by Scott Fisher
Ahvaz
Dozens of fires burning the excess off of the area’s natural gas wells eerily lit the night road to Ahvaz. Seizing these same wells had been one of the main goals of Hussein’s invasion but the city showed few remaining signs of the war – our hotel turned out to be one of the most scenic of the trip, overlooking the beautiful, park-lined river that ran through the heart of the city.
Hungry, we quickly dumped our bags and left to find some food. Since it was Friday, the Muslim holy day, not much was open. We ended up on an extended walk to a brightly lit restaurant we’d seen on the other side of the river. Once over a narrow bridge we had to pass through a poorly lit park to get there.
With memories of living in Washington, DC still fresh in my mind, it felt a little dangerous to walk through a dark park late at night, especially given how much I stuck out. I needn’t have worried though, the numerous groups of men in their teens and 20s I could see standing here and there were interested in one thing only, cars.
It felt like walking onto the set of a Persian remake of a Hollywood car movie. All around us were the sounds of growling after-market exhausts, cranking stereos, and souped-up engines, plus enough running lights to blot out the sun. A few people saw the foreigner and gave me a wave or “hello” but most were far more interested in looking cool and impressing any women that might have been daring enough to come around. The scene felt like American Graffiti meets The Fast and the Furious. I was coming to a stop and staring so much that Professor had to urge me to get a move on before the restaurant closed.
Upon entering the restaurant, we got the normal brief stares and momentary conversation pause. Soon though, as always, everyone went back to their families and meals as Professor and I proceeded to order half the menu. It’d been a long day, with miles of walking through the numerous sites, plus the long hike across the river and through the park to get here, so by this point we were starving.
As we waited for the food, the restaurant’s display of flags caught my eye. In Iran, it seemed that every hotel and decent-sized restaurant didn’t feel its décor was complete without a few short rows of the world’s flags on tiny pedestals. Out of curiosity I’d made it a habit to look for an American flag, which I’d yet to see. All of the other major country’s flags were there, even for countries like England that the Iranians didn’t like much more than the States, but there was never an American flag. Interestingly, I was able to see the North Korean, and even the Iraqi, flag several times, including here at this restaurant. But I’d still yet to see an American flag.
After the meal, we headed back through the park, but by now it was pretty late and not nearly as crowded as before. A few cars banzai’d their way past, but no one stopped to talk. Once back across the bridge we split up, Professor back to the hotel, me off on another quest for the Internet.
Tonight’s ‘Coffee Net’ turned out to be the kind of place I was looking for – a few computers, some couple chairs, and a bunch of young people sitting and chatting or playing online games. The guy running the place was surprised, but covered it up well and pointed me to an empty workstation. I sat down, and to my surprise saw that all of the computers were running the pre-release, beta version of Microsoft Vista. How in the hell did they get that? The latest update for Windows, nearly a year before its release to the public and still in testing, was up and running in an Internet café in middle-of-nowhere Iran. The power of the Internet, and the closeness of the tightly knit international geek/hacker community once again took me by surprise.
After spending a frustrating hour dealing with the café’s slow Internet connection it was time to go. As I paid the bill, I complimented the guy on his Vista systems, which got me an amused smirk. Then I was out the door and on my way back to the hotel.
Only a few paces from the café, I looked up to see a couple of policemen walking right toward me. My blood froze. It was late at night. I was alone, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t kosher for an American to be wandering the streets of Iran by himself. I quickly ducked my head, and earnestly willed my beard to look bigger and darker. I tensed as they passed, but no problem. As their footsteps faded I hurried back to the hotel.
Safely back in my room, I started reading from one of the better books on modern-day Iran that I’d found, Searching for Hassan. I read the part on Shiraz – Iran’s major southern city and the place we were heading at daybreak.
Shiraz and Persepolis
By now, Professor and I had established a pattern for the car rides. Once we’d had enough tea to wake up we’d practice Farsi. Me writing phrases in my journal, he patiently repeating expressions over and over again until satisfied at my pronunciation and understanding. It was actually a great way to learn the language – I could speak more Farsi after four days in Iran than I could Arabic after two months in Iraq. Later, when we stopped for gas or food, I’d practice what we’d just studied. Though pretty weak at first, after a few days I could hold a simple “What’s your name? Where are you from? What do you do?” conversation. Farsi itself is somewhat difficult, but nothing compared to Korean or Chinese.
Beard slowly lengthening, closer to cosmopolitan Shiraz, and getting more natural at greetings and carrying myself to blend in – all these combined to make the road to Shiraz the first place someone actually mistook me for an Iranian. We’d pulled into a dusty roadside café for lunch, this one frequented by truckers and itinerant peddlers. Professor had stepped away to hit the bathroom, and, while I sat finishing the excellent fresh bread, a guy at the next table turned and looked at me as if to ask a question. He’d just come in and therefore hadn’t heard Professor and I speaking in English.
I greeted him, apparently getting both the gestures and pronunciation perfect, because he returned my greeting and then launched into something I was utterly clueless to follow. All I knew was that he wasn’t asking where I was from, what I did, or how much something cost.
After a bit, my dumb expression finally penetrated and he came to a sudden stop. Giving me an odd look, he asked a tentative question. Making a mental note that my next Farsi phrase was going to be “I don’t speak Farsi,” I switched to English and apologized for not knowing what he was saying. He said something else, which, judging by the inflection, was another question. My dumb look and lack of an answer puzzled him, but when I went on apologizing in English he seemed to get the idea, flashing me a quick smile before returning to his meal.
Just then Professor returned. He’d overheard the last bit, so he quickly stepped in to explain to the guy that I wasn’t Iranian. Then, after talking to him for a while, he explained to me that the guy had been asking for directions. The idea of someone asking me for directions in Iran struck us both funny. But I took it as a positive sign that I was beginning to blend in – a safety feature that might come in handy in the days ahead.
The guy turned out to be quite friendly and curious, asking Professor questions about what we were doing, where we were going, where I was from, etc. Some Professor answered, some he translated and let me answer.
One question Professor didn’t translate, but the waiter did through sign language and limited English, was an offer to join him and his friend in their truck for some opium. Though tempted to give it a try, I knew that the Iranian authorities were tracking us pretty closely and decided that, as exciting as international headlines and years in an Iranian prison sounded, maybe it’d be best to refuse. Professor certainly seemed relieved by my decision, though the trucker looked hurt and disappointed. Seeing the expression on his face almost changed my mind, but ‘when in Rome’ only goes so far. I politely stuck to my decision and we got out of there.
Talking about the incident with Iranians both in and outside the country, plus research after the trip, brings the odd conclusion that smoking opium with the guy would have actually been less of an offense than drinking a beer with him. While opium and other drugs are merely against the law, liquor is prescribed by law and religion, with the second of those being the mor
e important. I would have gotten in less trouble burning one down in the guy’s truck, than having a glass of wine with him in Shiraz (yes, the original home of the wine by that name).
After a short stop to see the Roman ruins at Bishapur, we got into Shiraz late that evening. It had been a warm, sunny drive and I could see the attraction of Shiraz after the cold climes of northern Iran. Had I visited in July that opinion might have been different, but today the warmth of southern Iran was a welcome change.
Professor said the city reminded him of Miami, or at least Florida, because of the relaxed attitude, warm weather, and large number of retirees. To me it seemed more like Iran’s San Francisco – the city’s atmosphere and traditions appeared far more open and liberal than the rest of the country (plus it rained a lot while I was there). Only a short flight from worldly Dubai, and the base most international tourists use to explore nearby Persepolis, Shiraz in many ways feels more cosmopolitan than even Tehran. Its bazaar has handmade nomadic wares and traditional qalyans in one part, Orange County Chopper t-shirts and NBA jerseys in another.
Checking into the hotel, I almost dropped my passport when I saw the Stars and Stripes sitting amongst a few other flags in the lobby. The clerk’s reaction when I pointed it out was embarrassment, like I’d caught him with contraband. Though for me it made for a positive early impression of Shiraz’s internationalism. Other than the anti-American paintings on the former U.S. embassy in Tehran, this was the only time in Iran that I ever saw the “Great Satan’s” flag.
Persepolis
The next day was one of Iran’s star attractions – the Achaemenian Empire ruins at Persepolis. On the hour-drive that morning to the site, Professor filled me in on the cultural achievements of the Achaemenians (550-330 BC). Women were free to study and work, even attend the same schools as men. It was one of the first societies in the world to outlaw slavery, and the multi-ethnic mix made it one of history’s first multinational countries.
Next, fast-forward 2000 years to the early 1970s when the Shah ruled Iran. In 1971, the Shah decided to honor 2500 years of Persian emperors, including himself and the Achaemenians, by hosting a giant party for the world’s royalty and heads of state. To house partygoers, an elaborate desert tent city was built near the remains of Persepolis. Food was flown in fresh daily from Europe. Fine wines and alcohol flowed. By most accounts it was a grand time.
Tent remains with the monuments of Persepolis in the background
The problem was that he forgot to invite many Iranians, though he spent plenty of their (oil) money on the party. Scenes of world leaders being feted on their dime supposedly helped accelerate the revolution that overthrew the Shah a few years later. The tattered remains of the Shah’s old tent city, sitting forlorn and empty a short walk from the grandeur of Persepolis, are left by the current rulers to remind people of the excesses and vices of the old.
Persepolis was built on a small rise, with little visible from below but the tops of an odd column or two. On the way to the entrance we walked past desolate souvenir stands and information booths. A faint wind blew. Quiet hung in the air.
Post-9/11 tourism to Iran has fallen to nearly nothing. Few tourists were visible even during a supposedly busy season at the country’s top tourist attraction. Walking the couple hundred yards from the car to the entrance we came across only one other tourist and guide. While the emptiness makes for an atmospheric visit through the home of an empire, for Professor and the other guides their livelihood was at risk. They have a real stake in the peaceful flow of tourists and visitors.
We made our way up the steps at the entrance; climbing the exact stairs processions of nobility from around the Middle East, Africa, and southern Europe would have taken to pay their respects to the emperor during No Ruz, the traditional Persian New Year. Each would have gone up the stairs in turns, staged from the base below, to allow each nation their own grand entrance into the halls and royal greetings above.
The staging is perfect. Coming up the wide staircase, only distant mountains are visible, until cresting the stairs and turning to the right, which brings the full, sudden splendor of Persepolis into panoramic view. Even now, 2000 years after its destruction, the sheer scale announces the power of an empire.
At the top of the staircase, two entrance pillars stand as they would have in ancient times, so tall a person barely comes to the ankles of their human-headed, bull-shaped sculptures. The Gate of All Nations was where foreign dignitaries first passed before arriving in the greeting halls. After exchanging gifts and respects with nobility from around the nearby world, the royalty moved further into the complex to ready for the evening feasts and official New Year’s celebrations.
Wandering the large site, it’s easy to trace the route followed by the rulers and their entourages as they visited the complex. Here were private meeting areas for the top officials, there a giant banquet hall, further back a treasury and the harem of the emperor Xerxes. The treasury housed gifts and tribute from the known world and was so large it took Alexander, “several thousand camels,” to carry it off after his forces sacked the site in 330 BC.
In the giant complex I was struck most by the tiniest remains. The building blocks of the pillars had all been carved off-site before being brought to the Persepolis hilltop. To align the sections of the giant columns the stonemasons had carved tiny, arrow-like symbols in four places on each block. The construction foremen then used the symbols to properly line up the giant hunks of stone before fixing them in place. Seeing these markings, and imagining the architects, masons, and construction foremen all working together to bring the design to life, gave the place an added touch of humanity, much like the child’s footprint at Chogha Zanbil.
After spending the morning touring Persepolis, Professor took me to a nearby place he recommended for lunch. He walked in to greetings from old friends while I went to find us a table. Choosing where to sit involved what was becoming a standard fight every time I walked into a restaurant. I’d see a place I liked and head for it, while the waiter would choose a different spot and steer me towards that one. This nearly always took place in a room almost completely devoid of other customers. Normally, I gave up and went where the waiter commanded, but on this day I decided to rebel and sit at the table I wanted. This made the waiter visibly irritated, but I was curious what would happen. Plus, I needed a seat next to an electrical outlet to recharge my camera battery, nearly spent after several hours at Persepolis.
Once Professor joined me the waiter immediately came over and indignantly complained of my affront, of my audacity at choosing my own table in the cavernously empty restaurant. Professor calmed the man by pointing out my need for a seat close to an outlet. Fortunately, that placated the waiter enough to take our order. I tried this a few other times, usually when I was alone, and the waiter got really mad every time. Memo to those visiting Iran – beware the waiter!
While sitting and talking over our lunch, one of the other waiters quietly approached Professor. They’d apparently known each other for years – though the unique point here was that the waiter was deaf. I was impressed; in much of the world, especially Asia, it is rare to see anyone with any kind of handicap in public, much less working in a customer service position. But here was this guy working away, seemingly accepted by everyone. This meant I’d seen in Iran, in the space of three days, nearly as many deaf people and people in wheelchairs as I’d seen in 10+ years living in East Asia.
Shiraz Bazaar
After heading back to town later that afternoon I got another taste of the cosmopolitanism of Shiraz. Stopping at a small store near the hotel I went in to buy some food and drinks. Before going in, Professor and I had assiduously practiced the “Do you have …?”, “Please give me a … .” and “How much is …?” phrases I would need. I walked in, ready to go.
“Welcome! What can I get for you?”
“Uhh, do you have any, uhh … where did you learn your English? It sounds perfect.”
�
�Oh, thanks. I lived in Dubai for 20 years. Just let me know if you can’t find anything.”
Professor laughed and explained to the guy our rehearsals outside.
“Cool, sounds good. Give it a shot whenever you’re ready.”
By which point I felt so embarrassed I could barely speak my own language, let alone his. I mumbled a couple of things (“Hey, you’re good! I understand everything!”), before finally giving up and switching back to English. Stupid globalized world!
Later that evening, I got my first chance to wander an Iranian bazaar. Like most countries that haven’t yet been infested with Wal-Mart, many of the goods in bazaars are just everyday food, household items, and clothes – a depressing amount of which, even in Iran, is imported from China. One stall even specialized in Chinese-made sports jerseys for European soccer and famous U.S. baseball, basketball, and college teams. The oddest sight was an Orange County Choppers motorcycle jacket dangling over my head as I passed by. It took a bit to reconcile the images of the OCC motorcycle show with a bazaar in southern Iran.
Deep in the heart of the bazaar was my actual goal, an old caravanserai. Traditionally serving as way stations and trading posts for the desert caravans that gave them their name, caravanserai offer central courtyards for deal making among merchants and strong outer walls for defense from brigands – think old Silk Road. This was the first of many caravanserais I saw as we headed east toward the borders with Afghanistan and Pakistan.
The one I was looking for in Shiraz reputedly offered a selection of traditional metal, wood, and cloth items handmade by the nomads of Iran and the central Asian ‘Stans’ to our north and east. Professor’s directions, “go through the bazaar until you come to a street, turn left, and look for a door,” proved spot-on and I found the place with little trouble.