Kerman

And do we dare believe it, the next morning as we sneak out the hostel early….is there really no more police escort? Is it really over? Are we really free to sleep and cycle where we want? The sun is warm on our backs, there’s no wind and no police….everything is perfect. I laughingly recount my dream of having two punctures last night to Hans….and stop laughing as half an hour later he takes his first puncture. Sometimes my mind frightens me. It’s not the first, nor the last time this has happened. And indeed, the next day I take my first puncture too….two punctures just as I dreamed.

Even though I’ve woken in the morning feeling I had to contact a certain person and found they’ve been thinking of me all night and wanting to talk, even though I can know who is calling before the phone rings….even though I have had all these intuitive experiences…it still disturbs me a little…I still don’t quite understand it. I don’t like to think of it as something ‘magic’. Rather I always try to see it as information being processed faster by the subconscious mind. Whilst the rational conscious mind processes and divides and categorises information, the subconscious to me is that place of deep knowing. Knowing without understanding why you know. Knowing before you really know. Like radios, I think we can be sensitive to picking up waves, thoughts and energies around us, especially of those people or places we feel more connected too. In Reiki I learned everything is energy. In my faith I see everything containing God’s essence. Either way, everything is connected so why shouldn’t I be able to feel the tires about to blow out before they happen? Why shouldn’t I be able to feel my friends need to talk to me in my dreams? Why shouldn’t I be able to know someone’s life story the moment I shake their hand?....
Still…..even I find it a little unsettling sometimes and if anyone has any thoughts on this, answers on a post card please….but at least on the road it means I’ll always know when to plan my puncture repair time into the days cycling!

To Mahan...the final escort

'The escort ends in Bam'...so we were told. And so when two young policemen on a motorbike turn up to drive with us we were optimistic it was only to the outskirts of town....But a few hours later and they were still tailing us. The wind was up high so we were going nowhere very fast much to their annoyance. But even escorts have their uses and we sent them off to fill up our water bottles when they looked too bored!
My little legs couldn't pump quite as hard as super-Hans' in the wind so progress was slow and we decided to stop the night in an abandoned mosque by the roadside....much to our escorts horror. But the sun was setting and we were adamant we couldn't go any further, so we settled down on the floor for the night. Not even one piece of rice had touched my mouth when another police officer came bursting in, shouting in farsi and making animated 'slit throat' gestures at us. We guessed this was the ever elusive threat of the smugglers once more. Despite the agitated gesticulations of guns and death, we made it clear we were going nowhere until we'd finished our dinner! But eventually we agreed to be driven down the road, by no less than three fully armed police vans of course(!), for a cold nights sleep on an open port-a-cabin at the small police station.
The next morning both escort and wind continued added to by steady uphills. 35km later of uphill in the wind, wobbling dangerously in the back winds of zooming lorries and fighting against my headscarf always threatening to blow over my face....we took the offer of the escort for the final section to Mahan. But again, why not use it to your advantage we thought? and got them to drive us around the different tourists sites before taking us to the hostel. They get a nice day out, we get a personal taxi and everyone's a winner!

BAM, IRAN

A city struggling to recover from the destruction of the 2003 earthquake that killed over 26, 000 people and destroyed 80% of the buildings…
A city of houses still in ruins whilst new skeleton fingers of iron girded construction claw the air…

A city of one of the worlds most ancient beautiful old citadels, over 2000 years old, dissolved in seconds to a mournful mass of crumbled mud…

Arg-e-Bam citadel before and after the earthquake.

A city where the police must escort tourists everywhere after a tourist was kidnapped last year….
A city where the locals are incredibly friendly and welcoming, women smiling openly to see me on a bike.

With our motorbike police protection, we cycle to the ancient citadel of Bam. Once the city’s glory and main tourist attraction, now a sea of rubble undergoing a painstaking reconstruction.

Endless rows of identical bricks, differentiated by numbered paper tags will somehow transform this flattened expanse back to its former glory-a city of 38 towers and high mud fortress walls. We wander round in silent awe at both the size, history and devastation of the area. 2000 years of history, 2000 years of cultural heritage, 2000 years lost in seconds…

Who walked these steps of old? What colour the eyes that once gazed through these windows? Did they, like me, trail their fingers along this wall, feeling each lump in the rough mud? And did they, like me, ever cast a thought to those others lost in time? Did they, like me, ever try to catch the old whispers of forgotton conversations or try to catch glimpses of shadowed feet rushing past round corridored corners?

Somehow the clash of police boots stomping on the marble floor clashes with the quiet peace of the mosque...I find a corner in which to find a few moments of silence and get lost in finding myself again...

Cold stones for prayer, pressed tight against warm lips...hot breath of whispered dreams ignites the lifeless rock with the flames of hope....inside his body, still and silent against the wild raging patterns of the carpeted floor, a fire is burning...

IRAN-border troubles...

At the border we wait, wait, wait....
Armed police men argue amongst themselves our fate.

They want us to take a taxi, we want to cycle, they want to take our passports, we don't want to give them, they want to shout and use their authority...and we have no idea what they're saying in farsi which makes it all the more intimidating.
Eventually we agree to put our bikes in the van and are promised it's only for ten kilometres...but end up 50km down the road and still under escort.

We spend the day in and out the back of different police vans, crouching low against the backwinds of the fast driving, policemen with guns staying alert on our sides. Often they point at the dark jagged hills around and make shooting gestures…I read in the guidebook about previous tourist kidnappings by the petrol smugglers in retaliation for police crack-downs. Suddenly the car makes a sharp u-turn in the highway and starts a Hollywood inspired chase after some run down looking van. Shouting, waving their guns, the police pull over the vans which turn out to be petrol smugglers across the Iran-Pak border. Within seconds though, the van is on its way again and the policeman returns with a generous sized plastic barrel filled with you can only guess what. We sit there astounded that this corruption has just occurred in front of us so blatantly….but if police crackdowns bring only trouble for tourists, I for one am not going to complain if they let them off with a bribe…

Eventually we are let out, rolling free down the road, escort gone…only to be picked up by another escort 10 km later. I feel like a dog that’s been let out for a run around the garden before being locked up inside again…

And of course, after all that tourist conscious safety, when they finally let us go for good, of course it’s in the middle of the desert, with no water, no idea where we are, no food and no sleep from the night before….we try to explain we have no water but are told to go! Cheers guvnah! We cycle for a bit under hot afternoon sun in the empty desert road….we find a small army station that tells us we’re over 100km from the nearest city Bam…..we have no second thoughts about jumping on the bus that magically pulls up at that exact moment. And to Bam it is….

THE END OF THE ROAD (for Pakistan at least)...

And only 20km outside of DG Khan I am finally stopped by the police. I`d heard from other cyclists that a police escort was necessary from DG Khan onwards and had been expecting one all day. However, it didnt quite turn out as I`d hoped. Instead of offering me an escort to Quetta, I am told that I am not allowed to cycle under any circumstances. I spend two hours with the chief police of the district, going round in circles. I ask why other cyclists have received an escort through the area and am told it is different because they were men…
“so it is because I`m a woman alone that you wont let me cycle?"
`No, no madam. It has nothing to do with being a woman'
Yet I think they gave it away when I was told to go home, get married, come back with my husband and then I could cycl!!! I tried not to hiss to much at those remarks and carried on pleading and arguing until I was politely but firmly told to leave his office and taken all the way back to Multan and put on the train to Quetta!


But all things work out for the right reasons in the end. My unexpected early arrival in Quetta, meant I happened across a fellow cyclist in the Iranian embassy and we agree to cycle together. All things in the right place and at the right time…

And not cycling meant I came through the longer but more interesting route of the Bolan Pass-the old trading route to Afghanistan. Spring time sees the dramatic mountain road busy with nomadic caravans bringing livestock and wares to sell in Quetta. This was a fascinating slow wind through endless desert and dusty sun dried villages of mud brick houses.
From the hot train I watch nomadic encampements on dark jagged hills slowly pass by whilst dusty children play in empty sand streets. The train tunnels are full of small beds and cooking hearths where people have made their homes in the only shelter available for miles around, small jackets hanging proudly on the tunnel walls.
A woman in pink blazes bright against the sun bleached sands, leading her elegantly decorated camel home across the flat desert. The traditional dress of the Balochi people of this area of Pakistan is full of vibrant colours and intricate embroided patterns down the central panel. Detailed mirror work is said to deflect the evil eye from bringing bad fortune when people speak too many good things about you…in stark contrast to the more modern, Saudi influenced Islamic dress of dark, black clothing and veils, Pakistans traditional tribal dresses are bright in colour to attract, not deflect, attention. I wonder how the lives of these women are in this harsh landscape of merciless sun and wind. I see the dust lined faces and hope they are as strong inside as the colours of their dress proclaim on the outside


Quetta is friendly smiles and open greetings from men and women. Shouts of 'sister, sister, how are you?' follow me and I end up in various homes drinking tea with different friendly families full of shy girls giggling and older women enveloping me in their ample chests for a hug.
The city is a mix of different ethnic Afghani groups and the Pakistani Pashtun and Balochi tribes. The Pashtun tribe is the world's largest autonomous society, spanning the borders of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Members belong to sub-clans and follow strict codes of conduct emphasising hospitality, honour, revenge and complete submission of the enemy. The Balochi people are mainly still nomadic tribes who also follow codes of honour governing their behaviour. A further flavour is added to Quetta's melting pot with the influx of Afghani refugees...the first group fleeing the Taliban and the second wave of pro-Talibani's fleeing from the war with America. Tensions between the two groups were sadly not left behind at the borders...
Yet despite these tensions on the streets, despite having to watch American war planes flying low each night over the sky, heading to Afghanistan to drop yet more bombs, despite walking into the middle of an apparently pro-Taliban demonstration by accident, I am always greeted warmly and with friendly smiles. It is with more than a little sadness I leave Pakistan …sadness from knowing that this is a land with a kind and hospitable culture where little people are being slowly trapped in big political games…