125. Riding with the Ayatollahs: westward bound in Iran

Ellie donned her headscarf and long-sleeved shirt in the simmering afternoon heat of the Sarakhs border post between Turkmenistan and Iran. The old Soviet era fences that sealed the communist bloc from its southern Islamic neighbour still stand. A long line of trucks waited on either side of the border. Most moving back and forth between Turkey and the Turkic speaking countries of Central Asia. Most of the truck drivers smiled bemusedly as we pedalled off to the Iran side.

After our three day desert marathon across Turkmenistan Ellie wasn't long in falling asleep in the comfortable, air-conditioned passenger hall on the Iran side. As her 'husband' I got to do the serious business of talking to the immigration officer of our planned itinerary for Iran. He gently admonished a couple of Asian backpackers about their shorts.

After the friendly customs officer did a cursory inspection of one pannier and highlighted the local historical sites on my map, we met our bionic friend Neil outside. We'd crossed into Turkmenistan together but Neil's pace wasn 't one we could replicate. He would go on to cross the 2000 km across northern Iran to the Turkish border in two weeks. We shared a room in one of the few hotels in town, became millionaires at the local exchange office and after dinner were pulled aside by the police until they established who we were. 

As we entered Iran, the war in Syria and the chemical weapons attacks in particular were sparking debate in the US and parts of Europe about a military intervention. Iran, a staunch supporter of shia Syria, protested loudly against such threats and if a US-led intervention occured it wasn't clear how it would play out in Iran. I had images of street protests and flag burnings. Of course, just like the US and all other governments, the distinction between the people of Iran and their government is a distinct one that many people tried to show us on a daily basis during our time there. The recent election of the reformist President Rouhani though had sparked a small flame of hope and optimism that some changes, particularly in foreign policy, may be afoot, although with the real power lying with the Ayatollahs, there is concern that a rappoachment with the US and other Western governments may not be possible. The changes in the past few months are not merely for foreign policy either as young Iranians we met rejoiced in their newfound personal freedom that had not been possible to express under the previous administration of President Ahmadinejad. Being in public with any girl other than your sister or immediate relative was not possible. Now the restrictions were much more relaxed they said and they could travel together. Another interesting trend is a resurgence in the interest of Persian culture and identity - in contrast with the Islamic/Arabic culture that many lament has supplanted Persian culture over the past several hundred years, right up to the present.

Our route through Iran followed the main road west across the desert and south of the Alborz mountain range from Mashhad to the capital of Tehran. The metropolis of 15 million inhabitants sat half-way along our 2000 km journey from the north east of the country to the Azeri-speaking northwest and our crossing point into Turkey at Bazargan. The first half of the journey was characterised by heat and tailwinds - with temperatures in the high 30s. Frequent roadside rest areas however offered a steady source of replenishment, not to mention all the Iranians who stopped numerous times every day to give us gifts of cold drinks, fruits and nuts and offers of a place to stay should we visit their home area. It was holiday time in Iran and the country was on the move. Large parks filled with tents every night in the towns along the desert highway as many families made their annual pilgrimmage to the holy city of Mashhad.

Our sleeping time in Iran was divided between camping, basic guesthouses and hotels and people I'd contacted through couchsurfing or warmshowers. In addition we stayed several times with the wonderful Red Crescent paramedics who manned the ambulance stations and rescue vehicles for the carnage that are Iranian highways. These guys work in 48 hour shifts and like Central America's firefighters, they have a legendary status among cyclists passing through the country. Located every 40 or 50 km along the highways, they offer respite, a floor to sleep on and often some dinner too. A mix of hardened vets and young students, the camaraderie was infectious and we really enjoyed our time with these guys. Unfortunately on the final night we stayed at a station, an accident happened a few kilometres back up the highway we'd ridden down and a man died as they cut him out of the car, adding another victim to Iran's reduced but still very deadly death toll of over 20,000 fatalities per year.

A few days into the country I began to have problems with a tendon behind my right knee, with a pain and stiffness and sometimes numbness that extended along the leg, including my lower back, feet etc. As rest days were infrequent it has taken weeks to get over and it seems to be every so slowly on the mend, with suggestions of an irritated nerve (sciatica?) being made by some. Occasional doses of ibuprofen help as does regular stretching but I'm still waiting for it to clear up completely.

Iran was also a time of catching up with old friends, including Paul Lombard, whom we finally got to spend a couple of days cycling together with up Highway 2 before he did a detour into Iraqi Kurdistan. Our much faster Swiss friend, Christian, who we had met with Paul in Bishkek a few months back was also in-country on his Africa Twin, bound for Pakistan and India and we had a couple of nights together in Tabriz and explored Tabriz's famous bazaar together. On the road to the Turkish border we began to meet a steady stream of cyclists heading in the opposite direction, many on the beginning of multi-year trips. It's fascinating to meet people who are starting out and adjusting to life on the road. One other character we met was German Hans. At 73 he's completing his multi-stage world tour (including kayaking as well as cycling). We watched in astonishment as the bronzed and white-haired veteran pulled up on his simple bicycle with just a small bag the size of one of my front panniers strapped to his rack. Inside, he said, was a tent, a sleeping bag and food. We looked at our over-loaded mounts and all felt like we'd a lot still to learn.

Our time in Iran was full of incredible experiences that usually emanated from the amazing acts of generousity that one receives when travelling there. On the other hand, I often felt like a crew member of the Apollo space missions when they go out of radio contact on the dark side of the moon. With the ransacked British embassy now closed since 2011, and the more recent closure of the Irish embassy in Tehran, any loss of our passports would have created a lot of problems. Foreign passports are a valuble commodity in isolated, sanctioned Iran and one of the more unsettling experiences occured when a car pulled over on the highway before Tehran and two men pretended to be police and wanted to see our documents. I'd heard of this happening before and we pedalled on and they gave up easily but it meant that every car that pulled over subsequently was treat suspiciously - even if all they wanted was a photo and to give some more presents! Shortly after leaving Tehran we had another encounter - this time with police in an unmarked car. Wary of anyone claiming to be police from our first encounter we turned around and pedalled back into the village we'd just passed through as the three burly fellows tailed us. We flagged down a passing police car and found out they were police or some form of government security officers and after getting our passports examined and photocopied at the local station we were back on the road.

Crossing the border into Turkey was less of a change than anticipated. The northeast region is quite religiously conservative and a stricter Islam still pervades. Our living costs have rocketed and are comparable with the rest of Europe. People are less curious but still offers of tea come from everyone by the roadside. A tendency to try and overcharge the foreigners is back after seeming quite absent in Iran. After a rest day in the Turkish border town of Dogubayazit, under the shadow of a snow-capped Mount Ararat, we pedalled on into the eastern Anatolian highlands which have seen some of the toughest weather conditions since southern China. We seem to have skipped autumn completely as we find ourselves in all our winter gear and with temperatures dropping to freezing at night. Snow began falling as we walked the streets of Erzurum this afternoon, resting after yesterday's mentally tiring ride with an incredible headwind that saw us cover just over 50 km in four and a half hours. Europe isn't faraway now though, with just over 1200 km left to the Bosphorous and Istanbul. Ellie's brother Ben is joining us in a week for a fortnight of Turkish delight.

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Erzurum, Turkey

Pedalled:

Many thanks for more donations to the Peter McVerry Trust! If you would like to make a donation, you can do so via my fundraising page on the mycharity.ie website (click here). Thank you!

124. Tour de Turkmenistan

On 29th August we crossed into our last 'stan and were eventually stamped in on our three day transit visa. We had 500 km to cover in Turkmenistan from the Uzbek border near Turkmenabat to the border with Iran at Sarakhs. Thanks to a generally helpful tailwind, a 50 km police escort on our first night riding through the desert, the prospect of a 200 US dollar overstaying fine and deportment, and chocolate spread - we did it.

We rode for 26 hours out of the total 52 we had in the country and arrived at the Iranian border with one hour to spare. Ellie set a new daily record for distance covered on the first day (178 km), again on the second (184 km) and after a dawn start on the final day we covered the remaining 146 km by 3:30 pm.

Apart from one generic shot of the desert road there is no photographic evidence of our time in Turkmenistan.

123. Into the Kyzyl Kum

A few hundred kilometres in a few days and we are out of the mountains and into the Kyzyl Kum (Red Sand) desert. Trailing our friend Neil (cycleeatsleep.blogspot.com) during the day and catching up for the evening camp was the daily standard since arriving in Uzbekistan. One of Uzbekistan's ancient cities, Bukhara, rises out of the sand in the shape of sand-coloured minarets and blue tiled mosques and medressas. The sun scorches our tent by day on the rooftop of a guesthouse while the moon shines brightly through the night.

Our time is limited now though due to the Turkmenistan embassy in Dushanbe issuing us a three day transit visa instead of the five day one that most applicants receive. Over five hundred kilometres across the desert nation to the Iranian border. Turkmenistan was always going to be the wild card. Our friend Paul got five days whilst we got three and different entry dates to those we asked for. Others have ridden the desert marathon in three days but the wind, the bureaucracy and our bodies will determine if we succeed or not.  If not, a train or truck will get us across in time to the Iranian border at Sarakhs.

Bukhara, Uzbekistan

Pedalled: 75,567 km 

122. Through the High Pamirs: from Osh to Dushanbe

We left Osh in convoy, with Stefan and Tom. We all had our own goals - Stefan was bound for the mountains around Pic Lenin, Tom for Kashgar and east through China, whilst Ellie and I were bound for Tajikistan and the eastern Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous region that comprises almost half of Tajik's landmass but less than 3% of its population. After a fun three day ride to the Kyrgyz village of Sary-Tash we parted ways. Ellie and I waited another day for some bad weather to clear and then we set off for the border. Through this region that borders China and Afghanistan, the Soviet road engineers built the M41 highway (or better known as the Pamir highway) as a frontier access route in the 1930s and to exploit the region's resources. It's northern terminus is Osh, so already we had been riding the original road (in wonderful recently-paved condition) for 250 km. But the real adventure begins once you get stamped out of Kyrgyzstan and begin the semi-paved route into the High Pamirs. Several passes exceed 4000 metres and the highest, Ak-Baytal, lies at a oxygen-deficient 4655m.

By the time we'd climbed over the pass to the Tajik border post, snow and hail had already been falling on and off for the afternoon. Fortunately this was as cold as it would get for us as we woke up to a frost covered tent and belongings on our first morning in Tajikistan. The most remote stretch of the highway - from Sary Tash to Murghab - only sees a couple of vehicles a day and with only one small settlement of Karakol enroute we had stocked up on several days worth of food and fuel for the 250 km stretch. Everyday we met some cyclists (most cycle the highway from west to east) as the region is now a mecca for cyclists, motorbikers and people driving those enormous off-road vehicles that look like a cross between a mobile home and an armoured personnel carrier.

Tourism is clearly bringing in an important source of revenue for the relevant businesses to the region although it can easily be affected by continuing instability such as the fighting that occured in Khorog just over a year ago, a result of the central government trying to establish control over regions where local warlords and former commanders from the civil war era still maintain a tight grip over local politics and economy. In addition, the UNODC estimates that approximately 30% of Afghan's heroin crosses the 1200 km porous border and transits through Tajikistan enroute to Russia and Europe and the industry feeds corruption and instability. When police officers try to bribe cyclists at road checkpoints then you know that the law enforcement is not up to much and there's little hope of stemming the flow of drugs. Meanwhile, the Pamiri's found themselves on the losing side of Tajikistan's devastating civil war that followed the collapse of Soviet rule from 1992 to 1997 and as a result little government investment makes it into the region. As most of the Pamir population are Ismaili's (a separate branch of Shia faith), a strong supporter of the economy and ensuring the provision of basic services is the Aga Khan Foundation.

Like Kyrgyzstan, people have been extraordinarily kind and friendly (most of the time) and requests for a camping spot for the evening, often became invitations for food and a place to sleep. Gifts are offered on a daily basis. Trays of cake and biscuits appear as we sit by a village pump filtering the water for our bottles. On the other hand, younger teenage boys appear to have come to the conclusion in some cases that cyclists represent a fair target for their stone-throwing skills and we've had a few near misses with half-hearted attempts to lob a stone our way. I haven't really experienced this since Morocco and its an unwelcome development. When the perpetrators then felt the wrath of our tongues when we turned around to yell at them, they scurried away, afraid of the repercussions.

After eight days cycling, with one rest day in the village of Murghab, we reached Khorog, the busy riverside town that lies across the water from Afghanistan. The raging Panj river forms much of the Tajik-Afghan border and ultimately joins with the Vakhsh to form Central Asia's vital artery, the Amu Darya (the Oxus). The Pamir highway at this point is carved into the steep valley side and is narrow and only paved on some stretches. Like much of the highway, little maintenance has been carried out since the Soviet times and the paved sections have crumbled away. On the other side of the river, an even bumpier trail and track runs along the Afghan bank, linking isolated settlements with each other. At times we rode within a hundred metres of the villages and kids would whistle and wave. Yet even across the narrow valley, another world seemed to exist as men could be seen in shalwar khameez and women in more formal version's of the hijab in contrast to Tajikistan where most women wear a looser head scarf. Ellie's birthday was celebrated along the Panj river valley which we followed for four bumpy days north to Kalaikhum before turning north over the Sagirdas Pass and leaving the Gorno-Badakhshan region into Tavildara. Neil, a bionic English cyclist had left us the first morning out of Khorog and told everyone heading our direction it was Ellie's birthday. One of the present's she received was from an Irish-Australian jeep that was taking part in the Mongol Rally - a semi-solid Snickers bar!

The final pass before descending to Dushanbe, although a 'mere' 3255 metres, involved a 2000 metre ascent over 33 km, mostly on rough dirt. We were granted reprieve at least from the traffic that was stopped by a collapsed bridge. The modern day Silk Road now sees Chinese lorries ferrying shoddy plastic products from the Qolma pass to the Tajik capital of Dushanbe and one of these had crashed into the river. With the assistance of some helpful young bystanders we made our way over the collapsed bridge and torrent beneath with our bikes and bags and could continue along the wonderfully quiet road over the pass.

We arrived into Dushanbe last Sunday evening, applied for our Turkmenistan visas on Monday and have spent the week doing little except recover from the exertions of the past few weeks in the stunning mountains and steeling ourselves for the heat of the desert roads ahead.

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Dushanbe, Tajikistan

Pedalled: 74,995 km

Many thanks for the latest donation to the Peter McVerry Trust, which brought the amount raised now over 1000 euros! If you would like to make a donation, you can do so via my fundraising page on the mycharity.ie website (click here). Thank you!