Greetings from the Middle Ages
Trip Start
Jul 09, 2008
1
4
9
Trip End
Aug 03, 2008
Yazd,
Iran
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tehran was crazy. A city of 14 million, it is one of the most polluted in the world. It is flanked by the Alborz mountains on the north, but they are barely visible on any given day. The whole city is submersed in a chemical boullion of diesel exhaust. We began our time in Tehran by shopping for a new manteau for me. I brought one with me, but wouldn't you know it? After only 5 minutes in the country, it catches on the door of our taxi at the airport and rips...right across the butt! Our cab driver was quite troubled that my gluteous-maximus was exposed for all to see and insisted on entering our hotel close behind me, holding up a back pack to shield my backside. (Keep in mind, a manteau is only an overcoat, so we are not talking about my bare bottom here - it was already covered in baggy pants and a long shirt). Anyway, the manteau market has been honed to a fine work of art. Make no mistake; just because a woman is fully covered does not mean the clothing lacks sex appeal. The manteaus come in frumpy "mature" varieties with shoulder pads, and also in form-fitting colourful designer coats made in Italy, Spain and France. My new one is khaki and fairly simple compared to what's out there, but still form fitting and attractive. Iranian women are resourceful, and like women the world over, they will work with what they have and within the confines dictated to them to create something beautiful. A tuck here, a belt there, some ringlets of hair, designer high heeled shoes, an elegant scarf and a thick layer of make-up that we might deem garish is somehow stylish, elegant and dignified on them.
While in Tehran, we visited the Imam Khomenei shrine. Begun in 1989, after his death, it remains a work in progress. It is massive - in fact, we were awe-struck when we passed it en route from the airport, not knowing at the time that it was a shrine to Iran's much revered spiritual leader. It is built in a massive square, with four towering gold minarets rising to the sky. The unfinished scaffolded dome sits in the centre. Entering the complex, there are buses and buses of pilgrims and travellers alike. Because the shrine is free to all, hundreds of families set up camp and there are thus tents all over the lawn. As you enter the shrine, women and men go through separate doors. The security woman gives you a very thorough pat over, and sends you on your way. Inside, it is disappointingly functional and even industrial looking, until you approach the tomb of the Imam and his son. Surrounded in green glass and gold bars, the coffins are covered in green silk. Now the women's section is about a tenth the size of the men's section, and covered in carpets. Women and children sleep all over the floor, so you have to step over bodies to get close to the tomb. Once there, you are surrounded by women clinging to the bars, kissing the glass and sobbing. It is an experience I will not forget.
Now another quintessential Tehran tourist experience - if you might call it that, given that Iran receives less than a million tourists per year - is a visit to the old US Embassy, known to the Iranians as the US Den of Espionage, because it was there that the CIA planned the coup that overthrew Mossadegh). This is the site of the infamous "Death to America" murals, and therefore a must-see. Fortunately, it was right across the road from our hotel. Now the most well known mural that depicts the Statue of Liberty with a skull in place of her head, is actually showing it's age. The paint is weathered and peeling. Unfortunately, it is followed by several very fresh murals - so fresh the droplets of paint used can be seen on the side walk. Some of them are benign enough. I mean, one reads "resist dictatorship of all forms." I'm cool with that. Another says "The US government is the most hated government worldwide." Now, while I think there may be some viable contenders for that distinction, it's generally hard to argue the point. But one in particular - and I can't remember the wording exactly because I think my mind has partially repressed it - shows a blue handed fist with Israel and US armbands, and a broken star of David and it says something about "the white wolf of Zionism" being crushed by the sacrifice of today's generation. Disturbing on two fronts - in its anti-Semitism and in it's call to Iranian youth to martyr themselves senselessly. What is really fascinating about looking at the murals is that it completely inverts the typical voyerism of tourist experiences. While we looked at the murals, everyone passing by stopped and stared at us. It was not at all a threatening stare, but a sympathetic or apologetic stare, confirmed when one young man approached Michael and said "Please do not judge us by our government. We hate our government."
Being a tourist in Iran is like being famous. As I mentioned, they get fewer than 1 million tourists a year, and of those, a very small minority are Western. It's awkward at first, until you realize the attention is based on curiousity and a desire to be hospitable. I cannot tell you how many people approach us in the streets and say "welcome to my country, I am so honoured you are here" and then procede to maraud us with an entire myriad of questions - are you married, do you have children, how much money do you make, what do you think of Iran, do you like Iranians, etc. What they say about Iranian hospitality is no myth at all. It is absolutely the friendliest place we have ever been.
We left Tehran by night train bound for Kerman, in the south. Now, in turkey they repeatedly told us that the train is "so 1950's" but I beg to differ. Train travel is infinitely more civilized than the overnight buses we rode in Turkey. The trains are old - judging by the fake wood panelling and yellow velvet seats, I would say late 60's or early 70s. But we had a compartment to ourselves, with air conditioning and space, and mercifully, an opportunity to remove our head scarves. Dinner was delivered to our compartment, as well as a never ending flow of tea and biscuits. And when someone on the train made an absolute ghastly "mess" in the toilet, all we had to do was alert a staff, and they shovelled it out the door and scrubbed the squatter clean. The seats converted to remarkably comfortable beds, and a purser came by with sheets, blankets and pillows. We watched the sun set over an expanse of dry desert and desolate, craggy mountains, half-shrouded in a haze of sand. Now, at around 10:15, the train pulled into a stop in the middle of nowhere. Prayer time. You see, if you have to face Mecca to pray, you can't very well do that on a train that is in constant motion. So, it stops, the faithful disembark and make their way to a nearby mosque, the unfaithful disembark and light up cigarettes, and the remaining 5 foreigners disembark to brush our teeth in the moonlight, spitting over the rail bridge in order to avoid doing this in the dirty little cubicle where everyone on board is doing their business. After 20 minutes, it's all-aboard, back into the compartments and under the covers for a fairly smooth and restful sleep, awaking in the morning to find ourselves in Kerman.
From Kerman, we travelled on to Yazd - a fascinating desert city in the south, famous for its qanats and wind tunnels. The qanat system is a brilliant feat of engineering from centuries ago, whereby holes were dug in the nearby mountains, leading to an intricate system of subterranean channels. In the spring, as the snow melts, it is channelled through the qanats and into the tunnels, and is kept in constant movement by the wind that is caught through the wind towers. The system brought water to every home and eventually spilled out near an icehouse, where chunks of ice would be harvested in winter and stored in metre thick walls throughout the summer. Yazd is also centre to the Zoroastrian faith, and many of the people living there are Zoroastrians. We visited a Zoroastrian village of 25 people - most of them elderly, as their children and grand children have moved to the city to make their way in the modern world. The older people came out to greet us and even invited us into their homes. Near the village, is a tower of silence. The towers of silence across Iran are no longer in use, but basically, they are circular towers built at high elevation for the dead. Zoroastrians believe it is wrong to pollute any of the 4 elements, so burying the human body after death is seen as polluting. What they do is fasten the bodies of the dead in sitting position at the top of the tower and wait for the vultures to eat them, and then the bones are dropped down a hole at the centre of the tower. Initially, someone keeps watch, because it was believed that if the vulture pecked out the right eye first, the person was going to heaven, but if the left eye went first...oh oh. Now, interestingly, the practice is banned in Iran because apparently the vultures were leaving less succulent morsels of bodies on the city streets, so since 1949, the towers have not been used. In India, though, where the Zoroastrians are known as Parsis (if you have read Rohinton Mistry's book "Family Matters", the family in this book is Parsi) the practice remains. However, apparently the vultures have lost interest in eating the bodies - which to me is somewhat shocking, because I cannot help but wonder if it has something to do with the environment and the toxins that are inside of us these days - so they have imported them from Africa.
Also in Yazd, we had tea in an incredible tea house, deep under the bazaar, in a converted hammam. The teahouse was filled with luscious fountains and rose petals, and columns supporting an exquiste vaulted ceiling adorned in intricate tile work. A man made tea in a massive copper samovar and served it to us with saffron cookies while we listen to two fantastic musicians playing traditional music on a zither-like instrument. Divine.
Tomorrow it is on to Shiraz!
