After eating camel stew in Yazd I headed for Kerman, but because of a murder at the hostel I continued further south. Then it happened again, that the bike just stopped as if it was out of fuel. This reoccurring malfunction (usually happening when riding hard) was very annoying, especially when the bike gave up in front of a factory in the countryside. Iranians are very suspicious about foreigners lingering around their factories, and it was no surprise to see those security guards walk out the front gate. After eating camel stew in Yazd I headed for Kerman, but because of a murder at the hostel I continued further south. Then it happened again, that the bike just stopped as if it was out of fuel. This reoccurring malfunction (usually happening when riding hard) was very annoying, especially when the bike gave up in front of a factory in the countryside. Iranians are very suspicious about foreigners lingering around their factories, and it was no surprise to see those security guards walk out the front gate.
The citadel in Bam will rise again

First the guards wanted to know my nationality. Ah Norway, you go to world cup in football? I didn’t have a clue, and I could see their brains work like steam trains: “First he says that he is from Norway. Then he reveals that he know nothing about the Norwegian football team. Hmm… veeeery, veeery suspicious….” Luckily the bike started in a few attempts, and I got away before they fixed electrocute cables to my genitals.

By the way, did the Norwegians make it to the world cup?

Now, simply explained, the engine drank petrol faster than the tank could supply, and the probable cause was that the mesh filter in the carburetor was clogged. The filter had to be removed, meaning that the carburetor had to be dismounted. Detailed instructions came by email from Holland (thanks Auke), and a motorcycle garage in Bam had the tools. A translator told the mechanic what I wanted done. But when the translator left, the mechanic went out of control. No no no, don’t do that, I said, and people gathered around the bike in such numbers that I was squeezed out of the garage. There, in the street, a boy discovered the protection padding on my Lindstrands motorcycle jacket, thus the bike spectators came out and touched me all over, making me feel like Madonna in one of her erotic music videos. However, their departure from the garage made it possible for me to get in again. And there, under the dim light, I saw the mad face of a mechanic gone bananas. He was about to open the CDI unit. Although he did not speak a single word English, he understood very well what I was shouting at him.

Bam: What’s left of the famous Akhbar Guest House…

… though Mr. Akhbar himself (here shown in a very elegant positure) is happy that the building of his new 1000m2 guesthouse is about to begin

I spent a forenoon repairing what the mechanic repaired (you know, as if you’ve been naïve and had something made or done by Off The Road AG in Köln). Then I went for a stroll around town. The citadel was in ruins, but the reconstruction had begun. Houses were collapsed, but there were stacks of new bricks in the streets. The aid containers were left behind, but used for new businesses. Revival and blossom was on its way, though not yet overly visible. So, at dawn I got a full tank of petrol (NOK 10,-) and left for the Pakistani border, hoping to find a place that was more inviting. Yeah, in my dreams...

Who says that Iranians do not like to be photographed?
(I tried to take a picture of the petrol station behind them)