by Jill Worrall
Some Iranians regard temporary marriage as simply prostitution under another name while others believe it is a legitimate solution to the problem faced by young Iranian men in that how else are they supposed to know what to do in the marital bed. Some Iranian feminists point out that as women are still expected to be virgins when they marry, this kind of marriage is of no benefit to young unmarried women. Pre-marital sex is not permitted under Islam but economic realities such as high unemployment and the cost of housing mean that the average age for men to get married has now reached 25 or older. It’s a long time to wait for one’s first sexual experience.
In Reza B’s case a breakdown of his first marriage led to his temporary marriage and as a result he now maintains two households – one in Bazargan and one in Tehran. Without entering into the moral debate over temporary marriages I could certainly understand why he had appeared so happy and relaxed when he was with Ferengis. Meanwhile, the first wife subjects me to a barrage of questioning (via Reza) that is more like an inquisition than the usual well-meaning Iranian enthusiasm to find out about me.
‘I think I can see why he has made the choice he has,’ Reza mutters to me.
‘I’ve just told her that you are now too tired to answer any more.’
This does not stop her and the two children spending most of the rest of the evening staring at me and from time to time giggling behind their hands.
But this unnerving scrutiny can’t spoil the warm tumult of an Iranian extended family’s welcome. A tablecloth is spread on the carpet to herald the arrival of the day’s second gigantic meal: soup, salads, yoghurt, saffron rice, bread and chicken cooked in a rich gravy are followed by a sweet rice pudding.
‘That was a great party,’ I say, as the plates are cleared away. Meeting so many new faces has been exhausting and I’m ready for bed.
‘Oh, that wasn’t the party,’ Reza says. ‘That was just dinner – we are going to another relative’s house for the party.’
I retire to my room for a minute to regroup. Once again the strain of being surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces, of trying to speak and understand Farsi and being the centre of intense scrutiny is taking its toll.
Most of the family pile into the van with us for the short trip to one of Reza B’s sisters’ houses. The living room is a vast space with squabs and cushions around the walls and no furniture. I sit on the floor on the side of the room that by some unspoken rule seems to be the domain of the women. Various teenage girls and the smaller children, all of whom beam welcoming smiles at me, join us here, rarely taking their eyes off me. I know it’s curiosity rather than rudeness, but I’m grateful when tea and large bowls of oranges and apples are placed on the floor and everyone’s attention is temporarily diverted.
One of Reza B’s young relatives emerges from a bedroom with an electronic keyboard. Azeri melodies strongly reminiscent of Turkish music fill the room as one of the younger girls gets gracefully to her feet to be joined by three of her uncles. They raise their arms, lightly hold hands and begin to dance in a slow circle around the room, adding dancers, including Reza and me, as they go.
I am surprised to see mixed dancing but Reza B explains this is the Turkish way. ‘Remember we are Turkish Azeris first, then Iranians,’ he says.
In the morning we eat a cholesterol-laden but delicious breakfast of fresh bread, cream and raspberry jam, fried eggs and tea in the boardroom of Reza B’s cousin Seyfollah, whom we had met the night before. We need to keep our strength up – it’s only about 10 hours since the last giant meal.
Seyfollah owns one of the country’s largest transport firms. From the top floor of his office we can see the Iranian-Turkish border post about two minutes’ drive away. He tells us that almost all the European imports to Iran that come by road do so through this border post. No wonder he has his own cook and fully fitted kitchen at the office.
‘Well, we spend most of the day and into the night here,’ Seyfollah says, ‘so the office needs to be like our second home.’
Before we leave the Maku region we stop at the summerhouse of a local ruler known as Baghchichu. In the early 20th century he had been a prominent land-owner and his house was built to befit that status. Set in a garden of bare trees, pools and fountains (now locked in ice), its exterior is a curious mix of Persian, Ottoman and even Russian influences. This fusion of styles flows through the inside, too, with its mirrored halls, stained glass and European furniture.
It is the two large paintings on the dining-room ceiling that Reza especially wants me to see. The first panel features a Persian-style dinner where men, one in a turban and the others in caps, sit on the floor in front of a tablecloth spread with dishes including huge platters of rice which they are eating with their hands. Alongside this is a painting of a European dinner party where men and women sit at a table, carafes of wine clearly visible as are the bare white shoulders of the women.
‘It’s an interesting portrayal of cultural differences,’ says Reza, as we crane our necks to look at them. ‘We don’t really know if the painter intended it to have any other message.’
Maku town itself is built at the bottom of a spectacularly rugged and steep-sided gorge. Reza points out the remains of houses perched on the cliff face and wedged under overhangs.
‘When I first came here not that many years ago many Maku families still lived in those houses – most go back deep into the cliffs – only the very front of the houses are properly man-made. It was a true cave city but now people prefer the comfort of living in modern houses.’
We are now travelling east towards Iran’s border with the Republic of Azerbaijan’s Nakhichevan enclave. Separated from the rest of Azerbaijan by a wedge of Armenia, its status is still hotly disputed by the two nations and is a prime reason why relations between the two are hostile. Beyond some low hills the road drops down beside a reservoir created by damming a section of the Aras River that forms Iran’s northern border with both these Caucasian nations.
We are all startled when my cellphone, which hasn’t worked in Iran up until this moment, bursts into life.
‘Welcome to Azeri Telecom’ it tells me. In the midst of a patch of perfect reception I make a flurry of expensive international phone calls – not a single member of my family nor one friend is at home.
On both sides of the road are shops all but engulfed by bundles of reeds up to three metres long harvested from the Aras River banks.
It’s the Azeri side of the border that appears to be more assiduously guarded than the Iranian side, presumably because the Azeris are far more preoccupied with their Armenian neighbours than by the proximity of the Iranians. Watchtowers are dotted at regular intervals along the reservoir and then beside the river as it begins to snake through a spectacular canyon on its journey to the Caspian Sea.
The Aras flows swiftly here and the deep reds and ochres of the rugged shattered rocks of the gorge are a stark contrast to its sky-blue waters. A railway line runs along the far bank and we spot two armed soldiers on patrol.
The gorge deepens until there is only just room for the railway on the Azeri side and the winding narrow road on the Iranian side. We turn up a side road and stop outside the lower walls of the Kalisa Darreh Sham (the church and monastery of St Stephen). Most of the stone buildings built on the mountainside date from the 14th century but it is believed that the first church on the site was founded by St Bartholomew in about AD62. The monastery remained in use until the 1920s.
Normally a lonely but serene spot, today the car park resounds with the sound of Turkish pop music as half a dozen men cook kebabs over an open fire with their car stereo cranked up to the maximum volume.
Reza and I walk up to the monastery past a series of now abandoned terraced gardens and pools that once provided the monks with vegetables, fruit and fresh fish. The outer walls are heavily fortified with a series of rounded watchtowers which suggests that over the centuries not all visitors came in peace.
The church itself is c
losed for renovations, but we explore its exterior admiring the Armenian-style carved crosses and their twined borders carved on the walls. On one gable end is a carving of an eagle taking off with a lamb in its talons. Two pigeons had created a nest just under the lamb’s dangling hooves. There is also a rather graphic depiction of a stoning. Rising from the centre of the cross-shaped church is a 12-sided tower, also adorned with carvings including distinctive Armenian-style angels with their two sets of wings framing their faces that watch over each angle of the tower.
A caretaker opens a door into the monks’ quarters so we can visit one of the tiny cells with its small window, a niche for maybe a cross and wall cupboards in which to store bibles and other religious texts.
Down at the car park the party is in full swing. Movement among the surrounding trees suggests the men may have been dancing – an activity not officially approved of in public in Iran.
But there’s a definite feeling in this corner of Iran that traditions, culture and even religious practices that pre-date the Islamic republic and in some cases even Islam itself are deeply embedded in its rocky landscape. At least to the casual observer it seems to be a harmonious co-existence.
The aroma of barbecuing kebabs has both Rezas thinking about lunch so it’s time to head for Jolfa, a border crossing point into Nakhichevan. Jolfa was once home to most of Persia’s Armenians in the days before the 17th century’s Shah Abbas commanded they move to Isfahan. We are spending the night in Tabriz again and once Reza has consumed several of his favourite shish kebabs I explain that I do not want to return to the hotel with the hairy sheets.
‘Please do not worry – this time we are going to stay at one of the best hotels in Tabriz. A friend of mine is the manager and he will give us a good rate.’
As the sun sets we stop at Tabriz’s Elgoli Park. The centrepiece is a lake encircling a 19th-century palace. In summer the lake would be full of churning paddleboats but at the moment they are chained to the railings, leaving the waters unruffled and the atmosphere peaceful. We circumnavigate the lake past benches on which young couples snuggle as close as they dare. When we glance at them they appear to be engaged in erudite discussions but when they think the coast is clear they often simply sit gazing into each other’s eyes. Romance is a tricky operation here when even the eye of the state can be upon you.
Reza’s phone rings. It is Mojik, his brother, wanting to make sure we will be back in Tehran in two nights’ time. The family is missing us both, Mojik says. I tell him honestly that I’m missing them, too – they have accepted me with generosity and love into their midst and when we reach Tehran it will not just be Reza who feels he’s home again.
11
IN HOT WATER
Ardabil, the Caspian and Tehran
If you want the pearl
Leave the desert and wander by the sea
Even if you don’t find it
At least you’ve been
Near the water.
Sanai (13th century Persian poet from Shiraz)
The traffic on the highway that snakes through the mountains between Tabriz and Ardabil has slowed to a crawl. We can see the line of trucks and cars in an unbroken line ahead of us, winding up the hill. Reza B pulls out of the inside lane to pass the truck in front of us. The manoeuvre won’t get us very far, but at least we’ll escape the truck’s exhaust fumes.
There are several vehicles driving directly at us in the downhill lanes, but the truck driver we’re passing and the car ahead let us back into line. Unfortunately, however, there is no room for the Peugeot that has also foolishly tried to pass at the same time. Faced with the oncoming traffic the driver simply pulls over directly into the side of our van, just beside my seat. There’s a clash of metal and we lurch sideways, Reza B just managing to keep us out of the loose gravel and the drop into the valley below.
Reza B utters a word that has not been covered in my Farsi lessons thus far. Both cars pull over and Reza B jumps out, as does the Peugeot driver. They study the damage together – his car is unscathed but ours now sports a dent. A discussion begins and almost immediately a solidly built bearded man about two metres tall unfolds himself from the back seat of the Peugeot and strolls over to his friend, arms slightly akimbo. Reza now gets out – I’m guessing to try to balance the height and weight discrepancy, which then results in the emergence of the remaining three passengers from the Peugeot. I wonder if I should now emerge, but then remember that as a woman I probably won’t count.
No one appears to be getting particular heated so when the Rezas return to the car I ask if the other driver will pay for the damage.
‘Nothing more is going to happen,’ says Reza. ‘The other driver has no insurance.’
Over the brow of the pass we discover why the traffic has been banked up. A police car is parked at the side of the road with a policeman standing beside it utilising a hand-held radar. Once out of sight, normal reckless driving tendencies resume.
We are going to Ardabil to see a carpet. A replica, it’s true, but it’s a copy of possibly the most famous Persian carpet in the world. There are actually two original Ardabil carpets: the largest and most intact is in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum (which Reza has visited several times as it is a magnet for Iranian tourists) and the other is in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.
The Ardabil carpet in London was created more than 500 years ago and was one of two that graced the mausoleum of Sheikh Safi-od-Din, whose descendants founded Persia’s 16thand 17th-century Safavid dynasty.
In 1892 one of the two carpets surfaced for sale in London where it was seen by designer and writer William Morris who described it as a ‘remarkable work of art’ with a design of ‘singular perfection’. He recommended the Victoria and Albert Museum buy it, which they did for two thousand pounds.
The Ardabil carpet is one of the largest hand-knotted carpets in the world (measuring more than 10 m by 5 m) and contains about 26 million knots. It is believed to have taken the legendary carpet-makers of Tabriz about four years to make.
In 2006 a replica of the Ardabil carpet was finished and now lies in the central hall of the mausoleum.
The gardens around the mausoleum are smothered in snow and inside a walled courtyard Reza and I indulge in a brief snowfight before decorously admiring the stunning decorative brick and tile work on the walls and towers that comprise the mausoleum complex. It is typical of Iran that such exquisite architectural jewels can be found, largely unheralded, in even the most out-of-the way places.
After paying homage at the Sheikh’s tomb that is enclosed with intricately carved screens we step, shoeless, onto the carpet. The pile is soft and deep. Flowers and leaves swirl and entwine around us. At each end a vase has been woven into the design, but they are different sizes. This seems strange because usually Persian carpets, even those with such complex floral designs, are symmetrical.
‘To understand why this was done, pretend you are sitting on the carpet at this end,’ Reza says, pointing to the smaller vase.
‘If you are sitting there and looking down the carpet the vases will now seem to be the same size. It is a little like the way the minarets on the Taj Mahal actually lean outwards a little so that from a distance they look perfectly straight – of course it was a Persian who designed that, too.’
In the foyer of the mausoleum Reza stops to talk to a grizzled old man with one arm who sweeps the steps while we put on our shoes. Reza struggles with one of his boots and the elderly cleaner crouches down to help, even though he has only one hand.
Reza B is keen to be on the road again because while Sara’eyn, our next destination, has no historical or cultural significance it is a year-round attraction for Iranians because of its alpine hot water. We are off to the Persian version of a European spa resort.
Sara’eyn sits on the lower flanks of Mt Sabalan. At 4811 metres it is the third-highest mountain in Iran and an inactive volcano. But there is still enough volcanic action underground to produce h
ot springs – this region is particularly prone to earthquakes; the last one of significant size was in 1997 when 500 people died and about 50,000 people lost their homes.
The Rezas had already discussed the possibility that the ‘evil eye’ was on us after our accident and their suspicions seem to be confirmed when, on the outskirts of Sara’eyn, a policeman waves us over and fines Reza B for speeding.
A heated discussion follows, which Reza translates.
‘Reza is saying that last time he was here a few weeks ago the speed limit along this part of the road was higher and that there should be time for people to get used to the new limit. Of course the policeman is not agreeing with that.’
We pay the fine for him but even so Reza B is still muttering as we drive into town. It is not the money, he says, but the principle.
A building boom is under way. Most of the buildings under construction are hotels and rental apartments; the latter are especially popular with holidaying Iranians as they offer plenty of room for extended family gatherings and a kitchen to ensure a continuous supply of tea and home-cooked meals.
It’s a rare quiet day in Sara’eyn making Reza confident he’ll be able to strike a good deal at one of the near-empty hotels. However this proves more difficult than he expects at our first choice – even though the lobby is in semi-darkness and the receptionist is asleep, which suggests the place isn’t inundated with guests.
‘I’ve pointed out to him that three guests are better than none but I’m wondering if he’d rather sleep and not have us bother him,’ Reza explains. He eventually prevails, the man gathering up two sets of room keys with a heavy sigh.
On our way to the public pools we buy a bathing suit for me. I have visions of ladies’ bathing suits being sold behind closed doors in women-only enclaves. I could not have been more wrong.