I arrive in a night bus that leaves me in the station at four a.m., two hours than what I expect. This time I don’t find the hotel I wanted as there’s nobody to ask for directions and I end up in a crappy place sleeping a little bit before going to the Uzbekistan embassy first time of the morning.

I arrive in a night bus that leaves me in the station at four a.m., two hours earlier then I expect. This time I don’t find the hotel I wanted as there’s nobody to ask for directions and I end up in a crappy place sleeping a little bit before going to the Uzbekistan embassy first thing in the morning.

The embassy is on the other side of the city, about 14 kilometres of this concrete plaster of 15 million inhabitants that is Tehran. I get the underground to cross the city  and get a taxi. In the embassy they attend to me immediatly so I decide to take advantage of being north of the city to see Niyaravan palace where Shah Mohammad Reza lived with his family for the last 10 years of government. It’s near the embassy and very far from the hotel.

The palace was not interesting so I don’t show you pictures, it was just ostentatious and exaggerated. The golden phone gives you an idea on how the rest was!

He had a private dentist. With this exaggeration I’m not surprised the people got tired and rebelled. In the picture gallery there was a collection with the same names as in the Peggy Guggenheim collection in Venice but with more modest paintings. I liked a lot a silk lithography from Miró(I think).

This is a picture of another palace I’ve seen on a different day, it was much more beautiful.

I come back towards the hotel, I’m exshausted. I’ve been for hours dragging my feet, I wanted to make profit of my day. In the underground a guy dressed in military clothes comes to talk to me. He’s doing the compulsory military service, he’s annoyed, with the feeling of loosing over a year. He tells me about his life; he likes music, he had a band but it had to be dissolved because “the government get’s into everything” “we are not allowed to do anything”. Soon he get’s into a political debate criticising the government a lot. His more impacting sentence has been “our parents made a revolution for the wrong reason”, It was about to be the title of today’s post. All the people that understand English in the metro car are paying attention, some of them nod their heads in agreement. And I wanted to avoid political conversations…

Between the night of little sleep, the non stop day, the ramadam making it difficult to eat and the intense conversation I’m even more tired. Luckily I’m just three streets away from the hotel. The second street has four or five invisible lines full of cars, more cars, motorcycles, and trucks that come towards me. Looks like the beginning of a race in which they are racing for their lives. I walk on the side waiting for my opportunity to cross.

Seemed impossible but there’s a gap of 50 meters with no cars. I go one step towards the road. I see asphalt two centimetres away from my eye. I think I’ve got a bump hit on my head. My sunglasses slide in the polished asphalt. I see a man rolling next to me. A motorcycle also slides next to his legs. My body stops. I stand up instantly. I review all my joints. Neck fine. Shoulders fine. One elbow fine, the other with a knock but fine. Wrists fine. Knees with a cut but fine. Ankles fine. I’ve got so many crashes rollerblading, kayaking, kitesurfing and in other things that I know my body and I’m nearly sure nothing is too bad.

I get my glasses so no other vehicle smashes them. The runoverer is  bringing his motorbike up. We both say sorry. We don’t insult each other. I haven’t looked when crossing and he must have been very fast and very close to me. Seems that in this street there are motorbikes coming from the wrong side. I leave the place, there’s too many people looking.

In the next cross a woman told me that I’ve been saved thanks to Alah. I ratify what she says “yes, you are right”. Why tell her that thanks to him I’ve also been run over?

I go to the crappy hotel. I diagnose myself that I’m quite OK and prescrive resting. I buy some food and play one of those films I never have time to see.

My pants have got dirty. They are the only long pants I have and here I can’t go in shorts, the Hijab(“modes“ dress code) is both for men and women. I wash it so it get’s dry for tomorrow.

I heal a little wound I have in the leg. The knees are a bit affected, I put some balm to try and relax them and so the cut does not inflame too much. Tomorrow I’ll see if all is fine or not, when I’m cold. Is not that I like to use my first aid kit, but carrying it for nothing was annoying.

When you go for a long trip most of the people think on the dangers and they warm you. Be careful not to be kidnapped, they steal everything but your underwear, you get a tropical illness and die instantly or get into jail not knowing why. All this is quite tragic and improbable. The two main dangers in the less developed countries are twisting your ankle in a hole that populates the badly paved streets. Or what has happened to me, having a traffic accident in the chaos. Fortunately I’m fine, I can walk with no problem and that’s what I need for the trip.

Normally when I cross the street I look both ways like when I’m in a country where they drive on the left so I don’t look to the wrong side, but this time the tiredness has played a drity trick on me.

One of these was the evil culprit. In Iran motorbikes can’t be over 200cc otherwise he’d have gone faster. Also the front part is a flexible plastic so I was not hurt in my head.

There’s something good. I was doubting if going to hike for a few days to Damavand mount. A volcano that is 5671 meters high and is near Tehran. On one side I felt like doing it, I’ve never gone up such a high mountain. On the other as it’s an accessible mountain there’s a lot of people going so it spoilt the idea for me. Now after the crash I have it clear I’m staying In Tehran relaxing.

To complete the post I add another urban thing. Do you remember that paint on the wall in Georgia that said “Parkour”? If you don’t remember, it doesn’t matter. And if you don’t know what it is, this video from Heidar’s(my kayak guide) brother will show it to you. It’s recorded in some of the most important Esfahan sites and the level is super good, for me as the French Parkour, where the movement was born.

In the next post more about Tehran. Ah! I’m perfectly fine, my knees are fine.

Fernando