I have now been in Iran for almost three weeks, which is more than what any flesh and blood can stand. I can not see the light at the end of the tunnel yet because it's still eleven days and 16 hours and for that length of time one needs a really strong telescope, which I left at home.
The people are the nicest so far on the Silk Route but it's the absurd rules and regulations which are killing me. It is a hostile invironment for a single Western woman traveling alone. Luckily I can cling onto Erwin and Paul to soften the blow a bit. My liver, however, is thanking me for this sojourn in this promised land of only milk and honey. My hair also, which has become a place where the sun doesn't shine.
Since I met the group at the Turkmenistan border we have cycled for eight days. In between we have had one rest day in a town called Gonbad. The Tripadvisor found my location there and gave the following information: Restaurants: Zero, Things to do: Zero, Hotels: One. But don't stay there unless forced at gunpoint or really drunk. And we all know the latter will not happen. I was so unnerved by the squatting toilet in the room that I couldn't produce a blog. Constipation and squatting is not two words that you would want to use in one sentence. Luckily it wasn't so bad as the story of Andy Warhole who allegedly spent 24 hours on a toilet once with a bout of the above. I hope for his sake they didn't have squatting toilets in Manhatten at that time.
I can see my ex husband rolling his eyes now because he has advised me several times not to use lavatorial information in my blog.
I found out from the group all the things I missed in Turkmenistan. The president is in favour of all white things. Most buildings in Ashgabat is painted white and for the last year only white cars are imported into the country. That is why Mr Zimmerman and I, both whiter than the president, but born in darkest Africa were not allowed into the country.
That caused us to miss about 600km of cycling on rough roads and headwinds in a desert like landscape which I am not going to cry about too much. But we did miss something that is a great pity and really appeals to my sordid sense of humour.
In Tyrkmenistan is a crater called The Gate to Hell. This is an engineering mistake of the Soviets which set fire to a gas line which has been burning for more than 40 years.
Back in Iran time is dragging on and I can't wait to enter Turkey. It is a war torn country but from my current position it looks like The Gate to Heaven.
As I mentioned before the Iranian people are extremely friendly. We get stopped on the road and offered food and drinks and get invited to their homes. We also get stopped to be photographed in selfies with these people. It seems to be strange for them to see foreigners and even stranger to see a woman on a bicycle. I haven't seen any other Westerner in the country so far. Except when I look in the mirror to adjust my headscarf which keeps falling off.
I have tried to play by the dress rules on the bicycle but I'm getting more and more daring. For the last three days I cycled without the scarf and wearing only a helmet. On my head that is, not only as in really only. So far I have not ended up in jail and have not heard any warnings. Not in any understandable language anyway. It has been quite challenging to cycle in 40 degrees with arms and legs covered in some horrific lycra, albeit pink.
The Golestan Palace in Teheran where some national treasures are kept. It has a Coffee House without coffee. Something like a pub without beer.
Erwin and Paul longing for coffee that is not going to materialize.
Read the words
The flag that The Khomeini raised
Father and son bringing bread but not wine. Anyone knows the recipe how to turn water into wine?
Now we are enjoying two rest days in Tehran. Enjoying is maybe not the correct word but even Erwin is smiling.
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