by Jill Worrall
A shout from behind is the only warning you get and if you don’t jump sideways fast there’s a good chance of a crack on the back of the leg at best, or being run over at worst. Reza, who shops here regularly, appears to have a sixth sense about them and keeps shouting ‘trolley’ as he nudges me (with the minimum of body contact) into doorways. Now I understand why he doesn’t bring tourists here; the injury toll could be horrendous.
The Tehran bazaar, perhaps more than any other in Iran, is another example of Iran’s ‘two wings’. On the surface the bazaar is about buying and selling, but the bazaaris themselves are also vital to Iran’s wider economy and politics. It’s estimated that business done in this bazaar accounts for a third of Iran’s entire retail trade, which of course gives the bazaaris considerable economic clout. Traditionally they tend to take a politically and religiously conservative stand, which in times of conservative governments gives them particular influence.
Reza turns off one of the main arteries into a side street mercifully free of the shouts of the deliverymen and their rumbling trolleys. We’re standing in a caravanserai that still has a pool and fountain in the centre. It’s one of many in the bazaar – and evidence that even here in the midst of a modern city of about 14 million people there are still reminders of the importance of the silk route.
‘More properly these are serais rather than caravanserais as they functioned more as warehouses for the caravans rather than inns,’ Reza explains. ‘Downstairs were the warehouses and upstairs the offices. What is fascinating is that these traditional uses still continue today.’
This particular serai is stacked with bolts of fabric – lurid floral velvets, lacy net and plush upholstery fabric. It’s quiet, too, except for a gentle clicking sound, which emanates from a tea wholesaler’s shopfront where we find an elderly man calculating on an abacus. He tells Reza he finds it as quick and accurate as any electronic calculator.
While we’re here Reza wants to visit a friend who has a clothes shop in the depths of the bazaar and we set off to find him, passing dozens of stationery shops on our way. A narrow set of stairs leads us up several storeys, the staircase getting narrower and more rickety until we emerge in a mini-bazaar full of men’s and boys’ clothing.
Najaf, Reza’s friend, is drinking tea in front of his shop, which is piled high with shirts and jackets. He finds a couple of stools for us to sit on and sends a passing minion to bring more tea. We settle in for a chat during which he tells Reza he has just come back from a buying trip to China.
Najaf and Reza met at university where Najaf studied English literature. His favourite writers are W B Yeats and T S Eliot and while he is telling us this suddenly there’s a sound of puffing and muttering from the stairs and a man shoots out of the stairwell clutching an enormous carton of clothes slightly wider than the stairs, another bulging cloth bundled tied on to his back. Najaf doesn’t bat an eyelid – clearly this is how all the stock is moved around this rabbit warren.
After leaving the bazaar Reza decides that although he’s declared this a museum-free day he can’t resist taking me into the Golestan Palace as it’s not too far away.
‘I can’t manage a whole day without one cultural visit,’ he tells me.
Most of the palace complex dates from the time of the 19thcentury Qajar rulers, although it was also the coronation place of the last shah, Mohammand Reza Pahlavi and of his father, Reza Khan. It’s a rare outpost of historical architecture in a city that is mostly a chaotic concrete jungle.
Seven buildings from various eras, including one with lofty wind towers, open off a central garden of fountains, pools and tall trees. Normally it would be a tranquil place, but today it’s overflowing with school children from tiny new entrants who walk hand-in-hand in crocodile lines to more unruly older groups of giggling teenage girls and carefully segregated boys. Both parties are still managing to size each other up, however.
As the only foreigner I provide something of a diversion, but after being almost buried in successive crushes of enthusiastic students I can’t handle any more and tell Reza we need to leave. There’s a desperate thirst, especially among young Iranians, for contact with outsiders. It’s not just a matter of curiosity but a burning desire to be able to communicate to visitors that they and their country are not as the Western media often portray them.
We use a series of shared taxis to reach another favourite place for Tehranis – Laleh Park. Although this involves changing cars three times, it does mean that in the space of about 15 minutes I get to meet more than a dozen locals at close quarters.
Years earlier Laleh Park had been my first real taste of Tehran and although I didn’t really expect to encounter any revolutionary violence or black-clad fist-shaking demonstrators, I was still a little nervous when walking into it that first time. Instead I was rather taken aback to discover people seemed more interested in playing badminton and chess; there were even a few discreetly canoodling under the trees. There was a military presence though – in fact I lost count of the number of soldiers walking around, albeit eating giant cream freezes.
Even today in the depths of winter the park is well used – young men are playing a game of soccer on a miniature pitch, elderly men sit huddled over their games of backgammon and children clutching balloons tear around the maze of paths. We find a seat beside a large pond with a fountain and listen to classical Iranian songs being broadcast through loudspeakers.
Tehranis might be used to having the spectacular Alborz Range towering above them, but they do not take their mountains for granted. Walking, skiing, even climbing Mt Damavand, Iran’s highest mountain and an active volcano, are favourite weekend activities. Reza has climbed 5671-metre Damavand three times so when he suggests on our last day in Tehran that we go to the mountains with his sister Nasik I’m a little worried.
Fortunately Reza and Nasik have a much gentler outing in mind – we are going to walk one of the trails at Darband, an alpine village which, thanks to Tehran’s sprawl, has now been absorbed into the city.
Nasik drives us, fast and competently through north Tehran with its multi-million-dollar luxury apartments and tree-lined boulevards. These trees are planted in trenches that separate the footpaths from the road and in some places water straight from the mountains swirls fast and deep along them. Once such urban qanats (canals) were commonplace, providing residents and trees alike with vital fresh water.
We leave the car beneath a plane tree, a few bedraggled leaves still fluttering on its branches. Nasik disappears into a small bookshop, scans the shelves and exclaims with satisfaction on finding a Persian-English publication of her favourite contemporary poet Sohrab Sepehri. She hands it to me, saying ‘This is a present for you’.
Further up the valley the mountains close in and frozen snow covers the tarmacked path which winds up through a haphazard conglomeration of teahouses and restaurants that are built almost on top of one another, architectural styles and paint colours clashing cheerfully. In summer the outside terraces would be full of people. Today, though, only a handful are even open.
We climb to the chairlift ticket office. There’s a skifield further up, but today it is mostly walkers who are on the slopes – it’s considered a good morning work-out to climb nearby 3957-metre Mt Tochal (even the lowest parts of Tehran are 1200 metres above sea level so climbers have a head start). They stride past, some carrying ice axes and ropes.
The chairlift glides over a rugged tumble of scree and jagged ridges and as we get to the top, snow starts to fall and the peaks vanish in the flurry. Nasik and I want to walk further up the mountain, but Reza is worried we might get stranded – he lures us down with talk of finding a teahouse.
We choose one that is situated higher than the rest with views between snowfalls of the mountain peaks and comprising a series of small terraces and gazebos linked by icy, slippery steps with a waterfall cascading through the centre. It must be a nightmare being a waiter here.
Its terrace is protect
ed from the elements by plastic sheeting and a roaring gas burner in the doorway is managing to keep the space warm despite all the gaps in the plastic.
We climb onto a takt and Nasik orders tea and qalyan with her favourite tobacco mix of orange and mint. Outside the snow is falling softly. I remember we have the new poetry book with us and we take turns to read Sepehri’s poems, which until this moment I’d never heard before but I’m now captivated as Reza and Nasik recite large chunks by heart.
‘We should fold our umbrellas and walk out into the rain, we should take with us all our ideas and memories into the rain,’ reads Nastaran.
Brother and sister end the stanza together: ‘Life is a series of successive drenchings, Life is taking a dip in the basin of this Moment.’
We prolong our time here by ordering lunch: kebabs, rice and salad. The afternoon passes Tehrani style with conversation, poetry, the gurgle of the qalyan and the constant replenishment of our pot of tea. Before we leave Nasik writes in my book: ‘Wherever you are remember me’.
That night Reza takes me out to see one of the longest stretches of bookshops in the world. Enqelab Avenue is near Tehran University, Iran’s largest and oldest tertiary institution with about 32,000 students. It’s dark and near freezing, but the street is brightly lit and the shops full, mostly of students. We find a whole arcade devoted to books in other languages. The best of the English shops is so full there’s hardly any space to walk among the towers of books: English classics, self-help books and books devoted to levels of English grammar that I suspect most native speakers would struggle to comprehend.
‘Before we go home I want to take you to a café where I think you will find it hard to believe we are in Tehran’, says Reza leading me to a death-defying road crossing. Negotiating Tehran’s main roads is probably the most risky activity a tourist can attempt in this country. Forget tales of religious police or fundamentalists – if anyone’s going to get you in Iran, it’s the drivers; not of course that motorists set out to run down pedestrians – it’s just that responsibility is very firmly on those on foot to avoid being hit.
Once across the road Reza ushers me into a crowded room heavy with cigarette smoke where a couple sits, heads bent together, hands entwined among the coffee cups. Beside them, three young women are smoking, their sleek black boots emerging below the cuffs of their tight blue jeans. A man with a Father Christmas beard plays the piano accordion.
We are inside Café Godot complete with a photograph of Samuel Beckett on the wall and the only hint that we are in the heart of the Islamic Republic of Iran is that every female present is wearing a headscarf. However, the compulsory decree of Iran’s ruling clerics that women should cover their hair is interpreted here in a variety of ways in that headscarves are artfully positioned to allow more than a hint of glossy black hair or billows of streaked, permed hair to peek out. Some head coverings are more the width of a headband than a headscarf, while others are pushed back so far as to defy gravity.
The fascination and curiosity Western women display about the compulsory wearing of hijab irritates many Iranian women because while there is a proportion who would choose to wear it – even it wasn’t required – there are also thousands of women and girls who do so because they must if they are to get on with their lives.
‘Look,’ says one woman firmly. ‘Hijab is nothing – it is a minor battle for us. There are much bigger issues in Iran today such as true equality for women. As you say in your culture, “get over it”.’
I think of her comments as we leave the café that is now so full it’s standing room only. Today more than 60 per cent of Iran’s university students are women and 70 per cent of the population are under 30 years old. Clearly, young, educated Iranian women will be a force to be reckoned with in the future.
12
A NIGHTINGALE SINGS
Kashan and Isfahan
A moment of happiness,
You and I sitting on the verandah
Apparently two, but one in soul, you and I
We feel the flowing water of life here
You and I, with the garden’s beauty
And the birds singing.
Jelalludin Rumi
We’ve only just left the Tehran bus terminal and already there’s been a rebellion on our luxury bus (complete with video television, plus a drink and snack service) to Kashan. In the hope that last-minute passengers would arrive, we end up leaving late and because the bus is not quite full, the driver’s assistant hangs out the door, touting for business at every city intersection.
The journey is scheduled to take us four hours, which for most of us on board is long enough. If we keep stopping to plead with passers-by to come with us it’s going to take a lot longer. Reza sighs and catches the eye of the man across the aisle from our seats. He, too, is annoyed.
As we’re only one row from the driver Reza leans forward to tell the driver it’s time to get moving. The driver is not impressed, but when everyone else at the front of the bus joins the protest he shrugs, tells the assistant to shut the door, and finally cranks up the speed.
With darkness falling and the bus video inactive (which for me is no bad thing) we have time for an intensive Farsi lesson: compound verbs and comparative adjectives – hardly riveting for the rest of the passengers but Reza and I notice that the man in front of us seems to be listening. Despite the fact he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a US baseball cap, Reza is sure he’s Iranian.
Suddenly he turns around and speaking in English, albeit with an American accent, tells Reza that along with all the grammar he should teach me some practical stuff, such as ‘What the hell is this?’
We both stare at him, surprised.
‘You are Iranian then,’ Reza says, betraying our curiosity. Hossein (not his real name) fills us in on his background including that while he was born in Isfahan, where he is going this evening to visit his parents, he completed most of his high schooling in the States and has worked in Australia.
‘Where do you live now, Hawaii?’ asks Reza, fishing shamelessly.
‘I live part of the year in Ko Samui in Thailand,’ Hossein replies. ‘I’m in business – it’s easy to make money in Iran but hard to spend it.’ Now that he’s begun talking he’s impossible to stop. Reza tries to restart our lesson but Hossein keep interrupting, asking about our travels and why we are going to Isfahan, especially when Reza travels there with tourists many times a year and even I have already been three times. Reza explains we want to spend more time in its beautiful mosques.
‘What’s that special about the mosques?’ Hossein asks.
Reza looks stunned.
‘I hate religion – that’s why I can only spend a few days here each year because I can’t stand the restrictions. Once you’ve lived outside Iran it’s almost impossible to live here again. I’ve got two daughters living in Spain – they have so much freedom there.’
‘But even if you do not like religion surely you appreciate the beauty of our architecture and our poetry,’ Reza replies.
‘In Ko Samui I have coconut palms on the beach and topless girls in the bars and I love stopping in Dubai,’ Hossein answers.
Picking up our Persian language book in an attempt to get back to our lesson Reza asks me to say, ‘I like Shiraz but I love Isfahan the best.’
Reza dislikes Dubai intensely because of its lack of history and emphasis on wealth.
‘This man has no idea about Iran’s culture and history,’ he whispers to me, then leaning forward he engages Hossein once more.
‘You know, Hossein, not all Moslems have fundamental views,’ he says. ‘I will draw you a diagram to explain.’
Reza draws what looks like the floor plan of a house with a central room that has many doors. He then explains his theory that some people only reach the outer rooms of their spiritual growth because they are at their limits of understanding; then there are people who go further into the house but who require rules and regulations to feel secure while tho
se who reach the middle are the true seekers of spirituality. The key, explains Reza, is understanding that there are many doors to this room and people arrive there by different routes.
‘That’s fine,’ says Hossein as he points out of the bus window, ‘but try telling that to the men over there...’ Is it predestined or simply chance that we are having this discussion while driving past the road leading to Qom? The seat of religious power and learning in Iran, Qom is where Ayatollah Khomeini, the Iranian the West loved to hate, lived and taught before his exile in the years leading up to the Islamic revolution. It is the most conservative place in Iran and unsurprisingly I’ve never been there and Reza never seems keen to take me.
‘There’s nothing there, really, apart from the shrine,’ he’s told me more than once.
I wonder if he is perhaps uncomfortable about letting me see the extent of Qom’s religious conservatism.
When our bus pulls in at a roadside café, Reza buys drinks and a box of sohan, Qom’s other claim to fame. A crunchy biscuit full of pistachios and butter – so much butter it leaves one’s fingers shiny – it is utterly irresistible but then our enjoyment is spoiled when Hossein approaches.
‘Oh, no,’ Reza says. ‘I wish he’d leave us alone.’
Hossein, oblivious to his unsettling effect, sits down beside us and Reza, his feelings of hospitality overcoming his reservations, offers him the box of sohan.