Red hot hands

I’m yelling for help again - the second time in Iran. This time, I’m not locked in my room, I’m in the middle of the street and people are coming to see what’s wrong. I rip off my helmet and yell some more. An older man who speaks perfect English is consoling me and telling the bystanders what happened. I’m physically fine, it was no accident…when I think back I had been getting signals all day...I just wasn’t registering them… I wish I had.

On Iran’s busy highways to get a stretch of road to yourself is rare…but that’s what I had. I relish in the big solitary scenery and find myself randomly smiling in my helmet again - I hadn‘t done that for days. The road was following the flat valley between a two dry grey dirt mountain ranges. I was riding next to a giant dragon’s tail…spiky bare rocks curling down my right side…beautiful but dangerous were my thoughts. As I entered the outskirts of Esfahan my hand warmers come on - what the? I couldn’t get them to work when I was freezing in the hail storm on the top of a snowy mountain in Turkey, but they come on now??? I can’t find how to turn them off so I sit there in the sweltering heat, moving slowing in the traffic with red hot hands.

I manage to find the major road that Abbas Abad Street (where my hotel was located) comes off.. The city is not what I was expecting, there are long boulevards with tall trees lining them so the streets and footpaths are shaded from the hot sun. It’s beautiful. People are saying hello as they do and further down the road I meet two guys on a small motorbike. “Hello, welcome to Iran…where are you from” the standard questions. ‘Where are you going?”. I‘m trying to find the Tourist Hotel. I have a feeling there might be a few hotels with a similar name but I know mine is in Abbas Abad Street. I don‘t need help as there are many traffic police along the road - I know I can ask them if I get stuck. But the guys are super friendly and offer to take me anyway. No thanks I think I‘m right…“No but you are going the wrong way“…I tell them I will ask the Traffic police who point to the road I need to turn down confirming what I already knew.

They keep moving forward with the slow traffic but turning around and coming back to chat. I stop the bike, 4 metres from a traffic policeman, they pull up beside me taking the keys out of the ignition. I grab them back - they say earnestly “You need to be careful in Esfahan - there are badies“. Thank-you for letting me know that. I am fine, I don’t need your help thanks. I have lost my smile they played with my bike keys - that is a mortal sin. They ride off. I don’t see them coming back against the flow of the traffic but what I do see (a little bit too late) is them ripping off my tank bag and speeding away, going the wrong way down a one way street. I don’t have time to turn the bike around and follow them, but I yell for help as I know there is a traffic police man at the end of the road but he just watches them go by…not sure what I’m saying.

The older man’s daughter is studying medicine at Melbourne university. When the police turn up, they don’t even acknowledge me. He steps in to help explain what has happened. I’m asked what was in the bag. Mentally going through the items in each section, the list gets longer and the longer…as it grows the sicker I feel. My passport, my bike registration, my camera, my wallet, my drivers license, my Iranian third party Insurance, my visa’s, photos of my family…the little notebook my daughter gave me that I had been writing all my contacts in - people I needed to thank when I got home, recipes, travel thoughts, my detailed maps. Just sick sick sick….that horrible sickness that comes from deep inside your soul. I keep these documents up the front when I’m on the bike to show at police checks and military stops. When I’m off the bike they immediately go into my backpack for safety. I just didn’t expect that someone would take the items when I was on the bike!

Following two officers to the police station and fitting my bike through the small entrance gate draws a crowd of both police and the many people out for the weekend. I‘m keen to get inside, out of the heat…out of the stares and get things started. The English speaking Tourist Police are called in. The younger officer opens with a question…“are you sure you didn’t just leave your bag somewhere?”…I’m stunned…is this a joke??? “No there were three witnesses…one of them was a traffic policeman…didn’t you take their details when you got there?” I reef out a piece of paper that the older man had written the last 3 digits of the license plate someone had seen…his name is on the other side…“See, this is one of them”. Maybe the panic in my voice gets through because I’m then asked to write a formal statement. It was hard not to start it by saying  …‘Two bastards on a motorbike…’

The two tourist police speak perfect English - I learn they are civil Engineering and Plant Genetics graduates, both doing their two years compulsory national service as Tourist Police. They suggest that it is better to have a hotel closer to the police station rather than where I was going to stay as I will need to come back in. All hotels I have been in required a passport - when I point this out, they write a letter introducing me and offer to take me to one they would recommend. I don‘t have a lot of cash on me and even less after the robbery, I let them know and they are on the phone organising a discount. The hotel is wonderful, very professional and with the discount nothing more than I had been paying in the other places. My dust stained riding clothes look out of place in the beautiful foyer where exquisitely manicured Persian families were lounging. Marshmellow jacket and riding boots clump past…followed by bell boys carrying my dirty panniers. I’m told not to go out until the police contact me….I wonder if it’s because of the way I look….

The afternoon was spent trying to contact family, embassies and all the organisations you need to speak to in situations like this. The impact of the day didn’t really hit me until I called the credit card lost/stolen number. The usual security questions were answered but then I had to give them my password. I’d had this card for a number of years and never had to use my password so I didn’t have a clue. I burst into tears…“Look, I am in Iran. I have just had my passport, visas, travel documents, my money and cards stolen…do you know what that means!!!??? I just want to cancel my bloody card, I don‘t know my bloody password.” She cancels the card - no further questions. I sit on the bed sobbing….and thinking how ridiculous it is for me to do this…I’m not hurt, I can replace the documents (hopefully) but it’s the thought of the thief’s going through my personal stuff…seeing my family…looking at my photos…looking through my contact book that cuts the most. Even something as small and non physically threatening as this, I feel I have been violated and wonder how people who are the victims of a serious crime face the next day.

I get a message that I can leave the hotel but the police want to see a photocopy of my passport and my visa. Following Government advice like a good anal traveller, I had taken photos of these things and had them on-line. As there seemed to be no computers on the desks in the police office I couldn’t access this until I got to the hotel. It was one of the first I had stayed at in Iran that had internet access (but my blogging site, face book and many others are banned by the government so I can‘t update them easily). I make copies and walk back to the police station through the central Iman Square. When I get there I’m greeted by a new shift. “So you want to extend your visa?”…..errr No…I was robbed this afternoon and someone phoned the hotel and asked me to bring down my documents. The new officers have limited English and knows nothing about it - the message is just not getting across. “I need a police report for my insurance company“…still not getting across. He phones a female with slightly more English. So you want to extend your visa??? No…..I go through the explanation again, saying that I filled in a report in this office and it must be on one of the desks. I look around, it’s right on top of a pile of paper so I tell the man - but he doesn’t look at it. The lady on the phone speaks to the officer on duty for a long while. When she gets back to me she says that I must go to the larger police station where they renew visas but that is closed tomorrow as it’s a special holiday so I will need to do it the day after. I’m confused, why would they ask me to come down and then not know anything about it?

Later that afternoon as I walk back through the square, I hear yelling as two men are racing across the grass - one carrying a backpack he had just stolen from the other man…he gets away with it…seems to be a popular day for people ‘misplacing’ their bags.

I was warned not to go into the Kurdish provinces…‘people there will kill you just for your possessions’ and yet overall the people have been wonderful - kind - helpful…. I make it to a safe area to have my possessions stolen. I feel that my wingmen had been giving me warnings all day - the guy at the hotel I had a bad vibe about, I’d read just the day before about a man on a bicycle who had his bag ripped of him by people on a motorbike in Iran….hot hands on the bike for no reason. I didn’t read these guys, mostly because I still have problems with looking at males. They would have been working out how the bag was connected, I would have seen them eyeing it off. I’m mad with myself…I think my wingmen are going to have to it me over the head to get their messages through sometimes.

That night I don’t get much sleep…thoughts going round and round. The time implications to my trip sinking in along with the potential implications to other solo female riders in Iran. I’m one of just a handful that I could find who have ridden alone in Iran as it is ilegal for Iranian women to ride mototrbikes or even bicycles. If the police think that solo women will get robbed they may not let others in. The knot in my tummy is with me all night.

Total kilometres travelled: 5607
Where am I: Esfahan, Iran
Thefts: 1 (bastards)
Police escorts on the trip: 3
Wingmen warnings unheeded: 4