Shady Persian motorcycle deals

Posted by Andrew on Jun 10, 2011 in Blog | 10 comments

Late 2009 to early 2010 i spent 4 months or so riding a motorcycle around the indescribebly beautiful country of Iran. Despite what  image the media may portray, the people of Iran are some of the friendliest and most hospitibal i have encounterd in all my wanderings. During my stay in Iran I rarely found myself lodging at a hotel or hostel as i was constantly staying with locals who were so kind to offer. More then once i was approached on the street with offers of a place to stay in a family home. Seemingly i was an obvious (and rare) forigner. I soon came to learn just how engrained politness and hospitality is in Persian culture, they even have a word for it… Ta‘arof!  Wikipedia’s definition:

If only the rest of the world followed these simple rules as closely as Iranians seem to do so… Anyway im not here to ramble on about the politness of Persians! I want to relate to you the story of how i came to be riding a motorcycle around this country. read on!

Stepping off the Trans-asian express (an epic journey) in Tabriz, a city in northern Iran,  i found myself wandering around the train station like an elephant who happened to find himself at the bottom of the ocean all of a sudden, out of place to say the least. A sharp, cold mountain breeze greeted me as i exited the station and walked out into the city. Nothing made sense, the people stared, the street signs were all in the cursive Farsi script and there were people in militery uniforms everywhere. The trepidation wormed its way through my guts and turned into a sharp spike of adreniline. What was i doing here? Never before in all my adventures around this globe have i felt more out of place then then those first few hours.

Wandering aimlessly through the streets trying to find somewhere to spend the fast appraoching night was the only loose goal i hung onto. More then once I thought about abandoning all dignity and partaking in a concrete matress next to one of the homeless people on the streets. At least they had fires!

Some time during my meanderings i looked up and saw a young dude with a big smile walking towards me, he as looking directly at me. I did the stupid thing most people do in this situation, looked behind my self and found no one, thinking it can’t be me he is looking at…

“Hello my friend! What are you doing in my country?” he said through his broad grin.

Great i thought. Three hours in and im about to be abused by a crazy guy on the street. Why DID i come here anyway?

“Ahhh… Thought i’d come check it out…” i mumbled back to him, unable to come up with something more elaborate. Simply because that was actually as good a reason as i had.

“Does not everyone from your country think we are all terrorists? and that we  want to blow up your families?” he said, still smiling.

“yeah, i guess they do” You could have shown me a naked picture of the queen and i would have been less shocked then i was by his question. No better way to the truth then a direct question. As I was unable to form even the shadow of a pseudo lie he got the truth.

“Well, when you go home, you tell everyone we are good people and we have families just like you.” He said, trailing of with a belly full of laughter.

Mohammad, as was his name and from what i can see is the name of almost every male in this country, proceeded to invite me back to his family home for the evening. Glad to be relieved of my conrete matress I obliged him. In the end i stayed with him for the better part of a week in Tabriz, having him and his families small Iranian style car as my personal tour guide. What ever these cars are named i cannot remember, but they do bring a whole new level of …something to the word car. Fun times.

At the the end of my memorable stay at the family abode of young Mohammad, (not sure why im calling him young, as he was certainly at least my equal in age) as i walked out their front gate dragging a small child that had attatched themself to my leg in a vain attempt at extending my visit, Mr Mohammad stopped me.

“Andrew, if your going to the City of Esphahan you should visit my freinds who i studied with. they own a carpet store in the main bazzar” he told me as he wrote down the details on the back cover of my diary. Unseemingly this was the beggining of my motorcycle escapades around the ancient Persian empire.

Esphahan is located on the central plains of the Iranian pleautu, warmer then the north although still not a balmy location at this time of the year. Upon finally reaching this city with many more adventures along the way (stay tuned)  I quickly found a hostel to stay in for the night. The next day i wandered into the city with the intent on finding the friends of Mr Mohammad. Little trouble did i have. Walking through the bazaar i noticed a group of young guys lazing around playing a board game sipping on the ever present Iranian tea (Chay as the Iranians spell it). I entered the room, introduced myself and quickly found myself lounging on a carpet chatting away and chugging down on a Chay.

One central realization i have had over the years is that no matter where you roam east, north, south or west young people are all generally the same. Before 5 minutes i felt like i was in Australia with a group of my best mates and not in Iran with a bunch of strangers. During the conversation i mentioned that i was interested in percuring a motorcycle to tour the country on. The topic was differed till later when one of the guys took me to another carpet shop in the same bazaar.

Never have i seen eyes more pirceing then those set in the sockets of the propieter of this store. I barely listened as introductions were made mezmarized by his eyes. After some idle banter and the non-rigours of Ta’aarf i was able to glean that the man was from the tribal region in the south east of Afghanistan and Iran. If you have ever seen the famous photograph entitled “Afghan Girl” by the nat geo photographer Steve McCurry, these are the eyes. We spent the next hour or so discussing everything from life in Australia to the ever present Isreal / Palestien conflict. Eventually i deftly steered the conversation on to the topic of my motorcycle ambitions. Having won the friendship of this man over many more cups of chay, he informed me that it was illigal for a forigner to own a motorcycle with Iranian registration… although he could probably “arrange” it.  Also an interesting note is the lack of motorcycels larger then 150cc. During the Islamic revolution of 1979 the governemnt banned all motorcycles over the 150cc class as many assasinations were carried out on high powered bikes, making for quick escapes.

A young boy who worked at his store had recently needed to sell his motorcycle to pay for tuition fees for some of his education ( this i found strange as the boy was only around 17). I came back the next day and within half an hour or so the young lad turned up on the bike and we began the negotation process. Any such dealings in Iran are seemingly an excuse to consume more chay and talk philosophy. Even so we reached the respectable price of 300 euros… And after some dodgey paperwork (involving forged licences and various other documents), visits to various official ..err places the process was complete and she was mine!

If your wondering why i only paid 300 euros for the bike you have to remember that its only 150cc and also there is the fact that it was a genuine Imitation Chinese Honda! haha.

I often travel on motorcycles, and no matter how many times i sit on them it still feels like the first time, some of you know the feeling. Big bubbles of excitement were floating through my body as i rode back to the hostel, i could ramble about it for hours but all i will say is there is NOTHING like traveling on a motorcycle.

Freedom in its purest form.

Images from Iran