Sand Sand Sand (English)

Driving a bike is just a great adventure. The endless tarmac disolves in mesmerizing landscapes, often letting your mind go adrift to sonor solace. That's what bikeriding must be like.. ..however, sometimes it's entails a strikingly different situation than that.

The last posted message ended in the big sandstorm in Pakistan. Due to the limited visa (10 days) and dito Internet access we were unable to post an English message on our log - sorry for that, but that's just the way it is sometimes - especially in Iran perhaps, where Internet access is not always guaranteed.

The sandstorm just miles before the Iran-Pakistan border (at Taftan) hit us without warning. You have to imagine a desert scenery where the wind is constantly blowing on Beaufort 8 or 9 windforce. Nothing around you moves, not even the sand or the little bushes surrounding you and the road. Only the loud noise of the wind hittng your helmet and the vast pull on your steering wheel. Exhausting you by the minute.

Then suddenly a massive pull occurs, completed with a grinding wind of sand just plumeting itself in your face, on your bike, just everywhere.
That's the phenomena of a sandstorm. It hit us in the middle of nowhere but our luck was that we crossed a police checkpoint. The region in which we were biking is rumoured to be one of the most dangerous regions in Pakistan (in Western Iran someone claimed the Balochistan region to be the most dangerous regions in the world). Though we felt comfortable knowing that the locals would always treat us with utmost respect and dignity.

The best choice we had was to stop over at the police post and ask for shelter. Consider it also our only choice as Lsanne had been struck nearly KO - lying flat-out on the ground with her Kawasaki, losing a fight to the wind. The policemen - custom to Pakistani hospitality - immediately offered us shelter. The officer even begged to use his own room in their little station. Instead, he would lie 'comfortably' underneath the stars in the back of an open pick-up truck. There was no running water, no electricity, no toilet. The policestation truly was located in a barron place, right in-the-middle-of-nowhere. The station consisted of some firm walls and a roof - for now ths was our haven and our luck. The men offered us food and welcomed us like one of their own; including Lisanne - a great gesture as female company in a police station is as rare as a wild flower growing in the desert.

The night in the rundown station was full of thunderstorm winds. Sometimes you'd think that the wooden windows would be pushed through or the bikes being torsed on ther sides; again our luck: nothing of the sort happened. But the whole experience left us abandoned from a good night's sleep. All being well enough for us though, considering that the officer was stll lying outside under a blanket in the pick-up trunk..

The next day we picked up our bikes again. There was no sign of the big wind and the surroundings looked peacefully and silent. Unfortunately I was struck by a severe 'Delly Belly' (again), that gradually introduced itself with a mild fever. No choice - we had to make the mileage to the Iranian border.

Arriving at the Iranian border my body was raising its temperature to fight the germs. I wish the whole 'border-entry-experience' would have been clear, but now I can only say that the crossing to the Iranian border was a blur. Lisanne was just great. She fulfilled each formality at the Pakistan and Iranian border as I was lying like a cooked sheep in their waiting rooms.

There was only one instance where I came back to my old self. When crossing the Iranian border and finishing the Carnet the Passage procedures, Lisanne was appointed a 'bodyguard'. We knew from the stories of Henk Hansen - our Dutch Landrover friend in Islamabad - that the Iranan authorities would assign a police escort while driving through the Sissan-Balochistan province; again the most instable province in Iran. Now our bodyguard - a slim looking feller with a strawlike posture - had a brilliant idea. He illumnated himself with the illusion of driving my BMW motorbike. When roughly explaining his idea - in very poor English - to us in the full sun (a great place to be in when suffering a blow-out fever) he inadvertedly looked lovingly at the bke as if it was a freshly-baked kebab - and then to his 'frends at the border'; already showing off that HE would ride this 'bigbike'.

For your reference: 'bigbikes', i.e. bikes with a larger engine capacity of 200cc are forbidden in Iran. This resulted that bikes like ours often popped out the eyeballs of many bikeloving Iranians. Effectively, in every town where we crossed, men would turn up with their bikes 'escorting' us through their streets while shouting enthusiastically how great your bike is. At first this is a good experience, but it relatively deteriorates when each-and-every town is mocked by these guys. Lisanne and I called them 'mosquitos', or 'muggen' in Dutch. Because they suddenly appear zooming around, trying to get you as close as possible..

Back to Mr. Strawlike Bodyguard: His idea was that our 85 liter Ortlieb bag placed on my bike would be stalled behind Lisanne on her Kawasaki and I would sit behind him on the Gummikuh (German nickname for my bike). NO GO. Even a badly delirous Mr. Mike (my nickname in Iran and Pakistan) can be a very deliberate, very binary hombre.

While adrenaline was smoothly pumping in my veigns it sought a direct way to expressions via my mouths and eyes. After that was clear to him that his 'wet BMW-bike dream' was not happening - at least not with the sudden alive-and-kicking tall dutchman(...) Instead, we hooked him up wth a taxi to pursuit our escort to Zahedan; our first destination in Iran and home to numerous of Afghan drug traffikers.

Zahedan was briefly described by an army soldier from Shiraz (Iran) as an 'insect place'.. ..well to be honest we could not tell. We stayed one night in a safe hotel were we were being taken care of by a friendly old man, Abbas. Abbas had lived in the US for a long period of his life and was now living in Zahedan of an indefinite period of time. He was the only person who spoke English, which was a great relief in this place.

The hotel attendant was a character. As he walked with s shoulders as firmly as possble - a bit Hulk-like - his chubby posture could not disguise his favorite pass-time: looming in laziness. In Pakistan it was a sin to carry your own bags, out of hospitality for guests. Here in Iran, hotel attendants just look at you with an empty expression; gazing as you carry the kilo's from bike to berth.

In the mornng I saw the old 'owly' Abbas poking the hotel attendant awake wth his walkng cane. The hotel attendant was sleeping on a couch in the lobby, pretending to be asleep as we passed by with our bags as we tied up our bikes. But for Abbas, the hotel attendant had no excuse: he would not stop poking the hotel attendant until he found the "start" button - all the while Abbas was calling him nice Iranian names; just a brilliant sight to see.

After a number of days in Iran I sometimes wished I had possesion of both Abbas' walkng cane and his broad vocabulary of Iranian (swear) words.. ..especially when faced with our police escorts..