by Scott Fisher
Inside lay a small fountain surrounded by shops specializing in everything from gold rings and trinkets to beautiful metal and ceramic pottery – even one place selling ornate daggers and swords. I’d bought an Arab-style curved sword in Baghdad (safely mailed home through the U.S. military postal system) and momentarily thought about buying one here. Then the image of trying to get through U.S. customs and board a domestic flight with a sword purchased in Iran flashed through my mind. I kept walking.
I wandered around trying to picture how different the bazaar would have looked 500 years ago. Except for some cheesy cell phone covers and a gawky American butchering Farsi, I doubt much had changed.
At one place I found a colorful old hand-woven bag that the shopkeeper said he’d purchased from passing nomads. It was so colorful it looked like a rainbow had thrown up on it, plus it had originally been used to transport sheep meat and wool (as pungently attested to by its smell). Perfect. The giant thing was exactly what I needed to swallow the other souvenirs I planned to buy, plus provide endless amusement at all future baggage-claim carousels.
So, we commenced the bargaining process. I pointed out the flaws, the dirt, and the smell. I pretended to lose interest. I said I couldn’t fit it on the plane. I acted insulted at the price. I walked away before ‘happening’ to pass back by. Each step in the process gradually brought the low price even lower, until I almost felt cheap. I’d have bought it at the first price, but simply wanted the full bazaar bargaining experience.
Once we’d agreed on the price, we moved on to the next act of the play. While the first clerk, “got the bag ready,” (whatever that meant) an assistant approached to show me some other “unique items.” I was in a good enough mood not to be irritated by the age-old market trick.
The young clerk began a demonstration of the process they used to hand-make the colorful pipes, vases, and jewelry boxes that lined the store. Outside, the original salesman seemingly struggled to wrap my bag in plastic and twine, all the while keeping an eye on the progress of his compatriot working the up-sale. The tactics amused me until I came across a handmade, camel-bone tobacco pipe that would make a perfect gift for my dad.
“Got him!” You could practically hear the clang of the cash register in the clerk’s expression as I expressed interest in the pipe. I re-opened the bargaining. With a satisfied smile, the original guy told his assistant to take over wrapping the bag while he came in to handle the pipe negotiations. A while later, new negotiations concluded, I finally handed over my $40 in rials and headed for the hotel, pipe in my pocket and giant bag now covered in plastic and twine.
I played a few games of chicken with passing traffic before finally making it across the street and into the hotel. Back in the room, I proceeded to unwrap all of the crap from my new bag and instantly make the whole room reek of dead sheep. Which, come the next morning, earned me the undying hatred of the maid.
Shiraz, Day Two
On the second day in Shiraz one of the focal points of desert travel became clear – gardens. Apparently anything green is considered noteworthy and worth visiting. Most were pretty similar, but the one in Shiraz came with something special – school kids on a field trip. More precisely, elementary school girls, all clad in matching headdresses and with some toting spiffy new Pokemon backpacks.
Unlike in North Korea, where the teacher had forbidden her students to speak to me, the Iranian teacher had no problem pausing for a few moments so I could talk to the kids and get a couple of pictures. She asked where I was from, seemingly more from curiosity than a desire to censor anyone, and reacted with typical surprise when I said America.
I thought Professor would have to translate, but a couple of the girls spoke English surprisingly well and soon had me laughing my way through our short conversation. The friendly experience couldn’t have been more different from the chill and control exhibited by the North Korean teacher when we met at the Pyongyang circus. The curiosity and excitement of the kids at something new was the same in both countries, it was the attitude of those in charge that set the experiences apart. In North Korea those feelings were to be stamped out, or at the very least, controlled. In Iran, they were to be encouraged. As much as I enjoyed talking to the Iranian girls it made me depressed at the missed opportunity in the North, as well as the oppression the children there are forced to live under.
The day’s second stop was the architecturally impressive home of an upper-class family from the 19th century. Walking down the narrow alley to the mansion, a man in front of us suddenly stopped and picked up a piece of bread. He was dressed kind of shabby so I figured it was a homeless guy bending down to get some food. Instead, to my surprise, he quickly dusted the dirt off the bread, set it on a small window ledge outside one of the houses, and kept walking. Professor could see the surprise on my face and wasted no time telling me that a true Persian respects bread and would never allow it to lie in a dirty street. Instead the man had picked it up, brushed it off, and set it in a clean spot so either the birds could eat it or someone could throw it away properly. The simple act of the man dusting off the bread and delicately placing it in a clean, sunny spot is one of my clearest memories of Iran.
Later that day, on yet another garden tour, this one operated by the army, I got my first chance to, unintentionally, irritate a soldier. I saw him standing in front of the garden’s attached museum and asked to take a picture together. I wanted to find out about life in the service and figured asking for a picture would be the best way to break the ice. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it that way. Though relenting to the picture, he wanted no part of a conversation. The resulting photo shows a beautiful old museum behind a scowling soldier and myself. Once the picture was snapped, Professor and I hustled out of there before the guy could trump up something to hassle us about.
The day’s most interesting stop wasn’t even a tourist site. It was a bakery. I ran in to buy some supplies for the next day’s long road trip just as Professor got a call and stepped outside. With a lot of pointing and my pidgin Farsi I got across what I wanted and the bakers got across the cost.
Next, business concluded and Professor still on the phone, the two guys working the counter started the Q&A. I remember because it was the first time I actually understood the whole question instead of just figuring it out from context. They led with “Where are you from,” and my answer of course brought significant surprise. Next, they said a bunch of stuff I couldn’t understand, then followed with something I certainly did. While saying America or Americans were good, one of the clerks did the universal knife across the throat gesture while saying, “Bush.” So apparently, America good, Bush bad. While making the gesture, he smiled and rhymed the word “Bush” with something that sounded like “moosh.” Just then Professor finished his call and I wrapped things up, curious what moosh meant. On the way to the car, I repeated the conversation and Professor laughed, explaining that ‘moosh’ means ‘mouse’ and the guy had been making a common Iranian joke comparing Bush to a weak and cowardly mouse.
Unsure whether to laugh or be offended, I suddenly remembered some of the things I’d heard Iranians call their own leaders and realized ‘mouse’ was pretty innocuous. One of the most popular jokes in the country at the time was circulating via cell phone. It was an animated clip that started with a photo of their president, Ahmadinejad. The photos gradually changed, and, bit-by-bit, the face of Ahmadinejad morphs into that of a little monkey. It was not only kind of funny; it really did make the guy look like a monkey. To this day whenever I see Ahmadinejad on the news I can’t help but picture his face suddenly sprouting hair and turning into that little creature. Probably not a clip you’d want to get caught watching (a few weeks after leaving I read that the Iranian government was cracking down on messages and video clips exchanged by cell phone), but quite popular nonetheless.
Hafez
It’s said that every Iranian home has at least two books: one is the Koran, the other a book of poems written in
the 14th century by Hafez. The first represents the modern, Arabic-import, religious part of the Iranian soul; the other shows the traditional, friendly, laidback spirit of the Persians.
Hafez is so popular and respected that a popular form of Iranian fortunetelling is to open one of his books to a random page and use the words written there as advice on how to lead life, make a difficult decision, or understand something perplexing. With this in mind, several old men stand outside Hafez’s tomb holding small birds. For a few cents, the men will have their bird randomly select a small piece of paper inscribed with one of Hafez’s poems. Like a tarot reading or horoscope, the lines are meant to provide an easy-to-interpret answer to what you’re seeking. Curious, I paid the few cents and had the little bird pick a poem for me. Professor translated. When it turned out to be a short passage on the meaning of travel and meeting new friends, I gave ole’ Hafez a little more respect.
The tomb itself was fine and small, but, notwithstanding his newfound credibility from the poem, for someone who has little knowledge of Hafez the tea shop behind the tomb is more interesting. It is perhaps the most liberal, open place in the whole country, at least outside the diplomatic compounds of north Tehran. Though cold, the outdoor place was packed with groups of young men sitting at low tables flirting with nearby groups of young women. By now, I was more in tune with local culture and could readily observe the subtle flirting. Though still tightly restricted by religious and social norms, I witnessed human nature breaking out all over the teashop. This was perhaps a truer tribute to Hafez, a hippie-ish lover of wine, women, and song, than anything in the formal tomb on the other side of the wall.
Here and there you could even see young couples sitting together, some slyly holding hands or even leaning against each other. Even the waiter was interesting, telling us jokes as he readied the water pipe.
“See that guy over there? He has four girlfriends and a wife … but I’ve never seen the girl he’s with now!” He ended his stories with a quick laugh and a wink while Professor and I relaxed with the qalyan.
Eventually, even the hot tea couldn’t fight off the late evening chill of the open-air café so we, somewhat regretfully, got up, headed to the car and home. I ended up spending my last night in Shiraz trying to figure out how to get online with my laptop from the hotel, rather than going to a Coffee Net.
With Iran’s archaic telecom system everyone still uses dial-up, which means there are obviously numbers anyone can dial to logon, you just need to find the numbers and figure out the system. I’d been trying for a few days, but Professor wasn’t really up to speed on things Internet. That evening we finally solved the problem by turning to his teenage daughter. She slowly explained the system over the phone while Professor translated. All I needed to do was buy an “Internet card” at any convenience store. Then “simply” follow its instructions.
I easily found one of the cards and bought a few hours for a couple of bucks. On the card was a list of local numbers for the modem to dial, plus a scratch-off area with my password and login info. Though the numbers were in Farsi, I pieced them together, before disassembling my room’s antiquated phone system to jury-rig a connection for my laptop. Next, I had to reconfigure my modem to dial like an old rotary phone, and then program a long pause in the dialing to allow for the hotel switchboard’s interminable delay. “Simple,” indeed.
Once I got finished though, the system worked like a charm. Well, a very, very slow charm. Instead of having to retype everything at a Coffee Net, I was finally able to just cut-and-paste my journal entries into an email. More importantly, I was able to upload some photos to my website – ensuring that even if my camera and laptop were stolen, pictures from at least the first part of the trip would make it out.
That night I drifted off to sleep after reading about the eastern cities of Kerman, Bam and Yazd. Tomorrow’s drive, at 500 miles, was to be the longest of the trip and promised barren, end-of-the-earth scenery.
Eastern Iran
Road to Kerman
The road east out of Shiraz is wide-open, barren, empty and brown. According to Professor, the summer desert gets so hot, untamed by any humidity, that the asphalt radiates enough heat to melt tires, causing blowouts up and down this seemingly endless highway. Occasionally in the distance we glimpsed a spot of irrigated green, or passed a slightly less brown town, but for most of the 500-mile drive there was nothing but emptiness.
On this drive, Professor added stories from Persian history in addition to the language lessons. Kerman, the town waiting at the end of the road, was long called ‘the city of the blind’. Centuries ago, a popular king was forced from his throne by a eunuch usurper. The king, alive but alone, fled across the vast emptiness to hide in Kerman. Unfortunately for the men of Kerman, the eunuch traced the king to their city and soon surrounded it with his army. The usurper first ordered the former king handed over, but the honorable people of Kerman refused. Next, the usurper ordered all the men of Kerman lined up against the city wall. Again they were asked to reveal the king; again they refused. Angry, the usurper ordered his soldiers to blind every man in the city as punishment – painfully earning Kerman its nickname.
Traveling across Iran’s central emptiness, an approaching village was usually signaled first by giant white letters on the local hillsides. I’d see them a couple of times before and assumed they were either religious sayings or pro-government propaganda, ala the countryside writings of North Korea. I finally asked Professor about them and was surprised at his translations.
“Let’s see, that one over there is for a restaurant … that one’s for a gas station …oh, and the one over there is for a hotel.”
“Really?!? I thought they were verses from the Koran or something.”
Weird look.
“Sorry, I just …”
“We actually are a real country, with real advertising …”
It seemed like every time I tried to figure something out in Iran based on media-induced preconceptions, or imagined similarities with North Korea, I came off looking like an ass. The day before, back in Shiraz, we’d been caught in traffic and someone passed Professor a flier while we waited. I’d seen this a few times – people walking down the rows of traffic handing out fliers to the bored, waiting drivers. I’d assumed they were for religious services and asked about them, mentioning my assumption. With a mildly exasperated look, Professor had explained it was actually a real estate ad for a newly opened apartment complex.
As this day’s drive unfolded, one thing we saw a lot of, besides sand and dirt, were American vehicles leftover from before the sanctions were imposed. We’d be driving along and all of a sudden a gigantic 1970s Buick would boat its way on past. Or a 60s-era Chevy pickup would rumble by. I even saw an exact replica of the 78 Impala I drove in college. Anyone in need of a well-preserved 70s car could do worse than head to Iran, where, according to Professor, the quality of American cars is thought of quite highly, “It’s not like you see many 30-year-old French cars on the road.”
Kerman
After nearly 12 hours in the car it was nice to finally pull into Kerman. There were no signs of the old city walls, nor a bunch of blind guys, just a lot of wide-open streets and new construction. Since the hotel restaurant was closed, and we couldn’t stomach much more driving, we just asked the hotel clerks to point us in the direction of the nearest restaurant. A few minutes later, somewhat to my surprise, we found ourselves sitting in a Pizza Hut knock-off.
The restaurant itself was exactly like any other pizza place you’ve ever been in – excited kids running around, bored dads waiting in the take-out line and groups of young people sitting and talking. All this surrounded by faux red brick walls and tables with checked tablecloths made more of vinyl than cloth. The only difference from home came with the free items that arrived with the pizza – a packet of powdered thyme and a stick of gum. The thyme actually didn’t taste that bad, certainly better than the corn they use on pizzas in Japan, or the p
ickles in Korea. The pizza itself, of the thin crust variety, was fine. Though, surprisingly for a country so enamored of tomatoes, there was hardly any sauce. It was mostly just bread and beef (obviously no pork products in the Islamic Republic), with some spices.
Back at the brand new hotel, we turned out to be the sole guests, so were able to chat briefly with the bored clerks – making them the first women I’d spoken to since I arrived in Iran. This whole separation of the sexes thing was starting to get on my nerves. As predicted, I found myself gazing with rapt appreciation at women daring enough to wear only a gauzy scarf on their head, rather than the full covering preferred by most women.
That night I got another Internet card (apparently there are no nationwide 800 numbers in Iran – cards are only good in their local area) and went online to follow a developing story out of southeastern Turkey. There were reports of a bird flu outbreak in the main Turkish town just across the border from Iran. I was scheduled to take the train right through that area in two weeks and needed to follow rumors of a possible border closure. Any problems at that border meant I’d have to find an alternate way out of Iran ASAP.
Mahan and Bam
The next morning at breakfast, while the two of us sat alone in the large hotel dining room, I asked Professor about the possibility of a border closing. He was worried too. He’d been following the story on the Iranian news and promised to keep an eye on further developments, especially since my Internet access was so spotty.