Eid-e shoma mobarak
Eid-e shoma mobarak

Eid-e shoma mobarak

The wind blows mercilessly against us but fortunately the snowflakes mix with some sunbeams and so we also manage this wintry driving day to the first Iranian big city Tabriz.
The busy Tabriz remains cold but pleases us very much. We never get far without being quizzed on our origins and welcomed to Iran. We wander through the bazaar, through a museum and make lots of nice acquaintances. An attendant of a public toilet unexpectedly hands us a Pepsi and our first Yeralma wrap, not even expecting a conversation in return. At the bazaar, we are offered coffee, the amount of fruit we buy is doubled without being asked, and strangers offer to help us if we encounter any problems in Iran. We decided to shorten some hundred kilometers with a bus and so we spend some confusing hours in the bus station of Tabriz. After several tedious discussions with the bus people we return our previously bought ticket unnerved. Apparently, the bike transport costs simply as much as the driver wants to charge for it and today’s driver has settled on an astronomical sum. Our dream of an earlier end to winter seems lost, so Louie suddenly rushes over with news: Another bus is ready to take us all the way to Zanjan for a measly two million (8 CHF). The bus leaves in a few minutes, and a little later we watch through the bus window how the suburbs of Tabriz turn into a wide hilly landscape. We are glad to get these 300 kilometers behind us in the bus and to destroy some distance after the exhausting days of driving. The weather of the following days confirms our decision: Tabriz sinks in snow and even in Zanjan we wake up in the morning in a snow-covered tent. But the cold days seem to be counted slowly but surely.
The next day of driving finally takes us away from the main road and leads us over gentle slopes to over 2000 meters above sea level. The headwind stays with us but the passing Iranians honk and wave, give us the thumbs-up sign, invite us for tea, lunch and overnight stay and don’t let us doubt the overwhelming hospitality. We decline all invitations in a disciplined manner, as we want to do some stretching today. But Ali and Javad remain persistent and since the timing is right, we let them invite us to their small village Shour Ab. They wait for 40 minutes at the road junction until we have made it over the small pass. We like the village at first sight and the family even more. Javad speaks a few words of English, which makes communication much easier. Javad’s parents, his wife Vereshte and their sweet daughter Helma live in the household. Later, over tea, we meet three more housemates: Three blue, pink and green colored chicks that occasionally flit around the living room, adding to the general merriment. “Rohat!” we are repeatedly prompted as we groan and unfold our legs from a cross-legged position. “Relax!”, Javad doubles back with a laugh, telling us to stretch our legs out comfortably.
It’s early evening and a delicious dish of chicken is dished up. Soon we are full and tired and are surprised to learn that this was not dinner, but a belated lunch! “We invited you for lunch,” Javad explains. Apparently, this invitation was not bound to a time at all. So we take a nap in the next room and meet back in the parlor after ten for the real dinner. Not at all late for the Iranians, as we soon learn. Here you stay awake long and lie down a little longer in the morning.

The next day the weather is splendid. However, the hotly awaited rays of sunshine are complemented by strong gusts. With up to 80 km/h the wind roars over the country today. Javad says already in the morning again and again “stay!”. We postpone our decision for a while. We feel like riding our bikes and don’t want to sit out the weather again. A walk up a nearby hill convinces us to spend the day in Shour Ab. The family is relaxed and cordial, the wind is against us and soon we learn that already tonight the Nouwruz, the Persian New Year is celebrated. We can’t miss this chance to spend this special festival with a family. Towards evening, fresh clothes are put on, more family members trickle in and an additional sofra is decorated with the typical New Year items: sprouted lentils and wheat, apples, sweets, roasted sunflower seeds and cookies are placed in various bowls. The Koran is also added and Javad, his mother and Vereshte take turns reading it. A countdown is playing on the TV, declaring the New Year to have begun at 8:20 pm. We all wish each other a Happy New Year “Eid-e Shoma Mobarak!”, crack open the sunflower seeds with our teeth, taste our way through the buttery cookies and feel honestly honored to be able to witness this tradition in such a relaxed way.
Saying goodbye the next morning is difficult and delayed on all sides. Javad changes his tactics from “stay” to “come again” and when we finally roll our packed bikes out of the courtyard, there must be twenty people waving us goodbye. The neighbor boy Mächtig has presented us with a packet of saffron as a farewell gift, which we reverently accept. Incredibly, everyone still wants to give us fruits, nuts, fried bread and other goodies. Our improvised guest gift consisting of a few oranges and store-bought cookies is definitely laughable in comparison. We can only successfully reject a few of the gifts. Much too richly gifted, we finally roll out of our new favorite village. Ali catches up with us after a few kilometers together with his mother on the passenger seat and would like to invite us for lunch. This time we remain firm and decline with thanks. Crossing the next town also turns out to be a test of wills. We have to politely decline no less than four serious invitations for lunch, pose for photos, get delicious cookies pressed into our hands and wish countless times “Eid-e Shoma Mobarak!”. With the New Year’s Eve, the two-week vacation season has begun and many families are now crisscrossing the country. We pedal through rainbow hills and greening fields until we pitch our tent 80 kilometers later under some almond trees. Our tent stands in its cozy spot for exactly ten minutes, when a friendly couple drives up and quite naturally offers us their little garden house nearby as a place to spend the night. The offer is so tempting that we accept; even the dark clouds in the sky urge us to do so. Another stroke of luck, as it will turn out. It is still cold and the simple room can be heated a bit with a criminal stab flame from a glass cylinder. Already the first drops can be felt and we are glad not to have to cook in the tent. Again, one planned night turns into two, as the coming morning greets us with cold wind and rain. We use the morning to visit the huge stalactite cave Kathaleh Khor and then decide with some difficulty to sit out the unfriendly weather again. So we get the key to the garden shed out of its hiding place again and spend another cozy evening in the dry. Just when we have finished sketching the next weeks driving and want to get ready for bed, we hear voices and a few minutes later we find ourselves in a completely unexpected scene: The garden cottage is filled with the owner, his singing friend, the sister together with her husband, a boy and us and various snacks are spread out in front of us in the gas flame light. There is joking and laughing, singing and photographing and in amazement we look at the clock and realize that it is already after eleven o’clock. The party family disappears as quickly and kindly as they came and we sit dumbfounded in front of a mountain of oranges, apples, nuts, new socks and other gifts they have left for us. This visit feels like a small tsunami. Totally surreal, hard to believe, probably only possible in Iran and we are in the middle of it.

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