Travel Tips

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I rapped my knuckles upon the iron gate that spanned the road. "Hello?" I called out. Only Ayatollah Khomeini glared down from his lofty billboard on the other side. Otherwise, Iran was apparently empty. "May we come in?" I added.

After a moments silence a hidden motor whirred into life and the gate ground reluctantly open, but only enough for us to squeeze our bikes through. It whirred again. Clonk. We were locked into the Islamic Republic of Iran.

An official appeared and indicated we should follow. We wheeled our bike dutifully into the immigration hall, to be met by a representative of the Iranian Tourist Board. Whilst our passports were being processed he explained that he was there to answer any questions we may have, but before either of us could speak he launched into a polite inquisition about our plans in Iran.

Apparently satisfied with our answers, we were waved through. I pushed Hagar through a crowd of Iranian men and women and noticed immediately none of the women were veiled. As I was to discover, this serendipic country was going to reveal itself in many unexpected ways.

For weeks I had been trying to persuade Juliet that she would have to wear the chador; the black tent-like cloak synonymous with Islamic culture. And black burqa, or veil. But she wouldn’t buy it. It would have been just fantastic to see her try and cycle whilst wearing it. As it was, she was only obliged to abide by the laws of hijab, which essentially states that only her hands, face and feet may be exposed. Her hair must be covered and her clothing must not show her body form, including her behind. (And I shall refrain from any lewd remarks – at least for the moment.) This included donning a headscarf even when leaving the hotel room to cross to a communal toilet. This applied to all females from the age of nine.

We pushed our bikes out into the cool, fresh air, jumped on and free-wheeled down the road. I can barely explain how I felt at that moment, squeeling and laughing with pure delight. Iran had been such a hugely important destination for me for so long.

Past a disused building with 'Down With America' daubed across its crumbling façade. Through the border town, returning waves and shouts of 'Hello!'

We cut through a gorge until finally making Maku, an unremarkable town but a base to acclimatize.

After booking into a reasonably priced hotel, we went walkabout to check what was available and become familiar with prices.

Iran, it has to be said, is pretty cheap. In fact it might make my poor British compatriots weep! How much is a liter of petrol in England now? About two pounds? Here you'll get some change from 10p. A cup of tea (chai still), more importantly for us, about 6p. 30p for a kebab. 20p for 20 cigarettes (though you can buy very cute mini TIR brand – 50% of normal size – for 12p.) As you know, I like 'cheap'!

We were surprised at the number of people who stopped us in the street and spoke English. In fact, as many as anywhere on the whole journey, except Belgium and The Netherlands of course. We spent another day wandering the streets meeting people before taking off due east.

The roads were fantastically smooth, the traffic light and the mountain scenery wonderful. Just a little bit bloody cold. It would seem we were about a month late.

We found a great camping spot beside a stream, the tent nesting on a bed of golden autumnal leaves. Another we spent in Marand. At one-pound-fifty each for the room we were ripped off. It stank of gas fused with decomposing road kill. No shower in the 'hotel', and the squat toilets looked like a massacre. We inflated our own mattresses to keep the bed-bound wildlife from eating us during the night. But, like everywhere in Iran, it had gas heating you could roast a pig with. Unlikely, here in Iran, but still … And it was seriously cold outside at 1,700m.

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