Posts from — August 2008

As some of you may be worried, I feel that I should let you know that I am alright. I am moving on to Turkmenistan tomorrow and will not be posting for at least a week I think. No one should worry, though I will be happy to receive messages and commentary anyway.

daily distance: 43km
total distance: 8132km
riding time: just over 2h

This is a bit on the long side and I apologize.

This is what my wallet looks like now …

But let me start out from the beginning. I left busy Mashhad over some highways and found my way to the road to Sarakhs. It’s a pretty straight shot to get there. The first town was a bit gloomy and I quickly put it behind me. Little did I know that I would come back later in the day. The temperatures were high, the wind was coming in from the front, but all was manageable.I reached a little town by the name of Razaviyeh and deicded to put in a stop, have a bite to eat and move on. All of this would have taken 15 minutes. Got some cream cheese and moved to the bakery, which was just putting out the fresh goods. Great. The people there were friendly and welcoming, I moved my bike over. As they refused payment and I was wearing my bike shorts I put the wallet back in my handlebar pack and shot some pictures. This is one of them …

And this is when it happened. When I got back to the bike my wallet was gone. I wasn’t sure whether I had misplaced the wallet so I did a thorough search. Nothing. I had this sinking feeling. It was no longer there. All was lost. Money, cards and no way to get a hold of money here in Iran really. It’s possible, but it would not be easy. I could call some people and probably solve the problem, but this feeling of intense frustration at the situation and importantly at myself. My own stupidity, I didn’t separate the money out as I usually do as I had changed some yesterday and hadn’t thought of things.

People were milling about, I looked around for help. The bakery people needed to keep moving, they tried their best, but the language barrier. The seconds stretched into eternity. I mentioned the police, didn’t know what else to do. Rationalize the situation. Money I could somehow get a hold of. But time was of the essence too. My Iran visa had 5 days left, my Turkmen visa begins in 3 and I need all 5 days that I have on it to get through the country.

An emergency vehicle comes and the guy speaks broken English. He calls the police. Someone else comes by - Sayid - who speaks English and says that things will be alright. How can things be alright I think? Somehow I know this will turn out right, but try to rationalize in that situation. The police comes, uses their walkie-talkie antennas to shoo all the kids away and start to handle the situation. I don’t have much hope that anything will be recovered. A second English speaker comes by. He too turns out to be from the municipality. I reluctantly go with Sayid on his bike, not wanting to leave the scene of the crime. But there is nothing for me to do. The thief is long gone. So we pedal away and I am asking loudly why the !@# I made a stop here. He says again that the police will find the wallet. How much hope do I have? Exactly zero, you’re right. At the municipality they give me tea, melon, cookies and are super kind. The strategy game begins to take shape in my mind. Whom to call for what. Credit cards must be canceled if things don’t turn up fast. Then, all of a sudden, there are 10 police officials in the room. All of them barrel-chested , stern looking. One is in uniform, the others in civilian clothing. Everyone is laughing, except me. I understand little, translation is spotty. They ask no question, but work off a list that I had drawn up before. Wallet, money, cards. A little while later a kid is brought in, I recognize him from the bakery area. That may be the guy. I feel anger welling up inside me, am baffled when someone gives him melon. Good cop, bad cop? I am shown an album, not sure what I am looking for. There were tons of people around. I don’t recognize anyone. Then, they all leave. I am on my own with the municipality people. I want to check whether I didn’t leave the wallet in the bags and am told that this is not necessary. Someone has seen something, someone taking the wallet. So it was stolen. A trace at least. Hence the good mood. Mine lightens up too. One guy says: “The Game is Over.” Speaking of my trip. Everyone laughs. I don’t. It is not over!

We chat a bit more, they ask me about the languages I speak. I mention French and soon enough find myself in another building, a mile away or so. My mood has gone sour again, the kid has been held for too long, he’s not talking. Alright, so I am to talk French in all this to someone who has been living there. Great. That’s what I need. I go anyway.

The guy is pleasant, his French superb. He wants the details. I recount the events. He makes phone calls, says that some organization will provide funds for me - at least until the border he says. They feel that this is their responsibility. I say that I will manage somehow. Not sure how yet. He hears none of it. Sayid receives a call, says that we must go. They have something. Happiness … Another call. Stay where you are. The 10 police officers march into this place now. The uniform guy carries something that resembles my wallet. It is torn up … ripped pieces. What they ….? Who does this? At least sell it. Or throw it away, leaving no trace. But this is stupid. Alright, so nothing. Then a dramatic gesture by the uniform guy. He pulls out a plastic bag with my cards and the dollars. WOW! The Euros are not there and the Iranian Rials are missing. Are you sure? Yes, positive. Nothing else was found. All of this in a mixture of Farsi, French and English barrages on me.

Then, I realize that all along there has been a guy sitting on a chair, handcuffed. So this is him. A lot of shouting about the Euros. Everything is very intense, but also professional. He starts crying, pleads with the police. I am told that the dollars, the wallet and the cards were found in different places. I say that there must be a fourth place then. They agree, but they can’t find anything. They want to try though. I am unsure about my feelings towards the guy. He looks pathetic, likely a drug user, scraggy and I almost have pity with him. Everyone leaves again. We all go to the police station in the gloomy looking town. On the way I am told about a trace on the Euros. Maybe they will turn up. Cudos to the police. They were fast, very fast indeed. Have some feelings about how they did this. But am pushing this aside for the moment. The guy’s face looked fine, though I wasn’t present at all times.

The kid had seen the guy, Hadi, take the wallet. Things make more sense now. Hadi is a known criminal - it’s not the first time he has a run-in with the police. He had seen me arrive and followed me, waiting for his chance. I had given him a wide-open one.

This is what I noted down at the police station until about 2pm. I have to wait until 5pm for some reason. There is a person to whom Hadi claims to have given the money to. I have a day to play around with before having to reach the border town. The police give me lunch. The pity I had for Hadi fades quickly when I see him smile at me sardonically at the police station. He knew what he was doing and the police knows it.

I was to find out later by the uniform guy that he beat Hadi. Someone also tells me that “this is how the police does things here”. I guess I wouldn’t have my money otherwise. But I am very disturbed. Here I am, writing against torture and now I am the beneficiary of similar tactics. It bothers me majorly. The uniform guy shows me his swollen hand and expects me to be impressed. Instead I try weakly to show my misgiving about the tactics used, but the language barrier makes this very difficult without offending him entirely. Why do I care about offending him? The whole episode troubles me now and gnaws at me.

The police is shuttling me back forth because of their lack of coordination with the municipality. I end up with them in the police cruiser when one officer gets out and certainly is not working his regular duties in the part of town that houses Afghan refugees. His colleague points out that these are not humans - I don’t like him much. He is a conceited son of a gun.

Eventually I am brought back to Razaviyeh where I am to spend the night. My bike has been there all along, in the town hall. On the street we see Sayid who invites me to his house to sleep there instead of the fire station. I accept gratefully. I am completely exhausted. I am down 250 EUR, have barely enough money to reach the border with Uzbekistan now. The municipality has given me money to reach the border and for the remainder I have some dollars. Will have to make those last.

The night is an interesting one. We go to his neighbor’s place where a good number of people celebrate the birth of Imam Hossein who is another of the 11 imams and who is also a martyr, he died in Kerbala. A great deal of emotionality ensues at his story, many of the men cry (which is a a bit strange still for me and somewhat unexpected).

I am now also told that the boy had nothing to do with all of this, that the police has found Hadi on their own. They still beat him though. He is said to have given the Euros to someone from Esfahan, the police being on the lookout for him. The whole affair has been escalated and court proceedings are under way. Apparently, there is also an undercover operation going on to find the person. It all sounds a bit incredible to me. Good story, but is it true?

I am falling asleep fast in Sayid’s place, feeling secure for the first time today after all this time in the police station and uncertain about how things will move along. Thanks Sayid!!!

It was bike maintenance day. I had to take care of the bike again. Changed the brake pads and adjusted some other things, but it was nothing major. All is well with the bike and all the screws that I was concerned about are holding up nicely.

I strolled around town for the afternoon, just taking in the city.

Went back to the shrine for the evening prayer, which I had heard was quite an impressive sight. It was. Tens of thousands of people, separated between the sexes of course were praying. It was an interesting place to be.

Finally, a friend of Reza’s wanted to meet up with me as she had heard that a German-speaking cyclist was in town. We had interesting conversations over dinner with a friend, half German, half English.

And in good fashion and timely given the release of the Batman movie, Reza’s son showed up as … Batman.

Note: There are many pictures on the flickr site, head over there for more impressions.

I thought about another heading: Tehran traffic inside the shrine of Imam Reza. But one thing after the other. We got out earlyish. We, meaning Reza driving Cyrielle, Ludovic and myself into town, close to the shrine of Imam Reza. We made our way there and were intercepted right off the bat. Not a good start. The area is guarded heavily after a bombing a few years back. We had to leave our bags behind and then were escorted to what is referred to as Guidance Office for Foreign Pilgrims aka Control over Foreign Elements Agency.

We are shown a video (which I didn’t want to watch, but rather would have liked to be amazed by the real stuff) and then had to sign in. We were also given some propaganda … (most pretty innocuous, trying to convert you to be a Muslim, but ranging to the nasty I should say, particularly the magazine on the right here).

We get a guide to lead us to the museum (well, forced upon us is a better term). We are told not to go to the shrine as we are not Muslims. Everyone had told us to say yes and go ahead anyway, so we were going to give it a shot. Here are a few shots of the museum, a strange amalgamation of items. It all ranges from the bizarre to the disgusting.

The shrine belongs to a charity which in turn owns 90% the province of Khorestan - or so I hear. It is immensely rich, people donate money at this site like crazy (hence this picture, Martin). There are truck loads full of money that leave the place every day I hear, small wonder given that last year the place attracted 22 million visitors. It is the most important pilgrimage site for Shia. Essentially, the organization functions like a state within a state.

On the way in, we were controlled for cameras and other items. For some reason, my little camera escaped the control (it wasn’t overly difficult) and with all the picture cell phones in use, the rule itself makes little sense as far as I am concerned. Hence the pictures in this post.

So, the three of us decided to split up and each would try to get into the shrine. Cyrielle, wearing a chador should have no problems. Not recognizable as a Western woman. Ludovic with his beard was made fun of as being from Afghanistan anyway. I on the other hand was a bit of a liability. I stood out big time and couldn’t really pass for the traditional picture of a Muslim (if there is such a thing). But, I shouldn’t have worried. Walk in, walk out type of deal. You go with the crowds, stay a bit away from the people standing at the entrances and that’s it. There is no real control anyway and it couldn’t be strict even if someone wanted it to be strict. The number of people would simply not allow that. You proceed from one large room to the next, each of which is more glittery and decorated than the one before. Then, you finally get to it. And it feels like Tehran in rush hour. The place is insane. Nothing short of insane. Everyone is trying to get a hold of a silver cage under which the tomb is located. 10m below that is. So, people are trying every which way to get there, pushing and showing at their hearts’ delight and showing little concern for others. Like Tehran (and Mashhad) city traffic.

Interestingly enough, the women’s side is even more chaotic. The sea of chadors was in a constant state of flux. Elbows were thrown everywhere, the wardens on the other side of a glass barrier had a hard time keeping things under control. That to me is not what religion is about. Compassion? Forget it. It’s all Darwin at that moment. And despite all this, it is a powerful and moving place. The intensity of the place is palpable. The martyrdom metaphor so often heard and associated with the Imams makes many a person cry and sob in front of the silver cage. No one is the least bit put off by someone’s display of emotion. I must admit that the place held some fascination for me - not so much for the spirituality of the place (I am lacking the basics on knowing enough about Imam Reza and his importance for Shia religion), but rather the behavior and intensity with which people approached the place. This to me was the most fascinating aspect of the visit.

We all left the tomb area and wondered around a bit more throughout the afternoon (and yes, it’s worth checking out the names of the perfumes on this next picture).

After bidding our goodbyes from Cyrielle and Ludovic (who were getting on a grueling and long bus ride to Yazd), Reza and I made our way back home where Reza’s mother had prepared a wonderful meal to finish off the day.

daily distance: 74km
total distance: 8091km
riding time: just over 3h

There again isn’t much to report. Apart from maybe that the wind picked up at night and ripped big time at the tent. Not really pretty as it made sleeping difficult. Everything had calmed down when I went to bed only to come back with a vengeance a couple of hours later. In the morning I am first given more fruit, including some very yummy grapes.

The kids were amazed at everything concerning the strange bicycle in their tree lined dirt road …

Then it was time to head to Mashhad and it was a short ride ultimately. 50km, done by mid-morning. I took some backroads and again had almost no traffic. There were trees on the sides of the road until just before Mashhad. Beauty of a ride. When I entered the city, the road turned into a washboard and traffic was crazy.

As Reza was at work until later, I put in another long internet session to move things along on my US visa application. Not without hitting up some ice cream parlors though.

Then it was time to head to his place, which was further out than I thought at first, but which is also extremely beautiful. Reza is the local couchsurfing ambassador and had two other travelers at his place from France. Cyrielle and Ludovic are siblings and are traveling by bus and other means from China back to France. Their reports are great and together with Reza, his brother and his uncle we had a wonderful evening sharing stories and experiences.