Dasht-e Lut, in southeastern Iran, is where satellites have measured the hottest ground on Earth, 80.8°C, and the heat is not the strangest thing about it. For forty kilometres the desert runs in parallel walls of earth, straight and unbroken, with flat corridors between them like streets. They are called kaluts, and they stand near Shahdad, the town on the western rim. A wind made them. Each summer a fierce gale funnels down the same line from the same direction, and over thousands of years it has blasted the soft clay out from between the ridges and left the hard ones standing, some 155 metres high. You walk in from the road, and the corridors are flat and easy going. They are also identical: there are no landmarks out here and every one looks like the last, which is why you keep the car in sight.
At midday the walls are flat and grey and there is nothing to photograph. The place only turns on when the sun drops low enough to strike the ridges from the side. Then they go copper, and every wall lays a shadow that runs hundreds of metres past you across the sand. It happens fast, and the sky holds its colour long after the ridges have gone dark. East of the kaluts the stony plain gives way to an ocean of sand, the Rig-e Yalan, where the dunes rise hundreds of metres and the crests roll away from you in every direction. The fiercest heat is measured further north, on a black lava plateau called Gandom Beryan — roasted wheat, after a story about a load of grain that cooked where it lay. From about May into September none of this is walkable at all. Shahdad sat on a spur of the Silk Road, and its restored caravanserai still stands on the rim. A caravanserai existed for one purpose: to give a caravan walls, water and a safe night in country that offered neither shade nor help.