Iran had Surprised Us

The Ayatollah’s stony gaze bored into us as we gathered nervously around our bikes. We hadn’t even entered Iran yet but already we knew we were being watched. On this remote frontier in eastern Turkey where the dust blows and the queue of lorries awaiting customs clearance trails off into the distance, everything is presided over by the majestic snow-clad Mount Ararat. We had completed nearly 2000 miles riding through Turkey, a country that had provided surprising contrasts in riding trails and sights. Now we had the formidable border crossing into the Islamic Republic of Iran ahead of us. A volatile situation in the Middle East also meant that we may not be granted entry at all – particularly the Americans amongst us. The week’s news coverage had shown violent riots and uprisings in many countries in the region as well as reprisals against American targets in response to the recent killing of Osama Bin Laden; so perhaps not a good time to be knocking on the door of the sworn enemy of the West.


In observance of Sharia law, the female riders had donned long skirts and headscarves over their riding gear as we waited at the final checkpoint out of Turkey. Ahead of us on the wall was a forty foot high mural depicting two Ayatollahs and it was their gaze we were suffering under.

In the event, we weren’t interrogated and the worst part of the border-crossing process was the tedious wait as the paperwork was processed; some snoozed on their bikes, others read or edited videos on laptops while the rest of us people-watched and snacked on pistachios and dried fruit. Names were called out of those who are nationals of countries considered the least desirable by the Iranian Government– in our case, all the Yanks and the Brits. They were led away to an office to be not just finger-printed but also palm-printed, a process that left both hands covered in an indelible blue ink. Iranian immigration obviously wanted to mark them permanently as enemies of the State for the duration of their stay. The members of the Blue Hand Gang were kept separate from the Aussies, Swede and Swiss for the next couple of hours, until finally we were reunited, taken outside, number plates checked on the bikes and we were on our way. We left the border post quickly in case they changed their minds, riding in convoy behind a white Peugeot with lights flashing.

The sombre entry into Iran was a one-off, the rest of the country was delightfully friendly and welcoming as we were feted at petrol stations, markets and town centres throughout our ride. Small motorbikes would ride alongside at every town, calling out to us and cheering us on whilst at the same time nearly causing multiple accidents. Cars would drive in tandem beside us as the passengers gazed with rapture at our bikes, there are no big bikes here and so ours caused a stir and drew crowds wherever we went. Even the police got in on the act and pursued us through one town, no siren just a voice yelling in Farsi through the speakers, he caught up with the lead rider just as we reached the town limits, we thought we were in trouble (for some it was getting to be a habit), but no, he just wanted to provide a police escort and so he parked beside the final roundabout with lights flashing and waving us past whilst beaming widely. We were on the receiving end of many gifts of food, meals and drinks when shopkeepers would refuse to accept our offerings of payment, even the cake shop man (and they’re good cakes in Iran) was adamant that he needed no money and was just happy to see us in his country.

Iran seems to be where the crazy drivers of the world unite. Riders in our group inquired about the rules for roundabouts to be told that there are no rules, sometimes people have the right of way upon entering the roundabout but usually it’s more of a free for all. With cars, trucks and bikes all pushing their way through, assertiveness is definitely an essential attribute for riding here.

At the bank, while changing money on the first morning, the bank manager upon realising he was dealing with Americans (passports have to be produced), asked them “Aren’t you afraid to be here?” Possibly not the best of starts for the Yanks, though they did manage to reply cheerfully about what a friendly country it was.

We took dusty trails winding through the mountains in the west, passing fields of vivid scarlet poppies and small Kurdish settlements where the women were more brightly clad than we had seen since Istanbul, though naturally still covered up. It started getting warmer as we turned eastwards though we had some relief from the heat, staying at altitude in a mountain town. The next morning heading down a fantastic twisting road, watching in disbelief as the GPS screens on our bikes registered a descent from 1500 metres to MINUS 15 metres in just 20 minutes of riding, at which point we had reached the shores of the Caspian Sea and were well below sea level beside the largest inland sea on the planet.

We looked round in disbelief, emerald green paddy fields stretched away into the distance on both sides of us, looking more reminiscent of South East Asia than what we expected in a country best known for its desert environment. Here the local people were dressed less conservatively, probably to make it easier as they work in the fields up to their knees in water all day. We stayed in a beach resort hotel where the staff were extremely alarmed to hear of our plans to swim in the Caspian Sea- “It’s practically winter” they spluttered and watched in disbelief as some hardy souls rode down to the beach. Covering up was still a necessity for women even when swimming but the blokes were able to swim in shorts. The water was pronounced warmer than the sea off England (though that’s not saying much).


Petrol is very cheap in Iran though it can be hard to track down, fuel stations being few and far between (there’s obviously no money to be made when it’s so cheap). When we did find a place selling benzine (Farsi for petrol), the queuing system was chaotic to say the least as cars and bikes jockeyed for position at the one or two pumps that were operational. Each pushing past the others to get to that nozzle- our riders quickly learnt- there’s no chivalry at the pump.

Despite having to pay a “foreigners’ premium” for our fuel which made it twice the price that the locals paid, we were able to fill our tanks for less than £8.00. The bikes were running well, though one had a spill on a dirt track and ended up with a broken windscreen and bruised dignity. The heat increased the further east we travelled, by this point, after more than a thousand miles in Iran we were getting close to the Afghan border. The higher temperatures made the chaotic cities in this area even more challenging to negotiate, and wherever possible we took smaller roads, though often this was a bit of a Russian roulette style of navigation as away from the main roads, the signs were all in Farsi, and completely unintelligible to us. Everyone was willing to help us along our way but English is not widely spoken, though occasionally we would strike lucky and find some languages in common, whether it was German, French or even Italian on one occasion when the Latin American explorers amongst us were able to use their rusty Spanish to make themselves understood.

Between them, our group has a wealth of international riding experience including those who have successfully crossed deserts ranging from the Simpson, the Sahara and the Atacama to the Gobi as well as mountain ranges too numerous to list. Previous extensive international riding experience is a necessity for this expedition as it’s the most challenging that GlobeBusters offers.

We ended our time in Iran staying in an area that owes more to the Alpine forests of Switzerland than the arid and parched landscapes we’d spent the previous days travelling through. Once more Iran had surprised us.