I was in no mood to take any crap from anyone and my thoughts shifted to the reassuring knife in my back pocket as I fingered it.
Ah yes, about the knife. I mentioned a while back that I did carry one for protection and skinning small animals (kidding)--just in case. I had come close to, if not using it, at least suggesting that it was there--once before. During a misunderstanding in a desert village I moved my hand deliberately toward my back pocket while looking significantly into the eyes of a guy who was being, shall we say, a little pushy. But that's another story. Let's get back to the present potential unpleasantness.
I was still somewhat shaken from being forced off the road and the adrenalin was still pumping when three or four guys, as I said, got out of their car and started walking towards me. Still, three or four to one, with or without a weapon, isn't terrific odds and I didn't know what they had. The fight or flight option was open to me. I decided on the latter and, still helmeted and straddling the bike, I kick started it and let it idle while these gentlemen approached. The sprocket was still not replaced and in a seriously damaged condition, but they didn't know that.
They were not friendly, but not overtly menacing either. They spoke no English and I understood very little of what they were saying, but the tone was not suggestive of a friendly “Hey, nice bike. And what are you doing in these parts?” wayside chat. More like a “Who the f... are you and what the hell are you doing here in my country?” tone. I said something to the effect of “None of your damned business and screw you Jack!” in plain English, kicked the bike into 1st and split in a cloud of dust and gravel. Perhaps I'm over dramatizing a little about the flying gravel, but I kept an eye in the rear view mirror for several miles to be sure I wasn't being followed. I wasn't. Exhalation of enormous relief.
A little later, in Ahwaz, I was unable to find a bike shop that had the right sprocket for my Yamaha. Nevertheless, I had reached the point of no return in my journey. It was about the same distance back to Esfahan no matter which way I went. Figured I might as well go on to Shiraz and Persepolis as planned. Hell, things couldn't get any worse. I would have to lighten the load on the bike (dump a lot of unnecessary shite) and keep the chain tight and well lubricated—and pray.
Ah, sorry, no photos this post; you don't have the presence of mind to take photographs of near-death experiences or less-than-convivial encounters with strangers.
To be continued....
0 komentar:
Posting Komentar