It is sunny, breezy day, which shouldn’t be too surprising since Zahedan is in a desert in the middle of a flat valley that channels the wind from north-west to south-east, especially in winter when the prevailing winds come from the north-west. My little 1-star hotel doesn’t serve breakfast so I go out looking for something to eat.
I take my bike as the management gave me a key to their storage shed where it is kept. It is a long way to get anywhere here. I have a place on the west side of town and the post office is on the east side. I pay a visit there first to pick up Vincent’s note, saying where he and Coen are staying. But there isn’t a note. I tell myself it is too early to panic, that he might have expected me in today or tomorrow. I leave him a note instead so he will know I am in town.
I really expected his note so I find myself at a loss of what to do. I decide to explore the town on my bike after I have had yogurt, bread and jam for breakfast. It is different from any town I have ever visited, but not in a good way. There is no economical or tasteful use of space. Most of the houses are either made of clay bricks or cinder blocks and there is almost no vegetation anywhere. Clouds of dust roll by whenever a truck or bus passes. There are broken sidewalks downtown but none a few blocks away. If it is possible, it looks shabbier in daylight than it does at night.
As I cycle around I see almost the whole town is developed to a two-floor height, except for some of the hotels, mosques and government buildings downtown. I think the highest building is about six or eight floors. There are a few interesting mosques, such as the Jameh Mosque, the Grand Pakistani Mosque and a large Sikh temple. The city (really it is an over-sized small town) seems unconscious of the world outside of this part of Asia, except for Coca Cola and a few other western products, and unconscious of its poverty. Almost everything is coated in a layer of taupe-coloured dust, the colour of all the houses in town. 
The streets roll on without major landmarks or much signage. The shops, once I look closely, reveal what they are there for: an automobile mechanic (which explains the smattering of rusted car and scooter parts lying in front of the building, a textile store, a pharmacy, a doctor, a barber – all small, one-man operations for the most part. There are very few middle class stores, such as animal clinics, beauticians, ice cream parlours, lawyers, insurance companies, car dealerships, furniture stores, electronics stores. Stores that deal with these things are often second-hand or repair shops. I don’t find any large food market either, so I buy what I can in smaller shops with a few produce items out front.
Most people here drive vespas or other types of scooters. The occasional camel is seen on the main drag an a few 3-wheeled motorized rickshaws that billow black smoke. There are a couple interesting looking mosques but there are no tourists here that I can see, so I don’t want to go in when I am not Muslim.
I thought I might see either the Brits or the Dutch boys walking around, especially if they are still together, as they would stand apart from the locals, but I don’t see any Westerners walking around. No one pays me much mind either. I return to the post office in the afternoon but there is still nothing waiting for me. I feel betrayed. There is no reason, if they made it here safely, that one of them couldn’t have left me a message. That thought worries me and starts me thinking that perhaps they were held up along the route, delaying their arrival. I still have eight days left on my visa so I will wait a few more days if I have to.
After the post office I return to a chai (tea) house to kill some time. A couple young men there are interested in my presence and they approach me. Their names are Ziad and Mustafa. They ask me the usual questions and seem to have a limited knowledge of the world outside Iran. We chat for a hour. They don’t have much interesting to say but it is better than being constantly alone, which have been since I arrived last night. Mustafa offers to take me home to introduce me to his parents. I don’t feel like being dragged around like a showpiece today, or ever, but instead of insulting him I tell him I cannot today. I suggest I will meet him here at 4 pm tomorrow if he can make. He says he will be here, though I hope he forgets.
I find a cheap eatery (they are all cheap here) and buy another chelo kabab dinner. I also get a pudding of some sort that has pistachios an unknown herb that gives it an unfamiliar taste. Then I retire back to my hotel and go to bed early lacking other available options.
PHOTO 1: Imam Ali Mosque
PHOTO 2: in front of the Jameh Mosque
PHOTO 3: the Jameh Mosque
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