Riding into big cities is one of my least favorite things ever. Especially in a country like Iran where drivers really don’t take me into account as they fly past, often so close that I instinctly pull my elbows into the sides of my body (as if that somehow would make the space between us any bigger).
Going into Mashad – Iran’s 2nd biggest city – with it’s 3 million people was no different. As I was picking up my visa for Turkmenistan, I had no choice but to head into the very heart of this busy city. And since it also holds the Imam Reza Shrine – the largest mosque in the world, as well as the holiest site in all of Iran – I would absolutely have gone anyways.
In my handlebar bag I had a note with an adress to some people waiting for my arrival. Friends of friends to a family I had been staying with a few days earlier. Since I’m riding with a GPS, finding the place shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Well. It probably wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was written down in Arabic script.
This wasn’t the first time I was looking for an adress I couldn’t read myself, so I kept focusing on the traffic around me instead of thinking too much about how to find this still unknown destination. It always works out anyways.
This time – it worked out particularly well.
A man on an old motorcycle was about to race pass me, but in the last second he almost came to a halt right next to me, leaving just enough space for me not to be immediately pushed of the road.
‘Hellooooooo!’
Now this happens all the time.
9/10 times this greeting will be followed up by a question – either in English or in Farsi – about where I’m from. However, this man didn’t follow the ususal script at all.
‘My name! Ali!’
‘I am! Your bodyguard!’
I mean I have had people present themselves as everything from my interpreter to my new husband before. But usually it’s not shouted from a motorcycle in the middle of a busy highway. And bodyguard? That was a first.
After his very sudden appearance, my new bodyguard actaully did a pretty excellent job. Riding next to me all the way into Mashad, he forced the cars coming from behind to give me some space. And even better, he kind of knew where I was going. When his knowledge of the city no longer was enough, he just couldn’t think to leave me to take care of myself.
No, that was simply out of question. Someone (read: some man) had to take over. Someone safe. But who? Hm…
Ah!
Rushing out in the middle of a roundabout he grabbed a hold of his successors. Two policemen.
Shit.
Of course none of them knew that I really had had enough of the Irianian police by this point. Luckily though, these guys were great. Nothing like their colleagues I had previously bumped into just a few times too many. Who knows, perhaps this was all thanks to Ali who gave them clear directions on their new mission: get the tourist wherever she’s going.
And sure enough, they did.
Leaving whatever they were doing they spent almost an hour directing me to the right place
Living proof of that there are nice police men in Iran!
Once in Mashad, I had a few really good days. Most importantly – I got my visa for Turkmenistan.
But far more exciting – I managed to sneak in to see the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza. As only muslims are welcome there, I was lucky to get in without trouble. And it was all thanks to my hosts – two amazing women who I still get goosebumps just thinking about.
Unfortunately (and I think understandably) I won’t post their names or photos here.
Living together mother and daughter (about 70 & 40 years old), they long ago made it their life’s mission to stand up for their human rights as women, and to their right to religious freedom. And to put it short, they were more than reluctant to dress me up in a chador and take me to the Shrine of Imam Reza.
Now this is the most sacred site in the country. The biggest mosque in the world. People pilgrimage from all over the planet just to get a glimpse of the golden tomb of Imam Reza.
But to them. It is nothing but a symbol of everything they hate about Iran.
In the end, they did take me though. Well, the mother did. I don’t think the daughter would set foot at the shrine even if her life depended on it.
From dress rehearsal the night before.
There is a strict photo prohibition at and inside the mosque. But this was such a strong experience. Coming from the outside to watch people overflow with emotion, as they fulfilled their lifelong dream of coming here, really left me with mixed feelings.
It was all absolutely beautiful and equally tragic. Touching and provoking. People in tears of joy and heartache. Seven-year-olds in full niqab. Hope. Oppression. Total calm and sheer panic. All within the walls of what could be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.
I still can’t wrap my head around my visit at the Holy Shrine. All I know is that I’m glad I was there to see it.
From outside the complex.
In opposite to the visit at the Shrine of Imam Reza, the remainder of my stay in Mashad can be boiled down to one word:
Girl power.
Haha OK, two then. Stupid auto correct – ruining my flow.
As oppose to so many other women in Iran, who cover up as soon as the camera comes out – these women took their hijabs right off. They are independent. They make their own money. They are athletes. Wear clothes in bright colours. Manteaus that in mosts’ opinion would be too short.
(To put this in context: the manteau is the second garment. Your bum is already covered by loose fitting pants.)
Like so many times before when I was starting to loose hope – they showed me that things are not static. There is a resistance. Even if it’s not fast – things are indeed changing. And there really are people out there putting in the work for it.
Every single morning these girls leave their house at 5 AM to go running. That a 70-year-old woman starts her day with pulling off 12 km is impressive in itself, but that’s not the main thing here. Their running is a symbol of something that takes far more than physical strength.
The mother (OK, let’s call her A) – have been running in the same park since 20 years back. Back then, women weren’t even allowed to enter, apart from certain times each week. But she did. With the perfect combination of humour and pride, she told me about how her stamina was a lot better back them – as she daily had to outrun the park keepers trying to chase her off the grounds.
So it might be slow, but things are moving alright. This really is social obedience at it’s finest. A daily demonstration of just how far it’s possible to push the limits in 2015.
Men’s tracksuits. Zipper not completely closed. Pulled up sleeves. Hijab tied behind the neck. Chatting away with anyone they bump into (nowadays including the park keepers). None of these things are still really OK, but they are getting away with it. And it’s awesome.
For sure, the best morning run ever.
I was leaving Mashad with the best gut feeling I had had in a long time. All in all I really do love Iran. But I’m endlessly grateful that I’m lucky enough not to be born there. That I can come and leave whenever I want. And the time had come to do just that.
With my Turkmenistan visa added to my passport, I started working my way towards the border. Like so many times before, through complete desolate landscapes leaving you with nothing but your own thoughts.
And I think that was just what I needed. Two days with nothing to do put to pedal my bike and slowly try to process everything that had happened the last month. The most intense one so far on the journey. Perhaps even in my entire life.
I was more than ready to head out for new adventures. I already knew that the one through the Turkmenistan desert would be one worth remembering. And let me tell you – it was!
But that I’ll tell you about some other time.
Fredrika