Journey in Iran
30 June - 21 July 1996
Copyright © 1996 Pierre Flener. All rights reserved.
Turkey - Tehran - Esfahan - Shiraz - Takht-e Jamsheed
- Shiraz - Yazd - Tabas - Mashhad - Neishabur - Mashhad - Gonbad-e Kavus -
Gorgan - Chaluz - Ramsar - Rasht - Masuleh - Rasht - Ghazvin - Alamut - Ghazvin
- Tabriz - Turkey (all overland)
Introduction
This
is a report of a solo-trip to Iran, undertaken during July 1996 [please note
that this was way before the election of Khatami]. I have compiled it from my
travel notes, often omitting irrelevant details such as where I ate what, where
I slept, and so on, but adding some afterthoughts and hindsights. I am from
Luxembourg, so expect a slightly European mind-set, but maybe tainted by the
fact that I actually lived in Turkey.
This journey was totally improvised,
reservations being a concept totally alien to me. Of course I did some homework
beforehand, so as to know the must-sees. My only available information source
was the Lonely Planet guide "Iran - A Travel Survival Kit (1st
edition)" (Australia, 1991, by David St Vincent: a great book, but aging
badly; fortunately, new editions are always in the making). Descriptions are
kept informative enough so that those who have been there should recognize the
places, while those who would like to go there should be able to locate them.
This report is not intended to be a crash course on Iranian history and
culture.
By the way, I compiled an independent travel guide
to Iran from available on-line information: please consult that one instead of
asking travel organisation questions to me.
This journey also was on a shoestring
budget, a mattress to crash on and a shower being all that is needed when
constantly on the move. Visa costs, transportation to/from the Iranian border,
inoculations, medicine, postcards, and souvenirs excluded, I had a daily
maintenance ratio of about $7.5, covering accommodation, food, drinks,
transportation, and entrance fees. This was a little bit roughing it sometimes,
so reckon on $10 per day for a really cozy trip!
All views expressed here are mine, and
you are the judge whether they are witty insights, total misunderstandings, or
unspeakable truths. Note that all Iranian names have been changed, to
"protect" the people I met.
Comments are welcome.
Enjoy,
Pierre Flener
30 June 1996: From the Turkey/Iran
border to Tehran
At
dawn, my Turkish bus follows the ancient Silk Road through a corridor between
the windswept craggy hills of the Eastern Anatolian plateau, along a meandering
river fed by the last silvery patches of snow. Near DoGubeyazit, the last
Turkish outpost, Mount Ararat takes command of the scenery with its imposing
5,185m height and its eternal snowcap. Almost everybody gets off in that
village, and it is only a few Turkish women -- all married to Iranian Azaris --
and their kids who accompany me to the border. When we get there, headscarves
and black chadors are taken out of bags and adjusted, and we say goodbye to our
friendly bus crew of the last 17 hours.
The exit formalities on the Turkish
side are very fast, but the Iranian side is a bit chaotic, with papers to fill
out, closed doors to wait at, and huge queues. I team up with two young Iranian
Azaris, let us call them Akbar I and Akbar II, who are returning to Tehran from
a brief vacation in Ankara. They are resourceful enough to "talk me"
past all queues and even to talk the customs officer into
"neglecting" his duty of having me fill in a currency declaration.
So, after only 2.5 hours, we emerge in
Iran. I feel elated to finally be here, after four failed attempts to even get
the visa. Judging from the state of the vehicles and buildings, my very first
impression is that I somehow seem to be thrown 20 years back in time, as if
nothing had been done over these 20 years, but this was going to be my last
"negative" observation about Iran. The Akbars continue to take charge
of my progress, thus giving me a smooth introduction to their country, since I
do not speak any Farsi language yet, although my Turkish gets me around with
the Azari and Turkmen people, and cannot read the alphabet yet, except for the
digits. We change cash dollars into Rials at the black market, at a hugely
profitable margin compared to the official bank rate.
We then negotiate the fare for a
"savari" (collective taxi) ride east to Tabriz, together with some
businessman. The driver initially wants 9,000 Rials [I am unsure of the amount
right now, but the proportions to the next-mentioned amounts are correct], but
my co-travelers quickly haggle him down to 6,000 Rials, where the negotiation
stagnates, although we want it to continue down to 4,000 Rials. "So
what", says the driver in Azari to the Akbars, "that foreigner is
certainly rich, so do not tell him anything about the real price and make him
pay 3,000 Rials, while each of you three gives me 1,000 Rials!" Without
taking into account that I had actually understood all this, due to my basic
Turkish, the Akbars explode and chastise the driver for even thinking of such a
deal, as they would of course divide the fare exactly by four. I also say a few
friendly words in Turkish to the driver, who shrivels and reduces the fare to
the desired 4,000 Rials! I will have several other such occasions where
Iranians defend my right to pay the same price as them, even though the
government sets a bad example by systematically and "officially"
over-charging foreigners in hotels and museums (and I will not even talk more
about taxi drivers, who, like their brethren all over the non-taximetered
world, are the biggest self-inflicted curse of humanity). On we go! The road
itself is in perfect shape, and this will be a constant observation throughout
the country, but it takes us through godforsaken dry and dusty land; this is
also true for much, but by far not all, of Iran.
In Tabriz, the Akbars bid me goodbye
and head for the airport to catch a flight to Tehran, whereas I head to the bus
terminal. Hadi, a student, chats with me in flawless French, assists me in
buying a ticket to Tehran, and stays with me until the departure of his bus. I
like the naive English inscriptions on some buses, such as "We go to good
bay" (sic) and "My beautifule buse" (sic). Then I just linger at
the terminal lounge, waiting for my own bus at 8pm, and waiting for the Akbars!
And, sure as hell, here they are, not having been able to secure tickets for
the last flight, just as I had predicted, even though I have no experience with
Iran Air -- my gut feeling was that you just cannot go the airport 20 minutes
before a flight and get a ticket! Once we all have tickets for the same bus, we
have dinner at the terminal restaurant, for my first "chelo kebab" in
a long series, and then leave southeast on the bus, at sunset.
Not long afterwards, the bus repeatedly
breaks down for short whiles, sometimes even creeping around at 20km/h, and
eventually we have to leave it, flag down another bus, and pile into its
remaining empty seats. There goes the comfort of our 27-seater, as we now have
to spend the rest of the night in extreme discomfort on a cramped bus. Luckily,
my time-tested technique of simply stretching out on the floor comes in handily
here, but do not tell my boss...
1 - 3 July 1996: Tehran
At
about 7am, we pull into Tehran's West Terminal, near Azadi Square with its
imposing Azadi (Freedom) Arch. The Akbars help me find a "mosaferkhune"
(travelers' hostel) to my taste and budget, just off Topkhune Square downtown,
and then return to their families. Tehran turns out to be a monstrously large
and ugly city, overcrowded and extremely polluted: I thus instinctively dislike
it, but I have been on the road for almost 48 hours and 2,000km now, so I need
a rest, not to mention that Tehran has the best museums of the country.
But first I visit Sogol Tour &
Travel, whose agent Azadeh had sponsored my tourist visa and was very efficient
and reliable throughout that procedure. She is a very attractive young lady,
dressed in a black chador like her female colleagues and like most (but not
all!) other women in the country, and patiently answers my many
information-hungry first questions about Tehran, over a cup of tea of course.
It is then time for me to fly on my own wings now, with the Akbars' and
Azadeh's wind underneath. So I set out for a restaurant that she recommended,
its address written in neat script on a piece of paper.
Over the next two and a half days, I
visit Tehran, often on foot, so as to get my bearings about life in Iran, such
as hailing a taxi or a "savari", making phone calls (to friends'
friends), asking for directions, figuring out the correct prices of things, etc.
It is a bit disconcerting at first, especially that the loathsome pollution
really weighs on you, not to mention the additional effect of the heat. But
there is a whole country and culture to finally discover, and this prospect
thrills me.
Memorable sights include the beautiful
Park-e Lale with the fabulous Muze-ye Farsh (carpet museum), the magnificent
Muze-ye Abgine (glass and ceramics museum), and the mind-bending National
Museum of Iran, which covers no less than 10,000 years of history. The main
bazaar is enormous and teeming, and would probably rank very prominently in any
"Westerner's" memoirs of a trip to Tehran, but I have been to too
many Islamic countries to get a real kick out of this one. Another remarkable
sight was the Armenian cathedral of St Sarkiz, of course with a huge Khomeini
mural right next door. Armenian Christians, as well as other religious
minorities, (seem to) have full religious rights, a somewhat surprising fact
considering the fundamentalist reputation of the Shi'ite regime. The former US
Embassy sports a "Down with USA" graffiti on its wall and is now
simply called "The Center for the Publication of the U.S. Espionage Den's
Documents" (sic). In front of it is a same-named bookstore where you can
buy, for a few cents, copies of painstakingly re-assembled shredded documents,
with highly classified CIA material (vintage pre '79). They look too good, and
the English is too perfect, to be fake. I buy a volume with a top-secret CIA
description of the Israeli Mossad and a biography of Yitzhak Rabin...
Traffic
I
have often ranted about traffic in Turkey (which is where I live), but now that
I have been to Iran, I have enormous respect for the "discipline" of
Turkish drivers. They are choirboys compared to their Iranian brothers! I
completely lack the words to describe the chaos of an Iranian city, especially
Tehran, where cars shoot around in gay abandon, filling literally every
millimeter of the road, disrespecting every sign and light (many traffic lights
are actually switched to a permanently blinking yellow, and often lack the red
and green lenses altogether), honking ferociously, and committing many other
horrors. And there are bicycles and motorbikes on this battlefield, often even
driving up roads on opposing lanes, or invading the sidewalks and covered
bazaars, thus extending the jurisdiction of the Jungle Law. Now, do you really
want to know where and how pedestrians fit into all this?! When I left the bus
terminal and crossed a wide boulevard with the Akbars, weaving lane by lane
through dense traffic, and somehow making it to the other side unscathed, I
turned around with a proud look on my face, fully expecting the pedestrian
crowds to cheer "ole, ole, ole" and make Mexican waves on the
sidewalks! But no, there was no reaction: I had just learned the first survival
skill that every infant in Iran seems to acquire (or not, judging from the
limping masses). Watching Latino toreros doesn't give me any thrills anymore,
as they only face one bull. Crossing a Tehran street is the real thing, for
real men! Forget the traffic in Athens, Rome, Cairo, and Istanbul, forget
Russian roulette and bungee jumping: Tehran traffic gives you the ultimate
adrenaline rushes!
4 - 6 July 1996: Esfahan
A
few unpleasant moments precede the departure of my night bus to Esfahan. The
clerk who booked my reservation the day before, and who spoke fluent English,
made a mistake and wrote the wrong date onto my ticket, and I did not realize
this either, as the date is written in the Islamic calendar. When somebody rightfully
claims my seat, the driver comes up and tells me in good but rude English that
I should get off the bus. I protest and ask for a "solution" to my
problem (it was the clerk's fault, it is very late and dark, and this is the
last bus) before I will get off. Then he gets really upset, asks me where I am
from, tells me to act in as civilized a way as Europeans always pretend to do,
and orders me not to downplay Iran's civilization any more. Bewildered, but
politely, I tell him that I never attacked Iran or anybody in my protest, that
all this has nothing to do with civilization, etc, and that there certainly is
a "solution" (thinking that we are in Iran, after all). The driver's
mood now gets really ugly, but a few passengers raise to my defense, and excitedly
argue with him. Eventually, I can keep my seat, the claimant gets seated
somewhere else (so why all the fuss?), and I am asked to "compensate"
for the driver's ire with a small "bakhsheesh"! Oh well, I guess I
have to play it Iranian-style to the end, and the "gift" is less than
spending another night in some pension in Tehran anyway.
The bus south to the Silk Road city of
Esfahan is a superfast brandnew Volvo, rather than the usual slow old Mercedes,
so we arrive at 3am, instead of the 6am or so I was told. While everybody
bustles away, I open my guidebook for orientation, still rubbing my eyes from
sleep. Just as I am about to despair and settle in the park until sunrise, help
pops up in the friendly person of Hassan, a graduate student at a local university.
A taxi-ride to downtown soon confirms his suspicion that hotels have no
reception service at this time of the night; this being Iran, Hassan simply
invites me to his parents' home, somewhere in the Armenian quarter! This
nightly taxi ride through empty streets raises my spirits, as Esfahan turns out
to be at least as beautiful as in all the travelers' reports I had read so far:
I immediately feel that I will resonate with this splendid city, so I fall
asleep happily.
Indeed, I spend a memorable three days
in Esfahan, unable to understand why Esfahanis have such a negative reputation
among fellow Iranians. Hassan and other youngsters-turned-voluntary-guides
alternate showing me around town, providing for great conversation and
learning, for relaxing moments at the landmark bridges over the Zayande Rud and
in the parks along the borders of this river, and for visits of mindboggling
sites. Thank you Hassan, Said, Ali, Parriz, and many others, for sharing with
me the beauty of your city!
The absolute highlight is the
unsurpassably beautiful Meydun-e Emam Khomeini square, which is surrounded by
sumptuous mosques (Masjed-e Emam and Masjed-e Sheikh Lotfollah) that feature
exquisite tilework, a nice palace (Kakh-e Ali Khapu), and a teeming bazaar.
Also memorable are the elegant tree-lined Kheyabun Chahar Bagh alley, the
splendid Abbasi Hotel compound, the cute Chehel Sotun (Forty Columns) reception
hall in front of a pool in a shaded park, the relaxing Hasht Behesht (Eight
Paradises) park, where I once got "abducted" for breakfast on a
blanket by enthusiastic young Azari Iranians, as well as the Si-o-Se Pol
(Thirty-three Arches) and Pol-e Khaju pedestrian-only bridges, where most of
the social life of the city seems to be going on, with all these shaded tea-houses
located under their arches, and hence refreshingly at water level. I spend
hours there, just lingering around, and an obvious target for a chat. In the
suburbs, I visit the Armenian Kelisa-ye Vank (church) of the Jolfa district,
with its ghastly paintings of martyred saints (why are many religions so
fascinated with violence?) and posters asking the Turkish government to
acknowledge the (alleged) 1915 massacres, and, last but not least, the swinging
(yes!) minarets of the Manar Jomban mausoleum: just climb up, clasp the outer
wall by reaching through the windows, and rock the minaret while leaning on the
inner wall: it goes back and forth by about 5cm!
Food and Drinks
Iranian
food is excellent and wholesome, but it is hard to come by the best items on
the menu: this seems to require an invitation to somebody's home. Beside the
ubiquitous "chelo kebab" (kebab on a rice bed) and the even more
pervasive sandwich (of pre-Americanization times, I am told, except for the
hamburgers), I sampled a few other things and came to like various forms of
"khoresht" most, followed by "abgusht", and other, less
frequent variations of kebab. Restaurants seem to be having a bad time, and I
was often (almost) the only guest in a large room, as everybody went for the
much cheaper sandwiches. Fruits and vegetables are very tasty, definitely some
of the best I ever had! And, as all over the Middle East, deserts give you a
taste of what angels eat in paradise.
In terms of drinks, Iran must be the
most coca-colonized country in the world: in 95% of the places, you are not
even asked whether you want Coke or not, and it is close to being the only
choice other than water! Amazing, no, that the government tries to convince
everybody that the "West" and its inventions are the Great Satan,
whereas hamburgers and Coke are so pervasive!? Interestingly, one of the local
imitations of Coke is called Zam-Zam, after the sacred source near Mecca: is it
not astounding that the Muslim clerics tolerate this defamation? Caffeine seems
to have absolutely no effect on Iranians, since they are caffeine-trained from
earliest age: I saw eight-year-olds drink Coke at 11pm and yet fall asleep
thirty minutes later! So when I, as a "Westerner", declared not
wanting Coke, they stared at me as if I was the biggest idiot this side of the
universe... Similarly, as a European, I found it quite amusing to see grown-up
men have soft-drinks, like Fanta or so, because, needless to say, Iran is a
completely "dry" country (but see below). So next comes water; tap water
is usually excellent (it comes straight from the mountains in most cases), and
is also pervasive: in order to keep a promise in return for a wish come true,
shop owners set up water-reservoirs on the sidewalks, so that pedestrians never
go thirsty. Similarly on buses; as a rule, you never have to carry water, but
may want to carry a cup so that you do not have to use the community glass.
Unfortunately, many if not most Iranians seem to have forgotten the tradition
of drinking hot tea in hot weather, which is definitely healthier than the
ice-cold soft-drinks and water that are being served everywhere. On to the
highlights of the Iranian drink charts: addictively savory fruit or vegetable
juices are freshly pressed for you at "vitamin-stations" just about
everywhere, "chay" (tea) is still being served in
"chaykhune"s (teahouses), and "dugh", the local variant of
Turkish "ayran" or Indian "lassi" (water and yogurt mix),
is another effective thirst quencher. Islamic beer is only a distant relative
of the real thing, of which you will start phantasizing after about one week.
No wine, no spirits either, at least on the surface. But Iran being Iran, with
Christians and Jews having the right to produce alcohol for their religious
services, it goes without saying that they produce more than needed... You
catch my drift: everything is available, if you manage to get the right people
to trust you.
7 - 10 July 1996: Shiraz
While
on the bus south to Shiraz, a man and his family in the front row keep
gesturing at me to join them there. So I eventually take a seat vacated by a
son, and the father starts the conversation in halting English:
- We are very honored to have you
aboard this bus, Sir. [...]
During the usual smalltalk enquiries
about my opinions of Iran and the Iranians, the other passengers stir in their
seats and stare at us, maybe eager to find out about me. Then:
- What is your name?
- Pierre.
Somebody tips on his shoulder and asks,
in Farsi, what my name is. After his reply, the word "Pierre" goes
like a bushfire to the end of the bus, so I turn around and gently bow forward,
with a friendly smile, now that I am officially introduced.
- What is your surname?
- Flener.
And a "Flener" sound soon
ripples through the entire bus.
- Where are you from?
- I am from Luxemborg. (sic, Farsi pronunciation)
Now, the words "Luxemborg!",
"Luxemborg?", and "Istanbul!" (sic) resonate around.
- What is your job?
- I am a teacher.
- Are you an English language teacher?
- No, I teach Computer Science.
- Wow! At what level, high school perhaps?
- No, at a university.
- But you are very young... Are you a teaching assistant?
- No, I have a Ph.D. degree and am an assistant professor.
The eager man behind us tips on my
neighbor's shoulder again to get the summary of my latest answers. And the word
"doktora" echoes manifold through the bus, to be instantly followed
by an almost collective outcry:
- Mashallah! (a common Islamic phrase,
used to avert the evil eye when expressing admiration)
Their admiration seems limitless.
(Later I found out that, with the level of the economy, obtaining a Ph.D. in
Iran is something very difficult, and thus quite rare and noteworthy,
especially for people of my age.) Passengers send their children to bring me
cakes, fruit, vegetables, and tea. How natural Iranians thus are, in the sense
that they simply "adopt" me, making me one of theirs, with no regard
to my race, creed, or title! I like this!
The city of Shiraz is the other
must-see on the Iranian part of the Silk Road, although less exhibitionist and
visual than Esfahan, but maybe more poetic? I spent four days there, and they
were as busy and wonderful as my days in Esfahan, for the same reasons: many
young people chatted with me, abducted me for "faludeh" ice-cream (a
local specialty), or otherwise showed me around. Unforgettable! Enter Ali and
Hadi, two young Iranians visiting from somewhere near Tehran, and in town for
the same time-span as I.
Sit near my tomb,
and bring wine and music.
Feeling the presence,
I shall come out of my sepulcher.
Rise, softly moving creature,
and let me contemplate thy beauty.
-- ghazal by Hafez (1300-1389)
Among the most memorable sites are the
various parks, including the ones with Aramgah-e Hafez (the tomb of Hafez, the
most celebrated poet of the Farsi tongue) and Aramgah-e Sa'di (the tomb of
Sa'di, another son of Shiraz, and probably Iran's second-most famous poet). The
former park features a lovely tea-garden where it feels so good to while away
the hotter hours of the day, listening to soulful classical Iranian music. The
mausolea at Shah-e Cheragh, of Sayyed Mir Ahmad and his brother Sayyed Mir
Mohammad (close relatives of Emam Reza), are especially interesting, not only
for the throngs of pilgrims shuffling through and donating impressive amounts
of Rials, but also and mainly for their dazzling three-dimensional mirror
mosaics inside: you feel like walking through a diamond, or through outer
space, with all these myriads of reflections! There also is a generous
sprinkling of other sites of interest, such as the Ark (citadel), more mosques
and madrassas and churches, a small museum, and of course the lively bazaars.
As my two-week travel visa is about to
expire, I also head out to the police station in order to ask for a
two-week-extension. This turns out to be quite an experience as well, so let me
delve on it. The Alien Affairs bureau is a bit hard to find, but once there, I
am relieved to find out that at least Colonel Masti speaks English. There is a
form to fill out in duplicate (without carbon paper) and attach mug shots to,
and then you are sent out to queue up at an on-site branch of Bank Melli in
order to pay 1,000 Rials (so no money to the police officers: not much trust
here?) and to buy, believe it or not, a folder for your own file at an on-site
stationery shop. Back to Colonel Masti with all these items, and ready for the
dreaded interview: travelers reported to me that they were interviewed on as
interesting topics as "the achievements of the Islamic Revolution, from
1979 to today" (!) before being granted the extension. As he scans through
my application, he finds the magic line about my job, and fifteen minutes later
I walk out of there with a promise for the requested extension, having
"only" been grilled on computer software and hardware! I may pick up
my passport the morning after, and it is ready indeed.
One afternoon, I set out with Ali and
Hadi for Takht-e Jamsheed, better but erroneously known in the "West"
as Persepolis, and the number one archeological site in the country. First by
minibus to Marvdasht, some 50km north, then on by taxi to the ruins. An
exorbitant 10,000 Rials are extorted from foreigners, much to Ali and Hadi's
surprise, then dismay and shame, because it is 20 times more than what locals
pay. This kind of discrimination is rampant in Iran (though the multiplier
usually is around 2 or 3) and in many other countries, but I will always fight
it. Ali and Hadi argue with the ticket officer on my behalf, exposing the
absurdity of the system: it contradicts the government's [now old] line that
tourism money is not needed, and suffers from the fact that not all foreigners
have the same buying power, etc. He is sympathetic, but says the government
forces him to charge me more (even though there is no video camera behind his
back verifying whether he really enforces it). The ruins are awesome, with
their giant walls, columns, temples, statues, and so on, especially the
incredibly well-preserved 2,500-year-old reliefs, such as the "Parade of
Nations". (Let the compared lengths of my harangue against the ticketing
practice and of my praise of the site not make you infer that the hassle was
the dominant moment of the day, because it really was the visit of the ruins;
but how can I describe in words what you ought to go out and see for
yourself?!) When we walk out, Ali and Hadi argue once more with the ticket
officer, pointing out that all signs and explanations are in Farsi, so that it
is a shame to ask foreigners to pay more without even offering them any service
for it. He sheepishly hands back 5,000 Rials, obviously embarrassed now. We
also visit the impressive rock-hewn tombs of Darius I, Xerxes, Artaxerxes, and
Darius II at nearby Naghsh-e Rostam (though I would now recommend going to the
two sites in the opposite order, so as to have better light conditions for
photography).
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