IRAN: Part III - Shiraz

Shiraz, 2-5 August 2008

I arrived in Shiraz at the crack of dawn. Another day in intriguing Iran – new place, new outlook ... and of new adventures I could be certain. The tiredness of the overnight journey vanished as I tumbled down the steps of the luxury bus out into Shiraz’s Carandish Bus Terminal, and freed my bags from its massive double cargo hold. These buses are large, and comfortable as an airplane, and with all the regular logistical details of any type of travel, touring Iran didn’t seem quite so mysterious anymore!

The taxi into central Shiraz was inexpensive, so I did not whip out my Farsi phrasebook to bargain it down anymore. Without much ado I entered and sat in one, and watched as another local person joined, paying a tenth of what I did. I believe I saw that right, but held my peace because I was in Shiraz and all was good with the world.

The taxi drove through the early morning haze – typical in a hot climate after cool nights – and arrived in a city that still hadn’t woken up. Some bits of paper and plastic swirled in the breeze as the city was cleaned by automated washing vehicles, but other than that, most street corners were immaculate. Its wide avenues and planned roads seemed wider in the morning tranquillity. Only a few men could be seen on the roads, but no women anywhere at that time. A week had already passed since I arrived in Iran, and my familiarity with the country manifested in the small things – from counting out money from my pouch without having to read the numbers at the corner of the bills, to knowing which questions my taxi driver was asking me, like name, religion, nationality and marital status. As I only had three days remaining in Iran, I decided to pick a nice hotel – the Shiraz Eram – right on the main thoroughfare called Karim Khan-e Zand or just the ‘Zand’. The Eram had all the amenities of a comfortable hotel in any city, while being completely affordable. But the highlight had to have been 24-hour BBC and Al-Jazeera without any ‘outages’.

Esfahan is picturesque and Tehran is diverse. Shiraz was the only other city that I visited, so I have to limit my touristic opinion between the three. If Iran were a big souvenir bazaar, then Tehran and Esfahan would be in the front row of shops, boasting shiny, colourful artefacts on glassed-off shelves displayed by multilingual well-versed shopkeepers, while Shiraz would be more like a side street shop kept by ancient collectors, offering real antique pieces – in their original condition – to those who know their value. Esfahan and Tehran are recent, Islamic-era cities but Shiraz is not only historic, but has also been a centre of culture, learning and poetry for thousands of years.

Shiraz completed my Iran safar in several ways. It is the capital of Fars province where the ancient Farsi language originated, where Darius and other Achaemenid kings established their empires and left behind the magnificent ruins of Persepolis and Pasargad, where we find the archaeological sites for some of the most significant inventions of mankind including the earliest known samples of wine some seven thousand years old, and the home of Persia’s greatest medieval poets, Hafez and Sa’adi, whose philosophy define the Iranian soul even today. Mini newsprint copies of Hafez, Sa’adi, Omar Khayyam are sold in parks and street corners, while calligraphic verses are widely available on imitation parchment.

I absorbed Shiraz by sitting on the wooden garden benches inside the massive Arg-e Karim Khani fort in the centre of the city, and by walking for hours around the great Bazaar Vakil. The massive square fort has four walls and four towers, one of which lean quite curiously, and the sprawling bazaar has sections for expensive carpet merchants, souvenir depots, silver and gold jewellers, spice vendors, metal workers and coppersmiths, and sweet sellers. The high arched brick ceiling of the bazaar and its natural lighting scheme gives it an edge over bazaars in Tehran or Esfahan. The shops selling cloth are the most eye-catching because rolls of silk, velvet, brocade and organza are offered in dazzling colours – colours that are hard to find people wearing on the streets. Although the cloth market is perfectly legitimate, it is patronized by ‘underground clientele’ who wear the outrageous colours indoors or in very private, almost underground gatherings.

Shiraz was not connected to the great railway network of the Islamic Republic, and that is perhaps why it has a relaxed suburban feel. It had been a capital of the medieval Zand dynasty (sometime between the thirteenth and eighteenth century,) when most of its monuments, boulevards, palaces, formal gardens, bazaars and forts came into existence. Between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries, Shiraz saw the life and works of two of the greatest Persian poets – Hafez and Sa’adi – whose Sufi poetry shaped the Persians’ psyche definitively. Iranians are known to turn to their poetry books for guidance and solace, as often or more than they seek it in the Quran. Among Shiraz’s monuments are these poets’ marble tombs which draw thousands of locals and tourists everyday, usually to sit in the manicured lawns, and occasionally to make a prayer or a wish at the icons’ tomb. Even religiously dressed men and women can be spotted in the mausoleums, paying tribute to poetic Sufism.

The mausoleums of Persian poets give stiff competition to the Islamic monuments in Iran and I too chose the Hafez Mausoleum over the famously spectacular Vakil Masjid in Shiraz. The marble tomb of Hafez, engraved with poetry and set in the middle of a large courtyard with a lawn, fountains and greenery. The dusk hour was very crowded and the air was made festive by the new moon in the sky. I wish I could also have visited the tomb of Omar Khayyam in Nishapur – alas, beyond my itinerary.

The mausoleum resembled the romantic gardens of Iran. Shiraz is famed for its formal gardens, and one afternoon walking the streets of Shiraz … taking photos of its randomly occurring medieval buildings or its sporadic sections of old walls … I came upon the Jahan Nama Gardens without warning. The garden was an enclave hidden inside a high brick-walled, heavy-doored perimeter exclusive from the outside world. As you enter, the sight of the eternal green lawns, paved walkways, gurgling fountains and astoundingly decorative fruit trees is as transformational for the mind as for the eyes. The walls block out the outside noise and the serenity inspires peaceful thoughts. Bagh-e Eram (Eram Gardens) is supposedly the most spectacular in the city with even a small palace hundreds of years old, within its walls.

Shiraz may not offer any connection between the region and contemporary Shiraz wine, but the medieval city has been synonymous with wine that historians presume to have been sweet or dry white. Ubiquitous miniature paintings available in street corners and souvenir stores portray noblemen seated on Persian rugs in rustic settings, gazing amorously at his Saghi who is pouring him wine from a Persian carafe. It is easy to imagine that inspiration for the visual and poetic arts flowed from the same source – like the miniaturists, medieval Sufi poets embraced the culture of harmony to write liberally of love (in this world and the next).

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse---and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness---
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
- Omar Khayyam

Hail, Sufis! Lovers of wine, all hail!
For wine is proclaimed to a world athirst
Like a rock your repentance seemed to you;
Behold the marvel! Of what avail
Was your rock, for a goblet has cleft it in two!
- Hafez

A common Sufi theme is allusions to beauty and wine, and of reaching spiritual heights. While most descriptions of fine-looking women, scented flowers, melodious nightingales and heavenly gardens permeating poetry are easy to visualize today, the allusions to wine, taverns, Saghis and the drunken enlightened mystic are a little more obscure. Once in a very unpopular decree wine was prohibited in Shiraz by the Muzaffarids but it was soon repealed, before the present ban was imposed after the Islamic Revolution. There is poetry spurning the ban on wine also.

Shiraz joins the experience of ancient Persia with the modern. Farsi language, thousands of years old, originates in Fars and is spoken in almost its unchanged form. Although invaded and influenced by Byzantines, Turks, Mongols and Afghans, Farsi has prevailed through the resilience of the Aryans. The 2008 August edition of National Geographic features as its cover story a photo documentary of Persia’s ancient soul, nicely connecting many symbols of ancient Persia to modern life – the symbols of the faravahar, the griffin and other ancient Zoroastrian symbols feature clearly in Islamic Iran, whether as business logos, in product branding and hotel names. Shirazis foster intense pride for their Aryan ancestors and find no contradiction between Islam and their Zoroastrian cultural symbols.

Fars is the home of the first Aryan Empire, the ancient capitals of Pasargad and Persepolis can be visited as day tours from Shiraz. The visit to Persepolis in a taxi through the countryside opens up some dry hilly territory – rocky, sandy and unbearably hot. But in the brown horizon, a row of green trees appear abruptly and announce the entrance to Persepolis.

Having studied Darius and Alexander in middle school, the weathered-smoothed ruins of chambers and columns in the deserted enclave feel familiar and appear exactly as they do on postcards. Most of the 2,500 year old structures are in ruins and it takes some imagination to recreate the Hall of Hundred Columns, or the gold-filled treasury which took Alexander of Macedonia two weeks and a caravan of five hundred camels to empty out after his invasion. Looking over entire Persepolis from the adjacent rock faces, are the impressive entrances to the tombs of kings Artaxerxes II and III with colossal stone carvings on the rocky walls to mark it. Persepolis consisted of magnificent marble palaces, conference halls, reception halls, treasury, and gates, which led even the Romans to pay tribute to Achaemenids.

A fascinating aspect of ancient Iran is the claimed civility and sophistication of the Aryan kings. The relief carvings at Persepolis depict great armies and kings, all armed, but none with weapons drawn, and the most fascinating artefact is Emperor Cyrus’ cylinder – an scripted pottery artefact – that is interpreted by some as the foremost declaration of human rights as it claims the return of displaced people in dignity after the Persian capture of Babylon.

Trudging through the sandy grounds of the vast ruins, in insufferable heat and mid afternoon sun, we tried to dodge the sun as much as possible by stopping often under the short shadows of the tall columns, and behind the griffin or bull carvings. I attempted an agonized smile only to pose for a photo … the group continued walking even though the covered clothing landed us on the verge of heat stroke. We even climbed up to the rocky tombs overlooking Persepolis. When our tour was done and the taxi driver became impatient, we were not done … from Persepolis we went to Naqsh-e Rostam and Naqsh-e Rajab, to see more sepulchres carved into ancient rocky hills where five of their greatest emperors had been interred. The crypts were carved into steep rock faces so high above the valley that after trying various angles to capture the rich relief carvings with my point-and-shoot camera, I gave up and sat down to memorize the landscape. These tombs have survived so well because of the desert-like conditions.

It is natural to feel proud in the knowledge that your ancestors created the city of Persepolis and Pasargad, the impression of greatness inspire Iranians even today. Ancient Zoroastrian culture, with their main festival No’ruz, is jubilantly observed nationwide and has been fiercely defended despite repeated attempts by the Islamic theocracy to replace it with an Islamic celebration. The culture of Persia flows deep, perhaps even deeper than their Islamic heritage. What the Persians have given back to Islam instead, is the sophistication of art and architecture that is now loosely described as Islamic, ornate masjids and palaces, advanced practice of Sufism, and for better or worse, the concept of the religious theocracy. Islam’s entities have been enriched by their passage through Persia, while the country continues to maintain its own distinctive culture and character.

In the shaded cool Vakil Bazaar in the centre of Shiraz a young city-dweller befriended me to tell me about present Iran. I listened to Amir and learnt that his dream, articulated by widely gesturing hands and a brilliant smile, was to go to Dubai. Although the only son of a wealthy rug-seller, well-versed in Arabic, Farsi and English, and proficient in sales, electrical works and plumbing, he had no stable job and refused to be constantly on the guard for ‘agents’. He regretted that one needed to have connections to find a good job … he claimed, “Iran is rich, yes, but not its people”. Amir told me in no uncertain terms how much he loved the freedom of Europe, which of course was instilled in his mind by the lack of professional opportunities and social freedom in Iran. Just like Amir in Shiraz, Raziyeh in Esfahan was learning English so that she could make friends, and one day perhaps go live in Europe.

I remember Shiraz also for another friend I made, an adventurous Dutch (The Flying Dutchman?) who was travelling Eurasia overland. He had entered Iran through Turkey, from where he travelled by train on a seventeen-hour ride to cross over to Tehran. We had first met over tea at the chaykhuneh in Esfahan’s Imam Square and then again in Hafez Mausoleum in Shiraz. Very excited to exchange notes about the cities and people, we started walking the hilly roads of Shiraz when I found out that he was going by road to Balochistan, Peshawar and Quetta, and then through the world’s highest road the Karakoram Highway to Xinjiang in China, to arrive in Beijing in time for the second week of the Olympic Games. We walked together towards the edge of Shiraz, near the Ghorran Gate, when he professed being a biker and planned to catch the cycling events at the Beijing Olympics. The thought of Balochistan and Peshawar for a Western traveller rang alarm bells for me, but I can attest that he has made it from China to San Francisco and is safely on facebook.

We ended the walk at a spot near the Ghorran Gate entrance to Shiraz, of which there is an eighteenth century photograph at the fort Arg-e Karim Khani museum. On one of the rocky hills next to the gate is a rocky trail, narrow, stepped and steep, that quickly carries one up to a hill overlooking the traffic and the twinkling lights of Shiraz – a spot which has been brilliantly and predictably been transformed in a chaykhuneh for tea and qalyan. Surrounded by the aroma of sweet tobacco, we had clear amber-coloured tea with many cubes of white sugar.

Travelling is a mixed experience … when I first see a city initial exuberance of discovery and exploration brings an ownership, heightened by the photos and writing about it. But soon after the high, comes a sense of melancholy and loss because as you greet, you also bid farewell. For some of these remote, exotic locations, it is easily likely that I will not see it again in a very long time so the urge is to capture details meticulously. In this sense, Iran has been a sad trip – the more magnificent each sight, the more despondent I felt to leave it. I now have an album of countless photos, pages of journal entries and memories of many acquaintances, all of which make me wish I could start back at the beginning and do it all over again.

IRAN: Part II - Esfahan

“Esfahān nesf-e jahān ast – Esfahan is half the world”

1-4 August 2008

With the first rays of the sun entering our train carriage at a low angle, I found that my fellow passengers in the first-class sleeper cabin had already started to fold up the bedding and latch up the bunk beds. The cabin that seemed small at first fit all six of us comfortably – for five dollars square, the journey included on-time departure from the capital, a cold bottle of water, a clean bunk bed in a shared compartment … three to each side, two sheets, pillowcase and a fluffy flower-printed blanket. This was the deluxe Tehran-Esfahan overnight train with guaranteed no male appearances.

When I entered cabin #5 the previous night loudly rolling my carry-on, I felt gawky in the silence that followed as the four women sat quietly upright on either side of the narrow compartment and tried not to look at me too closely. They were unsmiling, but they didn’t seem unfriendly. The last woman rushed in after me, aided by her husband who quickly lifted her large suitcase to the stowaway above the door (ah! that’s where I should have put mine!) and vanished, probably towards the direction of the male sleeper cabins because we did not see him again that night. While the non-conversation continued a ticket-collector with restless fingers and a clicky-sounding punch came to our compartment and as soon as he was done, one of the women pulled and chained the door – it seemed – against all possible intrusions. At that very moment, all the ladies in the compartment wiped their short scarves off their heads, took off their black or grey walking coats, and bared their feet. I could not help but stare at the five outfits that went from being homogenous in colour and extensive in coverage one moment, to short-sleeved, sweet and colourful.

One of the girls unrolled the top bunk and shot up to it with her crossword puzzle while her friend took the opposite one and chatted dreamily. The one in a banana-leaf green t-shirt and fitted khakis spoke some English and informed me with a giggle that the others had agreed amongset themselves that it is best that I take a lower bunk. I acquiesced in sign language but then inspired by the overture and eager for some conversation, whipped out my Farsi phrasebook to try out some new words … "far", "distance", "when ... where ... who ... house ... friends ... family" and it paid back wonderfully! With dark clothes and covered heads they look older in my mind but sitting on the bunks I realized most of them were twenty-five or less. They had bright, beautiful faces, those distinct eyebrows, gorgeous brown-black hair and fair arms with long fingers. Their t-shirts and trousers were carefully chosen and perfectly coordinated. I wanted to take a photo but didn’t want to inadvertently stop our budding conversations by seeming like an uncool outsider.

My cabin mates were going to Esfahan for holidays because it was going to be a four-day weekend. Iranians travel a lot, not only because it is inexpensive but because the culture of hospitality involves large families visiting each other across cities, and then reciprocation. I had been warned that finding tickets this weekend would be impossible which turned out to be correct and left me knocking at travel agencies and then another. It was enchanting that fathers and grandfathers were travelling on planes (I visited the Iran Air office several times), trains and buses with two generations of descendants for a long weekend. I could not remember when our family had last travelled like that.

Esfahan is south of Tehran, and the train journey took about seven hours. As I stepped off the train into the cool early morning air and tried to rub the sleep out of my eyes I could see far out into the landscape, right up to the rugged brown mountains in the horizon. Esfahan is near the Zagros Mountains with a cooler climate, than Tehran at least. Most families disappeared from the station quickly and as it became less interesting to stare, I sat down with LP to locate my hotel and make a quick list of what I would see along the way. Esfahan has one famous main street, Chahar Bagh Abbasi, running through it that cuts the city into east west, and one river flowing through that divides the city into north and south. Chahar Bagh is also the street my hotel is on, and Zayandeh River should be a three minute walk.

The city is carefully laid out, and exquisitely ‘gardened’ so its architecture is harmonious, green and shady … in July when even a taxi ride feels too long in Tehran, you can explore Esfahan by foot, although most people can be found sleeping in the small parks on the road-dividers in the afternoons. These dividers are a great example for climate conscious cities, and city employees can be seen watering the grass quite frequently. The plants are always watered, the garbage is always picked up and the street lights are always on – Iranians have some great cities to show off.

Coming to Esfahan from Tehran is like sliding a notch back in the historical timeline of ancient Persia. With snippets of information tucked away in my memory and scribbled variously on my travel journal from reading several guides, books, websites and news sites on Iran, I remembered Esfahan as a highlight in all those descriptions. It is an easel of Persian culture, and competes with the ancient pre-Islamic era history for prominence, if I were to simplify it excessively and divide Persian history into two easy sections – to before the advent of Islam, and after. That however, would be short-changing the experience of Iran and a slighter deeper view can easily be accommodated.

It all begins – as the archaeologists say – with the Bronze Age in the third millennium B.C. when the Elamites inhabited southwestern Iran near the border with Iraq in the Mesopotamian valley, where they have left a mighty ziggurat to symbolize their achievements. Then the Aryan conquest of Cyrus the Great in 539 B.C. created the first Persian Empire which left its mark on history through the magnificent ancient city of Persepolis. These first Aryans, the Achaemenid ruled Persia from the borders of India to present Turkey for more than 200 years and firmly installed the Aryans in the region. This makes modern Iranians the descendents of the primitive Indo-Europeans. Iran means ‘land of the Aryans’ if I haven’t convinced you already.

Things progressed beautifully under the Achaemenid clan of Cyrus, Darius, Xerxes and their heirs until Alexander the Great appeared over the western horizon and defeated them in 330 B.C. Greek rule continued for barely two hundred years when a northern Persian tribe – the Parthians usurped them and created the second Persian Empire lasting five hundred years. After their decline came the Sassanid who were prosperous and expanded Eranshahr – "Empire of the Aryans (Persians)" – from Afghanistan to Egypt but were finally overthrown by Arab conquest in 641. Post-Arab conquest history is predominated by the splendid, aesthetic contributions of the Safavid rulers to art and architecture in the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, and the later baroque flashiness of the Qajar rulers from eighteenth to twentieth century. If we look along this spotty timeline, we find Tehran squarely belonging to the period of the Qajars, while Esfahan rose between the eleventh and eighteenth centuries, prospering most under the Safavid king Shah Abbas I in the seventeenth century, whose influence can be seen everywhere in the city.

Esfahan’s many masjids, palaces, boulevards, gardens, covered bridges over Zayandeh River, as well as shrines and museums represent the later – Islamic period – Persian styles of painted tiles, terracotta, stone sculptures, woodwork or fountains. The streets of Esfahan are not modernistic, but they are expansive, tidy and well planned which leaves you marvelling at the foresight of the planners at least four hundred years prior. Walking under the shades of trees is a pleasure itself, but it is often delightfully punctuated by the sight of gardens and palaces even when I had not been looking for them. I ‘discovered’ the Hasht Behesht Palace (Eight Paradises) in this way … it is set on vast grounds with the trees in the garden so tall that it almost looked like a park to me. The Iranian culture is persistent – like in Tehran, Esfahan citizens also visit public gardens … perhaps even more religiously.

There are four pretty bridges over the Zayandeh River that connects the northern half of the city to the southern. Walking south on Chahar Bagh Abbasi Street, you will arrive at the 17th century Si-o Seh Bridge. There is only pedestrian traffic on this bridge – the thirty three plain arches give it a clean, symmetrical, antique look during the day, but at night – illuminated from below – it assumes a mysterious aura. Families walk along the bridge, posing for occasional photos or sit at the tea-houses on either bank. Most of the Zayandeh bridges have chaykhunehs at one end where you can have sweet tea and smoke a qalyan.

Chaykhunehs are a delightful characteristic of Esfahan if I can call it that – small cafes, decorated traditionally with divans and rugs … with traditional artefacts on the walls … chandeliers above, copper pots and vases crowded with glass lamps and plaques on the window-sills, where one can sit for hours. I read my book, and checked off items on the LP. The most divine of the chaykhuneh is probably Qeysarieh Teashop at the Imam Square. At the top end of the world’s second largest public meydan, a narrow, winding, windowless row of steep stairs leads you to a landing, and right there on the roof of the row of ground floor shops without any railings or flooring – shaded by the high decorative arches of the meydan architecture there is an open balcony for drinking tea and smoking pipes, with the panorama of Imam Square facing you.

The view of Imam Square is as magnificent as each one of its monuments … along the north edge of the square – passing under Qeysarieh Teashop – is Bazar-e Bozorg, on the south the Shah Masjid, on the eastern side the Sheikh Lotfollah Masjid, and on the west the Ali Qapu Palace. The square is lined with souvenir and art shops where hours can go by in a blink. The array of copper, silver, metal, camel bone, wood, paintings, blown glasswork, calligraphy, jewellery, clothing and sweets, more than anything, just confused me. Iran has so much culture, and therefore so many types of souvenirs that getting even one of each kind would mean that you would need a whole new house. Occassionally, I just stopped window shopping, turned around, and became instantly blinded by the magnificence of what was before me. The two mosques exude a hue of blue and cream, while the palace radiates a brown and golden … the square is a green lawn with manicured rose bushes and flower beds, concrete seats, and fountains in front of Shah Masjid that fills up with wading children in the late afternoon. To complement the scenery, horse-drawn carriages wait attentively in a line to offer rides around the square. Both mosques are magnificent in their own way – looking pristine from afar and just dazzling from inside … hundreds of thousands of tiles and pillars individually painted by master artists in the most intricate Safavid Persian themes of flowers, birds and geometric shapes. Esfahan gets its other name from Imam Square, also called Naqsh-e Jahan or Pattern of the World.

As I sat in Esfahan’s teashops either reading my Azar Nafisi book ‘Reading Lolita in Tehran’ I was taken by the contrast between how it felt to be sitting there, and how Iran has now positioned itself in the media, politics and in the human rights realm. In her book, Nafisi gives a sobering account of the Iranian Revolution of 1979 with the ultimate removal of many civil liberties by the Islamic government. She reveals the continually-frustrated perspective of the activists, and the tragedy of those revolutionaries whose visions of justice were overtaken by imperatives of the government to overpower and to silence; and finally the theocratic system that was established lived up neither to the dreams of the activists, or to the pledges of the Islamists. The book reads like a historical piece from a different time, but once I gazed out at the soothing scenery of Naqsh-e Jahan the real accounts of suffering and suppression were pushed out from my mind to make space for the sensation of greatness.

Although women cover themselves, my initial feeling was that Iran was culturally and socially progressive, with a highly education population. Although a chaykhuneh refused to give me a qalyan because I was a woman, I brushed aside the incident as a singular experience, but I soon changed my mind as I talked to people … people express their wishes and their wills in strange ways, perhaps because sometimes they do not have the words to express what is their right. By the end of the first evening more than two groups of girls at Imam Square – who were accepted by their husbands and fathers to stay out late and socialize – had told me that Iran needs to become more ‘international’. Talking about use of the English language, travelling to western countries, availability of satellite TV channels, removal of the forced veiling and employment opportunities, they insisted that all those things were not ‘bad’. The first time, I experienced the proverbial ‘jaw dropping’ because I thought those topics were taboo for the foreigner, but after a recognizable pattern in all the conversations with young boys and girls I became more curious. And the more curious I became, the less difficult it was – all I needed to do was listen. I didn’t even have to ask questions. They came up to me, introduced themselves, excused themselves for taking a few minutes of my time to ‘practice their English’ and then went on to inquire about varied topics. The asked me and then automatically responded with information like appropriateness of having a boyfriend/girlfriend, salaries in my country … and theirs, liberal values … of Europe, my views on wearing bright colours … and the role of the police, language skills in English and Arabic … and the economy of Dubai, and finally the functionality of Islamic laws.

I tried to give truthful answers. Most young Iranians need jobs or better pay, and most of them don’t support the religious laws, but at the same time they are sincerely hard-working and fiercely Iranian and never directly criticized their country. They agree with Iran – they just want to change their environment … a dilemma for such a talented young group of people. One foreign language teacher mentioned to me that he liked to dance, but if he wanted to do so, he would have to do so in solitude – the state apparatus had strict views on how people’s private lives must be conducted. In three days, I could not possibly experience the state’s influence on the lives of its people, but the scattered accounts of the decency code, gender separation and political suppression gave me a vague idea. To drive the truth home I could just remind myself of the execution of twenty-seven convicted on charges of drug abuse, rape and adultery the day I stepped into the country. But somehow my heart refused to agree with my head.

Esfahan – Iran – is home to oil, gas, steel, copper, carpets, fruits, nuts, and the majestic pomegranate; it is a way station for Silk Road travellers, often a meting pot of cultures. Here was the home of some of the greatest empires of all times, the greatest poets and artists, the longest history of civilization, the beauty and intellect of one of the most advanced societies, possibly one of the richest and arguably one of the most passionate people I have met anywhere. But their hands were tied because of choices they had themselves made – I knew the facts, I had read the history, I had learnt the politics, and I was outraged at the human rights record but travelling through Iran, and especially Esfahan, it is easy to forget that you’re not in Hasht Behesht. What meets the eye and captures the heart is timeless and mystical, so I hope that the dreams and visions of today’s Iranians can once again be released to reach the heights their ancestors had.

IRAN Part I - Tehran

Long years my heart had made request
Of me, a stranger, hopefully
(Not knowing that itself possessed
The treasure that it sought of me),
That Jamshid’s chalice I should win
And it would see the world therein
That is a pearl by far too rare
To be contained within the shell
Of time and space; lost vagrants there
Upon the oceans’s margin, well
We know it is a vain surmise
That we should hold so great a prize.
- THE DIVAN OF HAFEZ

27-30 July 2008 :: Tehran, Iran

The rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the love poems of Hafez, the victories of Cyrus and Darius, the Sassanid and Safavid empires, the timeless lore of Persian gardens, and silk carpets, that merchants from far and wide have coveted since the Middle Ages … miniature paintings of horseback conquests and beautiful women, and romantic descriptions of roses, poetry and wine beside the fountains of Shiraz should allure any traveller to crave for a once-in-a-lifetime experience of seeing the erstwhile Persia with his own eyes. Ancient history notwithstanding, present day Iran is rolling in so much mystery, risks and intrigue that anyone who is interested in the country, the people, the politics - or nuclear terrorism perhaps - would hanker to find out what that fearsome lot is really all about. It is not that I went there to discover all on my own the reason behind the failed nuclear talks - but there is usually no harm in beginnging with the culture, when trying to understanding a people.

Although the media makes it seem as though Iran is in a far-flung corner of the world … pulsing around some evil axis … one discovers that with an Iranian visa and a Lonely Planet (LP) guide, Tehran is just a stone’s throw from Dubai. Visas are easiest if you are European or Turkish, but as a Bangladeshi, it has been surprisingly easy to get my tourist visa although it was valid for all of ten days.

The long ride from Imam Khomeini Airport to Tehran city introduces you to the landscape of northern Iran – dry, brown and mountainous terrain with an occasional mosque or a petrol station here and there. The roads are smooth and wide, with European cars rushing past the old Peugeot taxis at high speeds. July is hot, and like all other months of the year, it is dry. As I sat in the taxi, the hot air rushing at me provided no relief every time it blew off my headscarf which I consciously kept pulling back. The shrine of Imam Khomeini appears soon after leaving the airport. Gazing at signs speeding past, I only understood the English ones which were few and far between; everything else was in Farsi.

A taxi from the airport to central Tehran is 150,000 Rials – informally called 15,000 toumans – which is almost fifteen dollars. That was the highest amount I paid for any transportation inside of Iran, intercity travel included. Trains, buses, flights and the metro are cheap and frequent, making it a travellers’ paradise. My first impression of good roads, multiple public transport options and convenient connectivity did not change during my stay. It was bolstered by the delightful discovery of downward negotiable prices once I learnt my first few words and numbers in Farsi.

Southern and central Tehran, where LP suggests tourists put up, is always jam-packed. In addition to the cheaper hotels, here is where the most number of the sights are ... museums, bazaars, good restaurants, palaces, parks, and monuments are in within a short bus ride. Commerce is so dense that you can turn a corner – sometimes even without doing so – and find a shop or café that you were looking for. Everything is at arm’s length but the crowds are hectic. The traffic and all the transport options of Tehran seem to emanate from meydan Imam Khomeini in southern Tehran which, although a far cry from the classical romanticism of Persia, is a microcosm of modern day Tehran. Men and women rush by in their designated clothing, private and shared taxis screech to a halt in unlikely places and speed off again, long double-cabin buses make slow wide turns at the corners while an elderly woman with a hood-like scarf, and a man holding a bag of fresh bread wait at opposite curbs under a shade for their bus to appear. Shop, café and tea-stall customers spill out on the street, while the young and trendy males loiter at the street corners with thumbs hanging on their belt-loops … waiting to see and to be seen.

Central Tehran is in a rush in the aggregate total of all movement – people drive fast, they walk quickly and they talk rapidly. But with the type of heat August has to offer, you would also have no other option but to speed up your walk at least. The gender dynamics is fascinating and of course is a topic of much contention and debate, but first-hand experience showed me that while the men are breezily dressed in short-sleeved t-shirts and fitted jeans or trousers, women can be covered from head to toe, sometimes even in multiple layers.

The complete chador – the flowing black cloak – can be frequently spotted, but a vast majority of women opt for a tightly-buttoned black or grey knee-length coat over trousers with a matching headscarf. These outfits are modest and do not have the forbidding air of the cavernous chador that is tightly gathered at the chin and leave the whereabouts of the arms to the imagination of the onlooker. Without finding any sleeves, cuts, buttons, stitches or shaping, I was quite unsighted on how the chador was kept from rolling off the head.

The heat and the crowds in Tehran force people indoors at daytime but as evening draws, the air gets cooler and the city totally changes. Families and friends come out en masse. Tehran is full of parks, squares (meydan), gardens and grassy lawns where full families with extended family-members aged between zero and seventy can be seen sprawled over one or two large throws, drinking tea from large flasks and eating sweets. Tehran – and I would later find out that all of Iran – has very many trees, considering the hot and dry natural climate it is endowed with. Trees are carefully planted in gardens and in road separators and most are watered and groomed carefully. The evening air in a public garden smells sweet with hookah tobacco and roasted nuts. Young boys bring you dried fruits and small newsprint booklets in Farsi for sale. With the elation of an explorer I realized that even in present day, Iranians read Farsi poetry, and they do it quite religiously.

Soon I noticed that many of the myriad shops of Tehran are actually kebab/shwarma joints each with at least one juice machine out front, churning liquids of three different colours. The rest of the small shops have a strong possibility of being fast food or soft ice-cream parlours. Popular sweets are the gaz, halwa, and feludeh, and there is an equally strong competition from selections of cookies, nuts and sugary hard candy in different shapes, sizes and colours. The queue in front of sweet and fruit shops never diminish. Juices, ice-cream, tea and sweet sales drive the evening economy.

Going back to the first day in Tehran … because afternoons offer the most appalling combination of scorching heat and pollution, I sat on the hotel bed and made a list of things to see – with the television on one of the six Farsi channels, either playing some drama or broadcasting a long speech by Imam Khameini, with President Ahmedinejad and other clerics seated in the audience listening attentively with their heads tilted, I cannot remember which. LP has exciting itineraries for even the most uninspired traveller and because of the heat, one has to start early. Two to three days in Tehran is enough to see – if one were to be arrogant would call – the essentials.

While Persians have a distinct culture that is more than two thousand years old, Tehran as a city didn’t come into existence until the 16th century under Safavid kings so its sights are the more recent Islamic era palaces and monuments, and many museums. There are no winding streets and the map shows a very close grid. In the 17th century it was famous for its vineyards and gardens – the grapes are now eaten, seated in the gardens. I started my tour with Golestan Palace from the Qajar dynasty era which combines art and history in the same site. The Qajars were enamoured of European architecture, so while the palace is set on vast grounds with traditional fountains, Persian formal gardens, reflecting pools and citrus trees, the buildings feel European. The similarity ends there because once you step inside the many buildings, you are greeted by Islamic-style arches, painted terracotta tiles, divan seating, calligraphy, sheesh mahal type mirrored rooms with chandeliers, and stained glass floor-to-ceiling windows in intricate ancient Persian design. The flowers, leaves and birds motif, on predominantly blue painted tiles give a Persian aura. The aesthetics generally feel ‘Middle Eastern’ but you can soon distinguish many ways that the designs are not Arabic, Turkic, or Mediterranean, but distinctly Persian.

A short walk from the palace is the national museum and library, with similar architecture on a smaller scale and of course many, many books in Persian. Although Farsi calligraphy is exquisite and you can turn pages after pages simply to marvel at the writings, and at the miniature illustrations, it becomes boring if you cannot read a thing and a little embarrassing when the librarian soon comes up to you to offer assistance in Farsi.


English is rarely spoken, so I’ve been hopping on and off buses on a trial and error basis. With Tehran’s complex system of one-way "ye sare" roads, getting it wrong more than a few times taught me that it could actually be efficient to take a taxi. Taxis come in many different shapes and sizes and sometimes a car which looks perfectly harmless, and is painted a colour other than yellow can rush up to you – already filled with three passengers – and offer you a lift. These shared taxis "taaksi na dah baste" actually feel safe and are used by many women.

After a morning of museums and palaces, I let a taxi bring me to the touristic Khayyam restaurant where at five times the ordinary rate for a meal, I gained a priceless experience. A souvenir enthusiast’s paradise, this place serves tea and dessert in little porcelain crockery with gold brushwork painting of the Shah on which gives a good idea of how the real menu is served. As a single customer, I drew stares towards my divan but I went ahead and ordered all the courses. The kebabs were the perfect balance of soft, moist, fragrant, flavoured and well cooked … and the basmati rice – to me it has never been cooked and will never again be cooked like that … and the saffron will never enhance the rice and yogurt as it did that day. When I look at a photo of the restaurant now, I can smell that saffron rice.

The best food I ate in Tehran was something called the ‘walnut chicken’ that my hotel manager kindly summoned from a nearby restaurant. The chicken was exalted – in harmonious unity with the walnut paste flavoured with olives, cinnamon, cilantro and something obscure to create the most delightful culinary creation I have experienced. After the first walnut chicken incident, the manager ordered me food at all times of the day, sometimes even without a request on my part, possibly through experience that all a weary traveller needs is a dose of traditional food and sweet tea in shapely cups. In repeated acts of hospitality and generosity the manager even paid for the food, and had I not read on LP that ta’arof is an intricate art of Iranian formal politeness, where each host pays tribute to guests beyond his ability, I would have taken the food for granted, and also rode in some taxis free of charge. Many times after dropping me off, the driver would raise both palms and waive the charge … I actually had to force money on them, which they would ultimately accept after feigned denial. The drivers were polite, and curious and always asked my nationality, marital status and then religion. It was predictable and easy for me after the first one or two times.

In Iran, you can drink tea anywhere. From respectable high-class restaurants to your dingy, packed internet café. And everywhere it is offered with a mountain of sugar cubes on a side dish. Although chaykhunehs – teahouses – are fun and atmospheric, drinking tea with friends sitting in a public garden with the sun low in the sky and overgrown rose bushes providing shade is probably more popular. In each of these places I scurried around with my camera, hoping to take a few discreet shots. I wanted close-up shots of the youth because not only are they good looking and immaculately dressed, they have an air of pride, evident from their gaze and their carriage. They carry themselves consciously, and are accessorized to perfection. The Aryan genes did wonders for the race but to add to it, women are manicured, pedicured, blow-dried, waxed and made-up and men too display a significant array of eye-brow and hair styles, hair gel usage and couture clothing. Tehran can be highly recommended for people gazing; if they find you taking a photo of them, they usually smile and leave it at that.

Gender dynamics makes for interesting conversation anywhere in the world, but in Iran, the gender dynamics presented by physical clothing and public behaviour filled my mind with questions – the chador is not only religious, but a social, and sometimes political statement also. It may not be a statement made by the individual, but it is certainly a statutory statement – it distinguishes an Iranian female by her religion and her culture, but what was curious to me is that if one looks at the men in their European couture one would not be reminded of the religion, or the culture but rather the opposite, what have you. I perhaps should not trail into a long debate about gender here.

A half hour drive from central Tehran, Tajrish, Darband and Tochal are neighbourhoods in the suburb where the wealthy live at the foot of the Alborz Mountains. The highway weaves through rocky hills where you start to see the luxury condominiums at varied elevation with rose bushes in the balcony and large trees around the buildings. Life here is completely different from central Tehran and I am still wondering what profession most people are engaged in. Apart from those with old wealth, one must also have the support of the Islamic government. A majority of the educated population suffer from lack of employment, either because they found themselves on the wrong side of the revolution, or the morality police have blacklisted them for not obeying strict decency codes.

Nonetheless ‘conservative’ is not a word that I thought of when I was in Tajrish and Darband. Perhaps money can truly buy anything. One can see women in ‘partial’ scarves and wearing a gorgeous array of colours that would no doubt be unacceptable elsewhere in Iran’s strict cultural setting. The beauty and style of Iranian women have another dimension here because people move more freely in their dresses and trousers and designer scarves. The evenings can bring out arrays of couture clothing, designer handbags, French make-up and perfumes, carefully matched colourful shoes and trendy coiffures. Hair in Iran is maintained to perfection – from moustaches and beards to eye-brows and coiffures – literally never a hair out of place. The concept of male grooming has obviously caught on strongly, and among all ages. Women on the other hand – if the arch of their eyebrow is any indication – have equally posh hairstyles under the scarf. Many of course, are not leaving that much to imagination and their stylish moussed back-brush, or streaked bangs were good enough to satisfy my peaked curiosity.

I went to Tajrish and Darband to walk on the trails that begin there and go up the foot of the Alborz Mountains. Darband is like an enchanted gateway between the real world and the magic of the mountains. Although Tehran was hot, dry and polluted, Darband is a radically different world – cool from the mountain breeze and lush with the humidity in the air from the mountain springs. The trail paved in small pebbles starts from a small rocky clearing surrounded by cafes that offer open-air divan seating, covered in patterned rugs, shaded by a few trees and exude an aroma of hookah (qalyan) tobacco and sizzling kebabs, playing some soothing Persian classical compositions. The air, the light, the smells and the view of the Alborz Mountains is the stuff of poetry.

Winding up the stony trail with crests on either side, more cafes appear around every bend! The end of the afternoon brings more families to the mountains. While the cafes were open for the more affluent, vendors sell takeaway dizi and preserved fruit snacks for those who just wanted to have a pot of tea. The trail gets narrow and steep in places and just about when you decide that there are probably no more cafes beyond that point, up pops the most charming restaurant, carved into the side of the mountains, with flowers and roses spilling over the balcony. Donkeys pass from time to time, carrying groceries and sweet drinks to cafés even higher up in the mountain. The trail is so picturesque and stimulating that one can climb for hours. I sat down on a rock and waded my feet at an ice-cold mountain spring outside one such café. I could see today’s Tehran hundreds of feet below but right next to me as a reminder of the true disposition of Persians, a sunset-coloured plaque was decorated in sweeping calligraphy with an eternal poem of Ferdowsi.