Chabahar Day 3: Traveling to the Cat's Tail (Iran's Southeastern Tip)

March 21 (2nd of Farvardin)
We woke up in the morning to the sound of a pack of dogs barking right above our heads. The air had already warmed up, and packing our backpacks left us drenched in sweat. Near the main road was a school opening its classrooms to Nowruz holidaymakers. We spoke with the school caretaker, who kindly let us use the showers. An ice-cold shower that hit the spot!

We returned to last night's café for banana milk. Bananas and mangoes grow abundantly in this region, making banana milk and mango milk beloved local staples. Outside the café, we spotted two young men getting into their car. We asked where they were heading, and they said the next town over: Pasabandar.

They were two guys in their mid-twenties. The driver, named Mokran, owned a commercial fishing boat (lenj) worth around 3 billion Tomans back then. His friend, Ebrahim Kalamati, owned a smaller motorboat. Despite the wealth gap, they treated each other as complete equals. In fact, I never sensed an ounce of jealousy among the people of Balochistan. Perhaps because their traditional attire looks so similar, their demeanor remains equally grounded. The cut of the clothes is identical, unless you inspect the fabric closely, spot gold cufflinks, or notice a Rolex watch.

We arrived in Pasabandar, the southernmost port in mainland Iran; the air was thick with the scent of fish. With our new friends' help, we climbed aboard one of the docked lenjes. It was surreal standing where captains and sailors live for weeks—or even months—at sea. About two kilometers offshore lies a rocky formation called Shaitan (Devil's) Island, which vanishes during high tide. The name likely originates from fishing boats colliding with the submerged rock at night and sinking.

I told my Balochi friends that I had always longed to hear traditional Balochi instruments live, so we set out to find a local musician friend of theirs. We entered a place called a Bitek. In every village, there is a communal room dedicated to youth gatherings called a Bitek. Abdul Rahim Afghan played the Benju (Baja) for us—an instrument blending accordion keys with keyboard strings—and sang Balochi love songs.

Though we hated leaving that warm gathering, midday had already passed, so we set off toward the easternmost point of the region: Gwadar (Govater) Bay. It was around 3:00 PM, and most travelers were heading back toward Chabahar; almost nobody was driving toward Govater. Out of options, we started walking under the scorching sun. We had covered roughly half of the 18-kilometer stretch when a kind Balochi driver pulled over and drove us all the way to Govater Bay.

Govater had always symbolized the very edge of the earth to me. Especially the line from Ebi's Persian Gulf anthem: 'I will shout my love in the heights of Govater, in Sarakhs and Khorramshahr in my mother tongue.' Now I was thrilled to set foot on the southeasternmost tip of Iran. We passed the border checkpoint and reached the shores of Govater Bay. Spotting an open-air thatched cabana (Kapar) restaurant, we sank into the floor mats, utterly exhausted. Guess what we ordered? You guessed it: spiced milk tea! Let me tell you more about milk tea, the beloved drink of the Balochi people.

While chatting and snapping selfies with a family sitting nearby, someone walked up and asked, 'Are you Baba Mohammad?' I replied, 'Yes, and you are?' He said, 'I'm Masoud, from Hormuz last year!' I remembered a night on Chand Beach when I was in my tent, and Masoud asked if he could hang his wet clothes on the tree branch above it. On the road, and especially in Hormuz, a tent is a person's home, and backpackers do everything to respect each other's boundaries.

Masoud mentioned he had been staying in Govater for a few days as Khaled's guest, helping him complete the thatched restaurant. He introduced me to Khaled, who was said to be the son of the local Govater khan. Seeing the profound respect everyone showed him, I believed it without question.

Khaled shared the story of how he first encountered backpacking and hitchhiking. Many years ago, he spotted three strangers in Govater for the first time. Speaking with them, he realized they were touring Iran and intended to camp out in a tent. But would Balochi hospitality ever permit a guest to sleep outside? Legends abound on this topic: they say if you knock on a Balochi door seeking sanctuary (Aman), it is impossible to be turned away; they will welcome you inside and host you for as long as needed.

When those backpackers returned, word of Khaled spread across the travel community, turning him into the go-to host of Govater. Out of pure hospitality, he opened that modest restaurant with minimal amenities. Why minimal? Because Govater lacks running tap water, relying entirely on water tank deliveries. It is truly heartbreaking that after all these years, the area still lacks basic running water.

Once the restaurant closed, we moved to the Bitek. Another purpose of a Bitek is hosting visitors, which is why it often functions as a community guesthouse. Khaled generously served us the exact dishes sold in his restaurant: an assortment of fresh fish caught that very day.

I have a confession to make. Growing up in Tehran—due to flawed cultural conditioning—I used to view people from smaller provinces as second-class citizens. That changed the night I talked with Yaser and Mohammad Kalamati. Witnessing their intellectual depth and extensive education was a stark reminder never to judge anyone by appearances. It took me back to first grade, watching a teacher beat my classmate, barking 'dumb Afghan'—he wasn't dumb at all; he was simply suffering the burden of not being Iranian. You might have found yourself dismissing someone because they seemed provincial. In my view, the primary blame falls on those responsible for our education, followed by ourselves for clinging to outdated prejudices in the age of the internet. Yaser's articulate words felt like a slap in the face—a stern wake-up call reminding me: 'Baba Mohammad, never judge a person by their appearance, attire, or skin tone.'

Did I mention that many Balochi people share Iranian-Pakistani ancestry? Because of this, English loanwords frequently appear in daily conversations. Back in Beris near the cycling team, the local youth asked me, 'Are you traveling by cycle too?' I remember asking Yaser about the varied styles of Balochi greetings, and he replied, 'It depends on the culture and class of family!'

During our conversation, everyone had something in their mouth that resembled chewing gum at first glance. Asking around, I learned it was Mawa—a manufactured betel nut compound imported from Pakistan and readily sold at local kiosks. While chewing, swallowing saliva is strictly avoided because the substance contains slaked lime and dangerous additives; instead, users spit it onto the ground, leaving widespread rust-colored stains on the pavement. Interestingly, consuming Mawa carries no local taboo among young or old. In contrast, cigarette smoking is practically nonexistent.

In Chabahar, I had seen a traditional tobacco called Gowrako. I asked Khaled to prepare a Gowrako hookah for me. Its harsh flavor resembled spicy Borazjani tobacco. Everyone who saw me asked in disbelief, 'Baba, you're smoking Gowrako?! Aren't you dizzy?!' Most of their surprise stemmed from the fact that in Balochi culture, Gowrako is traditionally smoked exclusively by women.

Among those astonished by my hookah choice was a local teacher from Govater. I asked him, 'Why is it that wherever we stop, children immediately rush over asking for holiday cash (Eidi), even when it's not a holiday?' The teacher placed the blame squarely on shallow social media influencers who portray locals as destitute, handing out cash to kids just to post stories for clout. He noted that while the region faces economic hardship, the people are by no means beggars. Those influencers cultivated a culture of panhandling just for a few more followers. As a result, whenever children spot a tour bus or an unfamiliar vehicle, they run over expecting free money. Even children from well-off families join in, and speaking to parents yields little change—after all, what parent turns down their child bringing home free money every day?

My heart ached for the erosion of human dignity in Balochistan. Past midnight, exhaustion finally took over.