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Tuesday, December 3rd - Zahedan, 14,574 km
Still, no word from Vincent, Coen or the Brits today. I make my pointless visits to the post office and leave yet another note. I try to remember Vincent’s words. I remember hearing him say we would reconnect on the weekend, which passed two days ago. I have seen no one while I have been riding around. I don’t ride very far though. Cycling calms me and fills me with joy and I would if there was objective to it, but the drivers here are Kama Kazis who drive like thrill-seeking teenagers in their first stolen cars.
I have my now-habitual chai in the same chai house, not having yet found any other place better to hang out. No students are in here today, just noisy old men who argue with each other and ignore me. I realize I am 37 and a half today, my anti-birthday. There is nothing to celebrate.
I find a bookstore in the afternoon. It doesn’t have English language books but it has a popular notice board. I leave a notice in English (of course) for anyone who might know anything about Vincent or Coen. Hopefully one of them finds it but I will be happy to meet anyone who can speak English and knows anything about them. I leave my hotel address and name, requesting that they leave a message with the from desk.
In the afternoon, I discover the market in town, which doesn’t have the flashy entrance way that the markets in Esfahan and Kayseri had. The great advantage of market places is that people come here to talk, to promote their goods and exchange information. I am approached by interested boys whose families have stalls here, selling carpets, clothing and spices. They are curious, open to knowing me, but at a loss of what to say to me. One or two of them know some English and want m to take pictures of their shops, which are spread out on the floor like an organized garage sale.
Their faces are an interesting mix of ethnicities, which people involved in trade and export often are. I see the handsome, dark-eyed Persian looks, the round faces and high-cheekbones of the Oriental Tibetans, the dark complexions of Indians and the local Baluch who are indigenous to this area. They seems totally at ease with each other. This gives me a flash of nostalgia for Canada.
I meet a man at the market named Khalid, who approaches me to ask if I speak English. He is curious about where I am from since Westerners are not a common sight here. When I tell him I am traveling by bike he is especially interested. He has been planning a cycle touring trip himself across Iran and Iraq to Syria on a mission to spread a message of peace and goodwill between Muslim countries. It is a message that is needed. He has obtained permission to visit both countries, in spite of the antagonism between Iran and Iraq, and now he is focused on preparations for his trip. He is most interest in tips on cycle touring. He has been unable to buy a cycling helmet in Zahedan so I lead him back to my hotel to give him mine. I am willing to travel without one for the rest of my trip, even though I still have as far to go as he does. I wish him all the best as we part.
I am alone again for dinner. I have a chelo kabab with no butter offered for the rice. Still, the dry rice gives me energy and is easy to digest. I am going mad here. I am not sure how much longer I am going to stay, perhaps a day or two. I will need to find someone willing to help me get money without a bank or charge card. If I leave before I reconnect with Coen or Vincent I will be making the choice to make a go of it without them, but I cannot stay here until I have too little money to move on to safety.
I passed by the bookstore before it closed but no one has torn a tab off the message I have posted and there is no message waiting for me at the hotel.
PHOTO 1: entrance to the Zahedan market
PHOTO 2: spices, pistachios, etc
PHOTO 3: a market floor stall
PHOTO 4: different ethnic faces
PHOTO 5: two youths who chatted with me at the market
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