Pedram and I awoke at six o’clock sharp when his alarm went off. We were greeted by a delicious breakfast prepared by his wonderful mother who must have got up especially early to make it before I left. I was quite touched at her generosity. After breakfast, Pedram phoned a cab and then had a word with the driver in Farsi, telling me the correct price to pay so I didn’t get ripped off. We hugged, wished each other well, and parted.
The taxi was driven by a kindly old chap who spoke good English. He explained that the office had given him the job because Pedram had mentioned when he phoned that the lift was for an Englishman. As he was the only English speaker in the office they gave it to him, so I would have someone to talk to.
“How nice,” I thought.
On hearing I was going to Esfahan, he recommended that I not only visit Esfahan’s famous mosques but also the wonderful churches there and, in particular, Vank Cathedral. I said I would, and mentioned my visit to the Church of St. Thaddeus near Maku. He told me he’d been there as well. I asked him then if he was a Christian, and his answer was very interesting: “I am Muslim, but when I pray, I pray to Jesus to help me.”
He went on to tell me that he thought all religions were the same in that they all said essentially the same thing, namely to “be good person, help others, and believe and pray to God. The lamps are different but the light is the same.”
He told me he’d read a good book about this by an American woman, which had been translated into Persian. He struggled to remember the title and said it was called something like “Come into the Light.” I immediately knew the book he meant, and asked if it was Embraced by the Light. “Yes, that’s it!” he exclaimed. Having read the book myself, I double-checked it was the same one by describing it in detail. I told him I’d cried reading the last chapter of the book and he told me he had too. Call me anything you want, but I really believe we were meant to meet each other that morning.
One story he shared with me was a real testament to his faith and character. After the revolution, he had been arrested and accused of being a supporter of the Shah, but he told me this was untrue—he liked neither the Shah nor the current regime. He had been imprisoned, held in solitary confinement, and tortured for years. During this time, his torturers tried to get him to sign false confessions and admit to being against the government and for the Shah. He never did this and said it was his faith that got him through it. After a number of terribly hard years inside, he reached his breaking point. That night he got onto his knees and prayed like never before for four hours straight for God to help him. When he finally got to sleep, he had a dream in which a tremendous peace descended all around him and God spoke to him. He was told not to worry, that God would look after him and that soon he would be released—two weeks later he was. Goose bumps popped up all over me as he told me this, and writing it down many months later, I’m experiencing the same thing. I can’t begin to imagine what hardships this courageous guy must have been through. I thought he was a real inspiration.
He went on to discuss the government’s general lack of support among Iranians, and he said the problem was that if ten people dissented then the government could just kill all ten of them—therefore, no one dared do anything. However, he said that the people arrested at the recent demonstration that Leyla had mentioned would probably not be killed. “There is a lot of attention on the government at the moment and they wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks,” he said.
We reached the airport as the sun was breaking the horizon. I told him what a pleasure it had been to meet him, and he said it was a pleasure for him as well. We shook hands, and I gave him a tip several times the fare, which he tried to refuse but I insisted. I stepped out into the glorious morning sun and headed to the terminal.
It felt very strange to board an airplane after all the hitching and overland travel but it was far from unpleasant; in fact, it was fantastic. I got a window seat and the view was superb with rolling desert and rugged mountains below, which looked to me now quintessentially Iranian. I took a break from the sightseeing when breakfast was handed out. Whilst I tucked into my food, one of the staff kindly brought me an Iranian-English language newspaper, which was a strange read to say the least. It had the predictable anti-American rhetoric although it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. But what I found really interesting and weird was a section described simply as “Anecdote,” which told a tale called “The Single-Handed Man.” It went as follows:
He lived in a city wherein the hands of thieves were cut. Since he was a single-handed man, all thought he was a thief! But he had stolen nothing. He was just a man with one hand! He decided to go to another city. While traveling, there came a whirlwind and his eye went blind. But he had reached a city wherein the eyes of thieves were blinded. Everybody called him a bandit, though he had not had a hand in a robbery. So he was forced to leave that city as well! On his way, while crossing a river, his leg was stuck between rocks and was broken. The doctors had to amputate one of his legs because of infection. But he had got to a city wherein the legs of murderers were cut! Upon seeing him, the people started whispering. The poor man could take no more and decided to go to a city wherein no guilty person is punished! But to his surprise, he was caught and guillotined in that city! You know why? Because there, they beheaded those who did not have a hand, an eye and a leg!
And the moral of the story…? Your guess is as good as mine.
Whilst waiting for a taxi at the airport, I met a French guy, and after a brief chat we decided to share a cab to the center of Esfahan. He was visiting Iran as a tourist for a staggeringly brief three days and was in the city only until this evening when he flew back to Tehran. I initially thought this a little stupid but then he explained that his girlfriend was an air hostess and periodically offered him strange and quirky free flights. A few days ago, he had been in Paris when she had offered him a three-day trip to Iran. He took it, and under the circumstances, I’d have done exactly the same.
I got off at the Amir Kabir Hostel, which was the most popular hotel for backpackers and where I’d arranged to meet Ricardo. The guy behind the reception spoke good English and I asked about the price of a single room. He said there were none available until someone checked out but I could pay now and reserve one. I decided to go for this and we settled on IR60,000, which I didn’t have exact change for, so handed over IR70,000, along with my passport. He didn’t have change either, so he agreed to give me the money in a few minutes time.
When Ricardo turned up, we went through the whole long lost buddies routine with handshakes and back pats. I asked Ricardo if I could dump my pack in his room so we could go out and make the most of the day. He said that there wasn’t really any space in his room for my backpack. I thought this was a tad far-fetched, but when we went up a few minutes later I saw he was right.
It was literally a windowless closet with a bed squeezed inside. On top of the bed lay his backpack, clothing, and other bits and pieces, leaving no space whatsoever for anything else. It was minuscule. Forget about not being able to swing a cat in there—you couldn’t even swing a dwarf mouse. I decided there and then that no way was I staying here. As we walked back to reception, Ricardo added that the room’s single feature, the bed, had a rather unfortunate aromatic stain on it.
I demanded my passport and money back at reception. The guy there capitulated immediately and said quietly, “I give you double room instead, but please, you no tell anybody.” He passed me a key so I could look at it, and off Ricardo and I went to check it out. It was perfect, with two beds overlooking an internal courtyard. Ricardo couldn’t believe he’d been fobbed off with such a terrible room for the last couple of nights, but if you don’t complain you don’t gain.
I left my gear, locked up, and headed down to collect the change that I still hadn’t received. The crafty geezer now tried to explain that he was charging me more for this because it was a double room. I just couldn’t be bothered to argue the point as it was still a good deal. I did, however, state that I thought he was very crafty. He smiled and took it as a compliment.
Ricardo and I went outside into the sunshine where he told me about Esfahan and I taught him the limited Farsi I had picked up from the lads in Tehran. Having already been in Esfahan for a few days, Ricardo had seen most of the more obvious tourist sites, so suggested we go to the more obscure ones and that I then go to the others after he’d left. We consulted the map and worked out a plan.
The main highlights of Esfahan are without doubt its elaborate blue-tiled mosques, which are masterpieces of architecture and craftsmanship and some of the finest, if not the very finest, in the Islamic world. The best of these are situated around the Imam Khomeini Square, known to the locals by its original name of Naghsh-e Jahan Square, meaning “image of the world,” which contains the Imam Mosque and the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque. Ricardo had seen the Imam Mosque but not the Sheikh Lotfollah, so we decided to start off here.
The walk to the square was through bustling and crowded streets that seemed nearly as busy as the ones in Tehran. The square itself was an oasis of calm, measuring a whopping 1,640 feet by 520 feet, making it the world’s second-biggest square after China’s Tiananmen Square in Beijing. It was far more peaceful than the chaos we passed through to get there, and in its center lay a grassy park containing a huge tranquil pool. Running around the exterior of the square were hundreds of beautiful archways leading to cool and shady shops. But the jewels in the crown of the square were three spectacular buildings. These were the two mosques with their huge exquisite tiled domes, and a strange six-story building with a vast elevated terrace and wooden roof, called the Ali Qapu Palace.
The palace dated from the seventeenth century, and had originally been constructed as a colossal gateway leading to the royal palaces situated behind the square in grassy parklands. It was used later on as a seat of government where the Shah hosted and greeted notables and ambassadors. It was unlike any building I’d ever seen. Its unusual wooden roof supported by huge external wooden columns brought to mind a Chinese or Tibetan temple, and it had a distinctly East Asian feel.
We paid a minimal entrance fee and climbed up to the palace’s highlight, its terrace. The first thing you notice as you walk up the small stairway to the upper terrace is the devastation caused to many of the mosaics and murals lining the walls, which were heavily vandalized during the Oajar period (1779- 1925) and more recently after the Islamic Revolution. It’s a real shame, as from what little remains it’s clear they must have been spectacular. This slight downer was quickly transformed into a feeling of awe as we stepped out onto the magnificent terraced area on the third floor. This was a fantastic vantage point from which to observe the whole square and in particular the huge dome of the Imam Mosque. And the view straight up at the roof was just as good. The roof, along with its supporting columns, was crafted to perfection out of wood and decorated with stunning intricate patterns. The terrace area was used by the Shah and his entourage to watch races and an ancient form of polo below.
We stood for a good while taking in the scene with several Iranian tourists, and clicked off a good number of photos. Access to the floor above was closed off for some reason, so we didn’t get to see the “music room,” which apparently had a decorative ceiling covered with the shapes of vases, elegant bottles, and other ornate household containers. It was said to be one of the greatest remaining examples of secular Persian art.
We walked next across the square’s central park to the historic Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, which was constructed between 1602 and 1691. The first thing that struck me about the mosque was its wonderful dome. Unlike the Imam Mosque, which was decorated with intense turquoise tiles, the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque was decorated predominantly in shades of pale cream. Its tiles change color during the day and go from cream in the full sun, which we saw now, to a wonderfully rich pink at dusk. It was much smaller when compared to the massive Imam Mosque, but it was still one hell of a big structure.
Unusually for such a large mosque, it had no towering minarets or open courtyard, and had steps leading toward its entrance. The entrance was enchanting and its tiles of brilliant blues and vibrant yellows were in stark contrast to its creamy dome. The tiles were so intricate, detailed, and complex they defied belief. I stood marveling at the swirling floral designs and craned my neck up at the entrance portal. This was tiled in the same wonderful patterns and crafted into strange obscure shapes, some of which hung down like stalactites and all of which were a sight to behold. After burning a load more photos, Ricardo and I stepped into the mosque’s cool and peaceful interior.
We walked along a winding hallway leading to the main attraction, the central prayer hall and its incredible dome. I was bowled over by it and as on so many other occasions on this crazy trip of mine, I felt so very privileged to be exactly where I was at this moment in time. I sat on the stone floor and just accepted the majesty of the whole. It was decorated in its entirety with extravagant patterns which got more condensed the closer they got to the center of the dome and thus drew and focused your attention. To what man created, nature added her finishing touches with shafts of hazy sunlight filtering through the elevated lattice windows adding a golden, ethereal quality to the kaleidoscope of mosaics and tiled calligraphy.
Ricardo and I had it to ourselves for a good long while before a couple of Iranian tourists turned up. With their arrival, we headed off into the furnace-like weather outside. We walked through a lush manicured green park and along the main road leading south toward the Zayandeh River, where several historic bridges spanned its width. We crossed the Si-o-She Bridge into the Armenian quarter of the city.
The bridge had been built in the seventeenth century and had thirty-three arches running its length of 524 feet. It was closed to cars and was teeming with people gathered around lively animated characters selling posters, cassette tapes, and the like.
On the other side, three girls passed us and said a giggly, “Hello, Mr.” Without a moment’s hesitation I replied, “Salaam hoobi?” They all looked very surprised and replied, “Oh, salaam hoobi?” This was exactly what I wanted, and I answered “Khoobam, no karetam,” in the same boisterous manner as the lads from Tehran had taught me. What the literal translation of this was I never managed to ascertain, but I think it was the Farsi equivalent of answering, “Yeah, not too bad, me old mate,” when asked, “How are you?”
The girls were all stunned and Ricardo was well impressed. They began to talk to us in English after quickly discovering that this was the limit of my Farsi. Out of the blue, a grumpy middle-aged man walked past and said something to the girls, which by his mannerisms Ricardo and I took to be something along the lines of, “Don’t talk to those foreign boys, you despicable girls!” Encouragingly, the girls gave him a sort of get lost look and turned back to us. Ricardo now tried out the line I’d taught him earlier this morning.
“Shoma khoshgelly,” he said, or in English, “You are beautiful.”
It worked a treat, and they were so flattered that if he could have proposed in Farsi too then I’m sure they would have accepted on the spot. We bade them goodbye and headed to Jolfa, or the Armenian quarter.
Christians had been in this part of Esfahan since the time of Shah Abbas the Great, who came to power in the 1500s. He was responsible for making Esfahan a great city and for establishing a Christian community here, which has existed in the city ever since. He did this by simply transporting all the existing Armenian Christians down from the northern border city of Jolfa in a huge diaspora, and then renaming the area he allocated for them “New Jolfa.” The Armenian Christians were talented merchants and entrepreneurs, and although barred from the Islamic centers of Esfahan, their skills and religious freedoms were well respected. At the time of the Afghan invasion, a century later, there were 60,000 Christians in New Jolfa. Today there are thirteen Armenian churches and an old Christian graveyard.
The first church we located was called Kelisa-ye Maryam or the Maryam Church. Unfortunately, it was all locked up, but I thought there was a good chance we could get someone to open up the place for us. Inside the courtyard, we discovered the necessary individual, who retrieved a huge clanking set of keys from a room nearby and did the honors. The church’s interior was lavishly covered by colorful frescos depicting biblical scenes and venerated saints. We didn’t get more than a snapshot of the place before the janitor indicated he wanted to lock up again, so we thanked him and headed off.
The next one, Kelisa-ye Bethlehem or the Church of Bethlehem, was closed also, and even though we located the janitor and pleaded with him, he wouldn’t open it. It was beginning to look like a bit of a wasted walk—a long and a hot one at that. Not far from here was Vank Cathedral, the church recommended to me by my taxi driver in Tehran. Mercifully, it was open. We had to pay quite a large admission fee to get in, which was justified by an English sign explaining that as they weren’t an Islamic site, they received no government funding and so had to charge to cover the upkeep and restoration costs. That seemed fair enough to me.
From the outside, the church looked rather mosque-like with a rounded dome and several Islamic-style arches, but the inside was anything but. It was decorated with frescos, some of which depicted the more traditional Christian scenes like the birth of Christ and the last supper, whilst others were of a more hellfire and brimstone variety, depicting hell itself and the torture of St. Gregory. Hell was represented, predictably, by a hoard of tormented souls burning away in the flames and looking none too pleased to be there. But just in case being in the center of a raging inferno wasn’t enough to ruin their day, a few were given the added irritation of having their guts pulled out and twisted neatly around a little stick. And poor old St. Gregory wasn’t having the best of times either. He was shown having his eyes plucked out and boiling oil poured down a purpose-made tube into his backside. This was all very interesting in a macabre sort of way but not particularly conducive to fostering a feeling of worship, at least not in me.
In the courtyard outside was a bell tower and a museum dedicated to the Armenians. The museum contained hundreds of ancient hand written books and among these were several very early Bibles and Korans, as well as the first book ever printed in Iran. But the real attraction was an exhibit of women’s hair, which to fully appreciate you had to view through a microscope. An incredibly dexterous Armenian had somehow managed to write on the stuff. Why? I have no idea, but it was damned impressive. Other examples of minute writing were on display including what is reportedly the world’s smallest book, which weighs in at only 0.7 grams and is said to contain the Lord’s Prayer in seven different languages. Also of interest was a small sketch of a bearded man by Rembrandt and a display dedicated to the Armenian Holocaust, something which, I’m embarrassed to say, I’d never even heard of until the museum enlightened me.
The Armenian Holocaust (also known as the Armenian Genocide) was carried out by the Ottoman Turkish authorities during the First World War. It is estimated that 1.5 million Armenians were systematically killed, out of a total of 2 million living in Turkey—close to 80 percent of the entire population. Methodical massacre, torture, abduction, mass rape, and forced starvation occurred. To save ammunition, victims were often killed with hammers, axes, knives, and swords. Women and children were killed in mass drowning operations. Thousands were burnt alive. The Armenians were removed from their homes by Ottoman Turkish forces and marched into the Syrian Desert to die of thirst and hunger in the burning sun. Others, who numbered in the thousands, were driven into caves where bonfires were lit in front to cause death by asphyxiation. As renowned journalist and Middle Eastern historian Robert Fisk points out, “The caves were the world’s first gas chambers.”
When Hitler wanted to convince his generals that a massacre of the Jews would be tolerated in the West, he invoked the Armenian Genocide, saying, “Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?” Churchill wrote of their slaughter describing it as a “holocaust” and referred to the Turks as war criminals.
In a chilling parallel to the words later used by Himmler when instructing the SS, Talaat Pasha, the Turkish Interior Minister, sent instructions to a subordinate on what to do with the thousands of Armenians in the town of Aleppo, stating, “You have already been informed that the government… has decided to destroy completely all the indicated persons living in Turkey… . Their existence must be terminated, however tragic the measures taken may be, and no regard must be paid to either age or sex, or any scruples of conscience.”
There were a number of photos on display in the museum, which graphically showed some of what had happened. They were far worse than the depiction of hell in the church. It left me feeling numb.
After a good look around the museum at some of its less depressing displays, Ricardo and I went outside in search of a taxi. There was only one parked opposite the church, which proudly sported an Audi badge despite being a clapped out Hillman Hunter. I tried joking with the driver about this in the hope of building a bit of rapport and cutting a good deal. He quoted an astronomical price knowing full well he had a monopoly and could charge whatever he liked. Ricardo turned to me and said with a grin, “Try telling him he’s beautiful.”
“Shoma khoshgelly,” I said.
He burst out laughing as did Ricardo and I, but it was still no good and in the end we crossed his palm with far too much silver and paid the full fare.
Back at the hotel, Ricardo and I said goodbye for the final time. He was flying to Shiraz, which was my next destination, but would be leaving for the former historic city of Bam—devastated not too long ago by an earthquake which killed 40,000 people—before I arrived. From Bam, Ricardo would travel overland to Pakistan and then all the way to Nepal. We promised to keep in touch.