A coffee in Tehran - (IRAN)

From Salento (ITA) to  Lut desert (IRAN) and come back

PROLOGO

Ad Angela non piacevano le moto né le piaceva viaggiare, così nel 2011 ho deciso di partire da sola per un giro nella parte turca del Kurdistan.

La sera prima della partenza, mentre navigavo in un forum su internet, mi sono imbattuto in due motociclisti già in viaggio per Istanbul e li ho invitati a prendere un caffè anche se non avevo grandi aspettative che lo avrebbero fatto. La sera seguente, quando arrivai a Istanbul, conoii Aldo e Giovanni; ci siamo sentiti subito molto in sintonia l'uno con l'altro, così abbiamo viaggiato insieme per più di 10 giorni, avventurandoci fino al confine con la Siria e il Monte Ararat. A Dogubeyazit ho salutato loro, un cartello stradale per l'Iran era proprio lì, sotto il monte della Bibbia, eravamo a soli 30 miglia dalla dogana.

Ho catturato quel momento con una foto che immortalava la mia moto e il cartello stradale, sognando il momento in cui sarei finalmente riuscito a dirigermi in quella direzione e attraversare il confine; L'Iran sembrava chiamarmi.

Tornato a casa ho iniziato a leggere autori iraniani e altri libri sull'Iran, intensificando il mio desiderio di dare un'occhiata, di aprire una finestra e di poter vedere cosa c'è oltre quella barriera e di poter gustare un caffè a Teheran. Ben presto ho capito che la loro dogana era diversa dalle altre: troppa burocrazia!

Così per anni ho contemplato quella foto cercando di trovare il coraggio di superare la mia mentalità e la mia ostilità alle scartoffie.

Nel frattempo tante cose sono cambiate, Angela ora ama viaggiare, e con la sua moto mi ha già raggiunto in luoghi che sognava da bambina. Abbiamo viaggiato fino in Africa, fino in Senegal sulle tracce della Parigi-Dakar... Faccio più pensieri e finalmente tutto è chiaro... forse è arrivato il momento... Io sono pronto, noi siamo pronti.

 

TURCHIA

Spesso, durante questo viaggio ho pensato a mio padre in lutto.

La mattina si svegliava sempre molto presto, all'alba, poi prima di andare in ufficio andava in piazza, prendeva un caffè con i suoi operai, visitava i cantieri e tornava a casa per le 7.30.

Il suo arrivo era annunciato dall'odore del pane appena sfornato che portava ogni mattina e, per tutta la famiglia, era ora di svegliarsi. A volte era anche il momento in cui annunciava in fretta una "partenza", la destinazione era sempre sconosciuta ma non importava, la sorpresa intensificava la gioia.

Ancora oggi che non è più con noi ho mantenuto l'abitudine di andarsene all'improvviso e senza fare piani.

Mi sento sempre riluttante ad organizzarmi, mi piace essere impulsivo e non voglio avere il tempo di riflettere su quello che sto facendo. Sono convinto che concentrandomi sui "piani" non faccio altro che affollare la mia mente di preoccupazioni e paure; allo stesso tempo trascorrendo il mio tempo libero leggendo storie di viaggio e guardando costantemente le foto di altri viaggiatori ho la sensazione che non ci sia più nulla da scoprire, mentre sto ancora elaborando le opzioni, con il risultato che l'euforia svanisce. Al contrario, essendo spontaneo, ogni evento sembra propizio per una nuova scoperta e tutto sembra più affascinante.

Comunque questa volta ho dovuto cambiare mentalità e per circa tre mesi ho dovuto impegnarmi a gestire compiti burocratici inevitabili, al punto che, una volta finito, mi sono sentito svogliato, forse spaventato.

Comunque tutto sia pronto, ho già speso soldi, ho avuto un sacco di guai, i passaporti sono pronti così come i visti, l'assicurazione e il "carnet de passage"; Angela è emozionata, non posso permettermi di non andarmene, anzi, mi dico, perché aspettare altri tre giorni come previsto, partiamo stasera.

È il 17 aprile 2017, Angela non fa alcuna obiezione, anzi si affretta per tutto il pomeriggio a preparare i bagagli e le moto; ci precipitiamo al porto di Brindisi, prendiamo il primo traghetto disponibile e la mattina dopo siamo già a Igoumenitsa in Grecia. La sensazione di trovarci in una terra straniera illumina un po' la nostra mente; inaspettatamente l'entusiasmo inizia a sfondare le paure.

Iniziamo una serie di lunghi giri dirigendoci verso il confine iraniano; percorriamo quasi mille chilometri al giorno attraverso le coste della Grecia per poi attraversare la Turchia con il suo maestoso paesaggio che scorre senza grande pathos. Mi rendo conto tuttavia di quanto la Turchia sia cambiata, di quanto profondamente sia stata influenzata dalla politica di Erdogan e dai recenti eventi, di come siano cambiati la mente e lo spirito del suo popolo. Tuttavia non mi soffermo molto su questi pensieri e, nonostante i timori, abbiamo ancora tanta voglia di raggiungere quella famigerata dogana iraniana.

Ci fermiamo a Tekirdag vicino Istanbul, la sera seguente siamo ad Amasia, una ridente cittadina piena di luci multicolori e in continua evoluzione che si riflettono nel fiume e dove di notte si sente il suono dei muezzins che risuonano in montagna; infine raggiungiamo Kars la città dove il Premio Nobel "Pamuk" ha ambientato il suo romanzo "Neve"; dopo soli tre giorni l'Iran è lì e la dogana è a soli 300 km di distanza.

La mattina dopo la prendiamo lentamente, passeggiamo per la città per un po 'alla ricerca della pasticceria al centro del romanzo di Panuk. Nel centro storico della città ne troviamo uno che sembra antico e bello, non riusciamo a capire se è quello che ha ispirato il romanzo di Panuk, ma non importa, facciamo finta che lo sia, facciamo colazione al castello e poi siamo di nuovo sulla strada per AGRI.

Il paesaggio intorno a Kars è lunare, insolito e suggestivo, le rocce scure dell'altopiano contrastano con il candore della neve ancora rimasto, i villaggi sono poveri, i tetti delle case sono coperti solo di lamiere d'acciaio; facciamo tante foto ma siamo consapevoli che siamo solo in stallo, ci rendiamo conto che siamo vittime di due forze uguali e opposte, da una parte l'Iran ci chiama, dall'altra ci sono ancora paure e preoccupazioni che ci stanno rallentando.

Poi il maestoso monte Ararat ci inchioda, ci fermiamo, facciamo foto, e mentre siamo impegnati nella contemplazione, da lontano vediamo un veicolo blindato che sembra puntare dritto verso di noi. Siamo immobili, vediamo il veicolo avvicinarsi, e poi si ferma a pochi metri da noi con una mitragliatrice che tira fuori dal tetto. Istintivamente alziamo le mani in resa, poi sentiamo un militare gridare "Nessun problema, nessun problema".

Eravamo così spaventati! Ora forse possiamo rilassarci e abbassare le mani. I soldati escono dal veicolo, ce ne sono cinque tutti in tenuta da battaglia e la loro presenza non è ancora molto rassicurante. Il comandante che parla inglese si avvicina a noi e comincia a fare chiacchiere, poi ci dice che sono lì per contrastare i terroristi dell'Isis – infatti, scopriremo più tardi, che Erdogan li usa per sopprimere la resistenza del popolo curdo già piegato dalle sue politiche malvagie – e che, dopo aver visto due persone "miserabili" come noi, per curiosità, sono venuti verso di noi.

Era lo shock di cui avevamo bisogno; quell'incontro, la paura dei soldati armati, la vista della guerra, ci spinsero verso la dogana iraniana; rapidamente siamo arrivati a Dogubejazit, quanto era diverso da otto anni fa! Ricordo una città molto vivace, piena di gente, di mercati ma anche di prostitute, di faccendieri e di ragazzini impertinenti, ora appare come una bestia ferita, addomesticata, è una città morta con quasi nessuno intorno, con carri armati ovunque e con posti di blocco apparentemente interrotti.

Lo attraversiamo velocemente, vediamo segni di violenza e di guerra che lasciano una grande tristezza nel nostro cuore; in mezz'ora siamo al confine.

La dogana è molto tranquilla e ordinata, non ce lo aspettavamo, sono tutti molto gentili, molti si offrono di aiutarci gratuitamente; poi una guida si avvicina a noi, non ne abbiamo bisogno ma l'uomo ispira fiducia così decidiamo di approfittarne, in una quarantina di minuti abbiamo finito; grazie al nostro amico siamo anche in grado di effettuare una transazione di cambio valuta molto favorevole. Quando tutto è fatto salutiamo l'uomo e gli chiediamo quanto gli dobbiamo, lui ci lascia decidere, e poiché non ho familiarità con il tasso di cambio finisco per pagargli 80 euro invece di 20 come deciso in precedenza. Poche ore dopo, quando divento più sicuro con il tasso di cambio, capisco perché l'uomo continuava ad abbracciarmi e salutarmi calorosamente.

It’s 5pm of April 21st 2017, it’s Friday, Angela wears her veil; finally we are in Iran.

We find out that on Friday here is a holyday (our Sunday), people are out and about; the countryside and the parks are crowded with families lying on their canvases and having a usual picnic. As we move away from the border, the traffic gets more and more chaotic and our presence seems to make it even more so. Many motorists blow their horn and wave their arms about in order to greet us. The faces of the women behind their veils reveal unequivocal smiles. Everyone seems to be interested only on us.

We cross a couple of villages, there is still a lot of traffic, and the sun is beginning to go down. At the next village we look for a hotel but we can’t find any, we will soon understand that in Iran only big cities have hotels, so we have no choice but to continue to Tabriz.

Another half an hour on the road and it’s dark, everybody is honking at us, we continue exhausted to drive in the traffic nearly at walking pace, responding to greetings continuously, and just when we are thinking about where and how we would spend the night, we notice a car with a young family driving alongside us and indicating to us to follow them.

We are hesitant but curious at the same time, after a while the car stops on the roadside and the driver invites us to stop as well. They all come out of the car and then a teenager girl Roza, accompanied by her father, comes towards us and in her excellent English asks us where we are going and where we intend to spend the night; knowing that we don’t have a place and are still at the mercy of the events, she invites us to her house. Using the intercom I consult with Angela, we are not sure whether we should accept, but they insist so we decide to join them. After nearly an hour of highway we reach their home.

We leave the motorbikes in the fenced courtyard and we follow the mother, Samira, who has gone up straight away and has already started cooking. Jalal invites us to get comfortable on the large carpet which covers the entire floor of the salon, while Radin their little son is playing with us. At around midnight the diner is ready and consists of kebab, rice and raw and grilled vegetables. 

After diner we sleep comfortably on mattresses placed on the large rug. The next morning we are ready to go but Roza informs us that her grandmother has arranged lunch for us in Tabriz and that other relatives are interested in meeting us, therefore we have to be there. We stay for another day, together we visit the Shahgoli Park with its flowers and a pond, and with fitness gear all along the way, then we visit the Sahand Mountain which is a magical and fascinating place that vaguely reminds me of the Turkish Cappadocia.

These two days are wonderful, so intense, and so full of emotion, based on sharing and true friendship not only with the host family but also with the people we meet through them. Leaving the family is painful but necessary; in the early hour the next morning we are in their yard ready to leave and to get to Teheran to enjoy that famous “coffee”.

TEHERAN

Once out of Tabriz I start thinking of my father again. From my town Casarano it is over 400 km to get out of Apulia, then the regions of Molise and Abruzzo can be crossed easily and from there it’s quite fast to reach what in the seventies was called “Centritalia”. There in the summer the motorway was crowded with tourists heading to the “Riviera Romagnola” and it was common to meet numerous motorcyclists - mostly German - who were clutched in their black tracks. As a little boy I used to look at them with a lot of excitement, prompting my father, who was aware of it and wanted to make me happy, to follow them honking until they would inevitably greet us and I would reciprocate screaming from the window of our Alfa Romeo GT 1300 Junior.

For us who were coming from the south every new thing was a feast that would excite and surprise us and motorcyclist were not seen very often in our region. Now we are more “advanced”, indifferent  and perhaps less curious, one could say that prosperity has prevailed over humaneness.

Thinking about those scenes the next morning I leave Tabriz, I look more closely at the astonished looks of the children and of the adults when they see us and in my heart, though from a different perspective, I feel their emotions and relive the same feelings I experienced as a child travelling with my father.

The feast starts almost immediately, with honking, greetings, forced stops, requests of selfies, invitations to their home for lunch or dinner or to spend the night or just to meet for a conversation, unfortunately we often have to decline these invitations, yet we spend over 12 hours on the highway to cover just 600 km.

We arrive at our destination at around 8pm, we are exhausted but happy, no one had ever made us feel so important before. In the late evening we find a hotel, we have energy left only to dine in a fast food place and then we go to bed.

In Teheran we spend two days in total relaxation, wandering around without a destination, and since we don’t find anything particularly intriguing in town, we decide to take public transports to visit the city and enjoy mixing with people; however on our first  bus we come across one of the many contradictions of this country.

As soon as I get on the bus I immediately feel I am being observed. I am surrounded by veiled women who look at me and smile in a manner that to me seems flirtatious; for few minutes I think I am a very attractive man. But I have just started to fantasize and enjoy those glances when I notice a gate in the middle of the bus which, I realise straight away, is a barrier that demarcate the space reserved to men and I am in the women’s space. I realise that those are not winky looks, in fact the whole bus is laughing at me! With a leap I pass the gate reaching ”my same sex buddies” who laughing their heads off “give me five”.

We visit different areas of the city, the markets, the squares and we also pay a quick visit to the Gemas Museum by the Azadi Tower; then in the evening we lock ourselves in a restaurant room to dine and smoke the hookah; it’s a romantic evening, the place seems so popular with couples but also with only women’s and only men’s groups lying on large benches covered with rugs. We dine and smoke in peace almost the whole evening, then when people start to leave the waiter come to us and starts chatting so does everybody else. After a while we are again“high profile”, and are overwhelmed with requests for selfies and “facebook friendships”. What can we say! we have rediscovered the pleasure of a late night out in good company even without drinking a single drop of alcohol.

MARANJEB and KASHAN

Kashan is a splendid, ancient city full of testimonies of Persian culture; we get there by chance after a whole day on the motorbike which was exhausting but, once again, full of interesting encounters and of emotions.

With the intention to go to Esfahan we hit the road in the early morning without having breakfast. It is dawn; we drive across Teheran intersecting the “rising sun” through the buildings of the immense streets still deserted.

The highway is quiet, cool and easy to ride; we are thinking of a detour of almost 250 km, riding along the track which leads to Caravanserai and the salt lake in the heart of the Kavir desert and getting to Esfahan in the evening.

We overtake Qom and get the exit to Mescat, a dirt road of about 80 km takes us close to the track. There is a bar and a guard who tries hard to convince us not to proceed because in his opinion the track is too dangerous for motorcycles; we talk for a while, we evaluate the situation and then we decide to proceed anyway, we can always come back if things get really bad. 

The first kilometres run smoothly, the track is very rugged but flowing, and the scenery is fantastic, we could see the first dunes still low and some camels. As we proceed the dunes seem to get higher, but the track seems to allow us to run them without problem; however when everything seems quiet we see the sand, the real one and with it comes the fun but also the problems. We slowly overcome the first heaps of sand with some difficulty, then we stop to think, we do not know how the remaining 30 km are going to be and we are tempted to go back to avoid problems; we are aware that we are not skilled on the sand, besides we don’t have the right tires and our motorbikes are super loaded. However our “madness” comes to rescue us and we decide not to give up.

For 30 km the sand is everywhere, in some points the track is completely hidden by small dunes so that, at least at the beginning, we have to stop and inspect on foot before deciding which direction to take. We proceed slowly and at some point we see cars driving alongside us and overtake us; there are also some reckless drivers who with only two wheels and a good run-up can make headway on the track.  On their tracks we are able to find the right direction.

However it’s not easy, but little by little, after almost 3 hours of hard work and some tumbles, still incredulous we get to the caravanserai.

The people we had met along the track run towards us, perhaps they never thought we could make it.

A group of girls come close to Angela and start yelling “free zone, free zone” inciting her to take the veil off; some students from Teheran invite us to eat kebab with them.

The guys, lying on a rug spread over the sand next to the caravanserai, besiege us with questions, maybe they are “examining us” and when they perceive that they can trust us, they pull out 2 litres of self-produced, highly alcoholic and severely prohibited apple cider. It’s unbelievable, as soon as there is no police around even the Iranian get drunk and have a good time.

We spend few hours with them eating Kebab and Pida and drinking cider with blueberry juice and non alcoholic beer. In spite our broken English we discuss politics, religion and family matters and alcohol… They invite us to jump on their cross-country vehicles and venture out in the dunes and perhaps spend the night at the caravanserai. Although we greatly enjoyed their company, we did not even think of joining them; first of all they were all drank including the driver, secondly it was already afternoon and we had  to retrace those notorious 40 km of sand plus we had another 200 km to get to Esfasan and, as usual, we did not know where to spend the night, it was time to go back.

We all leave at the same time, we with our motorbikes and they with their cross-country vehicles. For a few moments it’s chaos, the silence of the desert is broken by shouts, the engine’s roar and the honking, then it’s silence again and it’s only us, our motorbikes and the track.

The way back seems easier; we practised on the outward journey so now we proceed smoothly until the clutch of Angela’s motorbike starts giving signs of failure.

We are 4000 km away from home in a country where there are not motorbikes above 250 cc and therefore there are no spare parts. There are still 15 km to exit the track, the few cars that we have encountered on the outward journey had all returned while we were celebrating with our friends in the desert; we are alone and puzzled but the clutch seems to hold for a while, we decide that the best thing to do is to try to reach the asphalt and then work something out.

At 4pm we are out of the track, we are euphoric for being able to overcome the challenge, but also because of the encounters, and the beautiful landscape that has accompanied us on our trip; however we have a mechanical problem, we stop on the roadside to try to figure out how we can solve it.

Once again an Iranian family approaches us, they don’t speak English, we are worn-out and at first we have some difficulty communicating but then we use gestures and the problem is solved. The man is indicating that we should wait, then, after making a dozen phone calls, he invites us to follow him; we don’t like the idea of spoiling their afternoon but they not only seem to be ok with that, they even invite us for diner once everything is sorted out.

After driving 20 km at a walking pace we arrive at Kashan where the mechanic, friend of our “friend”, is. The garage is not very reassuring, the mechanic reminds me of John Travolta in the Pulp Fiction movie. Through gestures again I try to explain the problem, with great confidence he uncovers the clutch cable gasket and puts it back in its place, then he indicates that I should try; incredible! It was just a small cable that had moved. 

I was happy but felt frustrated: it was such a small problem and I had not been able to fix it.

Meanwhile the afternoon is over and we are still in Kashan, many people continue to approach us, young and not so young, some of them speak English, we still receive invitations for the evening or for the night. It is too late to leave now, we let the mechanic perform some regular maintenance work on the motorbike. Contrary to how he first appeared, he was very competent and meticulous and after spending half an hour on the motorbike he did not want any money. Although I insisted he seemed totally disinterested in money and only wanted to take photos. 

In the meantime our friend insists on inviting us to his house; although we are tired we don’t want to take advantage of his generosity, so we agree to stop in Kashan and have lunch with him and his family the next day. 

Thus we stay in Kashan, a town we had not considered visiting before. A few steps away from the garage we find a hotel and next to it a patisserie; while Angela sorts herself out, I buy some pastries and offer them to the mechanic who, over the moon, invites his friends who live nearby and together we party in the garage until dusk.

The next day we take it easy and we do some “healthy tourism”, we find the town incredibly interesting, beautiful, and full of historical testimonies. We visit the Agha Bozog Mosque, then the ancient library crowded with students immersed in their books, the quiet Bazar, and the splendid and dazzling Meydan Mosque with its mirrors covering the domes. Finally once honoured the promise to have lunch with our friend, we are back on the road to Esfahan.

ESFAHAN

The highway from Kashan to Esfahan goes through a semi-desert territory whose awfulness makes you forget the monotony of the asphalt and opens your mind to the imagination. However I would never have imagined coming to the beautiful Naqsh-e jahan square and be invited for a dish of spaghetti, that’s the way Esfahan welcome us.

We leave everything in a very cheap hostel full of Pakistani workers, we have a quick shower and we are out and about. Tony, a friend of mine, had told me that Esfahan is home to one of the biggest squares in the world, so we decide to visit it straight away. As imagined, the scenery is superb, the square is immense, splendid and full of history; the architecture of the well preserved buildings is typically Persian, with a proliferation of colourful majolica all around.

Despite the presence of so many people around and despite the fact that many of the visitors are having lunch on the carpet, a common thing in Iran, everything is clean and just right.

We walk a few yards when a group of women sees us and one of them comes close, asks us to stop and offers us a dish which surprisingly is full of “spaghetti”. They were clearly overcooked but good nevertheless; we congratulated them and thanked them for the invitation.

We walk across the square and then we start wandering about the immense Bazaar… the most beautiful ever seen… everything is marvellous, sparkling, glittering. People are kind but discreet, many smile at us; for the first time we notice western tourists in groups accompanied by a guide.

At 7pm the Imam calls people to prayer, the Iranians respond en mass, everyone gets up from the grass, rolls back their rugs and strive to reach the mosque quickly. We follow them but at some point in the confusion I lose sight of Angela.

I must admit it, I am scared… I ask myself what is going on!

I look around, I see people moving euphorically; the women enter the mosque through a tiny door, while the men take their shoes off and enter from a different door; in the meantime the incomprehensible words of the Imam resound in the megaphone.

Ten minutes have passed and still no sign of Angela, then I receive an SMS where she laconically writes: “I am praying”. What? I think.. you praying! But you have not been in a church for years! Then I write back: “are you praying? Where are you?”. Then silence, for another 20 minutes there is no sign of her. Finally she reappears smiling, peaceful, still incredulous, through the door which has previously swallowed hundreds of women.

She tells me that, while we were running towards the mosque a woman grabbed her by her arm and invited her to enter the mosque. I was so taken by the beauty of the place and concentrated in taking photos that I did not notice anything. The woman removed Angela’s shoes, covered her with a chador and escorted her through the mosque, then she asked her to kneel, while another young woman explained in English the ritual and the meaning of what they were doing.

It’s 26th of April, Angela has lived this unforgettable experience just on her birthday!

We indulge in a typical but exclusive restaurant, eating all sorts of delicacies with indefinable names and drinking plenty Airan. We then take a taxi to the hostel for just 50 cents of a Euro; we are exhausted, but even happier.

 

We spend another relaxing day in Esfahan strolling around the Bazaar, visiting the mosques and other wonders, then in the morning of the 28th at dawn we are ready to go south, far south to Kerman, close to the longed for Lut desert.

KERMAN and LUT DESERT

There are about 800 km to the Lut desert, we are fully rested; Esfahan will stay in our heart and we are content, yet we are eager to reach the most remote and exotic place ever reached in our life.

Everyone has suggested visiting the town of the “catching wind” towers half way through but we yearn for the south and for the desert. Back home perhaps we will regret it, apparently Yazd would have also been an interesting place, I have read, but we are not ready, the Lut is calling, we will visit it next time we return to Iran, inshallah.

Passed Yazd the road becomes very quiet, with only few cars, few tracks and few petrol stations. We are driving still on asphalt but all around us it’s just sand; some villages are seen at a distance. In the evening we are in Kerman.

Kerman is the crossroad of travellers on their way to the Lut desert or Bam (another historic and important town of which only the ruins remain having been seriously affected by the 2003 earthquake). Kerman looks pretty but not particularly exciting.

We wandered about for a while in the town centre until we saw some movement in a dark alley and we decided to go in. It was the most interesting sight in town; a 500-metres-long street with no lighting populated by shopkeepers, smugglers and fixers, who in the dark carry out all sorts of business. In the middle there is a huge, run-down room where aged, smoking men attached to their “narghile” are lying on worn carpets randomly scattered on the floor. They notice us in the dark, someone beckon us over, we get in but nobody speaks English and it’s very difficult to communicate; we exchange smiles and gestures and I got few pats on my shoulders, that’s all; we then quickly look for a place to eat.

At dawn we are ready to proceed, the Lut desert is only 120 km away, we are impatient, so we leave once again without having breakfast.

We climb altitude for about 50 km, the landscape is now verdant; below us there is a long canyon between the rocks with a river that irrigates the palm trees and the downstream crops. The air is a little crisp but when we are on top of that hill a spectacular scenery opens in front of us… on one side the green spaces, the water and the crops, on the other the desert, yellow, immense.

We go downhill with the enthusiasm of a child, meanwhile the sun begins to rise and with it the temperature; we are soon immersed in that warm, intense yellow that contrasts with the cool dark mountain we are leaving behind. Another 20 km and we will be arriving in Shahdad which is the desert gate; from there for about 400 km there is nothing but a strip of asphalt that leads to Nehbandan and then to the border with Afganistan.

We stock up on supplies, water, non-alcoholic beer and petrol and we are on our way to the desert.

The Lut Desert (Dash e Lut) is a vast desert considered one of the most arid places on the planet. At certain times of the year the temperature can reach the highest level recorded on Earth. Wikipedia reports that in 2003 a temperature as high as 70 degrees centigrade has been recorded; in fact we are only in May and we are already over 45 degrees!

We follow the asphalt for about 50 km and then we see a feeble road sign: “LUT”; it seems to indicate a road or a track but in fact there is only sand. We are hesitant but we follow the sign anyway, we come off the asphalt but the sand is hard so it’s easily travelled over, so we decide to venture with no destination, just following the direction. After few kilometres we find a track and soon after a myriad of paths intersecting between sand and rocks; on the sand there are signs of cross-country vehicles but we don’t see anyone. We decide to continue by marking the direction with stones at every crossroad in order to facilitate the return.

The view is really surreal, we are in a sea of sand of unedited colours. It is dark but under the sunlight reflects various shades of red, brown and yellow. As the sun sets the colours fade and the sand appears increasingly grey, while the rocks in the middle look like real cathedrals in the desert.

We are ecstatic; we continue to walk as far as one of the rock tower, up close it’s very high, and a path runs around it. The sand becomes softer and the ground is bumpy, so we proceed very slowly, we try neither to hurt ourselves nor to damage the motorbikes. We are alone in the middle of nowhere, a fall would put us in serious trouble, we climb the path and, as far as we can, the rock, then we stop. We have already travelled 30 km of track, we are in the heart of the Lut archaeological area, we walk up to the top of the rock tower, we made it, we are at the highest and most panoramic point of the whole desert, it’s a wonder. We are few hundred kilometres from Pakistan and Afghanistan, in one of the most remote and inhospitable places on earth, we have got to celebrate and we do it with the stock of non-alcoholic, peach flavoured beer, which in the meantime has become hot. We remain there in contemplation until dusk, awaiting the sunset, which however at the crucial point betrays us by covering the sky with clouds. We cross the track almost in the dark; perhaps we had been a little reckless in staying so late, but fortunately the stones that we have placed on the outward journey, come now very helpful. At 9pm it’s pitch dark, it has taken about one and half hour to get out of the track, but we are back on the asphalt now and the next town is only 50 km away.

Still no sign of people; it’s very hot, we could sleep on the sand but we are not very keen on that; we already know the road so we decide to go back to the village. While on the road after travelling about 20 km we see a dim light in the distance, we drive towards it by crossing a country road about 4 km long and we arrive close to a group of houses surrounded by a high wall made of mud and straw. We try to knock the door and to make us heard but to no avail, when we are about to leave a woman appears through a little door. We are lucky it’s a camping site, it’s the last outpost before nothingness.

In the camping it’s only us, we don’t have a tent but there are some beautiful straw huts equipped with mosquito nets, the bathrooms are spotless; it’s a real oasis in the desert. We agree to spend the night there for the price of 10 Euros each with dinner and breakfast included. 

These are the best meals in the whole journey; we have our dinner under the moonlight laying on rugs placed over benches on the sand. The dinner is fabulous, besides the usual kebab with rice, roast tomatoes and chillies (Iranians don’t seem to eat anything else) we have vegetables soups and, for the first time, some cheese, all is accompanied by home made Dough with an intense flavour and by beer (not particularly nice as usual).

We stay there for a while contemplating the stars, then at around midnight, when we are about to succumb to tiredness we see a group of European tourists who with their Iranian guide had just come back from the desert. They had been almost in the same area as us but we did not meet because the guide's car, being two-wheel drive, could not get into the track. The guide becomes curious and approaches us asking several questions, then with a vein of admiration tells us that it’s very rare to meet travellers without a guide in these places and he congratulates us for our courage.

Another intense and adventurous day comes to an end, a very tiring but awesome day; we are 6000 km away from home… midnight is already gone, we surrender to tiredness in our straw hut… tomorrow we will start the return journey.

SHIRAZ  AND PERSEPOLIS

We leave the desert with the unpleasant feeling of the “return”. 

It’s strange, our journey is not over yet, we are still in Iran and there are still wonderful places which await us like Shiraz, Persepolis and the Kurdistan, and yet starting the return journey affects us.

We travel the first few km without enthusiasm and with the sensation that “the best” is already gone, suddenly we become indifferent to what surrounds us, we proceed slowly and demotivated, we are nostalgic and still bewitched by the desert.

Along the way we see a real “autogrill”, it’s incredible, for thousand km we have only seen run-down petrol stations, with a bar or mini-market at most, but this is a real Iranian restaurant with rugs scattered all over, we have got to stop.

It’s only 11 am, probably we are the first customers of the day and in fact the restaurant is empty; we hear some voices coming from the kitchen, we go closer, they are preparing the Kebab and invite us to stop and observe.

We accept and remain in the kitchen for about half an hour chatting; usually the knowledge of English helps but in this case it’s the use of mobile phones more than anything else that helps us. We exchange  fragments of our life by sliding photos and so when lunch is ready we are already good friends and we eat together with the cooks and the owner, once again the meal is free. In normal life I don’t have this great ability to socialise with people I don’t know, in fact over the years I have become increasingly solitary and taciturn, but in Iran everything seems so simple.

On the evening of April the 30th we are in Shiraz, finding a place to sleep here is quite easy, there are several hotels on the main street that crosses the town one after the other. We relax in the hotel and with the help of the internet we try to find out what the town’s main attractions are.

We had decided to stop in Shiraz only because of its proximity to Persepolis, but we find out that this town is also very interesting especially thanks to the shining mosque of the 1000 mirrors (Shah Ceragh). We look at some photos and we are truly fascinated by them, its history is also interesting and mysterious. It is said that around 900 B.C. a traveller noticed a source of light coming from afar. He followed the light and after investigating a bit he found an illuminated tomb. Inside were the corpses of Ahmad and Muhammad, the sons of Musa Al Kazim and Alì al Rida's brothers, they were two prominent figures of the Muslim religion. The mosque was erected in that sacred site and then over the years it was expanded and adorned to pay tribute to its martyrs. It is said to be so beautiful that it seems to come from another planet. We go out in the evening but we prefer to concentrate on food and so decide to visit the mosque the next day.

The next morning we go out early, unfortunately we have already forgotten the name of the mosque we want to visit and therefore it is not easy to get directions, finally someone understands what we are looking for and indicates us the way. We walk through the bazaar and soon from the alleys  of the old town we see the minaret which stand out against the sky, we are close to the square and, for the first time since we are in Iran, we come across a military control gate.

They stop us and tell us to wait, after 10 minutes a girl completely wrapped up in a black “chador” approaches us, she will be our free of charge guide. Angela too is wrapped up in a chador, we head towards the square increasingly eager to visit the mosque but as soon as we try to cross the threshold the guide stops us.

We are told that we can’t get in, but why -I ask- there are so many people going in and out, besides it’s indicated everywhere that the entrance is free. As I insist the guide who speaks excellent English tries to explain, but, because of my poor English, I don’t get it; finally I understand that from the 1st to the 31st of May only worshippers not visitors can enter the mosque because of a religious rule which I still don’t understand (damn, I must resume studying English).

What a pity, if we had gone the evening before there wouldn’t have been any problem, never mind, it means that we will have another good reason to come back to Iran.

Anyway Shiraz is a beautiful town, we spend the day strolling around  the bazar and sipping tea at will. Early the next day we get to Persepolis.

Persepolis is one of the most beautiful, fascinating and well-kept sites I have ever visited, in my personal ranking I consider it second only to Pompei.

Persepolis is also the title of a comic which I have read several times in the past few years, it tells of the Iranian “revolution" and of the horrors of the war through the eyes of the protagonist, first as a child in Iran, then as a woman on a foreign land in that "perfect and superior world" .

I quote a review found online that I agree with: "It is a reading that opens the mind, it is a window on a reality close to us but made far by prejudices and misinformation. Suffice to see the wonderful part about childhood, which makes you understand that no matter the society, the culture or the religion a child is subjected to, he is always a child. In the eyes of a child, the hypocrisy of adults, cloaked with religious dogmas or political beliefs subsumed in their interest, looks like what it really is: horrible, scary, and above all ridiculous. "

By arriving at the site in the early hours of the morning we have the pleasure of visiting the whole area in solitude and in complete relaxation; by entering the ruins in complete silence we can totally immerse in another era, we can fantasize and dream, until the coaches with tourists arrive and break the spell.

Refreshed by a Dough we resume the journey to Esfahan. 

We find a place at the Amir Kabir Hostel which is very popular with European youngsters traveling with backpacks and sleeping bags. Another walk in the square, dinner and then at dawn we are off to the Iranian Kurdistan from where we will then cross the border and enter the Turkish Kurdistan .

The journey continues with no problems, after leaving Esfahan the police stops us a couple of times but they don’t ask us anything, it seems that it is just a pretext to practice English!

Then a new mechanical problem with Angela’s motorbike forces us to stop again along the highway.

This time the problem is the chain, which in the last few days seemed to have loosened and which has come out of the crown, fortunately without causing any harm.

I try not to panic, I stop and think, then I pull out the tools and I am ready to fix the problem; I am still with the tools in my hands and three cars have already stopped to offer help.

Everyone seems to compete with the others in trying to convince us they are more credible; in the end we accept the help of two brothers who patiently wait for the chain to be repaired just enough to take us to Arak 5 km away where I intend to replace it; we are escorted to the town as usual and we easily find a mechanic. 

The garage seems worse than the first one, the mechanic doesn’t even have the tools to operate on the motorbike and asks me to use mine, I obviously agree. Then he goes to find a new chain and, while we wait, within minutes we are already attracting the passers-by’s attention.

This time the bustle (excitement) will last very little, a man shows us a badge, he is a police inspector in plain clothes; the guys we were talking to become serious and quiet, the man invites us to get in his car with our passports.

We don’t know what to do, our luggage and gear are scattered on the sidewalk, the saddle of the motorbike is open and underneath is much of our money; we ask the inspector to give us enough time to secure our belonging but he's inflexible, we have to leave everything and follow him immediately!

There is nothing we can do, the guys understand our fears and try to reassure us; so we leave everything on the sidewalk, we take only 200 euros and the passports the rest is left at the mercy of “strangers”.  As we leave we see the mechanic coming back and proceeding towards  the motorbike with an angle grinder and we think that on our return we will find the motorbike dissected!

We cross the whole city immersed in traffic, the car is a noisy old banger, I try to communicate with the inspector to figure out what is happening but it's not easy, he speaks only Farsi so I mime the handcuff sign, he starts laughing heartily and tries to reassure us with gestures, and then he shouts: ‘inspection’ ‘inspection”.

The police station is an ugly grey building that can be accessed through a large metal gate about three metres high. Inside there are many young armed soldiers, from the corridor it’s possible to see a hall crowded with people who yell from behind a stained glass door; we get escorted to the Commander’s room.

The inspector introduces us to the Commander but there is no great communication, in ARAK nobody speaks English, they only speak Farsi and it is difficult to have a real conversation just by using gestures. 

We are kept there for about half an hour, continually introducing ourselves to the soldiers who inexplicably parade in front of us and smile; nothing happens, within half an hour we're back in the car.

We will never understand what happened that day. No one has checked anything, our belongings including our passports have only been flipped through by the Commander without the least interest, in the meantime at least 20 soldiers have entered the room just to shake hands. Talking about it with Angela the only possible explanation seems to be that we were "kidnapped" just to "be exhibited" in the police station.

On our return the guys are still there, everyone has taken charge of something, one of them has taken care of our case, another of the motorbike’s keys, the motorbike is still in one piece and it has a new chain, the two brothers are also still there waiting to take us home for lunch! Fatima has already prepared the meal: chicken kebab, grilled tomato, and rice, we lay on the big carpet and within minutes increasingly more people arrive, they are all relatives who out of curiosity have left their job to join us for lunch.

Thanks to Google translator we are able to chat for hours in spite of a slow internet connection (a common problem in Iran) and although every sentence needs to be translating from Farsi into English and from English into Italian and vice-versa. They are all patient, warm and curious, they are interested in everything we say, we have to struggle to leave at around 5 pm. Ever since, almost every week we are exchanging photos and messages with Fatima on instagram.

In the evening we are in Kermanshah, we have arrived in Kurdistan!

 

THE IRANIAN KURDISTAN

Kurdistan is a nation but not an independent state, it is a vast plateau populated by Kurdish people politically divided between the present states of Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Armenia.

Although there is no customs at the border, one can immediately perceive that the place is different, the Kurds have a strong identity and are united by the use of the "Kurdish" language that is the same for everyone regardless of their residence.

At Kermanshah one can begin to see men and women dressed in traditional clothes, men wear light colour or checkered shirts and unusual pants often in dark colours which are large on their thigh and tight on their ankle, women are wrapped in chador, scarves and multicoloured dresses.

We have the impression that the area is among the least prosperous in Iran, and in fact local people are very critical and disappointed with the government of Tehran which is not interested in their region and invests very little in its economic growth.

The infrastructures are also lacking, asphalt, which is largely used in Iran,  is hard to find here and it’s in bad conditions.

For us who travel for pleasure all this is fascinating, but objectively for the locals the situation is not very pleasant. 

The next day we head to the heart of the plateau, we see a road on the map that goes from Sanandaj to Marivan which is 5 km from the border with Iraq. It seems an interesting route both because of its geographical location and because it appears that along the way there are several fascinating villages;  we need only to deviate from the state road for about 200 km and then take it back and head towards Tabriz where we would like to go back to greet Roza and her family.

At Sanandaj we take the exit for Marivan, but the lack of asphalt causes us problems almost immediately. It has just stopped raining and the road which crosses the town is very slippery, a real mud pit, which we have to cross with our feet on the ground to avoid slipping through the trucks.

Then we find a bit of asphalt and we proceed to Palangan. We descend from the hill through an easy to walk dirt road, we find more mud; we soon see the first houses, the road, without  asphalt, is rough, but only a few hundred metres away we are in a "grey mud" square made live by the multi-coloured clothing of the numerous women who visit it. The village is really very charming, with its stone houses perched on the hill and overlooking the river in the centre of the village. Along the shores there are some tourists and other people who are feasting, we walk through the path and we see two guys standing barefoot in the river and smoking a hookah while their girlfriends are busy grilling food.

When I take a photo they see us and invite us to smoke and feast with them; we can’t refuse. How wonderful! We take our shoes off, we dip our feet in the icy water and while smoking we wait for the kebab that is served by the girls.

Once again we exchange photos and e-mail addresses and then we depart. 

We drive through a dirt but smooth road, we cross run-down and almost deserted villages, then the path becomes increasingly challenging and rough, yet that seems to be the main road connecting the region with Iraq! It makes us wonder if we are on the wrong track, so when we see a pickup truck we stop it and ask for information.

Three Kurdish guys tell us that we are on the right track, but it is useless to continue because further ahead the road is interrupted. They offer us water and food but we are still full up and kindly decline the invitation.  What a pity we are just a few miles from the Iraq border and it is all so fascinating and unbelievably quiet. We traverse again about 70 km of dirt road and we are back on the state road, we get to Saqquez, where we stop for the night.

During the dinner at a restaurant we take stock of the situation, we've been travelling for over 20 days and we have completely lost track of time and space. With dismay, we realise that it’s time to start thinking of going back home.

We are in conflict, we would like to go to Roza but that would mean losing at least one day and therefore not having enough time to handle any unforeseen events that could arise on the long journey back. The border is very close so reluctantly we decide that it is time to leave Iran.

 

THE TURKISH KURDISTAN

Passing through a customs is always very exciting. It is not just about displaying documents hoping everything is in order, it is often about travelling that mile that divides two worlds, geographically so close, yet so far away politically, socially and economically.

When moving without walls and customs everything changes so slowly that often we don’t notice it, but going through a customs means that change may be drastic, sudden and almost shocking.

Iranian Kurdistan, however poorer than the rest of the country, gives a feeling of a peaceful place,  there are certainly problems and people are not satisfied, but there is still peace and serenity and ... life.

Customs seems to arrogate to itself the right to decide who is entitled to life and peace, and who is destined to oblivion and death!

We walk a few kilometres and we come across the first checkpoint.

It’s the first time in our life that we come across these kind of military installations; in proximity of the town the road narrows and the vehicles are forced through new cement jerseys, we need to make a slalom and behind each road block there is a tank, a machine gun and so on up to the main road block where everything is checked.

We walk a few hundred metres and we come across another tank, armoured vehicles and armed soldiers; the most disconcerting thing is that people live as if nothing happens, kids go to school, the shops are open and the markets are crowded.

Yüksekova, the first city in Turkish Kurdistan, looks like this, so do the next ones; after the third checkpoint we stop on the edge of the road to rest, the sight of the weapons is always disturbing!

One pickup stops, there are two guys one of them speaks English and invites us to follow them for a chai (a tea).

As always, we are trustful.

After a few metres we reach a cage used by these guys who work at the nearby hydroelectric power station.

We go in, there are other people one of them is praying bent towards the mecca and ignores us while the others invite us to sit down and smoke with them,  then one of them Onder sits next to us and without further ado asks if we know the Kurdish issue.

We exhibit our  knowledge on this matter, we quote Ocalan and the PKK, I tell him the story heard by a young man I had met a few years ago in these areas and with whom I had lunch in Siirt and I had shared friendship and many messages on face-book, then I suddenly lost contacts with him.

 "He's probably dead! -he replays with a surreal coldness in his voice “there is war here, no one talks about it, but in Yüksekova this winter Erdogan has killed a hundred people, and he has done the same in the other cities of the Turkish Kurdistan;  there is no peace for the Kurds and yet, he explains, the Turks would live peacefully with us, it is Erdogan who foments hatred! "

We are still talking about politics, the Kurd issue has always been interesting to us, but being there and talking to the people who have had first-hand experience of these matters is an indescribable feeling. We drink more chai and finish our guest's cigarette pack, we leave with sadness in our heart. We follow the guy’s advice and we take the road to Van which should be the quietest, however getting there will still be hard, we will have to go through five more checkpoints!

Van is a Turkish outpost in Kurdish territory, everything is very western and even the veils are rarely seen and are strictly black, the sound of the muezzin anyway resonates wildly as it does throughout Turkey; however here at least we have a more varied menu for dinner.

Once out of Van is Kurdistan again, the women veils are coloured again, there are not many private cars but only so many minibuses, we avoid the main roads and we go through an internal road over the plateau towards Erzrum, crossing villages of Kurdish shepherds very poor but so full of humanity. In the countryside there are campsites of Syrian refugees who live in tents, caravans and huts.

The mountains of the plateau are imposing and majestic but their profile is gentle and reassuring, the rivers reflect the green of the vast and lush valleys.

It is sad to see and perceive so much misery in such a beautiful place.

We will cross another checkpoint and then we will resume the huge and long motorway that will take us to Istanbul and to Greece where we will spend a couple of days relaxing at Toroni’s beach on the second spit of land of the Calcidian Peninsula, and finally ... after traveling 11702 km ... we are at home ….