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.