think!

Climb to mountain village Jebal Barez at 1,800 meters, where through a brother-in-law I’m invited to English-teacher Mohammad’s house. After an afternoon visit back to Jiroft, to see the pre-No Ruz buzz, the drive back up to Jebal Barez at night is about the most scary ride I’ve been on. Iranians truly drive suicidal.

It’s so so pleasant to leave behind the heat of the Persian Gulf – each day climbing further in land and up into the mountains of Iran.

Was invited by a man for a home stay again today, but when I reach his house in main-town Jiroft, there is just too much opium smoking for me to feel comfortable. I leave the smelly (think ‘old socks’) smoke behind and instead head for the police. After a 0,00% strawberry flavor beer with the police chief, and a long hour of misunderstandings (they thought my tent had been stolen and drove off to find it!) they finally call an English-speaking guy who comes over to translate. Get to camp next to a small police hut, in the middle of a six-lane main-road. Noisy.

Get invited by some Kurds (a long way from their home land Kurdistan in northwest Iran) to spend the night in their apartment in small-town Kahnuj. Didn’t take more than 48 hours in Iran to also get my first, but not last, invitation to drink alcohol and smoke opium. I decline both of them.

Leaves crooked Bandar Abbas behind and start climbing inland, looking for that true Iran. It’s suffocating hot after three lazy weeks in air-conditioned Dubai, but it won’t take too many days to acclimatize. Pitch my tent by a police checkpoint some seven kilometers before town Rudan.

It’s the 22nd Esfand (December) 1387, and Iranians are preparing themselves to celebrate new year in just 9 days’ time. Cleaning, shopping of gifts and presents – the mood and the rush in the markets is the same as in Sweden just before Christmas.

Take the ferry across to Bandar Abbas and Iran. The TV on board shows Mr Bean – I guess it’s truly international humor. I can’t think of any country where it wouldn’t work.

Sea sick pills are handed out. Then puke bags. Then food – sallad, kebab, rice, an apple, bread, a can of Pepsi, tea and a dry biscuit.

Reaching Bandar Abbas, I make company with Dutch 18-year old Wladimir who is on a backpacking tour. A banana salesman from Afghanistan helps us to find a small police station, located between the harbor and the bazaar, by which we can put our tents up for sleeping.

Details on ferry from Sharjah to Bandar Abbas
Ticket 290 Dirhams (no extra charge for bicycle up to 50 kg)
Immigration fee in Sharjah 20 dirham
Check-in at the port by 07.30
Departure at 11-12?
Arrival late evening.

After a more than three week long stay in Dubai (I had planned on 10 days), waiting for my visas to Uzbekistan and Iran, I finally got set to leave today. I have a boat ticket for tomorrow morning, that will take me across the Persian Gulf to Bander Abbas, from where I’ll begin cycling north. Finally! My impression of Dubai hasn’t been the best, so I’m more than happy to get going again. Here is a short piece on my stay in this city where everything is Impossible:
Getting things done in Dubai turned out to be much more difficult than I had expected. People – expats, that is, as local Emirates are rarely to be seen and never to be met – have on the contrary been about as friendly and helpful as is possible; saving most of the otherwise dreadful days. Now just to explain the city given that you just like me probably imagine a modern, well-planned thing (construction begun less than 40 years ago), here is a shortlist of facts that might change your perception:
- To cross the main-road which cuts through Dubai (Sheikh Zayed Rd.), you’d often have to walk several kilometers in either direction to find an under- or overpass.
- To take a taxi, you’d better know the exact route to where you’re going (even for sometimes obvious landmarks) as taxi drivers here have no clue. Those of them that have a GPS don’t know how it works.
- To find the Uzbekistan consulate took me over a week, despite great help from local Mathew who drove me around the area for a total of five hours; occasionally using four-wheel-drive since many roads here are under (constant) (re)construction. The tourist information – in fact not even the Ministry of Tourism – had no clue of the address, or worse gave me incorrect directions.
- To phone abroad you’ll have to face that Skype is blocked by the government, which in turn owns one of only two tele companies.
- And speaking about Internet, it is regularly super-slow. ‘Sorry, our low-bandwidth version of this page has been suspended’, said the website of UPS.
- To reach the most well known bicycle shop in town, most people put their bike in the back of their car and drive there – the shop is all but impossible to reach without cycling partly on the ten-lane highway. I was lucky to meet British Lee who drove me there.
- To go by any transport from Sharjah to Dubai in morning, you’d have to calculate for up to four hours time in the traffic jams. The distance? 40 kilometers.
- To read Sweden’s largest on-line newspaper is only sometimes possible, when the regime hasn’t blocked/censored the article because of some semi-nude photos.
- To find a map of Iran? Forget it.
Last but not least a huge thanks to all those who made my stay fun despite the above: Mathew and Angela from Alaska/Kentucky, Lee from the UK, Fabio from Italy, Fereshteh, Mohsen and Hamid from Iran. All of them living and working here since months, years or even decades.
Next update will follow from somewhere in Iran.