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…

THIS IS A MAN'S WORLD...

Some days are just….different. After being quite pleased with my slow but steady progress against a dust storm and strong winds, I end up on an empty road with desert all around.
I stop a man and ask if this is the right road to DG Khan. After realising he has no idea himself I try to move on. But he`s grabbed the front of my bike and wont let me move, shouting angrily in Urdu at me . I stay calm, slowly moving back and keep smiling until I see a car I can flag down…he immediately shoots off when the car pulls up and off I go again…That was my first negative experience with anyone in Pakistan, having found nothing but warm hospitality and respect wherever I go…yet perhaps this was just my unlucky day as a few hours later I also have two guys pull up beside me on their motorbike and molest me whilst all the other men in the street have a good laugh. However, I got the impression it was less of a sexual thing and more of a punishment for breaking so many social taboos as a woman cycling alone. I just shouted `police`when they came back for more and shook my fists as best as I could without falling off my bike. They were completely arrogant and just drove off laughing…and I carried on. And almost I didn`t include this on the blog, feeling a little embaressed to be talking about this publicly. But I know it is precisely this fear or shame that perpetuates the culture of acceptance of these acts of sexual harrasment. I said I wanted to understand and experience how it is for a woman take this journey alone, and I learned that sometimes it really is still a mans world that frustrates, restricts and intimidates me. As a woman on a bicycle I am already transgressing social norms, woman do not ride bikes or motorbikes as it is considered too sexual. And as a woman alone I am also breaking the social conventions that woman should be protected and guarded by a man. But more than anything else, I found the rejection or disapproval of other women the hardest to accept. Women stared at me in fear or horror sometimes as I passed on my bike, others thought I was insane to be alone without a man whilst some just looked incredibly dissaproving that I wasn't married and was alone…more than any of the male cat calling, lude jeering or groping, getting the cold shoulder from another woman hurt the most.

But there are women against the grain, there are women who have blazed a firey trail through Pakistans history. And whilst on the road two women also pull over and insist on taking photos with me. They say I'm a brave woman and I`ve inspired them…I tell them I think any woman in Pakistan is brave just to exist in this mans world but I take these words to heart and hold onto them, letting them keep my head high at the next lude jeering session from more bike boys...

PAKISTAN: MULTAN

Blue tiled mosques, hot stone searing on bare feet. Inside-peaceful mausoleums where the stone is cool and calm, men and women lightly touch their foreheads to the grave, murmuring softly.

Sunlight filtered, paying its respects to the dead whilst fairy lights flash and pidgeons nestle in the high domed ceiling.

Despite enjoying the steeped history of this place I know it is time to move on when the hotel manager brings me into his office to show me little signs he`s made of my name…writing it over and over again and colouring it in carefully ...I leave early the next morning...

PAKISTAN: Lahore, Pattoki, Sahiwal, Chian Mannu...

Lahore is sleepy with Sunday as I cycle through the tree lined streets. Brown canal water is leaping with school boys splashing in and out. I spend a few days in this beautiful city, enjoying the old red bricks, street life and the peaceful escape of the library-lounging on the old school leather sofas under the high arched roof.
I spend some time familiarising myself with Sam. Only when another traveller bursts out laughing when I tell him I just changed my tires for the first time in my life do I realise what a task I've undertaken…I don't tell him it took me almost two hours.

But finally the day comes when I head out in the early morning sun.

The next few days cycling south to Multan find me the star guest at a Pakistani wedding, surrounded by excited young woman and old ladies with big belly laughs trying to make me marry their sons, cycling through dusty villages of mud houses, water buffaloes lazing in warm waters to my envy, endless motorway pollution, and being pursued by every man with a wheel. I've never been what I would call a traffic stopper, but it seems that is exactly what I am these days. A line of lorries pulls up ahead just to watch me go by, only to overtake slowly , leaning and staring out the windows before pulling up ahead again. One tired afternoon I decide to take advantage of this road side escort and grab hold of the next rickshaw that slows down to stare, getting a free ride the last few kilometres, although we nearly career off the road at one point when he`s too busy trying to get my phone number!

And in a small dusty town of 48 degrees heat, I find a gem of a man who lets overland cyclists stay and eat at his hotel for free in exchange for a postcard from another country. He was a local sports champion in the 1970`s and appreciates anyone who takes up a physical challenge. Why does it always seem to be those with less who give the most?