When planning this trip I imagined a visit to Iran as eating dust and living like a refugee. Therefore it is almost embarrassing admitting that I had a Tehran apartment with three bathrooms, a swimming pool, and a private chauffeur named Ali to my disposition. The whole enchilada is explained by family relations in the Iranian branch of Statoil. Oh God, we were lazy. We slept late, ate Iranian pastries till our teeth ached (highly recommended), and we barely sat foot outside the gate, perhaps as a reaction to the prior weeks of motorcycle marathon. When planning this trip I imagined a visit to Iran as eating dust and living like a refugee. Therefore it is almost embarrassing admitting that I had a Tehran apartment with three bathrooms, a swimming pool, and a private chauffeur named Ali to my disposition. The whole enchilada is explained by family relations in the Iranian branch of Statoil. Oh God, we were lazy. We slept late, ate Iranian pastries till our teeth ached (highly recommended), and we barely sat foot outside the gate, perhaps as a reaction to the prior weeks of motorcycle marathon.
The managers of Lita & John Hostel

Despite the loss of an electrifying story of hardship and adventure in the capital, the wonderful hospitality of Lita, John and Ali was an indispensable experience. For five days we were spoilt, and on the last day we tailgated Ali to the outskirts of Tehran where we soon came back to earth. At that point I had driven through twenty countries, some of them infamous for their road patrols, but I had not yet been stopped by police. It might sound silly, but more and more frequently I gave a little extra twist on the throttle to get their attention, but they always just smiled. Those devious smiles, as if they enjoyed cheating me of the experience. Bastards. In Iran we often saw police vehicles ahead, only to discover that they were made of cardboard. But the policeman looking bored by the roadside south of Tehran was not a fake, and when he waved us to the curb I felt an absurd well of joy. What would he do? Would he put on a rubber glow and strip-search us? Yeah, yeah, c’mon!!! But the officer didn’t even ask for papers. Nor did he arrest us for driving on a road signposted as illegal for motorbikes. He had only two questions: What is your religion, and where are you going with it?

We brought our beliefs to Esfahan where alcohol is illegal as everywhere else in Iran, thus giving party animals a hard time. But Dirk was on the case. With the assistance of Helmut, his partner in crime, and by walking enough hours in the back streets, Dirk smelled (!) a source of canned whisky. The crime was successfully executed under the code name “Operation Potato Chips”, and for the next days we enjoyed several supplies of potato chips mixed with Iranian Pepsi Cola. The girl and I became very fond of Helmut and Dirk, and we were sorry when they one evening jumped into a taxi and disappeared in the direction of the airport.

The view from our scruffy room in Kashan

The next day the Turkish girl was to leave. It was not an easy farewell. We were no longer strangers. Instead we had become fellow travellers on one bike, all together a little ship in the desert, with no real destination but our selves. However, to face some realities, Balto was not prepared for two, and the girl was short of safety gear and insurance. With the long day rides ahead, in particular the nearly 1000km Bam-Quetta stretch infamous for drug traffic and the occasional kidnapping of overlanders, we would be fools to gamble with her safety.