I awoke before dawn the next morning when a guard popped his head inside the cabin and announced that we would soon be approaching Tabriz. I started to get myself organized, as did another one of the guys in the cabin. One of the guys popped out into the corridor and returned a minute later with a couple of teas. We drank these together in silence. I spoke more Farsi than he did English, and since all I could really say in Farsi past “hello,” “thank you,” “how much?” and “damn it” was “you are beautiful,” I decided it was best to remain mute—after all, he was no looker.
I stepped off the train into a surprisingly chilly and damp morning. After booking into a hotel, I headed off to the tourist office to make some inquiries. On the way there, it struck me that the roads of Tabriz no longer seemed quite so chaotic and dangerous as when I’d first been here. Certainly they weren’t as bad as Tehran, but I was also becoming much more adept at crossing the road Iranian-style and now felt confident enough to casually step out in front of the traffic and just let the cars work their way around me. I near-skipped across the heaving main road in front of the tourist office without a second thought.
Inside the office were two Polish guys and a big gingerhaired Canadian guy waiting to talk to fountain of tourist knowledge Mr. Nasser Khan. I got talking to my fellow travelers and told the Poles of my desire to visit Babak Castle. They had already been there and highly recommended it, describing the castle as one of the highlights of their eight-week stay in Iran. They sang its praises so much that the Canadian guy sitting next to them decided to cancel his planned trip to another location and come along with me to the castle instead. He introduced himself as Ian, and we both hit it off immediately. Ian was a big friendly confident guy who brought to mind a lumberjack, such was his towering powerful stature, beard, and head of flaming red hair.
The Poles gave Ian and me the details on how to get to the castle, which they explained could be reached by two separate hiking routes. One of these was easy and over rolling hills, the other hard and through dense forest. They highly recommended the hard route on the way up due to its wondrous views and the easy path on the way down. The trip, they said, would take all day, and it was necessary to catch an early morning bus that left at 6 AM for a village near the castle. From the village, we would have to catch a cab to the start of the forest hiking path. Mr. Nasser Khan invited me to join him and the Poles for a tour of one of the nicer areas of Tabriz this evening. I accepted and arranged a time and place to meet them. Like me, Ian was keen for lunch and fancied some traditional Iranian abgusht, so Nasser offered to take us both to a suitable café. On the way there, I asked him what a suitable present to buy Shahram and Kimya would be, both of whom I hoped to meet up with later. He recommended a huge box of nut-laden confectionery on sale in the bazaar.
Over a delicious abgusht, Ian and I discussed tomorrow’s trip to the castle. His hotel was within walking distance of mine, so we arranged to meet outside my place at the unappealing time of 5:15 AM, then to get a taxi to the bus station and catch the 6 AM coach.
I bade Ian good day and set off for Shahram’s workplace, stopping off briefly en route to buy the recommended confectionary. He was shocked to see me and exclaimed, as best he could in English, that he’d been very concerned for me and had planned to wait a week longer, then telephone the police to launch a search. This was all very sweet of him, although a tad melodramatic. He calmed down when I gave him his present, which he seemed delighted with. We sat down, and I told him of my travels and plans to visit the castle tomorrow. He said to phone him tomorrow evening when I got back from the castle so I could collect my camping gear and we could go out for a meal together. Shahram had a ton of work to do, so I left him to get on with it and spent the rest of the afternoon pottering around doing nothing in particular except browsing around the bazaar.
In the evening, I met up with Nasser and the two Polish guys who were waiting for me outside the tourist office. We caught a taxi down to a salubrious part of Tabriz where all the women looked far more Western than their counterparts in the center of town. Here, instead of wearing layers of black clothing, they wore layers of makeup and colorful “skimpy” hijabs. Our first stop was an ice cream parlor where I tucked into a “sunshine sundae,” consisting of loads of Jell-O but precious little ice cream. Whilst eating, Nasser saw two women he knew and said to them in Farsi what I thought was, “You are beautiful.” He said it quickly, but I was sure I recognized the phrase, so after the girls had left I asked him if this had been the case. Nasser confirmed it was and explained that it was quite a normal compliment to pay a girl in Iran, and that it was not as cheesy as it would be in Europe.
He was impressed with my pronunciation of the phrase and the other tidbits of Farsi the Tehran boys had taught me. Nasser explained that around the corner was an English school and that he had arranged for us to attend for a little while to say a few words to the classes. As I had to be up first thing in the morning, I considered declining. I didn’t want to seem rude, though, so I reluctantly tagged along and hoped it would be quick.
It was a small school that ran evening classes on the first and second floor of an office block. Nasser led me and the two Polish guys into the reception, where we were greeted by five staff members. The Poles were introduced first and got a warm welcome from the staff, but when I was introduced as Mr. Maslin from England, it was as if all their birthdays and Shiite religious festivals had come at once. The Polish guys were whisked off to the staff room, but I was far too valuable an asset for this, and was taken instead upstairs to talk directly to the students.
“Come in,” said the teacher in English as the staff member who’d taken me upstairs knocked on the door. As we entered the room, the whole class, who were all girls between about sixteen to eighteen, rose to their feet respectfully. This was extremely cool and a world away from when I was last at school.
“This is Mr. Maslin, English expert from England!” announced the staff member. I liked that very much indeed. The staff member left, and I was asked by the teacher to introduce myself to the class. I did so and was then asked to take a seat whilst the girls asked me questions. First up was a tricky one: “Which is better, Iran or England?”
I answered diplomatically. “That’s a difficult question to answer. It’s a bit like me asking you which is better, an apple or an orange. They are both good but different.”
She looked at me confused. “But an orange is better.”
“Ah, yes, well, er, to you an orange is better, but to many the apple is the superior fruit.”
All the class, including the teacher, looked confused at this. “No, but orange is better!” she repeated again.
My analogy wasn’t working, so I quit discussing fruit salad and said, “Iran and England are as good as each other.”
“But which is better?” asked another one of the girls.
Good God, it was like being back with Hattie trying to find out if I wanted to marry Susan.
“Iran has better weather,” I said, “but England has better, er… soccer.” This they all agreed on, and for the next few minutes, I was asked if I knew David Beckham and the like. The questions got easier after this, and I decided from now on to answer them in as straightforward a manner as possible. They included, amongst many others, “What Iranian food have you tried?” “Did you have culture shock when you come to Iran?” “What do people think of Iran in England?” and “What do you think of the hijab?”
The last two were interesting and I answered honestly, saying that a lot of people in Britain thought Iran was dangerous. I told them that I had even been warned not to go to Iran because I might get shot. The class roared with laughter as if this was the most absurd thing they’d ever heard. After order was reestablished, the teacher confirmed for the class that this was in fact the case and that many people in America and Britain thought Iranians were all terrorists. They seemed genuinely upset at this.
The hijab question was revealing when instead of answering what I thought of it, I asked them what they thought of it. One girl pointed to a small television camera up in the corner of the room and said, “It is not safe.” And it wasn’t; big brother was watching.
The teacher answered for them, saying, “For girls it is better to wear hijab, I think more safe for them.”
We ended on a much lighter note, with me talking about my experiences in the country and the places I’d visited outside of Iran. One of the girls asked jokingly, “Are you Marco Polo?” Everybody laughed at this. There was a knock on the door and the same staff member who’d brought me into the class now came to take me on to another one. The class all protested and asked if I could stay. My ego swelled. They were overruled and I was taken next door, this time to a class of slightly older girls. They all stood for me again and once more I was introduced as, “Mr. Maslin, English Expert from England.”
It was the same routine as before, and I was asked to introduce myself but by now I was really getting the hang of this teaching lark and said confidently, although a little tongue in cheek, “Please be seated class. My name is Mr. Maslin, I’m from England and will be answering your questions for the next fifteen minutes, so please fire ahead. Who’s first?”
They reeled off pretty much the same queries as before, which I answered as best I could. I was in the zone now and managed to get the class laughing on a number of occasions. It was great fun, and I felt like I was a comedian on stage. There was another knock on the door and in came Mr. Nasser Khan. All the class, including me, stood up. Nasser took a seat nearby and listened to the rest of the questions, one of which was, “Have you learnt any Farsi?” After going through “hello,” “goodbye,” etc., Nasser leant over and whispered, “Tell her she is beautiful,” so I did.
“Shoma khoshgelly,” I said, mustering up a look of sincerity. Everybody was in fits of laughter and began applauding. I was encouraged to do it several more times, which I did and received the same response. I was really getting into the swing of it all when there was another knock on the door. It was the same staff member who now wanted to take me away again. This wasn’t popular, and there was a near-rebellion in the class with all of them begging to let Mr. Maslin stay.
When it was all over, I was taken downstairs to meet the school’s head honcho who shot from the hip with his first question. “Which teacher was the best, and which teacher was the worst?”
I loved the irony, as teachers from my old school would be mortified at the thought of Jamie Maslin, of all people, being asked to critique their profession. Although the thought of playing school inspector for them would have greatly appealed, this was Iran, where classes were filmed—probably to keep an eye on the teachers as much as the pupils—so I didn’t want to put anyone in it, and answered that both were exceptional teachers with very good English. The principal seemed satisfied.
Mr. Khan, the Poles, and I caught a cab back to the center of town, where we wished each other well and parted company. Minutes later, I was in my hotel. I requested a morning call for 5 AM and went to bed. I got bugger all sleep though, as for some reason, just like in Maku, I was paranoid that the call wouldn’t come. When the phone finally rang, right at 5 AM, I was exhausted.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in a cab with Ian on the way to the bus station. We arrived there around five thirty, but for some reason the early bus was cancelled and we had to wait until 7:10 AM. It had been one big waste of a lie-in.
The scenery on the way there was awesome, with dramatic hills in layers of rusty red and murky cream, made all the more beautiful by the pink tinge of the early morning sun. I was pleased now that we’d traveled later; if we’d traveled in the dark, we’d have missed much of this wonderful landscape.
Ian and I chatted away on the journey there like old buddies and told each other about our trips and experiences in Iran. Ian worked for an airline and thus got cheap flights, so he had done a lot of traveling, and although Canadian, had been educated for a time in England. He was only in Iran for two more days and, if I remember correctly, had spent about a week here visiting the north of the country. On the way to our destination, the town of Kaleybar, we passed through a town where every vehicle, without exception, was an old style Land Rover. There were rows upon rows of the things all over the place. I’d never seen so many in all my life. We started counting them but gave up when we got into the hundreds.
Kaleybar was a sleepy little isolated town in the heart of Iran’s rugged Azerbaijan region. It was surrounded by steep green mountains, the peaks of which remained unseen, shrouded in a slowly drifting alpine mist. It was a great location and once again so very different from most people’s perception of Iran—not dry and parched like its central deserts, but as lush and green as merry old Mother England.
Ian and I were both hungry, and since we had many hours of hiking ahead of us, we went to a café to fill up on carbs. After our breakfast, we went looking for a taxi. On the way, we were invited into a complete stranger’s house but as we were already well behind schedule, we reluctantly had to decline. We caught a cab up to the start of the trail.
The trek started along a twisting forest trail past a number of abandoned campsites, which, sadly, were strewn with trash. It was a real shame as it was a stunning piece of scenery, which clearly the people who’d camped out here had come especially to see, but for whatever reason had seemed determined not to leave that way. Past the campsites, the trail meandered uphill through the trees and along a boulder-riddled riverbed, toward the looming cloud-capped mountains in the distance.
All was going well on the hike until we arrived at a waterfall next to a steep craggy rock face, to which the path appeared to lead up. We were both unsure whether this was the correct route, as the rock face was steep and dangerous as hell. Ian didn’t like the look of this one bit or the prospect of climbing it. Since he was built more for chopping trees down and I was built more for climbing them, I volunteered to scramble up the rock face and check it out, whilst Ian backtracked to see if there was another route.
To me, the climb seemed a little hairy, although perfectly doable if taken slowly and carefully. I didn’t find it too hard and got to the top without drama. At the summit, the path skirted around the waterfall and connected to a much more gradual and safer track leading through the forest. As I descended to pass on the good news, the clip attaching my water bottle to my belt gave way, sending the bottle careering toward the ground, bouncing off and smashing into jagged rocks as it went. This did nothing to encourage Ian, who the water bottle just missed, that the climb was a safe one. Surprisingly, the bottle was in one piece.
Ian hadn’t found another track, so the choice seemed simple: either he did the climb or we went back to the start again and located the easier route.
There was no point in him trying something he wasn’t comfortable with, and what’s more, we were in a very isolated location along a deserted mountain path and should something have gone wrong, than it could have gone wrong badly.
We started the depressing walk back, but a minute later, Ian fortuitously spotted another trail going all the way around the rock face and waterfall. We took this and in no time were both looking down on the waterfall. The path then led along another boulder-strewn riverbed toward a rocky peak jutting majestically out of the forest hundreds and hundreds of feet above. It looked like the location where the castle was perched, although it was difficult to tell because a thick curtain of mist obscured the peak. The mist would part tantalizingly for a fraction of a second, leaving Ian and me straining for a glimpse of the castle before it closed again and enveloped the mountain. What we saw was mesmerizing. It was stunningly beautiful, like some mythical enchanted fortress out of a fairy tale or The Lord of the Rings. I couldn’t wait to get to the top.
We arrived at a fork in the road, with both paths leading up the rocky peak in different directions. Ian favored the one to the right; I favored the one to the left. We decided to go check out our favored tracks and report back to each other a few minutes later before making a decision. A couple hundred feet up my trail, I became convinced it was the right one. I was just about to yell out to Ian and tell him this when he beat me to the punch and shouted to come back. I found him with a group of six or so Iranian hikers. They spoke little English but indicated that Ian’s path led to the castle, and since they’d all just come from there, they were obviously right.
Another half an hour on and we came to the very steep rocky mountainous section. It was one hell of a place to build a fortress and would have been bloody difficult to attack as the hike up there was no stroll in the park. Sadly, we still couldn’t see the castle clearly, such was the mist blanketing the summit. The Polish guys who’d recommended this route had described similar weather conditions and had said that, suddenly, out of the blue, the clouds had completely parted for them, revealing the castle in all its glory above. Ian and I waited for a while hoping to get the same awesome view from below but the clouds remained steadfast.
The Poles had also told us that it was possible to get a drink at the top, which seemed a bit unlikely given the castle’s inaccessible location up an isolated mountain in the middle of a forest. Jokingly, in stupid overexaggerated upper-class English accents, we shouted up toward the cloud-tipped peak, “I say, would someone be kind enough to put the kettle on up there!” and other inane although quite amusing nonsense. It echoed around the valley for miles.
“I hope there’s no one who understands English at the top,” said Ian.
A little farther up, we came across another path that joined onto ours, coming from the direction of the one I’d first favored. It was almost certainly the same trail and had led up to the castle after all. Being a bit of an outdoor enthusiast, I felt relieved to know I hadn’t got my navigation completely wrong.
From out of nowhere, the strange sound of a large group of males singing harmoniously emanated from the castle’s still unseen, cloud-covered peak. Suddenly, a boulder came crashing down the side of the mountain, accompanied by several shouts. We yelled up to let the choir above know we were down here. A couple of minutes later, a group of about twenty Iranian kids of around fourteen years old came down the mountainside, along with an adult who looked like their school teacher. They were having a great time and looked like they were on a school outing.
They went crazy when they saw us and all came over and shook our hands enthusiastically. They were a great bunch and hyper-energized. Ian told one of them he was from Canada and they went berserk.
“Canada! Canada! Canada!” they chanted together at the top of their voices, which echoed repeatedly all around the valley.
“Iran! Iran! Iran!” Ian yelled back.
“Canada, Iran! Canada, Iran! Canada, Iran!” everybody, including me, started to yell for no other reason than it was bloody good fun and we were all enjoying it. By this stage, they’d all assumed I was Canadian too and were giving me little pats on the back whilst enthusiastically shouting, “Canada! Canada! Canada!” again and again. I responded with “Iran! Iran! Iran!” It was insane and pointless but a great laugh.
After the chanting, a number of them produced cameras and we all lined up for some group photos. Every time we were about to part and go our separate ways, a couple of the group would run back to shake our hands again or to have one more snap taken with us. This happened about ten times before they finally headed down and disappeared into the mist below. Although out of sight, they were far from out of earshot, and for the next few minutes, the surreal sound of “Canada, Iran!” echoed all around the mist-shrouded mountains of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province.
Eventually, we got close enough to the castle to see it through the clouds. It had taken a good couple of hours but was well worth the effort. The castle was perched right at the top of a near-vertical rock face accessible only via a steep twisting path that led to the summit. We climbed this and were delighted to find the place completely deserted.
Although what remained of the castle was a ruin, many of the walls and structures were intact, several parts of which were roofed. Others were in the process of being rebuilt, but I kind of liked using my imagination to try to picture it back in its heyday.
We had a good look around the site, then sat with our feet dangling over the edge of a section of walling with a massive drop below. We waited here, hoping upon hope that the curtain of cloud would draw, even if just for a second, so we could glimpse the glorious vista we both knew was all around us but could not see.
Although Ian and I had the place to ourselves, it would have been a different story had we been here in late June. At that time, the castle and the surrounding area would have been packed with several tens of thousands of people coming to commemorate the birthday of Babak Khorramdin. Babak Khorramdin was a ninth-century Zoroastrian Iranian nationalist who fought fiercely against the imposition of Islam and the Arab invasion of his country. He was based at the castle, and it was later named after him.
The celebration of Babak Khorramdin’s birthday is a rather disorganized event and follows no particular official program, with Iranians turning up and congregating in small groups for discussions, poetry readings, lectures, musical performances, dancing, and to campout overnight at the castle. The Iranian authorities have been none too happy about the gatherings in previous years, in large part because of what Babak Khorramdin symbolized as a popular nationalist who promoted an Iranian religion and fought against Islam. Some mullahs have criticized the participants in the birthday celebrations, saying that it is unethical to commemorate someone who killed Muslims. According to some reports, there have been multiple arrests at past ceremonies by the security forces.
Ian and I stayed at the top of the castle exploring around for a good long time, still hoping that the clouds would clear, before making the decision to head back. Whilst looking for the easy path down, we came across the “café” mentioned by the Polish guys where you could get a drink. It consisted of a couple of big urns, a gas burner, a box of tea bags, and a couple of kettles. It was all kept under a tarp and was deserted today. We considered getting the gas burner on the go and leaving some money for a chay, but decided against it when we couldn’t locate any cups.
We found a path on the opposite side of the castle to the one we’d come up and assumed it was the easier route that led down toward the town. It could have led anywhere though, such was our disorientation from the terrible visibility, which was now down to about thirty feet. We started along the trail, but after a while it petered out, leading us to question if it had been the right path after all. In hindsight, we should have turned back to establish this for sure, but since this part of the walk was downhill and wasn’t through the forest, we decided to continue. It was the wrong decision to make, especially since we could see next to nothing in the fog, and we paid for this dearly by walking for hours on end. It ended up taking us far longer to get down on the “easy path” than the “hard path” had taken us to get up to the castle. The heavens opened and it started to rain, soaking both of us. To add insult to injury, my water bottle that I’d thought had survived its fall intact, was actually leaking and had left a big round wet patch in a rather embarrassing place on my trousers next to where I’d reattached it to my belt.
In the mist, much of the visible landscape looked like an English moor, so much so that I could easily imagine a local country pub emerging from the fog, where I could get roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and a real ale served in front of a cozy fireplace. Being familiar with the delights of English pubs, Ian found the idea extremely appealing, especially since we were now tired, wet, cold, and hungry.
Eventually, we found our way back to the place where the taxi had dropped us this morning. Wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as we arrived, the clouds started to clear. Located nearby was a little café, so we dropped in for a well-earned hot drink. A few minutes later, we were joined by the “Canada, Iran” boys, who were staying at a campsite around the corner and were as enthusiastic as ever. Whilst Ian and I nursed a couple of hot coffees, the boys learnt to smoke cigarettes—none of them inhaled. After a while, Ian popped outside and called a taxi from a phone box down the road, which turned up a few minutes later. When we tried to pay for our drinks, the café owner refused payment. We thanked him and headed back to town.
After being dropped off in Kaleybar, we bumped into our first cab driver who’d given us a lift up to the trail this morning. He and Ian started to chat together again and, despite the language difficulties, got on like a house on fire. A few minutes later, we were all sitting in another nearby café together. We asked the driver, whose name was Farhad, how much it would cost for him to take us to Tabriz, as by now we’d missed the last bus back and it was beginning to get dark. Farhad recommended we didn’t go with him as he worked for an agency of some sort that charged a lot more for longer journeys than normal taxis. He said his price would be fifteen Khomeinis, whereas a normal one would cost between four and five Khomeinis (a Khomeini being the green IR10,000 notes with a picture of said fellow on them). Before we went in search of a cab, Ian tried to give Farhad a gift consisting of a bundle of bank notes which he strenuously declined.
It was now completely dark and both of us were still wet, cold, and looking forward to getting back to our hotels. We found a taxi going our way that had one other passenger, who was about eighteen years old and sat in the front seat. He turned out to be a really nice guy, as demonstrated en route when we stopped briefly so he could pop into a little village store. He returned a minute later and presented Ian and me with a big bag of cheesy-puff-like chips, a couple of cool drinks, and a chocolate bar each. I certainly didn’t take these kind gestures for granted, but they no longer surprised me, for I’d been encountering this sort of thing every day since arriving in Iran.
Ian and I swapped e-mail addresses back in Tabriz and parted company with promises to send each other copies of our photos from our day out together.
I got back to my hotel feeling tired but very satisfied. I tried calling Shahram several times but alas there was no answer. I resigned myself to meeting up with him tomorrow.