At the ungodly hour of five forty-five in the morning, the bus terminal was surprisingly busy. It was too early for me to function properly, though, and as I waited for my shiny modern bus to arrive, I slowly brought myself out of a dribbling semi-comatose state with a life-renewing sweet black tea.
The night before, I’d made the mistake of arranging a super-early wake-up knock on my door, but had been paranoid that the elderly man at reception, who’d seemed a little preoccupied when I’d asked him, would forget. As a result, I woke up several times during the night in a panic that I’d missed my bus. Since I didn’t have a watch, I’d end up stumbling down to the lobby to check the clock hanging on the wall there, only to discover that it was still the middle of the frickin’ night. It was a complete waste of time and I needn’t have worried, as right at five thirty, there was a tappity tap tap on my door. I got up feeling not only tired but rather stupid.
When my bus finally rocked up, and I do mean rocked, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was modern, but only if this was the 1950s, and it didn’t look like it had received a service since then. It was covered in rust, dented, missing both front and rear bumpers, and completely filthy. To complete the look were massive cracks to the windscreen and several of the side windows.
The “luggage” compartment was almost entirely filled with old car batteries and its floor covered in an oily sludge. I was far from pleased. On board was no better, with the springs on all the seats long gone and the once white seat covers now anything but. Taking a seat was an interesting organizational process of making sure no man or woman who weren’t related sat next to each other. At every stop, this arrangement had to be rethought and the seating rearranged accordingly. Being new to all this, I kind of liked the novelty of it, but was well aware that had I to go through the process on a daily commute, the effect would soon wear off. I imagined the chaos there’d be at home were the same system to be implemented on London’s hideously crowded buses and tube trains and wondered how on earth Iranians coped on the metro system in Tehran—a city with 15 million people.
I was placed toward the back and given a “window” seat, although part of the window was missing. The thick, broken glass was sharp to the touch, being anything but normal safety glass. It was a four hour journey to Tabriz, and although I was looking forward to checking out the landscape as we drove, the guy sitting next to me insisted on drawing the thick black curtain to block the sunlight from coming in. As a result, I saw nothing en route and arrived in the city of Tabriz delighted to finally have something to look at.
Tabriz is a thriving city of some 1.5 million people located in the northwest of the country and is the capital of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province. Although modern in the sense of infrastructure and amenities, Tabriz has a rich history dating back somewhere in the region of two thousand years. On numerous occasions in the past, it has been the country’s capital and until the 1970s was the second largest city in Iran. Its history has seen many conquering empires come and go, including the Mongols, who under the leadership of Genghis Khan conquered the country, which they subsequently governed from Tabriz. Famous Venetian explorer Marco Polo traveled through and wrote of the place in the late thirteenth century, at a time when the Mongol Empire reached from Istanbul in western Turkey to Beijing in eastern China and controlled some 100 million people.
One of Tabriz’s more disputed claims to fame is that residing nearby is the location for the biblical Garden of Eden. This theory was popularized by archaeologist David Rohl’s book Legend: The Genesis of Civilization, in which he argues for a site to the south of the city near the beautiful Mount Sahand. As a result, you can now take tours to visit the supposed area where Adam and Eve first acquired their liking for juicy Golden Delicious.
Being a Westerner and carrying a huge backpack, I attracted a fair amount of attention as I walked, but when I stopped to look at my map, it was a different matter altogether. I was surrounded by a throbbing crowd in no time, none of whom spoke English past the basics of, “Hello,” “What is your country?” and “David Beckham!” After that, they spoke at me in rapid-fire Farsi in the vain hope I’d suddenly twig and miraculously learn to speak in tongues and understand the language. I did my best to ignore this and stared at my map of the city, trying to work out where the hell I was. My concentration was interrupted by a kindly newcomer to the gathering.
“Can I help you?” he said, warmly introducing himself as Shahram.
Yes, he could help. I explained where I wanted to go, which was a nice-sounding place called the Hotel Azerbaijan, and asked how much a taxi there should cost.
Without further ado, Shahram ushered me away from the crowd, hailed a taxi, and motioned me to get in. I expected him to give instructions to the driver and leave it at that, but in he jumped also and paid for both of us up front. We hurtled off and with very little in the way of introductions, he asked me, in broken English, if I would join him and his wife in the evening so they could show me the sites of Tabriz and take me to a restaurant. I was a bit taken aback by his generosity and initially tried to wriggle out of it. He insisted in the nicest possible way, and then asked what time I would like to meet him.
I explained that, as I didn’t have a watch, I wasn’t sure of the time now, so maybe he should suggest the best time to meet. On hearing this, he immediately took off his own expensive-looking chunky metal wristwatch and handed it to me. I couldn’t believe it, and tried strenuously to refuse many times, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said that if I really wanted to return it to him then I could give the watch back when we met up later. I was touched by his generosity but determined to hand it back at the first opportunity.
We both got out of the taxi just down the road from the hotel and walked the last bit through the crowded streets together. Shahram insisted on carrying my backpack for this short stint but struggled with the weight of it. Instead of putting it on his back, he carried it from two flimsy straps attached to the front, which weren’t designed to hold such a load. I could see his efforts ripping the fabric apart, but not wanting to sound ungrateful, I said nothing. I figured I could always sew it up later, which was preferable to pointing it out now and upsetting him after his astounding generosity.
I was face-to-face again with the obligatory picture of Khomeini, who stared out across the hotel’s spacious and rather comfy lobby. Here, Shahram handed me his card and told me to phone him at four o’clock, at which point he would come over and collect me. He grabbed the number of the hotel and bade me goodbye. The girl behind reception, like most of the women I had seen thus far in Iran, was wearing the full traditional black chador, which leaves only the face uncovered. Her English was excellent and so was her steadfast refusal to negotiate on price. I was happy to pay the asking price, though, as I particularly liked the sound of the room, with its own bathroom, television, and fridge.
I wasn’t to be disappointed; the room was excellent. It was spotlessly clean with all of the aforementioned features as well as a marbled floor, a spy hole in the door, and a wonderfully comfortable bed. The bathroom toilet was of the “squat” variety but was clean and modern. I dumped all my gear, drank a load of cool water from the fridge, and headed outside into the blazing sunshine and the crowds.
Knowing that Shahram was going to give me the whole tourist trip later, I just strolled around getting a feel for the place. One of the first things I learnt here was just how hard it is to cross an Iranian road. None of the supposed crossings were observed in the slightest by the traffic, and as the traffic was constant, you just had to take a deep breath and sprint across. And forget about only looking left and right before stepping out. Check every conceivable angle of the compass and even throw in up and down for good measure. It was nerve-racking to say the least. Even on the pavement you weren’t safe, with mopeds weaving in and out of the crowds and appearing from nowhere. I got a kind of formula down for crossing, which was to only do so when others did, but to make sure I was slightly farther down the road than them, so if things did go wrong, they’d get hit first.
Tabriz was teeming with life, and everywhere I looked was something insane to check out. I stopped by a crowd of men gathered around a television set outside a shop. Here, on screen, were two highly disabled men doing the most incredible break dancing. With stunted legs and arms, they looked like Thalidomide sufferers, but both were as nimble as hell. Their crazy break-dance moves were well-received by the crowd and got a rapturous applause. I couldn’t quite work out if I liked it or not. It would have been considered outrageous in England, but here it was perfectly acceptable and the DVD of it was selling like hot cakes.
I walked on down the road and was struck by another peculiarity, namely just how gender segregated Iran was. On the whole, women walked, sat, or talked with women and men did so with men. It was also something of a surprise to see a number of guys openly holding hands in what would definitely have signified a gay relationship at home. But here, I guess it was just a sign of friendship. After all, homosexuality is highly illegal in Iran and punishable by hundreds of lashes or even death, so it wouldn’t have been a sensible thing to advertise.
There were many very inviting cake shops along the roads, one of which got the better of me and I popped inside. The cakes were all really cheap but of an exceptional quality and really attractive. I bought a whole bag of cream-filled cupcakes, which tasted delicious.
Another interesting place I tried was one of the many milkshake shops. As well as the more traditional flavors, this place also did a fresh carrot milkshake. I tried one of these bright orange shakes, which was surprisingly good, as well as a fresh banana shake with big chunky grains of sugar in it.
Having lost myself for a good part of the day doing more wandering, tasting, and exploring, it came as something of a shock when I realized how late it was. Back at the hotel, I gave Shahram a call. He apologized that due to unforeseen circumstances at work, he’d now be about an hour late and would come and get me as soon as he could. This was fine by me, as it gave me a chance to recline on my bed and read up on Tabriz and Iran in general.
Two things in particular caught my attention on the same page of my guidebook. The first was under the heading “Marriage, although not until death do us part” and described a bizarre Iranian practice, unique to Shiite Islam, called sigheh or “temporary marriage.” Sigheh allows horny singles to indulge in a bit of legal “slap and tickle” with full religious blessing, for anything from a few hours to a few months. Amazingly, sigheh is officially sanctioned in Iran, even though unmarried couples who simply date or hold hands can be arrested, fined, or in some cases flogged. Supporters of sigheh often defend the practice as a way for the widows of the Iran-Iraq War to still get a bit of action, although apparently many Iranians see it simply as legalized and sanctioned prostitution. I told myself that if the opportunity arose, I’d happily say “I do.”
The second thing to catch my attention was a passage on Iranian social etiquette that mentioned a confusing practice known as ta’arof. This is where you might be offered something purely out of politeness, but it is not meant as a genuine offer to be taken literally and accepted. To tell if the offer is legit, what you must do is refuse three times, and if the offer is not then retracted, it can be assumed genuine and you can accept. I thought back to when Shahram had given me his watch, but that definitely hadn’t been ta’arof, as I’d refused more than three times—in fact, it was probably closer to ten.
Shahram turned up and apologized repeatedly for being late. I tried to hand his watch back at once, but Shahram wouldn’t hear of it and insisted I wore it “until we have seen a few places.” The first stop on Shahram’s guided tour was a place called Arg-e Tabriz or “the Ark.”
This was a huge brick citadel built in the fourteenth century on the site of a massive mosque that had collapsed some five hundred years ago. There was construction work going on nearby on a mosque the size of a department store, which we needed to venture through in order to access the Ark. We asked the builders’ permission before entering the site; they clearly had no concern for “health and safety,” and waved us through without a second thought. We only had access to the rear of the Ark, which looked from here rather like an old, disused power station, but Shahram livened it up by recalling an interesting story from its past.
Its roof, he explained, had once been used to throw criminals to their nasty and rather squishy death in the ditch below. And, if legend was to be believed, one lucky woman cheated death through the parachute-like effect of her traditional chador. Whether they tossed her off a second time to finish the job he didn’t know. Given the height of the thing, this ancient BASE jumper certainly wouldn’t have been in a good state if she had survived, assuming the story was true. But there would, of course, have been a beckoning career as a disabled break-dancer ahead of her.
We left the Ark and walked on to the bazaar—a place I was looking forward to seeing. The bazaar in Tabriz is massive, totaling 2.1 miles in length and containing 7,350 shops and twenty-four separate caravanserais where the itinerant traders set up shop. It dates back a thousand years, although most of the buildings currently there are from the fifteenth century.
The inside of the bazaar made the streets outside seem empty and quiet. There were people everywhere trying to strike a deal, browsing, feeling the quality of goods, eating, drinking, smelling foods, working, chatting, and generally shopping until they dropped in this atmospheric labyrinth.
The bazaar was separated into five main areas specializing in gold, footwear, spices, general household items, and carpets. As well as these main sections, there was, to the north and across the Quri River, a section specializing in copperware and foods like honey, dates, cheese, and halvah. I couldn’t help but walk around goggle-eyed. There were huge blocks of sugar being broken into more manageable pieces, mounds of brightly colored spices and dried foodstuffs, carpets being made and mended, bread being cooked, and many, many other intriguing sights and smells. But most impressive of all was the size of the place—it just went on and on forever.
Just when my brain was bursting with stimuli, Shahram led me to a little haven of tranquility in the form of a teahouse. Here, seeking respite from the frantic activity outside, were men smoking huge qalyans, or water pipes, and sipping little glasses of black chay at small wooden tables. I was given a complimentary glass with several sugar cubes but no spoon. Shahram demonstrated for me the Iranian method of drinking tea. Grasping the especially hard sugar cube between your front teeth, you then suck the tea through it. A little sugar then disintegrates into your mouth with each sip and thus sweetens the tea. It seemed a lot of effort but I gave it a go. It was far from easy, as the whole cube kept falling apart in my mouth so I had to keep getting new cubes. Where I might have had one lump, I now ended up having seven or eight. Shahram was a master of this technique, though, and made it seem effortless. He was also a master of the pipe and got stuck into this whilst blowing out huge clouds of smoke like a dragon. I gave it a go but was far from impressive.
Even to a Brit, Iran is a nation of obsessive tea drinkers, and a whole set of social etiquette has developed around how you place your cup and saucer. If you place your cup upside down, you insult the person nearest to you. If you turn it on its side, you declare you’re gay. And put the saucer over the cup, and you might as well yell out, “I’ll take you all on!” as it’s a slur to the whole teahouse. And watch how you smoke the pipe as well. One big faux pas is to ignite a cigarette on the pipe’s embers, which can also lead to a spot of fisticuffs.
Shahram explained that he liked teahouses very much but tried not to go to them too often because he tried to stay in shape for his hobby, karate. By way of coincidence, there was a seventies martial arts flick playing on a small crackling television in the corner. It was dubbed abysmally in Farsi and featured a big, fat, bearded white guy taking on a group of lean, hard-ass-looking, and nimble Chinese. It wasn’t the slightest bit convincing, as the bearded one was appallingly slow and moved about like the big fat white guy that he was. Seeing my interest in the movie, Shahram offered to take me to his karate class tomorrow. This was something I had to see, and the thought of getting involved in a punch-up, Iranian style, greatly appealed.
Three cups of tea and what seemed like a hundred sugar cubes later, we hit the street. Once outside, we were approached by a European-looking guy, the first I’d seen in Iran, apart from the one in my hotel mirror, who pointed at my guidebook and said, “I am tourist guide on page 205 of that book.”
And indeed he was. His name was Nasser Khan and he ran the local governmental tourist board office directly above where we stood. He gave me his card and offered me a “Nescafé” in his office whenever I had some free time. Interestingly, in Iran, instant Nescafé is rated above ground coffee, as if the absolute pinnacle of coffee excellence. If you’re offered Nescafé as opposed to just a coffee, then it’s to stress the fact that it’s not the cheap stuff. My dear mother, God bless her, would get on great with this social one-upmanship; whenever my folks have guests over for dinner, she slips in a discreet, “It’s from Sainsbury’s ‘Taste the Difference’ range,” in an attempt to elicit an impressed and approving, “Oh, Mary.”
Oh, Mother.
Finally, we arrived at a watch shop where Shahram bought a battery for a silver pocket watch. With all the excitement of the bazaar, I’d completely forgotten I was still wearing his wristwatch. I asked if I could now return it to him, and to my delight he said yes. I handed it over with great relief, but on doing so was immediately presented with another one—this time the silver pocket watch. Once again, my refusal was not allowed, despite my attempting it on more than three occasions.
It had a beautiful flowery pattern on one side, and on the other was the inscription, “World’s Best Dad.” He obviously couldn’t read English as well as he spoke it, and said proudly, “English words.” I was touched.
Poetry is big in Iran. Iranians take their poets very seriously, and poetry is without doubt the most important form of literature there. This is because poets often promoted Islam and the Persian language during periods of occupation. Not only do they have mausoleums named after them, but streets and squares as well—although probably not as many as Khomeini does.
Our next stop was to visit one such place called the Poet’s Mausoleum, situated to the west of the bazaar in a quaint little park, which had been built after the death of a very popular local poet, Shahriah. The mausoleum was an odd-shaped monument consisting of several large hollow arched sections, which in totality formed a towering modern artistic structure that you could walk through. Situated around it were the statues of famous Iranian poets to whom it was a memorial.
One of Iran’s favorite poets, Ferdosi, started an epic poem in the tenth century called Shahnama or “the Book of Kings,” which he began at age forty and finished thirty years later. It was, as you might expect, a touch on the long side and contained no less than 50,000 couplets. This he presented to the Turkish king, who was less than impressed, as it contained no reference at all to the Turks. He rejected it and poor old Ferdosi died a penniless fellow. He is venerated now, though, and seen as the savior of Farsi, writing in this language when Persian culture was rapidly being Arabized. His writings record many details of Persian history, which, without him, might have been lost forever. Other famous and influential Iranian poets include Hafez, Sa’di, and Omar Khayyam.
Beneath the mausoleum was an underground exhibition hall displaying local photography. The photos were all of regional attractions, and one in particular caught my attention. It was an old stony castle situated on top of a rugged and very steep mountaintop, surrounded on all sides by forested hills. Its name was Babak Castle, and strangely it merited no mention in my guidebook. Shahram seemed to know it well but found it difficult to translate for me where it was or if it was possible to visit. I decided to make some further inquiries later with the tourist guide who’d offered me Nescafé.
Shahram was generous to a fault and had already bought me a notepad in the bazaar and was now approaching the till with a book. I suspected it was for me, and my suspicions were confirmed when he turned and presented it to me with a smile. It was a photography booklet of quality prints, including one of the mysterious castle. I thanked him many times over and wondered if all Iranians were this incredibly generous and hospitable to foreigners.
Not long after the sun set, I was introduced to Shahram’s wife, whom we met up with at her office. Her name was Kimya, and as Shahram introduced me to her, I made the mistake of instinctively thrusting out my hand for her to shake before realizing it wasn’t deemed appropriate. Once it was out, though, I couldn’t retract it, so it just sort of hung there in the air for a second, whilst she pondered what to do. In desperation, she looked across to Shahram for guidance. He nodded that it was okay, and we shook. I hoped I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Kimya spoke much better English than Shahram, and it was good to talk to her without having to repeat myself several times as I’d been doing with Shahram. She went through all the standard Iranian icebreaker questions and seemed genuinely sorry and surprised to learn I wasn’t married yet, as had Shahram when he had first asked me. “I hope you get married soon,” was all she said before changing the subject tactfully, as if trying to save me the embarrassment of being single. Minutes later we left for another attraction.
We all piled into the back of a shared taxi, and on the way to our next stop, Kimya queried me repeatedly on what I knew of Islam. We talked religion together for a while and how Christianity, Islam, and Judaism are in fact very similar. Having read a bit about this, I managed to knock out a couple of quotes from the Koran to impress Kimya. I started with Surah 29, where Mohammed instructs his followers, “Do not dispute with the people of the book,” (i.e., Jews and Christians), “… but tell them we believe in the Revelation which has come down to us and in that which came down to you; our Allah and your Allah is one.” Kimya and Shahram were both very pleased and seemed impressed that I knew something of their religion.
Kimya then told me that when Mohammed entered Mecca in triumph, he ordered the destruction of all idols and images, but when he came across a picture of the Virgin Mary and infant Jesus, he covered it reverently with both hands and said that all other idols were to be destroyed, but the image of the Virgin and Child was to be looked upon as sacrosanct. We then talked about Jesus being a prophet to Muslims and that Mohammed had referred to Jesus as the “breath of God.”
When we finally got to our destination, I tried to pay for the ride but gave up when Shahram seemed offended that I should try to do such an underhanded and despicable thing.
“You are our guest!” he said forcefully as he handed the money to the driver.
“Fair enough,” I thought.
We had arrived at a magical place called King’s Lake, which Kimya explained was now officially called People’s Lake so as to have no reference to the ousted king of Iran, the Shah. It was a fair-sized lake with many multicolored illuminated fountains and a large restaurant built in the middle, which was accessible via a walkway. This, Shahram explained, had once been a disco when such things were allowed in Iran before the Islamic Revolution. Many people splashed around in little paddleboats, and everybody we passed seemed happy. Surrounding the lake was a park containing some fairground attractions, including a Ferris wheel lit up with twinkling colored lights.
We strolled leisurely along the outside path of the lake where other people were also walking, relaxing, eating candy floss, roller-skating, and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. The limited visions I’d had of Iran before visiting had been of slightly worrisome street scenes where I’d have to keep my wits about me at all times, lest I be lynched by a mob of anti-Western fundamentalists. The farce of that misconceived image made me laugh now.
We ambled along in the balmy nighttime summer air to the walkway that led out to the restaurant. Here, I was treated to a yogurt and cucumber, then the finest Iranian style kebabs and rice with a big dollop of butter. We washed this down with cool beaded bottles of Sprite served with straws. It was strange to be in such an ambient restaurant without being able to order from a wine list and instead to be drinking through a straw. Over dinner, we talked about all manner of things, including our hobbies. They were both amazed to learn I skydived and got me to talk about this for a good fifteen minutes. They kept shaking their heads in astonishment. I promised to e-mail them a photo of me doing this, which both seemed genuinely excited about receiving.
When it was time to pay, I didn’t really know what to do, but I decided to offer and did so three times. In the end, it was no good and I was overruled by the pair of them, but I felt better for trying.
Walking back through the park, we chatted about Iranian cinema, and I told them I had seen the Oscar-nominated Iranian film Children of Heaven (which, dear reader, if you haven’t yet seen I’d highly recommend, as it is a delightful and touching piece of cinema). Kimya was most impressed by this and recommended another film for me by the same director, called Color of Paradise.
All in all, it was a splendid afternoon and evening, and when we got back to my hotel, they offered to put me up at their place the next night. I did the refuse three times routine then agreed on the fourth. Things were working out extremely well.