Songs of the Baka and Other Discoveries

by Dennis James

  Visiting the workshops, we are attracted by the artistry of the miniatures. The artisan spends a lot of time explaining the techniques of his craft. We select a piece of a young woman supporting her drunken elder, and the bargaining begins. He names a price and we counter. He then says, “Pay whatever you think the work is worth.” This, of course, creates a dilemma: too low a price is an insult, and too high a price is extravagant. We name a figure, and he instantly agrees—we have been outmaneuvered. As lawyers, we know how to negotiate, but he has taught us a lesson. This was an exercise in ta’arof.

  Two beautiful domes dominate the square. The dome of the Royal Family Mosque has a turquoise background and an arabesque black-and-yellow pattern. The dome of the Mosque of the Sheikh Lotfollah has a cream-colored background with blue flowers and calligraphy.

  The interiors of these mosques are even more stunning architecturally and aesthetically. Calligraphic glazed tiles are set against a stucco background, creating a play of light as we move through the domed prayer room. Blues dominate, deep-blue with white flowers in the mezrab (prayer niche) and light-blue honeycomb squinches (dome supports) in each upper corner. Dark corridors open into chambers full of light, color, and soaring columns with shining stylized verses from the Koran. There are no sculptures, portraits, or representational paintings—just pure color and design to induce peace and encourage virtue in the faithful.

  Our first morning in Isfahan, we walk along the river. Migrating cranes stand in the shallows. A fog on the river disperses early under the Persian sun. The water level is low due to the drought.

  Isfahan’s bridges are her jeweled necklaces, and the most beautiful is the Kajou, built in 1650 AD, at the height of Persian achievements in art and architecture. It has two arched levels along its length with a covered pavilion in the center. Lighted at night, it is a magnet for strolling couples and a meeting place for friends. During the day, it shelters singers, artists, and whoever seeks shade and tranquility.

  Crossing the bridge, we are drawn to the sound of rich male voices and stop to listen. A group of eight older men sit in an archway, singing a cappella songs based on the poetry of Hafez. Their voices are strong, the acoustics excellent. “These men are retired and they meet here every day to socialize and sing,” Sadik says.

  We come across a more somber scene—a cemetery with the graves of twenty-three thousand martyrs of the eight-year Iraq–Iran war. Each grave has a small Iranian flag and a photograph of the young man who died, his life barely begun. These are just the dead from the Isfahan district. The cemetery is quiet. It’s been twenty years since the War ended, but fresh flowers still decorate some of the graves.

  Local cemetery of martyrs of the Iraq–Iran War, Isfahan

  Our hotel is a former Ottoman residence with rooms surrounding a lovely courtyard, where we have dinner. We invite a member of the staff, who is sitting nearby and watching us eat, to our table. He declines with a smile but continues to hang around even though he can’t understand a word of what we say. He speaks to Sadik, who translates, “He says he likes you better than any other guests he has met here.”

  Abyaneh

  Abyaneh is one of the oldest towns in Iran. The town is sprinkled with visitors from Tehran and Isfahan, who come to view the quaint houses, streets, and traditional dress still worn by the locals. The women wear full black skirts, white headscarves with bright pink flowers, and long blouses with different floral patterns. The men wear loose black pants with flared, wide legs.

  The houses are similar to those of Ottoman cities in the nineteenth century—two floors and a roofed balcony that hangs over the street from the second floor. As in many villages, the entrances have two doors, side by side, one for men and one for women, distinguished by brass doorknockers of different designs. Adobe stairways and paths run uphill from the main street.

  Charming as the village is, we sense that something is missing. A great number of the houses are empty, and we see no young people. They have left the town to get jobs in the cities, sending remittances but not returning. This is a plight typical of rural Iran.

  The villagers and the visitors we encounter are friendly. Townspeople offer us fruit leather and patiently pose for photos. A family from Isfahan takes pictures of the most exotic thing they have found in this old town—us.

  Tabriz

  We fly to Tabriz, in the far north of Iran. Our guide is a modest and unassuming young man in his thirties. Later, while we are eating lunch, people come to our table in a steady stream to shake his hand and take pictures, to which he submits good-naturedly, not minding the interruption. It is only then that we learn he is the host of a very popular children’s show on television.

  Because of its proximity to the border with Armenia, there are more churches in Tabriz than in other parts of Iran. Discrimination by the Shah stoked rebellion in this area before it broke out in the rest of the country. Today, two seats each are reserved in the national parliament for representatives of the Christian, Jewish, and Zoroastrian faiths.

  We visit a magnificent bazaar, so huge we feel we will never emerge. The vendors and products are of Armenian origin. These shopkeepers are masters at selling and bargaining, but we manage to resist.

  In the mountains north of Tabriz, near the Turkish and Armenian borders, sits St. Thaddeus the Martyr Armenian Cathedral, a structure dating back to 66 AD. It has been destroyed by earthquakes three times and rebuilt, and it is now empty. The village that once surrounded it is gone. Russian troops looted it during World War II, and one of its famous vast carpets somehow wound up in the British Museum. Armenians make an annual pilgrimage to this site, though fewer and fewer make the trip each year.

  I take a walk to view the mountain range north of the cathedral and recognize one of the peaks. A check of my map confirms my hunch—it is Mount Ararat of biblical fame. Mount Ararat is technically in eastern Turkey, where I’ve seen it before. It is a nearly perfect symmetrical massif, its summit covered with snow. It was here before any of the dynasties, empires, palaces, and fortresses and will be here when and if the waters rise again.

  Owner and cashier at a restaurant in the carpet bazaar, Tabriz

  We return to Tehran, take a last walk in the park near the hotel, and get ready for our early-morning departure. About an hour into the long flight home, the pilot announces that we have left Iranian airspace. A cheer goes up, the scarves come off, and the rolling bar does a brisk business.

  Epilogue

  We did not ask the Iranian people we met how they felt about their government because we didn’t want to make them uncomfortable or put them in any danger. However, some—more than we expected—raised the issue on their own, criticizing President Ahmadinejad and hoping that he would be defeated in the upcoming elections in June 2009. Ahmadinejad was indeed reelected, but allegations of voting irregularities sparked large and widespread street protests, which were eventually put down by the government.

  In 2013, Hassan Rouhani was elected president, and although ultimate control remains in the hands of the Supreme Leader and the Mullahs, he took tentative steps to improve relations with the international community.

  In 2015, the United States and other countries reached an agreement with Iran whereby Iran would allow inspection of its nuclear facilities in exchange for subsequent relaxation of sanctions on the Iranian economy.

  Iranians are deeply committed to their country. They regard themselves as the heirs and guardians of an ancient culture of beauty and creativity. They are concerned about the distorted image Western media has projected on them. They do not seek war. However, twenty-three thousand graveyard pictures of young men in Isfahan tell me how tough and determined they would be in any conflict. They want the right to determine their legitimate place in the region and the world without outside interference. They want respect. That is their haq.

  The Orinoco, Venezuela:

  IN HUMBOLDT’S WAKE

  All of the names in this narrative have been changed.
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  It is November 2015. Having survived a bumpy ninety-minute flight from San Carlos, Venezuela, we land at the airport in Puerto Ayacucho. This is a return leg of an Orinoco River journey we had taken during the previous two weeks. The plane is a four-seater, single-engine Cessna. Barbara and I sit in the two back seats, mine behind the pilot. Our guide, Rodrigo, is in the front passenger seat. A fourth passenger wearing a government identity tag, who boarded at the last minute, sits on a hastily added seat next to the luggage in the rear.

  Throughout the flight, the pilot texts on two cell phones simultaneously and lets go of the controls for minutes at a time. This makes Barbara very nervous. When we finally land at the small terminal for private planes, we say, “Bravo!” to the pilot, but he puts his finger to his lips.

  As we disembark, we are suddenly surrounded by eighteen Venezuelan National Police, heavily armed, in dark-gray fatigues and black boots. They order us to stand away from the plane. They remove all luggage and cargo and search every bag, going through socks, underwear, Dopp Kits, medication, wallets—everything. They collect our passports. A package is pulled out of the pilot’s gear, laid on the tarmac, and sliced open, revealing a slab of raw bacon.

  A female officer searches Barbara’s bag while a male officer looks through mine. It later strikes us as ironic that they would extend us this courtesy while restricting our movements. Nothing untoward is found in our packs. Our clothes are neatly refolded and everything, including our passports, returned to its rightful place. We are not permitted to touch the baggage.

  In addition to all the bags and contents strewn on the tarmac, Barbara notices a large plastic shopping bag stuffed with paper currency. She cannot tell whether the bills are Venezuelan or American. In this case, it makes a huge difference—the value of the contents in US dollars on the black market would be more than five hundred times its worth in Venezuelan bolívar.

  The National Police chief, the pilot, and the fourth passenger engage in heated conversation in rapid Spanish, which we can’t understand. Suddenly, our baggage is reloaded, and we are ordered to get back in the plane, joined by Rodrigo, the pilot, and a police officer. The fourth passenger is led off by National Police. We never see him again.

  We taxi to the main terminal, where our bags again go through careful scrutiny by security. We are separated from our passports for what seems like an unduly long time. A woman is pointing out our numerous immigration stamps to other personnel. At this point, we are concerned, but not yet alarmed.

  Rodrigo is taken away to a room for interrogation. Are we next? It would be easy enough for the Commandante to say, “Take them all in. We’ll sort them out later.” I can imagine the warm reception our complaint to the American Embassy will get, given the State Department’s repeated warnings about criminal activity in Venezuela.

  Rodrigo later tells us that he was strip-searched and was frightened and humiliated. He reports that there were, in fact, two bags of currency—apparently one bag with dollars and the other with bolívar. Rodrigo believes that the trip to the main terminal was to make everything seem normal so as to entrap the intended recipient(s) of the funds. The ruse seems to fail as nobody comes forward to claim the bags.

  How did we wind up in this situation?

  In 2014, we watched a documentary about the Yanomami, a people living deep in the Brazilian and Venezuelan rain forest. The fierce and independent Yanomami are fighting to protect their territory and traditional way of life against incursion by the West. We would like to see this indigenous culture while it is still relatively intact.

  The Yanomami live in isolated groups. Access to their villages is strictly limited in Brazil because of abuses perpetrated by Brazilian and foreign mining and ranching interests, as well as the vulnerability of the people to illnesses to which they have not yet developed immunity. Venezuela allows contact with the villages, but only if the Yanomami agree. They have been known to react with violence to unwelcome visitors.

  The recent publication of The Invention of Nature: The World of Alexander Von Humboldt by Andrea Wulf reinforces our curiosity. Humboldt, a Prussian, was considered the greatest natural scientist of the mid-nineteenth century. One of his earliest explorations was of the Orinoco River and its tributaries. He met with indigenous people and was the first to map the area. Humboldt kept a meticulous journal. It would be exciting to follow in his wake, stop where he stopped, see what he saw, and sleep where he slept.

  We are also interested in the current political situation in the country. Since the election of Hugo Chávez in 1999, Venezuela has had a socialist government, vilified by the American government and press. Chávez focused on improving life for the poor through better housing and free education and medical care. He died in 2013, and with the worldwide plunge in the price of crude oil and the widespread corruption in the current government, the situation has deteriorated. Parliamentary elections are scheduled for December 6, 2015. We want to see what’s happening on several levels: Does any part of Chávez’s legacy remain? Are the shortages and long lines reported in our media true? How are the people and government preparing for elections?

  It is April 2015, and the tide of circumstance is running against our hope to visit Venezuela and travel up the Orinoco River in November. One thing after another casts a shadow on our prospects, the darkest that of my heart surgery in June 2015. The operation (repair of a leaky mitral valve) is minimally invasive (they don’t have to crack the sternum). However, at age seventy-seven, one does not heal quickly. I am well enough by September to say yes to the trip, with the concurrence of my cardiologist. But I still worry about floating around in the rain forest with a game ticker, hundreds of miles from professional help.

  Further, the distressing reports about the situation in Venezuela increase. Not only is the economy in shambles and the political leadership incompetent and undemocratic, the crime rate in Caracas has soared, the currency is virtually worthless, and Venezuela is at swords’ points with its neighbors Colombia and Guyana, each accusing the other of abducting civilians, protecting terrorists, smuggling, sheltering drug cartels, and fostering production of cocaine, to say nothing of disputes over territorial rights.

  Yet, once again, our curiosity outweighs the risk. So off we go.

  The plan is to explore the delta of the Orinoco in northeast Venezuela, then proceed by boat to travel the upper Orinoco and its tributaries, camping on the way, and, if possible, to visit a Yanomami village before returning to Caracas and flying home.

  To begin our exploration of the delta, we fly to Puerto Ordaz where we are met by Nina Ruffenach, who, with her husband Roger, runs the Oridelta Camp, the base for our excursions. Driving down the two-lane road to the Camp, we come upon a strange scene. The road is blocked in both directions by a barricade of logs, large stones, scrap wood, and other heavy objects. People from the nearby town of Susamo have constructed the blockade to force the government to provide tanker trucks of fresh water that had been promised weeks before but were never delivered.

  Traffic begins to back up on both sides of the barricade. The villagers are out in force, explaining to frustrated drivers why they had to resort to such means. Drivers and passengers, including Nina, begin calling their political contacts on their cell phones. Soon everybody is sitting or standing around, talking and laughing. When a dump truck seems about to push its way through the blockade, the villagers rush to get in the way and the truck stops.

  Within two hours, a water-tanker truck appears. The driver confers with the villagers, presumably regarding future deliveries. Then a cheer goes up, the barricade goes down, and the water is delivered. This is our first experience with the chaotic state of affairs in the government—and with the courage and ingenuity of the people.

  The Ruffenachs are genial, conscientious hosts. Nina, who speaks only Spanish and German, her native tongue, is delighted to find that Barbara can also speak German. The setting is beautiful, the food good, and the rooms simple and comfortable. But there
are no other guests, and Nina and Roger don’t mention future bookings.

  The Orinoco Delta consists of many deep channels leading from the river to the Caribbean Sea. Our four days in the area are spent in greater part in an open outboard motor boat, racing through channels, skirting the islands, and spooking flocks of white egrets, blue herons, and Technicolor macaws.

  Blockade on the road to Piacoa

  One of the channels is a favorite feeding spot for the Orinoco River dolphin. Roger steers the boat around and around in thirty-meter circles. The dolphins, investigating the noise, begin to leap out of the water. Two meters long, they arc above the surface, affording a good look at their sleek bodies and piebald black-and-white markings. A small sardine, pearly scales glistening, jumps into our boat, fleeing the dolphins. “Should we throw it back?” I ask. “No,” Roger says, “I’ll give it to my cats.”

  The tide is low when we reach the Caribbean. An undulating beach of tidal pools and gray sand stretches to the horizon. I’m eager to get in the water. As I swim in the nearby channel, I observe Roger, his pant legs rolled up, beating the water with a stick.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “At high tide, sting rays bury themselves in the stream bottom,” he replies. “They leave their burrows as the tide ebbs. However, sometimes one will remain, and splashing with the stick should flush it out.”

  I cut my swim short.

  When I dry off, I see outlines in the sand where these lethal beauties had buried themselves at high tide. The imprints are enormous, about one meter across, with a one-meter tail tipped with a barb that could kill you. Not a great place to go wading.