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COPYRIGHT 2004 Ehlert Publishing Group
"Bring a woman into Iran? You must be crazy!" That was the reaction my boyfriend and I received from two Germans in full leathers on Yamahas at the border station. Frustrated and complaining, the pair was leaving the country after only three days, curtailing a planned two-week vacation. Two months earlier, George and I had left Lucca, Italy, with a final destination of Sydney, Australia; he riding a Honda Africa Twin and myself on a TransAlp. I'm Italian, he is American. We had traveled through Eastern Europe, Turkey and Syria before crossing into Iran at the border town of Gurbolak.
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As the days passed Iran unveiled itself as a most unique experience, far from the troublesome place the two Germans described. It is a country of strong contradictions and an intrusive religion, certainly, but the people are friendly and very hospitable, the ancient citadels and colorful mosques are stupendous and the landscapes are amazing.
From the border we rode through Azerbaijan toward the capital. Teheran, where we had arranged to rendezvous with a couple we met in Istanbul, who were traveling to India in a Land Rover. For security reasons we had decided to cross the desert together, caravan style.
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On the main roads, which connect the industrial and residential areas in the north, the traffic is infernal. Complete disregard for traffic regulations is the norm, and larger vehicles never yield. And for an Italian, accustomed to somewhat hair-raising driving techniques, to determine that a particular traffic situation is dangerous, it must really be dangerous. A motorcycle in the Iranian hierarchy of transportation occupies the cellar...
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