So on we go, Ade Chalous, we won't miss you, but we will miss the night sky. And Otto of course, we wish the poor guy all the best and maybe a long life after all.
The path leads along the Caspian Sea for quite a while. A colorful fertile area, very different from what we have seen so far. In many ways it reminds us of Greece, of Methoni, the small town in the south of the Peloponnese.
Methoni in the Peloponnese
Why do we remember places or people, but others we don't?
Methoni in the southern Peloponnese is a good example. A remote little village, as a tourist you are the highlight of the day. There is just one taverna where old men meet and play their strange games. But there is a jukebox. Given the musical drought during our trip, I press a few songs, Greek ones of course, to please the locals.
And it is acknowledged with a benevolent nod. One of the bearded men with a darkly burned, furrowed face stands up and walks to the jukebox as well. And right away, the only English-language song is being played.
Are there better examples of the possibilities of mutual understanding?
The reason why some places, some people, some experiences are remembered, while others disappear straight away, are the emotions associated with them.
Strange people
But the residents of this area are loud and pushy, unlike the Greeks, whom we remember as friendly and reserved. We put up a good show, even when they jump on our bumper or, much worse, chase us in swanky cars.
Probably it's better not to understand what they are shouting, as they don't seem to be friendly greetings. Strange. One wonders whether the progress that is visible everywhere else has been withheld from these people. Or whether strangers are basically perceived as such. We know that too.
Well, in any case, our sympathy for them increases with the square of the distance.
Back in the desert
As soon as you leave the sea's influence and head east, you find yourself back in the familiar desert-like wasteland. And up and down we go again, the mountains, the hills, the valleys and gorges having us back.
And so, our daily hardships start over again. The little 1200cc engine purrs reliably, but when the inclines become too steep, it might make a protesting noise resembling the desperate wheezing of an asthmatic. But we encourage it, praise it, and it obediently leads us through the rough area.
In the evening we meet as usual at a Highway Police Station, with our slow vehicle we are not surprisingly again the last ones to arrive, but this does not worry us (as long as we find each other again in the evening).
Amidst the laughter of his colleagues, the evening's entertainment is provided by one of the policemen attempting to get a discussion going in English. His vocabulary of an estimated seven words, however, hardly serves for a meaningful conversation, but his efforts are received quite favorably.
The new life
The first month on the trail has passed, and in retrospect, saying goodbye to home seems to be much longer ago. We like living on the road, dwelling in the car has become commonplace. We are light years away from our old life, not only in distance but also emotionally.
As an exception, the following morning we set off early, so that at least for once we are not the last to arrive. There are again many hundreds of kilometers ahead of us, like yesterday the route is very tedious to drive.
The area seems deserted, rarely a village, a few shacks, sometimes a few living souls at a bus stop.
And so we drive along, looking straight ahead, to the east, to where we want to go. But it still seems to be so far away.
Murderous accidents
Not surprisingly, truck traffic is just as heavy on this remote area as anywhere else in this burgeoning country. And it is not surprising that murderous accidents also happen here.
And indeed, at the next Highway Police station, hopefully the last overnight stop before Mashad, the squashed remains of a head-on collision are on display, clearly visible to all passing by.
It seems to be a reminder to all those speeding violators roaring through the area without any concern for the consequences.
We doubt the benefit of it.
Mashad - the holy city of the Shiites
Mashad, one of those exotic sounding city names that immediately conjure up images in the mind's eye. Like Mandalay. Rangoon. Jaipur. One envisions wondrous temples and mosques, with golden spires and blue domes.
But Mashad is more than just a beautiful name, it is the holy city of the Shiites. Here Ali, the son-in-law of Mohammed, died a martyr's death, and it is not surprising that Mashad is now the center of Shia Islam.
We reach the city just before noon, the last kilometers from the Highway Police corresponded to the previous kilometers. A lot of wasteland, a lot of scorched earth, a lot of nothing.
The interest in Ali and all the splendor of the city is low for the time being, all we care about is a hot shower and warm water to finally be able to do our laundry again.
And by the way, the campsite - relatively new and well laid out - is fully packed. Half the world seems to be traveling east.
Another goal achieved
Mark Twain claimed in his inimitable style, "You don't realize what a fool you are until you travel abroad."
The naivety and ignorance of most India drivers, which in particular also concerns us, is nothing new. At best, it can be attributed to our youth and carefree attitude.
We drive along with unknown worlds to the right and left of the road, which we don't know and, for the most part, don't understand. We get to know new ways of life, mentalities that are not only foreign, but at times downright frightening.
Like here in Mashhad, the sacred city. Of which we have no idea. But we will make up for that.
Cold nights and stray dogs
But before we approach the unknown city and its highlights, we have to survive some really cold nights for the first time. Here, in the far northeast of the country, a typical continental climate prevails - up to 30 degrees Celsius during the day, and close to zero at night.
In any case, we are glad for our excellent sleeping bags (at least something that was not forgotten in the course of preparation). We cuddle up to the tip of our nose under the protective blanket and find it almost like at home at mother's in our temporary home.
That reminds me of an unforgettable journey, taking place years later, but as we all know, the seeds for later ventures are planted way earlier. Like now, for example, on our trip to India.
As Buddha said, everything happening in the world is a result of cause and effect. In most cases, this is not immediately recognizable.
As for the stray dogs - they are also to be found here at every corner. Huge creatures with shaggy fur and hungry eyes. Their special favorite is soon chosen: Roli quickly becomes a benefactor in the matter of feeding neglected animals.
A rolling hotel
Towards evening life comes to our campsite. A huge red bus, with an equally large trailer with cute little portholes, parks next to our site. It is clearly a specimen of the well-known and no less notorious rolling hotels of the company Rotel Tours.
From now on entertainment is guaranteed.
During the next few minutes, a seemingly endless flow of people empties from the bus, older and younger, all from our northern neighbor, all with exhausted and somewhat suffering expressions on their faces.
One gets the impression that they have escaped from the first stage of limbo, because toilets are taken first, and one wonders if such facilities have been dispensed with for reasons of space.
Initially, we regard the visit with skepticism, but it quickly develops into an evening's entertainment of a special kind.
Because now, beneath our astonished eyes, a prime example of Teutonic organizational talent is taking place.
Everybody is scurrying back and forth, a kitchen is installed in no time at all, whole mountains of canned goods are provided, tables and chairs appear as if by magic from the dark innards of the bus. And it really does take just under half an hour until the first hungry guests are waiting with plate and cup for their supper.
Respect!
The crowning highlight of our entertainment, however, are the arguments between the older and the younger travelers. While the older passengers (a bit stuffy, with the corners of their mouth pulled down) insist on respect and decency, the younger ones, with their fresh faces, are more like the antithesis of the bourgeois fellow travelers (although one has to wonder what of all things has led these youngsters to this kind of travel).
It is better not to imagine the long journey under these arduous conditions. And when you think of the sleeping quarters (a bed or something similar to each porthole), nightmares become truly frightening. Memories of MRI tubes come to mind.
At least they are in agreement about the other campers. With disparaging glances, they whisper nasty words to each other. "Gypsies. Hippies. Unwashed people. That's the kind of people we have to live with."
Eventually, after the well-deserved dinner, the mood calms down, and now German Gemütlichkeit comes with singing and music.
Central Asia is getting closer
On the streets of the city, whose invasion we approach the next day, we meet for the first time other ethnic groups. In contrast to the Persians and Arabs (beware of calling the Persians Arabs, this drags on until our days), they have Mongolian features, or more profanely, they have slit eyes.
The proximity of Afghanistan and Turkmenistan is noticeable for the first time. We like these people at first sight, because they radiate something that the locals lack – a dignity, a relaxed serenity.
In fact, it's making the anticipation for the next few weeks even greater.
The Imam Reza Shrine
Not surprising that Mashhad far surpasses the capital Tehran in terms of beauty and sights.
In particular, the sanctuary with the golden domes, er the Imam Reza Shrine, the sacred shrine of the eighth Shiite Imam Reza, represents an incomparable highlight in architectural as well as cultural terms. It is the only burial place of a Shiite Imam on Iranian soil.
It also houses the Goharshad Mosque, a museum, a library, four seminaries, a cemetery, the Razavi University of Islamic Sciences, a dining hall for pilgrims, large prayer halls, and other buildings (wiki).
Following the history of the sanctuary, one is taken through a cascade of victims and martyrs, of devastation, restoration, wars, destruction, earthquakes and bombings. It is a story that has played out in much the same way elsewhere. It is always about power and religion (which is the same thing), about influence and different moral concepts.
But it is precisely out of all these follies and tragedies that this marvel was born. How do they express it in the "Third Man"?
"Remember what Mussolini said: In the 30 years under the Borgias there was only war, terror, murder and blood. But there was Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. Brotherly love reigned in Switzerland. 500 years of democracy and peace. And what do we get from it? The cuckoo clock."
Filmzitate Datenbank
Museums, veils and a tout
Not surprisingly, the inner area may only be accessed by Muslims. Our helpless attempts to do it anyway are quickly stopped by approaching guards (of course they are right, remember Mark Twain).
And it is also not surprising that access for women is absolutely taboo. Our ladies even need a veil to pass through the courtyard leading to the museum. A man rushes up, a few veils in his hand, which he willingly provides. And so after all, we manage to visit the museum.
However, there is not much to be seen, at least we can enjoy the magnificent mosaic walls. It should be mentioned, of course, that at the time when these works of art were created, our Europe was still in the deepest darkness of the Middle Ages. Well, traveling educates, as they say, and occasionally a few firm Eurocentric convictions are shaken.
The gentleman with the veils has obviously not forgotten about us, how could he, after all he has done for us. And the service should be repaid now. So we are dealing with a genuine tout, which in turn reminds me of similar circumstances remind.
He's obviously expecting big business today, but we have to disappoint him. We don't want to change money or buy carpets, but at least we're hungry after the exhausting visits. So he can now lead us to a basement restaurant (where he will certainly receive an attractive commission), and so we finally get to the long-awaited Chelo Kabāb, the Iranian national dish.
It's by far the best meal we've tasted in weeks.
Matching song from 1974: The Allman Brothers – Ramblin' Man
And here the trail continues... towards Afghanistan
