Yearly Archives: 2011

A Sweaty Border Crossing

Posted on by in Syria 2 Comments
I was sweating, but it wasn’t because I was wearing a pair of woollen socks given to me by a friend’s mother, motorcycle socks, thick thermal-ish tights from Turkey, pants, knee protectors, motorcycle pants, motorcycle boots, a bra, merino top, merino jersey, one pink jacket given to me in Iran, amour jacket, black water/wind proof jacket, motorcycle jacket and the warmest/ wind proof buff (please note – i had taken off my woollen gloves and my motorcycle summer gloves and in my bag was a pair of yellow rubber gloves for rainy days and my warm three fingered over glove that a friend gave me were stashed in front of my Speedo).
 No it wasn’t all of these combined that was making me sweat in the 13 deg temperature at the Turkey-Syria border. It was the fact all of my equipment was laid out on the road for everyone to see, and amongst my gear were one laptop and one camera they were trying to find.



Where, you might ask, would one girl hide a laptop and a camera on a motorcycle with everything on the ground in front of five burly border guards, curious about my bag of tampons and my underpants. I had cleverly hid my camera body in with my sockmonkey making stuff, so it just looked like a bag of brightly coloured socks. My laptop was awkwardly stashed in my motorcycle jacket pocket normally reserved for a protection plate for my back. One guards even asked me, what is that on your back? I calmly showed him my back protection and he gobbled up the lie with ease and told me to go and pay for my visa.

After three hours at the border I was given a police escort who helped me change my Turkish money into Syrian (I didn’t want to jinxs myself by doing it in Turkey) and I was taken to a hotel in the next town. However, along the way, I heard a clink and was lucky to see in my rear vision mirror my rear sprocket I had so clearly zip tied to the inside of my pannier frame, rolling down the street in the opposite direction. Wow, I thought to myself that only lasted 86 kilometres not the 20,000km I was expecting! I turned around and picked it up. As I was working out how to carry it for the next 20 kilometres, the armed escort arrived looking worried. I pointed to my sprocket which was still in my hand and to where I was storing it… and they just took it off me and tucked it under my new cargo net I brought on impulse in Istanbul. I’m starting to love this net!

Sprocket, Sanliurfa, Turkey
Great location, bad fixings… I’ll have to make fixing plate before trying this again.


I was almost asleep in my expensive room in the hotel my police escort made me stay at, when I heard a knock at the door. Opening the door, I found the hotel receptionist standing there.  “Can I come in and talk to you?”. I look in my room and back at him and said “No, you cannot, ask me what you want here at the door”. He refused to and asked once again. Again I said “NO” and impolitely shut the door on his face. What is with hotel owners and workers thinking I’m available to anyone? Is this how they treat all tourists? A call came through my hotel room “I’m sorry miss” I replied “ok, but you do not enter a room of a lone girl” and hung up.



I was escorted out of the township, and released as soon as I was on the road towards Homs. For some reason they wouldn’t let me travel through the desert like I had planned with the border guards. It didn’t make any difference to me which direction I went in, I just thought maybe I could visit something along the way, but instead I went from one check point to another. They always asked ‘Do you have a camera?” I shake my head “A phone?” I showed them my old colour Nokia phone, they laughed and said “Welcome to Syria!” Now it was time for me to laugh – what a welcome.



I drove south, heading to Jordan. Just past Damascus it started to get dark, 60 kilometres from the border. I pulled over behind a mound of dirt, pitched my tent and with no food I just went to sleep to the sounds of traffic and a dog circling my ten,t barking all night. I woke shivering and prepared myself for yet another border crossing, hoping it wasn’t at all like the last. 


ps. I wasn’t allowed to take any photos hence why I thought I would add a couple of drawings in to show you what I saw in Syria

Will Syria Let Me In? Back Up Plan Needed

Posted on by in Turkey 1 Comment
Syria has become a bigger issue as the days slipped past. I hung around Pakistan in the hope it would have blown over by the time I reached Syria but that hasn’t been the case. It just seems to keep on escalating to the point that civil war is predicted. Now, if Syria was located anywhere else in the world I could easily by-pass it. However it’s not, it’s located at the major intersection between Asia, Europe and Africa. One I would, as it turns out, find very hard to avoid.


A friend and I had made plans to meet for the first time in two years in Istanbul. I didn’t really like the idea of riding north spending endless money on expensive fuel in the freezing cold, so I got in contact with the Istanbul bikers club, who arranged for me to stay with a Vespa and old BMW fanatic Hassain in Sanilurfa near the Syrian border. I thought this small break from my adventure would be a great opportunity to come up with some options for my future. 

I did mangage to find some time to do some sight seeing around Turkey.
Pammukale, Turkey

My future being, what the hell am I going to do from here?  I’ve been on the road for 13 months and I’m feeling incredibly tired and worn out from crossing Baluchistan, Iran and Iraq. It was getting pretty cold as winter started setting in. My options just seem to be shrinking. These thoughts and options floated in and out of my head as I got more confused.


I could turn around and head back to Australia, head up into Russia, through the stans and back (this was instantly crossed out with it being winter).  I could head across to Spain and head down the west coast of Africa first. I could take a break and head home or visit my friend in Germany. I could also just bite the bullet and try the Syrian border. If I get turned away then I needed to try the next one. Failing all of them I needed to find a way around Syria. 

Sanfranbolu
Istanbul
Basilica Cistern, Istanbul
This is the warm welcome I got in Istabul from from the Istanbul Bikers Club
Hagia Sophia in Istanbul
Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

Finding an inexpensive option to get around Syria was decreasing by the day. I had heard that all of the ferry boats from Turkey, Italy, Cyprus, to Israel or Alexandria had been stopped due to the raging conflicts in Libya, Egypt, Israel, and of course Syria. I had heard of one guy sending his motorcycle via Jordan Air but that cost him the same amount of money I could use in two months or more. I needed to flick through pages and pages on the internet, emailing one company after another, been given the run around, getting no replies or bad vague answers to my questions. After three weeks of constant searching and tearing my hair out, I found these (some run into dead ends, but it shows the paths I headed down):
Italy to Ashdod, Israel
Ticket for Person: € 586
Ticket for motorcycle: € 159
Note:
Website: Grimaldi  - http://www.grimaldi-freightercruises.com/

Total:  € 1570

OPTION THREE B
Ticket for Person to fly from Istanbul to Israel $340
€400 for just motorcycle
Total: $1000

Conclusion: Complicated shipping route & possible loss of motorcycle.
OPTION FOUR
Turkey to Cyprus
Ticket for Person and motorcycle: $80
Notes: Confirmed
Website: akgunler.com.tr

SECOND LEG:

Limassol, Cyprus to Israel
Ticket for motorcycle: €480
Istanbul to Dublin, Israel
Ticket price for person: $340
Total: €900

OPTION FIVE
Mersin to Alexandria
Ticket for motorcycle: €500
Local Charges: $75
Alexandria Charges:$45
Website: vanudenmaritime.com
Notes: Shipping Roll on Roll off
Early December has been cancelled, next at the end of December

Istanbul to Alexandria
Ticket for person: €300

Total: €910

CONFIRMED
OPTION SIX
Izmir, Turkey to Ashdod, Israel
Website: http://www.grimaldi-freightercruises.com/
Note: Waiting for confirmation

OPTION SEVEN
Izmir, Turkey to Alexandria, Egypt
Ticket for motorcycle: $75
Local Charges: unconfirmed
Alexandria Charges: unconfirmed
Website:
Notes: Container ship
Schedule yet  to be confirmed

Istanbul to Alexandria
Ticket for person: €300

Total: Unknown due to local charges
(This was turning out to be next plan c)
As you can see, it’s not an easy task to keep track of, with the different currencies and options. Some convoluted option took me and my motorcycle sailing around the Mediterranean Sea through four different countries all to land up in Tusin but with one missing boat connection between two Islands.

By the end of my three weeks I was completely sick of it and really worried about crossing the border. One clear option formed (shown in red), I could sail my motorcycle from Mersin to Alexandria and I would fly to meet it, so with that in hand, I said goodbye to my friend, and hello to Hassain and my motorcycle – let the adventure begin and leave all the planning behind me. 
I could see something growing on the bottom of my tank so Hassain helped me clean it all out.
Me preparing things on my bike for Africa
Nothing can stop me from going to Africa!

There are a ton more photos on Flickr - Click here for the link. 

There Are Beautiful People In This World

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The sun is setting, where should I camp? Come on Danielle, I have about 15 more minutes before the sun hits the horizon. I need to find a good spot before then. But this is crazy, it’s only 3:30 in the afternoon! What the hell am I going to do after I pitch my tent, it’s not like I have anything to cook! Scanning each side of the road, I found where the old road use to lie, and a nice wee stream, himmm this could be a good spot, but damn there is a small village at the top of the banks. Still slowing down trying to decide what to do, I spot the road to the village. Passing the road, I see children and women walking up and down the tiny street. Should I do it? Come on Danielle, you only have ten more minutes. 

I turned my bike around and drove up the narrow street, the children parted ways and I stopped near a group of women. I’ve just entered Turkey, and have no idea about the basic words so I put my bike in neutral and make a sign of a tent and sleep. They nattered away and suggested I talk to the men who were approaching. One man pointed down the street and another started walking so I followed him to an entrance way to a house. I parked my bike outside the detached kitchen and bathroom and dismounted. I moved my helmet, and with a huge smile on my face I said ‘Salam’ (Hello in Farsi). They welcomed me once again, but not testing my luck, I ask again, tent/ camping? while making the sign with my hands… ‘No,no,no’ they point to the house making the sleeping sign. Wow, I couldn’t have asked for anything better, this is the Kurdish hospitality I’ve been experiencing for the last two weeks.  

It seems to me I might have broken through yet another barrier I had put up around myself since leaving home and which was made even thicker in India. Pakistan had taught me something, trust people and you will be welcomed into the hearts of many. It’s like the three cups of tea theory’ – first cup you’re an acquaintance, second cup you’re a friend, third cup your family and they will do anything for their family.
My motorcycles bed for the night!

In Iran I almost slipped back into my old ways, but my last two weeks here reminded me how good people were. In Iraq a stranger also  took me in .  Now I’m in Turkey, and I cannot help feeling guilty, because I cannot return what I keep on being offered, but yet I feel proud of myself in how open I’ve become as my original goal was to see into the lives of women from around the world and share a slice of my culture with them.

It’s funny, the one guy at the border who could speak English warned me about Kurds. I nodded and agreed with him. Yes, I won’t talk to a Kurds, I won’t drive at night and yes, I will stay in a hotel. How many lies can you tell at once?? Luckily I’m not Pinoccio or I’ll have a nose the length of a football field.  I knew I must talk with Kurds, I knew full well, I was going to pitch a tent, I still had no Turkish money for a hotel or food and there was a possibility that I would be driving in the dark this afternoon looking for a camping spot. However, I’m not sure why this guy had a bee in his bonnet about Kurds as I’ve experienced nothing but kindness. 


This is the family that was so kind to me in the village called Silopi

I spent my afternoon drinking tea ,eating dinner and having the whole village come and peer through the windows at me. The brave ones would actually come inside. My Pakistan training came in handy as I knew the etiquette on how to greet the men and woman guests differently and where I should sit in the room. In fact, in this village, the household was run in a very similar way to my adopted family in Pakistan so I didn’t feel out of place at all. 

Now I sit in my room fit for a queen, with blankets and a heater all to myself, knowing my bike is safe in the house foyer downstairs. Wow, how lucky can one get?

Is Iraq Really That Sketchy? I Think Not!

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Looking out the window on the fourth floor of Tararom’s family house , I could barely see the remains of Sanandaj poking out from underneath the grey, stormy clouds. Boy, this was going to be a cold, wet ride. Susan tried to encourage me to stay another day longer, but I was trying to keep a couple of days up my sleeve in case I couldn’t cross this tiny border into the Kurdish Iraq and would have to ride two more days north to the next border.

Everyone piled into the Susan’s car and they guided me out of the Sanandaj city to my turn off onto the small inconspicuous road towards Iraq. I was already cold, and piled my second layer of gloves on as soon as I shook everyone’s hand. Goodbye my Kurdish family, I hope to see you again someday.

Border crossings are always stressful and this one wasn’t an exception, and I still had nightmares of entering Iran only a few weeks ago. Riding through the muddy construction site, I found the tiny makeshift sandwich panel building surrounded by pushy men trying to get their passports stamped, while the women stood back and let them fight it out only waving to the officer inside when they heard their name being called. I didn’t have a pushy white knight so I elbowed my way in and yelled at the guys when they tried to get in front of me. Eventually I found myself at the front of the queue and received my exit stamp. 

The Iraq country side alway with a power line in view!
Should I go to Badhdad?? I think not!


In another building similar to the immigration one, was Customs. But customs wasn’t playing the carnet de passage game and refused to stamp my motorcycle out of the country as this was a small provincial border and is not equipped to do normal customs procedures. I fought with little heart and quickly gave up. If he didn’t want to stamp my carnet and return the slip back to the Iran / Pakistan border, then I will let Australian Automobile Association sort it out for me.

Entering Iraq was so painless and so nice, I instantly got a good vibe for Iraq. That was until I realised I was heading back towards Iran and not North-West towards Turkey! I had no plan and no idea if I could pay with US dollars for anything. When dusk set in, I found a hotel street and enquired about a room. ,a room was not on offer, it was a whole suite! At least two rooms, a proper bathroom, kitchenette and lounge room.  Splurging I paid $40US for a two bedrooms, a kitchen, lounge and a bathroom. However it didn’t come with sheets and the couches had looked they had been used for more things than just sitting on.

I had been told I could use USD for everything but I wasn’t sure if that was true. I went to a convenience store to test the theory. Sure enough, when I handed over a $20 USD I received my change in Iraq currency. Perfect, tomorrow I could fill my tank up with gas and head towards Arbil.

Testing the theory that Kurdish biggest shame is to steal off another, I left my pannier bags locked to my motorcycle outside the hotel. In the morning when I looked down to my bike from my room, I could see someone had left a present on my bike. When I dragged my personal bag out to the bike, I found I had been given a hammer. Thanks guys, but I cannot carry such a gift!

I arrived into the city of Arbil, slight lost and not knowing where to go. I headed for the city centre and as I turned the last corner I discovered not only the oldest habitable fort in the world but also another motorcyclist getting his photo taken by four Swedish teachers! How come there are so many tourists in Iraq! 


Teo from Italy on his way to India!


While Teo and I talked we became a huge attraction for the locals, and they asked for photo with each and every one of them. In return I asked if I could use their phone and call my contact for this city, Abbas, a cousin of Susan’s cousin. He arrived and whisked me away for a coffee in a coffee shop that would have fitted into my life back at home. I sat in my chair with my latte in my hand and my mouth on the floor as a woman walked up to the counter in a mini skirt! I hadn’t seen a woman dressed so skimpy for at least 7 months.

Me of course!
 
Abbas and his flatmates invited me back to their house and gave me dinner, internet and a place to sleep. The next morning, I left my safe house but not without another present on my bike, this time I had a screw driver!  I handed Abbas the screw driver and head north towards Turkey. I have a few days up my sleeve before I have to reach Sanilurfa but I didn’t really have a plan so I just drove.

Being A Kurdish Princess

Posted on by in Iran 2 Comments
To completely contradict the start of my Iranian visit, it ended it on such a high note, with a family in Sanadaj. Sanadaj is in the heart of Kurdistan, Iran, where the traditions, clothing and culture were entirely different to the rest of Iran. People had told me Tehran was pretty liberal, but here in Sanadaj I hardly saw a woman in a chador! Most just wore the bare minimum to get way with the government regulations and let their scarf’s slip down more times than they cared to place it back on their heads.
Old tradtional house under restortation
Sanandaj Mosque
Tile detail
Taranom had been waiting 6 months for me to arrive, so when I finally emailed her to let her know I was arriving that day she was so excited and called me immediately just to hear my voice! Taranom is a beautiful fifteen year old girl, with a heart of gold just like the rest of her family. She speaks perfect English and rambles on in an American accent at 90 miles an hour, just like any teenage girl would do.

Susan, Taranom’s mother, came to meet me as I entered the city, and guide me back to their house. In one foul(this might be fell, not foul, I am not 100% sure) swoop, she took me into her heart and treated me as if I was part of her family, well, with some visitor privileges! Now I don’t say this light heartedly, they literally gave me their bed to sleep in, their clothes to wear, and refused me to pay for anything what so ever! I felt as if I was been cared for 100% if not more!


I then met the rest of the family. Susan’s mother was so cute, she would call my name out with such love, it made me giggle every time. I actually ended up leaving my bike at her house, where she cleaned my mirrors, covered the bike up and when it rained put it under the balcony. She just reminded me of my Granny  back in New Zealand.

Grandmother and I


One evening we went to visit Susan’s cousins, where they dressed me in traditional Kurdish dresses. I spun around with full makeup and high heels in sparkly bright coloured clothing. I haven’t been this girlish since the Eid festival in Pakistan.

 

It’s amazing how far away I am from my family, yet I manage to find family’s all over the world to compensate for that short moment. Everyone needs looking after sometimes – Thank you so much to Taranom and her family, I really hope you do not mind when I call you my Kurdish family! 

Let the Syria Battle Rage On!

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Twenty two million people would scare anyone, when driving into the heart of Tehran and the majority of them are all on the road all at the same time, trying to elbowing themselves to the head of the queue at every traffic light. I had been warned by many people about how manic and dangerous this traffic was going to be. Dread set in, but I planned my route into the heart of the city using my not so ‘trusty’ maps inside my guidebook. I was prepared to get completely lost and spend hours  going around in circles, but I kept my chin up and kept positive, driving in and around these lousy car drivers.

I did get lost. I was given wrong directions by the traffic police and  went down a one way the wrong way, got pulled over by the motorcycle traffic police but surprisingly, I got to the heart of the city and sitting outside a hotel all within an hour of entering the outskirts of the city!

The Syrian Embassy was demanding a letter from my embassy stating who I am. This is kind of ridiculous as your passport is an international identity, which should prove who I am to anyone. But I was going to play the Syrian Embassy’s games. I raced to the New Zealand embassy before it closed for the weekend, paid the $50 fee and received my letter. A letter I couldn’t understand why it cost so much, but at least I’m prepared for my visit to the Embassy on Saturday after the Iran weekend (Thursday / Friday).

I didn’t want to sit around in Tehran alone in over the weekend in an expensive hotel and on top of it all, it was raining. Stuck inside in my cold white tiled boring hotel room for two days was not going to be fun, so when Neda answered my request to host me at her house, I was so happy to be able to experience staying with a family in the heart of Tehran!

Neda and I having a picnic dinner in her room
Yes im in bed with Neda’s mother having an afternoon/ picnic sleep!
Neda’s family and I having a picnic!

Neda is a 24 year old talented artist who works at a school. Neda opened my eyes to how a young intelligent woman struggles with the pressures from her traditions, culture and government. We spent many hours comparing our totally different life styles and cultural traditions.By the end of my five night stay with her family, I started to realise she is going through the same struggles I went through as a 14 year old in New Zealand.

Neda’s mother looked like Neda’s elder sister. She was stunning for her age and the fact she has three amazing children. She helped me understand that Iranians only eat hamburgers and kebabs like we would eat fish ’n’ chips, once a week not every day like all travellers to Iran! Iranian food, or just Neda’s mothers food is amazing. I would recommend anyone to go and try her dizzy and stuffed tomatoes, capsicums or eggplant (my two favourite dishes of hers).

I only experianced Tehran in the rain…. will you ever go away?
When the weather did clear it showed me why it was so cold!! It was snowing!



I was lucky to briefly meet Neda’s father, he flew in from Germany on my second to last night. In a true Muslim form, he refused my natural Kiwi hand shake, and explained to me that Muslim men do not touch woman who are not in the family. I had got used to not shaking the hands of people in Pakistan, but somehow I forgot at this moment!

Neda was kind enough to give me more of her time and drive me to the embassy when it opened on Saturday. They flatly refused to let me in, and made me wait for 30minutes in the pouring rain. Luckily for me the guard wasn’t so nasty and let me sit in his booth with the heater on full. They called me over and told me I had to be an Iranian resident before I could get a visa. I couldn’t believe it, ‘You told me on the phone, all I needed was a letter from my embassy, photos and the fee. I have all of these and now you’re telling me I have to be a resident?’  ‘Sorry, we must of mistaken who you are’. ‘No, you didn’t otherwise you wouldn’t have asked for this letter from my embassy’. I was pretty mad at this point, but I kept a good tone and a level head, but nothing I said could change their mind.


I emailed the New Zealand embassy and asked them for help, I just got a $50 letter off them, I wanted them to work for the fee! Hamish, the councillor was amazing, he managed to get me another appointment at the Syrian Embassy the very next day. I stood outside the little tiny window after handing in my passport and letter, and waited for three hours, pacing up and down trying to keep warm.

 Along comes Nath and Gonzague, and they get given a visa form, one I still haven’t received, and told to wait. When the window opened once again the phone was passed out to me, a man’s voice said ‘Im sorry mam, but you and your friends cannot get a visa for Syria here. Good Bye’ and hung up. Great, I just spend five days mucking around for this with nothing to show for it.


Nath, Gonzague and I looked at each other and laughed, we were pissed off but all in a desperate needed of a chai and Iranian hamburger and of course some sightseeing so we headed for the bazaar.

Just choose a shoe shape of your liking

Then the perfect top!

Tehran main bazaar

Can You Always Trust the Police?

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I wasn’t quick enough trying to crank my head around to get a second glance at the sign post, nope I definitely missed it. Did it really tell me to turn right? I better turn around and check it out again. Just as I was about to drive off, a banged up pickup truck pulled up next to me, with the words police written on the side. What did they want? I thought to myself as I remembered back to my first few days in Iran. Keeping up a friendly attitude I called out through my helmet, ‘Kashan?’ pointing down the road I thought the sign said. The guy in the passage seat signals for me to turn around and follow him. Raising my eyebrows, I thought that there is no way I’m going anywhere with you, I just do not trust the Iranian Police.

I turned my bike around, this made the police happy and convinced that I was obeying their orders. However I stopped at the sign and read- Kashan turn right. I drove around the corner and prepared myself for the next instalment. Sure enough I didn’t have to wait long. I cringed as I heard the engine of the poor pickup truck been driven at revs designed for the next gear. The passenger, which I guessed was more senior of the two, hung out the window frantically waving at me to stop. They then pull in front of me and came to a stop. 



I

I made conscious decision to stop with a lot of space between me and the truck. I then waited until they both got out of the truck and started walking towards me, just as they were about to reach me I called out ‘Do you speak English?’
‘No’ replied the police
‘Then leave me alone’ I said, driving off and leaving them standing confused a good ten metres from their truck. The first few corners were scary, just waiting for them to catch up with me. Then I had another brain wave. I parked around a corner not completely out of sight but a place you wouldn’t see me very easily if you’re driving in a hurry. I then took out my camera and took some photos of the surrounding mountains. It didn’t take me long to work out they were not coming to hunt me down so I could now carry on without worrying towards Kashan, the village filled with beautiful old Persian bath houses and homes open to the public. Being interested in architecture, I couldn’t help stopping here for the night to check them out.

I’m bit confused, I’m not sure where to go and what to see during my last two weeks in Iran. I roughly worked out a brief plan of attack, first Kashan, jump around Tehran and head to Qazvin to visit a motorcycle shop then to Tazeh Kand-e-Nosrat to see a castle then head back south to see a friend of a friend in Sanandaj before crossing into Iraq. Too many options with no real interest, that’s when I thought about my Syrian visa.

I knew I didn’t need a visa before arriving at the Syria border. Since I was a New Zealander and we do not have an embassy in my country, I could officially obtain a visa at the border. However, since March this year Syria has been on the brink of civil war and I wanted to make my border crossing as easy as possible, hence I wanted to obtain a visa before arriving. It is known on forums across the internet that the Embassy in Istanbul does not issue visa’s to non residents, however the embassy in Tehran might. It looks as if I’ve just squashed all my plans and I’m now heading to Tehran.
There is more photos on my flickr blog – click here

A Carpet Room Or A Toilet Cell?

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The little village of Toodeshk was the home of a young man, who at the age of 13 was working hard and was really curious about these travellers he saw cycling past him. He then approached them to offer them a place to stay and food for the night all for free. Thirteen years later he has arrange two beautiful rooms within his house with four extremely comfortable beds, a huge space for motorcycle, bicycle and van parking and he even has tools on offer to fix anything! I didn’t do this place justice as I arrived late and left early to Esfahan.

Being a cheap ass as I am, I rented myself a space in the carpet room in Esfahan. Now to most people this sounds like a romantic space with carpets on the wall and floors. However when I walked downstairs to the basement, I discovered it really was a converted toilet block.
Four mattresses lined up side by side with not an inch of space between and only 600mm at the foot of them. There were, I guess, carpets under the mattresses but they soon dissolved under the piles of backpacks. I wonder who these fellow cheap-skates were? I soon discover my fellow inmates were three Australians. Wow, this was going to be a great night in our private toilet block.

Despite the dull and boring guesthouse and my very own unique toilet cell, I was extremely happy to find myself surrounded with familiar accents. I spent the afternoon catching up with Moshen and his friends down at Naqsh-e Jahan Square and Nath and Gonzague arrived the following day. I could finally feel my spirits lifting, it was exactly what I needed, one tablespoon of tourist along with a beautiful destination.

The best thing about Nath and Gonzague arriving was they didn’t mind me tagging along with them while we saw the sights of Esfahan even to the point they stood there and read out loud from the guide book in English about the different sites, once again proving them to be the best guides I’ve ever got to know! 

Here is what we got up to in Esfahan:

Imam Mosque, Esfahan, Iran

Imam Mosque, Esfahan, Iran

Bazar-e Bozorg, Esfahan, Iran

Nath and Gonzague trying to walk into someone’s house without knocking – great guides!! 

Jameh Mosque, Esfahan, Iran

Ghal-e-Tabarok, Esfahan, Iran, Iran
Tea House Entrance

A Detail of the roof of Ali Qapu Palace, Esfahan, Iran, Iran


Ive just chosen a select few photos for this blog update, f your keen to see more photos, please check out my flickr stream by clicking HERE




Fresh Bread And Two Awesome Guides

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Squinting as I look up into the deep blue sky to the cooling towers and minarets that extrude into the skyline, I drag my fingers along the narrow alleyway walls, feeling the warmth from the mud and straw texture under my tips, absent minded I follow the smell of fresh bread wafting into the air. Boy it was good to be a normal tourist for a change, the past few weeks shed from my mind and I myself returning back to normal once again.

I allowed myself to be lead around the city by two of the best guides, Nath and Gonzague. A Belgium couple over-landing on a tandem bicycle! Check out their website – Click here

Here is how we spent our day wondering around the old city captured in these photographs:

Wooden Door With Blue Bricks, Jameh Mosque, Yazd, Iran

Male Door Knocker – only men can use this knocker. 

Female Door Knocker – If the women inside the building hears this knocker they then know they do not have to cover up.

Making bread in Iran – I bit more modern than Pakistan!

This lady kissed me several times on the cheek, it took me ages to work out that this was a custom in Iran! 

This building stored water, which in winter would freeze and turn into ice that the people used to keep their food cool in summer. 

A typical alley in Yazds

Jameh Mosque

Bazaar which was closed due to special friday

Inside the dome of Jameh Mosque

Cycle shop – im just not sure when was the last time this owner cleaned?

Tile pattern of Jameh Mosque

Inside the water museum 

Cooling / Wind towers – These helped keep the building a lot cooler during the summer months

This sketch shows how they get light down several stories underground – nice idea

Sugar – Iranians use sugar in there teas all the time, these guys are making the fancy sugar you find in the tea houses all around the city.

We managed to sneak up some stairs to try and get a photo overlooking the old city. In the foreground you see another  water storage.

Midnight Sniffs

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I wake to the sounds of sniffing around my tent. I wished then I hadn’t read the short story in my guide book just before I feel asleep, about an Iranian girl too scared to camp in the mountains because wolves might eat her. The sniffing stopped and I drifted back off to sleep again, glad to not be eaten.

Once again, it’s four in the morning and I am lying awake in my sleeping bag waiting for the sun to reach my tent. I’m 80 kilometres south of Yardz, I’ll be there in an hour’s time, just in time for everyone to be having breakfast. The longer I can force myself to stay in bed means I’ll arrive at a slightly better time. Sure enough, seven o’clock arrived and I couldn’t stand it anylonger. My tent was packed, I had my gear on and I had to leave. What else could I do?

Looking like robo-cop I walked around everyone, bringing in one piece of luggage at a time as they ate their breakfast. Every so often they would tear themselves away from their yummy breakfast just to give me a huge smile.

As I was sorting myself out, I was approached by a young Dutch guy travelling with his cousin and Moshen, an Iranian guy who was their Esfahan couch surf host. He decided he liked hanging out with the two guys so much he joined them for a few days. These three guys made me feel right at home, suggesting I come with them to visit a couple of sights around Yazd.

Ateshkadeh – Fire Temple, Yazd

The Fire Temple – the old one – kinda wish I was seeing this one instead of the new one.



It’s funny, travelling is all about meeting local people, but sometimes all I meet is local people, spending huge amounts of energy trying to have a conversation, all about the same things, my country, my family, my religion and my trip all explained in broken English, only to meet yet another local and repeat the whole experience again.

Amir Chakhmaq Complex, Yazd

Local Bazaar