by Jill Worrall
‘I have to have a special seal from the post office and that is now closed for the day. I can do nothing about it until tomorrow.’
We all feel the sense of anticlimax.
But Reza suggests what is for him at least the perfect antidote to disappointment.
‘Let us go instead to see some very interesting ruins – and then I know where there is an excellent and very picturesque teahouse.’
9
A DEGREE OF CELEBRATION
Hamadan and Zanjan
If the boy is immersed in his craft to some extent ... he will have esteem for it and will be all the more motivated to excel in it and to explore all its secrets ...
Aviecenna 980–1037
Reza’s university, Bu Ali Sina, is named after Hamadan’s most famous son, Abu Ali Hussein ibn Abdallah ibn Sina, better known both in Iran and in the West as Aviecenna.
Not actually Persian by birth, Aviecenna was born near Bukhara in today’s Uzbekistan. He was something of a child prodigy, having learned the entire Koran before he was 10 years old and then by the age of 18 it was said of him that he’d mastered maths, physics and logic. He became court physician in Bukhara, wrote The Book of Remedy, and the Canon on Medicine, and later became the physician to the ruler of Isfahan in Persia. He died in Hamadan in 1037.
The fame of Aviecenna’s Canon on Medicine spread to the West where it was translated first into Latin and much later into English. It was used in European schools of medicine up until the 17th century.
His philosophical views, however, were not universally well received and he was criticised by both Islamic and Western scholars. Despite this, Aviecenna is regarded as the father of modern philosophy and certainly of early medicine.
To me Aviecenna’s shrine in Hamadan is yet another example of the duality of Iranian society. Even though his views on religion and spirituality do not sit comfortably with some modern-day scholars and clerics in Iran, his burial place is revered and well cared for. Above the grave itself is a soaring monument of 12 pillars surmounted by a small pyramid. Modelled on the Persian tomb tower, Gonbad-e-Kavus in Iran’s eastern Caspian region, the world’s tallest brick tower, it has a flanged cylinder capped with a conical roof. In the galleries surrounding the grave are copies of some of his writings, which as the text at the start of this chapter attests, would appear to contain at least in part some common sense.
We climb to the shrine’s roof and as we look down on a park Reza points out the lawns and benches under the bare trees.
‘I used to come here while I was at university for some fresh air and to study in the peace and quiet.’
Hamadan was once the capital of the Median and Achaemenid empires (when it was known as Hagmataneh – the place of gathering). Archaeologists are still uncovering reminders of this city, but as yet the fabled walls of gold and silver have not been found. The Medes, a confederation of tribes that are thought to have had Indo-European roots, built their chief city here in the seventh century BC.
In the process of excavating the remains of these empires, archaeologists have uncovered evidence of an even earlier civilisation that may date back beyond 1000BC. No one knows who these people were, but according to what has been uncovered they appeared to have lived a communal lifestyle. We stand on an overhead walkway to view the newly excavated remains of small rooms entered from a central corridor and served by communal kitchens.
Around us are masses of mounds yet to be explored. More time and money will reveal what else lies under the detritus of centuries past.
A bitingly cold wind is sweeping across the excavations and by the time we’ve driven 12 kilometres to Ganjnnameh in the Alvand mountains that curve around the city, it’s snowing gently.
It’s so cold that when we reach our destination that the edges of the small stream, contained in a man-made channel, which flows from the mountains, is encrusted with ice. A path on one side leads uphill past a line of teahouses, most of which have their takts outside under awnings. Beside several of the shops are displays of pottles of gorgeously red preserved sour cherries alongside sheets of translucent fruit leather. These tart snacks are favourite winter treats.
‘Children love them but most mothers tend to be suspicious about the lack hygiene involved in their preparation,’ Reza says.
We walk past them, somewhat gingerly as the damp flagstones are starting to freeze. Reza points out what we’ve come to see – two panels of inscriptions carved into a rock face on the other side of the stream. To get to them we must cross a bridge covered with snow and ice and then make our way up a steep slope of snow.
The panels, written in Old Persian, Neo-Elamite and Neo-Babylonian were commissioned by two of the Achaemenid kings, Darius I and his son Xerxes, between 522 and 465BC.
We slither across the bridge and stomp our own sets of steps into the snowy hillside in order to get closer to the carvings.
‘Darius starts by praising the Great God, Ahura Mazda, who created this earth, who created yonder sky, and who created people and happiness for people,’ Reza translates.
‘He also says, “I am Darius, King of Kings, King of Many Lands”.’
We stand in the falling snow hearing the echo down the ages of Darius’ claim to power and then turn to descend the treacherous slope which, from this angle, seems to present a particularly direct route into the icy stream bed far below us.
‘I know it’s un-Islamic, but I’m going to have to hold on to your coat sleeve,’ I tell Reza.
As we walk past the teahouses one of the proprietors is outside intent on priming a qalyan.
Reza and I look at each other.
‘Let’s sit outside in the tent,’ he says.
I study him doubtfully through the snowflakes.
‘Don’t worry, you won’t be cold – there is a special heating system.’
The air temperature must be well below zero as we take off our shoes and sit on the takt. In the middle of the takt is perched a very small blanket-covered low table.
Reza sits down cross-legged and lifts up an edge of the blanket and instructs me to look underneath to see the brazier of glowing charcoal.
‘This is a korsi and it was once a traditional way of keeping warm in winter – even houses used to have them.’
After ordering tea and qalyan Reza goes off to invite our driver to join us, even though Reza B clearly disapproves of our smoking habit and tells us we are becoming addicts.
Despite the flurries of snow we see through the open side of the teahouse and the icy chill that sneaks in through the gaps in the canvas, it’s remarkably warm thanks to the charcoal brazier that toasts our feet and hands.
Four teenage girls, rugged up in many layers of jerseys and jackets, are slipping and sliding their way up the hill outside when they catch sight of us. They walk on a few paces, form a giggling huddle, then retrace their steps and join us on the next takt. They direct a blaze of smiles at me, but seem too shy to speak.
‘I think they have come in to have tea purely as an excuse to talk to you,’ Reza observes. ‘Maybe you should start the conversation.’
I smile at the girls and say hello in Farsi. This has the usual effect of making them collapse in fits of giggles. I’d stopped long ago being offended at this reaction after Reza explained that so few foreigners speak Farsi that the giggling is prompted by total surprise – and nothing to do with my appalling accent.
After identifying themselves as students from Hamadan, one of them asks my religion. I tell her New Zealand is a predominantly Christian country.
‘Do you go to church?’ another enquires.
I can’t imagine too many casual conversations in the West taking such a direct and serious turn so quickly.
Three of them have simple short black veils over their hair and wear Western clothing but the fourth has her hair scraped back under a long chador and is dressed much more conservatively. However, although she is just as giggly as the others she does not want to be in a photograph with
me or Reza.
Seemingly happy with their encounter, the girls drink their tea quickly and leave, only to return a few seconds later, nudging each other until the most outgoing speaks.
‘We would like you to pray for us that we will find good husbands,’ she says earnestly.
‘Not like that man over there,’ she says (pointing at the owner of the next-door teahouse), ‘who has been trying to chat us up.’
This sends all four of them into hysterics but before they leave I promise I’ll pray for them.
‘You should perhaps also pray for help to stop the smoking, too,’ says Reza B darkly.
Back in Hamadan Reza and I walk through the streets of the city that, despite the cold, is packed with early evening shoppers. Our destination is a bakery set in a triangle created by two converging roads and it is so small that the two of us seem to fill all the customer space. But three more people arrive after us, so we all stand tightly wedged, facing the same way, to avoid anyone falling backwards out the door.
‘It is a very popular bakery because it sells komaj, sponge biscuits, which are a Hamadan speciality.’
Reza places his order and the baker packs our biscuits in a small cardboard box printed with pastoral scenes. He ties it up with string, finishing with a loop so we can carry it easily.
Our next stop is at one of the photographic shops that abound in Iran and which are full of modern processing equipment and banks of computers operated by competent young men and women. Surrounded as they are by all this state-of-the-art equipment I always find the sight of the women in uniform veils rather incongruous.
One of the girls takes my memory card and as she clicks away at her computer she quizzes Reza about me. In front of her on the screen, photographs from our last three or four days’ travelling materialise. She calls over two other staff members and they peer intently at the screen, asking Reza about the location of some of the mosques and ancient buildings.
‘We have chosen our favourite,’ our assistant says. She turns around the screen so I can see – it is a photograph of me paddling in the Persian Gulf.
Next morning, the clouds look heavy with the promise of more snow and Reza thinks we should head out of town as soon as possible in case we get caught in the mountains. But this would mean postponing collecting his degree, which Reza B and I think is unacceptable.
Soon afterwards we arrive at Bu Ali Sina University where Reza B parks in a no-parking area beside the Registry while Reza goes inside to collect his degree. While he’s away I leaf through my Persian books to work out how to say ‘Congratulations on your degree’ and then practise it under my breath.
We watch the doors open and close, open and close and then finally Reza emerges waving a furled piece of paper. With his other arm he punches the air.
Reza B leaps out of the van and goes to meet him on the steps, hugging him tightly and patting him on the back. At home I would do the same thing but here such a gesture could get us into trouble. When the men return to the van, Reza hands me his degree to admire and I labour through my Farsi phrase. He smiles and we peel oranges and open the box of komaj to celebrate.
‘It’s not exactly a grand graduation ceremony,’ I point out, rather unnecessarily.
‘It’s perfect,’ says Reza, the front of his jumper covered in crumbs.
Reza is an untidy traveller – the van floor is always littered with pistachio shells, seed husks and curling dried bits of peel that I’m constantly brushing out the door before Reza B sees them. A few days earlier I’d asked Reza B to teach me how to say ‘Reza is very messy’ and buoyed by my earlier success I say it now.
Caught by surprise Reza chokes on his biscuit, splutters and has to be thumped on the back by Reza B. My Farsi is proving hazardous.
We take a minor road north to Zanjan so that we can visit a building that boasts the third-largest dome in the world. But thanks to the snow we make slow progress up the Asadaband Pass. Previous falls are banked up on both sides of the road and the entire landscape is blanketed white. In fact, the air temperature is so low that our windscreen wipers keep freezing up, rendering them useless in the snowstorm so that Reza B has to stop every few minutes, bash the ice off the wipers and sweep the snow off with his bare hands.
Centuries ago, the approach to the mausoleum at Soltaniyeh must have been impressive, but today a nondescript village of adobe walls emblazoned with painted advertising slogans laps at its boundary. The blue dome is almost completely obscured by scaffolding. I find it hard to believe that I am looking at one of the largest domes in the world and am prepared to be unimpressed.
By the time we reach the mausoleum entrance it’s stopped snowing but it’s incredibly cold; over my mid-thigh-length manteau I’m wearing a fleece jacket and Reza’s thick padded coat on top. Despite these extra layers I am frozen to the core after just a few minutes out of the van.
‘I must be getting soft,’ I say, shivering. ‘Maybe I’ll just look from the van.’
Reza is aghast.
‘No! You must trust me – it will be worth it. And this can be one of the coldest places in Iran so it is normal to be cold.’
A lone custodian is crouched inside the ticket booth trying to keep warm over an antique one-bar heater.
We crunch over patches of snow to the base of the mausoleum where the dome soars nearly 50 metres above us with the remains of eight minarets encircling it. Reza ducks under the scaffolding and disappears inside.
I follow him to find that although the leaden skies let very little light into the interior there is enough to illuminate the vast, cavernous space under the 25-metre-diameter dome which Iranians consider it to be the third biggest in the world after the Duomo in Florence and Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. I imagine what those other two places would be like right now; even in midwinter I know there will be hundreds of people passing under the domes, taking photographs, listening to guides, reading their handbooks. Meanwhile Reza and I stand by ourselves in the semidark, a lone pigeon rummaging on a ledge high above our heads.
The mausoleum dates from the 14th century and was built by a Mongol sultan, Oljeitu. He had made Soltaniyeh the capital of the Il Khan Mongols who ruled this part of Persia at the time. Originally a pagan, but born to a Christian mother, he’d converted first to Sunni Islam and then become a Shia and in the process had become a devout and enthusiastic convert with big ideas. He wanted to bring the body of the revered Imam Ali from Najaf (now in neighbouring Iraq) and bury him in his purpose-built mausoleum.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the authorities in Najaf were not keen – no doubt for a combination of deeply spiritual reasons but also because the loss of the imam’s body would have seriously affected the lucrative pilgrim trade. The sultan did not take the rebuff well – he converted back to Sunni Islam and decided that he’d be buried in the mausoleum instead.
It’s a site with personal significance for Reza. Like all young Iranian men he had to complete two years of military service during his early twenties. But as a university graduate he had the option, after six weeks of basic training, of working in a government department. Accordingly he’d chosen the Cultural Heritage and Tourism Organisation and during his term of service was sent to Soltaniyeh to help on an archaeological dig close to the mausoleum.
‘Look at the calligraphy around the interior. The artists are playing with geometry and working some very long verses from the Koran, along with the names Allah and Ali, into their designs. I call this a museum of Persian decorative art. It is so complex it is hard even for me to distinguish some of the words. You have to concentrate very hard.’
The mausoleum is appropriately as cold as the proverbial tomb – I’m struggling to concentrate on anything other than not freezing solid.
I thaw out a little as we ascend to the vaulted gallery that runs around the outside of the mausoleum just under the dome and gaze out across the snow-covered grounds.
‘I have very happy memories of working here,’ Reza says, oblivious to my s
haking with cold beside him.
‘My best find was a pair of seventeenth-century scissors. They are now in the Zanjan treasury.’
Beyond the village the bleak, snow-strewn plains stretch out to a ring of barren mountains. Reza speculates that the Mongols chose this place partly because it reminded them of their homelands in the steppes of Central Asia.
It would have certainly been cold enough in winter to have summoned up memories of home for them.
Although the dome is the most renowned feature of the mausoleum, it is the ceilings of the gallery that captivate me. Each is decorated with pale pink, terracotta and white moulding so intricate it looks as if Persian carpets have been attached to the roof.
We find a warm kebabi restaurant in Soltaniyeh’s main street in which to thaw out. The few men sitting at scattered tables and the owner watch, amused, as I position myself in front of the gas-fuelled heater.
‘Are you cold?’ the restaurateur asks.
I show him my blue hands.
‘Today it is quite warm, it is about five degrees. When it reaches minus twenty degrees, then we call it cold,’ he tells me.
We drive towards Zanjan, the three of us conjugating Farsi verbs, and in due course arrive at a tourist inn. It’s snowing again, the snow sliding off the fir trees in the garden and clinging to the bare rose bushes. Outside the inn, there is little traffic swishing through the slurry and Reza and I have to crunch along the footpath for several minutes before Reza is able to flag down a shared taxi.
I really like the concept of shared taxis – even the smallest most battered Paikan can hold four or five passengers as it traverses a set route. If you are lucky, everyone joins in on the conversation, the topics changing as passengers get out, and newcomers get in.
On this occasion the front-seat passenger is a diminutive elderly man with a bushy black moustache who has a long message for me. Reza translates.
‘He says welcome to Iran, welcome to my town. He says he is an old man but he goes to the mountains every week to exercise and eats healthy food every day. He says almonds and walnuts and dates will ensure that you live a long and healthy life. Olive oil is also good for you,’ Reza pauses for breath and the man starts talking again. ‘Wait a minute, there is more ... He says that his children have been very successful. They have been very well educated and one has a master’s degree. He is very happy with his life – children should always achieve more than their parents. And please would we go to his humble house to have a cup of tea. He really does mean that but I think we need to keep going – Zanjan has one of the longest bazaars in Iran.’