by Jill Worrall
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
GLOSSARY
INTRODUCTION
1 SAFFRON ICE CREAM: Mashhad
2 POTATO SALAD IN THE DESERT: Tehran to Shahrood
3 SUNSET WITH THE POETS: Shahrood to Mashhad
4 WHERE THE SUN RISES: Mashhad to Yazd
5 POMEGRANATES IN THE DESERT: Yazd to Kerman
6 EATING ROSES WITH THE POETS: Shiraz
7 A NIGHT BESIDE THE WORLD’S HOTTEST REACTOR: The Persian Gulf
8 THE PLAINS OF OIL AND DEATH: Khuzestan
9 A DEGREE OF CELEBRATION: Hamadan and Zanjan
10 SNOW DRIFTS AT THE BLACK CHURCH: Tabriz and Azerbaijan
11 IN HOT WATER: Ardabil, the Caspian and Tehran
12 A NIGHTINGALE SINGS: Kashan and Isfahan
FRONT COVER FLAP
BACK COVER FLAP
BACK COVER MATERIAL
For our mothers, Jocelyn and Sedighe,
who wave us goodbye and welcome us home.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book has consumed many hours of my life, so as always my heartfelt thanks to Derek, my husband, for his patience, unwavering support and encouragement and for reading, almost without complaint, the entire manuscript more than once.
Thank you also to Renée, my mentor and editor, and Carol and Elizabeth for finding all the missed commas (among other things) in the first draft.
How do I say thank you to everyone in Iran who, sometimes without knowing it, has played a part in making this book a reality? But thank you anyway.
To Reza’s family – Sedighe, Mojik and Nasik and their extended family – you have accepted me as part of your family and that’s a priceless gift.
Without Reza B our journey would have been impossible, and not nearly as much fun. Let’s do it all again sometime, inshallah.
And finally, Reza, you are Iran for me. You have opened my eyes, ears, heart and soul to your country. Like Iran, you are in my heart forever.
GLOSSARY
arg citadel
azan call to prayer
badgir wind tower, a traditional ventilation system
bazaaris bazaar shopkeeper
begum honorific for women of high status
gaz Persian nougat usually containing pistachios
hijab head covering; modest Moslem dress style
hammam bathhouse, bathroom
Hosseini building used for ceremonies during Moharram
inshallah God willing
ivan vaulted space with walls on three sides and open on the fourth side
madrasseh Moslem theological school
maidan open space
manteau long or short overcoat
mashallah God has willed it, used to show joy or praise or on hearing good news
mihrab prayer niche in a mosque showing the direction of Mecca
Moharram Shia month of mourning commemorating the death of Hossein
mohr small tablet used by Shia during prayers
muezzin person who calls worshippers to prayer
No Ruz Iranian New Year
qalyan waterpipe used for smoking
qanat underground water channel
sabzi germinated seeds associated with No Ruz
sob bekheihr good morning
takt throne
tarof an extreme form of politeness that involves repeatedly refusing a gift, payment or hospitality
vozu washing ritual
zurkaneh house of strength
Life is not something to be left behind by you or me on the edge of the habit’s shelf.
Sohrab Sepehri
INTRODUCTION
Now that I have raised the glass of pure wine to my lips
The nightingale starts to sing!
Go to the librarian and ask for the book of this bird’s songs,
And then go out into the desert.
Hafez, 14th century Persian poet
Iran is one of the largest countries in the world. Its geography is as varied as its history is long, making it a challenging place through which to journey. Mountain passes where the snow can lie for many months, bleak deserts that become all but incandescent in summer, and thousands of kilometres of borders shared with neighbours in turmoil mean travel can be arduous. Many millions of Iranians have not explored it fully, let alone the comparatively few visitors who come to visit its cultural and architectural highlights.
For centuries Iran was part of the ancient silk routes that linked the Far East and Europe. While camel caravans no longer plod their way across the vast expanses of the Iranian plateau, their memory lives on in the ruins of the unique caravanserais that provided shelter to these early entrepreneurs and their precious cargoes.
When my Iranian friend Reza Mirkhalaf and I decided to undertake a journey to view his homeland through Western and Iranian eyes we chose to follow, where possible, the footsteps of those early travellers. Our explorations took place at a time of high tension between Iran and the Western world as debate raged over Iran’s nuclear ambitions, its perceived role in Iraq and in other Middle Eastern hot spots and against a backdrop of the West’s deeply ingrained fear and misunderstanding of the people of this country.
Reza and I had met three years earlier, and over the course of working together as national guide and tour manager respectively for groups of overseas tourists, we’d become friends. The idea for the journey began in true Persian fashion over cups of tea and the gurgle of a qalyan (hubble-bubble or water pipe) while we unwound after a day introducing a tour party to the wonders of Isfahan. We were beside the 400-year-old Si-o-Se bridge. The tea is brewed in a cavernous kitchen under the bridge’s arches, but most patrons of this famous teahouse choose to sit outside at ancient, wobbly metal tables set on the piers, where Reza and I were seated now. All day and late into the night waiters scurry across the precarious metal ramps that link the piers on which the teahouse sits, while the waters of the Zayandeh River surge through the narrow gaps just centimetres beneath. It must be one of the profession’s most perilous postings.
While we awaited our tea by the bridge, our group was relaxing at the Abassi Hotel, one of Iran’s finest, which had begun life in the 17th century as a caravanserai. Ruined or restored caravanserais are sprinkled right across Asia, but the word itself comes from two separate Persian words: ‘caravan’, meaning a company of travellers, and ‘serai’, a place. Perhaps the most tangible reminders of the silk routes (there was never one single route but a network of roads – arteries of commerce) that have intrigued travellers, including me, for centuries, the caravanserais were the silk route equivalents of the motor lodge; accommodation houses for the great caravans of camels that threaded their way from China west to Central Asia, India and the Middle East and were linked with important sea routes. In this way the silk routes were connected to southern Italy across the Mediterranean and were an important component of trade from the Persian Gulf ports.
At the Abassi where traders, travellers and merchants would once have slept in the arched rooms around a central courtyard, rested their camels, gossiped and intrigued as they plied the great silk routes of Asia more than 400 years ago, tourists now rest in five-star comfort. Conditions might be more luxurious now, but the hotel’s romantic past lingers in the courtyard like woodsmoke from a camel herder’s evening fire.
Meanwhile, down at the bridge the surroundings are just as atmospheric if a little more basic. Reza had just dipped a lump of sugar into his tea, then into his mouth before drawing deeply on the mouthpi
ece of the qalyan, which spluttered into life.
‘Shah Abbas the Great, who made Isfahan Persia’s capital in the seventeenth century, is supposed to have built nine hundred and ninety-nine caravanserais to help revive the importance of the silk routes through his empire,’ said Reza, leaning back and passing me the qalyan mouthpiece. A beginner smoker then, I exhale at first, causing a minor eruption of water and smoke. Two men at a nearby table hear the spluttering, look at me and grin. I retreat inside my headscarf – sometimes hijab (meaning veil or cover and referring to the required modest dress for women in Iran where the body, from wrist to ankle, and hair have to be covered) has its advantages.
I loved the idea of such an impressive number of caravanserais. Apparently Shah Abbas thought that 999 sounded much grander than one thousand, hence his decree. Just the word caravanserai conjured up for me the sound of complaining camels, the smell of smoke from cooking fires, the glimpse of shadowy figures in dark archways, the glimmer of silk from a wrapped bundle. Caravanserais for me epitomised the romance of travel – and now I discovered Reza felt the same way.
‘Few Iranians and even fewer foreigners have ever explored properly many of these remarkable buildings,’ he added.
‘Can you find them all over Iran?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Reza said. ‘From the Persian Gulf to the Caspian.’
‘So it would be possible to explore a lot of Iran by following the ancient silk routes and visiting some of the nine hundred and ninety-nine along the way?’
‘Quite possible,’ was Reza’s calm response as he puffed a small cloud of apple-flavoured smoke into the night air.
I thought back to my first visit to Iran that also marked the start of our friendship. Rather unconventionally I’d not arrived by air but by land across the border with Turkmenistan at Sarakhs in northeastern Iran, near Mashhad.
The terrain approaching the Iranian border from its northern neighbour is bleak and hard. A rubbly wasteland studded with struggling shrubs impaled with rubbish stretched into the heat haze on both sides of the road.
That morning I’d put on for the first time the floor-length black coat that I’d brought to make sure I passed muster at the Iranian border post. Covered from head to foot I had been quietly cooking and wishing that I’d waited until the border itself to don the garment. My driver’s Soviet-era car did not run to air conditioning and even with the windows down the temperature was rising.
The Turkmen side of the border was something of an anticlimax. In fact, if I’d been on my own I’d probably have driven right past it. But my driver had been here before and so stopped the car beside a high wire fence into which was set a narrow gate. Leaning against the fence were two locals in faded T-shirts and jeans who half-heartedly asked me if I’d like to buy US dollars. When I declined they returned to puffing on their cigarettes and staring into the desert.
My escort pushed open the gate and dragged my bag though to the small square concrete-block building on the other side. Facing us was an open window behind which a Turkmen guard in a peaked cap was eating his lunch.
He didn’t look up as I handed my passport and three slips of paper through the hatch. With a sigh he put down his hunk of bread and opened the passport. Only then did he glance at me. I didn’t need any help in translating the look. ‘The only tourist all day and she has to arrive at lunch-time.’
Turkmenistan, maybe because its tourist trade is so meagre, likes to make it as difficult as possible to get out of the country – once they get you in they are reluctant to let you leave. Obtaining an entry visa is time-consuming and expensive enough, but the Turkmens save up the best of the bureaucratic mire for when you are trying to get out. When I arrived I was told that the three pieces of paper that had been tucked into my passport were absolutely crucial and must not be lost under any circumstances, otherwise I’d have trouble on departure. One of them had been printed on paper so thin it appeared in danger of disintegrating at any minute. As none of the documents contained any English translation I had no idea why they were so important, but I guarded them zealously. Now was their moment.
The border guard picked up all three slips and, without a glance at them, dropped them into a bin beside his desk. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt – after all, what might have looked like a rubbish bin to me might have been some kind of sophisticated Turkmen filing cabinet. He then picked up his bread and my passport in one hand, and, holding the document open with the heel of one hand, thumped it with an exit visa (liberally sprinkling bread crumbs over the pages at the same time), thrust it through the open window and went back to his lunch.
‘Is that it?’ I said to the driver, rather aggrieved. Somehow, border crossings, especially into somewhere as exotic and supposedly dangerous as Iran, deserved more fanfare.
‘Now we go to the customs building,’ he said, pointing down the tarmac road to a slightly grander concrete-block edifice about a hundred metres away.
We trundled my bag down the slightly sticky tarmac and as we did so I realised that my Iranian coat was several centimetres too long. If I wasn’t careful I’d be constantly tripping over the hem. I’d also not realised how incredibly hot black could be; under the coat sweat was trickling everywhere in a manner that hardly seemed fitting for entering an Islamic republic.
It was clearly a very slow day at the border as, on my arrival in the customs hall, all four occupants converged on me. We all helped put my bag up on a table. Among Turkmenistan’s few claims to fame are its hand-knotted carpets and although buying and taking home new rugs is encouraged, removing antique ones is illegal. I’d been warned that it didn’t matter what else I had in my bag; if I had an old carpet I could expect difficulties.
‘Carpets?’ one of the officials asked, hopefully.
I told him no. There ensued a brief discussion among them, but the four of them then decided that they should check my bag in case an illicit rug lurked within. I unlocked the bag and all of us peered in – even my escort and a truck driver who’d just strolled in. We all agreed there were no carpets hidden among my underwear, clothes and assorted headscarves. Everyone but me seemed rather disappointed. I guessed they’d been hoping to be entertained with some lively debate, multiple form-filling and maybe a confiscation.
‘You can go to Iran now,’ said the driver.
I headed back towards the door we had come through.
‘No madam – Iran is that way,’ he said, pointing to a door at the other end of the building.
He accompanied me through the doorway, and we contemplated the official border, a green smudge of trees that fringed the river several kilometres away.
‘How do I get over there?’ I asked. The driver said there was normally a bus for pedestrians parked around the side of the customs building and so we went to investigate.
We found a vehicle that certainly had wheels and a roof – but little else. The passenger door was tied up with wire, but that was entirely academic because there were no seats. There was also no sign of a driver.
The two of us contemplated the bus for a few minutes. The only sound came from the big rigs that were pulling up outside the customs house for clearance to cross the border.
‘Maybe I can hitch a ride on a truck.’
I’d always wanted a ride in a long-haul truck and here were some beautiful chrome-encrusted monsters to choose from. My escort told me to wait with my bag while he went to find a driver who’d be willing to take me across the border. I’d spotted a particularly impressive red truck with a happy excess of gleaming metal and hoped it would be that one.
He was back in a few minutes to tell me he’d found a driver who’d pick me up soon. One by one the big rigs revved up and left, none of them coming near me. Finally, an elderly orange pickup truck, brown smoke pouring from its exhaust, emerged from the belching throng of vehicles and pulled up in front of me.
The driver climbed down and heaved my bag onto the tray and motioned for me to climb up into the p
assenger seat. Another man was already sitting there.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked the escort, thinking I should at least check out the identity of my travelling companion. ‘Oh, he’s just a local man who wants to travel with you across the border. He’ll come back later. Your driver is Iranian, though.’
Short of walking through several kilometres of desert, then crossing a truck-laden one-lane bridge there was no option but to go with the men. I’d have to trust that the brevity of the journey and the volume of traffic would prevent any thought of robbery, and my sombre black garb and almost complete lack of any exposed flesh would be protection enough against any inflamed passions. I handed my daypack up to my fellow traveller, hitched up my coat and struggled up the ladder to the cab, almost strangling myself in the process with the long headscarf that I’d wrapped around my hair while waiting for the truck.
The driver got in and both men then engaged in a long debate punctuated with long stares at me. I asked my escort, who was still standing below, what was going on.
‘They are saying that you do not need your headscarf until you reach the bridge – they will tell you when to put it on.’
I removed the scarf and we set off. When we reached the bridge a steady stream of trucks was heading in our direction from Iran and we had to wait for some time for them to cross. Up until this time my mind had been kept busy with the trivia of travel but now I started to become a little jittery. I’d brushed off all the jokes before I left about travelling to a country branded as part of the so-called Axis of Evil and told people, who were genuinely concerned about how a Western woman on her own would manage in a strict Islamic country, that the popular image of Iran in the West was nothing like the reality. Like a video on fast forward a stream of images was flicking through my brain – fanatical-looking demonstrators threatening death to America (the fact that I came from New Zealand might be a minor detail) and stony-faced women preaching the benefits of being swathed in black – along with sound bites about the nuclear weapons debate and possible military action against Iran. (After all, no world superpower considering a missile strike was going to take into account that I might be picking my away across a caravanserai ruin nearby.)