After hitchhiking through the very traditionalist countries of Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, I arrive in Mashaad, the most religious and conservative city in Iran. The atmosphere makes me downright uncomfortable. I knew long shirts and scarves were mandatory. But I was not aware that most of them wore the chador (full veil). So I was shocked to see all of these black shapes creeping into the streets. It looks sad and unfair to them and also to me who wears a simple scarf: it falls all the time, it prevents you from removing your sweater, it keeps you warm, in short, it's boring.

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In the warmth of the houses I forget this oppressive atmosphere to spend beautiful moments with my hosts. Every night, I was hosted by couchsurfers or by a driver. Young Iranians dream of freedom and life abroad. Here it is the economic crisis, the currency keeps falling, so they want to know the salary levels. They also have a lot of questions about relationships: “Have you ever had boyfriends?”, “Have you ever been to parties?”, “I like this boy, what am I doing? Must do?" Cute questions if asked by a fourteen year old teenager ... but sad enough to hear from thirty year old people ... It seems to me that most of the people are deeply frustrated and sick to live in a society divided between men and women : schools, transport, activities. Nothing is mixed, except the university ... and the streets ... So it's usual to be followed by guys, several times a day. My middle finger makes them go away and make laugh few grandmothers. I am told later that it is a sign used only by men and at the top of vulgarity.

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I get asked every twenty seconds in the street "hello", "how are you?", "Where are you from?" ... These are kind and welcoming words of course, but exhausting after three hours of walking. So I go back to the house of my hosts who are offering me food this evening. Would you like some rice again? No ! Are you sure ? Yes. And then after refusing ten times, a ladle of rice crashes into my plate. Iranian custom is to insist constantly but also to refuse even when you want something. It mights sound funny, but for a neophyte like me, it's mentally exhausting to express your refusal ten times and not to be listened at the end. In France, we would call that infantilization, or moral harassment. But in Iran, it's called politeness! On my last day in Iran, my drivers insisted so much to host me, that despite my first refusals, I ended up accepting a 200km detour!

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Apart from this heavy general atmosphere, Iran is not a dangerous country for travelers. Iranians are "too much" for me, but are lovely and helpful people. I never felt in danger, not even when I was followed by men in the streets because I knew that "it was cultural". Iran is the "number 1" country for hitchhiking ... It's very easy and it says a lot about the altruism and confidence of the populationits inhabitants. It did not happen only to me because I'm a blond girl. I know dark-haired men who also did not wait more than a minute for a car. On the other hand, I refused a lot of drivers with perverse eyes. I only had one incident in three weeks (which is a usual frequency).

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I have fond memories of my crossing of the desert with a truck driver and his wife, a doctoral student in philosophy. Iranians are cut off from the reality of the world, but are otherwise highly educated. They collect Masters and PHDs. This is the first country where my drivers are interested in my level of studies!

 

And we cross deserts of rock and land. Everything is dry, brown and ocher. The towns are full of superb mosques and palaces with colorful ceramics : a real set of a thousand and one nights. I finally arrive at the ruins of Persepolis, the former capital of the great Persian Empire! In Tehran, mentalities are more open and I walked around  almost unnoticed.

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My last days in Kurdistan (a region in western Iran) made me like with the country. Here the atmosphere is more relaxed, the men wear traditional grey baggy pants, the landscapes are mountainous and green, the air is pure, the laughts sound true. The Kurds tell me about the persecutions from the Iranian government and the separatists.

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I continue to hold up my hand at the side of the road (not the thumb, because here it is an insult) and I arrive at the border of Turkey . My hitchhiking world tour continues on the Silk Road.