Yamaha Journey Vol.14

In a small greengrocer's in a desert town, the cheerful owner is selling the ingredients for the classic Persian ‘green stew', ghormeh sabzi. Many of the herbs and spice were entirely unfamiliar to my palate but the explosion of flavours and fragrances in Persian food were astonishing.

Meybod, Iran

In the ancient desert city of Yazd, this elderly gentleman was keen to engage me in conversation. Everywhere I went, it was the same question, ‘What do you think of Iran.' To which I would reply, ‘I love it!'

Amir Chakhmaq Complex, Yazd, Iran

Standing among the 2500 year old ruins, it was humbling to behold the skill and artistry that had created these ancient palaces. I could imagine the centuries of history that have made their mark on this and - the kings and their battles, the uprisings, revolutions and devastating earthquakes. I was profoundly moved by the resilience of Iran and the Iranian people.

Persepolis, Shiraz, Iran

As I stood in line at the border post, waiting to have my passport stamped, I could feel the eyes of an elderly Iranian woman on me, staring and whispering to her friend. Dressed in the long black ‘chador' with her hair covered, I feared she took a disapproving view of my activities. ‘You!' she tapped me on the shoulder, ‘You, you have a motorcycle, yes?' ‘Er, yes…' I nodded, nervously, awaiting her recriminations but her lined face broke into a huge toothy smile and she flung an arm around my shoulder, making loud engine noises and revving an imaginary throttle, her hips swinging beneath her billowing black cloak, as she imitated the moves of a daredevil speedway racer. ‘Vroom, vroom!' she cried, ‘A lady on a motorcycle! Very good, very good! Welcome to Iran!' Then she gripped my face, and spoke to me in Persian, her eyes fixed on mine. Her friend translated, ‘It is an old Persian saying, it means, ‘Go and wake up your luck!'
Such was my welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran. I arrived in the mountainous northwest of the country, and caught my breath in the ancient trading city of Tabriz. Once an important halt on the Silk Road, I reveled in the bustle of its 13th century bazaar, a cavernous maze of interlinked alleys and courtyards, where carpet weavers sipped sweet tea from tiny glasses, sitting on the floor beneath the high, vaulted ceilings. The scenes could have been from hundreds of years ago and I was acutely aware that my motorcycle tyres were following in the footsteps of the ancient camel caravans that once carried spices, silk, jade, silver and gold between the Orient and Europe, along this very route. As I gazed around me in wonderment, feeling the tangible history of this old overland route, I could almost believe I had been transported here, not by motorcycle, but on a magic carpet.

Out on the highways, heading south, it was hard to make progress with the amount of socialising involved. Everywhere I went, I would be approached by strangers, men and women of all ages, wanting to talk, surprised at the sight of a foreign rider in their midst. ‘Where are you from?' they would ask, and always, ‘What do you think of Iran?' At the truck-stops and gas stations, families would insist I join them for a meal or a picnic on the grass verge, plying me with piles of rice and stew, or flat bread and white cheese, always followed by the tiny glasses of sweet tea. At a toll booth, the young guy on duty admired my bike and waved me on without charge, instead forcing me to take his packed lunch and cramming my pockets full of fruit, until I could hardly move for juicy peaches and shiny red pomegranates.

Before plunging into the capital, Tehran and the southern deserts I was heading for the curving coast of the Caspian Sea and beyond it, the snowy heights of the Alborz Mountains. I cruised along the coastal road, passing palm trees and stately mansions from the days of the Shah. The warm breeze on my face turned chilly as I moved away from the Caspian and headed into the foothills. It wasn't long before I was climbing to what felt like the top of the world. Winding through the mountains, eagles circled above me in a vast blue sky and a jagged sea of rock and snow stretched out as far as the eye could see. In the distance Mount Damavand stood tall and proud, the highest peak in the Middle East. The roads became rougher, the verges piled high with banks of snow, but I was the only rider out here, swooping through the bends, soaring like the eagles above me.

Iran's ancient culture and ingenuity were on full display in the desert city of Yazd. Marco Polo himself had come this way in 1272 and described it as a ‘good and noble city.' Its residents continued to live up to this reputation and I found a warm welcome among its ancient alleys, mudbrick domed buildings and fragrant, tranquil gardens. The final days of my journey took me through rocky mountainous desert, riding under a cloudless blue sky, to the city of Shiraz, famous as the home of Persian poetry and regarded as the true heart of Iran. Here I was ‘adopted' by a taxi driver, a veteran of the Iran-Iraq war and keen motorcyclist, who, excited to see a foreigner on a bike, insisted on becoming my unofficial tour guide, even taking me to his home to meet his family. ‘I wanted to speak with you when I saw your bike,' he said, ‘It is very important to take care of guests in our culture' he told me, ‘it does not matter where you are from, if you are Muslim or Christian or any religion. We must take care of each other.'

This tolerance and generosity touched me deeply. These sentiments reflected my experience throughout Iran. It felt as though this journey was the natural summation of all my motorcycle travels around the world. When I had first set off to ride from Alaska to Argentina all those years ago, my original motivation had been to simply ‘have an adventure' and escape the day job. But now, here in Iran, a land and culture so different to my own, I was aware that it was the people I had encountered during my time on the road that had made my journeys memorable, and that by travelling by motorcycle, I had been able to truly get under the skin of a country and to meet people and explore places that would have been inaccessible otherwise. There was no other form of transport that could provide this unique mix of insight, adventure and international camaraderie.
In all my motorcycle journeys, so many strangers around the world had shown me kindness, generosity and the importance of human connection, no matter what our differences. Iran was the pinnacle of this experience and it was something I would take back with me and cherish forever - and something I would endeavor to pass on.