Friends at the Edge of the Earth - Monday, February 22nd

The coach pulled into Kerman station late on Sunday and I was greeted by Shiva and her friend Ali. They had hitchhiked around the Iran and eastern Turkey together and were happy to hear that I’d sampled the delights of an Iranian truck’s business class flat bed. “It’s the best!” Exclaimed Shiva. “Agreed. My only issue was that the porn is on a very small screen.”

Ali would be my guide in the desert Kaluts. Sadly camping was off limits due to permit restrictions but I would be staying in a small town on the edge of the desert which suited me just fine.

Ali was a scholarly and very amiable fellow. Taught skinned, beardless and youthful for his years. He had a well measured countenance that was instantly reassuring. He also had a batchelors degree in tourism and spoke excellent English to boot.

During our conversations he also revealed that he quite enjoyed playing chess with six people simultaneously. I was in no hurry to reach for my travel chess set. When he wasn’t trouncing hoards of chess players in succession, his time was spent running a successful travel business and playing goalie for the local football team.

After taking me for the best falaffel sandwich I’ve ever had (it was drowning in pickles), they deposited me at my guesthouse. I had asked for the cheapest digs available in Kerman and these didn’t disappoint.

The Milad guesthouse felt more like a government halfway house for Iranian ex convicts. For £4 a night you got four walls, a matress and a pillow. The walls were tastefully decorated with Farsi graffiti carved by previous occupants ushing their lucky shivs. The house itself was nestled cosily on a six lane motorway, with excellent views. I said I would pay in the morning but they were rather insistent that it was advanced.

A morning shower set me back a whole extra pound. When I asked for a towel, I was given something that looked more like an expired oven glove. Except oven gloves tended to absorb liquid. This just did a semi-reasonable job of redistributing it.

Again, ‘you pays your money, you takes your choice’ and it was just fine for my purposes. Morning broke and Ali picked me up for our excursion several hundred kilometres into the desert.

From the outset it felt more like a blokey road trip. We exchanged very frank conversation on a number of personal topics. Even though he was technically on my clock, it didn’t feel like he was singing for his supper.

“Iranians have everything and they have nothing.” He mused. It was possibly the best summary of the state of Iran that I had heard so far. The country was blessed with unrelentingly beautiful geography, world class education, ancient cultures… I could go on and on. Yet they are still very much trapped.

The whole system here seems to be geared towards preventing young people from expressing themselves publicy. Iran has one of the youngest demographics in the world but power rests firmly in the hands of an older, conservative religious elite. The young see political participation as futile and so there is widespread apathy. Resistance is very much of an underground nature.

It also turns out that freedom of worship isn’t quite as free as had been previously advertised. Non-muslims are free to practice religion but cannot be seen discussing their religion publicly. This also has to lie under the radar of the authorities.

Being in a place like this makes you realise the immense fortune of living in a culture where the freedom to choose your lifestyle is barely questioned. Here it’s a dream shared my millions of young people who are totally dispossessed. They feel that the state has highjacked Islam, using it to create a system that suppresses its people.

There was plenty of food for thought as we drove through the desert. En route, we stopped by the remnants of a traditional village reservoir. It could hold around 30,000 litres of water, or five routemasters to you and me. The walls were 15 metres high made of a combination of ash, eggs and camel milk. “I hope the village had more than one camel.” A wry pause. “Or chicken”.

We stopped for lunch by the edge of the Lut Desert and made a new friend who really wasn't camera shy.

The Kaluts were an unusual geological phenomenon that resulted from the desert being on an ocean floor millions of years ago. Once the powers that be had pushed it above ground, the soft, water logged sand was shaped by thousands of years of heat, wind and occasional rain.

The result is an endless field of copper coloured hills that look a lot like camel humps and others that look like skyscrapers. The resulting shape depended on the way that the ancient ocean currents had deposited different types of sediment.

For three days I hadn’t seen a single other tourist and was delighting in the fact. Ali said I was free to wander as I pleased, providimg I didn’t go completely off on one.

Soon I had scaled a peak with a satisfying view and was nestling in for a meditative evening alone. The setting sun’s heat gently caressing my face. I felt like I was on a precipice at the edge of the known world. Beyond, an uncharted desert endlessness that eventually became Afghanistan.

My communion with nature was interrupted by a noise behind me. I turned to see an unmistakably lanky figure shuffling across the sand below.
“Rokas!!” I exclaimed with arms above my head.
“How are you my friend?” Came the bellowing reply.
“Oh, I’m just fine. What took you so long?”

Rokas and I had literally parted ways (he went west, I went east) three days previously with no intentions of meeting again. The fact that our accidental reunion had happened in such a completey remote setting was extraordinary to say he least.

I would be lying of I said I hadn’t missed his presence. And quite a presence it was. We exchanged war stories and shared advice on where the other should go to next.

The setting sun gifted us a symphony of desert colours that rendered us somewhat speechless. The shadows of each enormous structure reaching desperately into the horizon. Then the inevitable disappearance of the sun behind the distant mountain peaks. It was a moment worth sharing.

And with that we said our goodbyes again and made no further plans to meet. Fate, it seemed, was keen to do the heavy lifting for us.

That night Ali and I retired to the traditional palm roofed homestay on the desert’s edge. Seranaded by the howl of desert jackals we righted the world’s wrongs over tea and curded aubergine.

Tomorrow, a sunrise run through the Kaluts, some go-karting and an evening of Zuhane. The latter being traditional Iranian bodybuilding and a popular spectator sport. I’m curious to say the least.