Last night I burnt three-quarters of Iran. I’ve been chastised before for disrespecting maps. It would be nice to have them all home for a one-day bathroom wall or something, but that's not how this works. So once I've loaded the last relevant scissor-strip into my barbag there’s a ritual joy in casting off a country's scrappy remnants like so much jetsam; here now and forwards. Steady pacing since Isfahan I've never cycled so far so fast and unbroken before, with only a couple of half-stops in a thousand miles. My daily average has crept up a third and I've not cooked a proper meal in days. I launder in unlikely places, bit-charge my mp3 sticks in hamburger stalls. Twilight, if I hit my target (I have targets!), I saddle-swagger into towns and villages in that trembly distance-delirium to find The Shop for date boxes and chicken tins. I load luxuries. Chocolate milk and sweet buns by the kilo, Islamic lemon-beer and stacks of cheap phonecards (send me your landlines & when's a good time - I'm fairly free evenings...). Dog tired I get silly (or short) with the kids who follow my camp, before feasting sugar and salt under carpet stars. My usually noisy self seems to pipe down a little when I keep moving like this and I'm enjoying having so much space to push against.
The police flag me tirelessly for passport checks. Racial profiling! Who can I complain to? Perhaps my mock-salutes are ill-advised. Here and there a reassuring display of humour though: along one of those subtle, sapping gradients two bored officers (how do you police a desert?) made an afternoon play of waiting to offer me a lift at each 10k marker. Fair-play to them it got funnier each time and, my sciatic side singing out yes, harder to refuse. Good when will wins. Dusk outside my target town they gave quiet applause and an escort to the station where I was fed and slept. I balked a little when, passport taken, I was ushered into a cell... Trust everybody though eh, what else can you do? I kept my jacket on this morning; holiday over, it's February again. I've got my altitude back and have been a couple of days skirting deserts in chill hills. This morning I reached historic Kerman where really I ought stop and look around. Precious momentum though, I'll be out this afternoon under a double load of water; North East through real desert for three or four days. I love the big skies and wadi camping; clouds doing all sorts of mares and mackerel, stars nightly brighter as I get further nowhere.
The police flag me tirelessly for passport checks. Racial profiling! Who can I complain to? Perhaps my mock-salutes are ill-advised. Here and there a reassuring display of humour though: along one of those subtle, sapping gradients two bored officers (how do you police a desert?) made an afternoon play of waiting to offer me a lift at each 10k marker. Fair-play to them it got funnier each time and, my sciatic side singing out yes, harder to refuse. Good when will wins. Dusk outside my target town they gave quiet applause and an escort to the station where I was fed and slept. I balked a little when, passport taken, I was ushered into a cell... Trust everybody though eh, what else can you do? I kept my jacket on this morning; holiday over, it's February again. I've got my altitude back and have been a couple of days skirting deserts in chill hills. This morning I reached historic Kerman where really I ought stop and look around. Precious momentum though, I'll be out this afternoon under a double load of water; North East through real desert for three or four days. I love the big skies and wadi camping; clouds doing all sorts of mares and mackerel, stars nightly brighter as I get further nowhere.
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| Sirjan hospitality |
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