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Thursday, December 5th - Zahedan to Mirjaweh, 14, 677 km
I am elated to be leaving Zahedan today. Iran has not been my best country. This evening I will be three kilometres from the border of Pakistan and that will be a relief. I check myself out in the mirror and I put on my skin tight cycling shorts and cycling jersey. My body has wasted away to stick, 178 cm tall (5’10”) but only 57 kg (125 lb). But it is still a machine, capable of moving from town to town, from country to country, and I am proud of it. I layer on my sweater and tights because it is still cold in the mornings.
Coen, Vincent, Stephen and Kate are waiting for me at our agreed-upon rendezvous in front of the Jameh mosque. They all greet me, except Kate, and we set off towards the highway. Our route is dead flat with a cross breeze from the north that whips up some dust from time to time. The only scenery are the telephone poles, the brown earth and brown grasses by the road. There are no crops here, just desert, and the low mountains are distant. We keep a steady pace, Coen and Vincent in the lead, me in the middle and Kate and Stephen behind.
Kate is wearing a black linen wrap over top of her cycling shorts that goes down to her knees. She hates it. The Iranian police had stopped her at some point and asked her to wear something over her forming-fitting cycling shorts. She argued with them, saying that is impossible to cycle safely with a long dress on. They could have arrested her, but instead tried to explain that she should wear something over the short for her own safety and out of respect for the culture of the people of Iran, but respect for others is not Kate’s forte.
One other thing I must get used to when cycling with the Brits is that they are smokers and need smoke breaks regularly, at least once per hour, and the breaks are about 20 minutes each which really slows down our average time. Coen and Vincent are smokers too, but they don’t need to stop so often or for as long. I realize today that one thing they bond over with the Brits is the fact that they are all smokers, as well as being straight. I guess I was born to be an outsider. I will never take up smoking just to fit in.
The wind picks up in the afternoon, blowing lots of sand and dust across our path. It makes standing in the open waiting for the Brits harder to take. Fortunately, it is a short day. We arrive in Mirjaweh around 4 pm.
Mirjaweh is not much of a town. Mostly it is a government outpost because it is the only border crossing between Iran and Pakistan. The are a couple general stores, hotels, a restaurant or two and some souvenir shops. It lots less ethnic looking than Zahedan because of its official nature. We take two rooms in a cheaper hotel. Kate does the negotiating, for in spite of her disrespect for the Iranians and their traditions, she knows the most Farsi. With five men present, the hotelier is astonished that she takes charge. I appreciate her for the first time. We all wash up and have our smoke breaks (except me) before going to dinner so we can’t taste the food.
Coen, Vincent and I have three days remaining on our Iranian visitor visas. The train from Taftan, the border town on the Pakistani side, leaves on Sunday. It would take us safely through this long valley to Quetta, the capital of Baluchistan, the south-west province of Pakistan. So the three of us would like to stay in Mirjaweh until Sunday, but the Brits wait until we are at dinner tonight to tell us that their visas expire tomorrow so we must all cross tomorrow.
When they make this announcement, I am thankful because I think the Dutch boys will tell them we have to part ways here and they can take a bus to Quetta instead. But, no. They agree to cross with them without deferring to me, and with my new outsider status and my dependency on being with the Dutch boys for banking purposes in Quetta, I obviously need to cross with them. Besides, the last thing I need to do is to travel alone in this part of the world, by bus, train or otherwise.
On the way back to our hotel, Kate is stopped once more and chastised by a police officer for not covering up the lower parts of her legs. This is all I have she tells them in Farsi. When they persist, she tries the argument that skirts don’t work with cycling. You are not cycling now, they state the obvious. I am going back to my hotel room and tomorrow we are leaving your country so I will be no concern to you anymore. Women’s Libbers would cheer her on, but they have not heard the screams coming out of back rooms of police stations and don’t appreciate the risks one is taking to stand up to the police or military in this country. Yes, she is gutsy, but I can’t help thinking she is stupid too.
PHOTO 1: near Zahedan
PHOTO 2: Coen and Vincent catching up to me
PHOTO 3: the open desert near Mirjaweh
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