Just Deserts - Friday, February 19th

The Ateshooni guesthouse was as far away from civilisation as one could get in Iran whilst still having creature comforts. An oasis strewn with date palms in the middle of the desert. It’s seven hours from anything you could call a city and about 35km from the nearest town.

There are no homestays here so the guesthouse is the only option. And it’s by no means a bad one. The building is a restored 19th century baked mud castle and packed with character. It’s also run by a bearded man who looks like the Iranian Uriah Heap. My only issue is that there is only one common area. My room, whilst lovely, is not where I plan to spend my entire evening if I don’t like the other guests. This was a bit of a quandry.

I arrived to find an Australian gently lounging himself on the carpeted living space. Australians are a bit like the herpes of the travelling world. You may think you’re rid of them but they never really go away for long. I generally find Aussies (especially from Sydney) so odious that I try and avoid conversation unless absolutely necessary.

The only other person staying was called Barrie from Rotterdam. It turns out that we’d actually spoken on the phone before. Al had given me his number and I had called for travelling advice. Small world.

The Aussie turned out to be from Melbourne and actually a decent bloke. I’ve met some lovely Australians and even befriended a few but by and large they irritate the piss out of me. Second only to Germans, of course. I will add that there are many Germans I love dealy, but they are an exception to the rule.

The next day my alarm woke me up at 5:30. Last night’s dream had involved a Dutchman, some carrots and one of my exes but I couldn’t remeber the plot for love or toffee.

The plan was to climb the large hill/small mountain behind the town and get a few shots of the sun rising. Aside from confusing a dog for a jackel (it was super scary, honest) it went pretty well. You can click on the photos below to see the sun rising over Germeh.

Click on the image below for the slideshow of the sun rising over Germeh.

After a triumphant breakfast I set about the town, rounding the first the corner straight into a group of old men. A man called Jawad approached. He explained that a local parliamentary candidate was coming to speak to the village bigwigs in order to canvass votes. I was cordially invited to hear him speak.

We all sat around in a circle with our legs crossed and a large bowl of thick veggie gloop was passed to all in attendance. Apparently the way to your votes here was through your stomach. Take note Boris.

I’d just eaten my fill but Britishness spurred me head first into my hearty second breakfast. By the time the candidate actually spoke, I was practically crying veggie gloop.

It soon became clear that most of the bigwigs were here for a free meal. The butcher, baker, and candlestick maker had slipped into comas after the first five minutes. I assume the women had too but they were hidden behind a tarpaulin, so who knows. By the end I was the only one paying attention. I only knew four words in Farsi so this was good going.

Following the political gathering, a jog was in order. The various excitements on offer having been exhausted after less than an hour.

The plan was to run to a thermal spring 15km away through untracked desert. Maswad (sort of a concierge) deposited me by the local dam and pointed to two mountains. “Go that way and you’ll find thermal bath.” Unfortunately I missed the bit that said “make a sharp left after the mountains.”

The run was something special. An enormous dry riverbed with the texture of a burnt marshmallow followed by a wide dusty expanse. Uninterrupted desert views as far as the eye could see.

There was something that could be a town in the distance and so I plodded towards it. After two hours it became obvious that I had cocked up massively. I should have been at the thermal bath quite some time ago.

Closer inspection revealed that I had run to a cemant factory. I was shattered and couldn’t really go on. Thankfully I managed to catch a bar of signal on the road next to the factory and called for an escort. Maswad in shining Samand retrieved me just as day fell. “You didn’t turn left.”
“So I gather.”

His car was quite literally held together with used chewing gum. The odometer had just shy of 250,000km, and it showed. The body had the aerodynamics of an freight liner and as we cracked 140k/h, I could actually hear the car falling apart. ‘Killed by a car crash in the Iranian desert.’ I imagined friends thinking it a very befitting death.

Exhausted but back at home base safely, I prayed to the guest fairy for no more company. There were no Australians to speak of, instead there was a gay couple from Stuttgart. 'Two Germans. Oh Christ’, I thought.

To put this in context, I’d made a special effort to turn 2016 into a 'be more open minded about Germans’ year. It was the only reason I went to Berlin to see in the New Year.

But it got off to a bad start. First rejection from the Bergheim. Then rejection from several other clubs for no reason whatsoever. I’d come all the way to Berlin and I was being rejected like a fat girl on prom night. How dare they.

Now they’re trying to ruin my quiet evening in a desert paradise. They talked about me in German and sniggered, assuming a Brit couldn’t possibly speak German. Oh, but I can. I’d even told them that I had lived in Switzerland. So now they were insulting my intelligence and the fact that I had chosen not to wear underwear (I had shorts on, don’t worry).

The one called Axel had a laugh that was so grating that I would rather have listened to a bag of puppies being drowned. The first time I heard it I choked on a digestive biscuit and nearly died. I would have given anything for room full of Australians (not from Sydney). His travel stories were shit too.

I desperately want to be friendlier towards Germans but I’m not getting any leeway. I’m sure the Germans have camps for xenophobes like me. They’re pretty good at that sort of thing. Or so I’ve heard.

The one called Fritz had been telling me about how much he hated cats. “Zey are ze Antichrist.”
As if by magic, a Persian cat appeared.
“Watch out for him. He always attacks people in the room who are afraid of cats….he’s a bit mad…I think he has rabies.”

With that Fritz was quickly dispersed. The worst bit is that they really do mean well. I’m just a terrible human being.

A middle aged French woman practically wearing a copy of Eat, Pray, Love aroud her neck checked in. I left her to them. The French. Well, there’s another story.

So, there are two takeaways for today. 1. Xenophobia is incurable. 2. Consult a map before you go for a long run in the desert. Or you’ll get your just deserts.