by Lois Pryce
Out in the streets of the city centre, Tabriz was buzzing. With a quick ‘Hello boys’ to the two towering ayatollahs staring down at me from a huge billboard outside the hotel, I followed tidy concrete paths through a small manicured park, past fountains and formal flower beds of geraniums and petunias. Iranian flags lined my route, fluttering green, red and white in the breeze, and as Khomeini and Khamenei appeared again at the exit, I wondered how long it would take for me to get used to these two men seemingly monitoring my every move. I had travelled in many other countries where leaders ensured they loomed large in daily life, but I had never witnessed a cult of personality employed on this scale. I found the ayatollahs’ constant presence intimidating and sinister, but I guessed that soon they would meld into the background and merely become part of the everyday fabric of life in Iran. This, of course, was the desired effect and, in its way, an even more chilling thought.
With no clear direction, I wandered with wide-eyed aimlessness along lively streets, each with their own identity – one selling work wear, army surplus and clunky Soviet-looking tools, the next all shoe shops and stationers. Heading into what looked like the busier part of town, I dodged the chaotic gridlock at every junction, hopping over kerbside drainage channels, allowing the audio onslaught of horns and shouts and babbling car radios to wash over me until I ducked for cover under an ancient archway. As if passing into a parallel universe, I found myself in a maze of winding cobbled walkways, worn and uneven underfoot from centuries of trade. I had stumbled upon Tabriz’s world-famous bazaar, the largest in the world. High above, an elaborate, vaulted brick ceiling created a majestic, temple-like feel, and the late afternoon sun streamed through its windows like great white lasers, adding to the celestial sensation. But away from the beams of light were dark corners and secret nooks where one could easily imagine the ancient traders of the Silk Road cutting deals on saffron and silver. These days the silk of the Orient had been replaced by plastic and around me wiry young men rushed by, pushing carts piled high with bulging cardboard boxes stamped with the ubiquitous words, MADE IN CHINA. Here, in this ancient trading post, the old and the new worlds came together: traditional Persian handicrafts and exotic shisha pipes sat alongside knock-off Louis Vuitton handbags and bootleg Pokémon DVDs.
As I sidestepped the activity around me, it was thrilling to think that this very bazaar had once stood at the centre of the Silk Road or, to be more accurate, the Silk Routes, as it was never one formalised highway but a network of tracks with a maze of southern and northern routes that were used according to the weather and the time of year. It was always an East–West exchange, linking Europe to China via Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and, crucially, Central Asia, where the grassy plains provided grazing for horses and camels. The list of goods that made their way to and from China reads like poetry, conjuring up a tableau of exotica that cannot help but stir wanderlust in even the weariest traveller: saffron, myrrh, sandalwood, pistachios, frankincense, silver, jade … The Chinese brought not only their silk but also porcelain and perfumes, gems and spices – all of this carried in a caravan of camels or on horses. And it wasn’t just merchants plying their trade; the Silk Road served as a cross-cultural thoroughfare that saw pilgrims, monks and nomads of all ideologies and religions moving harmoniously along the 5,000-mile route. It was not to last. When the Europeans discovered sea routes to China, the once thriving Silk Road lost its lustre. But Tabriz’s bazaar adapted and lived on, and Iran always remained at the heart of it, neither East nor West.
Here, in this bustle of contemporary commerce, there was much that had changed but also many reminders of that golden age. Saffron, the most prized spice in all of Iran, was still for sale – tiny bags at huge prices. Other spices, herbs and berries, all unrecognisable to my eyes, were displayed in jewel-coloured pyramids or piled up in heavy jute sacks, while gold, silver and gems each had their own dedicated zones. But despite the advent of truly global trade, it was plain to see just how isolated Iran was as a result of the long-standing international sanctions. There were no European goods on sale here and certainly nothing from America, or at least nothing genuine. The only American logos in sight were cheap copies of fashionable brands on T-shirts, trainers and baseball caps or, more charmingly, home-made versions of the worst America has to offer, including a fast-food joint I had spotted in the street outside featuring a hand-painted KFC logo that could, in a generous moment, almost be described as folk art. But these bootleg brands and hokey attempts to cash in on them only served to prove a point: that Iran’s global isolation hadn’t turned the Iranian people against the products of ‘The Great Satan’ – it had just made them more alluring.
The sheer size and maze-like nature of the bazaar was overwhelming. I was already disorientated. My map showed its area to be around seven square kilometres, with over twenty interconnected halls. Considering how much ground it covered and how significant it was to the city, its entrances were easy to miss; small, inconspicuous alleys and doorways nestled in the busy streets outside. But once inside, it was easy to lose your bearings and even your sense of time, stumbling out, dazed and confused, into another part of the city. The locals were flitting about confidently and I realised that, unlike the great bazaars of Istanbul or the souks of Marrakech, this one was not geared to tourists but was truly the one-stop shop where Tabrizis dropped in for their daily needs, from soap to tea to socks and underwear, the latter including some racy little numbers that were displayed with surprising prominence by the male stallholders, and examined, discussed and purchased by female customers of all ages, with neither party appearing fazed by the intimate nature of the transaction.
My wandering took me into a separate section, the Amir Bazaar, where only gold and jewellery were sold. The entire alley glowed a warm yellow from the sheer volume and quality of the merchandise, with trinkets bearing price tags that stretched to tens of thousands of pounds. I was intrigued by the spectacle, and the suggestion of great wealth in a country that was supposedly on its economic knees. The jewellery shops were hushed, with just a few wealthy Chinese and Russians browsing. This was the realm of the international elite, the super-wealthy of the East, clearly a world from which Iran was by no means isolated. The well-dressed owners of the jewellery stores dismissed me with polite but disdainful smiles, well used to spotting time-wasters, and I moved on through more alleys, passing stalls selling great mounds of decorative sweets and piles of loose tea where a shabbier breed of bazaari counted out their totals with abacuses. A final twist in the maze led me towards the Mozafarieh, the carpet bazaar.
Here was the heart of the action. The outside world melted away and for the first time since arriving in Iran I felt myself relax, no longer worrying about the minutiae of my journey, finally able to pause and marvel at the good fortune that had brought me to such an extraordinary place. The scenes around me could have been from a hundred or a thousand years ago. Small groups of men sat on the ground carefully repairing the intricate patterns of ancient rugs, fortified with an endless supply of sweet tea. Their merchandise adorned every floor, wall and chair and, in the ancient narrow alleys, carpets were being shuttled in every direction – on shoulders and handcarts, on bicycles, on the back of motorcycles. As I surveyed this exotic milieu I realised there was not a single sign in English anywhere, not one letter of the Roman alphabet and not a word being spoken that I could understand. But everywhere I went, I was welcomed with radiant smiles. As I soaked up the timeless hubbub of industry and commerce going on around me and revelled in the sounds and smells of such a foreign and faraway place, for a moment I felt as though I had been transported into a fairy tale on a flying carpet.
While many of the rugs in the swankier shops were going for big money, no doubt destined for Russian oligarchs and Chinese businessmen, there was a refreshing everyman approach to the carpets in general which I found endearing. Back home a Persian rug is something to be revered, a hallowed objet d’art. But here in Iran they are made to be used.
Not only are they to be found on every floor in every establishment, they also appear in all sorts of unglamorous locations – an upholstery quick-fix for a ripped motorcycle saddle, slung across the bench seat of a delivery truck cab, folded up to pad out a street vendor’s plastic chair. Truly part of the fabric of Iranian life.
It was dark by the time I emerged from the bazaar and the streets were alight with neon signs, bare strip bulbs and glowing shop windows. Families promenaded the pavement while groups of men sat together in shop doorways and young women gathered at juice bars or window-shopped the clothing stores. I was aware of people staring at me but I felt a peculiar combination of being exposed yet safe. There was no sense that my personal safety was under threat; the stares held no malicious intent or lasciviousness; it was more that I was an alien who had been beamed down from another planet and my otherworldliness was provoking curiosity among the earthlings. There were no other women walking alone, and certainly no foreigners anywhere. Despite my attempt to dress in the appropriate clothing, I had certainly not mastered the effortless chic of the Iranian women, who somehow managed to make the hijab and manteau look like something from a Parisian catwalk. Even with all the restrictions of the Islamic clothing rules, they still dressed to impress, interpreting the regulations with remarkable creativity. On the other hand, glimpses of my reflection in the shop windows suggested an ungainly, over-swaddled fraudster. I hurried on.
A busy main street offered a waft of smoky meat and other, less familiar cooking smells and a reminder that I hadn’t eaten all day. My eyes alighted on the traveller’s friend – the laminated picture menu. Thank heavens! Positioned at the top of a flight of stairs descending into what appeared to be an underground car park, it didn’t look too inviting, but I was too hungry to care. Down in the basement, the cavernous concrete bunker contained a few plastic tables and chairs, the floor was covered in elaborate but grubby, threadbare Persian rugs, and the bare walls were decorated with curling prints of Iranian scenery in saturated seventies Kodachrome. A man in a chef’s hat and an apron stood at a stainless steel serving counter and next to him, behind an ancient wooden desk, was a small, elderly gentleman in a neat brown suit with an old-fashioned receipt book and a cash box, a calculator his only concession to modern conveniences. Feeling thoroughly alone and foreign, I tried to convince myself that I was having an authentic Iranian eating experience. The two men stared at me. They spoke no English so I pointed at the salad picture with a hopeful smile and a poorly pronounced ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Ten minutes later a kebab turned up on an unfeasibly large pile of rice. I made a mental note to learn the Persian word for ‘vegetarian’. It looked like I was going to need it.
At that moment, a clatter of footsteps, laughter and voices erupted down the stairs. A family of four, a middle-aged couple with two grown-up daughters, greeted the man in the brown suit and then, spotting me staring at my unwanted kebab, called me over to join them, as if I was an old family friend they had been hoping to bump into. I was struck, not only by their hospitality and kindness, but by the ease of it. There was no muttering between them as to whether it was appropriate, or checking that they were in agreement about the plan. No awkwardness in the invitation. It was simply an obvious fact that as a guest in their country, I would be joining them for dinner. No discussion required.
‘Persian food, the greatest in the world. You must try it all!’ said the father, rattling off a list to the man in the brown suit, who scribbled in his pad as fast as he could to keep up.
‘Ash-e jow, mast-o-khiar, ghormeh sabzi …’
Piles of flatbread appeared with a raw onion on the side. Bowls of green stew. Yoghurt dips with tiny red berries and herbs. More rice. Kebabs all round, served with blackened grilled tomatoes. Mammoth amounts of rice covered in melting butter. And, surprisingly, cans of real Coke, something I assumed would have been banned, along with all other American products.
‘Ah yes!’ said the father with a knowing laugh as I expressed my surprise, ‘Made under licence in Iran. Always a way to get around everything here. And Iranian cola, Zamzam, very bad. Not good taste at all.’
The two daughters wrinkled their noses in agreement. He pointed at their phones on the table.
‘Apple products very popular in Iran. Everyone has an iPhone. They come through Dubai; everything comes through Dubai. There are many places where you can have them set up with VPN, then you have Facebook, Twitter, Whatsapp, Viber …’
‘The more they are told they can’t have something, the more people want it,’ added his wife, and I thought of the bootleg products at the bazaar.
‘The new iPhone 5 is coming out soon!’ said the younger daughter with unconcealed excitement. The father was warming to his subject. Patriotism shone in his eyes.
‘You can get everything in Iran, everything!’ he waved his arms expansively. ‘And you want something done? Yes? You can get anything done in Iran. Anything! So many rules but …’ He shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘You get anything you want here! There is always a way.’
His indomitable spirit was uplifting, and unexpected. He wasn’t going to let a despotic regime and a bunch of international sanctions get in the way of life, no way! Ironically, it reminded me of all the best elements of the United States, that go-get-’em, can-do positivity that is such a heartening aspect of American culture. It wasn’t a comparison I was expecting to make in Iran, but I was already becoming used to being confounded and surprised at every turn.
‘How can you get hold all of these things? How can people do business outside of Iran if nobody can send or receive money?’ I asked him. I was already coming up against such problems, mainly that it was impossible to use credit cards or cashpoints in Iran, so I had set off from home with the entire funds for my trip in bundles of US dollars, currently stashed about my person and my bike.
He was nodding, listening, agreeing. ‘Yes, this is true, it is more complicated to deal with Europe now, with the latest sanctions, but businessmen are still businessmen. If there is money to be made, people will find ways around these problems. Iran trades with Turkey and UAE, so the business comes through there, the paperwork is changed, this is easy.’
‘Changed? You mean forged?’
He swatted away this minor point with another expansive wave.
‘What about the payments?’ I asked. ‘You can’t even use a Visa card here.’
‘Cash. A lot of cash is moved, bags of money. But everyone knows what is happening – the government are behind all this; they need to trade. They will make a business in Europe, then they close down a few weeks later. Then another one sets up with a different name. This is happening all the time.’
He shrugged as if this was all easy, straightforward stuff, no big deal.
‘There is always a way around the problem. Iranian people have become very clever at this. We have had a long time to practise.’
He threw back his head and laughed as if he had the world in the palm of his hand.
Finding myself in the company of such an expansive dining companion, I decided to mine him for information pertinent to a greenhorn in Iran. Firstly, a topic that had been much on my mind, the use of the names Persia and Iran, and if they could be used interchangeably. I asked him if each word had certain connotations that I needed to understand. This instigated a lively debate between him and his family, a babble of Persian and hand gestures that left me none the wiser.
‘You must understand, we are all Iranians,’ his wife said, silencing her husband and turning her attention to me. ‘Persians were the first people of this land, Pars, it was called then, or Fars, and it is their language, Farsi, that has become the main language. Although in English you call the language “Persian”, here we call it Farsi. But Iran has many different people, not just Persians – there are Turkmen, Kurds, nomadic tribes; you know we have Jews here too?’
Her husband piped up again. ‘Many people in the West do not understand this, that Jew
s live without persecution in Iran.’ He gave a loud laugh and thumped the table. ‘A few years ago, Netanyahu said to the Jews here, come back to Israel, come back to your true homeland, and they said “No! Why would we want to live there? We are Iranian, we like it here, thank you very much!” Yes, we are all Iranian.’
He gave a slow, contented nod and offered a warm, open smile. He was gracious, refined and openly proud of his country but without any hint of jingoism or flag-waving nationalism. His quiet, understated pride seemed to run through his bones, as though he was innately aware of belonging to an important, ancient culture that went back millennia and would continue long after we were all dust. This current brutal state that called itself the Islamic Republic, was, you felt in his eyes, a mere blip in the great story of his beautiful land. He seemed serene, able to rise above it all – wars would rage, revolutions would wax and wane, kings, invaders, politicians would all come and go, but the essence of being Iranian, the sheer noble spirit of it all, was bigger than everything and would remain a constant.
I said I’d noticed that in Britain and America the word Persian is generally used for the ‘nice’ things: Persian carpets, Persian food and restaurants, poetry and art, that kind of thing. But when it comes to talking about politics, and say, the nuclear programme or human rights, anything that the western media considers intimidating or distasteful, then it’s ‘Iran’ and ‘Iranian’.
He seemed to find this amusing and gave another of his knowing laughs. ‘Your country does not understand ours,’ he said bluntly but without malice. ‘Both words are used here. We would say we are Iranians. Our country is Iran but it was Reza Shah who changed the name, he wanted to modernise Persia, this was part of his plan, although the name had been used before that, a long, long time ago.’