|Door knocker in Toudeshk|
'On those rare days that a cyclist entered our village, I would jump up and wave and shout Hello! and Stop! and Where are you from? That was all the English I knew. Most would say Hello or Salaam without stopping. No time, some of them said. Still, that was better than nothing and I would go home happy.'
'One day a tall boy decided to stop. He told me he was from Germany and needed a place to sleep. By then I spoke some English. English was my favourite subject at school. I told him there was no hotel in our village. In the next town, forty-five kilometres from here, he would certainly find something. The boy frowned. I'm very tired, he said. Can't I spend the night at your place? I thought it over. My heart said yes, but I was afraid my mum would say no. I decided to take him to my grandparents' house. Both of them had died some years before, and the house was empty. There was not a single piece of furniture. But the boy was happy. He put his bags in this corner, where we are sitting now, and rolled out his sleeping bag over there. That night I brought him my supper, and the next morning my breakfast. I was hungry for a day, but I didn't mind. I was hosting a cyclist!'
|Nastaran, Mohammad's niece|
'You know, they don't call me Mohammad Crazy anymore. They call me Mohammad Tourist. But it's not tourists I'm interested in. It's travellers. That's why you won't find a big sign when you enter the village. It would change the atmosphere. Some things are better kept small. But if you happen to meet other travellers, please tell them about this place. After all these years I'm still eager to meet them.'