by Jamie Maslin
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Who’s A-knocking on That Door?
Although Susan and Hattie wanted to meet up with Ashkan and me today, I was determined not to go through with it, as I simply didn’t want to get her into any trouble with the law. It was all very well for me to take risks, but I didn’t like the idea of Susan being accused of anything untoward with a non-Muslim male, despite how innocent it all would have been. With this in mind, I told Ashkan that when I was in Shiraz, I had arranged to meet up with a friend of mine (Verity) who was arriving in Yazd today, and because of this I wouldn’t be able to meet the girls.
He understood and said that he had to go to university for a couple of hours, so it would have been difficult to meet them anyway. This was good news; I had a few things to organize today, including finding three people to come on my desert tour. I hoped that if I could meet up with Verity, she’d also be keen to come along on the excursion. I also needed to find out about train times going north and had been told it was necessary to book these long in advance. Reza kindly took me to the train station to make the necessary inquiries.
It was an interesting situation at the station, as the girl behind the counter spoke far better English than Reza, but he was reluctant to let her speak with me and seemed determined to prove his linguistic skills were up to the task. He struggled valiantly to translate for me but couldn’t do it, and I don’t think he even grasped exactly what I wanted to find out. In the end, he admitted defeat and the girl explained all I needed to know. He apologized to me for not being able to help. His brother’s English was far better than his, and I think it annoyed him that I had near-normal conversations with Ashkan, but with him it was much more basic. I told him a white lie and said he’d actually been a lot of help with the translation. I don’t think he understood this either.
I booked my train journey heading north and opted for a first class ticket, which I was delighted to learn was an overnight sleeper train with cabins and beds. I’d never been on anything like this before and imagined it to be very sophisticated and Orient Express-like. To me, it sounded the sort of train Roger Moore would catch in a James Bond film with some gorgeous Soviet spy, and in my rather deluded head, I imagined a similar scene in a couple of nights time, with my own spacious cabin, a magnum of champagne, and a busty Bolshevik to entertain.
Whilst leaving the station, I nodded a little hello to two Western backpackers I saw getting off the train who nodded likewise in return.
Like his brother, Reza also had to go to university today, so he offered to take me into town before he went. As I fancied a bit of a walk, I asked him to drop me on the main road heading into town so I could do a bit of sightseeing on the way. When he pulled over, I thanked him for the ride and said I’d catch up with him some time in the evening.
Whilst walking down the road, a guy on a moped pulled over and said hello to me in English and asked where I was going. I hadn’t really made up my mind as to my destination yet but was considering going to a famed prison of Alexander the Great, so said, “Alexander’s prison.”
“Jump on,” he replied, so I did. I loved the fact that in Iran a complete stranger would happily stop and offer me a lift, even when I hadn’t asked for one, then go out of his way to take me to my destination, and all simply because I was a foreigner and, as he saw it, a guest in his country. I say this sincerely: Iranians are the nicest people I’ve ever met. It was just so easy to get to know people there that I can never imagine being lonely in Iran.
We shot off on the bike at a suicidal speed, weaving in and out of the traffic as we went. I held on with one hand and with the other secured my hat on my head so it didn’t go flying. He dropped me at the prison, wished me well, and was gone as quickly as he’d arrived.
Outside the prison was a group of five young guys all around twenty years old who were hanging out together. Just like my friend on the bike, they came up and started talking to me without any prompting whatsoever. Two of them spoke good English and, after going through the normal list of introductory questions, asked if I would like to come for a drink with them. I politely declined and explained that I was going to have a look inside the prison first. They said that the prison wasn’t up to much and recommended I didn’t waste my money. They were right.
It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to browse around, and there was very little to see. It looked nothing like a prison; in fact, it didn’t really look like anything in particular, being little more than an old building with a few empty rooms. It had once had an infamous reputation and was written about by Hafez, but it was very hard to picture it back then as there were no cells or any sign that it was once used to incarcerate people. I left and found the guys still messing about outside.
They asked me if I would like a lift anywhere in their car, which predictably was a Hillman Hunter. I took them up on the offer and got a lift to the main square. In the car, there was a lot of good-natured banter, and when we got to the square, I was surprised to find they apologized for this and said they hoped they hadn’t made too many jokes at my expense. They were a nice bunch of guys. I thanked them, assured them it was fine, then strolled down to the Internet café that I’d briefly popped into the night before.
I had a reply to the e-mail I’d sent Ricardo, who was now in Pakistan after visiting the remains of the ancient city of Bam, which had been devastated by an earthquake in 2003 that killed up to 40,000 people. He wrote:
Hi Jamie!
That’s great! You can see, again, how does Iranians really live. I’m in Quetta, Pakistan. This is the Third World! And I’m sure in India it will be even worse. From the border, I came in a fourteen hours bus trip on an unbelievable piece of junk with four wheels. From Yazd, I took a morning train to Kerman, then a bus to Bam. The city is completely destroyed. I didn’t see one single house not damaged. Most of the people is living in tents and cabins. But I was happy for being there, seeing people trying to live again after losing everything. I was looking forward to see Mr. Akbar, from the former Akbar Guesthouse. He also lost everything but now he built a very small house for his family and has three tents for the guests. He’s such a nice person with a very positive attitude. From Yazd, I traveled with Charlie, a nice young guy. I don’t think he realized the real situation in Bam. He asked for an Internet café (obviously, there was any); in the only kind of restaurant (an Inn) he asked for a menu (there wasn’t any menu, just two “meals”) and the first thing he asked to Mr. Akbar was the price for a night, which is somehow rude. Mr. Akbar answered very well: “Why are you asking for the price? You should be glad for having a place to stay after what happened here. I’m not asking for money, just accept what people give me.” If you go there, please tell Mr. Akbar that I told you about his guesthouse. I promised him I would tell everyone I know.
Have a nice journey,
Ricardo
I’ll tell everybody, too, Ricardo; I’ll put it in a book.
Whilst at the Internet café, I got talking to the two Westerners I’d seen this morning at the train station. They were both New Zealanders of about my age called Tim and Justin. I mentioned the desert tour to them and both were immediately interested, and after a bit of a sales pitch from me agreed to come along. This was excellent news. I now needed only one more person to make up the numbers, but if I couldn’t find anyone, then I was prepared to pay the difference myself.
Tim and Justin wanted to go and look at the historic old part of Yazd and asked if I wanted to join them. I did.
The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) describes Yazd as one of the oldest towns in the world. The old part of the city was hugely atmospheric and extremely difficult to navigate through. It was a mishmash of interconnecting alleyways through an area of sand-colored mud-brick houses, nearly all of which had the characteristic badgir wind towers. It was fantastic and like stepping back in time.
An interesting feature on many of the doors in the old town was that they
had two doorknockers instead of one. These were both different shapes, one round and wide and the other elongated and thin, designed this way to create different sounds. I wasn’t sure which was which, but one was used by women and the other by men, so the person indoors could tell what gender the person knocking was. It could therefore be decided who was going to get up and answer the door, or indeed if it was worth answering at all.
We wandered around chatting away, taking photos, and getting hopelessly lost in the process. We walked past a person doing a novel bit of DIY to the outside of his house. He was applying a fresh covering of slushy mud and water to a damaged section of the property’s wall. This acted like a huge application of Spackle paste, which would dry rock hard in the baking sun. Eventually, we found our way out onto a main street again and made it back to the New Zealanders’ hotel. Here I bumped into good old Verity again, who was chatting away in the courtyard with a group of other travelers. It was great to see her once more and have a chat about her experiences in Persepolis, and for me to tell her about the family I was staying with here. Unfortunately, she wasn’t keen on the three-day desert tour and wanted instead to do the standard day excursion. As dusk approached Verity, Tim, Justin, and I, along with a couple of others from the hotel courtyard, went to watch the sunset from the roof of a nearby carpet shop.
This had amazing views of the old town, a huge mosque close by, and the distant desert mountains. I left the rest of the group after the sun had slipped away and went to try to contact the desert tour guide. I had met him the night before at the hotel where Verity, Tim, and Justin were staying, but when I turned up now, he wasn’t there. The hotel manager called him on his cell and asked him to come over. When he arrived, I introduced him to Tim and Justin and between us we all agreed on a price. The New Zealanders were happy to split this evenly three ways despite my offer to pay for half, since I hadn’t managed to find a fourth person. We arranged to meet first thing in the morning outside the hotel. I was delighted and very excited at the prospect of going deep into the Dasht-e Kavir desert. As far as I was concerned, this would be the last big highlight of my trip in southern Iran before I headed north.
I spent the next couple of hours in the hotel’s courtyard rambling on excitedly to Verity and a Swiss girl she had met. Just when I was about to leave and get a taxi back to Reza and Ashkan’s house, the tour guide returned but this time with bad news. There had been an earthquake in northeastern Iran where his friend’s family lived, and although they seemed to be okay, they needed some sort of assistance from him. The trip was thus canceled, and my opportunity of seeing this amazing desert on a four-day tour was over. I was gutted.
Justin, Tim, and I still wanted to see a bit of the desert so we agreed instead to do a day excursion together with one of the many guides who went to the Zoroastrian pilgrimage site of Chak Chak, which was on the outer periphery of the desert. Verity was up for this trip as well, so we all arranged to meet in the morning at a different hotel where these tours were offered. I bade them goodnight then caught a taxi back to Ashkan and Reza’s house.
I invited the brothers to join us on the trip to Chak Chak, but unfortunately they declined, explaining that they had to study again and had previously been there. I guess because they lived so close by, it didn’t hold the same attraction for them as it did for me. We got to share a nice evening together, though, and stayed up late into the night chatting away and drinking their treasured Nescafé.
I had sort of assumed that a robust four-wheel drive would be taking us into the desert, driven by a similarly robust khakiclad explorer type. It was therefore something of a surprise when our guide turned up in attire more akin to a bank clerk’s than an explorer’s, and led us to our chariot for today—that trusty two-wheel drive Iranian favorite, the Hillman Hunter.
I wondered just how wild the terrain we were about to visit was going to be.
I needn’t have worried, as although we drove on a road suitable for any standard car—in the form of a gravel track—we ended up in a hauntingly silent landscape of parched sandy mountains accentuated by a deep blue sky and penetrating sun. The journey there was magnificent and just what I needed after all the mosques and historical sites.
Eventually, our track led us into a hidden valley where the village of Chak Chak was located, situated in the most amazing location imaginable halfway up a towering mountain range in the absolute middle of nowhere. We parked at the foot of the range and got out. There was an overpowering silence and next to no breeze. The place looked completely deserted, like a ghost town. We made our way up the steep path and steps in the intense heat to the village itself. The only person around was an old janitor sitting in the shade next to the Zoroastrian fire temple. Outside the temple was a sign stating that women who were menstruating were not allowed inside. The old man unlocked the temple’s big polished brass doors, which were decorated on both sides with a depiction of Zoroaster, and led us inside. I respectfully took off my sun hat as I entered, but strangely the janitor indicated that I should keep my hat on as a sign of respect. This seemed odd, but it must have been a Zoroastrian tradition, because there were a number of spare hats next to the door for people, like our tour guide, who weren’t wearing one. At the janitor’s request, the guide put one of these on.
The temple was very small and situated right up against a jagged rock face. Much of the interior was covered in thick black smoke stains from the “eternal flames,” which weren’t particularly eternal as they were all out. I asked the janitor about this, who pointed to some tiny candles burning in the corner of the temple. These apparently counted, and, smartly, the powers that be had hedged their bets and had four of them on the go—just in case.
The temple serves as a focal point for Zoroastrian pilgrims, who gather in the thousands here every year at the start of the third month after Noruz, or Iranian New Year, which occurs on the first day of spring. There wasn’t much to see in the temple, but the location itself was the main attraction, and after a brief look around, I headed out to sit by myself and soak in the scenery. Down in the valley there were lots of parched little meandering tracks that looked like they were formed by water, presumably in the wetter winter months. They looked very out of place, and sitting surrounded by such a dry landscape, it was hard to imagine the place with streams or in cooler climes. As was typical for Iran, there was lots of trash chucked about the village, which ironically, had presumably been left by the earthloving Zoroastrian pilgrims, as no one seemed to live out here at other times of the year. We all did pretty much our own thing at the village, with most of us, at one stage or another, finding a good vantage point to sit down by ourselves and take in the view. When it was time to leave, Tim and Justin managed to persuade our guide to take us back via a different route through the town of Ardakan. According to our identical guidebooks, it was possible to get a camel kebab here, which all of us were keen on, apart from Verity, who was worried about the camel’s notoriously high toxin content.
The landscape on the way back was even more spectacular than on the way there, and stretching across much of it were hundreds of strange circular pockmarks. These had been created by the construction of qanasts. The qanat is an ingenious ancient Persian system of underground tunnels that uses gravity to transport water from deep highland aquifers to dry areas on the surface many miles away. Some are over thirty miles in length. The earliest Iranian qanats date back some three thousand years; these formed the beginning of a network that was built on a scale so massive that it equaled and even surpassed those of the great Roman aqueducts. Unlike the Roman aqueducts, the Iranian qanats continue to be used extensively today. It is estimated that Iran has some 50,000 qanats, which make up a staggering 200,000 miles of underground waterways. It is a remarkable achievement and has had a dramatic effect on the agricultural potential of the Iranian plateau, which on average receives the same rainfall as Australia’s dry and barren center. Most other similarly parched areas of the globe are devoid of agricult
ure, but Iran is a thriving farming country, which grows vast quantities of food, not just for domestic consumption but also for export. This great achievement is in large part thanks to the development of the qanat.
At one time, many archaeologists thought the Romans invented the qanat, due to discoveries at several ancient Roman sites of similar underground waterways. More recent archeological digs, as well as information contained in surviving records, have proved beyond doubt that the qanat originated in ancient Persia. The qanat was first reported outside of Iran in the seventh century BC by Assyrian King Sargon II, who stumbled upon one near Lake Orumiyeh in western Iran, during one of his warring campaigns. This Persian knowledge was later exported to various parts of the ancient world. Today, there are areas of the Sahara desert made habitable through the qanat’s oasiscreating irrigation, whose inhabitants continue to refer to them as “Persian works.”
Although three thousand years old, the techniques used today to construct a qanat in Iran are very similar to the original ancient methods. The first task undertaken is a detailed survey of an elevated location that is thought to contain an aquifer. A trial well is then dug by a pair of diggers, known as muqanni, who set up a hand-operated winch to bring the excavated material to the surface. The spoil is piled around the mouth of the hole creating the distinctive pockmark. If the muqanni are having a good day then they may hit an aquifer around the fifty foot mark. However, some reach down more than four hundred feet. Once they strike a moist stratum, the muqanni dig down past this to reach the impermeable rock beneath. Buckets are then lowered into this hole to test the quantity of water produced and the hole’s potential as a source for the qanat. The downhill route of the underground conduit is then mapped out. The gradient for this must be very gentle so that the water flows at a slow rate. If the angle is too great, material can be eroded from the base of the conduit and cause substantial damage.