Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn

by Jamie Maslin

  I’d been fifteen at the time of the first Gulf War, and every morning on my paper route I’d read all the propaganda in the papers before I delivered them. Not knowing then that the CIA had installed the Ba’ath Party from which Saddam Hussein emerged (described by the CIA man responsible as “my favorite coup”), or anything of the support Saddam received from the West when it was in “our” interest, led me to conclude that it was a simple case of good against evil. I had no idea at the time that anthrax was supplied to Iraq by the British government’s Porton Down laboratories, or that the ingredients for biological weapons, including botulism, were transferred to Iraq from a company in Maryland in the United States, which was fully licensed by the U.S. Commerce Department and approved by the State Department—all documented in a 1994 senate report. Or that on July 25, 1990, Saddam asked U.S. Ambassador April Glaspie what America’s response to an invasion of Kuwait would be. Saddam was told, “We have no opinion on the Arab-Arab conflicts like your border disagreement with Kuwait. . . . The issue is not associated with America. [Secretary of State] James Baker has directed our official spokesman to emphasize this instruction.”

  I continued walking around the cemetery and found that, after a while, all the faces seemed to merge into one another, and in a way they no longer appeared as individuals with lives, families, hopes, or dreams but more like a gray mass—a statistic. It was a horrible thought, but the scale of death was hard to take in, that is until I reached a photo of a toddler. Whether this was a photo of a baby killed in the war or a photo of a soldier as a baby I don’t know. But the cold reality hit me that every one of the people in the photos, whether tough-looking soldiers or not, was once someone’s baby—a cliché for sure, but true. I looked up from the picture to the ocean of other photos, and no longer wanted to stick around.

  A few miles outside of the center of Esfahan is a rather strange attraction called the Shaking Minarets. These are two minarets on the tomb of a revered fourteenth century dervish that wobble and shake back and forth when leaned against. On arrival there, I discovered that I’d just missed the official shaking, so had an hour to kill until the next performance. This was easily spent reclining on a carpeted platform at a nearby café where I sipped an ice-cold pomegranate juice.

  By the time the minarets were due for their next shake a crowd of Iranian tourists had gathered in the courtyard to watch. An official shaker climbed up each minaret, called on Allah for assistance, then gave the towers a bloody good wobble.

  It took a fair while for the shakers to build up the necessary momentum before the towers shook back and forth but when they did it was surprisingly dramatic. The surprise was when only one tower was shaken, it caused the second minaret to shake also. This was demonstrated with the use of a bell on one tower, which would ring when the opposite minaret shook.

  Neither of them looked in the slightest bit stable when rocking back and forth and I wondered how long they’d last. The scientific theory behind why they shake is that the type of sandstone used in their construction was of an inferior quality and contained feldspar, which, over the years, dissolved, making the stone slightly flexible. To others, it’s a more miraculous occurrence and is simply the will of Allah. Proponents of the divine intervention theory point out that other buildings in Esfahan are made of the same material but don’t shake.

  It was all over pretty quick, so I caught a bus back to town full of giggling school girls, all of whom said “Hello” to me repeatedly but nothing else, that is until I got up to leave and then they all said a giggling “Goodbye” many times. I did the same but without the giggles.

  I next headed into the city’s 1,300-year-old rabbit warren-like bazaar. Esfahan’s bazaar is one of the largest in the country and stretched for several miles. It had a mysterious atmosphere accentuated by lightsaber-like beams of light filtering down through holes cut into the high domed vaulted ceiling. I walked along, trailing my hand through the light beams and stopped to check out a store filled with colorful aromatic spices. Here I was greeted warmly by the owner, who spoke good English and invited me inside to look around. He pointed out all the different spices and got me to smell the ginger and the nutmeg before kindly taking me out the back to show me how they were all ground up. He showed me a huge and very old stone grinding wheel. It was mechanically operated, but the shopkeeper explained that in days gone by, it would have been attached by rope to a camel who’d walk round and round in circles to rotate it.

  Not only did he grind and sell spices but he also made natural coloring. I was amazed at the ingredients he used, which included crushed up dried pomegranate skin and straw for the color yellow, and the shells of walnuts for brown. He introduced me to a desert plant called Chu Bear that he used to make powdered soap. He said it was as good as any modern detergent. The plant is dried and then ground up on the wheel into a very fine powder and used with water. He kindly gave me a bit of the dried plant to take away with me.

  Since we’d been getting on well, the shopkeeper now took me up a couple of flights of stairs to the flat roof of a carpet shop, which was slightly higher than the domed roof of the bazaar and provided a panoramic view of Imam Khomeini Square. Up on the roof were several carpets, drying in the sun after being washed. He pointed out distant mosques and mountain ranges and the straw and mud covering of the bazaar’s roof. He took me next to a nearby section of the bazaar where carpets were being mended by a team of young men. Some were nailing carpets to the floor for washing, while others were mending gaping holes in damaged rugs. A few snapshots later and we headed downstairs again.

  On the way, my charming guide inadvertently walked into an air conditioning system, which was sticking out dangerously at head height from the wall. He took a nasty knock, and his forehead began to bleed. It looked bad, but he assured me it was nothing and used his handkerchief to stem the flow. He apologized to me for being so careless and asked if I would like to join him for a drink. The answer was yes.

  He must have been quite well off, as he took me into a second shop he owned, which this time sold carpets made exclusively by Iranian nomads. He had two staff in there working away, one of whom fetched our drinks. The owner showed me a collection of the tools used by the nomads and photographs of them on the job so to speak. He pointed to a picture of the nomad’s migration routes and told me that it was possible to visit them on organized tours where you went out to see them and their way of life. The photos from the tours did look a bit on the touristy side, and I wondered how authentic these particular “nomads” actually were. After a good chat, I thanked him for his hospitality and headed out of the bazaar and over to Esfahan’s crown jewel, the Imam Mosque.

  My Lonely Planet described it as “one of the most beautiful mosques in the world.” Even from a distance, this seventeenthcentury building was exceptional. Its size dominated the whole square, and I found as I walked toward its massive entrance portal and two towering minarets that I had butterflies of anticipation.

  The portal was gigantic, reaching one hundred feet up and was decorated with deep vibrant turquoise and blue tiles. These were in swirling geometric designs, mosaic calligraphy, and intricate floral patterns. The portal, like the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, had an intricate honeycombed front with sections hanging down like stalactites. Each of these sections was decorated with its own pattern, but all with the same incredible detail. I walked inside to the spacious courtyard where a group of Iranian tourists stood in awe.

  The courtyard was situated before the looming main sanctuary and dome. In the courtyard’s center was a vast pool used for ritual ablutions, and all around the surrounding walls were sunken porches in mosaics of yellow and blue. The porches led onto vaulted sanctuaries all as awe-inspiring and detailed as the next. Every patch of the place was smothered with the most intensely colored patterned tiles. I slowly walked around investigating the more hidden areas before entering the main sanctuary itself.

  Here I stood open mouthed at the sheer size and beauty of i
ts truly massive dome. It reached a whopping 120 feet high on the inside and 167 feet on the exterior thanks to a doublelayered construction. The patterns of the dome were as intense as the rest of the mosque, and no detail had been spared despite its height. I was standing, looking up at the dome in a silent respectful manner, when two locals came in and clapped their hands and shouted to test the echoes. Clearly silence wasn’t a big deal so I gave it a go too. The echo was most impressive.

  Despite the mosque’s perfection as a whole, it contained many deliberate mistakes in the symmetry of the tile work in order to symbolize the craftsman’s humility and his insignificance when compared to Allah. I liked this very much and it reminded me of a similar practice by Native American tribes who leave deliberate flaws in everything they make to remind them that nothing created by man is perfect, as only the Creator is so. I spent a long time in the mosque sitting, staring, taking photos, daydreaming, and even knocking out the occasional prayer. It was a real man-made wonder of the world.

  I’d heard from the guy at reception that it could be very difficult to get a place to stay in Shiraz, and I didn’t fancy the hassle of turning up there tonight and wandering around from place to place. He phoned a hotel for me and did the honors in Farsi.

  At the reception desk, I got talking to an Australian girl who was also staying at the hotel and who was traveling to Shiraz tomorrow. We got on well so we went for a snack together in a shop a couple of doors down. Her name was Verity and she was traveling all around the Middle East by herself. I was very impressed. After Iran, she was heading to Syria, Lebanon, and then Jordan. She showed me her guidebook, and after studying the maps and reading how amazing these locations were supposed to be, I began to flirt with the idea of continuing on after my Iranian visa ran out.

  Verity was a good laugh and had gone off traveling on the spur of the moment, much to the surprise and worry of her friends and family, who thought her crazy for wanting to go to Iran. She’d got annoyed with life in Australia, so freed up some inheritance left to her and then simply got moving. She had a sophisticated sense of humor, which was evident by the fact she actually laughed at my jokes. As much as we could have chatted for the rest of the afternoon, my plane’s departure time was not far off, so I had to get moving. Verity was planning to stay in the same hotel as me in Shiraz, so we’d probably bump into each other again.

  I grabbed my backpack and hailed a cab to take me to the airport. It was just beginning to get dark as I walked to the airport terminal but was a lovely warm and balmy evening. After what seemed like forever, we boarded and I got a window seat next to a middle-aged German couple who spoke excellent English and introduced themselves to me. The man was called Albert, but I failed to make a note of his wife’s name, so I’ll call her Gertrude. I told them about my travels, and they told me about the family they had in England and their investments in Iran’s infrastructure. They had heavily invested in the country’s ports and transport.

  We talked at length and laughed about how many people in the West have no idea how friendly and safe a country Iran is to visit and about all the misconceptions there are about the place. Neither Albert nor Gertrude wanted their in-flight food or drink, so I was the lucky recipient of three meals. I put the third in a paper vomit bag to take with me.

  They were both heading into the center of Shiraz, as was I, so when we landed, I asked if they’d like to share a taxi. They apologized and explained that they were being picked up by the tour company they’d booked with. I thought nothing more of it and bade them goodbye.

  While watching all the luggage go round on the conveyer belt, I daydreamed about what I’d do to earn cash when I got home. Just as I was thinking how much I hoped things worked out for me back in England, Gertrude approached and held out her hand for me to shake. It was full of bank notes. I tried to refuse but she insisted, saying that she and Albert wanted to pay for my taxi. She stepped back into the crowd and said goodbye. I called out a thank-you after her. Wow.

  If I had this sort of luck at home then I’d have nothing to worry about. I hoped it was an omen. While I was thinking this very thought, she returned once again and thrust a load more notes, this time big green 20,000s, into the vomit bag with the in-flight meal that I was carrying. Both my hands were full so I had no way of refusing. She gave me a motherly kiss on both cheeks and said, “We thought you might like a little more,” and left with a smile. This was absolutely incredible! I thought back to when I’d been hitching through Bulgaria and had met a woman called Maria who’d kindly put me up for the night in her home. Maria had traveled a bit herself and told me that whenever she was on the road, she seemed to have tremendous luck and always felt looked after somehow. That was exactly how I felt now, and very happy, too.

  I didn’t count the money until I’d booked into my hotel room. It totaled IR210,000 or about forty dollars, which in Iran is a lot and certainly enough for a good couple of night’s accommodation. I drifted off into a contented sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mr. Private Jet’s Gate of All Nations

  (“I no want to make cock with you.”)

  I was in Shiraz, like most tourists who visit the place, not so much for the city itself, although it has some nice attractions to be sure, but to use it as a base to visit one of Iran’s main attractions, the ancient city of Persepolis. Everywhere I’d been in Iran, I’d seen pictures of this place and was excited to finally be going there myself.

  Persepolis is a massive ancient palace and city complex that once stood at the heart of the great Achaemenid Empire, which dated from 550-300 BC and was the biggest and most powerful in the ancient world. It spanned 3 million square miles and stretched from northern Africa to the Indus Valley and from central Asia to the Persian Gulf. In its heyday, the city of Persepolis covered an area of 1,345,500 square feet and, although what remains today is a mere fraction of its former splendor, it is still exceptional, with vast ancient statues, bas-reliefs, fire temples, huge stone staircases, stone columns, and much more. I couldn’t wait.

  I asked at the hotel’s reception about how to get there and was offered an organized tour of the area. This had a very rigid itinerary, which didn’t appeal in the slightest. I made up my mind to make my own way there instead, and after grabbing a bag full of cakes from a nearby shop for breakfast, I hailed a cab and got down to the local minibus station.

  I couldn’t get a bus direct to Persepolis, so I got one going to a small town nearby called Marvadasht. From Marvadasht, I caught a taxi to Persepolis some seven miles away. The taxi stopped far back from the ruins at a traffic barrier. The city’s walls and huge stone columns loomed ominously in the distance, framed by a rugged desert mountain range. Every cell in my being tingled with excitement at the sight of it, to the point where I almost felt like running toward the ruins in a frenzy. The furnace-like heat put a stop to that idea, and instead I walked at a brisk pace all the way up to a ticket office at the foot of a huge stone staircase that led into the ancient city.

  When I got there, I discovered it was no ticket office at all but simply a place where you were meant to hand in your pre-purchased ticket. The place to buy a ticket, I now learnt, was all the way back where the taxi had dropped me. By the looks of it, I wasn’t the only one who’d made the same unfortunate discovery after walking all the way up here; on the way I’d passed several other tourists traipsing back in the opposite direction with disgruntled looks on their faces. I traipsed back myself now, but without the disgruntled look, and bought a ticket. A few minutes later, I was climbing the imposing stone staircase leading into the mysterious Persepolis.

  As I reached the top of the stairs, the scale and magnificence of the site came into view for the first time. It stretched across a vast area and was full of huge ancient statues, the remains of grandiose buildings, spectacular bas-reliefs, massive stone pillars, and crusty aristocratic British pensioners. The British blue hair brigade were on a private tour and had all congregated at the top of th
e stairs near two giant stone statues.

  “I say, is everyone ready to begin, what?” called out an old chap who looked like his mother had married her brother and then given birth to him. He looked like the plastic surgery mutant Liza Minnelli married but with a slightly British aristocratic bent, sporting terrible gap-ridden goofy teeth and as much hair flaring from his nostrils as he had on his flaky head. He finished the look with a thick smothering of sun block, which was intermingling with a bath of sweat and dripping down his face. The poor chap was suffering big-time in the heat, and I’m not surprised, as today was by far my hottest yet in Iran and rather stupidly he wasn’t wearing a hat. What he was wearing was a small day sack on his back with a large badge that announced proudly, and I kid you not, EXPLORER II, EXPEDITION TO THE WORLD’S LOST CITIES BY PRIVATE JET. Very nice, too, although I’m not quite sure sipping a gin and tonic in a Learjet really counts as an “expedition.” The old-timers obviously weren’t short of a buck or two.

  All the toffs nodded their willingness to begin, and after a quick “Oh, good-oh!” Mr. Private Jet introduced their tour guide. The guide was an Iranian chap who spoke excellent English and seemed to know his stuff, so I decided to tag along with my fellow countrymen and women and listen to what he had to say. He started off by telling us about the stone staircase we’d entered the city by. It was, he said, carved purposely with shallow steps in order to allow Persians wearing their traditional elegant robes to ascend gracefully to the top.

  At the top of the stairs would have been a group of trumpeters who belted out a quick number to announce the arrival of important foreign delegates coming to meet the king. These dignitaries would then be led by servants of the king through a monumental gate and into a palace, the remains of which were nearby. The guide led the group over to the gateway. It was very impressive and consisted of two massive stone creatures whose heads were partially missing. To me, they looked like either powerful horses or stylized bulls. I was pleased to hear the guide confirm a second later that they were indeed meant to be bulls.