Down from the mountains

Leaving the coast, we rode inland and felt the temperature finally drop, for the first time in a while we froze a bit. Suddenly the thermals and thick gloves we're back on. (Persian) Winter is coming ...
In Shiraz, Nadia had booked us into a beautiful guesthouse, and for a moment life slowed down. We drifted through the old town from one café to the next, letting the city wrap around us. Apart from this, we used the ability to do laundry - an important sign of stability for overlanders.

Our stay coincided with Fatimiyah, the commemoration of the martyrdom of the Prophet’s daughter and an important event for Shia Muslims. Processions filling the streets, people dressed in black, symbolically beating themselves, carrying empty coffins as if grief itself had weight.

We continued onward, heading for Persepolis, the ancient city of the mighty Persian empire. Built in 518 BC, the ruins rise out of the plateau, columns standing in the sun as if waiting for an empire that will never return. Well preserved staircases carved with soldiers who will march forever and different nations bringing their tributes to a dead empire. Faces carved into the rock meticulously, chipped not only by time but by the anger of Alexander the Great, who torched the city and brought it to its knees in 330 BC.
It is RidingKismet's second time here and as a history + anthropology buff she excitingly points to the many different faces on the Apadana palace walls. This relief presents delegations of 23 nations conquered by the Persian Empire. The carving meticulously depicted the different physical features, clothing, and types of gifts the delegations presented which were native to their lands. For instance, Ethiopians with curly hair bring giraffes to Persopolis, or Armenians with conical hats bring flasks of wine. In our not fully adequate motorcycling gear, we wandered further into the complex, passing palaces and columns before we remembered we still had another 200 km to kick.

From there we decided to cut the journey to Isfahan in half and take the quiet backcountry road. No cargo trucks, no tourist circus, just space. Hills, wind, and the soothing sounds of the engines, that strange peace you find only when nothing around you is pretending to be anything. Half inhabitated villages and herds of sheep grazing in the mountains. This is the territory of the Qashqai Turks, people known for the hardiness and ability to survive the harsh environment of the Zagros Mountains. And yes, the same people whom Nissan aptly named their car line after.

We stopped then at Abadeh, half way point, and were hosted by an endearing family. They sat with us for a splendid dinner, and in the morning one of the daughters took us out to explore the handicraft bazaar. Woodcarving is a big thing here, delicate patterns cut out of the wooden surface, actually it is the woodcarving centre of Iran. We weren’t allowed to pay neither for the good dinner nor for the walk, so the only option was leaving a little tip behind before heading north again.

The temperature at the Zagros continued to plummet, and as always, that was our cue to
stop for kebabs and coffees to keep circulation going.
Approaching Isfahan, things slightly shifted. A sudden metallic hammering cut through the highway and Kismet’s engine stopped right in the middle of the highway, thankfully without throwing the rider in the tarmac. Thankfully, we managed to pull to the side quickly without any issues, very lucky indeed given that the road was busy with heavy trucks rolling into the city. A quick inspection and we find out the engine is really f*cked. The kickstarter would not turn the shaft, the piston would not go up or down. Something major had given up inside.

Ironically, we anyway were on our way to see Vrej, the legendary mechanic and unofficial patron saint of overlanders in Iran. A quick call and he immediately sent a truck to pick up Kismet. RidingKismet had met him two years earlier with Nadia and joked with him that next time she visits Iran, she will return with a man and her own bike.... and there she was, in Iran on her own bike with a man in tow. Though admittedly, her bike arrived in the back of a truck by the end. Considering Isfahan traffic, not even the worst way.
Vrej welcomed us like old friends, expressing his pride of RidingKismet having made her dreamy plans come true. We checked in at Heritage Hostel, and the next day we took the bike to Hussein, “the greatest motorcycle mechanic in the Persian Empire". He rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and performed the decapitation, bringing to light the disaster: Snapped valves, loose valve seats, a shattered spark plug, metal and ceramic fragments hammered into the piston and cylinder head, scratched cylinder walls... An unavoidable proof that aluminum will never win the material wars.

At home, this would be classified as a total loss. Here, it is a challenge, and the guys are optimistic: refurbish what can be saved, adapt whatever parts might fit from Chinese 125s, and bring the engine to make torque again. “Maximum one week,” they said. We weren’t fully convinced, but we were willing to be also optimistic. But in order to facilitate this, we now had a long task list to execute: Extend our visas at the embassy, extend the Carnet de Passage at customs, and accept that if an Iranian mechanic says one week, it might usually mean three.

In fact, we don't really mind too much. We had wanted a break anyway, discussed when and where to rest for two weeks, to breathe and stop living out of the saddle bags for a bit. We had debated Baghdad or somewhere in Turkey - instead, we ended in Isfahan.
And that’s alright, guys. Heritage Hostel is clean and calm, the staff treats us well. The city is gentle. Creating a small, temporary life here - a little routine, feels like the kind of detour we actually needed.

So let's see what lays ahead as always, and put the legs up for a bit.Read more