After spending a night in a dreary hostel - as 'recommended' by the Kangan police - I'd headed south, sparkling waters on my right, smoking refineries on my left. Bemused police checked my progress at regular intervals until I arrived on the outskirts of Khamir.

A dual carriageway took me into the centre of town. An uninviting fly blown place of what appeared to be one storey concrete buildings with shops spilling out onto the streets. I pulled up and a man stepped from the shadows towards me....

What follows appeared in the Teheran papers.

'' BRITISH BIKER TAKEN HOSTAGE IN THE PERSIAN GULF"
"Simon Roberts of Manchester United, near London, England is recovering from a terrifying ordeal. While travelling the coast of our wonderous Persian Gulf, Mr Roberts was accosted in Khamir by members of the HAAC. (Hospitality at all Costs).

Arriving in Khamir, about 100kms from Bandar-e Abbas as darkness fell, Mr Roberts was approached by a local.'Mr Simon', as he was called, asked where he might find a hotel. 'No Hotel in Khamir' was the response. ' Please - you can stay with me at my house'.

From that moment on Mr Simon underwent relentless hospitality in the form of food and drinks and entertainment.'I thought I'd never get away' said Mr Simon.

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It was only after four days was Mr Simon able to negotiate his release. The ransom price agreed upon was over 30 caricatures of Mr Abdoul's close friends and relatives including one of his neighbour's dog.

'Mr Simon, now recovering in Bam, said he was looking forward to moving on to Pakistan - for some peace and quiet'.............."

Click on MORE below for tales of dancing girls and palm lined islands..

'Hello. How are you?'
Ah, the usual four words of English. 'Fine, thankyou...'
'Are you looking for somewher to stay?'
Much better. Abdoul spoke excellent English and once again I was humbled by a local's linguistic skills.

'Yes. I am. Do you know of a Hotel?'
'No Hotel but you can stay with my family...'

I followed him as he ran down sandy lanes between whitewashed walls. We stopped at a metal doorway in a high wall, and he ushered me in to a simple inner courtyard. This was to be my home for the next few days.

That evening, as we ate with his friends, sitting (painfully) cross-legged on rugs, a boat trip was planned. {TIP. Heading for the Middle East? Spend two months prior to your trip sat on the floor. It WILL pay dividends and reduce your Post-trip Chiropracter's bill}. They knew of an island where we could camp.
'We take supplies and catch fish...Grill them later..'
I'd planned to move on but this sounded like the perfect tonic for a weary biker. Palm tree lined white sands...Beach bar...Dancing girls. Oh, how wrong can you be.... The cartoon says it all.

Nevertheless, it was a truly unique experience and I was overwhelmed by their hospitality. The only way I managed to repay them was with caricatures - of the whole family, their friends and their friends' friends. Great laugh though.

From Khamir I rode through Bandar-e-Abbas, and on, North West, to Bam staying at Akbar's Hotel which was slowly being rebuilt after a devastating earthquake. An abandoned Yamaha was all that remained to mark a biker who'd lost his life there. A sobering sight that stayed with me all the way to Zahedan and the desert road to Pakistan where things were going to take a turn for the worse.........

'Road to Kathmandu' UPDATE!

Well, I had a successful trip to Germany and 'Tourenfahrer' - THE overland biking magazine - have taken my story on. This means that in every (monthly) issue - starting in the November issue - the whole story will unfold in just 12 gripping episodes. This will be a teaser for the book which (all being well) will be 'launched' in Autumn 2009.

I'll be approaching the British magazines over the next few weeks with the same proposal which means I'll be condensing the rest of the story into about 8 more episodes. Coming here soon.....!

More info? Email me at simongoeseast@yahoo.co.uk

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Meanwhile, back on the Dusty Highway.......

I reached the desert town of Yazd at sunset. Food, drink and accommodation were upmost in my mind together with the little known fact that Yazd was apparently an important centre for the religion of Zoroastrianism. Something to discuss with fellow travellers over dinner....

I'd been tipped off about a certain 'Silk Road Hotel' by a man I'd met in Esfahan. He talked of courtyards with fountains and wide cushioned benches where one could lounge and smoke hookah pipes. 'There's a restaurant there too - no problem with Ramadan'. Too good to be true? That's what I thought as I pulled up after a long search onto what looked like a building site.

On the far side of the wasteland, a single light illuminated a doorway. It was getting dark. I needed to stop. I'd take a look. I rode across, flicked down the sidestand, and unpacked the bike.

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Click on MORE below for tales from the Silk Road Hotel which, like the Eagle's Hotel California, "...you can checkout anytime you like but you can never leave".

I ducked through the doorway and a narrow passageway opened onto a large tiled courtyard. In the centre an ornate fountain splashed into a circular pond surrounded by potted plants. Cushioned lounging areas were spaced.........'Hey Simon!....Good to see you!'

Jo and Richard, a couple I'd met earlier in Tabriz grinned up at me from one of the lounging sofas. I looked around and recognised one or two other people too.. Ha. This would indeed do nicely. I booked into one of the excellent rooms that were spaced around the courtyard...and rejoined everyone for an evening meal.

We talked into the night about the importance of Zoroastrianism in the region and caught up with each other's news. The KTM had let them down resulting in truck rides and modified parts in backstreet work shops. I thanked Allah that I was riding with basic BMW technology. My time would come....

I spent the following days lounging around in the Hotel's courtyard enjoying the company of other travellers and catching up with my Journal - writing, painting and cartoons

I wasn't completely idle however, and, while taking in the majestic Masjed-e Jame mosque, I met some architectural students who took me to see a restoration project they were working on. As Yazd is a Unesco recognised city there were many such projects underway. I found it fascinating how you could be lead through a labyrinth of dark alleyways, dip through an anonymous doorway and a sumptuous 'palace' would reveal itself with central courtyard, water features and balconies. It was also interesting to see the interraction between the male and female students. They were really at ease in each others company. A good sign.

That evening I was sat with friends, Greg and Doug, elaborating on my journey so far when in walked Martijn, a Dutch biker. As we all sat on the roof terrace sipping wine - which had been procured from somewhere - he told us epic tales. Turns out he'd ridden solo through Mongolia and fought his way across the bleakness of the Gobi Desert. From there he'd been smuggled from Tajikistan on the back of a truck, crossing Afghanistan before riding through dangerous areas of NW Pakistan. My story of breaking down on the Dover-Calais ferry seemed to pale into insignificance......

The following day a bade farewell to all and set off purposefully heading out to the main road. 'Simon', I thought,' it's time to get on with your trip.

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The Dusty Highway rolled beneath my wheels and I visited Shiraz and the wonders of Persepolis before deciding to veer from 'The beaten track'. While looking at my maps I realised how close I was to the Persian Gulf and thought 'This is a bike trip. It's about the roads and the landscape...how cool would it be to ride down the Persian Gulf Highway?'. The next day, I headed South.....

The road crossed through miles of arid mountains with only solitary trucks for company. South West of Bandar-e-Bushehr I saw the thin strip of sparkling blue on the horizon. 'Azure blue is such an uplifting colour in all this ochre coloured land' I thought, artistically. I rode on picturing the whitewashed village where I would watch the sun go down with a cool drink.Recommended as a 'pretty fishing village' in a Lonely Planet I'd seen, Bandar-e-Kangan was the town I headed for.

A concrete dual carriageway took me into the town. Hmmm. The harbour must be where the 'pretty fishing village' is. I turned right and made my way down a pot-holed road. Rusting fishing boats were tied to a crumbling quayside. Men sat around in groups and looked up as I pulled up along side them.' Salaam!' I said, ' Hotel?' A crowd gathered. Moped riding kids, who'd been following me, swelled the crowd and the tension began to rise....' YOU! Come with us!' A shout went out. Shit. The police had arrived. The crowd dispersed and I was forced to follow them to their compound. I rode in and the gates were shut behind me.

My pulse raced. I feared the worst....Now what?

To be continued.......

So, the long hot English summer slowly draws to a close and it's time to crack on with the Road to Kathmandu 'comic strip'..... Right. Where was I?

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Heading south from Teheran to Esfahan.

"Ramadan. Ninth month of the Muslim year, in which rigid fasting is observed during all daylight hours", states the Oxford Dictionary. Hmm...'rigid fasting'...not the best time to cross Iran and Pakistan.

I'd read about Ramadan and felt that it would somehow bring me closer to the way of life in these countries. It did. I met a lot of hungry, miserable locals whenever I pulled over. It's a simple fact, though - as a tourist, sorry, traveller..you need cafes and bars to rest throughout your day. To take stock of all you've experienced. To take in your surroundings. To 'people watch'.

These thoughts, together with 'What I would eat tonight', filled my head as I rode into Esfahan as the sun set.

"Esfahan. The country's loveliest city, with beautiful mosques,palaces, bridges and (more importantly) teahouses", states the Lonely Planet. Surely these celebrated tea houses would be open for the discerning traveller. Yes. After sunset.

And it was after sunset that a bizarre evening unfolded........

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Enjoying the stories so far Si, but how did the bike go? Was it difficult to find petrol? Hotels? Is it true that you told locals that you came from Manchester United?

Click on MORE below to find answers to these questions and details of what happened that night......

I'd just made it into the outskirts of Esfahan. For the first time on the trip, I'd come dangerously close to running out of petrol. Not the end of the world, I know, but the outskirts of these towns did not look like good places to run into difficulties.

I had a standard 26 litre tank with a range of around 350kms. Pretty good but I'd heard there were stretches crossing to Pakistan where I'd need more. I'd cross that bridge (and desert) when I came to it. I made a mental note never to leave a town without filling up. Petrol was really cheap, though- once you could find it. I'd often have to be led by a local through the backstreets to an unmarked forecourt.

The bike was going well - strong and comfortable - and I felt I'd made the right choice of bike all those years ago - despite having to push it off the ferry at Calais due to starter motor failure..oh, and the diode board failure in Hungary ( whatever that was).

Hotels were relatively easy to find and the Lonely Planet 'Istanbul to Kathmandu' guide book generally steered me in the right direction with a selection of recommendations.

This particular night I'd pulled up outside the 'Naghshe-e-Jahan Hotel near the Meidun-e-Emam Khomeini square' (try asking for that on a busy junction with a full faced helmet) which was conveniently located next to the Nobahar restaurant. This may have influenced my choice.....

After a plateful of food surrounded by now, happy Iranians, I headed out onto the streets in looking for the 'Azadi Khane teahouse' just east of the main square. After some searching, I found it down a murky alleyway and ordered tea and cake.

"Salaam! Where are you from? Drink tea with us!" A local lad (never did get his name) had befriended Robbert, a dutch guy living in England and was now keen to drive us back to his apartment to entertain us with his guitar playing. Fine. Why not? An acoustic evening of traditional Iranian ballads would be 'most agreeable'.

A high speed car chase across town ended - as they all do - in a dark alley. We climbed the stairway and he opened the door to his apartment. Bright, clean and simply furnished. As expected - barring the Motorhead poster on the wall. And there, in the centre of the room, his ELECTRIC guitar. Turned out his ambition in life was to go to Germany and join a Rock Band.

"Would you like Whisky?" Things were indeed looking up. " First, I must ask my grandmother". I pictured a Monty Python-esque woman in black, clutching her bottle of 'Old Galleon' in the room next door. But there was no sound of a scuffle and within minutes glasses were being handed round as a rendering of 'Ace of Spades' was being thrashed out before our eyes. Excellent.

So, not quite the, er, 'sober' evening I'd expected. Cue raised eyebrow,

Next...On Eastwards to the desert town of Yazd.

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?
Don't cha? Don't cha?

The semi naked Pussycat Dolls teased and taunted me from the widescreen Satellite TV...I stood and readjusted my smoking jacket, tapped out my pipe and looked out onto the streets. It seemed a long time since I'd kissed my (by now ex) girlfriend Celia, goodbye in Southern Turkey. Cue wistful look through window.

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(TIP. Open up the full cartoon page and read the text - it makes more sense!)

Outside, the women of Teheran went about their business covered from head to foot. Where did the men of Teheran meet the opposite sex? I never did find out. I did, however, spend the next few days bathing in the hospitality of my friends - who led me tirelessly through the bazaars, mosques and museums of Teheran.

"Think of Teheran as the LA of the Middle East, rather than an exotic crossroads steeped in Persian splendour..." states the Lonely Planet. It was true. This city is vast. But there is nothing quite like a personal local guide to help you reach the parts other guide(books) cannot reach....

But neither the sights of the city nor the Pussy Cat Dolls could hold me back and I loaded my bike up and set off North across the spectacular Alborz mountains to the Caspian Sea - a destination long dreamed about.

Oh, how I longed to bathe in its crystal clear waters after a long hot day in the saddle. It was not to be.....

Click on MORE below for further tales of the unexpected and a few PHOTOS.

After several hours of headlight to headlight contact with Hillman Hunters through the mountains, I rode onto the shingle beach at Mahmud Abad. The Caspian Sea! So often I'd wondered if that one day I would reach these shores....

But leaden skies and a chill wind kept my swimming costume firmly in the bottom of my pannier. I set up a few self-timed photos positioning myself on a convenient....freezer. As I adopted a suitably macho 'I've made it' expression, a man came to me and, moving me aside, opened the freezer, took out a plastic bag of clear liquid, muttered something and walked off along the beach.

Another guy had seen this and came over. He was an English-speaking student and explained that the man kept his illegal home-produced alcohol in the freezer.. Interesting.(TIP. If you're going to store alcohol in a freezer - find somewhere to plug it in.)

I was invited back to join his friends at the 'student house' nearby. A gateway was opened and I rode the bike into the inner courtyard much to the surprise of the other students. Tea was served and food was prepared to the sounds of Pink Floyd and DJ Alligator. A lively bunch of intelligent lads who talked passionately about the frustrations of life in Iran...So much Oil and yet so much poverty...Revolution in the air?

I wished them well and rode on along the coast and found a hotel in Chalus a town which had come highly recommended but in the cool damp weather I was reminded of a tired British resort out of season. Grey skies was not what I'd come this far for.
I made a mental note to head south to the heat of the desert and Esfahan the next day....

Only one problem - Ramadan had started and I was looking at 30 days of 'not eating or drinking between sunrise and sunset'. Just what I needed.....

Iran. How would a British biker be received? I was feeling apprehensive.

For the first time on the trip I felt a little uneasy - maybe I should have taken those GB stickers off...relationships between Britain and Iran were tense due to Nuclear issues. I made a note to avoid the topic - stick to talking about the weather...

My destination that night was Tabriz a distance of around 350kms of dust and highway. I was expecting this. It was the 'Dusty Highway' after all....

It was smooth and wide enough but the driving had taken on an urgency... You MUST overtake the car in front NO MATTER WHAT - and it doesn't matter how you do it. And all the cars seemed to be 1970s Hillman Hunters. How did that happen? These cars were at their most dangerous around dusk. I rode into Tabriz - around dusk.....

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Click on MORE below for PHOTOS, 'Tales from Tabriz' and an in-depth discussion about the future of Nuclear power in the Middle East.

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The Lonely Planet recommended the Hotel Morvarid who....' allow guests to keep their motorcycles in the lobby'. That'll do nicely. All I had to do was find it.

As you near these towns you are pulled in by some gravitational force which you can't fight. You find yourself 'sucked in' to the core of the city unable to turn left or right. I wrestled the bike through the wild traffic like a man gaining momentum through rapids towards a waterfall.....Fortunately my calculations had been correct and I was washed up outside the Hotel. I breathed a sigh of relief and, sure enough, was invited to bring the bike in.

I unloaded the bike, showered and stepped apprehensively out onto the street in an effort to find somewhere to eat. Not easy. I was familiar with Turkey where restaurants 'shouted' for your custom. This was different - you had to look for them. 'Luckily' an English speaking local, Saeed, came to my rescue and led me to a cafe lined with men smoking Hookah pipes. I was greeted, shown a seat and a pipe was prepared for me.

'Most agreeable', is the phrase that a Victorian traveler would have used. Smooth and mellow..but - I'd rather have a coffee and cigarette. Interestingly enough, I later found the following on a 'Hookah" website.

"Don't let the fruity flavours fool you into thinking shisha is harmless. You are still getting all the tar and nicotine of an ordinary cigarette, along with some nasty hydrocarbons from the smouldering charcoal. A 45-minute session of smoking a hookah pipe is the equivalent of having nine cigarettes".

Hmmm. Nine cigarettes in 45 minutes. Time for some fresh air.

I thanked Saeed, bade farewell to the smokers and returned to the Hotel where the foyer was looking considerably busier than when I left. Three more bikes had turned up. Three bikes and four bikers.

Bill and Rich were supping tea in the foyer. ' The girls will be down in a minute - they're getting 'dressed'. Jo and Becky appeared in their now compulsory Iranian headscarf - the Hijab. Jo grinned sheepishly and Becky scowled. 'I HATE this!' she hissed. Her 'attitude' was to get her into a number of confrontations the further east they rode....

I'd been feeling lonely so really enjoyed their company and an evening of British humour put me back on track. Our paths were to cross many times over the following months.

But I was bound for Teheran unlike the others who were, perhaps wisely, bypassing the city heading South.

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Friends of friends who'd helped arrange my visa, had also arranged for me to stay in their company apartment - normally set aside for visiting businessmen. Excellent. It was with their emailed map lashed to my tankbag that I plunged into the mayhem that is Teheran's system of highways like a pilot from the 'Dambusters'....

10 km from Tehran I'd become more focussed as the traffic intensified and quickened. Although the motorway had three lanes they were driving as if there was FIVE lanes. Unbelievable. It really felt as if I'd driven into a stock car race. I held my ground as best I could , chisel jawed and squint-eyed, sweeping from one motorway junction to the next. And, despite being swept North instead of South at one intersection, I finally made it through the chaos to the piped muzak calm of the Hotel Homa.

I was met by my man - in Iran - Mr Azizian. " Mr Roberts? We've been expecting you...".Within the hour later it was smoking jacket, pipe and slippers and satellite TV in the company's luxurious apartment. Life on the road. It's tough but someone's got to do it....

Next: The sights and delights of Teheran.

Want to be regularly updated with the latest pages as they roll off the drawing board? Drop me an email at simongoeseast@yahoo.co.uk to get on the mailing list.

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The Iranian border. What the hell was I doing here? Now would have been a good point to turn around. It had been a great trip so far...Eastern Europe. The sweeping plains of Hungary...The misty mountains of Transylvania.. The Black Sea coast and Istanbul...The bizarre landscapes of Cappadocia and the wide open spaces of Kurdestan. A great trip. Why go further? I thought as I rolled up to the barriers. This was where the adventure really began....

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Get yourself a drink, lean back and click on MORE below for further stories, witty anecdotes AND PHOTOS!....

I'd engaged the services of a local to get me through the process. It was worth it. My passport was put on the top of piles and the 'where is green card?' insurance queries were smoothed over. Within an hour I'd legally left Turkey and was coasting down a wide and dusty valley towards Maku, the first large town in Iran.

Another country. Another culture. Another language to grapple with. Was that a Hillman Hunter in my rear view mirror....?

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The previous week had seen me riding through an increasingly arid yet spectacular landscape stopping over in Sanliurfa, near the Syrian border, Tatvan and Van on the side of Lake Van. The further east I rode the fewer western travelers I encountered. The atmosphere was taking on a more Middle Eastern feel - which I liked - and I found myself becoming more comfortable with solo travel. Men in road cafes invited me to join them and were always curious as to my route and plans. I'd bought a small scale map of the whole route with me and was marking on it the roads I'd taken so far. Great ice breaker. That and photos in the 'Istanbul to Kathmandu' guide book.

I finally rejoined the beaten track at Dogubayzit (also known as 'Dog biscuit') - about 35kms from the border - where I'd planned to stay for a couple of days before the 'big push' to Iran. I particularly wanted to see the Ishak Pasa Sarayi - a stunning palace/fortress high above the town - a picture of which I'd looked at wistfully years ago on an old 'Turkey' guide book.

I rode the steep and rough track to the fortress and pulled over to take in the spectacular.....smell? Coffee?! I followed my (well trained) nostrils to the campfire of Arlette and Marc from Bern, where they were brewing fresh coffee. Exquisite! Ah, you can always rely on ze Swiss.

I'd also hoped to tie up with other Overlanders who, according to the guidebook, '...throng to the campsite beneath the fortress where the food is excellent and the bar rocks in the evening with travelers sinking their last beers before entering Iran'. I had to be there. That night I sat on my own in a large bar, empty but for one man playing an electronic keyboard and what sounded like Turkey's entry for the Eurovision song contest circa 1977. Rocked? I wasn't. Seemed like nobody was heading for Iran these days. I had a restless night's sleep.

I left the next day. Somewhat quicker than planned due to being attacked by the 'Beast of Dogbiscuit' - the largest dog/hyena I've ever seen - as I cautiously descended the rough track down to the main road. A sign that it was time to leave Turkey? I took it as one and rode east to the border...