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Esfahan to Shiraz – Cycling Iran

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Xavier at Imman Square, Esfahan

Awoken by the sun piercing through the tent I stuck my head outside to find  we had pitched camp in the middle of a desert. A few hundred metres away the traffic on the highway, on which we had cycled into the dark the previous night, could be heard rumbling down the hill. Our morning’s task was to simply roll 50km down the valley to Esfahan.

Esfahan, along with Yadz and Shiraz, compromise the main tourist trail in Iran. Some of the oldest cities in the world possessing incredible Islamic architecture – you won’t find anything like it in the west!

We spent three enjoyable days in Esfahan; exploring the markets and bazaars, marvelling at the mosques and minarets and seeing the first other western tourists we’d seen in weeks. Alive with history and  buzzing with culture it is an absolute “must-see”.

Rested, having enjoyed the luxuries of an $8 city hotel, our holiday came to an abrupt end getting back on to the bike to cover the 500km to Shiraz.

I had long since grown bored of the arid, desert, mountain scenery and leaving Esfahan things hadn’t changed. A dull and slow climb  led us South and we again struggled to find food to eat. After failing to find lunch in a small desert town, we stocked up on more snacks and bread and continued on our way.

After a slow 90km it had began to get dark and we again had to go in search of a place to sleep. Prospects didn’t look hopeful and the local shopkeep was less than helpful upon our enquiries. Unsure how far until the next town Xavier spotted a small farmhouse down a side road.

As we approached two farmers came out to greet us. Something didn’t feel quite right, there was definitely something strange about these two moustached men, but short of options we were soon following their car down to the farmhouse.

Sharing a meal with Iranian farmers

We were invited upstairs into a room where the workers were sharing a meal after a long day on the farm. There were 5-6 guys laughing, eating and smoking, whilst another was cooking up some sweet smelling meat and vegetables. Our only supplies were a few pieces of flatbread which we offered up as a meagre contribution. The idea of guests providing food was laughed away as preposterous and, despite our protests, we were given back our bread. More bread magically appearing from somewhere soon after.

Xavier with our new friends

Xavier and I were given a bowl of dark looking broth. Full of meat and veg it was just what was needed after our cycling exertions  We mopped up the entire bowl, before gladly accepting seconds of the mystery dish.

Our cook for the night

After the food out came the “dessert” – an old plastic bottle full of god-knows-how-strong-home-brewed alcohol. One sniff of the illegal moonshine, called Arak ,  was enough to leave you gagging. Xavier’s was the first shot, followed by our happy host swigging from the bottle. Declining my turn was obviously seen as rude, but the enthusiasm of the party was undampened when Xavier was forced to drink for two!

Opium smoking?

One of the older guys was smoking a particularly odd looking pipe, carefully cooking the contents on the kerosene lamp before stuffing it into the long cigarette. Through a jumbled attempt to ask what it was –  they didn’t speak any English – he simply replied “Morphina”.

Crazy dancing

Once the Arak moonshine had made its way around the circle a few more times things were getting a little strange. Our moustached host was looking particularly drunk, dancing around the room to Iranian music played from a mobile phone. Xavier was also looking a little worse for wear as he now seemed to be taking one shot for every one anyone else  in the room took.

I don’t know how long this all went on for, we had long since lost track of time, but eventually all the guys went home leaving us, alone, on the farm. I stepped outside on to the roof in the pitch black, tracing the feint outline of mountains along the horizon. With no one for miles around the harsh and barren landscape painted a lonely picture: two cyclists in the middle of nowhere! I felt a long way from home.

The centre of Iran is scattered with mountains and the route from Esfahan to Shiraz would take me to the highest point of my trip so far, climbing to an altitude of 2400m.

Working hard in the desert!

Leaving the farm in the morning was hard work, cycling at over 2000m battling huge headwinds. 50km of light ascent brought us to the base of a steep climb to the first pass. All of a sudden Xavier upped his speed, sprinting to catch a slow moving truck. He followed his usual hill climbing tactic of grabbing on to the back as it rumbled past and a free ticket to the top!

On seeing that I hadn’t taken the lift the kind truck driver stopped and waved me to grab on too. In the horrible headwinds I was nearly convinced, but soon came to my senses, thanked the driver for the offer and continued spinning. An hour or so later this wasn’t looking like the most sensible decision, out of food and water I barely had the energy to continue and the new asphalt road was getting steeper and steeper. I pulled over and jumped off the bike to stretch my jelly-like legs.

Iranian Bus snacks to help me up the mountain

As I stooped against a lamppost, trying to catch my breath, I noticed there was a parked bus up ahead and the driver had seen me stop. He walked over and said hello, offering me two bottles of water and a snack  pack from the bus. I tried to pay but he was having none of it and was soon on his way. My new found energy and hydration propelled me to the top of the pass where i found Xavier drinking a Zam Zam and watching an old man playing a flute outside the hill top shop. The road plateaued and gently descended as we rode out another 100km into the early evening.

Finally some downhill!

We hadn’t seen many signs of life all day, so spotting another farm at around 5pm we hoped for another place to spend the night. Two young guys appeared out of the cattle shed up to their arms in, well, shit. Before we even had a chance to run our routine asking for a place to camp we were ushered inside and offered a room to sleep.

Hosted by another Iranian farmer

Our room was situated directly next to the cattle shed and a putrid smell filled the air. The two guys finished up their chores – which seemed to compromise of collecting all the cow shit from the shed and moving it by wheelbarrow to a heap on the other side of the farm – and then joined us for a spot of food and to watch some TV, before wishing us a good night and going back to their homes in the city. Our cow pat palace was hardly five star, but was just what we needed after another long day.

Cow Pat Palace

By the time morning came around we had grown accustom to the stench and with achy bones and no breakfast we climbed back on the bikes to start yet another hill climb. Neither of us were in a good mood battered by days of endless mountains, deserts and headwinds. We crawled up the mountain painstakingly slowly, resigned to the fact that we might not make it and barely speaking to each other. Xavier managed to hail another truck to tow him up the hill and I was again left alone on the mountain side. A definite low point but putting my head down I got back to the gruelling task ahead. Three hours later we topped out at 2,400m, the highest point on our route, it was all downhill from here! (sort of)

The fruits of our labour were not realised until the late afternoon, after 60km of undulating frustrations. The descent however was worth it: 20 kilometres of glorious, smooth tarmac. We challenged ourselves to see how far we could ride with no hands – no mean feat with a front wheel carrying two heavy panniers! – after 12km of free-wheeling wobbliness we spotted a truck stop and rewarded ourselves with a well deserved icecream!

Riding into sunset again

After 3 weeks in Iran the world was full of possibilities for wild camping, it was a fun and safe environment and nothing seemed off limits. Rolling through the countryside as the sun set and darkness engulfed there were no feelings of danger or intrepidation – If you needed to sleep just ask someone and they will find you a place. “Tonight we will sleep in a palace” Xavier shouted again gleefully.

Spotting a father and son picking fruit in an orchard we stopped to ask for a place to camp. The son spoke a little English and explained how they were terribly sorry but they didn’t live on the farm and there was no where to sleep inside. We insisted that a patch of land for our tents was all we needed and following them down a path were led to the perfect spot.

Bike camping

As we set up the tents the father and son returned with a large carpet to place out tents on. “Can’t have your things getting wet” they insisted. And proceeded to build us a fire. It was totally dark by the time we had pitched camp and were huddled around the flickering flames. The boy return one more time with three large bottles of water for washing and a bottle of fuel he had siphoned out of his motorbike, “For helping with the fire” he instructed. Xavier’s eyes lit up and we enjoyed a fun, if not slightly dangerous, hour of playing with fire and petrol before a peaceful night in the tents.

Xavier fire

We were just 100km or so from Shiraz and decided to take a side trip to visit the ancient ruins of Persopolis. Again the Iranian tourist sights didn’t disappoint as we wandered our way through the archaeological digs and impressive Persian ruins, barely another tourist to be seen.

Persopolis

After lunch we set off to cover the final 80km to Shiraz, the final 20km culminating the trip with two harsh 300m climbs. Our long lunch and sight-seeing stop had delayed us so by the time we topped the first climb it was already dark. We put or lights on and rolled down the hill, four days hard riding and roughing it on farms had left us exhausted; we barely had anything left for the final climb.

At the foot of the climb I had a sudden wave of, erm, “Stomach issues” and had to dive behind a bush. Meanwhile Xavier had spied a slow moving lorry and grabbed on for another tow. Weary eyed and iffy bowled I set off on the chase. In the darkness I couldn’t see my feet but there was definitely some kind of problem; my right foot was at a very unusual angle pushing the pedal. It was too dangerous to stop on the side of the road and i’m not sure i’d have had the energy to restart so i simply plodded on up the hill, confused by my new foot position.

A short way from the top I could ignore the problem no more when my right pedal clean snapped off!

Precariously examining the fault on the side of the road I deemed it unrepairable and attempted to make the final 50 metres of the climb pedalling with just one leg, balancing my now redundant right leg on the frame of the bike. I somehow made it over the crest of the summit and was relieved to see the city lights of Shiraz down below. Confident I didn’t need to pedal any more I rolled my way down the mountain,  Xavier having to follow close behind to illuminate the road for both of us. As my dim head torch barely penetrated more than a metre into the darkness.

Unorthodox way to cross the busy street in Shiraz

After the descent it turned out there was a flat 5km to cover to the city centre. This was potentially problematic. As we stood at the side of the road deliberating a police car pulled over. Communicating the problem the policeman then walked to the road and started to hail down passing cars,  to take us to the city. A kind, if not unusual, way of policing but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

Shiraz

On the descent I had developed an awkward one legged pedal, where I could use my right leg to kick the crank arm around, as long as my left down push was strong enough. In my head I still didn’t want to cheat by taking a car, so hobbled into the city having to jump up and down on the left pedal to get anywhere – stopping and starting for traffic lights being particularly infuriating.

Motorbikes on their way to Sydney

Eventually we found the hostel. There was a cool travellers vibe about the place and a few westerners around to share interesting travel stories and adventures. Motorbikers and hitchhikers mostly on round the world trips of their own.

It had been one of the toughest legs of the trip, but we had made it over the last set of mountains and no obstacles now stood between us and the Persian gulf. Xavier and I high-fived and breathed a huge sigh of relief. We’d made it!

DSC_9389 DSC_9397 DSC_9410 DSC_9415 DSC_9418 DSC_9422 DSC_9427 DSC_9429 DSC_9430 DSC_9436 DSC_9443 DSC_9446 Xavier at Imman Square, Esfahan DSC_9452 DSC_9461 DSC_9463 DSC_9474 Esfahan by bike! DSC_9502 DSC_9512 DSC_9516 DSC_9526 Another night spent on the farm Desert road to Shiraz DSC_9533 DSC_9538 DSC_9539 DSC_9540 Cow Pat Palace Iranian Bus snacks to help me up the moutain Finally some downhill! Bike camping Xavier fire Sharng a meal with Iranian farmers Xavier with our new friends Opium somking? DSC09073 DSC09076 DSC09077 Crazy dancing Our cook for the night DSC09083 Hosted by another Iranian farmer DSC09119 DSC09127 DSC09202 Unorthodox way to cross the busy street in Shiraz DCIM100GOPRO Riding into sunset again Working hard in the desert! DCIM100GOPRO Xavier fire DSC_9642 DSC_9670 Persopolis Shiraz Motorbikes on their way to Sydney

 


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