Chabahar Day 6: Darak, Where Desert Meets the Sea

March 23 (4th of Farvardin)
It was time to explore the western wonders of Chabahar. Early in the morning, we took a local cab to the edge of town and hitchhiked our way to Pozm Tiab harbor. One quick rule of thumb: hitchhiking is strictly for open roads between towns with private drivers, not local taxi operators within city limits where you must always pay the fare.

Pozm Tiab is located sixty kilometers from Chabahar. Arriving early gave us the chance to see local fishermen sorting and distributing fresh morning catches inside their thatched huts, ready for market. I climbed aboard one of the wooden lenjes hoping to chat with the crew. They welcomed me warmly without hesitation and spoke candidly about life at sea, its daily trials and triumphs, and how livelihood comes from above provided large commercial trawlers do not sweep the waters clean.

After spending an hour with the sailors, I walked toward the main highlight of the day: the breathtaking coastline of Pozm Tiab. Following a dirt trail climbing steadily from the road, I found myself on a narrow footpath with a towering white cliff on my left and a sheer drop overlooking the ocean on my right. The white rock formations are remarkable, shifting dramatically from earthy beige to striking chalk white and warm mocha tones.

Further ahead along the rocky shore, the ocean eye cave awaited us. Resembling a natural eye socket, it features an arched stone ceiling above and a flat ledge below where you can sit and feel the refreshing spray of incoming waves. Stepping out of the blazing sun into that cool cavern, surrounded by breaking waves and cool sea spray, was pure bliss.

Our schedule for the day was packed because my travel partner had to head back tomorrow, and we did not want to miss a single landmark. We returned to the asphalt road and hitchhiked ninety kilometers west toward the Tang Mud Volcano. Mud volcanoes are fascinating geological wonders where thick mud bubbles up continuously from deep underground due to tectonic pressure. Locals refer to it as the navel of the sea, believing its activity shifts with ocean tides, while activity levels fluctuate with the seasons.

The entire hill is formed by dried layers of this very mud, creating a grey dome over twenty meters high. Climbing it with heavy backpacks was exhausting, but reaching the summit was well worth the effort. Many visitors smeared the mineral mud across their skin for therapeutic properties, though nobody could tell me the exact science behind it. The main crater is about twelve meters across and extremely dangerous to walk on because the core stays wet and deep. Right in front of us, a young man sank up to his knees into the mud, and had we not pulled him out in time, he could have sunk even further.

Leaving the volcano clean and mud free, we returned to the roadside, my favorite place in the world. Standing there fills me with hope and excitement, even in the blistering midday heat exceeding forty degrees. Asphalt stretched endlessly toward the horizon without a car in sight. Travel has its romantic moments, but marching under the scorching desert sun was real work. We were loudly singing 'On the Road Again' when a dark speck appeared in the distance. I stuck out my thumb and kept walking forward. That dark speck turned out to be a rugged black overland rig that pulled over just ahead of us. A barefoot, blonde young man stepped out and greeted us with a cheerful 'Hello!'

His name was Ben, a twenty-five-year-old solo globetrotter from Germany on his second trip to Iran, crossing over directly from Pakistan. He proudly mentioned border officers handed him flowers for being the very first foreign tourist to enter the country during the Persian New Year. His vehicle was a custom diesel Nissan Patrol, styled quite differently from the versions common in Iran. We were so thrilled to get a ride that I hardly paused to inspect the specs. The entire cargo area was converted into a camper bed with gear neatly stored underneath. Hossein jumped into the back for a nap while I took the front seat, putting our road trip soundtrack back on. Above the windshield hung colorful prayer flags from Nepal representing natural elements, alongside a small bobblehead figurine swaying from the rear-view mirror.

Reaching Tang village, we headed straight for the beach. Ben parked right near the water, and we quickly stripped down to our swimsuits for a refreshing plunge into the sea. As Hossein and I swam out deeper, I noticed Ben starting the engine and driving the rig away along the shore. We shouted at the top of our lungs, but engine noise drowned out our voices. Just as I started wondering how on earth I was going to finish the trip with nothing but swim trunks and a GoPro, Ben parked on higher, firmer ground and walked into the surf. He laughed and explained he was worried rising waves might sink the tires into wet sand. The poor guy had no clue he had given us a near heart attack!

Refreshed from our swim, we set out toward our destination for the night: the village of Darak. A gorgeous sixty-five kilometer drive lay ahead. Midway through, we approached a highway police checkpoint where an officer spotted foreign plates and held up a stop sign. Speaking firmly in Persian, he asked where Ben was from, where he was heading, and whether his visa was valid, fully expecting a foreign traveler to understand fluent Persian. I quickly stepped in to translate back and forth. Ben was visibly nervous and reached for his documents, but I reassured him that everything was fine and paperwork was not even required.

Passing the checkpoint, Ben explained his anxiety around local authorities: during his previous visit, he had flown his aerial drone over the desert, which resulted in immediate detention until he could clear his name and prove he was merely an everyday traveler. In addition to his drone, Ben traveled with a GoPro and a mobile gimbal, funding his global overland journeys through online video creation.

The Patrol suffered a couple of minor breakdowns along the way, reminding me that mechanical problem-solving is essential for overland travel. Sunset had passed by the time we reached the shores of Darak. Because the primary beach access road was crowded with holiday campers, we drove west to find a secluded spot. Hossein and I hopped out to guide the vehicle across soft sand without getting stuck. Clear music drifted through the air, so we walked toward the sound.

Standing by a vintage 1983 Toyota FJ Cruiser was a solo traveler in his thirties listening to music. The crisp sound was not coming from a built-in car system, but from a compact three-hundred-dollar portable speaker mounted above the mirror. Hesam had stripped out the passenger and rear seats to turn the cab into a sleeping quarters. His truck was the exact same age as me, and I was amazed when he mentioned buying it for thirty-five million Tomans.

Night fell completely, revealing countless stars over a tranquil slice of paradise where pristine sand dunes meet the open sea. Hesam's music playing beneath the star-studded canopy was truly magical.

Dinner time arrived. The rear doors of Ben's Patrol opened outward, featuring a fold-out counter built directly into the frame. He adjusted a high-intensity floodlight toward the preparation surface and lit a small stove connected to a five-kilo gas tank. Whipping up an Italian omelet, he chuckled and mentioned using the rear floodlights on the highway to encourage tailgaters to back off. Having a high-beam deterrent for aggressive drivers on dark highways sounded like pure genius.

After dinner, a bright yellow North Face tent caught my eye nearby. A couple was camping with their two young children. I brought over a flask of hot herbal tea to strike up a friendly chat. Camping with young kids was impressive; the father shared that they had stopped in Konarak earlier that day to grab secondhand wetsuits and water shoes. A bright moon rose as coastal fog rolled across the dunes. We gathered around their campfire, playing the didgeridoo and Tibetan singing bowls in quiet harmony.

The weather felt so pleasant that we skipped setting up our tent and slept under the open sky in our sleeping bags. Sometime past midnight, biting cold woke me up: dense coastal fog had soaked our gear completely, leaving puddles on the ground mats. Shivering from head to toe, I scrambled into Ben's Patrol and spent the rest of the night curled up in the passenger seat.