(20) Garmeh, Iran: Desert storm

Tom and I had a late start in Yazd, but eventually made it to the bus station (curious: Iran’s bus stations are always way outside of town – why?) and onto a bus to Na’in on our way to Garmeh. I had bought a watermelon the day before with the intention to eat it all for lunch, but was still lugging it around and ate a quarter of it before we left. The extra weight now seems like a bit of a mistake…carrying around 3/4 of a watermelon is a pain.

The ride to Na’in was uneventful, passing through fairly desolate landscape, until we didn’t seem to stop in Na’in. Tom and I gave each other questioning looks before he brought our ticket up to the driver’s assistant. Some frantic and annoyed Farsi ensued (a la “oh shit we forgot about the tourists”) between him and the driver before the bus pulled over, backed up about 100m, pulled a u-ey, drove two roundabouts back and dropped us at the side of the road. (Aside: how do you spell u-ey? I’ve only said it, never had to write it before.)

We were expecting a bus to come through to where we were going at about 4pm. It was just after 3pm. For all we knew the schedule had changed, or no buses were coming through – it was Friday afterall (the equivalent of Canadian Sunday). But, as luck would have it, we were only there for about 10 minutes before a car pulled over, asked if we were tourists, where we were going, and offered a ride. Well, the car itself didn’t ask, the two men inside did. And we accepted.

The two men were professors at a university in Tabas, the next city after our destination. The passenger was a professor of geology, and he was keen to share the geological history of the area with us (which I actually quite enjoyed). Overall a very enthusiastic talkative guy.

He translated one of his favourite Arabic songs for us, and then played it again. He asks us for our opinion. I leave this one to Tom. “It’s quite catchy,” he shares noncommittally.

At one point they decided to pull over to allow us to take a photo, of what I can’t remember now. Because when we stopped, I pointed out a huge billowing sand cloud in the distance, maybe 5km away. A sand storm. Definitely a new experience for me. We took tonnes of photos, the geology professor took some video,  and I gained appreciation for storm chasers. I watched the sand cloud pass down the side of a mountain, and could tell it was moving at quite a speed, in our direction.

“Is it dangerous?” I ask.

“No, no, not dangerous,” says the geology professor.

So we continued to take pictures – with the professors, of the sand storm, of the camel signs on the highway, of a combination of the above. And then, when the cloud seemed to be about 1km away, the geology professor seems to chang his mind.

“OK, we go. Maybe dangerous.”

So we hopped back in the car and within a few minutes we reached our destination, but were overcome by the sandstorm. At first it was just very windy with a bit of dust. The geology professor was concerned for us and tried to convince us to continue on to Tabas, their destination. Tom and I tried to explain that we had a reservation, someone picking us up, someone waiting for us, a friend was meeting us, anything for them to stop the car.

But soon enough, luck would have it that the sand storm became so bad the sky was dark, headlights were useless, and driving any further was even more dangerous than staying. We found refuge in a mosque and waited out the storm.

The worst of it was short, only 10 minutes or so before it was safe to drive again, but was it ever fun.

Our final destination, a traditional house in the oasis village of Garmeh, was a short taxi ride away. The driver had a husky, cackly voice and unknowingly entertained us by his enthusiastic mobile phone conversations. Tom and I both had never seen landscapes like this before, and thoroughly enjoyed the scenery both on this final leg and all the way from Na’in in general. It turns out that desert oases really do look like they do in the movies and cartoons. A blob of palm trees in the middle of nowhere.

Our home for the next two nights was a restored old mud brick home called Ishetoni. Its village, Garmeh, is home to a few hundred people, is backed by some high rocky outcrops, is full of palm trees, sunflowers, pomegranate bushes, birds and butterflies, and is surrounded otherwise by flat, dry nothingness.

While the scenery is unique, the food is lovely and the home is welcoming, the temperature is a bit of an issue at this time of year. Our full day here it got to about 46 degrees, and at night it only went down to 32, which apparently I have trouble sleeping in. The first morning I felt I had already been awake for a few hours when I gave up all hope for sleep at 5 am and took a walk in behind the village and sat up on the rocks for a while as the sun rose. Not my usual daytime routine, but probably the best option considering the temperature as the sun gets higher; I was back for breakfast at 8am and was able to nap on and off until 11am. Watermelon was offered as a late morning snack, and lunch shortly followed. Other than short walks, we (including a young couple from Portugal staying here) each spent the rest of the morning just reading and generally laying around the living area in the path of the cooling fan. I compare it to a modern day version of being fed grapes and being fanned by servant boys.

In the afternoon, the four of us shared a taxi tour to a “salt lake” which turned out to be more of a salt trench. While still beautiful, it was a bit disappointing considering the images the word “lake” conjures up. We should have been more realistic considering the temperature and the season, but seeing as we were sightseeing in the heat of the late afternoon, we were really hoping for something good.

When we got back to the village, Tom and I got some nonalcoholic beers and went for a walk around the village and surrounding palm-treed plots, taking advantage of the (moderately) non-hot wind that had picked up. It was so quiet. I do well with silence.

The next morning, ideas of an early walk were replaced by welcome sleep. We had planned to leave before noon, but ended up staying for lunch, and leaving in the early afternoon with hopes of catching a random ride back to Na’in and then a bus to our separate destinations (Tom to Kashan, I back to Tehran).

As luck would have it, Tom only had time to buy a drink while I successfully flagged down a transport truck to Na’in. Our host in Garmeh had said that trucks travel fast on the road, but we calculated (both by timing the road signs and the markers on the road) that we were only travelling about 80 km/h. For 3 hours. Cramped. In the front of a hot, old, Mercedes transport truck. If nothing else it was an experience. I kept track of the beats playing on the iPod and found that the driver was looking at me at least half of the time. I was glad to be travelling with a male partner. Definitely would not have attempted this alone.

By the time we got to Na’in, it was clear that I wasn’t going to make it to Tehran in good time, so I joined Tom in Kashan for one more time as unmarried twin room sharing opposite sex travel partners, and let Somayeh know I would be back in Tehran in the early afternoon.

But the next morning, for real this time, was the end for Tom and me as travel partners. After breakfast I caught a taxi to the bus station, and Tom wandered off to explore Kashan. I’m jealous of the time he still has to spend in Iran, and his potential plans to come back in February.

Thanks for all the comfortable silences.

(16) Western Iran: Hospitality and heroin

I had bought a ticket earlier in the day, both to guarantee I would get one, and to make sure I knew where I was going. I’m glad I did because it’s a bit station and the entrance is not where I expected it to be. Amir Hossein had got me in a shared taxi heading there, and I was on my way before 8.

I didn’t see my bus where I expected it to be at the time I expected it to be there. I tried asking a few people, but didn’t receive any good information. Eventually I approached a trio of people that were going on the same bus, could speak basic English, and assured me that they would make sure I got on. They introduced themselves as Kurdish, and I felt immediately relieved. Ah, Kurds again. I had such great experiences with Kurds in Turkey and Iraq, so I felt at ease knowing they had my back. We chatted a bit and they let me know if I needed anything, or had any questions once we were on the bus, that they were there for me.

On the bus I was seated beside a young, overly stylish woman. Big sunglasses, a bit too skinny, probably had long fake nails if I had looked. I must say I’m a huge fan of the Iranian bus system, where females travelling alone are paired with other females. No worries of creepy men/ large men/ snoring men ending up beside you on the long distance buses.

It soon became obvious that the woman was keen to talk to me, but she spoke about 100 words of English. We established ages, marital status, that Iran was beautiful. The usual. If ever I completely did not understand what she was saying, she would laugh and grab my arm. At one point she blurts out the few English words she hasn’t had a chance to use yet: “I love you, too.” We were best buddies.

Before we went/tried to sleep, she made house gestures, and from what I understood from the hand motions and words, she wanted me to come to her home when we arrived in Sanandaj. There she had a Farsi – English dictionary. We would eat there, I could rest some more, and then head to Paveh later in the day. Agreed.

Sleep was off and on, as it usually is on a night bus, and we arrived in Sanandaj early in the morning, but it was already light. At this point I’m expecting my new best friend and I to get off the bus together, where she would lead me to a taxi to her home, we would eat, rest and I would be on my way to Paveh later in the afternoon.

So I was a bit surprised when the bus reached its destination and she stood up, waved and said, “Good bye!” with a huge smile.

What happened to being best buddies? I thought we had something. You told me you loved me, too!

I waved back with a smile, and pretended like I wasn’t confused. Ah well.

Although I wanted to get to Paveh, I hadn’t decided on a route. I definitely wanted to complete a circuit of a mountain route near the Iraq border, but didn’t know if I would start or end at the Paveh side.

I sat down with my Lonely Planet, pondering my options, when I hear a shared taxi driver yell “Marivan”, and my decision was made. Counter-clockwise it would be.

I shared the taxi with a young man and a couple, and we made great time to Marivan. The couple was headed to the same hotel I was interested in, so I was happy to know I would be able to get to my destination without too much trouble. I was a bit let down when we arrived though. The best option in town was actually a bit out of town. Near a lake, but not near enough to make it worthwhile to be near the lake. And finally, it was full, so that was probably the main reason it wasn’t a good place for me. I caught a taxi ride back to the centre of the town, bought a toothbrush to stand in for the toiletries bag I forgot in Tehran (I forgot my watch too – oops!), checked email, and tried to figure out a plan of action.

I decided to try to get to where I was originally going to spend my second night, Howraman. It doesn’t have any official accommodation, but that generally hadn’t posed too much of a problem in the past for me. My first bus to the junction I needed to get off at had me sharing some fruit and nuts (what a great way to break ice!), getting my fare paid for by a local teacher (Kurdish people are so generous!), and relearning some Kurdish I picked up in Iraq and Turkey. It’s amazing how a quick “spas” (thank you) lights up faces.

At the junction I found a shared taxi to Howraman, and we were quickly on our way. Except for the flat tire, that is. But it was fixed in just enough time for me to find the back side of a bush for use as a toilet.

We climbed over increasingly higher and steeper hills. I could see where the road forked ahead, and where the right fork’s road was cut jaggedly like a zigzag into the mountain’s side and up and over onto the other. We took the other fork, and descended into the valley below where Howraman lay. The three other men in the taxi got dropped off, and the driver stopped at a few places for me to take photos. At one point, we were wandering around a shrine when I heard from above “Paveh!” – a bus was leaving (or at least this is what I swear I heard). I knew I wasn’t going to have time to run back to the taxi, grab my bags, and get to the bus. I watched it drive away.

At this point I was planning to just get dropped of in Howraman and let the rest sort itself out. But I succumbed to the persuasion of the driver. There are no buses to Paveh on this road he says. The road is a bad road he says. I need to take the other route he says. I should go back to Marivan he says. I should wait at the fork for a bus on the other road he says.

Eventually I ride with him back to the fork, and some confusion results when I want to get out, and not go with him back to Marivan, and not go with him on the other route to Paveh. I just want out. I want my bags. I finally get them, and the driver, as nice as he truly is once the confusion subsides, arranges a ride for me with a Kurdish family travelling in three cars. We chat a bit over ice cream with a few soldiers and the man with the ice cream cooler on the back of his motorbike. I finally have a way to get to Paveh. Considering Paveh is where I planned to spend my third night on this side trip, I’m way ahead of schedule and need to find some more destinations before heading back to Tehran.

I had a great ride with the family. They were on a holiday picnic drive from Marivan, and stopped like regular tourists at all the places I was happy to stop at. Snowball fights at the pass. Photos at the viewpoint of the valley floor reaching over to Iraq. Have I said recently that I love mountains?

We stopped for a picnic. Iranians do picnics well. Picnics do not just consist of sandwiches on a blanket. We had rice, barbecued fish, bread, drinks, tea, and more. And dancing. They wanted to show me a traditional Kurdish dance, which involves stepping forward and back, arms linked with the person beside you, the lead and end each waving handkerchiefs. It’s a political dance I’m told. The steps symbolize land, and the willingness to fight for it. The linked arms symbolize solidarity. The waving handkerchiefs symbolize a flag for an independent Kurdistan. They ask me if I have a website where I describe my travels, and they ask me not to post photos of the dance.

After lunch they have decided not to go to Paveh, as the day is getting too long, but even with my insistence that yes, I can take a taxi, they still drive me all the way to Paveh, and drive all the way through the town to make sure I have a good place to sleep, and finally we say goodbye.

That night in Paveh I try to sort out the route I will take from here, considering I’ve only had one long day and I still have at least two more before I need to get back to the assortment of various embassies in Tehran for visa duty. I finally decide on another long day of travel to get to Andimeshk, from where I can see some interesting sights and take a scenic train through canyons and mountains.

First is a bus to Kermanshah, from where I catch a shared taxi to Khorammabad. Four college guys sit across the back. It takes me a while to let my guard down, as when people (men) are laughing in obvious reference to me when travelling, I always assume that some sort of sexual jokes are being told. I know this is overreacting, but honestly, it’s not nice to laugh when someone that doesn’t speak your language is in your company – you feel you’re being laughed at, not with. They also ask innocent, but to my suspicious ear, creepy, questions. Do you have a cell phone? Does your cell phone have GPS? I jump to the obvious conclusion that they are going to drive me somewhere remote where I can’t call for help or find my way back to civilization. Of course, they are just curious about the technology I’m carrying, but in my hopped-up hyper-paranoid state, I think the extreme. I keep an eye out for road signs.

But of course, they end up being very friendly young Kurdish guys. I get treated to lunch and when we get to Khorammabad they bypass their destination and pay for my taxi to the next shared taxi stand and ensure that I get a car to my next destination at the right price.

The final ride was the neatest. The landscape changed dramatically to an odd mountainous dessert. This is actually what I imagine much of Iraq looks like, and it probably does. Baghdad is about 300km away.

It’s kind of like the Monument Valley in Arizona (where Forrest Gump stopped running), but a few hundred million years before. Erosion hasn’t happened to its fullest yet. Even still, I could make out amazing sedimentary layers in the walls of the hills around me, many of them worn away slightly. The topography itself looks like a topographic map.

I noticed the temperature gauge in the car was 44. Then 46. At it’s highest it reached 49. I figured it must be a mistake, though it was pretty damn hot.

The driver was probably the craziest I’ve had yet. He was a huge fan of weaving in and out of traffic, which in and of itself isn’t so unusual, but he even liked to test out passing on blind corners, which isn’t that common even in this area of the world. Whenever there was a big line of trucks or cars in front of us, he would flash his lights repeatedly at oncoming traffic and make question gestures with his arms, as if to ask, “What’s going on up ahead? Radar?” I was, however, able to confirm that tailgating is the international sign for, “Speed up or move over,” and flashing one’s headlights once means “Cops up ahead.” I was also able to confirm that the middle finger is, in fact, NOT the international symbol for “You drive like a ninny.” In Iran, a thumbs up is used instead. I’m not joking. It’s really amusing to see a pissed off driver give someone a glare, a few choice words, and a thumbs up.

In Andimeshk, I settled into my hotel and cranked the air con. Maybe it was 49. I waited a while before heading out to explore the town, but I eventually ended up buying some vegetables for the train ride the next morning (at this point I had completely forgotten about visiting nearby ruins. A day trip in the dessert at 50 degrees was NOT going to happen), confirming the train’s departure time, checking my email, and browsing a fine selection of camouflage gear, which appears to be all the rage in Andimeshk.

I grabbed dinner at a restaurant off one of the town’s squares (or really it was more like a circle). I was soon joined by a few men who were keen to try to chat. Again I read too far into innocent questions, like “Where is your hotel?” I’m passed a cell phone by an older gentleman – it’s his wife, and she speaks English. She asks if she can help me. “Nope, I’m just enjoying my dinner, and I was passed the phone to talk to you.” I take the opportunity to find out what the temperature was today. “49,” she tells me. We chat briefly, and she apologizes for for interrupting my dinner. I pass the phone back to the man. He chats to her briefly and passes the phone back to me. She invites me to stay at their home. I thank her, but let her know that I already have a room, and I have to wake up at 3:30am the next morning for the train. The man offers to take me back to my hotel, but my guard is still up, and I’m fine with the 100m walk.

Back at the hotel, I try to sort out a way to wake up at 3:30am. There’s about 6 other men in the hotel lobby/cafeteria dressed in Kurdish attire and I test out my Kurdish again. It falls flat. I know that there are many different languages spoken in the multi-country Kurdistan, but this is the first time my offers of “thank you” and “what is your name” are not understood.

In the end I think I have at least two men plus the hotel attendent waking me up in the morning. For backup, I use what I  call my water bottle alarm. I drink a litre of water before I go to bed. If nothing else, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night having to pee.

The water bottle alarm worked too well. I had only slept just over an hour before I woke up. And then after that I woke up every half hour to check the clock on my camera. I was wide awake and getting ready when the men knocked quietly at my door in succession. They were way too quiet to have woken me up if I had really needed them.

At 4am, the town is quiet, but incredibly warm. It really hasn’t cooled down much, and must still be close to 40. I expect the train station to be dead at this time in the morning, but it’s buzzing with hundreds of people all planning to take this train. I stand in line for about 2 minutes before an attendent leads me around back to the ticket sellers and I get a ticket in 1 minute instead of 30. It costs about 40 cents for a seven hour ride. I feel like a celebrity, and have to admit I don’t mind the service. I wait, sitting on my bag, briefly, before being led into a special, spacious, waiting room. Soon enough, I am led out to the train before the masses. It’s soon evident that I am on the “women and children” car. I had heard that this train was incredibly packed, but this is obviously only true for the co-ed passengers. My car at first only had one other set of seats taken – a woman and her three children. Soon enough she has claimed me for her own, and one of her older boys is relegated to my former seat.

She shares water and food with me. I’m thankful. She speaks no English, and I at this point only speak limited Farsi. When she tries to get something across to me, she seems to think it would be effective to repeat the same phrase over and over again. When I laugh sheepishly and shrug my shoulders, she pinches my cheeks and slips her fingers away as if a clothespin was being tugged from my face. Her intentions are playful, but it hurts a bit each time she does it.

The scenery on the train ride was well worth the early morning. At first we sidled through broad dessert valleys, but soon moved into increasingly narrower canyons. The morning light was golden, and cast a warm orange glow on the rocks around us. Soon enough though, it was hot. Too hot. We nodded in and out of sleep most of the rest of the journey. The best part of the ride was in the early morning anyway.

As the train continued, our car filled more and more, but was still not cramped. It was entertaining to watch men board at the various stations, thinking they had come across some undiscovered empty seats, only to be quickly thereafter ushered out by train attendants.

Throughout the journey, I got an increasingly, I don’t know, negative? feeling about this woman and her children. Her young daughter seemed sweet, but the older boys were a bit corrupted or something. At one point, a toddler in the next berth over was standing in the corridor just past us. I was engaging the young boy, making funny faces. On of the sons turned around with a sour face and shooed him away like a pest. I can’t quite describe the vibe I got from this family, but it wasn’t entirely positive.

By this point in my journey, I had made the decision to head back to Tehran on a night train. I had been throwing around the idea of heading to Esfahan, but I had a feeling that unless I had a clear and firm plan, I was going to be hijacked by this woman.

Which is what happened. At the station, she pulled me along with her. I was obviously coming to her house. I convinced her to at least allow me to get my ticket to Tehran. Overnight train. Leaving at 6:30pm. It was about 11am. 7 hours to kill with her.

We walked to a quiet area of town, and it became clear we weren’t heading to her home, but to someone’s she was visiting. We entered the modest home of her brother and his wife and children.

No one spoke English. We went as far as we could with the very basics – family structure, names, marital status, ages. Soon they invited a family friend over, an intellectual type who spoke a bit better English. It made things run a lot more smoothly, except sometimes he would ask questions that made no sense to me whatsoever.

“Mother, father, love, expensive?”

???

He tries to explain the sort of answer he’s expecting.

“1, 2, 3, 4, Tehran,” he continues, moving his head back and forth and waving his arms around in front of him as if he must have made himself understood.

???

The older boys and their male cousins are little shits. They yell at me in Farsi to get my attention while I’m talking to the family friend, or shout out basic English phrases like “Mother Penis” to get me to look. I do my best to ignore, or shake my head disapprovingly. The father takes a stick once and a while and smacks the annoying boys. He also has some dental issues and soaks small pieces of tissue in ethanol ever few minutes to dab a tooth or two with. He’s a bit of a rough character. If I understand correctly, he was a soldier (or police officer?) in the Iran-Iraq war.

The adults take out a water pipe. I decline, though I’m not really ever offered. Whenever the dad leaves the room, the oldest son rushes over and sneak a few puffs.

We enjoy lunch. Probably the highlight of my stay here. Really good.

After lunch I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to pass the next few hours as quickly as possible. A nap is suggested – yes! I sleep (or really, I lie awake) way longer than necessary in the afternoon, but it takes me that much closer to when I have to depart.

When I come out of the room in which I have been napping, I hear and see a small propane stove and know that I’m going to see the dad smoking drugs. He is. Now, everything I’ve learned about hard drugs I’ve learned from the movies, so I’m not sure exactly what it is he’s smoking. He’s got two metal wires, and he intermittently touches them together and inhales the resulting smoke through a small pipe – perhaps it’s the shell of an old pen. When I describe the scenario to others later I’m told that he was smoking opium. Whatever it was, doing it in front of the whole family (or at all) was not cool to me.

While the father is getting high, the older boys continue with their rude comments and gestures. They make like they’re injecting drugs, and slap their inner elbows and mime a needle breaking the surface of their skin. The mothers don’t even bat an eye. While the dad’s sister seems to be used to this, I suspect the wife, although used to this, probably doesn’t have any power in the household to say anything without risk.

At the point the father has two lengths of sticks in front of him. He uses them to hit the children with, so that he doesn’t have to move to beat them. The kids seem used to this. It’s clear that the older boys are too far gone, and are likely to grow up into nothing good without intervention. The young girl is not too far behind. It’s a sad scene.

At this point, I’m really looking forward to leaving. I don’t feel like I’m in any danger, but it’s just a really messed up situation. The family and family friend try to convince me that I need to change my train ticket. That 6:30pm is a bad train, and that a better one leaves at 10pm. They tell me there are bad people on the 6:30pm train. Worse or better than this family?, I question to myself. They tell me that the train will arrive in the middle of the night. I explain I have a friend to pick me up. I tell them I have a meeting in the morning at an embassy. All of a sudden, the train might not arrive until 9 or 10.

I try to compromise. That we will go to the station, and I will ask about the other train. I will MAYBE change ticket, I try to explain. I don’t know if the family friend understands the word maybe, so I follow up with “Maybe yes, maybe no.” “Yes! Yes! Change ticket!” he exclaims. This is not going to be easy.

Before I leave, they would like to take me to a park for photos, and to bring me to a viewpoint over the city. I make to take my bags with me, but they try to force them back down, since I’m changing tickets, right?

At this point I’m quite forceful and insist. We head into town, but not to the train station. Instead, we stop at an English school, so they can get a better English-speaking person to convince me to change tickets. I explain to the very friendly owner that I appreciate their concern for me, but that it’s important for me to arrive in Tehran early. The original arguments of late trains and bad people are repeated over and over again, this time in better English. I repeat my position, and am firm. I wonder if the owner realizes the man in front of me is an addict and understands my reasoning.

Finally, I say my position one final time, ask the man to please express my gratitude for their help and concern, and I use a hand wiping gesture to indicate that this is final. The family finally retreats, and we head to the park for photos. Thankfully it’s just the adults that I travel with, and not the rude boys. We take it seems like 100 photos, and walk to the riverside. I try to express how beautiful I think the nearly-dry riverbed littered with garbage and weeds is.

Next we drive up to the city view point. It really is lovely. The family friend points out the cement factory and explains, for the 20th, 21st and 22nd times, that his father worked at the factory, but not any more, and that that over there is where they get the rock for the cement from, and that those big trucks carry the rocks to the cement factory, and that the dust is very bad.

And then finally, we head to the train station for my 6:30pm train. The family has obviously given up on me changing a ticket, but still wants the visit to end positively. They drive me along a back route to get right up close to the train. They talk to an attendent to make sure I’m in a nice berth, and arrange a move. They give me their mobile phone numbers and addresses so that if I have problems to call them, and to make sure I call them when I arrive. They are genuinely worried about me on this train. But how warped is it that the original woman though that inviting me to her brother’s home where he gets high and whacks his children and nephews is normal? The train is bad but their home is fine?

I am quietly hoping they leave before the train does so that I can sneak off the train and wait for the 1st class sleeper train at 10. But they don’t. They wave me off.

My original berth is with 6 young girls, but I am soon moved to another berth with a single woman and a young family. But then I am moved back to the berth with the young girls. They range in age from about 12 to 30, and we have a good evening. We share food and basic information. We lock the door and take off our head scarves. And finally we let the seats slide down and meet in the middle so that we can stagger ourselves head to toe and get some sleep. I don’t get much, but I feel safe, secure, and surprisingly comfortable.

In the morning, I wake up groggy, and share the food that I have with the girls. Cucumbers, date cookies. Their breakfast so far was just processed cookies, so they seem thankful. Near the end of the trip they invite me to stay with them. I thank them profusely, and explain that I am meeting a friend, and that my luggage is at her house. Before we part ways at the Tehran station, they give me a  simple aluminum ring as a gift.

I decide to use it as my fake wedding ring. I’ve never followed this suggestion before, but seeing as I now have a ring, I might as well try it.

After I arrive back at Somayeh’s, it takes all of 5 minutes for each of them to separately notice the ring and exclaim jokingly at my apparently new marital status.

(9) Savur, Turkey: I’m stuffed

Getting out of Göreme was a bit of a pain. The local bus companies have a monopoly on long distance travel – they won’t sell you a ticket to the next main town an hour away, from where you can get a ticket anywhere. Instead you have to buy a long distance ticket, which takes you to the next main town and you have to change buses anyways. Sigh.

I got as far as Diyarbakir by about 8 in the morning, and took a (damned expensive) taxi to the minibus station to get to a small town of Savur. Savur has nothing of note to see in particular – it’s just a nice small village set on the side of a hill, which one main accommodation option set in an old, traditional home. My plan was to spend just one night, but it wasn’t long before I opted for two.

The drive there was lovely. Leaving Diyarbakir I passed two main things of note: a street-side tomb purchasing market, and fields of poppies. The area is dry, but I’m often surprised by lush pockets of green, and blankets of poppies interspersed among the matchstick grasses.

On the way there, the minibus got pulled over. Everyone’s papers are checked, mine included. It’s a Kurdish area and there are some security concerns, but nothing big. The police guy keeps asking me a question, something like “An la?” I respond back with “An la?” We don’t get very far. Eventually he gives up and we continue on.

I arrive at the guesthouse, and have a bit of a siesta. It’s much warmer here than Göreme, and the heat has got to me. I’m hooked on a book and pass in and out of sleep.

Before the sun begins to go down, I set out for a walk around the village. I motion to the house mother that I’m going for a walk (fingers make walking motion) and to eat (hand to mouth motion). She motions to indication that a meal is included at the guest house, but I’m not sure if it’s dinner or breakfast. I head out with plans to eat something light so that I’m ready for either possibility.

Today must be carpet washing day. It seems every home has a dripping wet carpet hung over balcony railings. I spot two young girls above me working a carpet and I ask to take a picture. Soon enough they ask me “Come, café?” and I head to their home for some god-awful coffee.

The two sisters are soon joined by 4 other girls. With our basic knowledge of each others’ languages, we determine ages and marital status, and I learn that at least two of them have boyfriends, even one girl who is 12. Apparently her boyfriend is 11. Robbing the cradle it seems.

They take turns arranging themselves for photos, sharing their English school workbooks with me, and whispiggling (a word I just made up that describes a combination of whispering and giggling). Apparently they think I can understand them so sometimes keep their voices low. They run in and out of the room in pairs or alone or all together, leaving me to push down the coffee. They take turns getting their pictures taken, and by the time I leave, they’ve had a full on photo shoot it seems. I get their email addresses and head back out to explore the town.

The children here seem to have picked up some lovely habits when passing by travellers in the street. Clean, well dressed, well fed children stick their hands out and ask for money. I talk to the guest house owner later and he seems to think that these children must have spent time in Mardin, the larger and more travelled version of Savur two hours away. These children aren’t from Savur, apparently.

I wander around the town a bit further as the sun sets. I poke my head into a few eating spot-looking places, where I get the stare down from the men that exclusively eat or (more likely) drink tea there. I end up back at the guest house starving, with plans to eat one of my few remaining protein bars that I brought with me on the trip.

However, apparently dinner was included, and after half an hour of photos on the rooftop, a huge spread is laid out for me. Zucchini in a lovely garlic yogurt sauce and a variety of veggie and meat stews and kabobs. I think the meal is meant for four, as I barely make a dent. Good thing I didn’t stop for food in the village.

The next morning, I find that breakfast is included too, and am served a standard Turkish breakfast – sliced cucumber and tomatoe, bread with a selection of cheese, honey, jam and butter, and a hardboiled egg. At points on this trip I make a note to have more breakfasts like this when I go back to Canada. But really, who I am kidding. 1) I’m getting near vegan, so most of the ingredients won’t fly; and even more of a reason: 2) Too much work in the morning.

I eat leisurely and eventually head out for a walk up above the village. I don’t know how I manage to do this, but I often end up heading up on adventures in the hottest heat of the day. I get up to the top of a ridge, and find a quite place in the shade of a small bush. I enjoy the view and take time to think (and continuously wipe the sweat from my face). I take a different route down, trying not to disturb the horses, donkey, cows, sheep and goats that seem to be getting along well together along the route. Back in Savur I explore the village once more, and get back to the guest house for a well deserved (as I reason anyway) siesta.

One of the things I do is arrange some information that I need for my next destination: northern Iraq. It’s not a destination I originally planned on, but after speaking with some others who have been there, and reading some online forums, the Kurdish region of Iraq seems like a safe and interesting choice. I mean, really, who wouldn’t want to say they’ve been to Iraq? At first I was just thinking I’d hop across the border, spend a night and come back, but after a bit more research I plan to spend a few days. I don’t have a guidebook, but enough information and rough maps from websites and forums that allow me the basics I need.

The spread for dinner that night was smaller, but just as tasty. I sneak into the kitchen to see what was cooking, and they explain a soup on the stove. There’s no direct translation for what the soup is made up of, but the main ingredient translates to  “a paste of yogurt and flour”. The result is much tastier than it sounds, and with that and the rest of the offerings, I head to bed absolutely stuffed. This seems to be a trend on this trip.

I wake up early for an 8am dolmus to Midyat, from where I’ll get to the Iraqi border. Another leisurely breakfast is followed by a prayer bead bracelet from the guesthouse owner as I wait for the dolmus. My first Turkey souvenir.

(8) Goreme, Turkey: Motorcycle mama

Ahhh…I’m back to being in love with night trains.

When I left you last in Istanbul, I was recovering from a creepy man on a night train and questioning my existence as a traveller. Catching (by 2minutes) a ferry across the Bosphorus to the train station, I made it to my third attempt at a positive night train experience. I was not disappointed.

I spent the equivalent of about $45 for a 16 hour train ride and an immaculate room with bunk beds all to myself. An attendant on each car cam to make up the beds and provide a towel. There was a pull out countertop to make a portable office, and a mini fridge stocked with a few tasty items.

Can’t say I sleep totally well, though, as every time my ladder knocked against the wall or any other similar sound was made, I woke up with a start thinking creepy man was trying to get back in my room again.

Otherwise, lovely.

Arrived in a city called Kayseri, where I slogged to a bus stop with a couple from Montreal in order get to the main bus station. A man at the stop said that he was getting on the same bus and would show us when to get off. He also offered to pay for us. Note that I’m assuming this is what he said based on his hand gestures. Much uncertainty, but it seemed alright to me. The young woman from Montreal almost started crying – the uncertainty, the heat, her heavy pack. She said she was more independent when she travelled alone, but the near meltdown had me thinking otherwise.

Göreme is a main tourist centre of a region of Turkey called Cappadocia. Cappadocia, which once had an economy based on underground lemon storage and collecting pigeon shit for fertilizer, is now heavily tourism dependent. Lemons are still stored. The pigeon shit industry, however, has collapsed.

The attraction of Cappadocia lies in its unique geography and related homes and churches. Long periods of erosion have left many pillars of stone and dirt which dot the landscape. The pillars, called fairy chimneys, once contained complete homes, and but more often now contain guest houses. Similarly unique-looking valleys have complete villages carved into the earth, with bricks used only sparingly.

My stay in Göreme was overwhelmingly relaxing. I spent four days here overall, and used my time to hike, motorcycle, and write. It helped that the place I found to stay at had a lovely shaded rooftop terrace, wifi, and a great view.

While Göreme has become well touristed over the years, I don’t find it offensive. (Update: Camels were just brought by our outdoor restaurant eating area for rides. Perhaps I spoke too soon). I think the surroundings help – the immediate physical geography surrounding the town means there is a reason for people to be here.

My longest hike took me 5 hours up above Göreme, under sedimentary layers and above eroding, rolling, technicolour canyons. I found myself in old rooms (homes?) carved into the mountain, with doors that walked off into thin air (has the geography changed so much?). I spotted lemon caves and old pigeon shit collectors, admired frescoes in old churches built within rock walls, and wandered through a semi-abandoned village carved out of hills and fairy chimneys.

The walk was a great reminder that what I love about travel is most often the physical geography. I can be at peace in stunning surroundings. I can sit, think, enjoy views and be content. History? Meh.

On the hike I also finally bent my orthodontic wire enough so that it snapped off. It’s still in contact with 4 teeth – I hope my hard earned teeth stay in place for the next five months.

My motorcycle circuit took me far. It had been suggested to me the night previously by a local restauranteur that the valley to the east of Göreme was much more scenic than the valleys south. I’m so glad I took his advice. While the road was cold, even with my fleece done up tight, the air was lovely and the views ever changing. I stopped at a great little old monastery looked after by an engaging host who had been looking after the area as a volunteer (along with his father) for 40 years.

Winding my way through the hills, I knew I was getting low on gas, and was starting to get concerned as I hadn’t seen a gas station since I started earlier in the day. I’m sure most villages have a “gas guy” that has buckets of gas somewhere, but I wasn’t desperate enough to start asking, and soon could see that I would make it to the next big town, where I was sure gas would await.

And it did. I filled up, had some chai with with a group hanging out at the station, and headed back to Göreme on a long boring highway. At this point, I was cold, tired and sore and just wanted to get home, but stopped just before Göreme at another scenic village and some viewpoints. I’m really loving the geology here.

Other than these two more major excursions, I walked, met some interesting people, had some great food, and enjoyed the weather (though the nights are cold). I’ve had a lot of time to think about my plans for the next few days, and I’m torn. There are one or two places that interest me, but I worry that I would put a lot of time and effort to getting there, only to be disappointed. I suppose that a poor excuse, but unless the location is in physically stunning surroundings (do I hear an echo in here?), I’m not content (especially if the accommodation is crap). So I’ve cut two originally intended destinations from plans, and am heading directly to Savur, a small village set among valleys and mountains, with a unique guest house. It’s expensive compared to what I’m used to, but I hope it will be worth it.

(6) Croatia to Turkey via Montenegro, Kosovo, Macedonia, and Greece: Yes, it was a long commute

Yes, this was 50 hours of crazy transit.

While I wanted to spend a bit of time in this area, especially Dubrovnik, Kotor and Pristine, I decided just to push on.

After reviewing my email re: my Iranian visa application number, it sounds as though Thursday and Friday comprise the weekend in Turkey, and my number is only good until approximately the 10th and I want to give myself some “oh shit” days just in case. So while I was tempted to stop over in Dubrovnik and Pristine, the best I did was spend 30 minutes enjoying the fortress views in Kotor Stari Grad, 5 hours in Podgorica enjoying dinner and an impromptu tour of the city with three young local girls, and 5 hours brushing up on my Greek in Thessaloniki thanks to my days taking physics.

I got up for a 5:30am bus across the island from Vela Luka (why did I even try hitching?) all the way through to Dubrovnik. Had a little freakout as the bus schedule said buses further into Montenegro only went on odd numbered days, of which this was not one. But I asked, and one was leaving in 30 minutes. The bus ride through to Kotor was fantastic along the ocean – winding roads with steep drop-offs (complete with rusted smashed cars down below) and beautiful views of the coastline and Adriatic architecture (= terra cotta roof and cream walls). The bus to Podgorica surprised me – outstanding views of mountains and a huge lake I completely did not expect. I associate walls of mountains with ranges like the Himalayas, Rockies, Alps, Southern Alps, or Andes. These weren’t quite as high, but they were nonetheless snowcapped. Also met a man working for the American Embassy in Podgorica who is responsible for distributing military and state aid related to defense for Montenegro. Learning some political and cultural contexts of the area was nice.

The brief stopover in Podgorica was uneventful, but interesting. At one point I offered to take a picture for a group of girls on a bridge, who then offered to show me around. The cousins all had matching shirts, which were in support of one of their brothers, who was running/working for a party that was campaigning on a platform of “clean government” (ie no corruption). As we toured it became obvious that they were disappointed they couldn’t show me very interested things. I explained that just walking around and speaking with people that live in Montenegro was very interesting for me. We’ll catch up further on Facebook.

Interesting fact: Montenegro is home to the ‘.me’ domain, popular with URL shorteners like fb.me and wp.me.

Then onto the overnight bus to Pristina. Had a bit more success sleeping than the last time, but arrived in Pristina at 4:45am. My original intent was to explore the city and take an afternoon overnight bus through to Istanbul, but a Skopje bus was there when I arrived, and I didn’t feel like starting my day walking around at 5am. Kind of wish this part of the trip had been during the day – I could tell we were winding up and around through mountains on narrow roads with snow still on the banks. In Skopje found a soon leaving train to Thessaloniki, which is where I sit now. The views through the rest of Macedonia were stunning – more mountains and staggering canyons. I’ll be landing in Greece soon, hoping to find my next departure to Istanbul. I’m afraid I’m going to be arriving at night, but I’ll just have to make do.

So altogether otherwise it’s been 4 hour bus, 2.5 hour bus, 3 hour bus, 8 hour bus, 2 hour bus, 5 hour train, and a yet unknown hour train to Istanbul, all with minor breaks in between (or sometimes not at all).

While I brushed my teeth out the window at the Macedonia/Greece border, I’m sure what I really need is a shower.

(Update: The train was a night train, so I’ll be arriving in the morning, yay! And it is an 11.5 hour train, with lovely bunk sleeping berths. I have room to myself.)

(Update #2: I hadn’t even considered the current economic situation in Greece – apparently general strikes are about to occur. I guess I lucked out.)

(Update #3: Lovely night train was not so lovely. Creepy man kept trying to get into my room – turning the handle, or knocking and then stepping away to the side (though I could still see him through the fisheye peep hole). After this happening 3 times over 1.5 hours, I yelled at him to stay away from my door. Never heard from him or saw him again, but nonetheless spent 45 minutes standing at my door with my eye to the peep hole, followed by 2 hours half-sleeping sitting up, followed by 4 hours sleeping with the light on. Had to use the toilet, but opted to pee in the small corner sink in my room. I hope they clean those things in between trips.)

(4) Split, Croatia: The empress and her new clothes

I’ve been on the go for over 5 days now, and today will be the last one with this set of clothes. I only have two sets of clothes (plus pajamas) with me – 2 shirts, 2 pants, and 2 different thicknesses of fleece.

Sure, it may sound rank wearing the same clothing every day, but thus is the life of someone that lives out of a 30L bag.

My day this morning started in a bit of a panic – I caught my 6am bus only by a few minutes because the reception at my hostel slept in accidentally. The ride was a lovely one, especially as we moved through the less populated Hercegovina. The area reminded me of Kelowna, or northwestern Vietnam. I actually wrote in my journal that some of the towns reminded me of quaint European towns, after which I reminded myself that these were quaint European towns.

After arriving in Split and finding a hostel (Silver Gate Hostel – I highly recommend), I explored the historic area. Much of the Croatian coast was developed with fortified Roman cities in the fırst millenium, and the Roman complex (built at the turn of the 4th century) in Split is the focus here. The old city was lovely, but what was craziest was though although this is a protected area, you didn’t just find tourist stalls around in and outside it, but the place was absolutely full with homes, stores and cafes. It was just like an extension of the modern city outside the fortress walls. Totally bizarre.

There was also a great walk around and up a forested hill overlooking Split, complete with fragrant flowers. Met a few other travellers, and shivered my way through some great conversation with two Swiss (it gets chilly at night!). More – you guessed it – walkiıng the next day and planned out the next step in my journey – Dubrovnik.