Goats may be required

When my sister and her husband discovered I was going to Iran they said they would start breeding goats…just in case they needed to swap them for me at any time. There was a single wooden chair against the wall in a large old semi-deserted institutional building. This is where I sat, listening to loud, angry voices in the room next door. I couldn’t see inside but occasionally different men came and went, I was waiting for my turn. The two guards had spotless military uniforms, beards of devout Muslins and no humour in their eyes. As I sat there I remembered the goats. It was the first time in the trip I thought I might need them…seriously need them.

I was backtracking…well, tying not to backtrack to much. I only had enough money left for four days in Iran. I could get to the Turkish border in three, which meant one day spare in case something happened with Ginger. My route choices were via the roads that I had travelled twice on a bus - dry, dusty and no major scenery…no thanks.. or back track for 100kms and then head off on the other side of lake Orumiyeh…not a hard choice. Riding back down the dragons tail that had lead me into Esfahan, the sky was clear in the early morning light throwing beautiful golden hues on the barren mountains. Ginger was coughing, but seemed to be less spluttery at higher speeds so I stayed on 110kms hoping whatever was in her system after sitting idle for ten days would work it’s way out (such the mechanic I am).

Some of the scenary...stunning mountains

Stopping at a park in Khomeni for lunch, teenager girls come to join me, eager to know who I was and try out their English. Getting ready to leave, an obviously homeless man comes up to me and shoves a tired old page of hand written Farsi in front of my face. Motioning that I don’t understand what he is asking me, an older man with gentle eyes and gestures to match comes over to help. “Merci - thank you“ I say with my hand on my heart. He smiles, nods his head and clears a ‘crazy man’ free path for me to re-enter the traffic.

Lunch with the girls

The best thing about using my car tailing technique is that you often make a friend. Stopping at a roundabout in Arak to make sure I was going the right way, a car I had been following does a full circle and comes over to me. A young man jumps out, handing me a packet of biscuits…”where are you going?” In lue of my tank bag, my very basic road map of Iran was gaffer taped to the bike in a plastic folder for easy reference. I needed the road to Hamedan. A finger points me in the right direction…“now be careful, the road is very busy, do you need anything else? do you have enough water with you?“ yes thanks…and he is away. I knew the road would be busy and boring so I had planned to turn off just outside of Arak heading to two smaller towns (Khondab and Komijan) that would hopefully take me through some nice scenery.

My new and not improved tank bag

I was right, fruit trees lined my path as Ginger continued to cough through the kilometres…her engine getting hotter on my legs in the afternoon heat. High on a hill was the silhouette of what looked like a cannon and further along there were manned military bunkers with camouflage netting. Passing through many similar areas in Turkey, I didn’t think much of it. Ginger suddenly lost all power…the type of loss that generally means she is out of petrol. I quickly flipped the switch to the reserve tank and she came to life again. Whatever was wrong with her, she was eating petrol as I was 50kms under her normal range. All of this happened turning a corner and when I looked up I could see more military buildings with white dome shaped structures receding up the hill. I laughed to myself…good one, almost breakdown in front of a military zone! She needed fuel fast and I just made it into Khondab.

I wasn’t too far out of town when a police car pulled me over, it was the first time in Iran. Ha…just as well I have my letter from the Esfahan police giving me permission to ride to the border - shouldn‘t be an issue. The policeman only speaks in Farsi...not understanding but making some assumptions I hand over my passport and letter. He retreats to the police car to make a call. Sipping water and eating the remainder of the nuts from lunch, I stare at the four sheppard’s resting 20 metres away under the shade of a tree while they stare at me. The sun is beating down so I remove my helmet and jacket. This gives the four sheppard’s a stir…oh it’s a woman, this should be interesting written in their eyes. The policeman is just sitting in the car…”is there a problem?” I ask. He motions to wait which I do until another police car turns up and two extra men get out - their guns made blatantly obvious. “Is there a problem?” I ask again. Through very broken English I get that they want me to return to the police station with them. “Can you please tell me what I have done wrong?” I knew I was speeding a little, but there was no obvious mention of it and I didn’t want to go back with them if I could help it. “No speeding, you have my permission letter…I don’t know what’s wrong” One of the gun toting officers points with an authoritive finger - you will come with us to the police station….err..ok then. As I’m getting on Ginger I shrug my shoulders at the sheppard’s as if to say - 'I don’t know why' and they smile knowingly - yes, we get that all the time too.

You would think that with two patrol cars I would be the meat in the sandwich but no, I have to lead the way, which is hard to do when you don’t know the way and you have a sick bike. Ginger was very much limping along at 70kms. I think if the men could have nudged me in the cars they would have. Finally one of them gets impatient and passes me, motioning to follow and quickly. I follow as fast as I can, back through the town into the police compound. After guzzling water all day to stay dehydrated, I ask for the toilet and I’m allowed to go. I’m then lead to a small room where the questioning starts…in Farsi.  “Sorry, no Farsi…does anyone speak English?? We weren’t going to get this sorted out if we couldn’t understand each other.

Phone calls are made and a plain clothed man walks in, I assumed he was here because he had some English, but the questions he was asking and the way he was asking them showed some sort of military training. “Where are you going?” Hamedan…“Why you go this way?”…because of the scenery…“What scenery, what have you seen?” (Ahhh, best not to talk to much about the military stuff)….I’ve seen lovely fruit trees and mountains and little streams… I’m interrupted “Why you travel on motorbike, it is illegal” No, not illegal for foreign women. Can you please explain to me why I am here - what have I done wrong? The man looks at the others saying something in Farsi with a snide look on his face….he doesn’t answer my question. “Why you alone?” It is quite normal for women to travel alone throughout the world. “But you are in Iran“...it’s not illegal and there have been no problems Tehran police Ok - Esfahan police ok…ok everywhere.

He starts another conversation in Farsi with the other policemen, the only word I recognise is GPS. I’m afraid they will confiscate my SPOT which is sitting in the backpack at my feet. Usually you can see the lights flashing through the material as sits in the front pocket. In see the officer who pulled me over shake his head - he had seen the map stuck on my tank. But then…“What is in your bag?” I wonder if the plain clothes man had seen me look down at my bag. I open the back section...my rain jacket, my note book, an empty water bottle…“Give me your bag“. I hand it over...he pulls out an empty zip lock plastic bag. “What is this for?” Err, food…I had finished the almonds while eyeballing the sheppard’s so had no proof. “Why you keep, why you not throw away?”…(I felt like saying because I’m an environmentalists but  that might not go down well as I didn’t know what area I had stumbled into. I knew Iran had a nuclear program, perhaps I might be near it)… It has a lock to keep food clean and dry. “Do you have drugs?” (I know that it looks like a plastic bag for carrying drugs)…No...one officer says something. The plain clothes man looks at me intently…“You went to the toilet when you first got here“…I point to the empty water bottle…I needed to pee. The next 10 minutes are spent denying I had drugs or guns or anything else illegal on me. They could check if they wanted to. He started to reef through my bag again and finds my stash of female products I keep in there to deter intruders…it worked well as he then stopped looking. He didn’t see the front pocket as it was hidden under a wet weather strip, my SPOT was safe…for now.

I answered every question again fifteen times especially the one about why I was alone.  I kept asking one of my own….can you please tell me why I am here? Finally, I get a semi answer…“this is a dangerous area, it is important….not for tourists“. Ok...I didn’t know that, there were no signs saying do not enter and it’s just two towns on the map on the way to Hamedan. “Not for tourists, the other way is for tourists“…Ok I get it, I didn’t know. More talking in Farsi. They keep looking at my emergency passport. The only stamp in it is an exit visa authority for Iran…no Turkey, Greece or Australian stamps…nothing to back up my story. He gets up, it looks like it’s over. I was starting to get worried about the time and getting to my destination before dark. As he opens the door to leave, I ask - I’m right to go? Just as he is about to answer, my bike is wheeled past the door in the hallway..”no” and he walks away.

I’m back in the police car when we pull up at a non-descript building except for the large banners of  Khomeni. Err polis?? No…Military…No…Err English?…he shakes his head. I’m not sure where I am but I know I have to convince them I’m just a tourist and do it without an interpreter. Sitting on that lonely chair, thinking of goats and listening to arguing, I look again at the two guards, Muslin beards and cold stares. It occurs to me that the only other authority in Iran was the religious authorities. Perhaps the person sitting behind the door was an Islamic Cleric - they would not approve of me and things could get a little ugly. How DO you swap goats for a person???

Finally, it’s my turn. I enter into a large, well furnished room where four men are lounging on sofas next to the wall and one man is sitting behind an enormous well ordered desk. He is not in clerics clothing so I relax just a little bit. I’m asked questions in Farsi. Sorry no Farsi. One of the men on the sofa’s knows some English and we go through the whole explanation again with answers about why here, why alone, etc etc. This is a very important area - I’m sorry I didn’t know…a small tear wells up in my eyes - I’m tired and emotionally drained from the last three hours. For some reason that helped, for some reason, I’m seen as ‘acting like a woman’ (as much as the stereotype pains me) and not an international spy or terrorist or anything else I might have been. For some reason, they could now relate to me, I wasn’t this alien clomping around in motocross boots and marshmellow jacket. The man behind the large desk gets one of the other men to cut a slice of cake sitting on the coffee table. I accept it although I feel sick in the stomach…hell, if eating a piece of cake and few tears was going to get me back on the road, I’d do it.

After much discussion in Farsi, I’m told that I must leave the town immediately…errr, I wasn’t planning on staying….and that the police would escort me the 70km’s back to the main road to Hamedan. Relief floods through me, it was the first time I have been seriously worried about my safety. I smile, put my hand on my heart and with a 'Merci' we leave. The uniformed guards want to know what happened, there is no humour in their face when they are told, but the policemen were the opposite. I’m now ‘Mrs Helen‘. Do I want some water, ok, you will have food with us and then we go. I explain that it's unsafe for me to be riding on the road in the dark and could we please go now. Back at the station, I’m greeted by more policemen, asking questions through gestures about the trip, laughing and smiling with me. The atmosphere had completely changed now I’m not someone to be suspicious about, the typical Iranian friendliness and hospitality is in full force.

The escort arrives, Ginger coughs to life in a cloud of black smoke…that can’t be good…and I hope I can keep up with the car as we take off…only to find we go about 50km’s per hour. Arrrggg why decide to go slow now? Ginger is really struggling as the speed sits between two gears and I’m constantly going up or down to keep her revs high which seems to stop the coughing a little. We stop every 20km’s and wait until the escort from the next police station arrives. Big waves and smiles put me back on the main road that’s full of trucks and cars at this time of day. I ride as best I can overtaking being painfully slow and I realise that Ginger definately isn’t going to make it to the border and probably not even to Hamedan. Malayer is only 50km’s away, hopefully we can make it there. I count down the kilometres for her…don’t worry, there is help only 25km’s away…you can do it. I send out a small prayer…please find a mechanic who can fix her…fast!

We limp into town, coughing and blowing smoke…I see motorbikes in a row and pull up, the Honda wings are emblazoned on the small shop window. It’s 7pm, I don’t think I’ll have much luck fixing her tonight but I ask for the mechanic. He is a tall younger man wearing a pink and purple business shirt, business pants and a black leather belt. It seems this is the mechanics uniform in this town as others are wearing the same thing. One of the staff, Jarvid, speaks perfect English - he had been studying it for the last three years. They bundle Ginger into the tiny work room and three men go to work. I’m asked to stay the night with the mechanic's family - free of charge - I can‘t believe it - the accomodation charges I would have paid will hopefully cover some of the cost of fixing the bike with my dwinderling budget!

It’s 10:30pm and Ginger is purring again, we ride around town to the mechanic's home and have dinner on the floor in traditional Persian style. Other family members have been invited. I didn’t feel I could say I’ve been interrogated by the police for 3 hours today and I’m a little tired, especially when they have gone to so much effort to help me. So I’m shown the pigeons they breed and talk with the help of Jarvad until 1am in the morning when I crawl into bed exhausted. I remember my SPOT and look at it, for some reason it had turned around in it's pocket so you couldn't see the lights flashing....thanks wingmen.

Jarvid, me and the mechanic around the city lake the next day

One of the freaky footed birds

The mechanic's family - lovely people!
Note: like Turkish people you are no supposed to smile in photos

　
Total Kilometres travelled: 6043
Where am I: Malayer, Iran
Police escorts during trip: 4
Military interrogations: 1
Mechanics who have worked on Ginger: 3
Goats required: nil
Lessons learnt: If you find yourself in a military area in Iran, turn around!