Monthly Archives: August 2015

10 000 km – Let’s be superheroes!

Ok guys! Who can tell what this means?

That’s right. It’s time for this adventure to become something more than a mad and pointless quest to ride a piece of steel on two wheels around the world. I’m just about to hit 10 000 km – and very soon it will be time for us to make our first donation to ActionAid.

So far this journey has enabled one girl to fulfill her dreams. Me. With our joined forces, we now have the power to give women and girls all over the world an the opportunity to fulfill theirs.

In about 10 days, all donors will recieve information on how and where to cash up. Keep an eye on your inboxes!

If you still haven’t signed up to become a km-donor – this is the time to do it. Go to How to contribute to find out how and why to become a part of this.

Sure – we’re not millionaires. But if you’re reading this, chances are pretty big that you do have something to spare. Our small contributions add up, and together we can make a huge difference in peoples lives. I am asking you all to please – please – open your hearts.

And then, open your wallet.

If you have any questions at all, feel free to contact me in whatever way suits you (email, facebook or smoke signals being a few good suggestions).

C’mon people – let’s make this one count.

Fredrika

By |August 16th, 2015|ActionAid|

The Turkmen Desert Dash

So, what do you know about Turkmenistan? Not all that much, I would guess. I know I sure didn’t before I went there. This is not that strange though, as Turkmenistan generally is considered to be the 2nd most closed up country in the world, after North Korea.

Now this is a weird place, with the most odd rules and regulations you can (or can’t) think of. Photography being illegal in the capital, is an example that can probably give you an idea about the level of things.

Officialy tourism is welcomed, but layer upon layer of bureaucracy effectively discourages most people off from even trying to obtain a visa. And considering the fact that this is a very poor country consisting 90% of desert – I’m not too sure that many people would like one, even if they were handed out like flyers.

Cycling across Turkmenistan has been done before. Too many times to count. This is the center piece that connects the Middle East and Central Asia, and the 500 km stretch through the Karakum Desert is a classic route taken by long distance tourers going between Europe and Asia.

This could be a great ride. One where you’re slowly pedaling through the solitude desert in complete and utter peace. Just you and your bike. Spending long, silent campnights on the sand dunes. Sunsets to die for. Having the world, and the most mesmerizing starry skies you’ve ever laid eyes on, all for yourself – just as long as you want it.

In theory, that is.

In practice – it’s hell on earth.

Why?

These are a few things to take into account:

1) Time. You have a mere 5 day transit visa on which to complete the ride.
2) Heat. It’s summer – expect daytime temperatures around 45-50 degrees.
3) Shade. Now this is a concept that still doesn’t exsist in the desert.
4) Wind. Going West to East? Sorry – the sandstorms will not be working in your favor.

All in all. Cycling through Turkmenistan is not why you took up bicycle touring. This is not about rambling around the countryside, getting to know locals and experiencing new cultures. This is not about letting your mood decide when and where to stop for the day.

This is bootcamp. A race against time.

This is – The Turkmen Desert Dash.

My last day in Iran I found myself some company. A Swiss couple – Iris & Reto – was entering Turkmenistan on the same date as me, so we decided to team up and take on the challenge together.

By this point all three of us were quite happy to leave Iran, and more than ready to take on this new unknown country. Iris and I even a bit more than Reto, as none of us could wait to finally get to take off our hijabs.

‘Can you imagine? Tomorrow, we’ll finally be cycling with the wind in our hair again.’

It really is true though, you should be careful what you wish for. What none of us yet realised, was just how much wind we were actually in for…

Even starting the desert crossing was easier said than done. First challenge prooved to be crossing the Turkmenistan border.

Officials did everything from measuring our body temperatures to x-raying our equipment before we were finally trusted to step foot into Turkmenistan. A bunch of valuable hours had already passed on our first day, and we quickly jumped onto the saddles in order to start knocking off the kilometers.

Heat, an inhumane headwind and a bunch of nothing was what we had to work with.

Things were a lot easier than we’d all expected though. The road we were working had by others been described as ‘the worst road you’ll ever ride’. But it really wasn’t too bad! And that talk about no shade? Nah. I mean after all we did find this lonely bush/tree thing that (kind of) protected us from the sun as we stopped for lunch.

It wouldn’t last though. Quickly after our break we realised what all those people had actually been referring to.


Both as it came to the no shade…


…as well as to the crappy road

It would take a lot for us to stop smiling though. We had all known what to expect – Turkmenistan is simply not supposed to be easy. We kept cranking and soon enough the heat and the wind calmed down for the day.


Sunset riding – no doubt my favorite part of the day!

With sore legs we pitched our tents after a long first day, and spent a really nice evening together. I’m not sure if we were mostly celebrating our arrival in Turkmenistan or departure from Iran, but it was a pretty fab night.

Soaking and using our old hijabs in an attempt to cool down the evening beer (something none of us had even seen in more than a month) really felt like the ultimate symbol of us all turning the leaf and beginning a whole new chapter of our adventures.


Unfortunately this would be both our first and last camp night together

Despite of putting in hard work – we had only managed to cover 70 km on our first day. We were already behind. After another day of pushing against horrible wind and trying to remain sane despite of the heat, we reached Mary just as the sun started to set. Still behind.

I knew that Iris and Reto since the start had been considering throwing in the towel here. From Mary – a city popping up in the middle of the desert – you have the opportunity to catch a train all the way to Turkmenabat and the Uzbekistan border. I knew that they – like me – were tired. We were behind. The wind was stronger than any of us had been ready for. Of course it was a tempting option. And in many ways, the only reasonable one.

They decided to go for the train.

Damn.

I didn’t have to decide anything. My mind was made up a long time ago. Turkmenistan could hit me with all the heat, wind, sand and horrible roads it wanted. I was gonna cycle this stupid desert, and that was it.

We said our goodbyes, and they headed off for the train station. I headed off to catch up with the ticking time bomb that was my visa. The upcoming days were long. I mean really long. Though the road is completely flat, the winds many times didn’t let me pedal any faster than 9 km/h. Covering distance took time – a lot of it.

The key to making it through the desert are the roadside cafés. Every 70-80 km, there is this very simple café where you can hide away from the sun and stock up on enough water to get you through to the next one (12 or so liters in my case). Without these, doing this ride would be impossible. With them – it’s just seriously difficult.

My days in the desert all looked the same:

Getting up at 4 AM I started cycling just as the sun rose. The mornings I pedaled with only one thing in mind – to make it to the next café before becoming desert BBQ. As I didn’t have much time to rest in the nights, I used these hot hours inside to catch up with some sleeping.

Then, as the most brutal heat and wind let go for the day, I cycled again. Covering just enough distance to be able to make it to the next café in time to not become BBQ the upcoming day either.

And at last: Stop. Set camp. Eat. Make a half-hearted attempt to get rid of the sand you have everywhere (for real – everywhere). And finally set the alarm 4 hours later – only to repeat the whole thing again.

Sounds like fun?

It was! …for a while.

This pretty much sums up my Turkmenistan experience:


Day 1: Setting off feeling like this totally badass hardcore adventurer


Day 2: Realising that OK – this will take some work.


Day 3: Halfway? Are you kidding me? And where the hell are my friends?!


Day 4: (Haha OK. It never really got this bad.)


Day 5: …can someone please just come and deport me?

Overall Turkmenistan was a really cool adventure. In a lot of ways I feel like I didn’t experience the country at all – but I do enjoy the physical part of this too. By the end of day four I rolled into Turkmenabat – the desert finish line. Equally happy and exhausted I pitched my tent for the last time on Turkmenistan grounds.

How I’ll remember Turkmenistan?

Sand. Heat. Wind.

Five days of madness. Complete and utter madness.

Madness in the very best of ways.

Fredrika

By |August 15th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|

Iran Pt. 5 – Leaving on a High Note

Riding into big cities is one of my least favorite things ever. Especially in a country like Iran where drivers really don’t take me into account as they fly past, often so close that I instinctly pull my elbows into the sides of my body (as if that somehow would make the space between us any bigger).

Going into Mashad – Iran’s 2nd biggest city – with it’s 3 million people was no different. As I was picking up my visa for Turkmenistan, I had no choice but to head into the very heart of this busy city. And since it also holds the Imam Reza Shrine – the largest mosque in the world, as well as the holiest site in all of Iran – I would absolutely have gone anyways.

In my handlebar bag I had a note with an adress to some people waiting for my arrival. Friends of friends to a family I had been staying with a few days earlier. Since I’m riding with a GPS, finding the place shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Well. It probably wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was written down in Arabic script.

This wasn’t the first time I was looking for an adress I couldn’t read myself, so I kept focusing on the traffic around me instead of thinking too much about how to find this still unknown destination. It always works out anyways.

This time – it worked out particularly well.

A man on an old motorcycle was about to race pass me, but in the last second he almost came to a halt right next to me, leaving just enough space for me not to be immediately pushed of the road.

‘Hellooooooo!’

Now this happens all the time.

9/10 times this greeting will be followed up by a question – either in English or in Farsi – about where I’m from. However, this man didn’t follow the ususal script at all.

‘My name! Ali!’

‘I am! Your bodyguard!’

I mean I have had people present themselves as everything from my interpreter to my new husband before. But usually it’s not shouted from a motorcycle in the middle of a busy highway. And bodyguard? That was a first.

After his very sudden appearance, my new bodyguard actaully did a pretty excellent job. Riding next to me all the way into Mashad, he forced the cars coming from behind to give me some space. And even better, he kind of knew where I was going. When his knowledge of the city no longer was enough, he just couldn’t think to leave me to take care of myself.

No, that was simply out of question. Someone (read: some man) had to take over. Someone safe. But who? Hm…

Ah!

Rushing out in the middle of a roundabout he grabbed a hold of his successors. Two policemen.

Shit.

Of course none of them knew that I really had had enough of the Irianian police by this point. Luckily though, these guys were great. Nothing like their colleagues I had previously bumped into just a few times too many. Who knows, perhaps this was all thanks to Ali who gave them clear directions on their new mission: get the tourist wherever she’s going.

And sure enough, they did.


Leaving whatever they were doing they spent almost an hour directing me to the right place


Living proof of that there are nice police men in Iran!

Once in Mashad, I had a few really good days. Most importantly – I got my visa for Turkmenistan.

But far more exciting – I managed to sneak in to see the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza. As only muslims are welcome there, I was lucky to get in without trouble. And it was all thanks to my hosts – two amazing women who I still get goosebumps just thinking about.

Unfortunately (and I think understandably) I won’t post their names or photos here.

Living together mother and daughter (about 70 & 40 years old), they long ago made it their life’s mission to stand up for their human rights as women, and to their right to religious freedom. And to put it short, they were more than reluctant to dress me up in a chador and take me to the Shrine of Imam Reza.

Now this is the most sacred site in the country. The biggest mosque in the world. People pilgrimage from all over the planet just to get a glimpse of the golden tomb of Imam Reza.

But to them. It is nothing but a symbol of everything they hate about Iran.

In the end, they did take me though. Well, the mother did. I don’t think the daughter would set foot at the shrine even if her life depended on it.


From dress rehearsal the night before.

There is a strict photo prohibition at and inside the mosque. But this was such a strong experience. Coming from the outside to watch people overflow with emotion, as they fulfilled their lifelong dream of coming here, really left me with mixed feelings.

It was all absolutely beautiful and equally tragic. Touching and provoking. People in tears of joy and heartache. Seven-year-olds in full niqab. Hope. Oppression. Total calm and sheer panic. All within the walls of what could be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

I still can’t wrap my head around my visit at the Holy Shrine. All I know is that I’m glad I was there to see it.


From outside the complex.

In opposite to the visit at the Shrine of Imam Reza, the remainder of my stay in Mashad can be boiled down to one word:

Girl power.

Haha OK, two then. Stupid auto correct – ruining my flow.

As oppose to so many other women in Iran, who cover up as soon as the camera comes out – these women took their hijabs right off. They are independent. They make their own money. They are athletes. Wear clothes in bright colours. Manteaus that in mosts’ opinion would be too short.

(To put this in context: the manteau is the second garment. Your bum is already covered by loose fitting pants.)

Like so many times before when I was starting to loose hope – they showed me that things are not static. There is a resistance. Even if it’s not fast – things are indeed changing. And there really are people out there putting in the work for it.

Every single morning these girls leave their house at 5 AM to go running. That a 70-year-old woman starts her day with pulling off 12 km is impressive in itself, but that’s not the main thing here. Their running is a symbol of something that takes far more than physical strength.

The mother (OK, let’s call her A) – have been running in the same park since 20 years back. Back then, women weren’t even allowed to enter, apart from certain times each week. But she did. With the perfect combination of humour and pride, she told me about how her stamina was a lot better back them – as she daily had to outrun the park keepers trying to chase her off the grounds.

So it might be slow, but things are moving alright. This really is social obedience at it’s finest. A daily demonstration of just how far it’s possible to push the limits in 2015.

Men’s tracksuits. Zipper not completely closed. Pulled up sleeves. Hijab tied behind the neck. Chatting away with anyone they bump into (nowadays including the park keepers). None of these things are still really OK, but they are getting away with it. And it’s awesome.

For sure, the best morning run ever.

I was leaving Mashad with the best gut feeling I had had in a long time. All in all I really do love Iran. But I’m endlessly grateful that I’m lucky enough not to be born there. That I can come and leave whenever I want. And the time had come to do just that.

With my Turkmenistan visa added to my passport, I started working my way towards the border. Like so many times before, through complete desolate landscapes leaving you with nothing but your own thoughts.

And I think that was just what I needed. Two days with nothing to do put to pedal my bike and slowly try to process everything that had happened the last month. The most intense one so far on the journey. Perhaps even in my entire life.

I was more than ready to head out for new adventures. I already knew that the one through the Turkmenistan desert would be one worth remembering. And let me tell you – it was!

But that I’ll tell you about some other time.

Fredrika

By |August 9th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|

Iran Pt. 4 – 1 capital & 12 cops

It’s crazy how weird stuff, if they just happen often enough, can become normal. In Iran this was truer than ever before, and in time it seemed like nothing came as a surprise anymore. Especially as it came to the hospitality of people.

One of the big challenges I had was to not let myself become numb to the never-ending flow of kindness I was receiving. I mean. If you’ve been invited to spend the night in different people’s homes for 10 days in a row, it’s pretty easy to take the 11th family kind of for granted.

The 5th time you get stopped that day, because yet another person wants to give you fruit and soda – it’s easy to just feel slowed down rather than to actually acknowledge what just happened.

When another random stranger on the street suddenly hands you his phone, and he has called up his only relative who speaks english, just to find out what you might need help with. And you firmly have to explain to yet another person that you don’t. need. anything. It’s easy to even get annoyed by peoples’ overwhelming willingness to make your day better.

And I don’t want to be that person.

So I had to constantly remind myself.

Being handed so much food that you have to start transporting it outside your panniers, is not in any way normal or reasonable. Spending night after night as the long lost daughter of new families is not something that a lot of people are fortunate enough to ever experience. Someone reaching out to help you is a good person, not a distraction.

‘You are one lucky girl, Fredrika.’

To expect the unexpected is pretty much the only way to go about life on the road. In Iran more than anywhere else. So even if I feel like I managed to stay humble and grateful – the element of surprise disappeared pretty quickly.

After a while, you accept pretty much anything as ‘normal’. Like that time I was shown into a room and was greeted by this big applause – only to find out that the people inside where waiting for me to ‘give my lecture’.


Well, this one kind of did catch me off guard actually

My odd life on the Iranian roads kept on being extreme in all ways, and I was really starting to get comfortable with it. As I was getting closer to the capital, things were changing rapidly. In one day, my surroundings changed from this:

To this:

I remember riding into Istanbul. That was pretty crazy. Making my way into Tehran was insane. I’m not in any way stating that Turkish drivers are respectful towards cyclists. I’m just saying that Iranian drivers…

Well. You get it.

In short I’m pretty happy I’m here to write this.

In Tehran I did a bit of Visa stuff. And a bunch of pretty crazy (and highly illegal) partying with people who’ll never show up in this blog. It’s really a shame I can’t share them here with you guys – because these are some good stories. Though definitely not good enough to risk my friends getting sentenced to jail, lashes, or bizzarely enough… death.

Leaving Tehran I had had enough of the desert like landscapes I’d been stuck with so far in Iran, and decided to head up to the coast of the Caspian Sea. Good choice it turned out. Crossing the mountain range between Tehran and the sea, was really the only exciting cycling I got in all of Iran.

A pretty tough pass got me both a new altitude record (2700 meters or so), and an incredible sweet ride down this narrow mountain road, decending all the way to the sea.


Can you see it? Down there to the left

The Iranian summer had been hot since the start. And according to the locals, this particular one was even hotter than normal. Like with everything else though, you get used to it.

As I reached the sea, it was no longer only hot. Here it was also incredible humid. I was sweating. A lot. Almost making myself worried I was turning into liquid.


5 minutes after showering, in a desperate attempt not to soak my ‘clean’ set of clothes

As I was cycling into the North Khorasan region, things got strange. During my two and a half weeks in the country, I hadn’t been stopped once by the police.

Then I was. Not once or twice. But 12 times in 3 days.

?

Still have no idea what really happened here.

They all seemed to want different things. Sometimes to check my papers. Sometimes simply to chat (in Farsi..). Sometimes to give me a lecture about how ‘women shouldn’t be on the road like this’. Sometimes to offer me an escort – of course without taking no for an answer (I had one car driving 10 meters behind me for 15 km).

I wanted one thing. To be left alone. As I realised that wasn’t happening, snaping sneak pics of the officers, became my way of entertaining myself.


Entertainment that got a lot more interesting when I got caught

After three days, the cops disappeared just as fast as they came and I had some short but sweet riding through green surroundings. Now, this was great.


Golestan National Park


I kept on being adopted


And took up a short but intense career as an English teacher

In Bojnurd I was lucky enough to stumble upon Hossein. Working as a mountain guide he took me trekking in one of the national parks nearby, knowing exactly where we would find all the cool animals.

After spending a little too much time with people along the way, I ended up having to rush quite a bit in order to make it to the border before my visa expired. I did have one important thing left though – getting my next one.

Where?

Mashad!

This is the 2nd largest city in Iran, and I wasn’t going there only for the visa. Just in time for Eid al-fitr (the ending of Ramadan), I was heading into this legendary city – the holiest place in all of Iran. Now that’s what I call good timing.

But more about that in the next one.

Fredrika

By |August 8th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|

Iran Pt. 3 – Heaven & Hell

Leaving Marand I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I had gotten the best start of Iran one could wish for, and I almost couldn’t believe I had bumped into what was probably the friendliest and most loving families in the Middle East.

What I still didn’t know then, was that they had some pretty rough competition. During the course of my month in the country, I was in for countless more of these incredible meetings with Iranian families – and my time in Marand had merely been an appetizer for what was still to come.

I barely used my tent in Iran. I almost never cooked or even bought my own food. Pretty much wherever I went, I was greeted with offers of everything from food and places to sleep, to handmade persian carpets (just what one needs on a bike) and even money.

It sounds crazy, and let me assure you – it was.

Isolating the time spent off the bike, Iran is for sure my best experience so far on this journey. The cycling though, not so much. Part of this is simply that the landscapes didn’t impress me much. Coming in from the highlands of Turkey, I had been spoiled with mountains and incredible scenery for weeks on end. In Iran everything was just… boring.

And hot. Too hot in general. And for a girl covered up from head to toe, riding a 50 kg bicycle, in particular.

Heat and boring landscapes I don’t really have a problem with. But by this point I had started to loose my patience with jerks on the road. Now this is not something unique for Iran. Since halfway through Turkey (with a short break during the visit of my Dad), dealing with creepy dudes have been a pretty consistant part of my days on the road.

Men shouting rude stuff. Stalking me with their cars. Trying to get me into their trucks. Masturbating in front of me as some weird demonstration of power. Asking for sex. Whatever sick stuff you can imagine.

In Turkey these stuff still got to me, making me feel insecure, unsafe and sometimes very humiliated. Luckily though, in the same way you learn to deal with dogs on four legs chasing your bicycle, you quickly learn to also handle the dogs walking around on two. Humour has become one of my best friends through these stuff, as if you look at it from the right perspective – a lot of these things are pretty hilarious.

However relaxed I feel with dealing with these people, the moment I crossed into Iran and was forced to put on the hijab, my patience for them immediately became a lot less. Sure. It’s not rocket science to understand how the view of women (western women in particular) these men have has came to be. And to be fair, they were born into this just as much as I was born into believing that women and men should be equals. But knowing that, still doesn’t mean I’ll let them get away with anything.

The day I cycled into Zanjan is very symbolic for my time in Iran. The day was hot. Incredible hot. I was working this really unexciting main road. I had plugged in my headphones to block out some of the loud roaring sounds of the trucks passing, and also to take my mind of the constant headwind that simply refused to let me cover any real distance. Around me was nothing. I was bored. On occation riding a bike really sucks, and this was one of those times.

Afternoon had come and the heat was slowly starting to get somewhat close to bearable. But I had already spent too many hours in the sun, and my brain had turned into jelly hours ago. Too many truck drivers had been giving me crap that day – and blocking these people out were perhaps the true reason for the headphones. I mean, I was tired of the music on my phone already months ago.

Yet another truck driver stopped and got out on the road, waving me in with a smile, a big ‘Salaaam!’ and something that looked lite dried fruit. As usual, I didn’t stop.

In the rear mirror I could see him get back into his truck, and within a couple of minutes he had passed me, and (like they always do) stopped again a few hundred meters further down the road. I passed him a second time, and watched him in the rear mirror as he quickly climbed back up to get in behind the wheel.

Now, this is the classic game with the truck drivers.

The third time I passed him he was telling me a more firmly to stop. Still didn’t. The forth time though, I did. I really wasn’t up to keep the game going, and needed to stop for a drink anyways.

These meetings are usually pretty much the same. He offers water, a ride, a kiss or just starts talking a bunch of Farsi I can’t understand. And I’m rude enough to let him know that whatever he’s doing is not working. From experience, I’ve learned to keep enough distance to be out of reach, and to position myself so that we’re both visible for other cars coming on the road.


So this is NOT the man in the story!


Just some compensation to show that there are also loads of nice truck drivers on the roads

Now this smiling guy had bad energy from the start. As I turned down his fruit, water and offer of a ride he was soon out of stuff to give me. He reached out his hand as if to say goodbye. I didn’t take it. Instead I gave him a short ‘Khodafes (Goodbye)’ and put my right foot on the pedal to start rolling again.

Now – with his hand still reached out, and the same creepy smile on his face, he quickly took the last steps to close the gap between us – and grabbed my breast. All without a word, but still with his greedy eyes locked into mine.

??!?!!?

I mean.

FUCK. YOU.

Now I am not a fighter. At least I wasn’t up until this day. But before my mind had realised what happened, my body reacted. Within a split second, I could – as if from the outside – see my fist work it’s way into his cheek and nose, wiping that disgusting grin of his face.

What… was that?

I had just punched someone in the face for the first time in my life. And it was a good one. Perhaps even a bit too good? For a second there I almost felt sorry for the guy, and I watched the terrified experession on his face as he ran back to his truck, shouting stuff in Farsi I’m very happy I didn’t understand.

As he drove off I stood still for a minute. It was all so weird. Everything was the same. Still way too hot. Boring landscape the same. Even the same stupid song was still playing in my ears. Only difference was that now I had this weird pain in my right hand.

I rode the last couple of hours into Zanjan, and arrived just an hour before sunset. I didn’t have any plan for the night, but by now I had realised that in Iran it’s wisest not to make any of those – evenings tend to work out anyways.

As the sun started to set, I heard a man’s voice behind me.

‘So, where are you staying tonight?’

I turned around, ready to start throwing fists around me again. But now I was met by a whole other smile than the one of the guy a couple of hours earlier. With poor English, the pretty sleezy looking guy a few years older than me presented himself as AmirAli, and immediately invited me back to his house. Now on paper, turning down to shake one stranger’s hand, and then hours later accept another one’s bed, doesn’t make sense at all. But as usual, it’s all about gut feeling.

Still. As I was riding behind his car for a few more kilometers than he first told me, slowly leaving the city center and taking us down smaller and darker streets, I had perhaps a little too much time to consider what was actually happening. Laughing to myself, I was thinking how much this was against everything my parents ever taught me as a child. But something felt really good, so I just went with it.

‘OK. If this goes to hell – it’s all on you, Fredrika.’

So what happened?

Well, as I’m writing this, I’m obviously still alive. Not very surprisingly, AmirAli prooved to be my golden ticket to a few dreamlike days in the company of his friends and family, and my faith in mankind was restored just as quickly as always.


AmirAli took me to straight to the fanciest iftar I ever went to. Chandilers and everything!


Weridly noone seemed to mind that the new guest was a stinking girl showing up on a bicycle


And within a minute had gotten food, a seat and a bunch of new best friends


After dinner they took me to the mountains to see Zanjan from above


And as always – to the park for tea, fruits and sunflower seeds until morning

So all in all, the quota remains:

For every bad person out there, there is a gazillion good ones to make up for it.

And I can definitely live with that.

Fredrika

By |August 6th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|