Leaving Marand I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I had gotten the best start of Iran one could wish for, and I almost couldn’t believe I had bumped into what was probably the friendliest and most loving families in the Middle East.
What I still didn’t know then, was that they had some pretty rough competition. During the course of my month in the country, I was in for countless more of these incredible meetings with Iranian families – and my time in Marand had merely been an appetizer for what was still to come.
I barely used my tent in Iran. I almost never cooked or even bought my own food. Pretty much wherever I went, I was greeted with offers of everything from food and places to sleep, to handmade persian carpets (just what one needs on a bike) and even money.
It sounds crazy, and let me assure you – it was.
Isolating the time spent off the bike, Iran is for sure my best experience so far on this journey. The cycling though, not so much. Part of this is simply that the landscapes didn’t impress me much. Coming in from the highlands of Turkey, I had been spoiled with mountains and incredible scenery for weeks on end. In Iran everything was just… boring.
And hot. Too hot in general. And for a girl covered up from head to toe, riding a 50 kg bicycle, in particular.
Heat and boring landscapes I don’t really have a problem with. But by this point I had started to loose my patience with jerks on the road. Now this is not something unique for Iran. Since halfway through Turkey (with a short break during the visit of my Dad), dealing with creepy dudes have been a pretty consistant part of my days on the road.
Men shouting rude stuff. Stalking me with their cars. Trying to get me into their trucks. Masturbating in front of me as some weird demonstration of power. Asking for sex. Whatever sick stuff you can imagine.
In Turkey these stuff still got to me, making me feel insecure, unsafe and sometimes very humiliated. Luckily though, in the same way you learn to deal with dogs on four legs chasing your bicycle, you quickly learn to also handle the dogs walking around on two. Humour has become one of my best friends through these stuff, as if you look at it from the right perspective – a lot of these things are pretty hilarious.
However relaxed I feel with dealing with these people, the moment I crossed into Iran and was forced to put on the hijab, my patience for them immediately became a lot less. Sure. It’s not rocket science to understand how the view of women (western women in particular) these men have has came to be. And to be fair, they were born into this just as much as I was born into believing that women and men should be equals. But knowing that, still doesn’t mean I’ll let them get away with anything.
The day I cycled into Zanjan is very symbolic for my time in Iran. The day was hot. Incredible hot. I was working this really unexciting main road. I had plugged in my headphones to block out some of the loud roaring sounds of the trucks passing, and also to take my mind of the constant headwind that simply refused to let me cover any real distance. Around me was nothing. I was bored. On occation riding a bike really sucks, and this was one of those times.
Afternoon had come and the heat was slowly starting to get somewhat close to bearable. But I had already spent too many hours in the sun, and my brain had turned into jelly hours ago. Too many truck drivers had been giving me crap that day – and blocking these people out were perhaps the true reason for the headphones. I mean, I was tired of the music on my phone already months ago.
Yet another truck driver stopped and got out on the road, waving me in with a smile, a big ‘Salaaam!’ and something that looked lite dried fruit. As usual, I didn’t stop.
In the rear mirror I could see him get back into his truck, and within a couple of minutes he had passed me, and (like they always do) stopped again a few hundred meters further down the road. I passed him a second time, and watched him in the rear mirror as he quickly climbed back up to get in behind the wheel.
Now, this is the classic game with the truck drivers.
The third time I passed him he was telling me a more firmly to stop. Still didn’t. The forth time though, I did. I really wasn’t up to keep the game going, and needed to stop for a drink anyways.
These meetings are usually pretty much the same. He offers water, a ride, a kiss or just starts talking a bunch of Farsi I can’t understand. And I’m rude enough to let him know that whatever he’s doing is not working. From experience, I’ve learned to keep enough distance to be out of reach, and to position myself so that we’re both visible for other cars coming on the road.
So this is NOT the man in the story!
Just some compensation to show that there are also loads of nice truck drivers on the roads
Now this smiling guy had bad energy from the start. As I turned down his fruit, water and offer of a ride he was soon out of stuff to give me. He reached out his hand as if to say goodbye. I didn’t take it. Instead I gave him a short ‘Khodafes (Goodbye)’ and put my right foot on the pedal to start rolling again.
Now – with his hand still reached out, and the same creepy smile on his face, he quickly took the last steps to close the gap between us – and grabbed my breast. All without a word, but still with his greedy eyes locked into mine.
??!?!!?
I mean.
FUCK. YOU.
Now I am not a fighter. At least I wasn’t up until this day. But before my mind had realised what happened, my body reacted. Within a split second, I could – as if from the outside – see my fist work it’s way into his cheek and nose, wiping that disgusting grin of his face.
…
What… was that?
I had just punched someone in the face for the first time in my life. And it was a good one. Perhaps even a bit too good? For a second there I almost felt sorry for the guy, and I watched the terrified experession on his face as he ran back to his truck, shouting stuff in Farsi I’m very happy I didn’t understand.
As he drove off I stood still for a minute. It was all so weird. Everything was the same. Still way too hot. Boring landscape the same. Even the same stupid song was still playing in my ears. Only difference was that now I had this weird pain in my right hand.
I rode the last couple of hours into Zanjan, and arrived just an hour before sunset. I didn’t have any plan for the night, but by now I had realised that in Iran it’s wisest not to make any of those – evenings tend to work out anyways.
As the sun started to set, I heard a man’s voice behind me.
‘So, where are you staying tonight?’
I turned around, ready to start throwing fists around me again. But now I was met by a whole other smile than the one of the guy a couple of hours earlier. With poor English, the pretty sleezy looking guy a few years older than me presented himself as AmirAli, and immediately invited me back to his house. Now on paper, turning down to shake one stranger’s hand, and then hours later accept another one’s bed, doesn’t make sense at all. But as usual, it’s all about gut feeling.
Still. As I was riding behind his car for a few more kilometers than he first told me, slowly leaving the city center and taking us down smaller and darker streets, I had perhaps a little too much time to consider what was actually happening. Laughing to myself, I was thinking how much this was against everything my parents ever taught me as a child. But something felt really good, so I just went with it.
‘OK. If this goes to hell – it’s all on you, Fredrika.’
So what happened?
Well, as I’m writing this, I’m obviously still alive. Not very surprisingly, AmirAli prooved to be my golden ticket to a few dreamlike days in the company of his friends and family, and my faith in mankind was restored just as quickly as always.
AmirAli took me to straight to the fanciest iftar I ever went to. Chandilers and everything!
Weridly noone seemed to mind that the new guest was a stinking girl showing up on a bicycle
And within a minute had gotten food, a seat and a bunch of new best friends
After dinner they took me to the mountains to see Zanjan from above
And as always – to the park for tea, fruits and sunflower seeds until morning
So all in all, the quota remains:
For every bad person out there, there is a gazillion good ones to make up for it.
And I can definitely live with that.
Fredrika
