by Scott Fisher
We pulled into Kerman later that evening, back at what still appeared to be our private hotel. Remembering the earlier offer to return someday and teach English, I looked at the surrounding city and wondered what it’d be like to live here for a while. Amusement parks and good deals on sheepskins aside, I can’t say it was very tempting.
Wind Towers and Zoroastrianism in Yazd
Still fresh from traveling in the footsteps of Alexander, today we followed in those of Marco Polo. We were heading to the city of Yazd, another of the world’s oldest cities, only this one startlingly well preserved by virtue of its isolation at the edge of two deserts. Among the many centuries of invaders who’d wanted to attack it, only a few had managed to find it, preserving its uniqueness. Yazd also has the virtue of being the Iranian home of Zoroastrianism, an ancient religion that dominated parts of central and southern Asia until the 7th century Arab conquest that brought Islam.
Today was also the last long drive of the trip. I’d enjoyed the hours in the car talking to Professor and learning more about Iran and Farsi, all while sipping tea, almost as much as the actual sightseeing. As we would near each stop Professor always provided background info with a quick lecture on the place’s meaning and significance. Then he would pause, always ready and able to answer my questions, but also one of those rare guides that actually waited until I asked one before continuing. Too many guides try to bludgeon you with their knowledge, but Professor was experienced enough to know when to back off and let the sites, and the tourists, speak for themselves.
Beautiful new roads and large numbers of pistachio plantations spiced up the drive to Yazd. Persia is one of the world’s largest producers of pistachios and today’s drive took us right through the heart of the main growing region. An expensive plant to maintain, and very difficult to harvest, the plantations require large amounts of capital to start and manage. Many of those we passed that day were owned by Iran’s former president, and recent candidate for president again, Rafsanjani.
Once past the main pistachio growing area, the monotonous desert of brown land, brown walls, and brown buildings reappeared. A monotony broken only by the garish lights of restaurants and advertisements, or the never-ending road construction that marks nearly the entirety of the country. On our travels around Iran, even far from the tiniest speck of civilization, we came across road-widening projects. Why, I have no idea. The backcountry roads were nearly empty already – widening them further, while leaving the teeming cities jammed with traffic, made little sense.
Near the end of today’s drive we came to a spot in the desert, apparently a day’s camel ride from Yazd, where the road passed by, or actually through, the remains of an old caravanserai. We pulled the car to the side of the road and ran back for a look, dodging a couple of speeding trucks and a busload of quizzical passengers along the way.
The caravanserai, broadly dated at having been built sometime between the 10th and 14th centuries, was, if a little decrepit, at least still standing. Unfortunately, as the only vertical surface for miles, it was also covered with advertising for places in Yazd.
Entering through the main gate, we passed where the stables would have been before entering the old central courtyard. History, plus the smell of urine, emanated from the surroundings. It was impossible not to picture camel caravans and old Silk Road traders working deals. The black soot of fires still stained ceilings in the kitchen and guest rooms. Lookout towers above watched the passing traffic. The inside was free of the graffiti and advertising found outside – you could do a film on Marco Polo right now without spending a dime on set design.
The important desert oasis location of the caravanserai, on a crossroads between the Persian Gulf and Asia’s interior, meant we were again walking in the footsteps of Marco Polo, perhaps even looking into the room where he stayed. This beat-up old caravanserai, parts now literally bisected by the new highway, was one of the most fascinating places I explored the whole trip. Sometimes the best sites really are free.
Yazd
We pulled into Yazd, one of the driest cities in one of the driest areas in the world, on a rainy afternoon. The rain continued the entire time I was there, turning any unpaved streets into rivers of mud, yet making the people of the city oddly happy, “We get happy when it rains, it’s a nice change of pace!”
Our first stop was the Zoroastrian Fire Temple, an oddly ordinary place in an utterly nondescript section of Yazd. More than anything, it reminded me of the Jewish area we had visited back in Hamedan, a world unto itself, surrounded by a sea of Islam.
Zoroastrianism is often mistaken for a fire-worshipping religion because its adherents use flame as their symbol (like Christians use a cross). Instead, fire is used because it’s the most respected of the traditional elements in Zoroastrianism, for it warms homes and cooks food. The religion is monotheistic, one of the world’s first, and believes in a final judgment day. The flame we saw in the Temple has been kept burning continuously for 1600 years, even when transferred from one temple to another. Keeping this fire burning inside its glass enclosure was one of the most important jobs of the local priests, and it served as the primary draw for Zoroastrian pilgrims from around the world.
Walking through the Fire Temple took all of 10 minutes, and half of that was because there was so little to see I walked really, really slow. After a quick picture outside on the empty steps, we headed into the nearly empty temple. Other than a couple of priests talking to some pilgrims, Professor and I were the only ones there. We looked at the flame for a while (stick a torch in your yard and look at it through a dark window and you’ve lived the experience), then walked back to the car.
After the forlorn little Fire Temple, we took a long drive around town to find our hotel. It was a new place that Professor had yet to visit, so we had to stop and ask passersby how to find it, which provided good listening practice for telling directions in Farsi.
Driving along one street in search of the hotel we suddenly came across the first, and only, overtly anti-American sign I saw outside of Tehran. Painted on the side of a large, traditional brick water tank was ‘Down with the USA’, or exactly, ‘DOWN WITHE U.S.A.’, with the ‘E’ squeezed in between the ‘H’ and ‘U’ like someone had added it later, perhaps fearing a misspelling in the original. I hopped out of the car and snapped a picture. Professor thought I was getting one of the traditional water tank – not noticing the graffiti until I pointed it out. Which made him kind of irritated, both because the words were there in the first place, and because I’d gotten a picture of them.
When we finally found the hotel, located in a newer part of town down a road so muddy I thought we’d have to swim, I couldn’t believe it. An old-style caravanserai had been fully updated into a modern hotel; the brickwork, courtyard, kitchens and dining area, everything in the place was fantastic. Five hundred years from now some guy’s going to walk through the ruins of that place and wished he’d stayed there – I liked wandering around it better than half the places I visited in town.
The ‘Moshir-al-Mamalek Hotel Garden’, aside from having one of the world’s longest hotel names, had rooms with an elegant Persian carpet on the floor, domed brick ceilings, windows of stained glass, a bed lamp that looked so much like a genie’s lamp I was surprised to flip a switch and see it actually turn on, and a wooden door that looked like something out of a palace. Outside, well, it was January – raining, cold and muddy, so not much to see there.
That evening we went out walking around town through the drizzle and mud. Many of the buildings in Yazd are of the same style and materials used 1000 years ago, turning a simple walk around the bazaar into a step back in time nearly equal to the ruins of Bam. Even during a dreary rain it was hands down the most scenic city in Iran. I could have spent a good month just getting lost wandering down the winding paths that led through the older quarters of the city.
Next, we stumbled across an Iranian ‘wrestling’ performance in one of the old buildings. A tout out
side urged us to go inside, even saying, “welcome” in English. Ducking down a cramped staircase we were first met by the pungent smell of wet shoes and old sweat, with the giant pile of shoes at the entrance explaining part of that. Quickly and self-consciously, I slipped off my boots as half the crowd turned to watch Professor and me.
The next problem was stepping gingerly over everyone else’s shoes to find an empty spot on the floor. We carefully tiptoed our way through the dimly lit, tiny arena until we finally came to a partially empty spot. There, Professor pulled the age thing, so handy in cultures where the young still respect the old, and made a couple of teens scoot over so we could sit down.
Once seated, I could finally turn my attention to the ring dug in the center of the floor. It was not what I expected. Instead of two people fighting, or pretending to fight, the ring was full of men, and a few boys, doing calisthenics.
Maybe it was just starting and they’re just getting warmed up, I thought … watched … thought some more, then realized that was about it. At a couple of points it became moderately interesting, but at no time was it the ‘wrestling’ I expected. Instead, the calisthenics and stretching gave way to an odd kind of spinning dance, where the guys took turns spinning around the center of the ring. The more skillful looked like giant tops they buzzed around so quickly. Of course, most demonstrations lasted less than a minute before the crazed spinner flailed out of control and smacked into someone waiting their turn. That was his signal to stumble away and let another person try.
You could tell the crowd favorite by the calls and chants echoing in the little room. Once his turn came, he got spinning so fast you could barely see his arms and legs, plus he lasted long enough to make you wonder if the guy was made of swivels. After a well-deserved ovation he finally trundled to a stop, looking little the worse for wear.
Next came an even more popular performer, one who must have been the son of another performer. Looking no more than five or six, the little guy took the center of the ring, caught the flow of the music, and suddenly started spinning like a pro. He got dizzy quickly and stumbled to the side, but he was so small no one really seemed to mind. Instead, they would just grab him by the shoulders and ask him something; to which, early on anyway, he responded with a disdainful look that seemed to say, “I have only just begun to spin.” Whereupon the adult would chuck him back into the center and he’d start fresh. The little dude could really go, and definitely earned his applause.
After all of the spinning, the performance paused for a bit while everyone picked up giant wooden mallets. Depending on the size and skill of the person involved, some of the mallets looked quite heavy, easily over 30 pounds. Yet the performers grasped one in each hand and started twirling them like chopsticks, fast enough they would’ve taken someone’s head off had they connected. Given how hot and humid the gym was, the surprising thing from this part of the show was that no one was smacked by a mallet slipping from a sweaty hand.
Throughout the whole performance, the old man in charge was randomly yelling instructions, blessings, chants and other messages to the players and crowd. The heat, dim lighting, foreign language, and odd sport made it feel like sitting inside an old B movie, one with martial artists gathered from around the world for a fight.
Here though, everyone was quite friendly. Anytime I made eye contact with someone they smiled. At one point in particular I noticed many of the spectators looking at me and grinning. Later, after we left, Professor said that the old man calling the instructions had stopped at one point and urged a prayer chant for, “visitors from afar.” Meaning, pointedly, me.
The whole performance lasted about 45 minutes, ending with a final crescendo of chants and yells. The performers waved, then got to talking with each other and a few well-wishers from the crowd. Rather than professionals, they seemed more like a local club that got together to exercise and put on an occasional exhibition. The friendly, close-knit atmosphere felt more like something from a small-town baseball game than a wrestling tournament. While everyone else talked, Professor and I quietly made our way to the door, tiptoeing over the giant shoe pile, before slipping back into the drizzly night.
Yazd to Esfahan
The next morning when we checked out of the hotel I changed $200 (U.S.) cash into Iranian currency – the first time I’d had to change money since the airport in Tehran. In nearly two weeks of travel I’d only spent about $200, the beauty of an all-inclusive trip. The only problem was the 8% surcharge the front desk hit me with – somewhat lowering my appreciation for that beautiful hotel.
We had one last stop before leaving Yazd, the town’s centuries-old main mosque. After a while, touring mosques in the Middle East becomes like touring cathedrals in Europe or Buddhist temples in Asia – boring. Today’s mosque tour turned out to be different though; we came upon a little Afghani kid who volunteered to show us through the city’s winding traditional alleys. We readily agreed, abandoned the mosque, and took off after the little guy.
Professor got him talking and found out he was here with his father who’d come to Iran from Afghanistan looking for work. He was a day laborer on a nearby construction site – leaving his eight-year-old son alone and fending for himself most of the day. The kid had made good use of his time though – only in-country a few months, he already spoke Farsi nearly fluently. Professor had little problem talking to him.
The little kid was fascinated by me, more specifically, by my size. I’m by no means a huge man, especially by American standards, but in Asia (outside Russia anyway) anyone over six feet usually gets a decent amount of attention. He kept asking Professor to translate questions asking how tall I was, how much I weighed, and, once he noticed my boots, how big my feet were.
It turned out to be one of the best walks of the trip, just wandering down the winding old alleys of mud brick walls. The Yazd specialty, the wind tower, was visible nearly everywhere. Badgirs, as they’re called locally, stand two to three stories high, depending on the wealth of the owner and size of the surrounding buildings. The tops have openings slotted and shaped to catch even the hint of a breeze and redirect it down the tower’s shaft. As the air heads down, it gets channeled to induce a spin that gets the hotter air to rise and exit, while keeping the cool air heading to the bottom of the tower. At the bottom lies a small pool of cool water. As the cool air hits this water it picks up some humidity, then gets spun into the house, both cooling and humidifying along the way. These natural air-conditioners are all over Yazd, and neighboring areas, where the desert summers can be unbearable.
Walking in the old quarter, it was easy to lose track of the century. Until Professor suddenly chuckled and translated some graffiti from a wall. Instead of the religious saying I expected, it turned out to be an angry homeowner fed-up with his neighbors.
“God damns those who dump their trash here!”
Which I guess is at least partly religious.
After the tour wound down, we gave the little guy a nice tip and took some pictures. Professor also urged him to find a school that would take him – which brought a funny grimace from the kid, though he did say he got free classes at the mosque. One of the madrassas (‘madrassa’ is an Arabic, Persian, and a couple of other languages’ term for ‘school’) so often mentioned in the news.
Central Iran – Arrival in Esfahan
Newspapers, websites, TV news – it seemed that every one of them had run a feature on Iran’s rejuvenated nuclear program in the days leading up to this part of the trip. In nearly every story Esfahan was listed as the major city closest to the program’s home. There were so many stories it actually felt like driving into a spotlight, like being back in Baghdad, knowing you were at the center of world attention.
Esfahan was the first large city we’d been in since Tehran. After all of the emptiness and countryside it felt cramped and confusing. I could tell it bothered Professor too – he was more at home in the country or around the tourist sites than driving in big city traffic.
Searching for our downtown hotel took forever in Esfahan’s confusing maze of one-way streets and wall-to-wall cars. We had to stop and ask for directions a half dozen times, though by now I could roll down the window and ask for directions myself. Seeing the surprised looks on people’s faces when a foreigner asked for directions, let alone in Farsi, got Professor and I laughing and helped break the tediousness of the search.
The best thing about the hotel, other than finally finding it, was the easy walk to the riverfront. Esfahan is broken into roughly two halves by the Zayandeh River, with our hotel on the traditional, Islamic side. The far side contained a newer area of Armenian Christians, similar to the Jewish area of Hamedan and the Zoroastrian area of Yazd. A walk along the green, landscaped waterfront, though chilly in the winds of January, was a great change from the endless brown of the preceding days. Plus the river was spanned in several places by traditional bridges intricately assembled from carved stone. At the base of several of the bridges were teashops offering great views of the river and a chance to relax with a pipe of Iran’s finest.
Before setting out for a walk along the river we had to meet our local guide. The tour guide union of Iran (yeah, seriously) is quite strong in heavily-touristed areas like Esfahan and requires tourists to hire a local guide in addition to their main guide. People like Professor are licensed to lead tours around the country, but in certain restricted areas licenses only go to locals – meaning any tour groups in the area require a local rep.