Ride Pray Laugh....... the not so MiddleEast Adventures (now): Bijar

The morning brings a new plan…if I’m going to enjoy riding in this country I have to get off the main highways. I search for some secondary roads going south and I’m rewarded with a great ride, following a river bed etched into mountain valleys guarded with Poplar tree groves and small stretches of deep red-brown ploughed fields.

I reach the edge of a small city and fill up at a scarce ‘benzin’ station. I have been leaving my helmet on as it’s easier at petrol stations when I just need petrol or quickly grabbing something at a road side stand - which only seem to stock junk food - no meals - no fruit…just chips, lollies, packaged cakes, chocolate, soft drinks and fake beer proudly emblazed with 0.00% alcohol across the front. People often asked me if I am Japanese when I‘m riding. Probably because I obviously don’t have a man’s face but I can’t be a woman...I tell them I’m from Australia and laugh to myself as I’m giving a very effeminate impression of Australian men to the people I meet. But ultimately I feel like a transvestite…someone that you look at knowing something isn’t quite right but you don’t want to say anything and you’re never really sure.

The valley opens up to plains that house rich green wheat fields as the road winds its way along the roof of the rolling hills. Occasionally I pass mud brick villages that blend into the surrounding country except for their flat roofs covered in silver foil to reflect the summer sun.

I’m searching for the Takht-e Soleiman site - an ancient Zororanstran city where fire from the thermal gas vents meets a mini crater feed by an underground spring which is surrounded with earth structures and kept cool from the wind (being on the top of a mountain)- the perfect four element place of worship. Arriving in the car park I ditch my boots and jacket and explore the site looking like a nun in my black head gear and shirt. There are a group of young Iranians that have short summery mantoes and colourful scarves casually draped around their head. They stop to talk to me, it’s a four day holiday in Tehran and they are visiting the country side. The ladies say they could never travel by themselves in Iran and certainly not overseas. I tell them many women travel by themselves - it’s not unusual in other countries.

The Iran I had seen so far was very conservative - smaller towns. These young Tehranians were the other side. They got me (well more than anyone else in the country so far) and I could relate to them - they were so keen to explore and learn but felt hemmed in - I wanted to tell them not to worry - just to go for it but they had far more to overcome than I ever did.

Entering Bijar I find myself lost in the streets until a friendly pair of young guys on a motorbike come by and offer to take me to the hotel. They lead me through the town where my arch nemesis, the graded grooved road had been eating steroids. It wasn’t just a little section in the road, it seemed like the while town was going to be resurfaced. What was left of the street was etched with very deep grooves that grabbed the front wheel as I tried to wiggle a path through the chaotic traffic - just when I thought I was through a water truck came passed spraying the streets with it’s contents. I swerve and just miss a drenching. Arrgg you fiend - I shall conquer you yet graded grooved road!! We make our way back to the edge of town where the hotel is situated - I had gone past it on the way in because the sign was in Farsi. I offer the lads some petrol money but they refuse and leave with beeping horns and big waves.

There are more guests at this hotel, all Tehranians on holidays. Two younger men help me move the bike into a narrow secure spot in the car park. My room has a bed mattress that is 1 part material 100 parts wooden beam and I wish for a different room but this is the last single available and I can’t afford a double. While I’m unpacking the bike I notice the manager has gone from old top to freshly showered, hair slicked back and smelling of what I think is liquor but could have been after shave gone wrong. As in Turkey when I get signals like this from hotel managers, I start talking about my kids. This time I also go as far to say that my husband was waiting in Esfahan for me as I keep getting the wrong type of questions and attention. He must have finally got that I would not be interested in anything as when I see him next he is back in his old clothes.

After 10 minutes, I find the banging on the door hadn’t really achieved anything…so I ferret in my bag for the Persian -English Dictionary ..the word for help is ‘Komack’ …I add this phrase to the banging and continue with the English “I am stuck in my room - the door lock is jammed”…finally someone must have got annoyed with the pesky western women thumping around (or understood my cries of Komack) as I hear the manager on the other side of the door saying not to worry he will have it opened in a second. 15 minutes later he has resorted to trying to tear the handle off and finally when the door is opened I’m upgraded to another room…with a beautiful soft bed. Some might say I jimmied the lock but I’m sure it was my wingmen just looking after me.