Point2Point

12-11-07

Before the 5am alarm call I was already awake. I think Chicago was awake too. We were both experiencing that bite you get when you would both prefer to be heading in the same direction. More for the sake of companionship than anything else. She would be alone, and I for a change, would be with someone; albeit a seriously intense German lady. taking my guess I picked up my back back and in a hush tone said goodbye. Chicago turned over and we said the usual goodbye's and good lucks before I headed out.

I waited for about 10 minutes before Christine appeared, wearing her typical multicoloured headscarf and and for better word poncho. She was an intense as ever. I just smiled. Time to grin and bear it a little. We made it to the bus terminal with only a mild verbal assault on the taxi driver, I think Christine starts the day off lightly and slowly builds up. I nearly began to regret my pleas for a separate ticket to Christine once a large overweight man took up residence next to my seat. Promptly removing his shoes and placing his feet on the back of the seat in front while then falling asleep. I could have sworn he was hungover.

Again the scenery was full of dull monotones, dry earth, rustic settlements and low cropped brown mountains passed by. But the journey was not so long as we pulled into Yazd by 1.30pm. Already I was getting a good feeling about one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on earth.

We headed straight to the Silk Road Hotel, we'd both agreed it was the best option to try first. From the outside the hotel looked to be in a state of renovation. But once you walked down a few steps the full glory of a large beautiful open courtyard greeted you. A simple blue fountain formed the centrepiece and flowing out from the glistening water were subdued tiles that were shadowed by pleasant fauna. All around the edge of the courtyard were rustic wooden doors leading into rooms, and off to other corridors. A few tables and comfortable cushions benches lined the courtyard and to my surprise I saw evidence of over travellers there.

Christine immediately set about a verbal assault on a young attendant, demanding a room with a window from him. We were taken to have a look at a few rooms, but all had no windows to the outside, just to the courtyard. Not good enough for Christine. I asked separately and discovered they had dorm rooms for 40,000 as opposed to a single for 160,000. I took a look, and although the beds might as well not have any mattresses they were nearly all full. It meant there were travellers here. By the time I came back, a middle-aged English lady had appeared and was trying to calm Christine down a little. But my German companion was having none of it. She barked at the young attendant demanding to know if there were any other hotels nearby. A new face appeared. A shaven headed travelled in biker gear approached looking concerned. But upon seeing my head shaking as he approached, bid a hasty retreat back to a bench.

Christine had had enough of The Silk Road. She ordered the young attendant to mind out bags while she took the English lady by the arm and headed back outside to be shown a nearby hotel called the Orient. Again, the hotel failed to make the grade of having windows, and the patient English lady also bid a hasty retreat. I suggested we try one more hotel, the Kohan, and as we passed by the Silk Road again I saw the residents look at us walking by. I cringed as I could see they were figuring out, and making ill conceived notions of what our relationship was.

At the Kohan Christine found a near enough suitable room for 100,000. The hotel was large and quite well kept. But it was woefully empty. And although I was beginning to feel a sort of responsibility towards Christine, mainly in a medical way. I had made up my mind that I would be staying at the Silk Road. Christine looked to be happy with the Kohan, but hearing my decision, I prompted here to think about it at the Silk Road over lunch. She agreed.

The menu was as good as the food, and with that we had an excellent meal of beef with pomegranate and walnut(yes it was good). It was just after dinner that Ali the owner showed up, and yes he was immediately set upon my Christine who demanded to know why his rooms were so expensive. Keeping a calm head, Ali asked how much did Christine think a room was worth.

"70,000, no more!" stated Christine in a resolute huff.

Ali nodded, ''Ok, no problem, you can have it at that price".

I looked on in amazement. Bloody hell, she just cut the price by over 60%. I needed some of that. I stepped forward and waved, "We arrived together, so that will be two rooms."

Ali frown, paused, and then made be shudder, "You can share one room?"

Christine said nothing. I nearly baulked. "Seperate! Privacy needed!" Why were people making assumptions about me and a 60 year old German lady!!!

It seemed she had been listening after all. "Of course to separate rooms, he's young enough to be my son, he needs his own space. And I will not share with anyone."

Ali smiled in resignation. He knew what we all did.

I had just scored a room with a double bed, crisp white sheets, a bathroom with towels, Air conditioning and even chocolates on the pillows, all for 5 Euro! It was all because of Christine. And I began to re-evaluate this strange German lady. Was she really that strange, or did she really know what she was doing?

That night I struck of a friendship with the Biker guy from earlier, Paul from Ireland. He was doing a motorbike trip from Ireland to India/Nepal and was waiting for spare parts to arrive plus the arrival of two friends also on bikes from India.

13-11-2007

Breakfast was great, a buffet of Feta cheese, eggs, tomatoes, olives and fresh breads. Christine was up and ready for a walking tour of Yazd, not a bad idea. I was quick to get the impression that Yazd was where all the friendly people of Iran lived. We were greeted with smiles, polite nods and even invitations into closed mosques. All this with Christine's loud questioning tactics. According to the LP there was a camel burger café nearby so went in search of the illusive burger, only to end up looking around like lost tourists with a map. Which we were of course.

It was here Christine began here random verbal assault tactics on locals again, wanting to know where the camel burger face was. Most people were polite enough to assist, but were unfortunate enough not to know. A young pretty student girl dresses in the typical black chador came over to us from her bus stop and offered help. Her name was Naseem and she seemed oblivious to Christine's rantings. The young student took us faithfully into trust and offered to help us.

Nassem was mainly curious about the new people in town, the foreigners, who why and what again were here main questions. But at the same time she took us through the old bazaar. Showing us along the way the old gold merchants, spice sellers and food stall owners. I found all this to very enjoyable, but lunchtime had passed by 2 hours ago. This also meant Christine was not coping well, and found all the wandering around too much. Her temper was flaring again and it seemed Nassem was getting the brunt of it. The girl saw this I am sure, and more out of pride than any thing else offered took us to a fancy restaurant after failing to locate the camel café This was too much for Christine who decided it was all too much and so wanted to go back to the hotel. I felt bad for Nassem, and made a beeline for a local kebab café and we sat there in near silence for a while. Finally, with food, Christine settled down a little, and we invited Nassem for dinner that night in the hotel.

That night Nassem did not show up at the pre arranged time. So it just left Christine and I at the table together. I still found her attitude today harsh and unfair. I saw a guy in a blue baseball cap sitting at another table alone, and so invited him to join us. Mark, a New Zealanders, was a little shy, or silent rather, and it was only after Nassem arrived late that I discovered why.

When Christine was engrossed with a conversation with Nassem, Mark whispered over to me. "Where did you pick up her from?"

I laughed of his humorous quip, "She travelled down Shiraz with a New Zealander and..."

"Ah", laughed Mark, "Willy, so he dumped her off on you then?!"

I clicked, and thought back to a brief conversation I had shared with Willy in the back of the taxi in Shiraz. Willy had met Christine in Tehran, after Mark had been travelling with her for a few days. So she had latched onto Willy before meeting up with me and passing her on to me!

We both laughed it off well. Christine had been doing the rounds of younger male chaperones. Mark was a little brutal with his comments of Christine. Most of which I could easily relate to. But at the end of the day Christine was likeable, and smart. Her temper and attitude was atrocious at the best of times, but she did have a very good way about her at time too.

14-11-2007

My walking tour with Christine continued today as we visited some more of Yazd's street life, and the odd Mosque. The day was highlighted by meeting an English Indian Girl, Dali, who spent most of the time pulling faces at Christine and her antics. We also bumped into Mark who had picked up a young Lithuanian guy called Dmitri in his travels. Christine and I also visited Yazd Tourist office, where we met a young Iranian girl, Bousseh, who worked there. Bousseh was as western as any Iranian I had met, and was instantly making jokes about Christine and me. It was a place we kept going back to as not only was Bousseh full of information she also made many hours of laughter for us.

As a group we hired a taxi to the not so impressive Zoroastrian Fire Temple, which holds a fire that has been kept alight continuously since 470 AD. And then we headed out to the very impressive Towers of Silence that but Esfahan's to shame. Here two large hills jut out of desert soil on the outskirts of the city. And clearly visible from the top are two stocky cylindrical towers. We spread out and wandered through abandoned buildings that looked as if they had been plucked from Star Wars' Desert cities scenes. Sand colored Domes rose directly out of the earth and were accompanied on either side by two rectangle towers with vents in them. These were cooling towers, and beneath the domes were water and storage tanks.

Apparently Yazd has no rivers nor streams running through it. Indeed the 'Pearl of the Dessert' has no water. Centuries ago the Persian's built a vast underground stone pipe age system that channels water down from near by mountains.

The abandoned buildings were crumbling, and far from safe. Indeed without immediate restoration work it would be hard to imagine them surviving another 20 years. From the top of the towers the view was good. Yazd was spread out before us in a dusty haze. The ancient yet futuristic buildings below were lost in the camouflage of the dry brown earth. The towers were not so easy to get into. Any official gate was nowhere to be scene. The ancient entranceway was long since blockaded off. Indeed the only way to get into the towers was to climb around loose rock around to the back of one, and then up a steep incline. Here, someone had knocked out a hole in the stone wall that allowed us entry.

The area inside was cylindrically surrounded by the sand colored stones of the tower. In the center was a circular pit of about 3 feet deep and 15 feet radius. This is where the bodies of the dead were laid out for the birds to come and pick of the flesh until nothing but bone was left. And even then, according to the locals , the bones were often taken away too.

We descended the towers and were soon accompanied by a group of youngsters and their bicycles as they used the open area and its mounds as an ancient scrambling circuit.

During all his, Dimity and Christine had built up quite a hostile relationship. Which in a way provide amusement to the rest of us.

15-11-2007

With a full group of four, Christine, Mark, Dmitri and myself decided to head off on LP's recommended Desert Loop Trip. Our first stop was:

Asrobat was first on the list. It's basically and abandoned town. A ghost town for lack of a better term. Mud brick houses are lined up like any other in a city plan. Some with cellars, others with stables. All empty and eerily desolate. Well preserved wind towers jut out at several points around the town, usually with groups of 4 -5 towers. At their base were cellars where water could be stored, or food kept. We wandered thorough this deserted town. It was silent but for the wind blowing down the empty streets. I climbed into some of the houses through door less frames and broken walls. There was no furniture, no evidence of ever being inhabited bar one or two blackened patches on at the center of larger buildings. A sign that that fires had been lit a some stage by people seeking shelter. No rubbish, or refuse was left behind. No trace of anyone at all.

The village of Chak Chak was next after another hour on the desert road. This place held the promise of a shrine perched beneath a towering cliff face in the desert the most sacred of all Zoroastrian mountain shrines. Chak Chak actually means Drip Drip derived from the ever dripping spring located at the mountain. Legend has it that these drops are tears of grief that the mountain sheds in remembrance of Nikbanou an ancient woman who prayed to a Zoroastrian God to protect her from attacking enemies, the mountain opened up and took her inside to protect her. At the top where the temple is located in a grotto entered through by two large bronze doors. The shrine itself is floored with marble and its walls are dark wet walls are illuminated by fires kept eternally burning within the sanctuary. There is another legend here that states that the Nikbanou drove a sword deep into the mountain, and so the mountain has been crying ever since.

Our final destination was Kharanaq, a huge Mud Citadel in the desert that has also been abandoned. The difference here is that Kharanaq is served by a giant aqueduct that irrigates the surrounding fields of vegetables and vines. They've also restored the Qajar-era mosque, have a 17th-century shaking minaret and caravansary. But beyond all that the most enjoyable thing is the giant dark mud citadel itself. Getting lost in its labyrinth of corridors, rooms, and enterence ways is very Indiana Jones. On the rooftops or from hidden windows you can stare out at the beautiful scene of a a lush green field in the desert, next to a single colourful mosque all flanked by a mountain backdrop. A tourist is said to have fallen through one of the roof's, and its easy to see how. The whole place is crumbling apart. It's here we witnessed an archway that resembled a skull, and inside the mosque we saw a shrine that had the appearance of housing a body. Along our high top Aqueduct walk we were accompanied beneath by a man on a motorbike tearing through the desert landscape with a boy on the back brandishing a long rifle.

During the day's activities we stopped to eat a ready prepared meal by our driver of flat bread, and an aubergine stew along with chai of course. It was here we realised that Dimitri's youthful age refused to let him quit, and leave his constant arguing with Christine about the most frugal of things alone. Christine was far from the type of person one tries to get a verbal win over, but Dmitri just would not stop. It took a strange confession from Christine to bring silence at last. Apparently she was no longer in contact with her brother in law, a loan of money had not been repaid leading to Christine having to sell her house in Italy. It was here, out of the blue, that she confessed to telling this story once before on a train ride. An Italian man had seen her upset, and asked why. She told him the full story. He apologised and told her that he had lied about his name. But, for good reason. He was a hitman. And a semi retired one at that. But her story evoked him, and if she wanted too he could be of free service to her. Dmitri was silent after that.

16-11-2007

Mark had left that morning and I spent the morning with Christine helping her find a few places and meeting up with some of the guests. But a bit later she annoyed me greatly with her as she started to call people stupid for not speaking English. I needed a break and made my excuses to leave as she headed off to the Gardens, not my kind of place anyway. It was by coincidence that the bikers travelling from India to Europe arrived today. I met up with Mike from Ireland and Jean from France with Paul from the hotel and spent time talking about their travels. We decided to have dinner together along with some of the other guests. Christine appeared but sat alone. I felt guilty for not inviting her over, but then she did know most of us there. Later I went up to her to chat and found out she was leaving tomorrow. We agreed to meet for breakfast.

17-11-2007

Christine was in better form today. Insisting on helping me with where to go in India once I got there, I hadn't the heart to tell her I was not that interested in the place. But she talked on about it anyway and it made her happy. She was heading to Tehran, and I was sad to see her go, also anxious that she would be aright. For all her bluntness, sharp words and verbal onslaughts she was a good person and had made me laugh more than once. We wished each other well, and I waited with her until the taxi arrived.

I spent the rest of the day with Dali roaming around the old part of the city before meeting up with the bikers to head for a sunset at the Towers of Silence. We headed to Hotel Mehir for a lavish, and cheap dinner cooked by an Iranian with a handle bar moustache the size of some peoples forearms.

18-11-2007

The two bikers Mike and Jean headed off in the morning and I spent the rest of the day with Dali. She was intelligent and quick witted, a former ITN reporter. We spent most of the time wandering the streets, talking of my travel into Emergency Rule Pakistan and her travels in India. This I figured would be my last few hours of relaxation. In the evenings we all huddled around an outdoor heater that resembled a nuclear reactor in the courtyard.

Yazd was very enjoyable, Paul had extended his time there, as had I. And for good reason, though Yazd did suffer from a 2-5pm siesta everyday it was the best place I had been in Iran. The sights were excellent, the locals were friendly and there were god travellers passing through. I had met everyone from a German Opera Singer to a Reuters report on a sabbatical there. I had met Paul who was heading in the same direction as me, albeit on a bike. And we met several others who had either been refused entry or decided against going through Pakistan due to the continued Emergency rule. It gave us time to laugh about it, and ponder about it. Either way, I was about to go there.

19-11-2007

My last day in Yazd, and indeed Iran. I spent the morning on the internet and getting my bus ticket to Zahedan. A group formed at 3pm to see me off. I big lunch of spaghetti and ordered sandwiches for the journey. My nerves were up. I was apprehensive about the bus journey, tales had been filtering in for months about bandits on the road through Bam to Zahedan and on towards the border. Just in the last month a Belgian couple had been taken, and later released as had a French couple, but a Japanese tourist had been taken by drug gangs and nothing had been heard of him. Emergency Rule in Pakistan was all over the news. I was surely on edge.

I gave Dali a big hug goodbye and left for my bus, forgetting to pay for the sandwiches as I left. I had already given Ali a tip for the discounted room, so it didn't bother me too much. I climbed on board my fateful bus and sat next to a Pakistani man who had an obsession with playing games on his mobile phone. Every time the bus stopped he would make a run for the door quite literally. Not much help to me when we would arrive at Zahedan.

Evening fell and with it we passed by the earthquake flattened town of Bam. I would have like to have seen it. But from travellers reports and my own instinct it would not have been worth it. passing through it now, I believe I was right.

The bus was hot, and it made me sweat. I tried to doze, but all that passed through my mind was 'when will the bandits come'. We stopped periodically at police check points, and it became clear how bandits could dress like the police. Scruffily dressed soldiers marched on board. Checking random identification. Bar mine. The bus continued on through the hot night towards its destination.

9-11-2007

The alarm sounded at 4.15am and after a quick sweet cake I bought the night before I was soon in a taxi on the way to the bus terminal for the bus to Shiraz. This was going to be my first actual daylight trip through Iran, and I was quite curious to see what the general landscape was going to be like. Not so inspiring was the answer. Iran's landscape was made up of browns, collections of random brush and rough monotonous terrain. This tiring landscape was at least distracted my the jerky strange bloke next to me as we soon started a conversation; nearly 5 ours of it.

His name was Sami, and he was student from Tehran on his way home to Shiraz for a short break. He seemed like a pleasant enough guy. Tall, awkward, pimply and basically the stereotypical student from anywhere in the world. His questions were a little different after the first round of where/how/whens were over. His main concern had a similar sound to it, would the USA invade Iran? And agreement that both leaders of government were bad, yet both were voted in.

The conversation started to get weird when it changed to girls, which I suspected was actually of more importance to Sami than an invasion. He ask me how one would date a western girl? Would you dinners with them? When would you get married? And in a very loud whisper 'how do you sleep with them?' Not exactly too bad a question if you consider Sami was a 20+ male student from a heavily censored country with strong Islamic moral codes. But I was now convinced there were others on-board the bus listening in. This was practically confirmed when a little old lady in front of us turned around to what I thought was going to be a polite hello, but was in fact an infaticc "Shut up!". She spoke in Farsi, and I guess this was directed at Sami more than me.

Unfazed, Sami continued on and took the conversation to the next level. Which basically included details of a girls anatomy. And more specifically how Iranian doctors could restore ones virginity! Enough already!! My goodness, the guy was getting borderline obsessive. I fell into near silence, as we entered into Shiraz. I avoided an agreement to meet with Sami as he kindly put me into a Taxi with clear instructions to the taxi man, with this I also avoided any more scruple less questions.

The taxi took me directly to the Zand Hotel. As the taxi pulled up into a rough side street, two scruffily clothed men eyed me suspiciously through dark eyes. I got the feeling this had the atmosphere of a border town. I went into the hotel where an uninterested youth barked the price of 140,000 for a single room to me. I bargained him down to 100,000 and asked to see the room. I had already made up my mind though, something in my gut told me not to stay there. So I headed across the street to the Esteghlal Hotel, a second option according to the LP. The hotel reception was on the second floor, where a young Japanese girl was arguing with a smiling young Iranian man behind a desk.

I waited for her to stomp away, before bargaining the guy down to a room for 100,000 with 3 beds. Frenzi was a likeable cheeky type of chap, and I know I could have bargained him down another 10,000 but I had a better feeling about the place. He also started babbling about a tour to Persepolis with a German lady that was coming later, and a New Zealand guy who wasn't sure. I nodded an just asked him to let me know later.

I headed out for lunch, it was Friday so all was closed so it was just me and a beefburger again. I wandered around the city to get y bearings. I knew Persepolis was better to see via a tour taxi rather than a regular taxi, and I had the address of several places. But again all was closed, bar... strangely enough, the tourist information center! A young girl eagerly handed me out droves of information on Hafez Tomb, sites to see and buses to take. She even gave me a map of the city, and a brochure of Shiraz in Spanish, they'd run out of English. I headed back to the beefburger joint for dinner and then back to the hotel.

Frenzi still had no answers for me regarding the tour taxi, so I asked him to knock on my door before 9pm tonight if any news came in.

10-11-2007

I slept poorly due to the noise outside, and the lack of sound proofing on my windows. There's also been a German females voice arguing to a tee from reception. I put my ear plugs in and finally fell asleep by 3am. By 6.30am I was being woken up by a banging on my door. Light at first, then louder and heavier. I ignored it at first, thinking it was another guest lost. But then the next words I heard had me shooting out of bed like a jack rabbit. "Mister, Mister... There is an Emergency!!".

Shit, was it a fire? No smoke. Was it the police? Were they there to plant fake drugs? I had been reading the damn LP to Pakistan before sleeping and that was the last thing a read. I grabbed my clothes and threw them on, put my money away and prepared for the worst on the other side of the door. I opened the door, bracing it a little with my left foot around the other side. I saw Frenzi and was ready to see the police or worse preparing to push the door open.

Frenzi immediately started to apologize, "I am so sorry about this Mister, so sorry".

Shit, what had he done, or aloud to be done?

"Mister," he started again, "I have an offer of 150,000 for you!"

What the Hell?

Frenzi babbled on, "150,000 for the one remaining seat in the car. For the tour sir, do you want it?"

It took me about 3 minutes to figure out if he was cheating me or not. The wake from deep sleep into serious alert mode had done me favours in rational thinking. But I excepted the deal and rushed to the door before heading out to the corner store for a breakfast of "Mira Misi", a strange cake and Bipsi. When I can back, the taxi was waiting. I hoped in the back next to the blond New Zealand guy Willy in the middle and on the other side the Japanese girl from the day before whose name resembled Chicago. In the front was a red haired and rather wild looking German woman in her mid 60's called Christine. Her powerful German accent brought back thoughts of the late night argument from reception I had heard.

Our driver spoke no English as we took off to Pasargadae, the first of our ancient tomb day. The one hour journey was actually fun as we in back sniggered and laughed at Christine's outbursts of strong German accented criticisms of everything from her hotel, The Zand to how the driver was at driving. My only downfall here was to mention I was planning to leave for Yazd in two days...so was Christine, and she heard.

We arrived at Pasargadae and headed out from the car into the barren landscape to a the lonesome scaffold covered tomb of Cyrus the Great. For a great Leader of his time, it was now none to magnificent. However some gentle research later proved a nice touch, their carved into this monument was the following:

"Passer-by, I am Cyrus, who gave the Persians an empire, and was king of Asia. Grudge me not therefore this monument."

A pretty nice epitaph for the founder of the Persian Empire.

We scuttled back into the car and drove for 30 seconds to the next site. A recently built run-down shack with electrical cables. Right now an actual tour guide would have helped, but outside we did see some ancient stones embedded into the ground... or else someone just dumped them there. ho hum.

Next we drove a little further out to the Achaemenid palace, which at least included some ancient Farsi inscriptions, including an "I am Cyrus the Great".

We headed off again to another site that had a scattering of columns, and we joked about not even getting out of the car. Yes it was historical, yes we had a book to tell us what things were, but no it was not that interesting to none historical, or should that be, Archaeological buffs. But we preserved and did do out for some photos before moving on to another area which boasted an impressive hieroglyph, that had unfortunately been missing for quite some time. It was at our final site that we did indeed decide not to bother leaving the car, a few crumbling walls around a hill. Not so exciting, but at least it did cement our humourous relationship .

Naqsh-i Rostam was far more impressive as we approached 40 minutes later in the car. Set high up and hewn out from a rocky cliff face were four impressive and massive tomb entrances. Surrounding each was a magnificent relief depicting scenes from imperial conquests, events, and royal battles. From left to right were the tombs of Darius II, Artaxerxes I, Darius I and Xerxes I. Opposite the tombs on was a strange cube like structure that was listed as being a Zoroastrian fire temple.

I wandered further down a quarry like road were the others were not so interested in going. More bold relief's were etched into the cliff walls, and I found it easy to imagine walking down the same path 2500 years ago. And I also wanted more time here. It was a warm and impressive feeling being there, it reeked of history and magnificence. However Willy and Chicago were already heading for the car, and Christine was spotting mistakes listed in her LP as she read the local literature on the area.

We headed next to Naghsh-e-Rajab where there were just three carvings set into a jumble of several rock faces. An equestrian scene was depicted and to the left a relief of Shapur surrounded by his generals. There was also a scene of Shapur with an angel. Not so interesting, but the area did deserve more time. It's hard to imagine such rocky ruins were once something completely different. Maybe the center of a religious sight, or town center. Now they were rubble in a desert.

We were now driving to what was really all of our goals for being in Shiraz. 10 minutes later we were driving down a long straight road lined with sparse trees. Then in the distance we saw the orange like columns appear, telling us that we were heading into Persepolis. Again my imagination took flight, was this the same road Alexander the Great had taken before he conquered the city? This was also a side milestone in my travels. I was now on the same path as Alexander the Great, and it would be leading me into Pakistan and beyond.

We all agreed to go our separate ways, and meet back in two hours. I already knew two hours would not be enough and was already imaging the consequences of not being back on time. I bought my entrance ticket for 8,000 Rial and headed in and up the massive grand stairwell and looked on at the massive Xerxes Gateway. Two huge crumbling half man half winged bulls stood separately on each column. I headed off into my imagination, lost in a separate world. Bold carvings in ancient stone surrounded me. Some containing black marble as though it was carved a few years ago, others depicting scenes from an ancient history.

I bumped into the others as we ascended the cliff set tombs of Artaxerxes I &II that loomed behind the old city. Sneak peeks behind closed iron bars into the tomb vaults revealed a sarcophagus with its lid ajar. A scene best envisaged by stirring up a movie scene from the Mummy.

It was on my way down that I started to speak with Chicago and found here to be quite nice. The mere fact that Christine in her multi colored chador was bombarding locals with German accented questions about anything and everything to do with the site was enough to form any humorous bond.

Willy wanted a quick look at the tent city made by Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi beside the ancient ruins of Persepolis to pay homage to 2,500 years of the Imperial reign. Now it was no more than a few rusty tent poles and tattered pieces of material.

We headed back to the hotel. Willy and I went out to the bazaar as he need to get some gifts for people, and it was here I noticed just how developed my bargaining skills were compared to someone who never tried before. Still it did not take him long to find some bargains before we were off to dinner with Christine and Chicago. Dinner consisted of Chicken kebabs and rather embarrassing comments from Christine which Willy did not approve of at all. In fact the situation became uncomfortable tense, and even the jokes Chicago and I nudged out. Christine did not like Iran at all, and had no problems in voicing her thoughts on the matter. The problem was her thoughts were often quite rude and offensive. I can be very opinionated, and very verbal about it. But I do draw the line at insulting someone for not speaking English, like a waiter in a local restaurant.

We headed back to out respective hotels where Chicago said that as Willy was leaving tomorrow could she share my room with me to save on costs. Finally my solitary confinement seemed to be over.

11-11-2007

My last day in Shiraz. I headed with Chicago and Christine to a local tour company that could supply us all with tickets. Two for Yazd and one for Tehran. This was all very easy to do, except Christine unleashed a verbal barrage on the poor tour girl for giving her a ticket at he back of the bus. Not good enough. This all meant that the three of us had to take a trip to the bus station. We took a local bus, which would not have been anything special except for the segregation of men and women. I boarded from the front while Christine entered from the rear doors. I did not even notice this until I had entered and looked at the back of the bus to see little Chicago's face staring at me from behind two thick iron bars that ran horizontal across the the read third of the bus. I was hit wit the sledgehammer of experiencing real life segregation. There were all the women, jammed into the rear of the bus in their black burkas and chadors. I am quite sure Christine in here multi colored head scarf would have erupted had she noticed all this, instead she was ensconced with her LP again.

We arrived at the bus station and quickly made our way to the ticket booths. An Iranian girl took my written destination and time before asking if the ticket was for my mother. I looked at Christine and then at the girl, I could hear Chicago sniggering. I shook my head politely. Before we could get any further Christine launched into her verbal barrage of questions and demands sending the ticket girl off to get moral support from two male collogues. By the time they got there, Christine had gone to the lengths of drawing out a seat map of a bus, inclusive of big crosses along the rear seats. She wanted a middle one, and nothing else would do. After several minutes the ticket operators gave in, and I could see them moving the names of other passengers out of the middle seats, and writing side notes. The two men left and the remaining ticket girl gave us the adjoining seats of 15 and 16. My eyes widened. As Christine rummaged in her bad for the ticket money I stood back and waved franticly at the girl, signalling for separate seats. The ticket girl stared at me in disbelief before breaking down into near tears of laughter. She called back the two men, and whispered to them about what I had done before they two broke down in laughter. And with that we all got our separate seated tickets.

On the bus heading back I caught a glimpse of Hafez's tomb, it was enough I decided. I'd seen the grandest, and poetry was never my thing. Chicago moved here stuff into my room before we headed out for a lunch time pizza and a tour of the bazaar. We stopped of at a fancy café for a what I thought was a rice desert called a Dizzy, but instead was served up my old Tabriz meal of lamb chickpeas and a hammer to smash it up with. Later we met up with Christine for dinner, however Christine's had a different idea of where we should go for dinner, and that delayed us for nearly 2 hours in locating the place meaning I no longer had time to buy a sleeping bag at the army store.

At the hotel Frenzi disappointed me with lude comments about Chicago now sharing a room with me. I ignored him as best I could, but eventually let loose on him before heading to the room and tell Chicago to be a little wary tomorrow when she was on her own. This led us to a late night conversation. I was at last travelling and sharing experiences with people. Though tomorrow I was about to be travelling with a 60+ year old German Lady with a tendency to scare people into submission.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naqsh-e_Rustam
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persepolis

7-11-2007

I slept until 10am, mainly to avoid the mass of Iranian tourists that descended upon the ever wonderful Amir Kabir. A quick beefburger breakfast and I was out the door headed straight back to the pomegranate store, would luck befall be today? Well, I had a juice again, no bright blue eyed company, so yes. No luck.

I headed off for a lonely walk down to the Si-soh-meh bridge, yet even its historic 400 year old 33 arches failed to remove my gloom. I felt like it was time to leave Esfahan, and indeed Iran. It just was not doing it for me. It was modern, a European modern. With out the black glad women and Farsi you could be mistaken for think you were in a part of Spain. Historical references aside.

I did however want to see, the Zoroastrian Fire Temple and Shaking minarets. Two attractions not to be missed, again according to TB. Imam Square was another, that I could do easily. The others would require public transport and being nice to people so they would help the stupid tourist get to where he wanted to go. I just wasn't able. It was on the way to Imam square I found Iranian Flight, which according to LP was the place to go for a tour. I signed up, for 150,000 I would be taken to Masjed Mosque, the shaking Minarets, Khaju and 33 arch bridges, the Zoroastrian fire temple and the Armenian church.

The idea of taking a tour made be cringe, it went against my solo independent travel. But it saved me time and frustration. So over a beefburger and bipsi lunch I swallowed my pride and decided to sign up. I think the thought of meeting other lost and frustrated tourists spurred me on more than anything else.

I headed back to Imam Square for a walk around. The one good thing is that Imam Square situated is at the center of the city and easy to find. Full of historical references the place is on the world Heritage list, and a place the French Poet Renier said was "Half of the World". Who cold resist not visiting such a place?

The square is surrounded by buildings from the Safavid era. The Shah Mosque is situated on the south side of the square. On the west side is Ali Qapu Palace. Sheikh Lotf Allah Mosque is situated on the eastern side of the square and the northern side spreads into Isfahan Grand Bazaar. To me the place is more of a giant royal rectangle. Fountains and a grassy park like area cover the center of the "square"where families come to sit and watch the world... or is it half the world go by.

Ali Qapu Palace to the west was my first destination, it was according to LP from the top the best place to get views of the square. Of course the place was covered with bloody scaffolding, and was next to impossible to get a good photo from. I descended back to the main square.

Amongst the general touts looking to sell carpets and general brass ornaments was a Spanish speaking Iranian determined for me to buy the "Fly Carpet", and speak of our Spanish roots. They are pretty good salesmen, and it brought a wry smile to his face to see I was accustomed to dealing with touts and bargainers. But again to give them credit here, they are smarter than the average touts. I noted two earlier touts that had failed to grab my attention listing in to the Spanish speaking Iranian as he at least got a 5 minute conversation out of me. And it was those two other touts that would later give me the most interesting time in Esfahan.

Dusk was approaching so I went in search of the one thing LP got right about Esfanhan, their are bugger all restaurants in the city. So amusing my self I went back to last nights debacle of a comedy restaurant to see what joys awaited me tonight. Not surprisingly the "Kebab Nazi"was still shouting down his microphone at full velocity. But to my joy I got an excellent chicken kebab, tones of meat, fresh and very importantly, hot! All for 45,000 without the accompaniment of violent plate crashing.

That night I lay in my tiny bed as the bright florescent light outside my little room glared through the large glass pane above the door, in I listened to the hard soled clatter of even more Iranian guest descending on the Amir Kabir. They were cheap, and central I figured. That was after all how I was stuck there. TV's from neighbouring rooms formed an incoherent mish mash of garbled sonics that seemed to converge in my eardrums. I dozed eventually, being stirred once as someone found themselves locked out of there room, and once more by the ceramic smashing of a bathroom basin.

8-11-2007

I made it to the travel agent by 9am, after a rushed beefburger and bipsi breakfast. I was greeted by a solitary tour guide with perfect English. But no one else. It wasn't too bad either, Hossein was a fountain of information and was already filling my ears with history of street outside. It was there that we met the Iranian mother and daughter tandem that would also be joining us on the tour. The mother was stout, curious but obviously displeased at a westerner or anyone was interrupting their private tour. The daughter was also quite silent, but had at least one redeeming feature: a white plaster across the bridge of her nose!

I had noticed this anomaly amongst Iranian women, but thought little of it. It seemed to me that at least 6 % of all Iranian women I saw on the streets of the main cities had this little white surgical plaster on the bridge of their nose. This was all later confirmed to me later my an Iranian student as "Nose Jobs". In a country where Islam dictates no harm should done to the body, women should not stand out, and little self promotion in the area of the body is beautiful; it seemed Hollywood plastic surgery was rife. It was explained to me that women wanted to make the only part of the body they were allowed to be exposed to be the most beautiful thing. Genetics in Persia seemed to mean hereditary bumpy noses, not that I could tell. So women have taken to nose jobs in order to create the perfect profile. Yes indeed these Persian Princesses could avail of relatively cheap surgeries in their homeland. So cheap in fact that it turned out the daughter on tour had returned from Singapore to have the surgery. Not withstanding cost, there were also, fakers. People who never ad the surgery, but wore the plaster as a fashion symbol! Even the Iranian youthful male was yielding to this fashion craze. I calculated at least .5% of all young men on the street had such a tell tale plaster. A country in conflict with itself, or rather finding itself in preparation for change.

Either way, both ladies were not that communicative. So I resigned myself to learning a little from Hossein. First stop was Jameh Mosque, not on the tour list, but still. Jameh or Friday Mosque (of which there is one in most Iranian cities) is one of the oldest mosques still standing in Iran. The origins of this mosque lie in the 8th century, but it has burnt down and been rebuilt many times resulting in different architectural styles throughout the grounds. One of the more interesting things I found was the domes in particular the south dome was built to house the mihrab in 1086-87 by Nizam al-Mulk, and was larger than any dome known at its time. What's more Of note is the elaborately carved stucco mihrab commissioned in 1310 by Mongol ruler Oljaytu. A really beautiful and descriptive sight, similar to many works in Pakistan.

More over than any of this, I found the most intriguing sight to be the Iranian Art and Architecture students scattered over the courtyards with pencil and paper in hand. Mainly black clad girls sat cross legged and silent as they sketched, measured and stared in thought at the various architectural sites surrounding them. To me I found myself starting at them more than the Mosque's sites. It was a peaceful surreal sight, almost like stepping back in time. Secondly I took a slight detour as the mother bombarded Hossein for the third time about the origins of a certain tile in a dome. I headed down into one of the vaults under the mosque. A place where light shone through in beams of dusty light from the ceiling above. Large sandstone columns strutted down every 5 feet casting long dark shadows into the empty vault. The air was cool, and the place had a very hidden feel to it. Hossein appeared, and seemed none to concerned I was there. We headed over to another vault that was still used for prayer. A white washed room, with fewer columns and more ceiling gaps to let the light in from above. On the way out he made particular reference to the ancient 800 year old door we passed through, just as I scraped my day pack across it, opps.

Next up on the tour, our little white mini bus took us to the Zoroastrian fire temple. Zoroastrianism is the religion and philosophy based on the teachings ascribed to the prophet Zoroaster. Zoroastrianism was once the dominant religion of much of Greater Iran, the number of adherents has dwindled to not more than 200,000 Zoroastrians worldwide, with concentrations in India and Iran. An outline of the religion can be found here :- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zoroastrianism. In the case of the fire temples Zoroastrians believe that on the fourth day after death the human soul leaves the body and the body remains as an empty shell. Traditionally, Zoroastrians disposed of their dead by leaving them atop open-topped enclosures, called Towers of Silence, or Dokhmas. Vultures and the weather would clean the flesh off the bones, which were then placed into an ossuary at the center of the Tower which is usually build on top of a hill.

In this case we only had the death call of any tour, ten minutes to climb the fire temple, or hill on which the temple was located. It was a large sand colored hunk of rock that would have taken at least 35 minutes to climb from where the bus left us, and the same down. Aggrieved I made a note on the map of its location, and would later weigh up whether to come back, or if I made it to Yazd to see them there.

Next up on the whistle stop tour: The Shaking Minarets, surely a highlight in many Iranian Tourists itinerary. At 11am a Mosque care taker would emerge on the roof, proceed to one of the two minarets and push it from the inside, thus causing the minaret opposite it to sway simultaneously. Yes a little man did appear on the roof, yes he did disappear into one of the minarets and do something that caused...lets say a wobble to occur. The other minaret then trembled more than shook. Ok, it wobbled a little too. This caused a huge eruption of applause from the Iranian audience below. Personally I would have found more excitement in watching two gerbils mating, but did let loose the fakist of smiles and raised eyebrows as all the Iranians looked around with huge gasps of amazement. How could I disappoint them?!

Next: The Armenian Church (Vank) where unlike the Iranian tourists, I had to pay an entrance fee... Now am I wrong or was Armenia the first nation to formally adopt Christianity. Is Iran a Muslim country. Am I to be depicted as Christian, yes(no religious debates, or truth here). Do I have to pay to go into a Muslim Mosque? No. Do I have to pay to go into a Christian cathedral/church? Yes. No comment.

The exterior of the church was nothing exciting, but what I will say is the interior is possibly the most impressive "Christian"church/cathedral I have seen. It's small, but the church is decorated with glorious and beautiful frescoes and painting works that represent biblical traditions. Most impressive is right above the entranceway a depiction of heaven, purgatory and hell. Graphic depictions of Angles and whitened glory oppose scenes of gory violence and Hell Fire while sandwiched in the middle are hand beating repenter's. The ambient lighting inside the church added to a truly enjoyable depiction of old and new testament religion. That, coupled with the mix of Christian and Islamic architecture and design made it quite a visual feast for the eyes. No photos allowed, and lots of security staring at you. Hmm, nice Christian attitude.

The museum was also quite nice. Artefacts of actual interest lined two floors of a separate building. Much of the interest lay with the history of the church in Islamic history, not something you come across everyday. Near the entrance there is the world's smallest book, the bible, along with many highly miniaturized writings that Esfanhan was famous for. Also the Armenian Genocide display on what happened in Turkey made for quite a visual impact.

More on the history here:- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NeGMZDYIMI unfortunately the video does not show the entranceway nor do they do the art justice.

Next: The Khaju and 33 arch bridges. Although having been there twice before I enjoyed the bridges. They were set in nice park land areas overlooking the Zayandeh river. While Khaju may be the largest, I found the Si-o-Se-Pol or 33 arch bridge to be the nicest. It gives one a nice tranquil historic feeling as you gaze upon its majestic reflections on the river. Still the guide started to flounder on my new found questions on its history. Built at the beginning of the 17th century at the order of Shah Abbas, its real purpose was to irrigate the royal gardens.

With that came the end of the tour, no tearful goodbyes to the mother and daughter and no tip for Hossein , you have to do something outside the norm for a tip from me. I headed back to Imam square for my last night in Esfahan, the fat man at the Amir Kabir had arrange my bus ticket for me to Shiraz.

I settled in for the evening my one of the stone seats near the fountains, ready for some night time fountains. The carpet sellers were closing up shop in the surrounding stores, and locals were taking genteel walks through the square on the way home. A couple of youths approached me, I recognized them as the duo who were listening in to the Spanish Iranians conversation with me yesterday. Behrouz was the taller of the two. He had shoulder length curly hair that was awash with some kind of hair cream. Saeed was a neatly dresses more serious type with a school boy hair cut.

Our conversation started off easily, they had forgotten that they had already tried to sell me a carpet yesterday, and had failed. For some strange reason I remembered Saeed's sales pitch. And repeated it too them. They both looked at each other solemnly, as if embarrassed at forgetting me. I laughed at there worried expressions and put them at ease. We must have spent two hours in conversation that night. Topics ranged from carpet history to would the USA invade Iran. In fact the later question hung for around for quite some time. It was a worry to them. They liked the west, and could not understand why the west hated them. I explained a little, and it seemed they knew already. They had a bad leader, just like the west.

Finally our conversation came around to religion, and there blunt effort to convert me to Islam. There approach was to tell me the similarities the Bible has with the Koran. From Ark to Jonah and the Whale its all there in both books. I needed to get out of the conversation, I was hungry, and I find religious debates tedious. So when they began comparing Adam and Eve to the Koran, I pounced.

"So you see," Saeed would say courteously, "We have Adam and Eve, who made a child, and then another. This is how life on Earth started".

"Yes", Behrouz would back his friend up, "and so the earth was populated, just like it says in the Bible and Koran, it is the same."

I nodded in understanding, "so Adam and Eve made two babies, and then the babies had babies and so that's really how everyone arrived on the Earth?"

The two heads nodded. "And so Evolution never happened?". I continued, explaining about Darwin theory. And it was met with much distaste, though respectfully said.

I acted as though I was learning and pondering something new, as the two covert hopefuls looked on. "So let me get this straight," I said with a confused smile. "Adam and Eve's Son & Daughter, who were therefore brother and sister... well they basically had relations and made babies, yes?"

Behrouz realized what was happening straight away, but Saeed nodded hastily in agreement, "Yes, Yes, you see it's written in the Koran."

I looked at him, putting on my best shocked face. "That means the brother and sister slept together?!!"

Saeed's eyes widened as he hesitated, "Ehh, Yes but it's ... not...like"

I continued on with my dissolving of their statement, "That's really not so good, shocking in fact. Not right even!"

Behrouz tried to intervene, but the damage was already done. Saeed shook his head while staring blankly at the ground, "I never thought about it like that... it is wrong... my goodness."

Behrouz shook his friends shoulder. I changed the conversation immediately, and thanked them both for sharing with me their time and thought this evening. I had perhaps panted the seeds of doubt into one man's mind. Or at least the seeds of free thought. I said my goodbyes, and both youths gave me the blessings of Allah and the reminder to read the Koran as I headed off for some photos.

For my last meal in Esfahan I could go nowhere else other than the "Kebab Nazi's" place. And I was welcomed with open smiles and loud "Hello's" by all the staff and scored fresh bread out of the oven. It was getting better...

It was the early hours of the morning when a tall young student entered the bus took the briefly vacated seat to my left next to the window. I dozed off again i discomfort, but at the next stop was sleepily nodded to by my neighbor. He waved discreetly with his hand, before motioning for a seat swap.

This could have been for two reasons: 1) I had fallen asleep and was slouching on top of him. 2) he was a nice guy and saw how miserable I was. I decided it was actually the hidden option of number 3) IT was easier for him to sit in my seat, as every time the sadistic florescent bus lights came on at each bus stop, he wanted to get off to stretch his legs. It was a 16 hour bus ride from Rasht to Esfahan and I wanted to sleep badly. The thought of being woken up by a gangley Iranian student squeezing by me at every stop was enough.

I swapped seats, and soon passed out in my new reclining seat. At that moment I wondered if the student who had surrendered his seat to me could ever possible know how much his gesture had meant to me. Yes the new seat hurt my neck, yes the bus was bloody hot, but it also allowed me 2 hours of dozing bliss, well nearly anyway.

I was again brought back to consciousness by the torturous florescent lights. I looked out the window, was this Tehran? I thought it might be according to my memory of the map route to Esfahan. The nice guy next to me nodded a good morning. Looking at the red neon Farsi digital clock I waited for the undecipherable numbers to shift into Latin Script, it was 4.20am, hmm another 6 hours. Nope...

Nice guy spoke in broken English "Which Stop you leave?"

It took an instant before it clicked, I doubled checked. "Is this Esfahan?"

He nodded.

Bollocks, bloody timetable was up its ass.

I consulted my map and the nice guy. He pointed to the station we were arriving into, and gave me a couple of tips at what to do in Esfahan at 4.30am!

I thanked the stranger who had meant more to me than any other person in Iran so far, and headed out into the darkness of pre-dawn Esfahan. It is here in the shadows of the bus terminal that I realized what I enjoy about traveling alone. Here I was in a new city, alone, in the dark, not knowing what was about to happen. My adrenaline surged. A feeling that will give you a sheer heightened sense of everything.

The bus termainal was seriously overcrowed, people clammering for pre-dawn warmth. I decided it was best to head straight for a hotel. Finding the Taxi rank inside the terminal was not hard, the main road outside was devoid of life so I surrendered to the fact that I would have to pay 20,000 Rial for a 5 minute journey to the Amir Kabir Hotel.

The tired old man behind reception said all the single rooms were full, so again I paid over the odds at 100,000 (7 Euro) for a 4 bed room. It was 6am before I finally got to bed, ear plugs in.

6/11/07

By 10am I was woken by the clatter of annoyingly load voices outside in the courtyard, it seemed my room was beside the breakfast area. By 11 I had quit the idea of sleep. They had a western toilet and I removed two days of kebab and bus food build up, had a shower and headed to reception to see if my Iranian luck had changed and I could get the single room.

By about 11.15am I found myself handing over 100,000 for the 4 hours sleep I had last night. So no, no Iranian luck change. Indeed for only 80,000 I now had the added luxuary of being housed in a room the size of an above average closet. With wood paneling thinner than cardboard. And a hint of used sock storage in the air.

I headed out and dined on a simple beefburger, fries and sickly sweet Bipsi. Actually the drink was ok, bar its name resemblance too Pepsi, which was a turn off in my books. Still it filled me for next hour while I searched Chahar Bagh-e Pa'in Street for a different hotel. Here once again I found myself suffering at the wrong end of Iranian hospitality. Hotel receptionists were none too friendly. It was like they were banning tourists from staying there. I thought crossed my mind about the hotel in Tabriz and how they wanted to keep my passport for the police. And I wondered if it was just too much hassle for them to register a tourist. At the last hotel on the road Tous Hotel I met a nice receptionist, who did not shake her head at the mere sight of a foreigner. But she did try say the room was 180,000. And Although I want to leave the box room, it was a price about me.

I headed off to the tourist information office to see if they had another listing of hotels, only to find it was a public holiday and all was shut. It still did not stop the carpet salesmen approaching me anywhere near a touristic road. What's more, I had wasted a good hour plus wandering around the lower portion of the long Chahar Bagh-e Pa'in St in search of the office. I stared indefinately at TB's map, and circled around the place it was meant to be. Nothing. Later that night by casual glance I noted that the legend actually said Tourist Police, and nothing mentioned about Information. Hmmm, there is an information office, I found it, why not put it in the Bloody book TB?!!!

The famous Arched bridges running over the nearby Zayandeh river sparked my interest as did the rerfreshing Pomegranates juice store across the road. I headed over to the blood red and gory plastic pomegranate decorate peep hole in the wall store. A short chubby girl dressed in the typical black chador stared at me. Then shuffled to the back. Hmm, not even a drink. Then to by surprise she emerged again with one of her friends, a slender version with the same black chador. I asked for a juice, and the slender girl wnet to work grinding down pomegraet fruits in the blender before handing me the lush red liquid. I have to say the juice in Iran is the best in the world I have tasted.

I handed over a 50,000 note for the 3,000 drink, and was met with all kinds of change spurred searching. During this time a yellow Esfahan taxi pulled up and a tall slim Iranian girl got out, approached the counter, got change immediately and paid off the taxi before ducking inside the shop.

She turned to me immediately, her blue eyeliner sparkling in the sun, "Do you speak English?"

"Yes, just like you." I responded

She blushed a little, and my day was made. The conversation was much like another travelers small talk, where from, where going, how, when. But it was my first social interaction in a long while, and it didn't help that it was with two stunning Iranian girls. They may have been dressed to cover up in black like every other woman. But one could easily see through the light black material that they were wearing fashionable jeans and t-shirts underneath. Couple that with impeccable make up, and you have quite a delight to cheer one up. Second that with grade A conversation and you have a happier guy.

AtoosA continued on her boost my ego day. "You look Iranian...", I frowned, "This is very good." I smiled. And on the inside I was rolling over like a dog getting its stomach scratched. "And you have German blood?! This is good, you are Aryain like us!"

Now I was a King. We talked some more, and I ended up promising to come back the next day. What on Earth could stop me!

It's strange how one's day can be turned around by a simple conversation, oh yes, and over zealous flattery. But it is good that it can happen. After that I somehow enjoyed my walked along the river. The taste of pomegranate in my mouth, and blissful thoughts breezing by did wonders to forget about the countless male offers of good carpets. NEar any Mosque, ancient building or touristy sight Iranian sales people emerged in strategic manner, usually starting off with gentle friendly conversation. Then diverting into offers of tea, or information on ancient artifacts. Then digressing into either promises of lifetime friendship, or the best offer on a carpet.

They were friendly chaps all in all, not nearly as aggressive as their Moroccan counterparts. But what was on offer was of little use to me. Giant Carpets are of no use to someone without home nor house. Put it into your friends house, until your luck changes, was one smart remark I got.

That evening I walked into a local fast food kebab joint, it could also have been the set of Faulty Towers. Shahab's Place was like any other diner. Glossy pictures of menued food lined the walls, and the seats were hard plastic. There was a scattering of customers, a few scrawny disheveled looking waiters and a slight smell of grease in the air. The owner was a tall moutashed man seated behind a big desk near the entrance who shouted at me a lot. That is until he started pointing at the photos of his food on the wall, and proceeded to shout even louder. The scary thing was he was actually shouting in English! More amusingly still was that once I pointed to Kebab on a sword photo he proceeded to shout into a microphone attached to a loudspeaker system that screeched loudly throughout the restaurant.

I sat down and looked on as the scruffy waiters in their grease stained white t-shirts scuffled around as more barks directed at them through the speaker system came. Trays crashed in the background, and the sound of clattering plates accompanied my meal. The food came, shriveled beef, cold rice and a yogurt with strange specks in. Designed to up lift my limp salad no doubt. I tried ordering a Bepsi. The waiter spoke no English, but his boss overheard and roared into the microphone again to send the young lad flying to the drinks cooler. I wondered how sick I would be after the food, and settled on the thought that it might be worth it for the amusement factor alone.

I headed back to the rip off hotel to get an early night, only to find that the sheets in my room were still baring the evidence of the previous occupant. As I waited for the resemblance of clean sheets to be placed on my bed I ran into a Korean guy. He was trying to get home overland too. My lack of companionship spurred me on to indulge him in overland travel conversation. Alas, he was addament that Pakistan was too dangerous due to Musharif's Emergency rule. He was convinced I would die once I crossed the border. The police will shoot you, you white. Coming from a very pale Korean, I was not impressed.

Although the feelign of Emergency rule had me concerned it did little to quash had the overwhelming feeling that Iran was not doing it for me, so much so I was switching to a more cynical view of Esfahan. One that let me enjoy it a bit more. Still I had decided it was better sights and get out quickly. I headed to bed and fell asleep, fast.

Kirsty has told me the name of a man who had sorted out her trip to Masuleh from the little bus terminal in Rasht, and as I asked the first pointy faced bus ticket guy for "Rasser" he merely started giving me directions to other Iranian cities. I resorted to caveman like tactics of my name pointing and then his name pointing... nope. Neither he nor his unhelpful friend could understand the most basic of human communication skills. I asked the times of the Esfahan bus. 5pm. Could I leave me bag here as I wanted to go to Masuleh for the day? Nope, cave man tactics again resulted in him pointing outside saying No11. I looked out, everything was closed. I went for a pee. On my return he was on the phone, and ignoring me. I went to a different office.

Success, I could get a ticket for 70,000 to Esfahan tonight, but failure I could not leave my bag anywhere. A taxi to Masuleh would also cost me 70,000?!! I was getting completely pissed off. My stomach hurt, I was tired, and I wondered why the hell I wanted to see a bloody green hilled town anyway. I wanted men in Jilabi's and women cooking great Tagine! I was starting to dislike the nonexistent Iranian hospitality & with the prospect of luggin my backpack around the little green town had lost all interest in it.

I bought a ticket to Esfahan and wandered back out into the dawning day. I sat on the steps of the bus terminal where the sun was starting to shine. I watched the pack of taxi drivers by the exit of the car park, scurring around their yellow vehicles looking for prey. Would I pay 7-8 Euro just for a quick day trip to a village I had lost interest in, or would I just sit there and sulk. Yes, I did the latter.

Iran was grating me the wrong way, single female no problems, single male on a budget...problems. Who gave a shit, no one noticed me, no one approached me as I sat on the steps. If this had been Turkey countless people would have come up to ask if I was alright. I looked through the TB and cursed TB for its flowery descriptions of Iranian hospitality, sights and experiences. It was the anticipation that was getting to me, no longer would I read TB's "the world is wonderful" descriptions.

I mapped out my route through Iran, taking into account my lack of excitement. Esfahan would make or break it for me. If it was bad, then I would head straight for the Pakistan border. I wanted ancient charm like that of Maroc, and what I was getting was far from charm.

I moved over to a little old mans food stall and ate a miserable burger. I moved only 3 times that day, once to eat, once to avoid and incoming bus and once to mover out of the sun. 9 hours later, with 2 more to go, I moved only back to the miserable burger joint, and cringed as I hurriedly washed it down with a Bibsi cola. I showed the old man my seat number and asked him to translate. He typed into his greasy calculator and the display showed 44. The rear seat of the bus... Why me today?

It really was one of those things about having a bad day. So what else to do, but nothing, let the deity controlling my day pass by. Do nothing, sit and wait for it to be over. But this was having other effects on me; too much time. I was being confronted with reality. I had failed to find a home in Europe, Language barriers. Surely now I should be having fun? Free from the commitment of security. Yet the truth was I was getting pretty miserable. I knew I would enjoy Iran a lot more if I was traveling with someone. I usually did enjoy travel more with someone else around. I longed for that now. For sure I would not be sitting here in a sulk if there was someone else here too.

For the first time I thought about chucking it in, getting a ticket to Thailand, or the Philippines and escaping my solitude. I was tired, my thighs were still on fire, and in a way very bored. I was losing interest in travelling. The thoughts of trekking in Pakistan made be shudder, I never really wanted to go to India, and Nepal seem like an age away.

I had enjoyed myself when traveling alone, no doubt. But in the 9 hours of purposeful solitude at the bus station I had met not one single traveler, and no one spoke to me that did not want my money. On this leg of the trip I had only traveled with 1 or 2 people for a couple of days, no more. I really desperately wanted to travel with someone.

6pm came, and I finally stood up as the sun began to dip low in the near cloudless sky. I began the confusion of asking where my bus might leave. And after directions from the equivalent of Seinfeld's "Soup Nazi" I found the bus to Esfahan. But Iran's cruelty continued, seat 44 was indeed at the rear of the bus, and full of boisterous male students.

I squeezed into the seat second from the left window, and was given the customary complimentary drink of juice and a packet of glow in the dark Cheese Balls. I struggled to sleep, sandwiched between two people; but as the day closed, my theory on doing nothing on a bad day came to fruition. My luck started to come back.