by Jill Worrall
He identifies her as Tahmineh and tells me that she remembers him bringing his mother here to visit her a few months ago.
Tahmineh invites us to visit the temple and we take off our shoes and go up the steps. Fire temples, despite their rather exotic name, tend to be rather utilitarian inside. The fire burns in a small room in the centre, with windows set in the walls so the flames can be seen from all sides by worshippers and visitors such as ourselves.
In one corner of the room is a small bookshelf crammed with copies of the Zoroastrian scriptures, the Avestas, and various commentaries on it and the religion in general. Framed black-and-white photos of temple benefactors hang on the walls.
Tahmineh has been the custodian of the fire for 20 years. The fires in Zoroastrian fire temples must never be allowed to go out so she has been stoking it twice a day for two decades.
We contemplate the glowing embers and small flickering flames and then return to the steps to gather up our shoes. Tahmineh asks Reza if we’ll stay for tea. He accepts and we sit in the sun while she disappears into a small room under the staircase.
When the door creaks open Reza jumps up to help her carry a small tray of glasses, a teapot, a bowl of sugar and a coloured cardboard box tied up with string. Inside the box are diamond-shaped biscuits comprising paper-thin layers of crisp wafer.
‘They’re called yokheh – a speciality of Kermanshah province. She says she’s been keeping them for a special occasion.’
Yokheh are tricky to eat neatly, not just because they are covered in a fine layer of powdered sugar but when you take a bite shards of wafer explode everywhere. They’re delicious, though, and when Tahmineh offers the box again we can’t resist. As we drop crumbs all over the freshly swept steps she tells us there are about 20 Zoroastrian families left in the village. Because agriculture in the area is flourishing, the village is thriving. There are even enough Zoroastrian youngsters to justify a religious school and a priest comes from Yazd every few weeks to conduct ceremonies accordingly.
As we gather up the tea things, Tahmineh asks Reza if he can help her identify the worth of a bank note she has in her possession. She disappears inside again and returns with a US dollar note. Reza explains what it is as she has no idea and offers to change it for her; he hands over double the exchange rate in Iranian rials.
Tahmineh escorts us to the gate and then tries to press on us a bag of pomegranates, which Reza refuses to accept. She pushes them back at him and once again he refuses.
‘I’m not taroffing,’ he says in an aside to me. ‘I think they are the last of her winter supply. There are seven of them in the bag and I know they are very expensive at this time of year.’
I join in the battle but Tahmineh is not having any of it. When Reza hands them back again she simply puts them on the ground. It’s a pomegranate stand-off.
The three of us contemplate the bag for a while before Reza picks them up.
‘I think we’ll have to take them now, but I feel terrible, especially as we have nothing on us to give in return.’ I lean over, kiss her on the cheek and thank her.
‘She says to take the pomegranates and go and eat them together.’
‘Well, we would, wouldn’t we,’ I reply, a bit mystified.
Reza blushes.
‘I’ll explain later,’ he says, as we say goodbye to Tahmineh and make our way back through the lanes.
Reza is still fretting about not having a gift for her when we get back to the van. However, inspiration strikes and he dips into my stash of polished paua (abalone) shell pieces, which I travel with, and quickly grabs a handful before he dashes back through the village with them along with a box of teabags from our picnic supplies.
‘I feel better now,’ he says on his return. ‘But look – even then she insisted on giving me three apples in exchange!’
Thankfully, Reza decides to call it quits at this point. Just as well or he could spend all day to-ing and fro-ing with an increasingly desperate range of gifts.
From Taft we drive to another traditional Zoroastrian village, but unlike Taft, Cham has a forlorn feel about it. Adobe walls are crumbling into the surrounding fields that look largely untended. It’s doubly poignant because the backdrop to the village is so magnificent – the massive snow-covered Shir Kuh (Lion Mountain), which at 4075 metres is the highest point of Iran’s central mountain range.
Cham’s main street is deserted but inside the fire temple compound, once again we find an elderly woman who has just finished tending the sacred flame. More unusually, this flame is in a small enclosure in the courtyard. Two withered pomegranates dangle from a piece of string tied to a tree that almost fills the courtyard.
The woman tells Reza that she and her husband are now the only permanent residents in the village. Their own experiences mirror those of many elderly rural people in Iran – one child lives in Yazd, the other in Virginia in the United States.
‘There isn’t enough water for agriculture here so everyone but us has left,’ she explains.
Later, as we explore the village looking for good vantage points of the mountains, we see her again, this time sitting on a rickety chair outside her house, a wheelbarrow full of pomegranates in front of her, sorting out the good fruit from those that have rotted over the winter. Her husband appears, small and bent and loaded down with a sack of fodder and just as I’m starting to wonder who or what the fodder is intended for I become aware of some plaintive bleating coming from behind the shoulder-height wall that encircles one of the village’s domed water reservoirs. Turning round and looking over the wall I find at least 20 pairs of eyes staring earnestly back at me. The couple’s small flock of sheep is sheltered here and clearly they know their shepherd’s on his way with their lunch.
Back at the van Reza B has ready a plastic plate covered in what looks like a pile of glistening rubies, but are actually the seeds from several of the pomegranates; the flavour is sharp and delicious. Pomegranates are thought to have originated in Iran and this region is especially famous for them. The exotic fruit pops up in myths and traditions of many nationalities including the ancient Greeks, Jews, Georgians and Armenians, along with the Persians. Even in modern-day Iran during the ceremony of the longest night (a celebration that actually has its origins in Zoroastrianism) people offer one another pomegranates.
Meanwhile, Reza accidentally drops a seed and Reza B tut-tuts at him, telling us that pomegranates are a gift of God and to drop even one seed is bad luck. This seems like a good time to ask him about the meaning behind Tahmineh’s suggestion that the two of us should eat pomegranates together.
‘Some people call them a heavenly fruit,’ he responds. ‘Prophet Mohammad said that one seed in every pomegranate comes from Paradise, which is why we have to be careful not to drop any.’
As for us eating them together, he coughs discreetly before telling me that they are an integral part of Iranian wedding celebrations – and a sign of fertility.
Reza B grins, his moustache bristling with mischief. He heaps up my spoon, holds it out to me and declares, in Farsi: ‘Reza anar mixorade, Jill anar mixorade, ma anar mixorim.’ (Reza is eating pomegranates, Jill is eating pomegranates, we are eating pomegranates.) Reza looks at his watch.
‘It is time we went to our hotel for lunch.’
After a series of somewhat spartan, if reasonably clean, hotels, I’m looking forward immensely to our Yazd hotel. Moshir-al-Mamalek, which was once a stable complex complete with its own Persian garden, captivated me on my first visit to Iran and I can’t wait to see it again.
Like many traditional Iranian buildings, the Moshir presents only blank walls to the world, and even a glance in the doorway set in the angle of two intersecting outer walls reveals nothing more than a tiny circular lobby. But walk through the serpentine corridor – another typical Persian architectural feature – that leads from the lobby towards the dining room and the hotel then reveals itself.
A small interior fountain and pool are at one
end of the dining room, in which all the chairs are covered in the Yazd speciality of silk brocade. Two macaws, one red and one yellow, are often to be found sitting on a wooden perch in the middle of this pool. A channel runs from the pool to outside where the water cascades into another channel that runs the length of the property. Small fountains spaced at regular intervals bubble and gurgle.
Most of the rooms are on the left, partly screened from the garden by a row of willows. Stairways that twist and turn lead to the rooms, each of which has a barrel-vaulted ceiling and panels of stained glass that the light causes to spread jewelled patterns across the tiled floors.
On the other side of the channel are takts, where one can sit on hand-knotted carpets and sip tea. Until recently it was also possible to smoke qalyan here, but sadly for us, this is no longer allowed.
As it’s winter, most of the takts are stacked under shelter but a few are in use, sheltered by a large marquee. We vow to drink tea there later, no matter how cold it is.
Yazd is a treasure trove of traditional desert architecture and its old town of winding lanes and adobe walls is one of my favourite places. But this time Reza is taking me to see the biggest and best-preserved icehouse in all of Iran, which I hadn’t known anything about on my previous visits. It stands near the centre of the city and at street level you would never know it was there. Even Reza takes a few minutes to find the small doorway that opens into a side alley, but once we’re in we are delayed slightly by my glimpsing through a dark doorway what look like huge crystal geodes sparkling in the gloom. It’s one of Yazd’s speciality industries – the production of rock sugar. Golden platters of crystals are stacked on a wooden shelf to one side of the room and I only work out what they are when I hear a cracking sound and look to see a man belting one of the large circular crystal masses with a mallet. Hunks fly everywhere but I recognise the shards to be the same as the oddly shaped lumps of sugar crystal that I’ve enjoyed at various Iranian teahouses.
Outside the shop three men are trying to heave a plastic barrel of sugar syrup off the back of a small pick-up truck onto the pavement. As they take the weight of the barrel there’s a collective cry of ‘Ya Ali’, which translates as ‘Ali, help us!’
When we emerge from the first flight of stairs inside the icehouse, I discover that the 15th-century icehouse has been converted into a zurkaneh, meaning a house of strength, a meeting place for men who take part in a discipline that combines power lifting, gymnastics, Islamic chants and spiritual dance. Their exercise routines take place in a circular pit surrounded by tiered spectator seating and the rounded interior of the icehouse makes it an almost perfect venue. As it’s early afternoon (most sessions take place in the evenings after work and school), there is just one young man, watched by his wife and baby, practising his routines.
We stop to observe for a few moments and Reza suggests I try lifting up the skittle-shaped wooden weights that participants toss into the air. Although some of the skittles only come up to my knees, others are nearly a metre in height and I can barely lift one even a centimetre up off the carpet. Dangling from a metal bar is a tangle of heavy chains that looks more like a medieval torture instrument than gym gear.
This is not the first zurkaneh session I’ve seen, although there is usually a number of participants rather than just one as is the case today; in any event I find them a typical expression of the complexity of the Persian mind because while the participants pray and chant, they are also rejoicing in their physical strength and endurance. On previous occasions I’ve noted that the men taking part wear tie-dyed cotton knickerbockers and T-shirts stretched tight across their muscular chests. It’s an incredible sight – the gymnasts perform mass displays of press-ups, and take turns to toss various-sized wooden skittles high into the air. Then one by one each takes centre stage to twirl faster and faster like a whirling dervish, those who manage to stay on their feet longest getting the longest applause. Throughout the session the zurkaneh master, sitting on his elevated stage, chants, chimes a bell and beats out complicated rhythms on a giant drum. The strongest is then put to the test by being draped with the yoke of metal chains.
As one would expect there are always particular gymnasts with exceptional prowess in one or more of the exercises, but a special feature of the zurkaneh is the sense of comradeship in that the strong are applauded, while the weaker and more inexperienced are encouraged.
We leave the Yazd zurkaneh to clamber up the last set of stairs to emerge on a flat roof dotted with domes, rather as if the roof is suffering from an outbreak of acne. Above us five fluted towers rise up around the peak of the central domes.
‘These are badgirs – wind towers – and Yazd has many of them. They form a natural air-conditioning system and are very effective. We’ll visit the tallest one in the world soon and then I’ll explain how they work,’ Reza says.
From our rooftop vantage point we look down on the plaza in front of the Amir Chakhmagh complex. Surmounted by two slim minarets is a three-storey façade of niches decorated with coloured tiles and calligraphy. It once served as a portal to a now-defunct bazaar but more importantly still serves as an extremely decorative grandstand or Hosseini from where an audience can view the Iranian version of a passion play. This cycle of dramas commemorating the martyrdom of the third Imam, Hossein, is reenacted throughout Iran during Moharram.
‘Let’s climb it,’ Reza dares me. ‘I never go up there with tour groups because it can be a bit dangerous.’
We cross the square and puff our way up the steep winding staircase to the narrow platform that stretches between the minarets.
Yazd has preserved its traditional architecture and few modern structures can be seen from our 360-degree vantage point across the city. When Marco Polo visited during the 13th century he described it as a ‘very fine and splendid city’.
We can see the icehouse towers, the minarets and portal of the Friday mosque, the tallest wind tower in the world rising up from its garden setting – and far in the distance and a little obscured by desert dust the Zoroastrian towers of silence.
‘Let’s go and see how the wind tower works,’ Reza says.
The 33-metre-high badgir is the centrepiece of the Bagh-e Doulat Abad, a garden and pavilion built in the mid-18th century for a former ruler of Yazd, Karim Khan Zand. The garden is a typical Persian design of four garden plots divided in two by a long central pool. Two of the gardens contain pomegranate trees, and the others host a number of gnarled elderly grapevines. A tunnel of thin water jets forms a cool archway over the pool during the summer.
But the dominant feature of the garden is the pavilion that houses the wind tower, the windows of which contain some of the most exquisite stained glass in all of Iran. Two entire walls consist of these panels and when the sun is shining it is like standing inside a kaleidoscope.
However, it’s the ancient air-conditioning technology that has drawn us here. From underneath a wind tower looks like a vertical chute, divided neatly in half. The tower itself is covered in angled shutters that draw in cool air, which is then forced down one side of the chute and over a pool set directly beneath it that cools the air even further. At the same time, warm air is forced up the other side of the chute.
When we are standing in the pavilion directly under the tower Reza uses a tissue to demonstrate the efficacy of the system. He throws the tissue into the air where it is caught by a surprisingly strong draught and shot skywards. When we stand at the other side, the gust of cold wind pouring down on us is decidedly chilly.
‘You can see how effective and simple it is,’ Reza says. ‘Best of all it needs no electricity to work and creates no pollution. During the summer I went to stay with a friend of mine in a new house in Yazd that did not have a wind tower. The air conditioner was noisy and the house felt stuffy all the time. I think it is a tragedy that so few contemporary architects and builders are using this technique.’
By now it is late afternoon and the perfect time to visit t
he two towers of silence outside the city. The most obvious symbols of the Zoroastrian religion, they are also, perhaps, the most misunderstood.
Because Zoroastrians believe fire is sacred they do not cremate their dead. And their belief in the sanctity of the other elements of earth, water and air prevents them from using other conventional means of disposal.
For centuries past they have carried the remains of their loved ones to these so-called towers of silence, often a small hill, the top of which has been levelled and then encircled with a high wall. The body or bodies are laid in a small depression in the centre and left for the birds, vultures in particular, and the action of the sun. A priest is usually present for several days to pray over the body.
The Yazd towers of silence were once well outside the city, but an expanding population and related building boom has resulted in them now being on the city’s outskirts. The proximity of vultures feeding on the bodies so close to residential housing presented obvious health problems and the practice was abandoned in the 1960s. Today most Zoroastrians in Yazd are buried in stone caskets in a graveyard at the base of the lonely towers.
It is still possible to follow the trails the bearers of the dead once took to the top of the towers. As the sun begins to set we scramble up a rock-strewn hillside devoid of any vegetation. A twilight wind blows, creating tiny dust devils and making eerie whistling noises around the wall above us.
At the top we duck through a low archway into the burial area. The wind is especially strong here, whipping my headscarf right over my face, then capriciously unwinding it until it is on the point of taking flight.
We walk over to the depression in the centre and knowing what is was once used for I can’t help but look skywards. But these days there are no vultures. I notice that to one side a low wall has been built parallel to the outer parapet and Reza explains that it was the place where the priest would sleep and pray as the dead were never left alone.