Pedaling from the Black Forest to the Yellow Sea

I meet Ali I in the morning at the main square, not far from where I am staying in a hotel. We go to his friend’s office and have one of the most open discussions I could have dreamed of. Hence no real names here, I never wanted to know the lawyer’s real name. He is extremely open about his job and Ali I says not to worry from the start out. We begin withe the usual stuff to sort of break the ice, I am uncertain where this will be heading. I would be happy with answers about the legal system and education (I am geeky I know), but we move beyond this pretty quickly. I ask about his life as a lawyer and some of the difficulties he is facing. He reports about pressure in certain cases he has taken on. Pressure from government officials and others to move a certain way. He has also represented rape victims, a case he knew he would lose for his client. It cannot be won. There were clear evidentiary elements (mole in certain places and the like), but the Sharia didn’t allow a conviction unless four witnesses could testify to that extent. Hard to do in most rape cases I would think. That was his thought also, as well as that of the judge. He couldn’t do anything though. Ali III (let’s call him that for lack of imaginative names on my part) says that the judge was sympathetic, sent the man to a doctor to clarify the location of the mole and to put it into the verdict. But he knew that he couldn’t go further. Any contrary decision would have been certainly overruled. My question as to whether there is any way to change the law in this regard is met with an incredulous smile by Ali I and Ali III. “You have to understand, Markus: if that were to happen the powers would put into question their very raison d’etre. They would never do that. The God-derived laws can’t be changed - and any attempt would be interpreted as a move away from the God-given order, which would lead to the collapse of the whole system.” There are many more questions and Prof. Friedman would have been proud of me (only a slight bit of irony here).

I spend the rest of the day escaping the heat in the Yazd Water Museum (actually more impressive than it sounds as it depicts age old underground irrigation canals covering large distances) and some more internet time at a reasonable connection.

On the way out of my hotel I meet Angie, a Scottish-Australian combo who is not too thrilled with her hotel choice. After a bit of a wander to try to see what one of the water towers looks like from the inside, we discover a really nice hotel at a very reasonable price for her. So while I get my stuff from the reception, she is sneaking into her room to get her belongings out (all within eyesight of the reception). I pull the guy over to a map and ask all sorts of silly questions and she makes it out (she didn’t have to submit her passport yet). The rooms in the hotel were amazing and everything very modern. I somehow get to the train station (bit of a in-and-out of cars) and end up in a compartment with five Iranians who can’t not stare at me. Thank goodness this is a sleeper train and we will be out soon … or so I am hoping at this point.

Yazd is one of those places that are a bit hard to appreciate.

And sometimes you have to get some refreshing coolness down below …

It is oppressively hot, but I knew that I guess. After some much-needed sleep I am up and running through the city. That run is interrupted soon though by meeting two guys - let me call them Ali I and Ali II. I meet them in one of the mosques I am taking a look at and we start to have an interesting discussion. We are joking a lot about some visitors that I would meet countless times again. They were Korean. Ali II says that they are South Korean. I agree, saying that the only North Koreans in the country might be found somewhere else - Ali II says: “Yeah, our nuclear facilities.” This goes on for a while. I mention what I do and when asked whether I want to talk to a lawyer at some point, I agree. This could be interesting. Ali I says to meet him at 9am the next morning after he puts a phone call to his friend.

I continue my stroll through this mud brick city, which is striking in many ways. You try to find shade wherever you go and the way the city is built makes this a not so hard affair.

But as with Esfahan, the place shuts down at 2pm for a few hours. I try to upload some pictures, run into an internet cafe that, while having a good line and grants access to flickr, makes it horribly difficult to actually work on the computers as they block the USB ports and only reluctantly accept my devices to transfer the files. But up they go in the end.

Towards night time I head to what is called the Towers of Silence, a place where the deceased were left by the Zoroastrians so as to not poison the earth (a major aspect of their religion). The place is eerie and the sunset beautiful in its own way (due to the dust in the air it is not as colorful as you may think it is).

I hitch a ride back - and to my surprise a car with women stops. A mother with her daughter. They are clearly liberal, the daughter’s head scarf falling off all the time. The mother speaks some good English, her grandfather is German she says and together we make our way back to the city.

At the end of the day another little episode of meet and greet. I am walking down a busy street. Someone falls into step with me, I get ready for the usual hellos and how are yous. All goes as anticipated. But the guy doesn’t move away from my side. I slow down, he slows down. I speed up a bit, he keeps pace. I stop. He stops. Nothing creepy really. The he says: “Excuse me Mr., what is a fluid?” I had seen an English language study book on him before. But what the hey? So I turn to a little water channel and point out that water is a fluid. So is gasoline and diesel. He says: “Thank you very much, Mr. Goodbye!”

My bus was leaving at 2:30pm, so I had some time to kill on Friday morning. Not intent on running around like a madman in order to see the “sights”,, I headed to the other side of the river and took a look at a cemetery on which some of the soldiers who died in the Iran - Iraq war are burried. Needless to say this is propaganda galore. But I must say that I find it interesting how states and their governments deal with this issue. In this case, the pictures of the soldiers are powerful reminders yet again (at least they were to me) that wars are not fought in a vacuum and that they are not the long-away wars that we in the West seem to think at times they are. Granted, the pictures serve a completely different purpose here - the places is commonly referred to as the martyr’s graveyard (or so I hear) … and you can draw your own conclusions from that.

On the way back I cross the river via the Khaju bridge again and a good number of men sing underneath the arches …

It was time to leave eventually and Naser had booked ahead for me on the bus and so that was a no-brainer. Unfortunately the AC in the bus failed after only 10 minutes of a 4 hour bus ride. Open doors, windows and hatches did little to remedy the situation. I was glad to not have done this by bike though. The desert wasn’t very pretty and the temperatures extremely high. The bus thermometer showed 44C, the outisde being much hotter.

Upon arrival in Yazd I met Mohsen of the local tourist office (a legend according to the Lonely Planet) and he lives up to the many praises he receives in the book. He points me to the train station and indeed drives me over despite having to go to Shiraz with his parents and gives me a range of pointers. In the train terminal I am helped by a young couple who also offer to drive me into the city. All was well … found a hostel (OK) and some people to have dinner with. Am sorted until Tehran.

This time it’s the tourist thing. I set out to not just wander around as I usually do the first day I am in a town, but have a bit of a plan as I am leaving again tomorrow and things will be closed then as it will be Friday.

In the Jome Mosque I meet Omid and three French guys (Gontran, Julien and Raphael). I am sitting there leafing through my guide book, amazed at what I see when Omid comes over and asks whether I want to join them for a tour. Only if this is not a bother I reply. Turns out that Omid is a real tour guide and couchsurfing host, the other three staying with him. Unlike yesterday no creepy feelings.

We have a blast of a day - and the city is amazing. Omid is extremely knowledgeable about all things Esfahan and he guides us throughout all of Esfahan’s great sites. But more importantly he gives us insights into the life of people in this city and again, for me, this was a big learning experience.

We have a late lunch - trying our luck in the first place, which basically turns us away for no reason. Omid is extremely annoyed - and feels that all of what he has worked for (trying to show us the good sides of his city and country) has been destroyed by the restaurant owner. We find a much better place with great food and have more fun throughout the afternoon.

The mosque did not escape history unscathed. Here is what is supposed to be a Russian bullet hole.

This one struck me …

So did this one …

In the evening I meet up with Peter, the father of Isabelle who happens to be in the city as well. Another good meal closes out the night - almost - with great conversations about our experiences traveling all over.

I meet up with our tour group of the day at the Khaju bridge, enjoying the atmosphere and just having a great time.

I get up and after talking to a German motorcyclist on his way to Malaysia, we set out to discover the city a bit. We tour the bazaar and a local medressah, Sepp talks to the warden who is a motorcycle freak and speaks some English.

I spend the afternoon updating the website and then almost fell for the oldest trick in the book. A guy comes up and asks me about country and so forth. His English and German are excellent. Amazing indeed. He says he is a tour guide and also something about couchsurfing and I say, sure I am one of those. He invites me to his place and I would have almost gone. Then I decide that I would spend the night in the hostel still and say that we could meet up.Then things become fishy: I said that I amin search of something. He says: “A girl?” I was simply looking for a good bookstore. He doesn’t drop the subject though and soon enough tells me about his problem with approaching girls. Very strange guy. I decide not to stay with him for sure. Creepy. I turn to be completely boring and he eventually gives me his phone # and says he has to go. I was glad to have lost him … not sure what the outcome would have been.

I turn back to the hotel and meet up with Nasser and his kids … we drive around town a bit more and very briefly I meet his wife. Nasser and I spend the rest of the evening in an interesting discussion at one of the best places in Esfahan. The Khaju bridge. There are lots of people milling around, listening to singers (all male of course and sadly) and just watching everyone.

I am told that I am an immoral person after not wanting to entertain person #217 of the day with respect to where I am from and what my name is. I like talking to people, but when the conversation is limited to this it becomes a bit difficult after a while.

For Esfahan, there are many more pictures on the flickr site.