have a three or more hour drive back to Tehran .
Three more motorbikes emerge from another dune . They do wheelies and one , on seeing a foreigner , shows off rearing his bike up onto the back wheel .
On any other day of the week , the desert would be quiet and still . With locals busy at work , perhaps some local or international tourists would visit the desert , but the scene would be very different . Today there ’ s a buzz in the air and I feel privileged to see how locals relax and enjoy their weekend .
A group of young men sit beside a campfire keeping a blackened pot of tea warm . Their motorbikes , bikes made for riding on roads as opposed to the sandy desert , stand idle nearby .
One man offers me a draw on his shisha pipe , another proffers tea . They have spent the day riding motorbikes through the steep sandy dunes , tinkering with the engines when they fail which they inevitably do in this hostile sandy environment .
A family nearby group shelter behind a corral of old cars . The women and some of the younger girls , wear neutral-coloured headscarfs and long calf length tunics . I wander over .
One of the women in the group makes eye contact and invites me to join her . Immediately I ’ m surrounded . They chatter excitedly and offer me tea . A young girl hands me a bag of white balls , each the size of a marble . I take one and hesitantly put it in my mouth . It ’ s sugar . A glass of tea is placed in my hand and then a bag of sugar balls .
A toothless old man puts a halfconsumed plate of food in my hand . Mehdi appears impatient , but I ignore him and continue to talk with the group in the only common language we have - gestures and my few newly learnt Farsi words .
They explain that today is Jom ’ eh or Friday ( our Sunday ) and that they will return to work tomorrow , but today they relax . I reluctantly tear myself away . They stand in a group waving enthusiastically as we drive off .
Minutes later , Mehdi pulls up at the base of a large sand dune . He gestures that we should walk up the sand dune to watch the sun setting . He ’ ll wait with the few other tour guides who are hanging around .
Trudging up the dune , unspoiled by other footprints , my feet sink into the fine sand . At the crest I sit down , taking in the rolling sand dunes stretching all the way to the horizon , their surface rippled by the wind . I absentmindedly dribble the cool sand between my fingers .
The few people here are spread out across the dunes . It ’ s quiet . Suddenly the silence is broken . Engaging a low gear , a four-wheel drive growls as it ascends the dune stopping about half way up . Music blares from the radio as the doors open and four young people emerge .
It ’ s the group I saw at the desert entrance earlier . The blonde woman with the cap is dressed quite differently from any other woman I ’ ve seen on the streets of Iran .
She ’ s left her cap in the car and
TRAVERSE 43