When I cycled to Iran - About fear and feeling displaced | Bikepacking documentary

🚲 Hey there, fellow travelers! 🌎 Welcome back to my channel! I'm Giant Cheerio, a bikepacking adventurer exploring the world on two wheels since 2021! An unconventional bikepacking journey through Iran. This cycling adventure is different than everything I have experienced before. Stranded right before the border of Iran with a broken gear shifter, we find ourselves relying on the kindness of strangers during the first 200 km of our bike trip into Iran. The discomfort, fear and uncertainty that I feel reveal a profound lesson and unexpected connections. This is not just a bike trip; it's a testament to the transformative power of unconventional travel experiences in Iran. Lean back & enjoy watching! Cheerio, Goodbye, Salut & Adios!

We’re now very close to the Iranian border. I still find the fear or respect I felt justified even now, looking back. I can't cycle properly; I can only cycle in a fixed gear. We will keep on hitchhiking to Tabis. One must never forget where they are or in which country they find themselves.

"Can you hear me?" "Yeah, yeah, I can hear you." In a foreign land, a person needs the familiar. One tends to cling to the things they know.

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We’re now very close to the Iranian border, and by very close, I mean very close. Ten more kilometers, a lot of headwinds, and then we'll cross the border. My gear shifting just stopped working. Yeah, we just wanted to cross the border, and I quickly wanted to adjust my gears. Now I messed it up, and it doesn't work anymore. As I already mentioned in my previous video, the gear shifting doesn't work anymore—the cable is ripped, and we're standing right before the border of Iran. So the plan is to cross the border with a fixed gear and then hitchhike. We are in Armenia right now, right at the border with Iran. We decide to cross the border to hitch to Chabis, the first largest city in Iran, 200 km away.

Rolling towards the border on my fixed gear, we set out on our journey. There's no footage from the border, but I can tell you this much: I was nervous. I wish I could say I approached the border with a different feeling, but it was more fear than anything else—fear that we wouldn't get the dog across, fear of the border itself. The feeling of not belonging is overwhelming. Everything is different. Everything feels as foreign as it's ever been. These days, I cling to my native language—something familiar in the midst of the unknown. Everything is so different that even this YouTube video will be slightly different from all the previous ones.

We’re excited, feeling foreign, unable to speak Farsi, and somehow feeling a little out of place, standing right behind the border like idiots, hoping someone will pick us up. But the magic began to unfold right behind the border. A truck driver gives us our first experience in Iran. We tried to hitchhike at the border. Two trucks stopped, but they asked for a ridiculous amount of money. Then someone pulled over and simply took us with him. Oscar got to sit in the front. The guy immediately wanted to invite us into his family. He insisted that we come along, but we tried to explain that we preferred to sleep outside. He dropped us off at this parking lot and insisted that we eat. We said we have food; it's all good. Now we're just going around the corner to find a place to sleep.

Good morning! We spent our first night in Iran. I had a pretty good sleep; I slept like a baby. Timo didn't because his mat is kind of flat. Oscar used his teeth to play with it a couple of days ago, and we couldn't patch the hole. Now Timo is sleeping on the ground. Anyway, we are really excited to start this day. Today, we will keep on hitchhiking to Tabis because I can't cycle; I can just cycle in fixed gear because my gear-shifting cable does some really weird things. But it doesn't matter; we will just hitchhike.

Yesterday, we had a decent hitchhike from the border, about 100 km, with a super nice man. He wanted to make sure that we ate and that we had enough water. When we told him that we would like to get off the car now for camping, he was really confused. He didn't understand, so I had to talk with his wife on the phone, his sister, and his cousin to make sure that we really wanted to get out of the car. At some point, we managed to get off. He helped us with the bicycles and bags. He even gave us a little bag with some cookies and fruits. He really wanted to make sure that we had enough to eat. We showed him our bag and said, "There's food inside, a lot of food." He just couldn't help it; he put some money into Timo's pocket and ran off, saying bye-bye.

That was our first encounter in Iran. Now we will start the day. We will hitchhike to Tabis and try to find accommodation for us and Oscar to get some things done: money exchange, bike shop, and so on. Let the adventure begin!

In Iran, there's a form of politeness called "taarof." You don't just accept things offered to you; you decline at least three times. If the offer or gift is extended again, then you accept it. The truck driver handed us 200,000 rials—that's roughly 40 cents. For him, this amount meant much more than it did for us, and we felt incredibly awkward keeping the money in the end. But that's how it went.

Our hitchhiking journey continues, and it couldn't have gone better for us. I was so scared before we crossed the border, worried we couldn't get anywhere or that no one would pick us up. But all that fear was for nothing. Even this morning, we didn't stand by the roadside for more than five minutes. It's somehow magical how incredibly helpful people are here. A man stopped with his blue car and took us to the next village. He said there’s a bike shop, and he would take us there to get my bike repaired.

We headed there. I waited outside the bike shop with the dog. Again, there isn't much footage because I'm still not sure whom and what I'm allowed to film, so I filmed the dog. We are back in the car. The gear cable couldn't be repaired, and now we're on our way to Tabis. The same driver who originally just wanted to take us to the next town couldn't stop himself from driving us all the way to Tabis. That's another 80 km, and he just drives us. We've said no, thank you, 180 times. We could continue hitchhiking, but he won't be deterred from driving us with the bikes, the dog, and all our gear to Tabis. We are really grateful and also a bit embarrassed because the man is now rearranging his whole schedule for us. But, yeah, we're heading to Tabis now. Here we go.

It's magical and uncomfortable at the same time. The man doesn't know us; he has no benefit from us, and Tabis really is not on his way. Why does he do this? Why this extraordinary hospitality? I found myself asking these questions more and more often. Magical and awkwardly touched is how I would describe my feeling in this situation. While driving, he hands us snacks and drinks and calls friends to translate to make sure that we're okay.

"Can I ask you where you are?" "Can you hear me?" "Yeah, yeah, I can hear you." "Okay, you are in Tabis now?" "Yes, yes, I want to come to Tabis." We arrive in Tabis. The man guides us straight to the bike shop and waves goodbye while saying "khodahafez," which means goodbye in Farsi. We were overwhelmed and wanted to offer something in return before he departed, so we pressed some banknotes into his hand. The notes exchanged hands several times, and he refused. Ah, it's taarof, this Iranian form of politeness, we think. After engaging in this back-and-forth dance five times, he suddenly drives off, wearing a smile and repeating "khodahafez" as he drives away. Again, magical and awkwardly touched—that's how our time in Tabis continues. The bike got fixed, and we found a hostel for ourselves and the dog.

Magical encounters combined with a strange feeling on my part—I can't seem to relax. I feel so foreign, despite all the kindness. I feel unsure. This isn't like me. I was constantly nervous, never sure if I was dressed right, if I was behaving correctly, if I was doing something wrong. In a mix of sorrow, you hear many stories about Iran. On one hand, I felt so welcomed. But on the other hand, I was so afraid. The first two days, to be honest, I didn't dare to go out at all because everything was too much for me. I didn't know where to take the dog; there were so many noises, so many cars, and so many people. And then, with the hijab and the dog, it's obvious that we're German. That was all just too much for me, and I had a half-mental breakdown. I just wanted to lock myself in the hostel. So many things were going on in my head. I absolutely didn't want to attract attention, but of course I did, or rather, we did.

Probably, what I'm telling you right now doesn't make any sense. But yeah, a lot of things in my head don't make much sense right now either. I still find this fear or respect that I felt justified even now, looking back, because one must never forget where they are or in which country they find themselves. The people are not the government, but things work differently here, as we will continue to discover in countless conversations and encounters in the future.

The feeling of otherness and foreignness doesn't go away. Conflicts and arguments arise between Timo and me as I'm truly changed—insecure, stuck in my ways, anxious. I don't really want to leave the hostel. I feel more alien than ever before. I don't want to overstate it, but in retrospect, so much becomes clear once more. It was a bit magical. It feels as if our path had already been pre-planned. Let's just call it the good old bike-packing universe.

In this foreign land, in this anxious uncertainty, I'm given security and the familiar. I'm given what I'm currently lacking so much—points of reference, the familiar. One bike traveler after another arrives by coincidence. They all speak my native language. They all know what I know from home. Familiarity in a foreign place gives me immense comfort. I begin to understand some major and important things when it comes to getting a clue about other people's situations in foreign countries.

In a foreign land, a person needs the familiar. Even in a foreign place, one tends to cling to the things they know—their own mother tongue or familiar cultural aspects. It's actually obvious, but I had to experience it myself to understand some other aspects of life. So what do we do with all this talk of magic, foreignness, familiarity, and great uncertainty? What do you get when you cross six German and Swiss cyclists in Iran? This would probably be the start of a good joke. And that's exactly how our time began—six cyclists meeting in a hostel in Iran by coincidence. And then, well, a joke turns into an idea. An idea that probably changed all of our journeys quite a bit. An idea is born. We will share a small piece of the road.

When we set off together, we weren't aware that this small piece of road we wanted to share would turn into something greater. Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. But that's a different story.