Chabahar Day 2: Hitchhiking Inside a Refrigerator Truck

After packing up our tent, we headed east, aiming to hitchhike the entire stretch from Chabahar to Gwadar (Govater).

Along the way, we asked a shopkeeper how we could get to the outskirts of town. A sales representative in the shop overheard and mentioned he was driving that exact route. That’s how we ended up making one of the strangest decisions possible: hitchhiking inside the back of a refrigerated pickup truck! We climbed into the cargo bay and the door swung shut. It was a cramped, sealed, pitch-black space—luckily with the refrigeration unit turned off. Suddenly, I felt breathless and claustrophobic. My travel companion quickly switched on his headlamp, showed me the interior, and tried to prove scientifically that given the volume of the compartment, we would never run out of oxygen!

A bit further down the road, the truck pulled over, and we helped unload the goods for a local shop. The door shut again, headlamp still on, and this time a wave of paranoia hit us about getting kidnapped—purely because so many people back home had warned us that the region wasn't safe. I quickly checked Google Maps and saw we were right on track. I had to laugh at myself: who on earth forced you to hitchhike like this?!

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but the people of Balochistan are remarkably kind and hospitable, and we experienced this warmth firsthand while hitchhiking. Continuing east, our first stop was the gorgeous Ramin Beach—a stunning shoreline with golden sands that captivated the eye. We dropped our backpacks on the sand and took a quick dip in the sea. I can't quite recall why we didn't stay longer before hitting the road again.

When it comes to hitchhiking, luck isn't always on your side. After Ramin, not a single car stopped. With no other option, we started walking. We put on some music and marched along cheerfully when suddenly a Nissan Roniz that had just passed us hit the brakes and backed up. Guess who it was? The support vehicle of the very same cycling group we had met last night on the beach by Lipar Hotel!

The car was packed to the ceiling with gear, but we squeezed ourselves right into the middle and drove on. Ahead, the road climbed steeply. After taking a sharp turn, a long slope stretched straight out toward the horizon, and right at the bottom on our right, the Pink Lake (Lipar Lake) winked at us. It is a shallow, striking wetland that takes on a pink hue due to dissolved minerals and thriving phytoplankton. That said, if you're visiting solely based on edited internet photos, you might feel slightly underwhelmed; the natural water tone is far softer than the neon pink seen in oversaturated pictures.

Beside the lake, local Balochi women had set up a makeshift bazaar under fabric tents to sell handcrafted goods. You could pick up authentic needlework (Souzan-douzi) accessories at very reasonable prices. If you like henna body art, there's hardly a better spot: they apply intricate henna patterns while you take in the lake views.

One peculiar scene here was young boys and girls approaching visitors, asking, "Want me to sing you an anthem?" If you nodded, they'd recite a short Balochi verse and hold out their hands for cash. I noticed this phenomenon becoming even more widespread on my later trips to the region. Without diving too deep into the issue, encouraging handouts like this unfortunately fosters panhandling. Why give out unearned money without good reason?

Our next destination was the Sacred Fig tree (Anjir-e Ma'abed / Banyan tree)—a massive, ancient tree with sprawling, peculiar branches, some looping back and burying deep into the ground. It bears small, pretty fruit that looks nice but offers little taste. Beneath its wide canopy, local Balochi women had also spread out their handicrafts for sale.

From this point on, a breathtaking landscape unfolded before us. To our right, towering coastal headlands and cliffs fluctuated in height, overlooking pristine, untouched beaches and the boundless blue waters of the Gulf of Oman stretching toward the horizon. To our left lay a dramatic scenery shifting between arid desert and miniature, wrinkled formations known as the Martian Mountains (Miniature Mountains). Looking at these formations gives the optical illusion of a vast mountain range far in the distance, even though they sit right along the road. It’s a striking contrast: ocean on one side, desert and camels on the other.

As mentioned, the cliff heights vary along the coastline, reaching their peak in Beris—famous for its bustling fishing pier harbor. Standing near the edge, the entire dock spreads out below your feet. Just keep in mind never to step too close to the cliff edge, as the soil and sandstone can be extremely brittle.

While the cycling team planned to push onward, we decided to spend the night in Beris. As dusk fell, we were starving, so we found a local café in town to grab a bite. When I say café, don't picture chic spots in Tehran! It was more like a traditional teahouse with wooden daybeds and plastic chairs where local youths gathered to socialize. I can’t recall our exact dinner, but I vividly remember sharing a wild-pistachio sap (Gowanjak) hookah alongside rich, piping-hot spiced milk tea!

Later that night, listening to tunes on my portable speaker, we walked toward the famous cliff lookout when an abrupt yell froze us in our tracks: "Halt!" I cut the music instantly. A voice shouted again, "Didn't you hear me say halt?!" Just ahead stood a border patrol outpost. We raised our hands above our heads and approached slowly. The gate swung open, and an armed conscript stepped out alongside his commanding officer. The soldier snapped, "Didn't you hear me shouting halt at you?" I calmly replied, "No, the music was too loud!!" When we told him we were travelers from Tehran, he chuckled, "You guys must have way too much free time!" We didn't argue. Once they realized we were completely harmless, they gave us permission to camp near the guard post. After all, what threat could two backpackers pose to a well-armed border garrison?

We pitched our tent roughly a meter from the cliff's edge and sat facing the open sea. It was a magical sight: a full moon hanging in the night sky, casting shimmering reflections across the tranquil water... For the first time in my life, the sheer grandeur of nature brought me to tears. Even now, recounting the memory brings a lump to my throat. It was time for music and meditation: we played the didgeridoo and Tibetan singing bowls, immersing ourselves in the deep stillness of the night.

Sometime past midnight, I woke with a start to a chilling noise resembling a human baby's laugh. I nudged Hossein: "What on earth is that sound?" He mumbled, "Relax, Baba, it's just a hyena!" With that, I pulled the tent zipper shut and went right back to sleep.