Iranian Hospitality

Cass writes…

From our table at a kebab eatery, stoically facing a half dozen skewers of liver, we watch as a growing crowd clusters around the tandem. Today we've crossed the border from Turkey, wheeling our bicycle through a doorway framed with a portrait of the late Ayatollah Khomeini, to arrive in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Rosal has donned her veil and covered her hair. From now on, beyond the cloistered room of a hotel, no-one will be privy to more than her tiny hands and diminutive face.

The sun beats down and the sky is washed with blue. Above, a canyon wall rises steeply into the glare of the afternoon light. Riding through a landscape of dry rock, our surroundings open into unexpectedly lush valleys, broken only by a clutter of truckstop towns. Marand is the first city we reach and the 'mosaferkhune' we find, a simple and cheap hotel, is just a few metres off Khomeini square, set behind a glass front and stencilled with colourful Persian script. We awaken the manager, dozing on a bed in the hallway. It's been a tough day. Not in terms of distance but more because of the oppressive heat and a build-up of trucks and cars, cramming the road like blocked pores. Nerves have frayed and we both need a rest. With relief, we lock our door and finally Rosal can remove her headscarf, falling fast asleep in our shoe box room.

Arriving in this new land is both exciting and daunting, accentuated by our own concerns and the hype of Western media. The adjustment to an unfamiliar language and tradition, currency and climate, are just some of the challenges of travelling. As night falls, we awaken and take to the street. Faces peep furtively from doorways; hands shoot out unexpectedly from passers by, welcoming us to the city. Khomeini is everywhere, looking down from billboards, walls and shops, on the back of buses, in restaurants. But our deepest impression is the 'chador'. Under Iranian law, all females over the age of seven must conform in public to 'Hejab', the all important moral code of dressing. A group of veiled girls, cloaked from head to toe in black capes, hurry home from college, a few rogue fringes escaping from under shawls.

A steep climb leads us away from the city's concrete sprawl and into the fertile valleys once more. It's Friday, the day of rest for Muslims. Like Turkey, Iran seems a nation of picnic lovers. Families of fragile grandpas and stooped grandmas, languorous fathers and football obsessed teenagers (Where are you from? Engelestan? David Beckham!) relish home made feasts, alluringly served on carpets rolled out on the grass. Gathering momentum like a torpedo, we rocket by to frantic waves and yelps of delight. Through forests and along undulating plains, the road eventually flattens and widens into the industrial outskirts of Tabriz.

Our arrival coincides with the last stage of the 16th Azerbaijan Bicycle Tour, named after this North Western province. Unexpectedly, we are confronted by dozens of cyclists procuring road side spots for this Iranian version of the Tour de France. We reach the city centre in time to catch the sound of spinning wheels and a blur of riders, before our own bike is engulfed at the finishing post by a throng of cycle enthusiasts, circling us in a tight knot, shaking hands and snapping photos. Invited to the closing ceremony, we sit amongst the competing teams; Iranian, Turkish, Kazac, Turkmen and others. It's a surreal scene. On the right hand side of the hall, lycra clad youths in neon shorts and skin tight tops sip on glucose drinks. Segregated to the left, a sea of black chadors, apparently oblivious to those around but>throwing surreptitious peeks at the legs on show.

Cyclist Habib takes us back to his house, our first time in an Iranian home and a chance to experience family hospitality. We sit on a carpet propped up with cushions, admiring the open design and simple decorations. Downing rounds of tea, we work our way through a bowl of fruit before half a dozen giggling children, waited over like king and queen. Away from the eyes of the street, Rosal is allowed to lift her hejab; everyone gazes and swoons in admiration. With our Persian limited to a phrasebook, silences are filled by beaming smiles until a banquet appears, served on a tablecloth laid out on the floor. Plates stacked high with chicken, salad, sour cherries and crispy rice, seasoned with red currants are placed before us. We're forced to eat until we can no longer move, then encouraged to stretch out and relax our weary muscles. After undergoing a thorough photo shoot with every family combination, we thankfully retire to bed, exhausted, at 1 o/c in the morning.

Tabriz was once the capital of Persia and the following day we delve into our favourite hunting ground, the bazaar. Some three kilometres long, with foundations dating back a thousand years, we permeate a labyrinthine maze of tunnels lit by cylindrical skylights and naked bulbs, each quarter specialising in its own wares - swathes of material, polished tea urns, sumptuous silken carpets and luminous gold. Like good cyclists, our attention lingers over the confusing array of food, gazing upon sacks of salted pistachios, tiers of multicoloured spices, sachets of saffron and blocks of walnut halva, as well as grisly pendulums of meat and animal hooves.

Then it's time to move on, continuing our journey towards Central Asia along a mountain road that plummets dramatically towards the Caspian Sea. We bid this friendly family goodbye. Such incredible hospitality, almost overbearing in its zeal, puts our own Western preconceptions of Islamic people to shame. Two strangers invited into a home, we could not have hoped for a better welcome to Iran.