The time: Rainy Season
The place: Iran
After many days exchanging messages on Instagram, I have just met Valentina, a confident cyclist from Italy. She has cycled more than 17000 (!) km from Vietnam (!). Even before we talk about our stories, I know she has stronger principles than me. She wouldn’t take a bus because she was tired and didn’t want to cycle. She would look much harder for a place to camp before settling for a guest house.
We have both just emerged out of the mountainous Kurdistan region of West Iran. We have both been cheated — not by a crazy amount, but just enough to leave a bad taste — by locals in the multi-storeyed semi-touristy village of Palangan. We have both struggled up and zoomed down the same hills. It’s always welcome to spend time with another cyclist trading stories, complaints, and laughter.
We are both cycling toward Tabriz, the big city in the Northwest of Iran, so we have a few days together. On the first day, we cycle towards Miandoab, a small town on the way, hoping to find somewhere to camp on the outskirts.
On the way, we see a lot of…bet you can’t guess what the next word is…ostriches! There are so many of them, just ostrich after ostrich, standing tall and silly, for many kilometers. There are barbecue shops where, presumably, we can try ostrich meat. So we decide to stop at one that looks lively.
A couple welcomes us in, and tells us that they are engaged. They are going to be married in a few days, and are trying out different dishes with ostrich meat — different parts, different techniques — before deciding on which one to serve at their wedding. We congratulate them, and ask them what we should try, and they invite us to join them. So, over the next hour, we try different varieties of ostrich meat. I actually don’t remember how any of them taste (sorry!), so I won’t comment on this, but I do remember thinking that it was pretty cool for this couple to include us in their celebration. All smiles, all joy, all fun for all of us. Not for the ostriches, though.
That evening, as we get close to Miandoab, it starts raining. The clouds are angry at something and they are taking it out on the earth. My jacket is good and has been through a lot, but it can’t protect me from this rain. Within a few minutes, it gets hard to see because of all the water in my eyes.
Valentina tells me we should look for a Red Crescent1 office, and ask if we can stay the night. She says she’s done this before and that they’re usually very helpful. We stop at a Red Crescent tent and ask the guy if he has a place where we can sleep. He tells us with a cute, sad face that he can’t help us. This is just a tent that they pack up every evening. The real office is quite far. He gives us hot water to warm up, and Valentina makes tea for both of us.
We stand under the tent, soaked, shivering, and thinking of what to do. A taxi pulls up and a short, plump guy gets out and runs toward us. Red Crescent Guy translates for us that his name is Aziz and he stopped because he saw our cycles. He used to be a champion cyclist when he was young, so he was very excited to see us. He tells us he will be very glad if we stay at his house. Valentina is hesitant, but I ask her, pointing at the rain, what choice we have.
She tells me that if she was alone, there is no chance she would have accepted this invitation. It’s just easier for guys.
We follow him through the flooded streets of Miandoab at a breakneck pace. Maybe he thinks we are competitive cyclists too.
At his house, he shows us his cycling trophies and photos of his youth. He was much more fit then.
We meet his wife and children. The atmosphere is a bit weird. The twenty year old son completely ignores us. The teenage daughter chats cheerfully, happy to talk in English. The wife doesn’t seem to be too excited to have us. Not that I blame her. We are very conscious of the fact that we are intruding in her space. Also we (me for sure) probably don’t smell very good.
The stay is luxurious. We get our own room, a hot shower, and a place to do Yoga the next morning. For lunch, Aziz cooks us a mediocre chicken with tomato gravy and rice. I sense some displeasure on his wife’s face when he plonks the biggest pieces onto our plates. The son eats with us, but again doesn’t say a word.
Neither Valentina nor I are comfortable. We discuss leaving, but the rain has only increased. We ask Aziz through Google Translate if it’s really okay that we stay one more day, and he says yes with enthusiasm. We go downstairs to visit his cycling trophies again.
In the evening, things change. Aziz comes to us with a sad face and tells us that we have to leave. He calls his friend to translate for us, but we don’t really understand what the translator is saying, either. Something about how he’s very sorry, but something urgent has come up, and we have to go. He hands Valentina his old cycling jacket — a very cool, retro jacket that looks more waterproof than my lovely, but not-as-cool North Face. She’s not happy that he’s throwing us out into bad weather and giving her this jacket as consolation. He doesn’t give me anything, and I feel a bit jealous.
So off we go, back into the pouring rain. Aziz leads us by car to a hotel close by where we can stay for the night. Valentina waits outside while us men walk in to find things out. The hotel costs $25 for the night, but our budgets are $5 each, so we decline. A few hugs are exchanged, Aziz apologizes sincerely, and we start riding off into the evening — two kids abandoned in the flooded streets of West Iran.
Camping outdoors in this rain won’t be pleasant, so we ask a few people if they can give us space to pitch our tents.
Question: What is common between a fruit vendor on the streets of Miandoab, a wood factory worker on the outskirts, and a gas station attendant in the center?
Answer: They all refused to give two soaked cyclists shelter from the pouring rain.
At a bakery, a customer points us to a mosque and calls the caretaker. Naser, a giant, gentle man with a kind face comes out and unlocks the prayer room for us. He tells us we can sleep anywhere inside. The room is filled with a calm, positive, almost spiritual energy.
I fail to figure out which direction the people pray in, but Valentina points out the space in the wall that indicates the path to Mecca.
Naser speaks with us for a bit in calm, non-intrusive way. A few hours later, he brings us chicken and rice, which tastes excellent this time.
The next morning, I feel the gratitude well up in my heart as I thank him. His mother comes out to say goodbye and the two of them wave us off with kind smiles.
It has stopped raining, but it’s still cold and foggy. Valentina, as usual, cycles faster and I struggle to keep up with her. It’s not a problem, though. I can always find her again with that fancy jacket.
Red Crescent is what Red Cross is called in muslim countries
"two kids abandoned in the flooded streets of West Iran." and "The room is filled with a calm, positive, almost spiritual energy." explains the experience in toto/
Ostrich meat taste you will not remember, but Aziz’s bad chicken you will remember. Unfair to the ostrich who died serving you. Pritam, your newsletters are so good. I never understood cycling to pursue it and I am confident that I will rue this decision of mine by the time you readh #14..what a delight it is to read about your experiences which are so lucidly put. So good!