by Jill Worrall
But in 330BC Alexander the Great and his army arrived at Persepolis and the ceremonial city was sacked, looted, set on fire and the contents of the treasury taken away. (Interestingly, Iranians hardly ever refer to Alexander as ‘Alexander the Great’, as we do in the West. Rather they call him simply Alexander the Macedonian.) Today, although there is little evidence of the beauty and lavishness that made Persepolis one of the greatest cities on Earth at the time, there is enough of the structure left to be able to imagine a little of the awe and wonder experienced by those who visited from far-off lands to pay homage to the kings of all lands.
Two gently sloping staircases lead up to the platform constructed all those centuries ago to heighten the natural grandeur of the site. The steps are shallow so that visitors in their long robes of the day could make a dignified entrance. Heraldic trumpets would have greeted them before they were led through the magnificent Gate of All Nations, the portals of which still stand today.
Massive winged bulls with human heads guard the gateway. Reza points up high to draw my attention to the cuneiform writing.
‘Xerxes had this message written in Persian, Babylonian and Elamite – it starts off by saying, “I am Xerxes, Great King, King of kings, King of lands, King of many races ... son of Darius the King, the Achaemenid.” Then it finishes, “Many other beautiful things were constructed in Persia. I constructed them and my father constructed them”.’
Full of power and absolute confidence these words are so direct I can almost imagine Xerxes dictating them to the stonemason.
One of the most special features of Persepolis, possibly because it escaped the attentions of the Macedonians and remains largely intact, is the Apadana staircase that leads to a palace in which the kings would receive delegations from their empire.
The staircase contains panels of bas reliefs, one of which depicts 23 separate delegations bringing gifts to the king. Each nationality’s facial characteristics, hairstyles and dress is so accurately portrayed that today it is possible to identify almost all of them: Elamites leading some rather reluctant lions, Parthians with snooty camels, Egyptians with a muscle-bound bull, Central Asians with a prancing horse and Ethiopians bearing an elephant’s tusk.
Today the staircase has been roped off but it’s easy to spot everyone’s favourites; all the camels, for example, have shiny noses from being rubbed by so many people over so many years. One of the most enduring symbols of the Achaemenids is also to be found on the staircase – a lion sinking its teeth into the flanks of a bull. The Achaemenids were most probably Zoroastrians and the sculpture symbolises the triumph of spring over winter.
The staircase leads to a vast area that was once a palace featuring 36 columns, each 20 metres tall and topped with gryphons, bulls or lions. Today only a few are still standing and examples of the capitals lie at their base.
Sometimes the only way to grasp the former glories of a place such as Persepolis is to stop, lean against a piece of ancient stone, close one’s eyes and listen to the sounds of the past – and thus we find a section of collapsed column against which we can rest.
After some silent contemplation I ask Reza if he thinks, as some historians do, that Alexander had not intended to set fire to Persepolis, but that its destruction had been accidental.
Reza almost bristles with indignation.
‘No, of course it was deliberate! He destroyed one of the greatest cities on earth, a glory of the ancient world.’
Cleary 2500 years have not dulled the pain for Reza or many other Iranians. When it comes to invasions, this nation has a long memory – something modern-day sabre-rattlers could do well to remember.
Persepolis is awe-inspiring even in its ruin, but for me the most spectacular reminder of the might of the Achaemenids lies just four kilometres away at Naqsh-e Rostam.
When Reza first brought me here, several years ago, I was rendered speechless. In front of us, carved high up into the sheer cliffs were four cave tombs, each with a cross-shaped façade with a small entry to the funeral chamber set in the centre.
Here it is believed the bones of the kings, Darius I, Ataxerxes I, Xerxes I and Darius II, were stored after the traditional Zoroastrian sky burial had been completed. Today the chambers are out of reach and empty, but the scale of these tombs, and the sheer audacity of their site, is truly awe-inspiring. It has its own beauty too, especially in spring when the short emerald-green grass at the base of the tomb is studded with scarlet poppies.
We return to Shiraz to keep a vital appointment – experiencing sunset at Hafez’s tomb along with several hundred Iranians.
Shams od-Din Muhammad (or Hafez, the name means ‘he who knows the Koran by heart’), the most beloved of Persian poets, epitomises the duality of modern-day Iranian life. I find his poetry deeply spiritual rather than overtly Moslem and scholars and amateurs alike argue incessantly about whether Hafez’s frequent references to wine, taverns, and love are simply symbols of more esoteric matters, or really are about wine, women and song. What this means, of course, is that Hafez can be read and enjoyed on many levels.
Hafez is much more to Iranians than simply a poet. Almost certainly every Iranian household today will have, along with a copy of the Koran, a copy of the divan (anthology) of Hafez. For centuries Iranians, young and old, have believed that if you open your copy of Hafez at random, the lines on which your eyes fall will hold the secrets of your future.
Here at the tomb are so many cars and buses outside the entrance to the complex that the traffic police on duty wave us further down the road. We join the flow of pedestrians turning in through the gate but are stopped by a small scruffy-looking man holding a green and yellow budgie and a little box full of cards.
‘He wants you to seek your fortune from Hafez,’ says Reza, reaching into his pocket for what I regard as his alarmingly thick wad of Iranian rial notes.
The man fans out the selection of cards and holds them in front of his bird. After a second or two of encouraging clucking sounds from its owner, the bird delicately tweaks one of the cards out of the pack and the man hands it to me. As we are blocking the gateway Reza suggests we divine my fortune inside.
We go through the narrow gateway into an enclosed rectangular garden with a long narrow pool in the centre ending at the base of a set of steps leading to a marble colonnade behind which is the tomb of Hafez. Born in Shiraz some time between 1317 and 1326, Hafez also died here in his hometown in 1389. In one of his poems he said of his birthplace: ‘...no land can ever vie with bright Shiraz in purity’.
Against the gentle backdrop of the fountains and a broadcast of Hafez’s poetry set to music we climb the steps to the tomb on which some earlier visitors have placed three long-stemmed roses.
Everyone that approaches the tomb follows the same routine involving placing the fingertips of their right hand on the cool marble and reciting lines of his poetry.
Reza steps forward and begins reciting in Farsi, translating for me when he’s finished. Others around the tomb smile appreciatively – poetry in Iran is very much a shared pleasure.
‘Through love, bitter things seem sweet
Through love, bits of copper are made gold
Through love, dregs taste like pure wine
Through love, pains are as healing balms
Through love, thorns become roses.’
One thing is certain, there’ll be no toasting of Hafez here despite the frequent references to wine in his poetry and, as mentioned earlier, the city’s close connection to an ancient variety of wine. But there is tea. Befitting the poet’s love of beauty and romance, the teahouse behind the tomb is one of the most magical in Iran, especially at night.
The tiny courtyard – with arched carpeted niches on two sides and its central space crowded with takts grouped around a small fountain – is almost always packed and we are lucky to find a corner niche unoccupied. We take off our shoes, settle ourselves against the bolsters and before long a tall man with a Persian-style tightly w
rapped turban around his head and wearing baggy pantaloons and a sequined waistcoat strides over and greets Reza like a long-lost relative. He knows Reza through his regular tour group visits during the tourist season.
Reza orders tea and qalyan.
‘Apple, but proper strength, not tourist strength,’ he says. ‘My friend has smoked many times before.’
I try not to look too dissolute.
As we wait for our tea to arrive we survey the teahouse clientele. A young couple who can’t find proper seats perch on a low wall, a poetry book open between them. Closer to us a group of men who look like they have just come from work are smoking in earnest. When a latecomer arrives everyone shuffles closer together on the takt to make room. The new guest opens his briefcase, takes out a large box of chocolates and passes them around.
‘I think it is his birthday,’ Reza says, his ears flapping as he tries to pick up snippets of conversation.
Not far away is a young man on his own, smoking a qalyan with three plastic mouthpieces attached, one on top of the other. We’re intrigued and Reza leans over to find out more. A long conversation follows.
‘That was some explanation,’ I say, when they’ve finished and Reza sits back against his bolster.
‘Oh, we were discussing how busy it is in here tonight – even though it is winter – the building of new hotels in Shiraz, all kinds of things. By the way, he says qalyan is much stronger when you use three mouthpieces.’
A tray of tea, rock sugar, a small dish of fresh dates, and our qalyan arrive. Before he slots the plastic mouthpiece in place our waiter draws deeply on the end of the wooden mouthpiece, making the charcoal on top of the pipe glow red. He passes it to Reza to check.
Reza takes a long puff and exhales an impressive cloud of smoke followed by a small bout of coughing.
‘It’s quite strong,’ he tells me, somewhat unnecessarily, passing over the mouthpiece. ‘I feel a bit giddy already.’
As Reza reads Hafez aloud in Farsi we drink our way through three teapots of tea. Translation is not really necessary as the beauty of Persian poetry lies partly in the beautiful rhythms, the repetition of phrases and the lilt of the language; Persian is deeply melodic in its own right to the extent that even a set of building specifications read aloud in Farsi would sound irresistible.
Reza remembers to translate my fortune before we leave. On the front of the card is a painting of four nightingales making good their escape from a gilded cage hanging in a tree. On the reverse are two passages in Persian – one a stanza or two from Hafez and the other an interpretation. ‘You need to know there’s some poetic licence with these,’ Reza says, ‘but in essence it says you will achieve all your goals in the near future.’ It seems good fortune takes similar forms no matter what the language.
On our way back to the hotel, almost audibly sloshing with tea, we stop at the shrine of Shah-e-Cheragh, the mausoleum of the King of the Lamps, the brother of Imam Reza of Mashhad. At night the domes and gold-covered minarets are stunningly spotlit making them a beacon to pilgrims.
We are following in the footsteps of almost all Iranian visitors to Shiraz. ‘First stop Hafez’s tomb, and then to the shrine,’ Reza says.
This shrine for Shia Moslems is among the most important in Iran, and although the Shiraz site is not quite on the same scale as that of Mashhad I still need to don my sprigged chador and enter the building through the women’s door. The sparkling silver mirror work inside is dazzling and where illuminated by concealed lights it shines a luminous emerald green.
Although the atmosphere inside the tomb is as reverent and as emotionally charged as Mashhad on the outside, under the portico, there is more of a holiday atmosphere as entire families sit in circles on the carpets eating late-night suppers of hamburgers and fizzy drinks.
Our taxi back to the hotel is driven by a young man who, after a quick glance at me in the rear-vision mirror, asks Reza where I’m from.
This is normal procedure in Iran as it would be improper for a man to ask me directly, and Reza has become expert at reeling off my life history and the reasons for my being in Iran.
The ice broken, the taxi driver asks Reza what I think of Iran.
‘She can tell you herself in Farsi,’ Reza says, displaying the proprietary pride of a teacher whose pupil has just mastered the alphabet.
Usually, my standard response of ‘I love Iran’ is met with nothing but gratified smiles, but on this occasion the driver turns around and looks at me thoughtfully before asking if I really mean it.
He explains that he is an engineering student currently doing his military training in the Iranian Air Force.
‘I love my country, too, but I am planning to emigrate to England because there are better job prospects there and the standards of living are higher.’
Two of his brothers are there already, both with established shops in London.
‘I’ll miss my home and family, though, he says reflectively, as he drops us off outside the hotel. When Reza pays him the fare he point blank refuses to take it, even after the obligatory taroffing.
‘You are a guest and I have enjoyed our conversation,’ he says.
Next morning we make another important pilgrimage to the tomb of poet Musleh od-Din Saadi, born in Shiraz in 1189 and believed to have died in 1290, which would have made him over a hundred years old. Unlike Hafez he was a traveller, journeying through Iraq and Syria, and en route possibly even being captured by the Crusaders.
Saadi’s tomb is housed in a blue-domed pavilion supported by tall, slim pillars that is set in a garden of palms, pencil cypress and citrus trees. Back when Saadi was alive this place was well outside the city and one of his favourite retreats where he wrote much of his poetry.
However, the enclosed tomb is noisy today, because it appears that parties of girls from several of Shiraz’s schools have chosen to visit all at the same time.
Little girls in black wimples chatter excitedly, and when we sit down outside to admire the tomb I’m immediately swamped by dozens of older girls who want to say hello. When I speak to them in Farsi they dissolve into fits of giggles and it’s only when their teacher calls them that they leave reluctantly. Reza and I descend a set of steps into a teahouse converted from a water reservoir. In the centre of the round underground room a railing surrounds a sheer drop into a deep pool of crystal-clear water in which dozens of fish are swimming.
Above us we hear the clamour of more students and then a rising tide of voices as a crowd of young boys comes tumbling down the stairs. Like boys everywhere, they make a beeline for the railing and lean over, bottoms-up, to look at the fish.
The teahouse proprietor scurries among them grabbing jackets at random and hauling them back from the brink. Eventually their teacher arrives and orders them upstairs, causing the proprietor to sigh with relief.
We move on to visit the Arg-e-Karim, a citadel built by Karim Khan who ruled Persia in the 18th century. In 1750 he made Shiraz his national capital and the arg his seat of power.
Considered a benevolent ruler and patron of arts, he was responsible for many of Shiraz’s impressive buildings, including the citadel, mosques and its bazaar. His regent’s mosque is an exquisite pearl of a building with tiles covered in pink roses and purple irises. Throughout his reign Karim Khan steadfastly refused to be called king, preferring to be called the regent or the servant of his people.
Inside the partly restored citadel the courtyard is planted with orange trees, covered at this time of year with large, ripe oranges. After walking through the Khan’s bathhouse and his audience chamber we find an exhibition of black-and-white photographs taken in Shiraz in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. They are an extraordinary record of a society in transition: wide Western-style boulevards peopled with pedestrians in medieval dress, dodging some of the first cars in Iran. There’s also a poignant shot of a group of women with bobbed hair and cloche hats, taken the day the first Shah banned the veil. Reza, who usually loves to stu
dy every exhibit in a museum, is standing, trying to look casual, in front of one of the few photos I haven’t seen and suddenly announces it is time to leave the room. I try to look around him. ‘Please don’t look at this one,’ he says. Which, of course, means I have to look, but I should have listened to him. It’s of a 19thcentury criminal tied to the mouth of a cannon and clearly the fuse is about to be lit. The image haunts me still.
Reza has the cure however. Among a row of shops facing the massive citadel walls is one of the most popular spots in Shiraz, a shop specialising in faludeh – a local ice-cream made of chilled starch strands, mixed with lemon juice and rosewater.
We buy two large pottles and sit on a tree stump outside to enjoy this tangy and refreshing treat. Near the ice-cream shop is a display of massive bottles of coloured liquids.
The owner, a whiskery older man, sees me looking at the bottles and beckons me inside. With Reza interpreting his words, he explains to me that he is a seller of juices as well as a range of distilled water flavoured with orange blossom, rose and mint respectively. Iranians believe such cordials to be excellent tonics and useful in the treatment of stomach problems and other conditions.
Reza then asks me if I’d like to try a speciality that even many people in Tehran have never heard of. It involves going into the Vakil bazaar to find it, which will not be a hardship for me because with its vaulted brick ceilings, glittering array of metalwork and jewellery, sumptuous carpets and shimmering, sparkling fabrics favoured by the nomads who still live in the mountainous areas outside Shiraz it is probably the most fascinating bazaar in Iran. Mounds of rose petals sit on trays at the entrance to the apothecaries’ stalls and every now and then we must dodge the motorbikes that always seem to be roaring through the bazaar’s lanes, narrowly missing unwary pedestrians.
The Shiraz bazaar attracts not only nomad women with their full flowing skirts and veils dangling with sequins and coins, but Middle Eastern tourists from the Gulf states. Women in swirling black chadors come round a corner towards us, their faces covered with extraordinary gilded metal masks that extend across the nose and top lip, giving the impression of a golden moustache.