After biketouring for 5 months and reaching 6371 km, radius of our planet, I am resting in a hammock beside the ocean and recalling memories of the last month. It was challenging, beautiful, rewarding!
Constantly I’ve been surprised in a positive way by Iran being a very different world as it is presented in western media. I found it modern, safe, clean, rich with nature and history, with very welcoming and educated people, disagreeing with their government and often moving away from the religion. Among complex factors forming everyday reality I discovered an unexpected possibility of freedom in private lives.

From Teheran I returned to pilgrim Qom and rode to Kashan, an old city known for labyrinth of brownish mud lanes and traditional houses with fountains in their shadowy yards. Oval shape of the old mosque reminded me of a giant spider guarding its web.

Next evening my shoes and tent were filled with fine fragments of sand, but the sky with numerous stars. It was surprisingly easy to make fire in the dunes of Maranjab desert, dry bushes were growing everywhere. I had to push my bicycle many times to continue on the road covered with windblown sand.


In the mountains towards Isfahan I met a group of local cycling enthusiasts finishing their day trip. They offered me cay and we grilled corn on the fire beside the road.


Pedalling for 130 km in a day with more than 1000 m uphill, my personal best so far, I finally entered the blue world of Naqsh-e Jahan Square, Image of the World. Central area of Isfahan is known for Persian architecture from 17. century and as a UNESCO’s world heritage site. I could easily get lost in the maze of bazaars, admired details of old palaces, gardens and mosques, spent time meeting other travellers. My bicycle got a full-service treatment and slowly I started to understand why they call Isfahan Half of the world.



One of the local cyclists, Saadat, invited me to go around the city with him and his friend Ali. They were proud to carry in their pockets a bottle of strong homebrewed fruit spirit, juice and shot glasses. We were walking the streets in the night with music on the portable speaker. Their plan was to make us all drunk and I didn’t like it at all. Drinking forbidden alcohol in the public space in Iran felt risky and dangerous, as anytime you can get checked by Sepah, moral police. They don’t wear uniforms.

Under the Khajoo bridge, where acoustic is great, people were gathering and singing together. The atmosphere was dreamy and magic, our bottle empty. Old people and children, everybody was clapping their hands in the rhythm drowning out the sound of the water in the usually dry river-bed. Suddenly singing stopped and crowd was dispersing. Somebody told me police asked them to stop, as public gatherings were not allowed.

My companions took me to Armenian church, we had dinner and enjoyed bubbling nargile in a dark and smoky shisha bar packed with local men. In the end, after a wild ride through chaotic night traffic, I was happy to survive and leave the car with the inebriated driver.
When I was strolling along the river next morning a bunch of men invited me for a shot of brandy from the plastic water bottle again. Seriously? People were following their own rules and beliefs, secretly inhabiting various realities.

After morning juggling session, my prayer in front of the blue-tiled Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, I left the city towards Yazd. In the desert village of Varzaneh women were covered in traditional white burkas instead of black. I walked barefoot through the dunes of Varzaneh desert in the morning, reaching untouched and peaceful ridges away from the local tourists screaming on the breaknecking jeep rides.

The road led me on through the sandy landscapes with dunes getting smaller and smaller in the distance. In the middle of nowhere I suddenly encountered a familiar face.

Amir, German cyclist I met shortly in the hostel in Isfahan, a social worker by his profession, was patching his tube beside the remote and quiet road. I stopped, we ate some biscuits and agreed to overnight together in the caravanserai.

Passing the salt lake and black rocks of volcano crater I soon overcame Amir’s two cycling companions, Marie and Asad, a couple from Germany spending last year on bikes. The sun was going down, in the evening light sand was changing its color and shadows of lone bushes were growing long. There was no wind and no traffic, the silence was absolute.

Last kilometres I cycled in the dark. Tarmac turned into gravel and there was no light on the horizon. Strange, I expected caravanserai restored into a hotel like the one I knew from Bisotun. Other cyclists told me it was a nice place to sleep. To my surprise I discovered only ruins in the darkness of bare mountain landscape, many kilometres away from the closest village!

I chose my room in the abandoned building, once a meeting point of merchants and travellers on the silk route, and set up my tent. I went around to collect rare pieces of wood. In one hour my friends arrived. We had a wonderful evening sharing food, even cake, and listening to stories sitting around the fire. Stars were shining high above the walls surrounding us. And behind the walls I could hear a huge void.

We filtered water from the muddy spring in the center of caravanserai’s yard. Quiet and windprotected rooms made a perfect sleep. In the morning I enjoyed juggling on the beautiful and well preserved rooftop, feeling enormous freedom.

Soon I hit the road again, I was running out of food and visa too. My friends were filming an interview with Amir about war in Gaza, his father coming from Palestine. At the end they spontaneously spent another night there, living a cyclist’s freedom to its fullest.

In two days I reached Yazd, ancient town famous for mud buildings and windtowers, a sophisticated system for cooling houses in the hot dry summers.


In the evening I coincidentally entered a zurkaneh sport club, where men were practising traditional bodybuilding discipline accompanied by live music in a small round arena of ancient water tank. At the end I tried to juggle heavy wooden clubs with Mohammad, as I saw him performing some basic juggling patterns. He was amazed by my skills and I was amazed by pure existence of juggling in the form of an old sport discipline.

Later in the night I started to speak with a group of friendly students, fascinated by uncommon image of girls riding bicycles through the city – an image of emancipation. Usually you can only see women sitting behind men on their motorbikes.

In the morning I went to police office to extend my visa for another month. This was the main purpose of my visit to Yazd as it has been known for getting extension there smoothly. After two hours and with 50.000 Rials (1 $) less in my pocket I was happy to get a new visa stamp, until I realised that speedometer was stolen from my bicycle parked in front of the office. I asked police to check security cameras but we couldn’t see much as bike stood in the shadow of a tree. What a pity! My past and future cycling data was lost. It made me sad and angry. Whoever took it will not be able to use it anyway, as half of it was still on my wheel and fork. I will be estimating the distance cycled from this point on using Kamoot navigation system on my mobile.

Soon Amir joined me in the hostel room. As a welcome gift I accidentally pured the whole jar of tahini in his shoe. Luckily it was the end of one of those days when all the things go wrong. He understood.

We were roaming around the city, entered Zoroastrian fire temple, enjoyed Persian dishes kashke bademjan (eggplant dip) and abgoosht (lamb stew), while making new friends and plans. We decided to cycle together to Shiraz, historical city every Iranian had been recommending to visit, and reach Hormuz island for Christmas.
Meanwhile, after one month in Iran, my phone got blocked. As registration would be very expensive I bought a cheaper second-hand phone at the bazaar to use it for hotspot. All the time I was using vpn (Express VPN, only two server locations worked for me) to go online, reach social media and other applications. Having internet in Iran was deffinetely not self-evident.

Hosein was playing sufi music that made me feel goose bumps in the green yard of our hostel. He is an adventurer, climber and cave explorer. All my cycling trip revealed in front of my closed eyes sitting next to him and among the small dervish figures dancing on the trees and mud walls. I was simply thankful.

After a rich breakfast with Marie and Asad visiting us on our rooftop we said farawell to eachother. Loaded with fresh flat bread we set on a journey towards the towers of silence.

Sky burials took place there until 20th century, following the Zoroastrian belief. Bodies were left for vultures to eat them behind the walls. After a year bones were removed to inner circle of the tower with acid added for decomposition. Nusessalars, caretakers of the bodies, were only allowed to enter. To avoid spreading diseases from the corpses they lived separately under the towers.


Honking of the truck drivers never paused. Cars were stopping beside the road, people giving us fruits, sweets and drinks, kindly asking if we needed anything or for selfie. We spent the night in a small mosque. Suddenly it was full of people sitting around the carpets, talking and eating. Prayer time?

We were approaching mountain pass with altitude over 2600 m, when it started to blow strongly. Battling powerful headwind that could easily turn our loaded bicycles over was exhausting. Sometimes wind was pushing us towards the middle of the road. Or off the road. We could easily get stuck on the sandy shoulder.

Exhausted and hoping for better conditions on the following day, we decided to overnight in the mountain town of Eghlid. We found a room in a traditional guesthouse, sleeping on the rug and sitting on the pillows. Light rain poured over the streets. We had rice with chicken for dinner in the cozy restaurant. I realised there my e-visa for Pakistan was finally granted! But my joy was soon interrupted.

On the wet night road a white car was following us. Amir asked a man on the street for the price of dates, but I realised he came from the car, not from the shop. He wanted to see our documents. No uniform. ‘How can we know you are police?’ we asked. He pulled his jacket a bit higher to show us his belt with a pistol. Sepah police, protectors of Islamic revolution. He took our passports and visas to the car, we followed him tightly as we didn’t trust him. Where do you stay? How long? Why are you here? Where are you going? As foreigners we were suspicious. Communication felt akward and uncomfortable. At the end we were asked for selfie. No smiles.

In the morning sky was clear and mountains were covered with fresh snow! But the strong and freezing headwind resisted. After 16-km struggle I stopped at the gas station over the pass and drank liter of cay with friendly shopkeeper before Amir reached one hour later. He was much slower and we decided to ride separately for a while.

I found shelter for the night in the ruins of another abandoned caravanserai. Grass was white of frost in the morning. After last short uphill I entered sunny terraced slopes with red-leafed vineyards, familiar to me from lands of Hafiz’s poetry. Through warm stony gorge I speeded towards the mysterious ancient city of Persepolis, in 330 BC destroyed by the army of Alexander the Great.

Under the rock walls of southern Zagros mountains people were gathering for picnics. I admired Iranian outdoor culture, they were always ready to make food on an open fire while listening to music from the car or to a friend playing guitar. Sometimes they spread their picnic blankets even between busy highway lanes!
I was wandering among the huge pillars, palace walls, statues and reliefs of old Persian kings. I recognised Zoroastrian symbols on their tombs, still being followed today by Zoroastrian community in Yazd. Time stopped, sun didn’t want to set.

Literally I became one of the kings, as Kourosh (Lord of the sun) is Iranian name for king Cyrus the Great of Achaemenid dynasty. Not exactly the same, but nowhere ever have I felt more comfortable to tell my name while travelling the world. Everybody could pronounce it and remember easily. The king has returned by bicycle!

In the early night Amir arrived. We were happy to see eachother again after 2 days and made fire at the picnic area. Plastic bags were flying like ghosts through abandoned land and dogs were fighting loudly in the distance. In the morning a woman brought cups of cay to our tents in exchange for salt and we made friends with shy little dog cubs. I continued to Shiraz.

Loud music on the streets was a sign of religious holiday and martiers were simbolycally hitting their backs. I was allowed to enter Shah Cheragh holy shrine with a silver tomb in the center. People were touching and kissing it, while others were praying on the carpets. Suddenly I felt enormous energy of the place, a strange vibration passed through me.

With Amir we visited the tomb of Hafiz, Persian poet from the 14th century I’ve been admiring since highschool for his neverending relevance, optimism and wisdom. Iranians have a ritual of solving a difficult question by opening Hafiz’s book of poems. In the verses of the page coincidentally opened the answer is hidden. We found ours too.

Suddenly there were 9 bikes parked in the yard of our hostel in Shiraz and we all were going to celebrate Christmas together! Air was full of chatter and laughter. What a miracle to have a spontaneously formed cycling family. With Amir we decided to cycle the whole way of last 600 km to Bandar Abbas. No bus or hitchhiking. Only 5 days were left!



Landscapes were changing from bare stony plains to moonlike, with purple rocks in the shape of waves, and again to sandhills with palmtrees.



We were approaching Persian Gulf, so most of the way went downhill. We slept wildcamping under palmtrees or in the bare land, cooking on the streets of remote villages where only small market was occasionally available.


We encountered first camels slowly grazing in the dry landscape with a few trees. Gentle giants. Bunches of wild kids were following us out of the villages on their motorbikes.

And we had an unexpected challenge slowing us down: Amir hit the record of 5 flat tyres in 5 days! At the end he used all our reserve tubes and patches, we couldn’t afford another puncture anymore. Village kids brought us rice and delicious cold doogh (yogurt drink) while we were fixing the last tube in the shadow of their house. I feel lucky, in 3 months of cycling across Iran I haven’t had a single puncture, can you believe?


Finally in the early night we reached Bandar Abbas, a huge coastal city. I was visiting hotels in search for a room while waiting for Amir but they were either full or expensive. We ended up stuffing ourselves with the whole roasted chicken, Amir grown up as a vegetarian asking me if he picked all the meat from the bones. We laughed at his self-reflection. We bought plenty of fruits and vegetables at the bazaar and headed towards port to catch the last ferry leaving for Hormuz island.

It was 23th of December, the night before Christmas, when we were following white crystals of salt river, reminding us of snow landscape. Strange, as we were wearing just shorts.

‘Welcome to paradise,’ our friends made us feel at home after a long journey. Hormuz, colorful island in the Persian Gulf, became a meeting point for cyclists and other travellers in Iran. Our camping at the remote Several trees beach was growing and improving in next weeks, with constant fire, solar power and clouds of flies. We’ve pedalled half of the world to set our tents in the sand and listen to eachother’s stories, laughter and waves of the ocean breaking in the night.

But first of all we jumped in the sea for a refreshing night swim.

To be continued …