by Jill Worrall
Reza and I have previously spent many hours in Isfahan’s Royal Square or Naghsh-e-Jahan (these days its official name is Emam Khomeini Square), a short walk from the Abassi, but on all those other occasions we had tour groups to look after. Today is a rare treat – no responsibilities, no timetables so we have time to sit back and take in the spectacle of one of the world’s truly great public squares – and two of the most magnificent mosques on the planet.
The sky is a cloudless dome over the square when we arrive, and that elusive hint of spring is now most definitely a promise. Actually forming a long rectangle, the square is entirely enclosed by a two-storey arched arcade of shops, most of which sell various examples of Isfahan’s vast array of specialist arts and crafts: miniature paintings, enamelwork, block printing, metalwork, carpets, even gaz.
We’re bypassing the shops for now to visit the Emam Mosque. Architecturally it’s regarded as one of the most beautiful mosques in the world, an assessment with which Reza, the expert, and I, the amateur, agree. Despite its 400 years of changing fortunes and millions of visitors, the Emam Mosque retains a deeply spiritual atmosphere. The entrance portal lies exactly in the centre of the southern side of the square. Thirty metres high, it is covered with flowing calligraphy, flowers and geometric designs, all painstakingly created using mosaic faience (a technique whereby tiny pieces of multi-coloured tiles are employed to make the finished design – rather than applying tiles already glazed with a design, which is much less exacting and time-consuming). Reza is ‘reading’ the façade to me when we hear a distinctive and rather familiar clicking sound behind us and we turn to see the scarf man. For a number of years now this entrepreneurial vendor has been piling up his old black bicycle with ladies’ headscarves (he’s diversified lately into T-shirts) and wheeling them to the paved courtyard in front of the Emam Mosque. He knows Reza well and, remarkably, remembers me from my previous visits with assorted tour groups.
‘You remember me, madam,’ he reminds me as he riffles through his latest collection, pulling out a pink scarf shot with silver thread and handing it to me.
‘I always have the one-American-dollar scarves for your tourists, but this is a gift for you.’ I try to refuse but am out- taroffed.
‘It’s OK,’ says Reza. ‘He really does want you to have it. He’s a kind man and never cheats the visitors.’
We pass through the portal and its magnificent brass doors. Normally in a mosque the central courtyard would lie straight ahead, but the Emam Mosque has a surprise in store for newcomers. The portal was built to harmonise geometrically with the design of the square by balancing a similar portal at the northern end that leads into Isfahan’s bazaar. But mosques must face Mecca and if the mosque had been built directly opposite the gateway it would not have done so. Thus, to meet both demands, the 17th-century architect realigned the entire complex beyond the gateway. Winding corridors lead worshippers and visitors around until they emerge in the vast inner courtyard, facing the main ivan and its ritual ablution pool and, of course, Mecca.
We perch ourselves on a ledge in a far corner of the courtyard where we can see the main dome covered with its shining gloriously turquoise-blue tiles, across which weave arabesques in white and gold. On each side are minarets completely covered in more of the turquoise tiles. Near the top of these minarets are small circular balconies enclosed with delicately carved wooden screens. Every centimetre of the arches that surround the courtyard is adorned with decorative tiles featuring geometric designs and embellished with calligraphy. The predominant colour is deep blue – we’re sitting on the edge of a sea of lapis lazuli.
The call to noon prayers begins and as the courtyard and its ivans act as a vast natural amplifier, the sounds reverberate around the space. Gradually, from all corners of the complex, the faithful – including young men in trendy jeans carrying briefcases – approach the doorway to the winter prayer hall.
Even before we see him, we hear a man approaching through the curved corridor singing his own version of the azan in a clear tenor voice. Old, bent almost double and using a stick for support, he totters past, achingly slowly, placing his free hand against the wall for support. To produce such a beautiful sound he must be singing from the heart.
‘As this is the last time you will be in a mosque for some time,’ Reza says, ‘shall we say the prayer together?’ Over the past weeks, along with my Farsi lessons, Reza has been teaching me the first sura or prayer in Arabic.
A little ploddingly, but without making a mistake, I make it from Beshmellahe, Rahmane Rahim (in the name of God) through the tricky Ehdenasseratal mostaquim (show me the straight path) through to the wonderful drawn-out vowel sounds of Alayhem va lazzalin. In front of us, pigeons flutter down to drink from the placid surface of the ablutions pool. There is peace in this half of the world.
By now I’m sniffling into my headscarf so Reza suggests some retail therapy. We head off to a small studio just off the central corridor of shops that runs around the arcade and which is occupied by two brothers who are widely regarded as the best painters of Persian miniatures in Iran.
Reza is a regular visitor and when we appear in their tiny studio Rasul Fotovvat, one of the brothers, does not jump up to try to sell me anything but instead finds chairs for us, orders tea and hands around a box of gaz.
A bout of No Ruz spring-cleaning is under way here, too, in that just before we arrived an assistant had been gathering up the shop’s collection of flags of the world to dust. For some reason, however, he’d left a flag on the counter and it just happened to be the New Zealand one.
Rasul carries on with his portrait of Shahrazade (better known in the West as Scheherazade), the beautiful Persian royal storyteller from the Tales of One Thousand and One Nights. Her delicate face, deep blue dress and the tiny nightingales he is painting on her dress are composed of thousands of dots, almost invisible to the naked eye, made with his paintbrush with just one hair.
‘It’s a cat hair,’ he says in English, ‘because cat hair is very fine and flexible. The handle is made from a porcupine spine.’
The brothers use only natural pigments such as saffron and cobalt in their paint and Rasul shows me how he grinds up turquoise stones and mixes the powder with water and gum Arabic to use on Shahrazade’s dress.
‘Other people do cheap paintings on plastic but we use reconstituted camel bone. On its own the bone splits because it absorbs too much humidity so we grind it up and then compress it. It’s still natural, but it means we can also work on large paintings which wouldn’t be possible if we were restricted to actual pieces of bone.’
Rasul switches to Farsi in order to speak to Reza and then down puts the portrait he’s working on in order to pick up a tiny piece of bone. He then dips a one-hair brush in black paint and in a few deft strokes draws a miniature portrait of Omar Khayyam. Attaching it to a backing sheet he hands it to one of his assistants who slides it into a frame.
‘Reza tells me you love our poets so this is a farewell gift for you,’ he says.
This display of generosity doesn’t help my equilibrium at all and after leaving the studio we pause for a restorative ice cream, inspired by some nearby workmen who have stopped to eat chocolate cream freezes. But today we feel the need for saffron ice cream. Free of time constraints we carry our pale yellow cones onto the lawn in the centre of the square and sprawl on the grass. Behind Reza’s head I can see the dome of the Sheikh Lotfallah mosque with its unusual pale gold tiles and swirling white arabesques.
My view is obscured now and then by the maidan’ s horse-drawn carriages. Today they are full of giggling small girls in pink and blue wimples crammed in three or four to the seat, their multicoloured backpacks on their laps.
‘You know,’ says Reza, ‘I have never been on one of those touristy carriages and as you haven’t either, shall we do now it in the name of research?’
I agree to this plan and slightly embarrassed we climb into a carriage and clop and jingle our way around
the square, past the Ali Qapu palace where Shah Abbas used to sit to watch polo matches (two of the goal posts are still in place) and see the portal to the Emam mosque from an entirely new angle. Then we wheel around to our starting point so that the entire square is in front of us, with the shadowy mouth of the bazaar at the far end. It’s an immense space – one of the largest public squares in the world.
The day has slid effortlessly into lunchtime and we eat in a restaurant in the arcade next door to the Emam Mosque, which has a reputation for being one of the best places in Iran, to try its famous stews. We choose a takt and order plum stew and rice. While we are eating, a large group of Thai tourists walks past, with several pausing to photograph us. Reza is amused.
‘Back in Thailand their friends are going to ask if they saw many blonde, blue-eyed Iranians.’
We walk through the eastern arcade after lunch, stopping at a shop selling the giant brass light fittings I’ve been admiring in various mosques and hotels. The one I really want costs $US7000, which Reza is quick to point out is the same price as a brand-new Kia car.
The second of the square’s mosques is Sheikh Lotfallah, which takes visitors on an even longer journey from its portal to its heart. The corridor, lined with mosaics, curves around the mosque’s wall like a protective arm – it’s a small building but the unusual entrance serves to make it appear bigger. The corridor ends with a sharp turn to the right and a simple doorway leading to the square sanctuary. Above it is the dome’s interior, breathtakingly decorated with a lozenge-shaped pattern that diminishes in size as it reaches the most intricate work at the very centre. Shafts of light from the latticed windows high above fall across the mosaics that glisten, the colours changing in the play of light.
We continue our circumnavigation of the square, but are stopped in our tracks when a handsome young man outside a carpet shop says ‘Kia ora’. He’d overheard my Kiwi accent and now invites us in to drink tea. We sit on piles of his carpets while he tells of meeting Kiwis and Aussies while on an African safari.
‘I’m very happy to hear a New Zealand accent again,’ he tells me. He’s also impressed how Reza’s English vowels sounds (trained by me over past weeks) have developed such an authentic Antipodean twang.
Before we leave I ask him to show me a bright red-and-silver carpet that hangs from the ceiling.
‘You have chosen the most expensive carpet in the shop,’ he laughs, ‘a silk carpet from Qom.’
The price is equivalent to a fleet of Kias.
We now begin the late afternoon teahouse crawl. Our first stop is the Azadegan teahouse tucked away near the entrance to the bazaar and with the most extraordinary interior. Its long narrow room is divided in two by a beaded curtain; at one end sit the hardened male qalyan smokers while at the other are couples, families and the very occasional tourist. There is almost no headspace, thanks to the most bizarre collection of knick-knacks, antiques and memorabilia dangling from the rafters, including brass lamps, kerosene lamps, Sufi begging bowls, ewers and jugs. The walls are equally festooned with stuffed animals and black-and-white photographs of old Isfahan, partly obscured by shields, axes and shelves overflowing with old china, battered Aladdin lamps and other treasures that can’t be suspended from the ceiling.
We share the family end of the teahouse with two couples who it turns out are studying at Isfahan’s school of restoration, the best in the country. At that moment they are supposed to be in a lecture on building materials, but they’ve skipped it to come to the teahouse.
It’s almost sunset, time to climb the narrow sets of stairs (so steep they are really more of a ladder) to the last teahouse on our itinerary. Set immediately beside the portal to the bazaar, its terrace commands a view over the entire square – straight ahead is the Emam Mosque, Lotfallah Mosque is to our left, and the Ali Qapu palace to the right. Below us traffic crawls through the end of the square still open to motorised vehicles. Beyond the traffic chaos the fountains play in the pool and the horses and carriages trot around their circuit.
We sit at the rear of the terrace, our backs against the wall and watch the sunset colours sliding over the gleaming mosque domes and down the minarets, glinting on the brass crescents at their peaks. A qalyan arrives along with tea and the teahouse speciality of tiny pastries. The sunset azan rises above the noise of the traffic.
‘It doesn’t get any better than this,’ Reza exhales along with a cloud of smoke.
Later in the evening we once again join the Isfahanis down at the river. This time we cross the double-storeyed Khaju Bridge. Built in 1650, it also acts as a dam to regulate the Zayandeh River’s flow and, like the other bridges in the city, it’s a gathering place. Each bridge pier has steps leading down to the water which, thanks to the first of the spring snow melt, is now roaring through between the abutments. We sit on a step as close to the water as we dare. Only when our shoes are saturated with spray do we move.
Nearby, in the deep shadows of one of the arches, an informal concert is under way. Singing in public is frowned upon in Iran, but almost every evening young men meet under the bridge to sing. If an official of any kind appears they melt away, only to reassemble when the coast is clear.
While we enjoy the view a young man with a beautiful voice sings a traditional Iranian song. It’s a haunting melody and his magical voice is attracting a crowd which, like us, stands or sits in the shadows to listen while watching the river tumble under the bridge as the moonlight draws a silvery path across the placid swirling water upstream.
We take a taxi back to the hotel. The driver has met Reza before and when he learns that Reza has just finished his MA, he asks for advice on how to make his son study harder. When we reach the hotel, however, he refuses to take any money.
Today is my last morning in Iran – soon we must take the bus back to Tehran and then at midnight Reza will drive me to the airport for my flight back to New Zealand.
‘Try not to cry or my mother will cry and then my sister will cry’, Reza tells me.
‘We have to remember you will be back soon,’ he says.
There is one last thing I want to do before we leave Isfahan. We take a taxi to the square and enter the early-morning silence and emptiness of the Emam Mosque. I lead the way into the main sanctuary and under the central dome with its glittering golden mosaics and concentric circles of roses that seem to tumble from heaven.
Directly under the dome is a spot with perfect acoustics and a remarkable echo (there are supposed to be nearly 50 echoes but the human ear can only hear about a dozen). I ask Reza if he will stand in that spot and sing the azan, the call to prayer that has rung out from minarets throughout our travels – a sound that has floated over towns of drab apartments, wafted around gold-clad domes in the holy city of Mashhad, been emitted through spluttering loudspeakers in simple brick towers in timeless villages. It’s led us, followed us, and it’s become an unbroken thread woven through our journey just as it was part of the lives of the men and women who joined the great caravans that crisscrossed Persia hundreds of years earlier.
Reza stands on the black paving stone under the dome and sings.
‘Allah o akbhar, la elahaellalla...’ (God is great, there is no god but the almighty, Mohammad is the messenger of Allah, Ali is the vice-regent of Allah, rush to do good deeds. The time for prayer has come. The time for worship has come. The time for good deeds has come.)
His voice fills the dome, encircling it like the mosaic roses, reaching into my soul.
I’d promised that later I would not cry. Now was different.
Reza in one of his favourite places in Iran, the Emam Khomeini Square in Isfahan. Behind him is the Sheikh Lotfallah mosque.
Young students in Tarikaneh listen to Reza explaining the principles of mosque architecture.
The Zarafaniyeh caravanserai no longer opens its doors to travellers but still presents a remarkably well-preserved façade to passers-by.
A rooftop view of the Kalmard caravanserai. Some of
the archways have been bricked up to provide shelter for a family of Afghan refugees and their livestock. Heritage officials are on the roof checking out the caravanserai’s suitability for renovation.
A beautiful latticework skylight in a ruined caravanserai.
A typical caravanserai interior showing a central unloading platform for camels. The soot on the walls probably dates back to the time when caravans still visited regularly.
The village of Kharanagh grew on foundations established about 1400 years ago. It was still inhabited until about 1970.
Tahmineh is the caretaker of Taft’s Zoroastrian fire temple.
One of the last residents of the village of Cham sorts pomegranates she has been storing over winter.
Reza B preparing pomegranates for morning tea in Cham.
A zurkaneh (house of strength) session in full swing.
The minarets and upper section of the entrance portal of the Jama Masjid, the 14th-century Friday mosque in Kerman.
The walls of the governor’s house dominate the humbler adobe houses inside the Rayen citadel.
A Shirazi breadmaker works to keep up with the lunchtime demand for fresh bread.
Poppies herald the arrival of spring beneath the cave tombs of the Achaemenid kings at Naqsh-e-Rostam.
Students on an educational visit to Saadi’s tomb in Shiraz, eager to have their photograph taken.
Shiraz’s Vakil mosque is a vibrant confection of floral wall tiles.
A Sassanian bridge leads to the ruins of a caravanserai (on the far bank) used by travellers making the arduous journey between Shiraz and the Persian Gulf.