On the trip south there seemed to be police checkpoints every hour or so. I wouldn't have thought much about them except my driver, Moghadam, would turned the tape player down and sat up a little straighter. We were always waved through except at one as we neared Bam in the southern desert.

Here Moghadam scrambled to get his documents together and got out to talk to the soldiers. I toyed with the idea of walking around and taking a few photos, but thought better of it after looking at the rifles and pistols these guys were carrying. After a few minutes Moghadam came back and asked for my papers. These were the ones I had been given when I first arrived in Iran; the ones I had been told very clearly to always have with me; the very same ones that I had for some unknown reason decided to leave at the hotel that day.

Moghadam, already worked up in a nervous sweat, looked crestfallen and headed back to explain to the police. As he disappeared into a building I took for the headquarters, a solider came and started searching the car: first the trunk and then the back seat. He looked in my daypack and he even opened my bottle of mineral water.

As I sat there waiting, I tried to calculate the worse case scenario. I naively figured that at worse I wouldn't be allowed to proceed and would be sent back. Now, on further reflection, I realize that if I hadn't had proper identification they probably would have detained me. To make matters worse I didn't have my passport with me: the hotels always insist on keeping it for their security.

Anyway, this drama has a happy ending. After a few minutes Moghadam reappears, got in the car and we took off. I could see he was quite flustered. As soon as the checkpoint was out of sight he explained, using his limited English and pantomime, that he had a copy of my papers, but soldiers wanted the original - the one's I was supposed to be carrying. He had used his mobile phone, a device I had been making fun of in my mind because he was talking on it so much, to save the day: he called my travel agent in Tehran who cleared the matter up. Moghadam also made it clear I should never leave my papers behind - that time I got the message.

Yazd, Tuesday, April 13
We headed out into the morning rush hour and quickly passed through some ugly industrial suburbs. Within minutes we were in the open desert - flat, sandy with only a hint of vegetation. Whenever we came to a little rise I could see the road shimmering miles and miles straight ahead - wow, this was going to be an exciting ride.

At first I was disappointed my driver, Moghadam, didn't speak any English - I had specifically asked for one who did - but after an hour of quiet, I realized what a blessing it would be. Now I could just sit and think about my trip: what I had seen so far and what lay ahead. I'm used to traveling alone and enjoy my own company.

After a few hours we stopped in the town of Nain to look at an old mosque. There was also an old house nearby, called Pirnia House. It had been converted into a museum and I got a tour of it too. It looked like a place that someone pretty important would have lived in. It was built around a huge garden courtyard.

Before we took to the road again we stood by the trunk and had a cup of chay - tea. It became our routine over the next four days to stop every few hours and have some chay. Every morning I saw Moghadam having his thermos refilled.

Back on the road I started nodding off and it was only the excitement (or fear) of passing huge smoke-belching trucks that kept me awake. To amuse myself I translated the license number of the trucks, which were in Arabic numbers - it was good practice, but I soon tired of that too. Moghadam had a few tapes of Iranian music that he played real loud - they helped keep me awake.

Around 11:30 we arrived in Yazd. I had learned in Isfahan that just about everything closes from about 1:00 to 4:30. As we had an hour or so left, I asked Moghadam to go to the main mosque. I did this by simply saying, over and over, "Jame, Jame." Jame is the standard name for what I was accustomed to calling the Friday mosque - the main mosque of the town. I could see that Moghadam wasn't happy about this, but I just didn't want to waste the whole afternoon sitting at the hotel, so I insisted.

The mosque had a huge entrance that was decorated with Islamic calligraphy, scripture for the Holy Koran, and was flanked by two tall, slender minarets. Inside there was a large central courtyard and an ornate prayer hall. It was during this quick visit that I realized I had a problem. When we arrived I suggested that Moghadam just wait in the car but he insisted on coming along - and worse, he wanted to be my guide. I am much happier just wandering and making my own discoveries, even if I miss a few things - that's why I travel alone.

Actually Moghadam's wanting to be my guide caught me off guard. I guess I should have anticipated it, but really all I wanted was a driver, someone to take me from place to place. Anyway, I didn't want to seem ungrateful so I followed him around. We also took a short walk around the immediate neighborhood. If it had be up to me I would have headed to the bazaar.

At the hotel, the Engherlab, there was some kind of confusion about my reservation. I stood around for more than half an hour while Moghadam and the desk clerk argued. After several phone calls things were finally cleared up and I was asked to fill out the registration card. When I finished the clerk asked for my passport and I kind of tossed it to him: I was a little weary of the whole thing. I'm afraid I threw it a little harder that I should have and it hit him on the arm. I immediately realized I had offended him. I tried to apologize, but how could I? He didn't speak any English, nor did Moghadam. Anyway, he got even by giving me what I'm sure was the worst room in the hotel. It was tiny and smelt of insecticide, but I figured it was for just one night so I didn't argue.

Not long after I got to my room Moghadam showed up and made a little pantomime with his hand that we should go eat. That was fine with me. We drove to a restaurant quite near the hotel - it was back on the main road. As we were getting out of the car I noticed three men in suits going into the restaurant. Each of them was backing up and trying to get the others to go first. It was quite comical as they stepped farther and farther from the door. Moghadam caught me laughing and commented with a grin, "Iranians." Then he made me go though the door first: he did so at every door - Iranians! Anyway the food was great, the best I had had yet. It was the standard Iranian fare: soup, rice and some kind grilled meat, all washed down with a Zam-Zam cola.

After lunch Moghadam took a nap and I sat in the lobby hoping to write. I had hardly gotten my journal out when another guest, an Iranian, stopped to talk to me. Soon a little crowd of his buddies surrounded me and started asking all sorts of questions about America. They were apparently a camera crew making some kind of film or video - their English wasn't real good, so I could tell for sure. Anyway, after they left I sat and wrote until Moghadam came back to continue our tour.

At this point I had resigned myself, at least for today, to follow him. First we headed out of town and stopped in the desert by a couple of hills. I could see there was a round building on the top each. They were the Towers of Silence, places members of the Zoroastrian religion used to leave their dead for the vultures, much like the Parsi in India do today. We climbed up but there wasn't much to see except the view back toward the city. Next we stopped at a Zoroastrian temple where a sacred flame has been burning for 1500 years.

Then we headed into town. We took a longer walk in the area around the Jame Mosque in the old part of the city. The buildings were all covered with a mixture of straw and mud. It gave the beige walls a soft hand-formed look. We visited a few more mosques and then walked around the bazaar for a while before head back to the hotel. There was no one in the lobby so I decided to head to bed.

Kerman, Wednesday, April 14
The morning's excitement was when Moghadam discovered that he had forgotten his beloved mobile phone and we had to dash back to the hotel to get it. This put him in a foul mood and for a while he passed everything in sight. Finally when we got into the desert he slowed down a little. He was still a little too fond of speed for my comfort. In particular, he seemed to delight in seeing how close he could come to the trucks he was passing. I learned a lot more about the rear of Iranian trucks than I cared to know.

After an hour or so we stopped at a caravanserai. These were the "truck stops" of their day, offering a safe place for the caravans to rest with rooms for animal, cargo and people. This one stood out in stark relief against the blue sky and the barren desert. After my little tour, and while Moghadam was having his chay, I took a short walk into the desert. I was delighted to see that the recent rains had caused many tiny flowers to bloom. I found white, yellow and blue ones - I picked a few to dry and put in my journal.

Soon we rounded the end of a chain of ragged mountains and entered Kerman. It was a little before noon and I wanted to follow the same program as yesterday: see some sights before everything closed and check into the hotel during the 1-4:30 down time. Moghadam balked: when I said, "Jama, bazaar," he said, "Closed now." I kept repeating "Jama, bazaar," so he drove into town and stopped. When we got out he led me into a little museum - hey, I wanted to see the mosque - so we got back into the car and then drove by the bazaar, but didn't stop. I was real unhappy. We continued on to the hotel, checked in and had lunch. Moghadam sort of apologized, using the hotel clerk to translate. He said again that the bazaar was closed, but when we drove past I could see it was still open.

I was now sulking. I decided to simply head out on my own. I grabbed my daypack and headed into the street. I walked several blocks but I wasn't exactly sure where I was going. As I walked I started to cool off a little. I could see it was time to have a little talk with myself.

I figured I had two options: I could continue battling with Moghadam and I could probably get about half of what I wanted but be angry about the rest. Or I could take the easy route and simply let Moghadam do his thing and see what happened. Either way it would only be two more days. I headed back to the hotel resolved to relax and let events unfold.

I sat in the lobby for a while talking to other travelers and the hotel owners. This was a great hotel. Not only did it have everything a traveler wants - post cards, maps and mineral water - but the owners were incredibly friendly, coming around with a tray of tea and cookies at regular intervals to keep the guests fed and happy.

About 4: 00 Moghadam reappeared, had a cup of tea and nodded toward the car, asking if I wanted to go. We drove to the bazaar and walked through it on our way to the Jame Mosque. After visiting it we stopped at a bookstore that sold religious items and books. I bought a couple of pictures, one of the Ayatollah Khomeini and one of the current president of Iran, Khatami.

Next we visited a shrine for what Moghadam said was a "dervish." This dervish I took to be the same as the whirling dervish of Turkey, but my travel book had nothing to say about the shrine, so it's still a mystery to me. The place had an unusual feel to it: it was very peaceful and there was a man kneeling in front of a picture of the dervish, chanting. There was a flower filled garden in the back.

We then walked through the bazaar again and stopped for tea in what had been a Turkish bath, but had been converted into a fashionable teahouse. Its ceiling was made of brick arches and there was a fish-filled pool in the center. It was quite pleasant.

Back in the car we drove out to a building called "Stone Mountain." It looked something like a Byzantine church: it was covered with a large brick dome. My guidebook says the original use of the building is unknown. As I walked around, Moghadam sat in the grass and talked on his mobile phone. Next we stopped at a graveyard for martyrs of the Iran-Iraq war. As I looked at the graves, each with a picture of the deceased, I kept thinking of the account I had read of the waves of Iranian youths who charged into the Iraqi mine fields. Iranians simply call it The War - it has left a scar on their psyche.

We cooled our heels in the lobby of the hotel for a while, drinking more tea and eating more cookies. Moghadam talked to other driver/guides and I talked to other travelers. It was here that I met the first and only other American I saw in Iran - Barbara from New York. I wasn't alone after all.

About 8:00 Moghadam nodded toward the car again. This time we drove back to a commercial area near the bazaar and got out for a short walk. The streets were full of families out doing their evening shopping. Then Moghadam drove slowly though the various neighborhoods of Kerman so I could see what they looked like. I had the feeling that Moghadam was trying to make up after this morning's altercation.

Bam, Thursday, April 15
It's less than 3 hours by car from Kerman to Bam. We made it nonstop. For the first time Moghadam chose to stay with the car while I toured the city. Bam is an abandon mud brick city. Visitors rave about the solitude of the place. The day I was there a conference going on: for architects I was told. So instead of an empty, dead city I found a teeming place full of students and academics. In fact, I was so interested in watching the people I can tell you more about them than I can about the city.

I can tell you, for example, that Iranian college students interact pretty much the same as any students that age do. They talked in excited little groups, greeted old friends and flirted with each other just like you would expect. Further, Iranian academics and administrators walk around with the same self-absorbed air that you see on any US campus. I wouldn't have expected it to be any different and only take the time to mention about it because Iran has been so demonized by the western media. They are, after all, people just like you and I.

Anyway, it took about an hour to see the city and to look at the displays set up for the conference. Back at the car I found Moghadam asleep in the back seat. Instead of waking him up I went and sat at a café and watched the Iranians for a while longer.

On the way back to Kerman we turned off at Mahan. First, we stopped just outside town to visit a garden that was built on the side of the hill. There were orchards along both sides and the trees were in full bloom. In the center, running down the hill, was a series of small waterfalls and long pools.

Thursday afternoon is a time that most Iranians have off - Friday is their holy day - and there were lots of people in the garden. Up at the top there was a large flat area covered with more trees. There were also some carpet-covered benches scattered around and Moghadam lay on one as I walked around. A short way off I noticed a guy playing a little instrument that looked like a lute. I walked over to listen and he and his friend insisted I sit with them. There we were under the flowering tree with the sound of the water running in the background and this guy playing the lute - ah, it was wonderful. Take me back to Iran!

After sitting for a while we pressed on to see the local mosque. This was another lively shrine, full of people. In the central room was the tomb draped in a green shroud. As I was standing there looking at it, two young girls, maybe 8-10 years old, came up and handed me a piece of paper and a pen. I looked at them and asked, "What's this for?" One girl held up her hand and pretended to write on it with the other. "What do you want me to write?" I asked. By now a little knot of people had formed around us. Someone said, "Sign." Oh I get it, they want my autograph. I signed my name and handed it back, but they insisted I do it twice: once for each of them. They were so cute, how could I refuse?

We continued on our journey back to Kerman. I was sitting, staring out the window at nothing, munching on some pistachios that Moghadam had bought and he was talking on his mobile phone. Slowly I started to recognize something he was saying. He was repeating, over and over, the name of a friend of mine, someone who was currently in Iran. It wasn't until