July 6th 2008

Iran is the land of poetry. The greatest of the Persian poets, Hafez, Khayyam, Ferdowsi, Saadi, live on in the hearts of Iranians today. Their verses – penned centuries ago – roll effortlessly of the tongues of most Iranians: taxi drivers, school children, housewives, and businessmen will all know at least a few verses and would gladly recite their favorites from memory. It is said that every household in Iran must have two books – A Quran and a copy of Hafez’ Diwan. Hafez, the most honored of Persian poets, is consulted regularly on important matters. It is customary to open a copy of Hafez’ Diwan to a random page when faced with a difficulty; it is believed that the solution is buried in the verses of that page.

To understand more about the Iranian love of poetry, I took a trip to Shiraz – the heart of Persian culture and resting place of some of Iran’s greatest poets including Hafez and Saadi. The tombs of Hafez and Saadi are major pilgrimage sights – people come from all over Iran to pay homage to these greats. Shiraz is also conveniently an hour from Persepolis, the ruined capital of ancient Persia. Built over 2500 years ago, Persepolis was the symbolic center of the Achmenid Empire which stretched from Anatolia in the east to the Indus River (modern-day Pakistan) in the west. The seat of emperors such as Darius, Cyrus and Xerxes, the Persepolis complex was captured and burned to the ground by Alexander’s armies.

I arrived in Shiraz late in the early evening and wandered around the bazaar for a few hours. More pleasant than Tehran’s dirty industrial bazaar and Esfahan’s tourist-hungry shopkeepers, the Shiraz bazaar was the best I have been to in Iran thus far. Trade was brisk but orderly down the main thoroughfare of the Bazzar-e-Vakil. Colorful and attractive rolls of cloth lined most of the stores and quiet passages led off to the less-travelled corners of the bazaar. The sound of chirping bulbuls filled the air as many merchants had kept the birds in little cages near the entrances to their shops. I took a lane off to the left and entered a large courtyard with a shaded pool in the middle. A fountain was gently bubbling in the center. Souvenir shops surrounded the pool – overflowing with the most exquisite of Irani handicrafts: carved and painted wooden jewelry boxes, chess sets, water pipes, jewelry, copper plates, carpets, shawls, mirrors, antiques lamps, swords, photographs, tapestries….

The Bazaar-e-Vakil

The Bazaar-e-Vakil

A Courtyard in the Shiraz Bazaar

The Regent's Mosque in Shiraz

The next morning I hired a car to take me to Persepolis. It was early in the morning so the site was nearly empty and more importantly - the desert sun still lay low over the mountains. Persepolis was splendid in its isolation. It was set upon a massive base several stories high. The ruined columns and statues were visible from a distance. As I walked up the ancient stairs and walked through the gate of Xerxes, I marveled at the still-recognizable carvings of horses that flanked the entrance gate. I wandered amongst the ruined columns and statues towards the palaces in the rear of the complex. I came upon the hall of One Hundred Columns which had once been used as a receiving area for dignitaries from all corners of the empire during special occasions – particularly the Zoroastrian New Year.

On my way back from Persepolis, we stopped at the Naqsh-e-Rostam, the tombs of several Achmedian Kings, including Xerxes and Darius the Great. The tombs were carved high into the cliffs overlooking the dusty plains below. The silence was complete and the vista spectacular. What a wonderful and glorious place to spend an eternity.

The resting place of Darius the Great

In the evening I met up with a friend who had joined me from Tehran and we went to the Aramgah-e-Hafez – the resting place of the great poet. Set in a beautiful garden with fountains and Cyprus trees, Hafez’ tomb was very crowded that evening. Families with noisy children, reflective old people, and soldiers, all respectfully approached the simple tomb below the ornate dome. Many ran their hands over the carved verses on top of the tomb while others sat nearby reciting Hafez’ poetry under their breaths. The tomb of Hafez it seemed, was almost a religious place.

The Tomb of Hafez

The Tomb of Saadi

Later in the evening, the air became very bad. The giant pollution monitor at Engalab Square told us that particle levels in the atmosphere were 300% higher than safe breathing levels. Our taxi driver told us that dust had come from Arabastan – Iraq and was going to get worse over the coming days. We dutifully bought face masks at the nearest drugstore similar to the ones which had suddenly appeared on everyone’s faces in town. After weeks in Tehran breathing the lead-infused exhaust belched by the decades-old Paykans, I had finally succumbed to a face-mask in Shiraz. Of all places for the air to be un-breathable, I didn’t imagine that it would be in the city which had inspired so much poetry about its lush green beauty surrounded by blue mountains and bluer skies.

June 27th 2008

I spent another lazy and carefree week in Tehran. I saw more of the city and got closer to the pulse of this vast metropolis – in many ways.

It began with a heart-stopping night ride through the city on a motorcycle taxi. It was without a doubt the most frightening experience of my life. We raced downhill at full clip, dodging cars, and slipping through openings at chaotic crossings. The drivers of cars – already having to worry about the disarray created by other cars on the road – pay little heed to the insignificant motorcycles which are akin to buzzing flies for them. So we were forced to evade cars as they swerved erratically across lanes and suddenly appeared out of side streets onto the main roads. Miraculously we arrived at my destination unhurt after which the driver proceeded to rip me off. However I paid the $2.50 he was asking and considered that I’d pay much more for a rollercoaster ride anywhere else in the world.

I discovered that there exists another world just a few minutes from the hustle-and-bustle of Tajrish square; a five minute cab ride and a further ten minute walk from the square brought a group of us friends to Darband. It was like a little hill station – a retreat in the mountains with steep and narrow alleys running alongside a swiftly flowing river with restaurants and cafes on either side. Quaint little bridges crisscrossed the river and donkeys carried supplies up to the restaurants. Dancing fountain-like jets of water sprayed off the sides of the restaurants into the ravine below. A cooling mist arose from the river and refreshed us while the shady trees protected us from the summer heat. We spent several hours there, lounging on carpet covered diwans, smoking water pipes and drinking tea. I resolved to make this a regular place to visit in the afternoons where I could escape the afternoon sun.

Darband

With fraternization between the sexes banned by the Islamic Republic, the youth of Iran have retreated behind closed doors where they throw frequent “mehmanis” or “get togethers” for their friends. I attended one such mehmani at the apartment of a couple of classmates from the institute. It was refreshing to see the women without their hair covered and comfortably interacting with the men. It was a sedate affair – with everyone sitting around on couches listening to the laptop-piped music and drinking bootleg Arak. For the sake of appearances, it was removed from the gasoline can in which it came and was poured into an empty bottle of Absolut Vodka. The aroma of the white raisins was still detectable so I found it tasted better than vodka; I was warned however, that it was many times stronger.

I took the time one afternoon to visit the former US embassy compound or “The US Den of Espionage” as it has been renamed. It is closed to the public as it is now the base of operations of a conservative militia, but the entire outside had been decorated with extravagant anti-American and anti-Israel mural and slogans. Pictures say more than words can.

With a bit of an overload of Tehran, I decided to escape for a couple of days to the nearby city of Qazvin from where I could easily visit the legendary Castle of the Assassins. The assassins (pronounced Hash-ash-yun) were part of a radical heretical sect of Ismaeli Islam that emerged in the 12th century under the leadership of the crazed meglomaniac Hassan Sabbah. He set up a series of impenetrable fortresses high in the Alborz Mountains from which he propounded his extreme views and set about assembling history’s first cohort of fanatical assassins. The assassins were trained killers expert in infiltrating the most secure courts of the most prolific political personages of the time. They would be sent out on these missions (often commissioned by rival political groups) and at the appropriate time, calculated to have the most witnesses and the greatest effect – they would kill their target and give themselves up to be martyred by the crowd. In this way Sabah and his followers terrorized the orient for over 160 years. The Assassins sect was eventually defeated with the Mongol Invasions in the 1300s, and most of the castles were completely destroyed.

The 40 Column Palace in Qazvin built when the city was

briefly made the capital of Persia during the Safavid Era.

The Jameh Mosque of Qazvin

I visited Sabbah’s castle at Alamut – the most impenetrable of the Assassins’ fortresses and the place where Hassan Sabbah made his residence. We started off early in the morning from Qazvin. We stopped on the way for a quick breakfast of sweetened Halim – a thick brown soup with bits of meat and dollops of butter. As we left the environs of the city and drove into the mountains, I was treated to some stunning vistas. We climbed high into the Alborz and dipped into its awesome mist-filled valleys on the way to the castle. On the way, we passed by a donkey being led along-side the road by its owner. My driver snickered as he pointed out the animal – “Ahmedinejad” he guffawed in delight.

The stunning vistas of the Alborz

The approach to the castle took my breath away. I could see why Sabbah chose this as his home; the castle stood on an imposing rock shelf hundreds of meters high. All around, was an impossibly deep canyon, hewn by the river that flowed at the bottom. It made the perfect natural moat. We crossed over the recently-constructed bridge and made our way past the old village at the foot of the shelf. We had to walk after that. As I struggled over the rocky pathway, made for tourist access, I could completely understand how it would have been impossible for a would-be attacker to even conceive of assaulting the castle. He would be picked off in seconds by the arrows of the defenders. After nearly 45 minutes of struggling up the craggy surface, I made it to the top of the castle. There was pitifully little left of the once-great fortress, as it had been burnt to the ground by the Mongols. More interesting however was the panoramic view. I could see for incalculable miles in all directions; the mountains stretched as far as I could see. Not a sound could be heard except that of the wind blowing through the ancient crevices of this historic place.

The natural moat surrounding the castle

The fortress of Hassan Sabbah

A view of the ruins from on top of the castle

My return to Tehran was epic in its own right. The car took me out of Alamut back to Qazvin (2.5 hours). From there I grabbed a Savari (a shared taxi) to Karaj – a suburb of Tehran (1.5 hours and 15,000 Rials) I then took the green line suburban rail into Tehran proper (Half an hour and 2,250 Rials). From there I took a taxi to Azadi Square (10 minutes and 2000 Rials). From there, after walking to the taxi stand and waiting for the cab to fill up (15 minutes), I went to Vanak Square (20 minutes and 5000 Rials). At Vanak I was prevented from getting into my next cab by a woman who insisted that the cab she was in only needed one more person before it was full and ready to go. I thought she was a passenger who was in a hurry to get to her destination. It turned out she was the driver. The first cab I ever took with a female driver was in Tehran. Vanak to Tajrish (30 minutes and 7000 Rials). From Tajrish, I took a cab to Niavaran (15 Minutes and 2500 Rials). Finally from Niavaran I walked up to my apartment exhausted (10 minutes). Total time 6 hours and 10 minutes and total cost (not including the cab down from Alamut to Qazvin) 33750 Rials, which is roughly equivalent to $3.60.

Azadi (freedom) square with the Azadi Monument

You would think I would be exhausted and unable to do anything after this ordeal, but that night I had the opportunity to go to a full blown Irani party (not just a mehmani). So I took a shower, ordered a steak sandwich to the apartment and then headed out to the Shaher-e-Garb (west of the city). I arrived in the nouveau-riche apartment at the party hosted by two young brothers. There was a DJ, a smoke machine, lazer lights, scantily dressed ladies, and real Absolut. I joined my friends from the language institute (who had procured me the invite) and we proceeded to observe the spectacle of Persian courtship. There were about 30 people present and the shy men danced with each other in a group, while they gingerly tried to make eye contact with the women. Occasionally a couple would get closer together and dance facing each other for a few minutes – but no touching. The loud persian pop remixed to techno backbeats stopped every 15 minutes or so for a few minutes to allow the guests to sit down and catch their breath. This was prime time for mingling, and meeting others at the party – which made it okay to approach them during the next set for a quick face-to-face dance. The party which had started at 9, ended by about 1, after which we took copious pictures with each other. The women re-attached their headscarves and donned their modest manteaus; then we said our adieus and went our separate ways.

June 16th 2008

A view of North Tehran from Park-E-Jamshideh

The Golestan Palace Museum - A tesament to the excesses of Imperial Persia

Back in Tehran, I’ve settled into a routine: Going to class, grabbing a meal with some of the other kids in the institute, and then maybe exploring the city – its museums, bazaars, and teahouses. On one such day a trio of us decided to brave the congestion of south Tehran to visit the famous Jewels Museum. We hopped on a bus to Haft-e-Tir square and grabbed a metro down to Khayyam station. We had to eat first, so we decided on the Khayyam traditional restaurant which came highly recommended in my guidebook as having the best ambience in town; the food turned out to be good as well. The three of us shared kebabs with rice and yogurt over a pot of tea, while lazing in a converted 300 year old mosque with wonderfully restored spaces. Of course, we ate on the requisite carpeted palanquin as we watched the quiet couples sharing qalyan and sweets together. The tinkling fountains, lush greenery, and lethargic atmosphere made me forget that we were in this bustling city of 14 million.

The Khayyam Traditional Resteraunt

After lunch, we made a beeline for the nearby Tehran bazaar to change money. The bazaar is the beating heart of the Tehran. According to some estimates it makes up more than half the retail industry in the entire city. In the past, the Bazaaris (as they are called) have been able to precipitate revolutions simply by going on strike – so vital is their role in the economy that they have been able to topple governments simply by closing shop. Given that we didn’t seem to have enough time to do the Jewels Museum justice, we decided to stay and explore the bazaar instead.

The Tehran bazaar, unlike that of Esfahan, is an ugly place. Its labyrinthine passages and multi-storied shopping levels are crowded, loud and dirty. If the traffic on the roads is bad, it’s even worse in the bazaar. Trolleys stacked many feet high with all sorts of goods careen belligerently through the alleyways, pulled by purposeful deliverymen. Unlike the cars on the streets however, these trolleys are unlikely to stop and make way for you – it seemed as if they would happily maul you over if you didn’t get out of the way fast enough.

The Tehran Bazaar

We were discovered by a friendly bazaari who spoke good English and was eager to practice it with us. He offered to help us find the souvenirs we were looking for. (Tehran’s bazaar is a place of serious business – contemptuous of tourists. Thus we couldn’t really find any handicrafts for purchase.) He took us on a whirlwind tour of the area, through the maze of lanes and alleyways. He took us to a shrine – one of the many places of worship in the bazaar. It was set in a quiet courtyard – a welcome respite from the murderous trolleys. Inside, the walls and ceilings were entirely covered with gaudy reflective glass and crystals – making the entire shrine seem like the inside of a flash bulb. Inside, people were enjoying a quiet moment away from the bazaar. The faithful had chosen their own silent corner and were praying quietly to themselves. Others were just soaking in the ambience: a mullah was engaged in quiet conversation with a disciple, a couple of men were chatting eagerly in whispers, a man sat alone reading the daily newspaper – and behind a curtain in the main room, some were even sleeping.

The Shrine

On leaving the shrine were once more rubbing shoulders with the tangled masses in the bazaar. This time the trolleys were joined by a new danger – speeding motorcycles. Our host cut across the more crowded alley and then took a narrow lane into a more peaceful quarter; this was the carpet district. The noise of the bazaar was soaked up by the rich carpets that lay in huge piles in the middle of the courtyards. We were led up three flights of stairs from which we could take pictures of the magnificent carpets from above. We were then ushered into a clean room with rolled up carpets along the walls. Clearly our host was a carpet seller, and now, after a tour of the bazaar, he expected us to buy a carpet. Little did he know that we were students who could scarcely afford the $100 welcome mats he was showing us, let alone the $1000 dollar carpets he expected us to buy. Needless to say, we were quickly ushered out by the disappointed salesman.

The Carpet District

As I made my way back towards north Tehran – to fashionable Tajrish square where I lived, I reflected on the surprising people of this country. Walking down Tajrish, my eyes fell on the many women and men who had delicate plastic braces on their noses – a sign of recent plastic surgery. Tehran – as you may know – has the highest percapita rate of nose jobs in the world – for both women AND men. The Islamic Republic of Iran is full of contradictions. I walk pass the fashion police (stern looking and lanky women in olive green chadors) who watch the crowds with their beady eyes. I watch a young woman walk by completely oblivious to their presence; she’s wearing a tightly fitting jet-black tunic with a bright yellow headscarf – the most fashionable color combination in Tehran this summer. I remember the story one of my friends from Farsi class told me: he had visited the huge mosque behind Tajrish the last evening and he recalled a most curious addition to the evening Azan (prayer). In the middle, there was a pause during which the speakers crackled the following lines:

Long live Khomeini
Death unto America
Death unto England
Death unto Israel

I then remembered my own experience of the shrine that afternoon. There is probably no Islamic country in the world apart from Iran where you could be sprawled so blithely on the floor of a mosque – so clearly asleep. I would also be hard pressed to find a mosque in which tourists like us could walk right in and snap pictures (with flash) so calmly, while the faithful nonchalantly continue their ablutions.

Iran is a country which is gravely misunderstood and misrepresented. Despite my self-declared independence from the biases of western media, I did not expect the vibrant and multi-layered society that I have encountered in this country. When one thinks of Iran, images of vast undeveloped slums crawling with militants might come to mind, or perhaps one might see pictures of xenophobic death to America marches, maybe one sees sinister mullahs cloaked in flowing black robes keeping the people firmly under their knuckles to serve their own Islamist agenda. Certainly not all Westerners see all these things, but without alternatives to these stereotypes we are left with little else to imagine. The truth is – Iran is an extremely complex country – with a deeply intricate economy, with diverse patterns of social interaction: there are highways, airports, restaurants, NGOs, hotels, offices, bazaars, museums, parks, dreams, desires, successes and failures. There is history here, and there is a future here.

This is not a comment on Iran’s government. Certainly the arguments surrounding political relations between Iran and the West could (and do) fill entire books. Rather these are my simple observations in response to the reductionism and dehumanization which seems to pervade the vacuum of social interaction between Iran and the rest of the world. My worry is that the fear mongerers on both sides gain greatly from dehumanization. It becomes so easy to order a military strike against a country which everyone views as a dark and colorless pit of religious fanaticism. Similarly it becomes very easy to declare jihad on rapacious and decadent capitalism. The dialogue of civilizations must be revived – this time not between government representatives who seek to use the opportunity to posture and spread propaganda – but between ordinary people who will realize that they have very similar values and goals in life. Iranis have a head start – they are barraged with Western pop culture constantly – despite efforts by the establishment to resist it. There are more hamburger and pizza joints than Kebabi restaurants in Tajrish; the people want to wear DKNY skinny jeans, D&G shoes, and own Nokia phones. Despite the explicit condemnation of America – the West still carries enormous cultural influence. Meanwhile from Iran there is nothing but static (and carpets) – something needs to be done about that – and fast, before we have another Iraq on our hands.

June 9th, 2008

I spent my last day in Esfahan by returning to the bazaar and buying souvenirs for myself and others. In the evening I wandered over to the Armenian quarter of the city – a warren-like neighborhood across the river. I was surprised by how well done up it was. It resembled a bohemian Latin quarter in a European city, with intricate narrow cobblestone streets, charming fountains and churches, overpriced coffee shops, and of course – tourists. The main cathedral of the Armenian quarter was unexpectedly stunning; although it was innocuous outside, the frescoes inside were magnificent – I felt I could have been in a church in Europe. Unfortunately they didn’t let me take any pictures, but the old man at the door did try to sell me 2000 Tomans worth of postcards featuring the frescoes.

A trippy teahouse in Esfahan

The Armenian Quarter in Esfahan

The Vank Cathedral - Armenian Quarter Esfahan

I had been thinking for a few days about the Iranian culture of Ta’arof - the overenthusiastic desire to assist others and make guests – particular foreigners – more comfortable. In essence, Iran is the one country in the world where you don’t want to blend in as a “local.” Instead you want to stick out like a sore thumb, thus inviting the curiosity and generous hospitality of Iranians. I noticed that most people consider me to be Iranian – until I open my mouth – that is. So ordinarily, I’m forced to fight my way to the counter of a crowded restaurant to settle my check instead of my money being helpfully grabbed by an Iranian cueing to pay and my change efficiently returned to me before I even have time to blink. It’s also much harder to strike up a conversation in a teahouse or restaurant when I’m dining alone and prone to boredom. I can also forget about being spontaneously invited into a local’s house and shown around – an experience more than one of the other tourists I met had had. And I certainly haven’t had the chance to interact with too many women, because while they interact freely with foreign men, women still don’t approach ordinary Iranian men in the street.

However, there is a definite upside – when I want to be left alone, I can be, unlike other tourists who I see incessantly swarmed by hawkers at bazaars. I can quietly walk along the bazaars of Esfahan enjoying the clamorous atmosphere and choose the things I want to look at instead of them being thrust upon me. I also pay the local price for taxis – which is nice. If I’m ever taking an early morning bus or late night train – and am clearly in a very unfriendly mood – I’m not approached by an Iranian eager to practice their English. When I let on through my accent that I’m not actually Iranian, I usually get a warm response and the questions begin – but only If I approach first. I still very much enjoy the shock a lot of Iranians express at the fact that I’m not Persian – when they could have sworn by my looks that I was.

I travelled from Esfahan to the ancient desert city of Yazd by overnight bus. I arrived early at 6 in the morning. I took a taxi straight to the hotel recommended to me by a friend in Esfahan. It was smack dab in the old city under the shadow of the towering Jameh Masjid (the Friday mosque). The hotel was a restored traditional Persian mansion – centered on a leafy courtyard with a graceful pool of water in the middle. All around the courtyard comfortable looking diwans lined with carpets and cushions were placed for the enjoyment of the guests. It really felt like a Persian palace. After a quick shower, and a quicker breakfast on the terraced roof – from which I could enjoy an excellent view of the mosque - I set out to see the sights of the city. It was 7 AM and was determined to beat the harsh late-morning sunshine. I delved straight into the old city – the sea of ancient domed mud-brick buildings which stretched as far as the eye could see.

The Silk Road Hotel - near where I stayed in Esfahan

A view of Yazd's Old City with the Jameh Mosque in the background

The Hotel Orient - where I stayed

As I walked through the narrow lanes, the early morning sunshine played brilliantly in the narrow alleys and through the twisting domes of the covered walkways. The streets were devoid of any human presence – it was Friday morning – everyone was sleeping in, so I it was as if I had this treasure all to myself. Every few houses, I came across a collapsed or ruined building – the structure having completely collapsed through old age and neglect. I passed one such building and was drawn inexplicably towards it. There, in the absolute silence of dawn, I descended the broken steps one story down into its foundations. The light shone in through the broken walls and ceilings and played on the piles of rubble in an almost magical way. I took pictures as quickly as I could. I felt somehow as if I didn’t belong there – that I was intruding on this ancient building’s destruction. I’m not superstitious –but I felt the presence of not altogether friendly spirits in that place. In fact, I felt like an unwelcome guest in the whole town, as if I was intruding on the decrepit solitude of this ancient site. The centuries of history and experience were watching me as I bumbled through its alleyways; I felt infused with the extraordinary antiquity of one of the oldest continually inhabited towns in the world.

The corridors of the Jameh Mosque

A lone man walks through the lanes of Yazd's old city at daybreak

A collapsed building in Yazd's Old City

A deserted open courtyard in the old city

A monument in the middle of the old city, supposedly built by Alexander the Great


The empty streets of the old city

If the old city of Yazd left an impression on me, it was nothing compared to what happened next. I chartered a taxi to take me to the outskirts of the city, where two ancient Zoroastrian towers of silence lay perched on top of two desolate hills in the desert. Iran - and in particular Yazd - is the original home of the Zoroastrian people. The adherents of the world’s oldest monotheistic religion - and indeed one of the oldest living religions - were scattered all across the globe with the spread of Islam to Persia over 1200 years ago. Many of them came to India where they form the largest concentration of this ever-dwindling community. Parsis, as we know them in India, believe in the purity of elements, so they do not bury or cremate their dead, because they believe this will pollute the ground or the atmosphere respectively. Instead they traditionally take their dead to the tops of “towers of silence” and leave them there where their bones are soon cleaned by scavenging vultures.


The ancient towers of Yazd stood like two lonely fortresses on twin hills. The desolation and silence of this place was even more complete than that of the old city. I walked through the ruined and abandoned buildings at the base of the hills – houses and storerooms left untouched for incalculable years. I then raced up the taller hill and climbed through a narrow opening at the base of the tower and entered the central atrium. I read later that the towers had gone unused for nearly four decades, but at that time, I half expected to see a half-eaten corpse. As I edged closer to the rim where the bodies were ceremoniously placed for the vultures, I felt that sense of trespass return – except this time it was much stronger. This place was not just ancient, but it was sacred. Thankfully there was no sign of any human bodies. I took a few pictures from the extraordinary vista and left as quickly as I came. At the base, I looked back at the tower and its awesome surroundings and thought that if I was ever to let vultures feast on my dead remains – it would be here in this tremendous place. I remember thinking to myself in a moment of dizzy high-mindedness that this place represented much more than a monument to the ancient faith of Zoroastrianism. This was not just the history of a small community of people; this was the history of humanity. This was where mankind emerged out of the forests of Africa and built civilization – to challenge the harsh desert and bring nature under its control for the first time.

One of the towers of silence

The other tower of silence

By 9:30, the heat was becoming difficult. I decided to hightail it for the hotel where I could lounge in the cool and shaded comfort of the courtyard. In the evening after a refreshing nap, I sipped tea and chatted with one of the hotel staff who had helped me check-in that morning. In the five months that he had worked here, he had picked up quite a bit of English, and was working hard to become better. He told me he was Afghani, but that he was born in Iran. His mother’s family was Tajik and his father’s from northern Afghanistan. They had met in Iran – in Yazd – and had settled down. That was where Cyrus (name changed) was born. Even though it was the country of his birth, Cyrus was not allowed to become an Irani citizen. He was classified as an Afghani refugee and was forced to live the life of an undocumented immigrant in the country of his birth. There are over 2.5 million Afghan refugees in Iran, and for the most part, they are not allowed to own any land, are only allowed to work as manual laborers and are not allowed to enter national universities. Iran, for its part has hosted Afghan refugees and refugees from other Central Asian nations largely without any outside help and support; it is amongst the largest refugee populations in the world. The difficult nature of the situation is evident with tensions between the Afghans and wider society running high. Iranian racism is reserved for the Afghans and they are blamed for most of Iran’s crimes. They are also constantly harassed by the police and authorities.

Cyrus is working at the hotel illegally as he doesn’t have permission to work as anything but a laborer. The manager is kind and has protected him. But Cyrus needs to go by a more Irani name lest he arouse suspicion amongst the guests. So his colleagues around the hotel call him Ali – they are all in on the ruse. Things are not easy however: a recently sacked employee complained to the police about Cyrus to make trouble for the manager. The police said they would deal with the issue after the week-long holidays are over. “Maybe they’ll forget,” I said hopefully to Cyrus. “They will never forget,” responded Cyrus with a cold certainty. Cyrus doesn’t want to die in Iran, although he was born here. He wants to get out – get an education: to Pakistan, India, Australia, Europe, America – anywhere. Even in this matter, the barriers seem insurmountable; the gates and reception desks of embassies and consulates are manned by Iranians. When he states his business and identifies himself as Afghani, they shout at him, abuse him and order him to leave the premises. They tell him that he should go back to his own country – Afghanistan. Until recently Cyrus didn’t even have an Afghani passport. He just had one issued a few months ago. Cyrus is 19, exactly my age. In fact, I’m a month older than him. He’s trying his hardest to learn English so he can escape his circumstances. He’s reading the Kite Runner. He finds it difficult, but at least it’s about his home – where he has never been. All this trying and struggling may be for nothing however – the police could come for him any day now, and who knows what might happen then.

Zahra and Amir

It turns out that 2 days after class started, we were to be given a 5 day holiday. The occasion: the death anniversary of Ayatollah Khomeini. During this time, millions of pilgrims from across Iran and the Islamic world pour into Tehran to visit his shrine south of the cities. Many Tehranians however take the opportunity to go off on holiday for a few days. They plan this holiday months in advance so as a result all the flights and trains out of the city were completely booked out. I decided that wherever I would go, I would have to take a bus, the only available form of transport. I settled on the city of Esfahan, being a manageable 7 hour bus ride away. All the hotels in Esfahan were booked out – I called every single one in my guidebook – no space.

Then I did a silly thing (in retrospect): I hopped on the bus anyway, and arrived in Esfahan at 11pm at night, without a place to stay. I wandered the streets aimlessly for an hour, joyously recognizing the hotels I had called the day before: of course, there were still no vacancies. I stumbled down Chahar Bagh Abassi Street for a while longer until I happened upon a shady hole-in-the-wall hostel. They had space, but they told me that they did not have permission to house foreigners, probably because they were a shady hole-in-the-wall hostel. I would have to go to the police station to ask.

I walked down the street as per the receptionist's instructions to the tourist police booth near Imam Hossein Square. After a confusing few minutes, in which they could not understand my strange accent, the gregarious head-honcho welcomed me into the booth. I sat down opposite him and explained the situation. However he seemed more interested in knowing where I learnt Farsi and whether I knew any Persian poetry. Eventually, he calmed down enough to inform me that the hole-in-the-wall hostel did not have permission to house foreigners – very helpful chap. He did however call up another hostel which I had passed earlier (no vacancy) and strong armed them into giving me at least a mattress on the floor somewhere in their building.

I stumbled towards Amir Kabir hostel and was promptly escorted to the courtyard where I was told I would be sleeping. The manager asked me to kindly pay 30,000 Rials ($3) for the privilege. I waited for about an hour for the staff to lay out a mattress – for some reason I kept forgetting the word for mattress, so it was pretty much impossible for me to ask them to hurry up with the mattress. Eventually the manager appeared and told me that there was a bed free in one of the rooms upstairs, but that it was a double and I would have to share with this kid from New Zealand. I eagerly accepted for a chance to escape the courtyard.

It turned out the New Zealander was actually a Yalie (Saybrook '06) from New Jersey. He was traveling on his New Zealand passport, backpacking through Iran on his 2 week vacation from med-school. We chatted into the wee hours.
The next morning I ran into a fellow student from the Persian Language Institute in Tehran, right outside my room. He was staying at the Amir Kabir. We breakfasted in the courtyard and made plans to sightsee together that day.

Esfahan nefs-e-Jahaan, the saying goes. Esfahan is half the world. My guidebook tells me it is "Iran's masterpiece, the jewel of ancient Persia and one of the finest cities in the Islamic world." Much of its sights were built during the Safavid dynasty which pushed the Mongols out of Persia in the 1500s and reclaimed territory from the Ottomans in the west. Clearly I was in for a treat. Esfahan did not disappoint. The world renowned Imam Square was marvelous. Filled with manicured lawns and fountains and surrounded on all four sides by elegantly arched walls, Imam Square took my breath away. At one end lay the grand Imam mosque. Covered in green and blue tile-work, it dominated the square. In size and scope put the Taj Mahal to shame. We went inside and were awed by the intricately decorated chambers, the towering ceilings and the piece de resistance – the massive dome of the mosque. My camera had a field day.

My lunch that day: Esfahani Beryani. A ground lamb cutlet wrapped in a cheesy nan. Yum.

The Imam Moque


Inside the Imam Mosque

As the sun drifted higher in the sky, we escaped the heat of the square into the Bazaar-e-Bozorg – the great bazaar, which had its entrance at the north end of the square. Built in the Safavid era, the bazaar was a sight in itself. It had tall domed ceilings and magnificent - albeit crumbling - archways amidst which the traders proudly displayed all manner of handicrafts; carpets, metalwork, miniature paintings, and woodwork of all shapes sizes and color could be found there.

The Great Bazaar of Esfahan

You could find any manner of handicraft here

It was very crowded of course.


The Jame Masjid - at the other end of the bazaar

An alley of the bazaar during prayer time

I returned to the square in the evening after a power nap when it had begun to get crowded again. Thousands of Irani holidayers streamed into the square to picnic on the lawns and soak up the atmosphere. I followed my trusty guidebook up a steep carpet-lined flight of stairs in the far corner of the square near the entrance to the bazaar and emerged in beautifully atmospheric teahouse. The teahouse had a magnificent balcony which opened out into the square. It afforded a beautiful view of the Imam Mosque and the square below. There I ran into a couple of my fellow guests at the Amir Kabir. We recognized each other by sight, so I sat down with them and ordered myself a pot of tea. Kim was from Australia and Tom was from England. Tom had just recently graduated from college in England and was taking a month off to travel Iran. Kim (a beefy bearded man) was a seasoned traveler. Every two years he would take four months off to travel across some exotic corner of the world. We sat there for several hours, watching the sun go down over the square, smoking water pipes and drinking tea. The thickening crowds below remained marvelously oblivious to our secluded presence above as we gazed in tandem at the incredible lights of the mosque and the square.

A view of Imam Square and the Imam Mosque from the teahouse

The three of us walked down to Engalab square after sunset to grab some dinner down by the river. Esfahan is also famous for its bridges which straddle the river. The Si-O-Se Pol – the most famous of the bridges – was brightly lit up and was playing host to the throngs of holidaymakers. We walked down the park along the river bank and joined the crowds on the bridge happily taking pictures of each other. We grabbed a quick noodle soup in a restaurant underneath the bridge – where we were joined by a friendly Iranian. We politely declined his offer to show us around Esfahan the next day. Energized, we decided to walk back to the hotel stopping on the way for a refreshing Slushy made from sweetened strawberry juice.

Si-O-Se Pol (Bridge) by night