Journey in Iran Part Two

Entertainment

During "Moharram", the Shi'ite mourning month, everything is gloomy in Iran. Indeed, black banners were all over, the people looked grim, there was no rhythmic music from the tape stalls (except in Tabriz), the amusement parks entertained the kids but no adults, the restaurants were virtually all empty, etc. A big favorite on sale just about everywhere were posters depicting crying women and children (watch those big tears!), probably mourning the loss of relatives in a recent war? What a fascination in the entire country with grief! Maybe this stems from the very roots of Shi'ite Islam, which is after all built upon the shoulders of martyrs?

So there is little entertainment other than hanging around with friends or staying with the family (which is of course difficult for the transient traveler). Discreet dating seemed to be going on in pastry and ice-cream parlors and tea gardens, but "going out" seemed limited to window-shopping up and down the fancier boulevards.

Of course, for those who can afford it, there is big-time underground entertainment in family and friends circles, not unlike what was going on in the USA during the Prohibition, according to what I hear: I still regret having turned down (for time and itinerary reasons) an invitation to such a "decadent" party, as it would have provided a stark contrast to the life of the lower classes that I observed every day. Alcohol would most likely have been available there, and there would have been unveiled women to talk to, but it was not to be: maybe another time?

Iran has a vibrant and world-class movie scene (one of my all-time favorite movies is an Iranian one, namely "Bashoo", and I also enjoyed the "Madjid" series on a little boy growing up in Esfahan), but little (if not nothing) thereof was visible on the streets: movie theaters invariably sported blood-and-tear-filled posters for Rambo-style flicks with mustachioed bandana-wearing machos carrying blazing machine guns and crying chadored ladies across battlefields... And such rubbish seemed to attract huge (male) crowds, maybe reminding them of heroism in the Iran-Iraq war? It is sickening to see such bloodthirst kept alive, but to Iran's excuse it must be said that this is a worldwide phenomenon.

11 July 1996: - Yazd

Heading northeast, into the desert, I reach Yazd, the world capital of Zoroastrianism. This religion is a monotheistic one, but considerably predates Christianity and Islam. Zoroastrians worship God in the form of fire, but do not worship the fire itself. Half of the world's remaining Zoroastrians live in Iran (with seemingly full religious rights, as even their women do not have to comply with the supposedly Islamic dresscode), many of which reside in Yazd. Indeed, their holiest fire temple, the Ateshkade, is here. A polite elderly Zoroastrian shows me around there, explaining things in English, including of course the holy eternal flame.

The city is full of prospective students from all over the province, as the university entrance exam is the day after. It thus turns out completely impossible to secure a bed for the night, in any price category, and many students tell me that they will actually have to sleep in the parks. At some "mosaferkhune", however, I talk the receptionist into setting up a bed for me in the courtyard, for a steep discount of course, as long as I have access to the common facilities. Which he does, right in the courtyard, where students mill around, pouring over their lecture notes, cramming the last few theorems, and polishing their English up with me as a last-minute God-sent recitation instructor.

Similar things happen wherever I go in the city. Interestingly, and maybe because they are away from their hometowns, young women chatted with me much more frequently than elsewhere (which is zero times everywhere, except in Esfahan). Zahra, for instance, wants my advice on whether she should take the medical exam or the English language exam the day after. Hard questions by confused young people!

In the evening, a pleasant surprise awaits me at the pension. Ali, an Iraqi Kurd and the night receptionist, tells me the other receptionist charged me an outrageous price, and that paying half as much will suffice. So there are people without interest in short-term profits! I chat a lot with him and his friends, because it is of course impossible to think about going to sleep in my bed now in the courtyard, where the students still recite their lessons.

I am extremely exhausted, and the sometimes extreme solicitude of Iranians (partly due to the fact that I am a "Westerner", and thus a rare animal) starts unnerving me a bit, especially now. Iranians do not understand that "Westerners" sometimes want to be alone, or have trouble coping with large groups of people hanging all over them and constantly talking to them from all angles. Once the novelty of talking to a foreigner fades away, the group will leave you alone, which unfortunately also means that you are marked "available" for the next group... After going through the same ceremonial many times a day, and every day, things become a bit repetitive. But one cannot complain, as they are in their country and culture, and we are the foreigners and should be tolerant of local ways. The most practical way to cope with what is sometimes perceived as excessive solicitude (but of course only meant as hospitality) is to spin a web of half-lies about other obligations, but I did not like this approach.

The next morning, after finishing the night in one of the rooms vacated by the early departing students, Ali shows me around town. When seeing that Ali is a local, two Esfahani girls sidle up and ask us whether they can join us. Sure! We visit Abambar-e Shesh Badgiri (a water-reservoir with six wind-towers; such towers are the chief landmarks in Yazd), the Masjed-e Jame mosque, and the narrow alleys of the mudbrick-built old town. The girls are very interesting to talk to (especially that you rarely get the opportunity to do so completely unsupervised), and are strongly in favor of more rights for women.

Iranian Women

Iranian women, just like their Turkic and Arabic sisters, are extremely beautiful (in my eyes), even though you often have to judge from their faces only, as the supposedly Islamic dresscode severely restricts what can be visible. The excessive vigilance and zeal of the "komiteh" in the early 1980s seems to have become a thing of the past, judging from curls of hair generously spilling out from the fringes of headscarves (especially of young women), discreet make-up and perfume, more colorful, short, and shape-revealing (two-piece) chadors rather than those long black "tents", etc. (And I did not even venture into the upperclass districts of any city, where things are reputedly even more decadent!) Many young women looked straight into my eyes, smiled at me, swayed their hips when feeling observed, and sometimes even chatted me up. Unfortunately this always drew large crowds of male passersby, and, although I then never overheard any aggressive remarks or felt jealousy or threat, the girls then always lost their courage. Iranian boys told me they could nowadays get away with dating girls and taking them to pastry stores, without anybody asking them for a marriage license or a proof of being relatives [though one of them later sent me a letter saying that this is being cracked down upon again, and that he got arrested for precisely doing this].

Iranian women have many more civil rights than their Gulf Arabic sisters (funny, no, that the "West" always conveniently forgets this when supporting these countries and despising Iran), and are active parts of much of the public life, as nurses, teachers, MPs, etc. They may actually drive cars, even alone. It was funny to see pedestrian-crossing signs that were seemingly imported from Western Europe, because they depict a mother in a rather short skirt crossing the street with her little son, rather than a walking triangle with a son. Also, long-legged, blonde, unveiled Barbie-dolls were on sale, and I wondered how the importers could get away with this. [However, they seem to have been banned recently, with the introduction of shorter, olive-skinned, and dark-haired dolls, which I endorse, because "Western" imperialism should not dictate the canons of beauty to other nations (and I see this in Turkey, where many middle/upper-class women have their hair dyed blonde in a vain attempt to look more desirable to their blonde-crazy men, although it often has the opposite effect, on me), and that wear the chador and headscarves, which, if a logical requirement for the current regime, makes me sad.]

Indeed, other than the general mood being gloom (especially, but, I am afraid, not uniquely because of this being "Moharram", the mourning month), the most depressing thing during my stay in Iran was to see the women, suffering in chadors and headscarves. Yes, I know, what a grandiloquently naive and ignorant statement this is, but bear with me and give me a chance! I went to Iran very open-minded about this, I have spent years living and traveling in Muslim countries, I have discussed this for hours with Muslim women, and I considered myself mentally prepared, but after ten days, my resolve evaporated and slowly turned into anger. I perceived this as sheer oppression, I believed to sense suffering, especially among younger (and thus more open-minded) women. Seven-year-old girls and many of the older women would not even arouse a prisoner on the deathrow. I cannot add anything to the debate that has not been said yet, and I know all the pros from first-hand reports, but the cons far outweigh them if this dresscode is imposed (by relatives or governments)! Why do women have to pay the price for men's supposed inability to contain themselves? This is so unfair and hypocritical! If Islam were a powerful religion, then it would not have to defend its women against its men! Anybody having seen chadored women spend half of their lives sweating like hell under these dark tents and delegating one hand full-time to the readjustment of the chador after every move, cannot be indifferent to the plight of these women. Even if you consider this assessment imperialist, note that I have the right to express my own opinion.

12 - 13 July 1996: - Tabas - Mashhad

After Yazd, it is a long bus-haul north, straight through the desert, to Mashhad. As usual, the bus-ride is quite a cultural experience, and the crew is particularly friendly on this one. Halfway, at 10pm or so, we stop in the Tabas oasis for a picnic under the palmtrees of a park near the bus station. This is where in 1979 the US rescue attempt for the hostages held in Tehran failed after some of their helicopters crashed due to whirling up too much sand when flying low over the desert...

Mashhad-the-Holy turns into a quite harrowing, claustrophobic experience. Indeed, it is "Moharram", the mourning month, and the city is packed with seemingly millions (though it feels more like billions) of pilgrims who converge here to pay their respects at the tomb of Emam Reza, one of the major martyrs of Shi'ite Islam. The "savari" ride from the bus-terminal to downtown, along Kheyabun-e Emam Reza, soon confirms this, and I still do not understand how it was possible that I actually found a place to stay (admittedly, the "room", if one can say so, was the most disgusting one of my life, and I am not known for being picky about rooms).

Near my "mosaferkhune", on Moghaddas square, the throng of pilgrims fills half the boulevard: they are almost exclusively men, clad in black, and slowly shuffle forward to the Haram-e Motahhar-e Emam Reza, the holy precinct with the shrine. Drums are mournfully beaten, group leaders with loudspeakers wail prayers echoed by the pilgrims, and every couple seconds or so, synchronized with a single hollow drum beat, everybody flagellates themselves. No blood seems to be drawn from this, but it is ghostly enough to make a lasting imprint on my mind. It feels unbearable for me as a non-believer, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. So, on the sidewalks, from where women and individual pilgrims observe the organized pilgrim groups on their procession, I work my way forward to the shrine as well, dressed in my darkest gear, and with my hair combed flat so that I do not stick out too much (I normally have a crew cut, and am blond).

The circular precinct features some of the best Islamic architecture in the world, with golden roofs visible from far away and with mind-bogglingly sumptuous mosques and madrassas (Kur'an schools). After a cursory bodysearch and deposit of my daypack (no cameras of course, and even if it were allowed, one would have to be ruthlessly disrespectful to shoot any photos of these events), I am admitted into the precinct. Some pilgrims sidle up to me every now and then, asking me whether I am a Muslim. Although I say `no', they are totally tolerant, maybe in the belief that my very presence here will put me on the right path anyway? There is so much to see here that you cannot take it all in with just one visit. Other than the stunning tilework, the key experience is of course further observation of the pilgrims. Here is Shi'ite Islam in full action, and I am amazed that I can, as an infidel, walk up all the way to the holy tomb itself: the religious authorities are sometimes very tolerant, no matter what prejudice circulates in the "West". Once they have touched and kissed the tomb of Reza, some pilgrims become hysteric: adult men roll on the floor, big tears flow down their cheeks, foam builds up on their mouths, they beat themselves senseless, and are dragged away by their more sober friends, while still wailing "ya Reza, ya Ali"... Unforgettable sights, observed from within, not through long lenses or on some documentary channel. I feel superfluous as an infidel, but, even though many would warn you that such "fanatics" can easily turn into a raging mob at the slightest provocation, I must also add that I feel very safe among all these believers.

I also explore other parts of Mashhad, sometimes just looking for a peaceful rest on a park bench away from the sounds and bustle of the pilgrims, at other times being magnetically drawn back to the "Haram". Mashhad is famous for its saffron (I could have paid for my entire trip with the profits I would have made by buying here and selling abroad; five grams cost about $2.25). The spice and dry food stores have other interesting items on sale, namely "Mashhad pilgrimage kits", with a prayer stone (made of clay from Mecca) (Shi'ites put their foreheads on such stones when praying), a rosary (?), a cake of soap, and some other tacky souvenirs, featuring portraits of the martyrs Reza or Ali.

Islam

Shi'ite Islam is the branch of Islam that is hugely predominant in Iran, unlike in all other Muslim countries, where Sunni Islam is prevalent. Although the aforementioned self-flagellation and other forms of pain-infliction were hard to watch, I have not even seen the "worst" of it, namely when piercing and drawing of blood is involved (that was a few weeks before I arrived). Shi'ites seem hugely obsessed with violence and martyrdom, or is it just a way to cope with "the system"? Compared to (mostly Sunni) Turkey (for instance), Iran seems to have much fewer mosques (or maybe the Turkish ones, supposedly often built with Iranian money, are more visible due to their characteristic architecture?), the calls for prayer are broadcast with much fewer decibels, and fewer women wear full chadors (with actual veils, I mean) (compared to Eastern Turkey, in this case). Just like in Turkey, now, life just goes on during the prayer times, as there is no visible rush to the nearest mosque, and very few people actually pray out in the open. Although Shi'ite Islam is the State religion, other religions are tolerated and alive: Zoroastrians, Armenian Orthodox Christians, Protestants, Jews, Sunnis, etc, (seem to) have full religious rights. As conveyed above in the section on women, the revolutionary guards ("komiteh") are slowly loosening their tight grip on the supposedly Islamic dresscode, and have actually been merged into the regular police. All these details show how warped an image the "West" has of Iran (and Turkey), as there are no "fanatic unshaved mobs praying most of the time and building bombs otherwise". What was new for me in Iran compared to secular Turkey, is the omnipresence of "zakat" boxes on the sidewalks ("zakat", as one of the five pillars of Islam, is the donation of 20% of your income to the needy), and the additional road-signs counting down the number of kilometers to the nearest mosque.

14 July 1996: - Neishabur - Mashhad

Having spent the entire previous evening tracking down a florist with roses, I head out to Neishabur, both to escape the claustrophobia of Mashhad and to fulfill my self-imposed mission (ever since I read Amin Maalouf's "Samarkand" about Omar Khayyam and his "Rubaiyat" quatrains). It is a short bus-ride west of Mashhad, and the town is very pleasant and lively, contrary to the assessment in my Lonely Planet guidebook. Neishabur was once one of the most learned cities in Iran, but today it seems little more than a provincial town. A taxi ride later, I am in a cute, well-manicured park, and easily spot Khayyam's tomb, as it is domed by a huge toppled wine-glass (what else?!). By putting my red rose on his tomb, I help fulfill his prediction that his tomb would always be covered with rose petals (especially that the nearby rose-bush does not carry flowers at this time of the year). I had imagined this would be a very intimate moment, and that the tomb would be hard to spot inside an actual cemetery, but many dozens of people pay their respects to this gifted mathematician and remarkable poet, and Neishabur honors its most famous son with a tomb in a park.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse -- and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness --
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

-- Omar Khayyam

The "Rubaiyat" quatrains, such as the above, are full of irreverence for the political and religious leaders; they mention courtship and wine, and they remind us of the shortness and meaninglessness of life. Not surprisingly, these poems are not very popular with the current regime, but many people seem to have stowed copies away, since I was often shown old illustrated hardcover editions, so that I could read them during the night. I linger for many hours in the park, enjoying the peace, before returning for a last night to Mashhad.

15 July 1996: - Gonbad-e Kavus - Gorgan

Some of the Pakistani pilgrims at my "mosaferkhune" had told me that today would be a very special day, called "ashoora", namely the day Emam Hossein was martyred, and that this would be the culmination of the pilgrimage season, but I had not expected anything like this. At 7am, even the tiny street from my "mosaferkhune" to Moghaddas Square (where Emam Khomeini Boulevard crosses through on its way to the "Haram") is chock-a-block with shoulder-to-shoulder rows of pilgrims, flagellating themselves more viciously than ever. I cannot even get out of the building, and my bus leaves in half an hour! Fortunately, my backpack is of a nice Islamic green, so I do venture out, dodging the chains flying over the pilgrims' shoulders, and slowly make it to Moghaddas Square. It is even worse there, but I have to cross to the other side of the huge boulevard in order to be on the one lane remaining open for (outgoing) traffic, which is where I hope to catch a taxi to the bus terminal. At first, the police prevent me from trying to cross, but then, when I show them my bus ticket, they have sympathy for me and actually escort me across the boulevard. Needless to say that the taxi rank is empty, that every passing vehicle is crammed with people, and that I cannot possibly run the remaining distance to the terminal in the remaining time. So I start walking, and the miracle happens: a taxi screeches to a halt in front of me, and all passengers spill out. Alhamdolellah! I dive into it, gasp "terminal, lotfan!", and make it onto my bus just in time.

Mashhad was thus quite an experience, and I sigh with relief when my bus pulls out of town on big suburban boulevards. The plain is wide and fertile, along a range of mountains with the Turkmen border. When we pass the crossing where a road forks off to Ashkhabad (the Turkmen capital), I breathe deeply, as this is as close as I will get to closing the missing link with my former Silk Road trip, which was unceremoniously ended in Ashkhabad two years before, when I was denied an Iranian visa because the border was closed to foreign nationals (see my Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan travelogues). Shortly after, the powerful bus (I was very happy with Cooperative #15) climbs into hilly steppe and eventually reaches a fabulously beautiful large forest near Dasht. The vision of green leaves soothes my soul after all this gloom in Mashhad, but part of this depressive mood has peeled off to me, because I have not been involved in any meaningful conversation for days now. The people are still friendly everywhere, but the language barrier gets very high once you are off the Silk Road and the major cities, so conversation boils down to basics in my Tarzan Farsi or their pidgin English, and there is lots of staring to cope with (oh yes, the Asiatic stare...).

But, as usual when the morale is lowest, solutions pop up. First, since we are passing provinces with Turkmen populations, there are many Turkmen passengers and crew on the bus, and, to their great delight, I can show off my Turkish language skills. Next, we reach the Dasht-e Gorgan plain near the Caspian Sea, with its rice paddies, corn fields, etc: another riot of greenery. This must be where they shot "Bashoo"? My eyes scan the horizon, and, yes, there it is, still some 30km away, the Gonbad-e Kavus in the same-named town! After unloading everybody at the terminal, the crew actually gives me a VIP ride on the bus to this burial tower! Built under the Seldjuk Turks in the year 1006, this 55m high brick tower of a stark beauty is incredibly well-preserved (it looks like water-towers built back home in the 1950s) and has awesome radiance. Its sheer age and size (maybe the highest tower in the world at that time?) testify to a timelessness that makes one reckon that this secular building will still stand unscathed when many of the younger Islamic buildings will need more serious repair. Under the bemused eyes of superb Turkmen women in colorful silk dresses, I take some photos of the tower and then stumble into an icecream parlor.

There I meet Carole and Luc, a French couple touring Iran in their private car. Since they are also headed for Gorgan for the night, they offer me a ride, which I gratefully accept, happy to have a full-scale conversation again and to have somebody to share my experiences with, to get feedback from, and to assess my trip so far. In Gorgan we settle for a hotel distinctly above my usual budget, but after the hell-hole of a room in Mashhad I need a nice bed and shower. I easily haggle the receptionist down from the (legal) 300% charge for foreigners to a 120% charge of what Iranians would pay. What "moved" him was that I live in Turkey and draw a Turkish salary, but he is still unbending to yield the remaining 20%: "But you are a foreigner nevertheless, and must pay more!" I cannot see the logic behind this, and it seems not entirely self-serving: he seems to genuinely believe that it is the only possible system that foreigners must be overcharged. Anyway...

After a short siesta due to the long haul to here (the French couple also left from Mashhad this morning), we leave for dinner just before sunset, fully taking advantage of having a car. There is only one thing to do: just follow all the other cars heading out of town and up the slope into the forest on the mountains behind. The road-sides form a huge picnic and barbecue ground, and we have "shishlik" at an open-air restaurant. The people seem more relaxed and fun-loving here; maybe it is because of the more colorful environment? We get invitations to Tehran and other places by nearby picnickers, and thus round off the day in harmony.

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