Hiding from Santa in Iran
25th December, 2012 – 3rd January, 2013 , Isfahan and Tehran
The dried-up Zayande River and Khaju Bridge, Isfahan
My bus has just pulled in for a thirty minute break at a mangy service station when my phone rings. It’s Emée. She, Hrach and two French guys have just arrived at the Iranian-Armenian border. I’m so happy I could cry. “Let me speak to him!”
“Hey!” Hrach’s voice rings through the phone – clearer than the Iran-Armenia phone connection could ever mange. “Hey! Where are you?” They’re at the border, on their way to Tabriz. “Come to Isfahan,” I tell him, “I’m on my way to Isfahan now”. “I’m gonna go to Tehran?” “No, Isfahan! I’m going to Isfahan!” “I’m gonna go to Isfahan?” “Yeah, come!” “Ok, I’m gonna go to Tehran and then to Isfahan.” “No! Come straight to Isfahan!” “Ok, let’s see what’s gonna happen…”
No swimming!
I’m in Isfahan waiting by a bridge. I was delivered here at 7am by my host and told to wait for one hour, when I would be collected by Rahmin, my host’s friend and my friend’s lover from a year and a half ago. I’m excited to meet Rahmin, having heard so much about him from Claire. Unfortunately, it’s very cold. I don’t completely understand the logic behind waiting by this bridge in the cold at 7am in the morning, but I trust my host and dutifully comply. When I begin shivering, I get up and take a walk: up the river, down the river. I should probably mention that this is more of an ex-river. The river itself has dried-up, apparently part of a government plan to build an underground metro system at some point in the future. When my friend Claire was here a year and a half ago, she and Rahmin saved some fish that were drowning in oxygen in the recently dried-up river. I think of this now and smile. I smile also at the “no swimming” sign, the beached paddle-boats and the woman taking a short-cut across what was once the river-bed. Behind my smile though, there’s a frown. Why has the Iranian government dammed this river? Did anyone try to stop them?
The 17th century Pol-e Khaju (Khaju Bridge)
A text message arrives from Rahmin after the appointed hour: something came up. He can meet me at 1pm. 1pm?! I have to wait here in the cold until 1pm?!? No way, not going to happen. I see a girl sitting on a bench. She gapes at me when I ask if she speaks English – she’s just on her way to an English exam. Well then, this will be good practice. I ask how far I am from the centre? Is there a coffee shop? A cafe? Anywhere at all I can sit and write? She says no, I’m far from the centre. She tells me to follow her.
It’s becoming obvious this girl doesn’t know the area at all, but I asked for help and now she feels responsible for me – even if it means being late for her very important English exam. She asks a woman for directions and when it becomes apparent that the woman knows the area, I beg the girl to go and let the woman show me the way to a cafe. She looks relieved and hugs me, before running off to her exam.
The woman invites me to her house for tea, where she introduces me to her teenage daughter, who is also studying English. The woman smiles at us speaking English together as she makes me tea and lays out slices of cake and fruit. It’s a typically Iranian experience and one I’m very grateful for.
The daughter asks if I have a boyfriend and where he is. I tell her about Hrach in Armenia, and that he’s now on his way to meet me in Iran. She tells me there’s a big Armenian community here in Isfahan, something I’d already heard about. My friend David recommended finding the Armenians to procure alcohol, since laws are a little different for Christians in Iran. “Today is an Armenian holiday”, she tells me, “it is a Christ-fest”. It takes a moment for what she means to sink in – today is December 25th, and I hadn’t even noticed! I begin to laugh. Since the age of fifteen I’ve been trying to avoid Christmas completely and this is the first time I’ve ever managed it.
Emée is no longer with Hrach and nobody knows where he is. Having come to Iran to meet me, now he’s apparently vanished. Feeling extremely impatient, I book a night-train to Tehran to look for him.
My train rolls in at 5am. Somehow I make it to my friend Komeil’s apartment, where I’m surprised to bump into a guy I met in Georgia, who is now staying at my friend’s house in Tehran with another guy I met in Yerevan – what a tiny world this is.
I’m frowning over a tarot reading on the question ‘Where is Hrach?’ when my telephone rings. It’s 5pm, two days after I spoke to him at the border. “Hey!” “Oh my god, where are you? I was so worried!” “Yeah, my phone didn’t register for a long time and I didn’t write your number down and I forgot to bring my charger and… yeah, sorry. So I’m coming to Isfahan?” “No, I’m in Tehran.” “Oh, you’re in Tehran? But I bought this ticket for Isfahan…”
Beautiful Hrach
Two hours later I meet Hrach at the metro station close to Komeil’s apartment. We didn’t see each other for almost six weeks. “Hey!” He says. “Hey!” we smile at each other, go to embrace and then remember where we are. Fighting stronger impulses, we steal a quick hug and begin walking together, sneakily holding hands.
Eméе аnd Hrach playing table-tennis in Tehran
After a couple of days hanging out with friends in Tehran, Hrach and I take a bus back to Isfahan. The plan is to find Armenians in Isfahan and celebrate Christmas with them. ‘Christmas’ in this context, actually means New Year. Armenians, being from the Orthodox branch of Christianity, celebrate Christmas on 6th January, but New Year is a bigger celebration, according to Hrach.
We find the Armenian part of the city. There are Christmas trees and Armenian writing. All the shops are called ‘Ani’ or ‘Ararat’. A giant Father Christmas looms over a street corner.
The plan: We find an Armenian coffee shop. Hrach will greet them in Armenian and they will welcome him like a long lost brother, invite us for Christmas dinners and drinks and parties and ply us with alcohol.
We find a coffee shop. On sitting down, the waiter comes to take our order. Hrach greets him in Armenian. “Are you Armenian?” The guy asks him, in Armenian. “Yeah”, says Hrach. He explains that he grew up in Syria and is now living in Yerevan. They chit-chat a while, me smiling and sipping coffee and witing for the inevitable news of all the parties we’re being invited to.
The guy goes off to serve someone else. Hrach leans over and whispers into my ear – “I just realised something – I don’t want to hang out with Armenians.” “What? Why not?” I hiss back, although the guy probably doesn’t speak English. “I don’t know, I can’t explain it. They’re just so… Armenian.”
Happy Birthday Azadeh!
We take the bus back to Tehran, back to our Persian friends. It’s Azadeh’s birthday and we intend to celebrate it with her.
This will also be the last time I see Emée for the foreseeable future. My last chance to say goodbye to my travel companion of most of the last three months.
In a few days I’ll be back in Yerevan, three days before Armenian Christmas. The city will be covered with tinsel and Christmas trees and I will realise that I have, once again, failed to hide from Santa.
—————-
When the World Didn’t End
20th-24th December, 2012, Shiraz and Persepolis
Persepolis in the fog
I am a giraffe in Iran. I walk the streets with my long neck, swaying in the breeze. People stop and gape. “Where from? Where from?” They’ve never seen a giraffe before, not even on television. Trouble is, being an exotic animal is starting to grind me down.
They say Shiraz is the most beautiful city in Iran. To me, it’s just a regular Iranian city, albeit with more trees, a bit less traffic pollution and more historical monuments. Ornamental orange trees decorate the avenues. There’s a giant adobe castle in the centre of the city.
The Long Night of Boredom
It’s the end of December 20th and so far the world has shown no sign of impending explosion, implosion or anything else. I kind of wish it would. The woman sits by the bonfire, waffling on and on, apparently about Zoroastrianism. She has been speaking in Farsi for hours already and there’s no sign, so far, that she will ever end, let alone the rest of the world. The man sitting next to me, my host – so far the only person who’s spoken to me – seems equally as bored. Tonight is Yalda Night: the longest night of the year. It’s traditional to celebrate this night by staying awake ’til dawn. I doubt I’ll make it to midnight.
When I was told of a party in a private garden in Shiraz, visions of liberal Iranians sitting around sipping shiraz wine came to mind. This was based not only on wishful thinking, but also on information imparted by a friend from Shiraz, who told me that people here still make the wine secretly, despite it’s prohibition. No such luck. Every woman in the private, walled garden is still wearing her hijab. Wine would be unthinkable.
During the next twelve hours, another three people attempt to begin a conversation with me, each beginning with the words “what is your idea about..?” I’m asked for my idea about Persepolis (I don’t have one), Stonehenge (it’s a big clock), “our land” (presumably meaning Iran), Allah (tried to avoid answering that one) and Iranian people – to which I respond that here, like everywhere, there are some very nice people and some total bastards, but mostly people are somewhere in-between – a complex mixture of life-experiences, thoughts and emotions, neither ‘good’, nor ‘bad’. It’s not a popular answer.
As the night wears on, my temper shortens. There is one woman with a light shining out of her eyes, but barely a word of English. She struggles to ask which city I’m from. Her husband sneers at her and says something in Persian. “What did he say?” I ask the man standing next to me. “He told her this is not important.” I spend the next half an hour communicating with the woman in a series of gestures and smiles. We share a big hug when we finally leave. After almost 24 hours in that garden, I feel like I’m getting out of prison.
The End of the World
Ali is my new host. He lives alone in the centre of Shiraz. It’s very uncommon in Iran for an unmarried guy in his thirties to live alone. We have some friends in common and are both members of the hitchhiking group on a certain hospitality exchange website, so we have plenty to talk about. Conversation swings to the End of the World which, according to popular interpretations, has been predicted by the ancient Mayans to occur at some point on this very eve. Back in Europe, it’s mostly hippies, conspiracy theorists, and other eccentric types who are into this prophecy, however, in Iran it seems to have made it to the mainstream. Several times during my travels I’ve been asked what people in the West are saying about the End of the World. Not much, actually.
If it were really the end of the world, I’d quite like a drink. I mention this to Ali, who promptly grabs a bottle of vodka from the cupboard. This, I was not expecting. We drink into the wee hours, Ali becoming increasingly flirtatious. “Why you are not drunk?” he slurs. “I am,” I tell him, I’m just more used to it than you are. I hear him being sick in the toilet before stumbling off to bed.
Persepolis
Milad is a fun and quirky young couchsurfer who’s passionate about hitchhiking. I contact him through that same inevitable hospitality exchange website and we decide to hitchhike together to Persepolis, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, 70km from Shiraz.
It’s my second time hitching in Iran and I’m glad to have Milad with me. It’s obvious to the drivers that he’s a student and his slight clumsiness adds to his charm. Every car that stops agrees to take us for free. I see men’s eyes in front mirrors and avert them, letting Milad answer all the inevitable questions for me. “Inglistan”, he tells them, when they ask where I’m from. We decided to say we met at a hotel. Couchsurfing is more or less illegal in Iran.
Sunshine vanishes as we leave the city. Persepolis leers out of the fog, adding a striking atmosphere to Iran’s oldest pre-Islamic ruins.
Stone relief at Persepolis from up to 550BC
Persian and Median soldiers in relief on a wall
View of Persepolis
This relief depicts the Zoroastrian Nowruz or Spring Equinox. The bull and lion represent the eternal battle between the moon and sun, respectively.
The Grey Flat-Cap
The Arg of Karim Khan
I can’t remember which way the coffee shop is, so I ask a man working at a kebab stand close to the Arg of Karim Khan – the 18th century citadel in the city centre. He points me in the direction of Shohada Square. I know it’s not the way, so I thank him and walk on in the direction I think is right, leaving three men staring after me.
I’ve long since begun looking at the ground as I walk, so as not to meet the eyes I know are everywhere, pointing directly at me. Unfortunately, this means I’m completely unaware of the tall fat boy in the grey flat-cap, until he walks alongside me. “Coffee-shop?” he asks. The only way he can know I’m looking for a coffee shop is if he heard me back at the kebab stand ten minutes earlier. “Are you following me?” His forehead draws down into a frown. He doesn’t understand, but I do. I slow my pace. Flat-cap slows down with me and looks impatient. He wants me to hurry up. After a while, he points down a side-street “Coffee-shop!” he tells me. There’s no way it’s down there. I stop and call my first host, the guy who took me there before. He tells me it’s on Hafez Street – I’m on the right road. When I get off the phone, the guy is gone and I continue walking.
I hear footsteps quicken behind me as the fat boy rushes up to me, grabs a handful of my behind and dashes off down a side-street, leaving me yelling after him – “FUCKING BAAASTAAARD!” He must have been tailing me for over half an hour.
Safely inside Farough Cafe, I engross myself in my writing. On looking up, I notice two young women staring at me as though I’m made of sunlight and gold. One of them asks politely if they can speak with me. I can hardly say no. I tell them about the grey flat-cap and they nod sadly. “We have to get used to this”, one of them says. Apparently this kind of thing happens to them all the time.
The reaction of men is worse. “Male company will reduce lots of hazards.” “Better to avoid crowded downtown streets.” They may as well say it’s my fault for being a woman, for being alone, blonde, not covering every bit of my hair – although I cover as much as the average Tehranian woman.
I feel that my time in Iran is coming to an end. I’m bored of the stares, the attention, the endless questions. I’m bored of being a tourist, of covering my hair and staring at the ground when I walk. I hate being a giraffe.
Losing my Past Between Deserts
15-20th December, 2012, Yazd
Masjid-e-Jāmeh Mosque, Yazd
I see the sun rise over the desert as my train chugs into Yazd. The girls in my carriage quickly jump down from their bunks and begin wrapping themselves in headscarves, checking make-up and folding sheets, which an attendant soon comes to collect.
I find the Silk Road Hotel close to the 12th Century Masjid-e Jameh Mosque in the middle of the adobe old city. A sleepy-looking man answers the door. He seems surprised to see me. “Is this the hostel?” I ask. It is. No need to bother with formalities at this hour, it seems. He points me down some steps and hurries back to bed. I tiptoe down to a dark room full of bunk-beds and squint at each in turn, not wanting to climb into bed with someone by accident. I choose a bottom bunk close to the door and doze off, only to be woken after a couple of hours by the person above me tossing and turning. Every move wobbles the entire bed. I begin to feel seasick and whisper up – “excuse me!” The face of a rather beautiful man peers over. “Oh!” he says. “Oh!” I say.
Over breakfast, I learn that Rocco is riding his motorbike from his home in the Netherlands to China. There are other international travellers too, all with interesting journeys ahead of them. I decide to stay a few days and hang out with some fellow wanderers.
If you stuck a drawing pin into the middle of Iran, chances are you’d stick it in Yazd: a three-thousand year old city, built where the Dasht-e Kavir desert meets the Dasht-e Lut. Surprisingly, this city has a tourist office – the first I’ve come across in Iran. It sells books, postcards and some other tourist paraphernalia. The prices are in the official Rials currency, rather than tomans – the usual street method of pricing. It’s another first for my time in Iran.
I’m walking back to the hostel through an adobe maze, when I hear someone call out – “Where are you from?” I groan inwardly. It’s my least favourite question, yet always the most popular. Sometimes I just grit my teeth and answer. Others, the awareness that saying the name of one country does not sum up me, my life or anyone else’s is too much to bear. “England, Scotland, Ireland and Turkey”, I tell him. “Wow!” he replies. We begin walking together.
Ali, my new friend and unofficial tour guide
My new friend is called Ali. As we walk, he tells me a little about himself and it becomes clear that his own identity is equally complex, perhaps in different ways. Born and raised in Mumbai by parents of Persian descent, Ali returned to his ancestral home of Yazd in recent years, to discover that he’s considered a foreigner here, as well as back in India. “Everywhere I am a stranger”, he tells me. Ali takes me on a tour of Yazd, pointing out historical buildings and components of the ancient cooling and water systems, for which the city is renowned. Windcatcher towers known as badgirs sprout around rounded domes of ab anbars, signifying underground water reservoirs – part of a 2,000 year old qanat water system.
Ali takes me to see to see Khan-e-Lari – a historical house and Alexander’s Prison, which is neither a prison, nor built by Alexander. Apparently it served as a school. Those crazy Persians.
Badgir, badgir, badgir, badgir
A typical street in Yazd’s old city
Every day in the hostel, people come and go. Mark is also on his way to China, having begun his journey at his home in Switzerland. Like most other travellers I meet, he’s using public transport, but jumps at the chance of a hitchhiking trip to Chak Chak, a Zoroastrian temple out in the desert, 76km from Yazd.
Neither of us has hitched in Iran before, but I’m armed with some tips from friends in Mashad. The trouble is that in Iran, everyone’s a taxi. It’s common and perfectly normal for an unmarked car, driven by someone who isn’t a taxi driver, to stop and collect people from the roadside. It is expected that they should pay for this service, however, some cars will take you for free if you ask. How to arrange this without causing offense and without speaking much Farsi?
My friend Mahyar has suggested saying ‘salavaati?’ to drivers when they stop. I’ve since mentioned this to some other Iranian people, each expressing either delight or horror at the idea. ‘Salavaati’ is a religious word, basically meaning that prayers are offered instead of money. Mahyar, who has used this technique often, claims it’s a lighter, politer way of asking for a free ride, and that people usually see it as a fun joke.
We get a lift to Meybod with a truck driver. He immediately phones his English teacher friend, who promptly invites me to stay at his house. I’m not sure about this, but decide to play along with the Iranian taarof rules of politeness and white lies. I tell him that yes, of course I will come. From this point on, the English teacher will call me several times a week demanding to know when I’m coming to visit him.
After waiting a while in Meybod, a shiny black car pulls over. “Salavaati?” I ask him, feeling faintly stupid. He jumps out and begins speaking in English – “Hello! Where are you from? Where are you going? Yes, I can take you there, come with me!”
We begin explaining to the man, whose name is Mojios, that he really needn’t take us all the way to Chak Chak – wherever he might be heading in our direction will be fine. “No no, it’s not possible.” He bundles us into the car and drives us all the way to the temple.
Chak Chak, the most sacred mountain shrine of Zoroastrianism
Entrance to the temple
Inside the temple, a plastic bowel collects the mountain’s ever-falling tears for Nikbanou, second daughter of the last pre-Islamic ruler, Yazdegerd III of the Sassanid Empire. The ever-burning flame appears to have gone out.
I don’t think we could have got here without Mojios
We leave Chak Chak and speed back through the desert towards Meybod. Seemingly not bored with us yet, Mojios is keen to take us to Narenj Castle, which appears to be a giant sand-castle, but is in fact made of adobe. Mojios claims the castle to be 7,000 years old. Internet sources generally date it from 2,000 – 3,000 years, but either way, it’s pretty impressive.
Next Mojios takes us to see a caravanserai. Unfortunately, it’s closed for business, though we get to have a look around the courtyard and he shows us where the camels would rest. Then he takes us to a pottery workshop, where a seasoned professional is spinning lumps of clay on an old foot-powered potter’s wheel. Mark decides to have a go, but it seems the speed of the wheel is harder to control than it looks. I giggle as clay splatters across the room.
The potter
Mark has a go
Mark’s ‘pot’
We’ve had a lot of fun with Mojios, but it hasn’t ended yet. He’s decided to drive us back to Yazd, where he wants to visit a friend who owns a coffee-shop. We sip coffee together with Nima, the coffee-shop friend, who also seems delighted to meet us. Mark and I really want to pay for Mojios’ coffee, but of course we fail. It’s always a fight to pay your way in Iran.
Mark leaves town and Trevor arrives. We hang out with Nima and Mojios at the coffee-shop, fail to pay for a tasty dinner and the non-alcoholic beer I’m slowly becoming accustomed to.
Nima tells us someone is following us. It seems we have a government spy. I call Mahyar in a fluster, but he tells me not to worry. Apparently it’s standard practice to tail tourists in this country. “Honestly,” Mahyar tells me, “from everything I know about you, you have nothing to worry about.” Mahyar knows a lot about me, so I begin to relax.
The Tower of Silence used to be far from Yazd, but the city has since grown to envelope it. These Zoroastrian ‘dakhmas’ are man-made towers, where bodies were once left to be picked clean by vultures – a sky burial. It’s sunset when we arrive, the evening light setting off the silence of the place.
The Tower of Silence
I’m walking the streets of the old city with Nikita, a Rainbow hippy from Germany, when I realise something’s missing. My laptop! I run back through the mosque courtyard, down dusty streets, trying to remember which turns we took.
“Wow, you really lost your past!” Nikita laughs, when I realise it has truly gone. I feel anger growing within. He makes me a cup of tea in the hotel near the park where I left it, like a fool, beside the bench where we were sitting. I’m trying to persuade the hotel staff to show me their CCTV footage, to no avail.
If the police were interested in me before, I just gave them the perfect excuse to interrogate me. “How long are you staying in Iran?” asks the cop. “It depends if I get my visa extension when I go to Shiraz”, I tell him. “I am the Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he tells me, “I can extend it for you here in Yazd.”
The following day, I dutifully show up at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It’s already packed full of people, mostly Afghan asylum seekers. I blush in shame as I’m shuffled past them all to the front of the queue. All eyes follow me. I am disgusted with myself for being so white and privileged, but most of all, I’m disgusted at the Iranian government for being so racist. An hour later, I have a visa extension: another thirty days in Iran.
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