23.05.2001 Mobbed in Sarab

A long and smoggy climb leads us beyond the industrial outskirts of Tabriz, caught behind convoys of slow moving trucks and their poisonous exhausts. But as much as we curse their vehicles, truckers are perhaps the friendliest drivers on the road. When it begins to rain, one invites us into his cab for tea and biscuits, another gesture that reminds us of why we travel by bike.

Branching off the main highway away from Tehran, we stop in the junction town of Bostan Abad for lunch, our chance to sample the regional stew known as 'dizi'. It's a typical local hangout and the pock faced owner takes charge of the unique serving ritual attached to this dish. Drained first and drunk as a soup, saturated with croutons of lavash bread, the fatty meat, potato and lentils that remain are pounded down into a thick paste with a metal pestle and slurped with a spoon.

Back on the road, the traffic quietens down, just a few oil tankers closely pursued by Paykan saloons surrounding them like sucker fish on a whale. Rolling plains are hemmed by mountains. The landscape is far more open and deserted than the highway, rarely bereft of life. Battling a headwind that depletes our morale, we stop for some water. Most of the traffic is heading to nearby Azerbaijan, still known as Russia, and a huddle of youths on mopeds with barely a word of English between them question us about Iran. 'It's wonderful, the people so friendly!' is our standard response, beaming a smile towards them. One shakes his head fiercely and mimes a beard and a turban to represent the mullahs, religious clerics whose word is law since the Islamic Revolution of 1979. 'They are all animals!' he shouts out with sudden clarity of expression, laughing a little maniacally with his friends.

Pushing on against the wind, our energy dwindled to nothing, we can only manage bursts of a few kilometres at a time, barely appreciating the coating of golden light in the late afternoon. Exhausted and relieved we make it to Sarab, a small town of potholed streets where a statue of a gun toting soldier guards the roundabout. We head for a 'bastane' sandwich - fresh ice-cream served between layers of wafers - to re-energise and consider our next move. But we don't have long. Outside, the tandem is already pulling in the crowds. More and more people are gathering, drawn to this strange looking machine, closing in until the entrance to the shop is overrun by peering faces. A troupe of English speakers step forward - Hamid, visiting his family but living in Frankfurt, a local teacher and several others keen to test out their few sentences of English. The town crazy, enthusiastic and a little overexcited, bounds over to shake my hand energetically. More rounds of ice-cream are served on the house as everyone vies for our attention, welcoming us, inviting us home, three conversations at once, louder and louder. Just as noise levels are reaching fever pitch, Hamid suggests we escape and have dinner at his home.

Stepping outside, it looks like a rally is being held in the street. The crowd is clamouring forward, almost overcome by hospitality and curiosity; a police car has even pulled over to investigate the commotion. A few locals act as body guards and funnel us towards the tandem, where a dozen hands are poking bags and squeezing tyres. Almost mobbed like pop stars, we jump onto The Limo and tear off, weaving our way through a hundred bystanders, smiling and shaking more hands, until we break out of the mob and furiously pedal after Hamid's cousin who is waving us forward on his own bicycle. Those with transport leap on their steeds and chase us through the streets, round roundabouts, down alleyways until they eventually peel as we reach his home.

Rosal and I laugh at this incredible experience of intense hospitality, but also wander at the frenzy the crowd seemed to whip itself into. Introduced to our friend's vast family - relatives arrive throughout the evening - we tuck into yet another feast. Iranian road food tends to be repetitive and bland, and this is made up for the vast palette of taste served in the home. Our arrival has coincided Hamid's own family celebration, so things couldn't be better - a mound of rice, dill and beans, dolma, chicken, sour cherries, yoghurt, fried aubergines, salad and bread, all washed with the obligatory ZamZam.

Not wanting to impose further on this family occasion, we check into a flea pit hotel under the cover of darkness, run by a friendly old man and his two sons. Cigarette burns pattern the floor and toilet's a prop from 'Train spotting'. But it's been another long day; picking the least crusty of four lumpy beds, sleep comes easily.