Recovery in Isfahan

Isfahan, Heritage Hostel -
One of these places where you know you’ll stay longer than planned the minute you push your luggage in...

While we waited for news from Hussein - the mechanic responsible for resurrecting Kismet’s sick intestines, i.e. her engine - we handled bureaucrcacy. First stop: visa extension which meant four hours of chaotic queues, moving from room to room, stamps. Although it was a little stressful, the entire process only cost 40 cents! Our 1 month visa costs 250 € total plus the barriers we had to jump to enter the country, yet here we were given another month for less than half a euro. And of course, we are aware of our foreigner privilege, in comparison to the hundreds of Afghans born here but still having to fight for these extensions regularly, without the excuses we show up with, and the smiles and hand shakes the officials give us. Afghan Iranians - that means, Iranians! - don't get this special treatment.

Next step on the bureaucracy task list: a visit to customs for the carnet extension. They take things seriously here, as an employee even rode out with us to the workshop to verify with his own eyes that the motorcycles belonging to the shown papers are here. A lot of calls, stamps, and waiting, but again, the crucial extension is for free.

And then came FlyingNick 🪽
He pushed his DR 650 into the courtyard like a man returning from a rough place: Covid in Uzbekistan, fainting at the Afghan–Iranian border, a bone shaking crash in the Lut Desert, and the insurance clock for his bike ticking down. Even him, usually resilient like a rock, looked slightly sanded down by the elements of the road. We were genuinely happy to see each other again. Turns out he also had good reason to stay a few days: oil change overdue, and his chain and sprocket looked like it had witnessed Alexander the Great raiding Persepolis.

However, with Kismet stuck in surgery, RidingKismet stayed back at the hostel, finally getting some peace from her husband. Meanwhile the Bartang Boys — FlyingNick 🪽 and IronChris — hit the road. Nick remembered an old caravanserai out in the desert from a past trip. A good spot to watch the sunset from the rooftop and howl at the full moon at the campfire, and celebrate the freedom out here.

The caravanserai was still standing strong, stones from the late Middle Ages holding their breath. Unpretentious Nick picked a small room still holding the warmth of the day, while IronChris chose the master's chamber: a massive room, letting the desert breeze rushing through at night. The cold kept him awake, and sore bones gifted him romantic memories for days.

Next morning the Bartang Boys carved a playful detour through the sands. No rules, no lanes, no judgment, just throttle, dust, and laughters.

Back at Heritage, something shifted. One overlander appeared, then another, then another. Soon the place was full of rugged, solo wanderers: arriving by bus, by ancient Mercedes vans, by bicycle, or hitchhiking, suddenly the hostel felt like a small tribe of misfits was forming.
Alex, Jelle, Mariu, Mehdi, Luke, FlyingNick 🪽, RidingKismet, and IronChris: a council of wild ones ruling the central Iranian town. The hammam became ours. The restaurants around Naqsh-e Jahan Square fell under our steady control. We found ways to smuggle in giggle-makers (or the forbidden tea). Nights grew warm again, full of stories told between people who spend too much time out there.

Iman and Shireen, the hostel managers, joined our little kingdom every evening. They didn’t want us to leave, and the heavy discounts on our room made that very clear. We all helped each other get through some of Iran's bureaucracy. We pushed Nick through the paperwork nightmare so he wouldn’t get knocked out by his expiring temporary import, waiting for spare parts. And we lit a little light inside the ones who had dark moments.

And after nearly three weeks, everything aligned:
Kismet was reborn.
Paperwork sorted.
Fatigue faded.
Friends hugged out their goodbyes.
Paths diverged in different speeds, into different directions, in beautiful ways.

And we finally felt ready to leave, too: we exchanged good wishes and presents with new friends and cracked on - rested, recharged, still a bit dusty, still a bit badass, and very much alive.

Let's go, folks! To the Zagros Mountains, to the west, towards Iraq!Leggi altro