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down, but off it was taken and locked in a safe.
    “Hello, hello, what’s all this about?” I thought, and requested it back.
    The friendly manager shook his head, and with the help of an English speaker in the lobby explained that whenever you book into a hotel in Iran, by law, you’ve got to hand over your passport. I wasn’t overly keen on this little procedure, but what could I do?
    The room was very basic, but after last night’s less than salubrious accommodation, it was complete luxury for me. The view from my window was a breathtaking one of the huge rocky mountain gorge in which Maku was situated. A section of it contained a massive overhang of rock, which, if it ever fell down would wipe out a good bit of the town. This bit of the gorge looked well worth a visit.
    Lurking suspiciously in the corner of my room were the most unhygienic pair of plastic sandals the world has ever seen. The sandals were a dingy white, imprinted with a nasty black sludge, presumably the result of countless applications of filthy feet and deposits of sweat and dead skin. God knows how many verrucas and fungus infections currently called them home, but one thing was for sure: my feet weren’t going anywhere near them. Even looking at them made me feel queasy, so holding them at arm’s length, I placed them in the cupboard and set off for the communal shower down the hall with my ten toes out for all to see.
    The amount of soap and shampoo I smothered my body with was obscene. I used an industrial quantity of toothpaste, had a shave, and after putting on some clean clothes, which could no longer consist of shorts since exposing your legs in public in Iran is a big no-no even for a man, I felt like a different person and was ready to go exploring.
    The air outside seemed to crackle with an electric charge such was my overwhelming excitement and anticipation to finally be here, in Iran! Maku was thriving with traffic and people, and consisted of one long main road lined with all manner of different shops, which were squeezed between the precipitous sides of the aforementioned mountain gorge. The gorge was spectacular and completely dominated the whole area for miles around.
    The overhanging rock visible from my hotel window seemed to beckon me, so I decided to hike on up. It looked accessible through a slightly rough area off the main road, lined with lots of abandoned or partially collapsed houses. I was a bit apprehensive at first about going through here, but then thought, “What the hell?” I needn’t have worried. The people were all very friendly, and some of them greeted me with a warm, “ Bonjour monsieur ” as I walked through their neighborhood. This greeting I assumed was simply the locals using a Western language they were familiar with rather than me looking French—or at least I hoped so.
    After the houses, it was steep, rough terrain where several fallen boulders had blocked my route. I puffed and panted my way over a couple of these before realizing an established path ran nearby. The higher I climbed, the more impressive the mountain overhang became.
    From the town below, the overhang had looked quite interesting and maybe worth a visit, but close by it was incredible and far larger than I’d thought. It was a huge tidal wave of rock, looking as if it were just about to break, swallowing everything in its path below. Interestingly, there were a couple of small trees growing almost horizontally from the side of the rock, hundreds of feet above me, clinging tenaciously to life.
    I felt dizzy just staring up at it and had to sit down. Whilst gazing up in awe, I was approached by a local guy of about eighteen with a big friendly smile. He spoke no English but gestured for me to follow him. I got up and walked over to what looked like the remains of an old tower or chimney, then climbed up and looked inside, revealing . . . nothing at all.
    My friendly guide gestured that I should maybe take a photo of it. I politely