Revolutionary Ride

by Lois Pryce

  Before I landed in Shiraz, I had a small but important detour to make that would satisfy a long-held fascination. The story dated back to before I was born, to France in the autumn of 1971, where the Parisian elite were up in arms. Quelle horreur!, their restaurant of choice, Maxim’s, had closed suddenly for two weeks. And should they have resorted to their second, third or even hundredth choice of dining establishment, they would have found themselves out of luck too. For one fortnight in October of that year, 160 of Paris’s top chefs had been transported 3,000 miles to the Iranian desert, where they were cooking up a storm, in more ways than one.

  As the French chefs toiled and sweated in the desert heat, spooning Caspian caviar into thousands of quails’ eggs and artfully arranging the tails of fifty foie-gras-stuffed peacocks, they had no idea that they were participating in the fall of the Pahlavi dynasty. To them and the other Europeans who had won the lucrative contracts for the catering, decorating, horticulture and costume design, they had struck gold. Here was the chance of a lifetime, to work on the biggest party the world had ever seen: the Shah of Iran’s celebration of 2,500 years of the Persian monarchy. The location was Persepolis, the world-famous ancient ruins of the empire’s former capital near Shiraz, and the next destination on my Iranian road trip.

  From late 1970, over the course of a year, 160 acres of barren desert land next to Persepolis were transformed into a luxurious tented city, created in the shape of a star around a central fountain. The interiors were styled by the Parisian design firm, Maison Jansen. Crates of Porthault linen and Limoges tableware were shipped from France, and from Germany, a fleet of 250 Mercedes limousines to transport the guests from the airport. Trees, shrubs and flowers were flown in from France to recreate the site as it would have looked 2,500 years previously, but modern conveniences were not overlooked; each tent was air-conditioned and installed with a direct-dial phone and telex line to the guest’s respective home country. A different vintage wine was selected to accompany each course of the banquet, and 5,000 bottles of champagne sat on ice, awaiting a guest list of 600 members of the world’s royalty, presidents and prime ministers. The airport at nearby Shiraz was souped up accordingly and a brand new highway constructed to Persepolis. True to the traditions of Persian hospitality, the guests’ comfort and security was of the utmost importance, and with this in mind, the Shah ordered that the area surrounding the party site was cleared of snakes and vermin, both literally and metaphorically.

  In the days running up to the event, while hundreds of lowly rat-catchers scurried around the desert, killing off any animal threat, the Shah’s secret police, SAVAK, were busy taking care of the human equivalent. This constituted a process of ‘preventative arrests’, targeting anyone they considered to be anti-Shah, who could potentially use the opportunity of the party to cause trouble, even if there was no evidence they were hatching such plans. As a result, in the week before the celebrations Iran’s prisons were heaving with thousands of innocent citizens. And they weren’t the only ones unhappy about the Shah’s plans. Ayatollah Khomeini, in exile in Iraq at the time, publicly denounced the party, describing it as the ‘Devil’s festival’ and its attendees as ‘traitors to Islam and the Iranian nation’. By now he had built up a loyal following, particularly amongst Iran’s poor and pious, who were equally resentful of the Shah’s decadence and what they saw as the increasing ‘westoxification’ of Iran. A few years previously, the Shah had had Khomeini arrested, causing an uprising in the religious city of Qom, and although his Islamic revolution was still eight years away, the seeds had been sown. The Shah’s decision to hold such a lavish and ostentatiously expensive gathering turned out to be the catalyst for his downfall, and ultimately, the Islamic Revolution of 1979.

  This image of the fallen king, and his terrible misjudgement that would eventually lead to his undoing, had always fascinated me. And now Persepolis was just down the road, less than forty miles from Shiraz. I was keen to see the ancient ruins, of course, but the site of the party to end all parties was equally as enticing. Leaving behind the soothing habitat of the Lost Paradise, the land turned harsh and rocky once more, the sun blasting out of the sky, cooking and cracking the earth, and overheating me and my poor air-cooled bike. No wonder the Shah had insisted that the tents were fitted with air con.

  After getting mildly lost in the streets of Marvdasht, a grubby little dustbowl town on the approach to Persepolis, I was beginning to wonder if I’d misread my map. It was hard to believe that the great ruins of the former capital of the Persian Empire were to be found up the road from this collection of shuttered shops and litter-strewn gutters. I doubted the Shah and his guests had come this way in their limousines. There were no signs for Persepolis, just a few sun-bleached martyr portraits and the usual moralistic billboards warning against the perils of social media, qalyān pipes, lipstick or whatever else the government feared was in danger of corrupting Iran’s youth. I rode around the half-abandoned streets, trying to find a passer-by to ask directions, wilting between the relentless sun and its reflected heat rising up from the tarmac. But the town was deserted and all I could do was keep blundering around the unmarked roundabouts, hot, bothered and fighting my innate cynicism regarding visiting world-renowned tourist sites.

  I was steeling myself for coachloads of visitors, pushy tour guides and unctuous souvenir sellers, but Persepolis, when I finally found it, brought none of the tourist tackiness I had feared. Tall cypress trees lined the wide approach road and an ethereal calm that felt as old as the ruins themselves hung in the air. Most strangely, the site was almost empty of visitors. Officially, the Islamic Republic do not approve of anything relating to the Persian monarchy, which may account for the low key, uncommercial atmosphere. Originally, a complex of palaces, it was built by the Persian king Darius around 515 BC, and housed various monarchs until Alexander the Great destroyed most of it nearly two hundred years later. Its association with the ancient dynasties did not chime with the worldview of Khomeini, who described the concept of monarchy in his typical histrionic style, as a ‘shameful and disgraceful reactionary manifestation’. I doubted many contemporary Iranians felt this way about Persepolis, their very own UNESCO World Heritage site. The two people I did encounter wandering around the ruins – a teacher leading a school trip and a young guy selling a half-hearted collection of fridge magnets – spoke of the site with a rousing, almost chest-beating pride, describing it as the true heart of Iran and Persian culture.

  ‘Persepolis has no connection to the Islamic Republic,’ explained the fridge magnet man in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘This is why I like to work here. It reminds me where we are from, this is real Iran. It is like an escape for me.’

  I wandered among the fluted columns, up staircases decorated with bas-relief carvings of Armenians bringing wine to the Persian kings, and around the tombs of the ancient rulers themselves, passing immaculate stone horses’ heads and imperious griffins. Passing through the vast entrance of the Gate of All Nations, I marvelled inwardly at the skill and intricacy of the carvings, and laughed outwardly at the discovery of some less-skilled handiwork, a prime example of British graffiti. Admittedly, it had distinguished provenance, dating from 1870 and having been scribed by the hand of explorer, Henry Morton Stanley. Apparently defacing ancient monuments was all the rage in those days; the famous gate was covered in the names of various nineteenth-century Europeans – a collection of diplomats, archaeologists, merchants and statesmen, their motivation no different from the urge known to teenagers the world over to etch one’s name into a park bench or tag a railway carriage I was here.

  As I completed my tour, I caught sight of what appeared to be a collection of derelict structures in a large patch of wasteland just a short walk from the main site. The area was nestled among the tall evergreens and half hidden by overgrown brush, but as I studied the view, I could just make out the shape of a skeletal metal framework poking out from the untamed bushes. Here it was, the remains of the Shah’s t
ent city, ramshackle, forgotten and consumed by nature. I walked into this eerie nether world, tiptoeing among the long grass, occasionally tripping over cracked concrete slabs hidden beneath the scrub, and thought how peculiar it was to be among these two symbols of fallen dynasties, built nearly 2,500 years apart: one still breathtaking in its grandeur and ambition, the other reminiscent of an abandoned provincial garden centre.

  Standing inside the metal frames of the circular tents, I imagined them as they had once been, swagged in brightly coloured cloth, visiting nations’ flags flying outside each fringed doorway, hastily planted palm trees swaying in the breeze, and uniformed servants on hand at every turn. I tried to picture Princess Anne getting stuck into the 5,000 bottles of champagne and Haile Selassie telexing back to Ethiopia from his tent, and wondered how many pairs of shoes Imelda Marcos had brought with her, and if she had cut a rug with President Mobutu of Zaire with his leopard-skin hat and Coke-bottle specs.

  Queen Elizabeth had turned down the invitation, officially due to security concerns, but Public Record documents unearthed since reveal that the palace feared the festivities would be ‘possibly undignified’ and described the guest list as a ‘motley collection of heads of state’, further adding, with a disdain only the British establishment can muster, ‘or more likely, their representatives’. Not considered a hot enough ticket for the Queen herself, Prince Philip and Princess Anne were sent in her stead. Adding insult to injury for the Pahlavis, President Nixon and France’s Georges Pompidou also declined the invitation, sending underlings in their place. I wondered if the Shah was at all put out by these snubs, from the leaders of the countries he most sought to impress. Like many powerful but vain men, his ego was frail and the final guest list, of lower-ranking officials of western countries and a throng of Third World dictators, was not quite the glittering A-list he had hoped for.

  The Shah’s plans were well intentioned: the event was designed to show off Iran and its grand civilisation to the world. But at home it only served to demonstrate how alienated the Shah was from his subjects. In the early 1970s, despite the previous efforts of his father, Reza Shah and his own ‘White Revolution’ – the programme of reforms that had been designed to propel Iran into the modern age – much of the population were still illiterate and living in poverty. Meanwhile the new young Shah and his cronies were jetting around Europe, skiing in the Alps and even flying into Paris for lunch on a whim. When the Shah was to be found at home, he remained aloof from his people, preferring to funnel vast amounts of money into his favourite hobby, outfitting the Iranian army with a seemingly endless supply of weapons, tanks and aeroplanes, happily provided by Britain and the US. In this climate the announcement to spend tens of millions of dollars on a three-day celebration, with its five-and-a-half-hour feast, sound and light shows, specially composed music and numerous military processions, all for the benefit of the world’s super-elite, failed to inspire patriotic pride in the hearts of the Iranian people. The sop they were offered was that the celebrations would be filmed and screened at cinemas around the country. Unsurprisingly, the resulting movie was a box-office flop.

  In the wake of the party, the tent city continued to be used for government events but it was not long for this world. When the Islamic Revolution swept through the country in 1979, it was looted by Khomeini supporters who attempted to burn it to the ground. Local residents fought them off and it stood half wrecked for years until it was commandeered as army barracks during the war with Iraq. Now, standing amongst the weeds and cracked concrete, even its ruins felt temporary and cheap, a reminder that nothing lasts and that maybe, one day, even the Islamic Republic would be no more than a memory.

  ‘What’s going to happen to it?’ I asked my fridge-magnet man, who was taking a moment in a quiet corner of the Persepolis café to do a stocktake. Neat piles of miniature plastic Azadi Towers and griffins’ heads sat at his feet. He finished his counting and shrugged. ‘Ahmadinejad wanted to restore it about ten years ago, but it did not happen.’

  ‘Ahmadinejad? Really?’ I was surprised. I would have thought that of all people, he would have wanted to erase it forever, a symbol of the western decadence that he so enjoyed denouncing in his colourful language. But it seemed this was part of his confused plan to attract more tourists while maintaining the ideals of the Islamic Republic.

  ‘This was his idea, to use it to show the world the excess of the Shah, to remind the people of those days and why the revolution happened. I saw the pictures and the plans when they came here to make the announcement. But it never happened.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘People liked the idea, but not for the reason Ahmadinejad liked it. Nowadays people have good feelings for the Shah, and they think this party was a great thing to happen. They would love to have a party like this again! They do not want to be told “This is evil.” People are tired of this message now. I think this is the reason.’

  I could see his point, but it seemed Iran’s rose-tinted glasses were at work again, and I wondered how the people who had been ‘preventatively arrested’ felt about the original celebrations now. I also wondered if in forty years’ time the country would have been blown apart once again, and if the Iranian people would ever be nostalgic for the good old days of the Islamic Republic and get similarly dewy-eyed about Khomeini – ‘Oh, he wasn’t that bad.’ It seemed unlikely, right now, amongst all the seething anger and frustration of twenty-first-century Iran with its impassioned, forward-thinking youth. But who knew what the next regime would bring? Iran’s tradition of tyrannical leaders went back centuries and seemed set in stone, destined to endlessly repeat itself. As if the fridge-magnet seller was reading my mind, he said quietly, almost as if to himself, ‘More Cyrus, that is what we need.’

  I nodded. He was right, Cyrus the Great had been Iran’s one and only benevolent leader, founder of the Persian Empire and an early proponent of human rights who had helped establish the national identity of Iran. I agreed with my new friend, admiring his sage-like wisdom and analysis of Iran’s political and social history, until I realised he was talking about his stocktake. He only had two Cyrus magnets left.

  Down the road from Persepolis was a small campsite with cabins and manicured plots set among rose bushes and more tall pine trees. I rolled in to be met by excitable pointing and gesturing from the two men at the reception. I couldn’t understand what they were trying to tell me, their English being as non-existent as my Persian, but when I ventured into the campground I was greeted by the sight of two BMW motorcycles, clad in the familiar battered luggage and country stickers of the overland traveller. It was a blast from another world, another life almost. For the global motorcyclist, it was not uncommon to bump into other riders on the road, to hang out or ride together for a while. On my first journey through the Americas this had been a defining feature of the experience, connecting with a worldwide tribe of adventure riders. But during my trip through Africa I had met only one other motorcyclist plying the classic Cape Town overland route, and in Iran I had not met another western traveller. I realised just how immersed in my surroundings I had become. Isolated by sketchy, restricted internet access and making only scant connection with home, I had been cut off. I had relished this immersion but now, shaking hands, and even exchanging furtive hugs with the owners of these two bikes, Georg from Switzerland and Jacek from Poland, I slipped into the welcome, easy patter of motorcycle travellers the world over.

  We compared routes, exchanged border-crossing horror stories, discussed bikes and equipment (theirs big and blingy, mine little and lo-fi). They had been on the road for several years, most recently in Africa, before coming east across the UAE and arriving in Iran’s port of Bandar Abbas on the ferry from Dubai. They were on the home stretch now, the last leg to Europe, and they had little interest in any Iranian meanders. They had wives, families and, in Jacek’s case, a sock empire demanding attention. I could see the calling of home in their eyes and hear it in their voices when th
ey talked about the road ahead. They were done. It was a feeling I knew well from my own journeys, though I wasn’t quite there yet.

  In the otherwise empty campsite we sat beneath the tall pines, cheerfully bemoaning the lack of a cold beer that contained more than 0.0 per cent alcohol, while they cooked me a pasta dinner on their petrol stoves and, in a heart-warming display of chivalry, refused to let me do the washing-up. The camaraderie was familiar and comforting, and when we strolled around Persepolis and spent the next day riding together, I was aware of how different my Iranian experience was in the company of two strapping European males. At petrol stations and cafés, they did all the talking. But I didn’t mind. For the short time we were together, I decided to consciously relish the protective shield of their presence. Tomorrow I would be back on the road, alone again for my final day’s ride in Iran.

  18

  Shiraz: Poetry and Pomegranates

  AS I MADE my way through the dry, rocky hills approaching Shiraz from Persepolis, I envisaged the city that Habib had painted so enticingly all those many months ago in his strange scrawled note on a cold winter’s day in London. I could hardly believe how that incident had spawned this incredible journey. Rolling down the steep, sweeping descent towards the city, Shiraz appeared in front of me, full of promise. A jumble of the ancient and the new, dusty brown blocky homes, modern high-rise hotels and offices, sixties tower blocks, domes, minarets and flyovers – all nestled together in the rocky folds of the surrounding hills and dotted with bursts of green, parks and trees bringing life to the arid cityscape. I was picturing an Iranian San Francisco, a hip city of rebels, lovers and poets, founded on the passionate words of Hafez and Saadi, on an ancient tradition of wine and rowdy taverns (no longer, of course) and compounding its reputation with the recent student protests. As for its inhabitants, I had given much thought to the mysterious Habib and the archetypal Shirazi I heard so much about, the easy-going, laidback lovable jokers of Iran.