Gilan was like Mazandaran – hot, green, and full of rice paddies:
I had decided to take a path through the villages, so I was a bit worried about the rivers that came out of the mountains and crossed my path (or rather: I crossed theirs). But an early bridge seemed to be reason for careful optimism:
Shortly after that I reached a dried up river bed where there was no bridge, but I didn’t think much of it:
Walking through all that green was too awesome:
Then the Caboose and I reached another creek:
There was no bridge this time:
We walked to the other side.
Then we came to a bigger creek with a little dam where we were able to cross:
The bridge situation seemed to be getting worse and worse, though.
We rested under an orange tree, next to a bunch of small bushes:
They were tea plants:
Then we came to another creek, and this time I had to take off my shoes and ford it:
I didn’t really mind. The next river, I was sure, was going to have a bridge. I had seen it on the map, a massive white object cutting right through the river.
It turned out to be a dam:
When I asked a local family, they told me the only way was to go back to the highway:
This family confirmed what they had said:
I crossed the river on a highway bridge:
Then these two gentlemen appeared, equipped with plastic stools to sit on:
We talked for a while. Then I went to a roadside hotel, washed my feet, and slept.
360 degree video: