At the Shores of the Persian Gulf

After Yazd, it took us two days to blast straight south to where the ends and the air starts smelling like salt. The first day we kept it easy riding through the heat. The second day, however, stretched itself into one of those longer, dragging ones.

Before Bandar Abbas we turned right towards Bandar-e Pol, aiming to catch the ferry to Qeshm. But once again foreign forces delayed our plans: A group of proud Persians were locked in a battle over a parking spot on the ferry. People throwing stones at each other, yelling, with blood running down their faces ... maybe the usual set of pre-departure shenanigans? The ferry wouldn’t leave until the police arrived and when they finally did, they also where helpless and left it to the captain to find a solution. He kicked the fighters off the boat, and only then the ramp was lifted and the boat left.

And so again it was already sunset when we crossed the fifteen quiet minutes of sea to Qeshm, and another pitch dark hour from the port to our hotel. This meant we missed the famous sunset view, but well... We then had a beautiful last evening with our friend Nadia. She was supposed to be with us for ten days, and subconsciously this was our mission: to reach the sea together, a place she kept in good memory from childhood. So we had managed to accomplish this mission together, to now say goodbye.
Thank you, dear Nadia!

Qeshm itself is a desert on the water. We wandered between the surreal formations of rock and clay and the wide, breathing sea; a place that could be pure tranquillity. The island was also an old Portuguese outpost and home to a well preserved mangrove forest. At the same time, this part of Iran is where the young and wild come to taste “maximum freedom” in pretentious accommodations. The government has relaxed rules for the island and thus it is far from their heavy handed reach. We decided to take a calm boat ride through the mangroves but realized a little too late that, like all the rest of the boats, ours was a floating rave, with teenies wanting us to down booze instead of getting in touch with the flora and fauna.
Here, freedom seems to mean putting as much distance as possible between oneself and the capital city and getting a bit high.

After three days we headed back to the mainland and onwards to the defamed Shiraz. An Iranian friend and fellow biker advised us to take the longer route right at the Persian gulf. The coast was dotted with quiet fishing villages and laid-back people that simply smiled as we passed. They are known collectively as Bandari, or coastal people and are a mix of Africans, Persians, Arabs, and even Portuguese. The men dress similarly to Arabian coastal people and so are their cuisine and customs. RidingKismet even squealed in delight when a host in Kong offered us Halwa, a gelatinous caramelized sugar treat popular in the red sea and Persian gulf communities and it somehow reminded her of the one her mother makes. Kong was a quiet retreat for weary locals who were tired of the hype of the islands. At our guesthouse people gather, share stories, and exchange skills. During our stay, one of the guests was an avid handpan player, and she not only graced us with her music but taught the host to play a piece. Our host was one of the Bandari people and his father, through Arabic, told us the history and heritage of the coastal people. After this storytelling session we said farewell and surfed the road further northwest.

In between the desert, coast, and the colossal outbursts of the Zagros Mountains, we found one of the most beautiful roads we’ve ever ridden: a ribbon of asphalt curling between sea and stone, a road like a peaceful dream in the early morning.

We surfed those curves along the coast until the time came to turn right, inland again.
Hello Shiraz…Leggi altro