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.
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.