Central-Asia and Europe 1969 (4).

Curiously we look what our neighbours - a group of men around a communal pot - are eating.
"Help yourself" he beckons friendly. It looks like a tasteful thick kind of porridge, but it appears to be pieces of bread floating in mutton fat. "Thanks very much, but we are already full up" we indicated after one mouthful. With a water bottle full of wish-wash tea we start on our next dozens of kilometres through the desert. The places on the map are not more than a collection of adobe (clay) huts. Sometimes you can stay the night in the teahouses, in a small back room where they spread a quilt on the floor. In the tearoom we eat our evening meal and write letters with an oil lamp, cozily on the carpet with the other guests all with a turban, knee long shirts, and on top of it a jacket, wide trousers and pointed shoes. On the wall racks full of teapots, a homely candle under the samovar, the big copper hot water kettle.
They speak little English and we know only a few Afghan words, there is not much to tell. Also no inquisitiveness and staring, a relief after Pakistan, while the muslims here are much stricter. Everywhere you see praying people, also in the desert. After a rest, we left the teahouse, where also a bus full of Afghani had descended. Up in rows, facing Mecca, they stood there praying, concentrated. All of a sudden they all had disappeared, as if wiped away from the earth. When we looked back again, the were standing there again, in rank, to disappear again a few moments later. They bowed so lowly, that a low wall hid them completely. Stand up - bow - kneel. Mohammed wants to keep his followers in in a agile condition, but the bus became impatient and began to hoot, which sounded a little profane.
In front of the teahouse were large barrels. An old neglected man, scooped up handfuls of white powder and rubbed himself with a glorified face. DDT was written on the drums. I looked at the red blots everywhere on my body, I also could use some of it. In the carpets and quilts of the teahouses there were all kinds of small creepy animals and there are no baths in the desert. No ? In a teahouse, where you really saw the fleas jumping around, they sent us to a weir! 7 Kilometres away from the road over a very poor gravel path. Indeed a room with a bed, but nicer still a river. Cool water, exuberant we splashed around, not expecting any people at this remote place. All of a sudden voices, two turbanned heads approached . Quickly I dived under water, afraid for problems, but the men turned their heads away considerately.
In Kalat a vast adobe or clay fortress, towered over the village. In front of his shop a tailor was sitting embroidering little jackets. Our shorts were worn through. If he could put a patch on it ? He nodded "come and get them in a few moments".
Neatly mended they lay waiting for us Henny's black shorts had got jolly white and pink stitches, my beige pants beautiful dark blue and red stitches.
On our way, owing to lack of settlements, we had to rest in nothingness looking for shadow in culvert under the road. A piece of flat, unleavened bread, when fresh it is delicious as victuals, but one day old and it is as dry as shoe soles, We washed it down with a bottle of lukewarm tea. In Herat the last city in Afghanistan, I looked at my wrists. "You have become quite bony", Henny said, whose ribs could also be counted.
At the first river it was still nice, socks and shoes off, lift the bike and wade through the river. But six times was a bit too much of a good. Every time we had to wait until a car went through it, in order to see how deep it was, which you could not see in this red-brown fast flowing water.
The roads were unbelievably stoney, dusty and full of pot holes. Was this the modern state of Iran? We rode into the first small town and were amazed to see street lighting along the tarmac roads. We stopped in a eat house "look there, they have fridges and even ice cream" I assessed with pleasure. We ate at a neat table and from a plate with cutlery! Mashad the big city in the East of Iran had well-stocked shops. We bought a real primus stove, there were still a lot of lonely stretches before us. The national dish - Chloe kebab - seemed so boring and monotonous, that we soon prepared our own meal ourself.
here I stood between our two bicycles, surrounded by people, more precisely said men and children. Annoying interest, shouting, laughing, bullying, kicking our bicycles. Always the same uncomfortable scene when Henny went into the hotel to ask for a room.
An old, bent man came toward me, stretched out his hand and gave me an also wrinkled cucumber, precious in this country without vegetables, but even more valuable was his gentle gesture and his smile in this country of unfriendly people. You are very happy then when you can close the door of your room behind you. Even when the sheets are never clean, and the comfort is low. The toilet: first fill a kind of watering can with water and then walk, coughing, towards it. If nobody coughs back the toilet is free. The bath: into the street again onto the hamman, the bathhouse. I walked as close to Henny as possible to avoid, but what happened nevertheless, being pinched and groped. Routinely Henny chased the man again, scared to death the "assailant" ran away. Here in Mianeh we stood, accidentally, close to the police office to which he ran immediately. Henny followed him, trembling the fugitive crept under the desk. The policeman tried to appease the matter, but he understood us very well, "Irani bah".
The warm water of the hamman washed away the dust and the irritation.