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Like a small boat tossed about in a stormy sea, I’m being thrown around the backseat of an old, weathered sedan while hanging onto the grab handle for dear life. My partner and I exchange worried glances. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. We’ve signed up for an afternoon tour of the Maranjab Desert, an hour’s drive from the Iranian city of Kashan. Mehdi is driving, although it feels more like a desperate race to me. Confident of his driving ability, and oblivious to my fear, Mehdi speeds along the busy and narrow, corrugated dirt road overtaking slower vehicles, hooting at motorbikes and tourist buses in his path. Suddenly the road surface changes to thick sand and the car slews within centimeters of a parked bus. Mehdi blasts the horn forcefully, muttering under his breath. Iranian drivers are crazy but Mehdi’s driving is crazier than most. Today is Friday and the end of the Iranian weekend. Tomorrow everyone returns to work, but today they all seem to be here in the Maranjab Desert. Heavily laden four-wheel drives, motorbikes, large tour buses and regular sedans like ours speed along in single file along the sandy road. Families and friends spent last night in the desert. Others came for the day for some off-road driving, to picnic or to just to hang out. Overtaking slower local tourist buses at speed, we skid in the sand and miss an oncoming bus by 6 inches. This very near head on collision prompts me to look up annual fatalities on Iranian roads. It’s around 20 000. At a popular lookout, the view stretches for miles. My eyes follow the dust cloud along the curve of the road as a stream of cars make their way home. Three young men sit beside a campfire keeping a blackened pot of tea warm. One offers me 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 as they inevitably do in this hostile sandy environment. A woman in a nearby family group makes eye contact and calls me over. Immediately I’m surrounded. She offers me tea, a young girl hands me a bag of balls of white sugar. A toothless old man puts a half-consumed plate of food in my hand. We talk using the only common language we have - gestures and my few newly learnt Farsi words. They wave enthusiastically as we drive off then stop some minutes later at the base of a large sand dune. Trudging up the unspoiled dune, 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 sight of a young woman wearing tight jeans, short sleeveless top with exposed midriff and no head covering is jarring. I haven’t seen so much skin or hair in weeks. She waves to me as she poses for photographs. A local, she feels safe to disrobe here. As the sun slowly sets, the sky turns pastel pink between the darkening grey clouds. I reflect how in this country that many are scared to visit, every encounter with locals has brought friendly welcoming smiles and connection. In the fading light, Mehdi’s driving terrifies me even more. The traffic is heavy. Everyone is anxious to get home and we’re driving blind in their dust trail. A young man waving a torch next to his stranded motorbike suddenly appears in our headlights through the dust cloud. Mehdi scarcely misses him. Mechanics attend to broken-down four-wheel drives at a service station on the edge of the desert, Motorbike riders stand forlornly beside their broken-down bikes, hitching a ride. Back at the hotel, I climb shakily out of Mehdi’s car. Relieved yet invigorated, I wouldn't change this afternoon's experiences for the world.