It's like searching for lost treasure

Warm water runs over my head and across my face before cascading to the ground below to send blobs of dusty water onto my feet and ankles. Hands rub and massage my hair, this is for sure the first time I have had my hair washed by a farmer in a small mountain village. Once the process is complete, he insists on brushing it to. Without any common language, there no other option than to go with the flow. Stefan is already sporting the latest hair style as he laughs at me from the other side of the room. Our invite home to this mans houseto sleep has proven more than we bargained for.
Stopping to ask for directions we were quickly invited home, a nice gesture after perhaps the toughest day of the trip to date. A combination of 25 km steep uphill combined with a total inability to trust ANY information about road conditions, distances, etc. We are exhausted and gladly accept the offer.
Obtaining information has almost become a bit of a joke now, every person you ask will tell you something different, sometimes a factor of 10 different. Or they will say that they know the way, for example: "Ok, from the waterfall go to the bottom of the hill and turn right, 6 km uphill then you can get water, from there it is just 4 km downhill to where you want to go, the road is sealed all the way". Perfect we think, and since our two maps are wildly different from each other, and neither show this part of the country properly, we go for it. The right turn is correct, but that's where it ends, after about 8 km uphill, no water stop, only 5 out of 50 km sealed and several unmarked intersections, we arrive at the place we asked for. At least there was a road!
We follow the farmer 5 km or so, where we are greeted very warmly by his family and, soon after, the rest of the village. At one point, I counted more than 30 men, women and children crowded into the tiny front room too oogle at the big strange hairy guys on bikes. With concrete walls and a mud roof, the house was decorated with only 3 framed pictures and certificates on one wall, a small charity donation box on another and a cabinet with a TV and DVD player on the third. A steel door with a large padlock, which had been repaired, stood open. Opposite, a low, narrow door lead to a small kitchen where a gas stove stood affirmatively with pots of tea and rice on the boil. A green carpet lined the floor, well worn and sporting a range of holes and stains. The ceiling was decorated with a plastic table cloth, nailed meticulously to the slender tree trunks which supported the mud above. Turkish music soon filled the room from the satellite dish mounted precariously to the roof of the shed outside. Our host then teaching us the latest dance moves for the area as delighted onlookers laughed loudly, many with their mobiles trained on us. The videos would be distributed amongst friends and family for future entertainment and bragging rights. Many cups of tea were poured, though only to us and the man of the house. The same was the case for dinner, with the children also being allowed to eat. I'm not even sure if the women ate at all, perhaps in the kitchen while preparing the most delicious meal of rice with chicken, beans, courgettes and tomatoes, washed down with, what I'm sure is a luxury for them, Fanta. Once refusing thirds, fourths and fifths forcefully, the meal is over and we are allowed set up our tent on a mat outside. Rugs, pillows and blankets are placed in the tent. We are shown how we should sleep under the blankets, but the heat of the day remains and I'm more than happy to sleep with just some respite from the constant onslaught of mosquitoes. With a crowd around the tent, peering in at every possible angle, I finally drift off to dream land, more than content with the day.
After sleeping in a haystack we packed quickly and moved off at 6.30 in an attempt to arrive at the waterfall before the temperature reached 40 degrees. Again our maps were grossly inadequate and our attempts to obtain information from locals had yielded anything from 25 to 100 km. An initial 19 km climb to a ski field had brought breathtaking mountain scenery, the valley below promised to provide the perfect setting for us to rest our bones till evening. In the village we were told 10 km further, 2 km later 3 km, 2 km later 10 km then finally after being towed for 2 km up the steepest part of a 5 km hill, the turn off appeared. A sign indicated 18 km to the waterfall! Well into the hottest part of the day, we had to eat something before proceeding, not believing that 18 km was possible, but it was. Mostly very steeply downhill, but about 4 km steep uphill finally got us to the holy grail, a lush green area in a desert landscape where hundreds of families had driven for hours for the famous Iranian picnic. It wasn't long before we were invited for a BBQ which we gladly accepted. But first, a very refreshing shower, fully clothed, in the waterfall along with dozens of others. Fully fed and with the hottest part of the day past, we proceeded to find an alternative route to our next destination.

Avoiding a trend (I hope)

Adrenalin fills my vains, I thrash about in panic. Out of the corner of my eye I see a hand raised with a knife. From the right a hand tries to cover my mouth, but no chance. I scream "F#*! OFF" asloud as I can. A swing left and right and I'm free from their grip. I waste no time dashing the 30 m to the door of the hostel.
An innocent stroll to fill my water bottle at the water cooler turns into the biggest disapointment on the trip so far. As I fill my bottle, at least 6 men appear behind me on motorcycles. Suddenly I feel my bag being pulled at, then my arms grabbed. I react quickly realising that they are still half on their bikes and not so mobile. My bag strap is over my shoulder and not so easy to remove which adds to the panic.
With a bleeding nose and totally soaked from my own water bottle, I enter the hostel yelling. Within seconds the police arrive wearing bullet proof jackets and carrying automatic weapons. After ascertaining that I am ok and nothing is missing, then leave, helpless to do anything.
Nothing was taken apart from a little of the trust I have for these (mostly) trustworthy people.  I didn't realise at the time but my sunglasses also went missing druing the scuffle, probably fell to the ground, could have been worse! This taints another day of Iranian hospitality where we were looked after by the friends of the cousin of the friend of a friend of a CouchSurfer whom we never met (Iranian networking).
Apon our arrival in Esfahan at 6 am, they were waiting for us, after following them 20 km, we were provided with breakfast and somewhere to rest before being taken on a tour of the city, as usual our attemps to pay for anything were politely but deffinitely refused. Finally, after a phone call from the police saying that we were not allowed to stay with them, they took us to a hostel. They then biked home then drove our bags to us in the city. How exactly the police knew we were there, I don't know but they know everything.
It is a strange feeling for me to be at a hostel with everything that entails, backpackers, laundry service, booked tours etc, etc. I must say that after 2 months cycling, it was really nice to be here, though I can say for sure that after one day, I will again be longing for the freedom of the bike. Ironically, I had made a comment to a Canadian backpacker earlier in the evening about the dangers of touristy areas, my point now proven!

Digging deeper into a Culture

For the first time in my 6 years of experiencing our world, I feel a longing for my friends, a deep and unfamiliar sensation that something is missing. After thinking long and hard about this, I have concluded that the culture in this country makes it very difficult, if not impossible, to have real interactions with people that are 100% genuine. This can be traced back to concept of Tarof, a uniquely Iranian concept (as far as I know) which overshadows any interaction between people in this country. Tarof is an Arabic word which translates as 'to know each other'. In Farsi it is referred to as Roudarbayesti which translates to 'to stand behind the door'. These two translations are a pretty good summary of what Tarof means in this society. It is deeply routed in the society and thus creates a challenge for the foreigner which can lead to real frustration and sometimes anger. So, what is this Tarof thing? Tarof is a complex system of social bluffing in a game of mental cards where each person is trying to out do the other to show ultimate politeness. Play the wrong card and you will be labeled as a social failure, or at least made feel that way. Sound complicated? It is! Tarof creeps into every aspect of life, it infects conversation and ultimately masks the true intentions of everyone. This makes developing strong relationships near impossible because you never know what intention lies behind an action. An example of the complexity of this. We, as guests are invited, along with a local, to spend the night in someones home. There are only two beds, so naturally the local finds every excuse to justify sleeping on the floor. When the host discovers the other man sleeping on the floor, he insists (in a confrontation lasting several minutes) on providing a mattress. To save face the mattress is accepted, but when the door closes it is placed to the side so as not to reveal to us that giving us the beds was, in fact a Tarof. These situations leave me wondering what the intention was behind providing us with a meal or a place to sleep. Was it genuine? Where is the line drawn between genuine interest in me and the cultural requirement which requires that the guest be looked after 150%? Then there is the issue of money, in my culture we feel good when we do not place much or any financial pressure on our hosts, it's a game of balance. We give and take, you pay this one, I'll get the next and so on. Not so simple here. The host wants to show the ultimate hospitality and with this will proceed to pay for everything from a watermelon which I bought as a present for the family (can this still be considered a present? Not really I guess) to passport copies and bus tickets. Sometimes with lots of discussion, the host may (just may) accept payment for such items, but it's not easy to say the least and I don't want to seem rude either. Initially it left me feeling quite uneasy, though after some consideration I have realised that if I convince them to let me pay, they will be left feeling like they have let down there guest, in this case, their tarof has been trumped. So let them pay as long as it's reasonable and avoid those situations where they feel obliged. Buy the watermelon when they are not looking, save those biscuits for after you have left and so on. So after 2.5 weeks here, I have found an answer to my feelings of loneliness. Tarof makes it impossible for people to interact in what would be considered a normal way to me. I must analyse their body language, tone of voice and speech of my counterpart in an attempt the establish the level of Tarof involved in the interaction, sometimes none, sometimes complex and totally incomprehensible. The consequence being that the many people loose their self confidence for fear of treading on someones toes. This has the flow on effect of making a real human to human interaction very difficult, especially for me as a foreigner. Combine this with the tradition that the guest must be provided with the best there is (and lots of it), it is not surprising that I'm left with a range of new feeling which I have no previously encountered. The most believable history which I have heard so far behind Tarof goes back thousand of years to the reign of the kings, each citizen was obliged to show nothing but respect for their king when near by, but when out of his city, they freely ridiculed him as they wished. This has somehow developed into what it is today, a phenomenon which paralyses these incredibly humble and friendly people, sometimes in a good way, and sometimes a bad one. It has become clear to me that the best way to get the most out of this incredible country is to go with the flow, to think less and observe more, to forget about your norms and try to accept theirs and most of all to enjoy the ride cause it's a roller coaster!