Our Services
Travel Guide
Media
Iranian
media include three English-language dailies (Iran News, Tehran Times, and
Kayhan), which, for a few cents, will keep you informed about the world
happenings through numerous clippings from AP, AFP, DPA, or whoever. In
addition, there is of course lots of government-line hype on Iran herself, plus
splendid entertainment, namely in the editorials! I typed in a few jewels,
obviously crafted by master ideologues:
(Iran News, 20 July 1996,
Vol. II, No. 503, Pg. 2)
Once again Washington faces a humiliating defeat of
its one-sided and irresponsible policies.
The Clinton
administration has so far failed miserably in its efforts to isolate the
Islamic Republic of Iran on the basis of trumped up allegations and accusations
of terrorism. Allegations which were never substantiated by even a single piece
of evidence. [...]
This is not the end of
rejections and humiliations for the U.S. president and his Zionist
constituents. [...]
Despite all these
contradictory and pessimistic responses from its Western allies, the U.S. is
still unilaterally continuing its incoherent and illogical moves against Iran.
This is the same United States who once used to be regarded as the champion of
`worldwide free trade policy'.
What happened to those
attractive but misleading slogans chanted by the most developed country in the
world? What became of the United States which was so enraged by the Arab
boycott of Israel in the years past and so vehemently attacked the concept of
economic boycott calling it anti-Democratic and unacceptable under any circumstances?
Do democratic principles
apply only to the U.S. and its Zionist offspring? [...]
(Capitalization
and grammar mistakes are as in the original articles.)
Or what about this one:
(Tehran Times, 16 July
1996, Vol. XVIII, No. 83, Pg. 4)
The history of our ancient motherland is fortunately
very rich with glorious pages, written in blood, revealing stories of our
nation's braveries in different crucial junctures of its magnificent history.
Our nation's lengthy
sacred defense against the barbaric invasion of the Mongolians, Iran's various
defensive wars with the Tzarist Russia and keeping the strong invading army of
the Tzars behind our borders, disabling them to occupy even the slightest bit
of our country's sacred soil during the reign of Safavids, are the best
examples of how the Muslim people of Iran rose up to confront enemies.
And of course, in very
recent history of Iran, the braveries of Iranian men and women, young and old
alike, in their most spectacular Sacred Defense of all the times, the
Eight-Year, Iraqi-Imposed War are the last, and best chapter of the same book.
In order to revive the
sweet memories of the brave individuals, to whom we owe our sovereignty, our
pride and the solidarity of our nation and soil, in a war that we did not fight
merely against the Iraqi army, but practically against most of the Western
countries, which wished to perish our glorious Revolution, the Tehran Times
Service is proud to announce its intention to portray a very small bit of what our
combatants went through in those tough days. [...]
Sorry,
I cannot continue typing in such rubbish. "Won't you grieve with me? Won't
you shed a tear?" with all these mothers and sisters who cannot possibly
conceive of the blood of their sons and brothers as giving rise to sweet
memories? 16 July 1996: - Ramsar
Still
with the two French, and after fueling up for a mind-boggling $1.00 (yes, one
dollar!), I ride west through the coastal strip. It is difficult to get to the
azur-blue calm waters of the Caspian Sea, because the trunk road is far in the
hinterland and most of the shore seems occupied by the villas of wealthy
families or by hotels and garishly painted private holiday resorts (of the
army, of the ministries, etc). Even the villages and the modern drab concrete
shoebox assemblies (a.k.a. resort towns) near the water seem to orient their
bustle towards the main road rather than the shore. Public beach-life seems to
be not quite politically correct, and when, then it is behind sex-segregating
curtains! Everything looks run-down, if not seemingly abandoned since 1979 when
fun became illegal. Chaluz and Nosaar, the much celebrated resorts with a
direct road to Tehran on the other side of the Alborz mountains, are pretty
disappointing, so we just have seafood lunch there.
As the French head south to Tehran, I
board a minibus further west to Ramsar, the most-sung of the resorts because
the coastal strip is narrowest there and the forest almost plunges from the
mountains into the sea. Of course, the Shah had a villa there, which is now the
"Museum of Decadence" (what else?!). The driver drops me off at a
nice "mosaferkhune" where a charming old man immediately quotes the
right price, for once dispensing me from having to haggle. (This actually
becomes a constant feature from now on, maybe because I am way off the beaten
tourist track, or because my Farsi is getting better?) I stroll up and down
this pleasant village, taking in the sweet smell of the forest and the flowers,
relaxing here and there, observing the locals taking it easy as well, and
finally having a dinner that is so far the best one, by a landslide. (This also
becomes a feature from now on, is it just luck or is it experience?) Iranians and Iran
Warning:
my following impressions about the general mood of Iranians are most probably
based on a "bad" sampling, namely those who wanted to get in touch
with me (i.e., a foreigner) and those who somehow wound up on my trail (i.e.,
bus-drivers, grocers, receptionists, etc). The impressions were not only
gathered by conversations in English, because my pidgin Farsi (plus Turkish)
plus sign-language can go a long way towards conveying/understanding what is
being meant. Anyway, here's the bottom line: almost everybody (I met) seemed to
consider Iran a prison or hell, and outside of Iran as liberty and paradise.
Sure, the leaders and the media, including the English-language ones, put up a
nice show of pretense and self-congratulation as to the achievements of the
Islamic Revolution, but the man on the street acted differently and told me
something else. They want more freedoms [remember: this trip was pre-Khatami!],
they complain about high and ever-rising prices, they have to queue up for some
basic food items, buses are searched at road-blocks every 50km or so, etc.
Hardly the signs of a successful upheaval... The foreign traveler is bombarded
day in day out with the same questions by seemingly thousands of men: how can
we get a visa for your country and a job there? how much do you earn in your
country? tell us about the morals in your country! how many girl-friends do you
have? (admission to less than seven simultaneous relationships usually meets
with condescending smiles) do you have erotic magazines in your backpack? (who
would risk his hard-won visa by smuggling such hot goods into Iran?) etc. I
spent a lot of time explaining to them that the mention of my salary is
meaningless unless they also know how much a loaf of bread costs back home,
that the "West" has huge unemployment rates so that they would only
be employed if they have quite unique qualifications, that the "West"
has huge crime rates (unlike Iran), that friendship and family have decreasing
roles in the "West" so that they most probably would hate it there
every minute, etc, but they were all oblivious to such rhetoric: they just
wanted to get out... 17 July 1996: - Rasht - Masuleh - Rasht
Leaving
the coastline, I head south to Rasht, where I find a surprisingly quiet
"mosaferkhune" right off the main square. After a short stroll
through town, I start working my way to Masuleh, by public transportation, i.e.
by "savari" with a change in Fuman at mid-distance. Not such a great
idea, it turns out, because I'm stuck in Fuman for two hours, as there is no
outgoing traffic around noon. After a failed attempt at hitchhiking, I see a
"savari" driver motion to me that he will leave "any time
soon". Well, that includes getting the engine started some thirty minutes
later, and then spending a full hour slowly looping three times through the
village, with a blaring honk to drum up more business. I once suffered through
such an ordeal in the sweltering heat of a Guatemalan jungle village, until the
minibus was thrice overfilled, but fortunately Iranians have a lower threshold
of discomfort, so we get started when the minibus is but filled twice. On we
go, at bicycle speed, dropping a peasant here and picking one up there,
literally every 500m. The ride is through stunningly beautiful green farmland
scenery, where women work in colorful dresses without chador, and eventually we
do reach the 1,000m high village of Masuleh, at the end of the asphalted road,
in the middle of a pleasant forest and pastures.
Masuleh is well-known for its
distinctive architecture: the village is laid out like a staircase, on a
mountain-slope. When you stroll past a row of houses, you are actually walking
over somebody's roof! An intricate net of staircases connects the various
"floors", and all the features of a village are built in, such as a
market square, a mosque, etc. Very interesting. But also a bit geared towards
tourism, not necessarily for foreigners, but mostly for Tehrani and Rashti
sightseers: women sell woollen handicraft, such as socks, caps, dolls, etc.
Enter Mahmut. He is a young man about
my age, and enthusiastically waves me into the next "chaykhune" for a
few rounds of tea. Not much English spoken here, about as much as my budding
Farsi, but his warm hospitality and my dictionary provide for an entertaining
few hours. For a better view of his village, he proposes to guide me on a walk
along the slope of the opposing mountain, which we do. At some pasture, we join
a few old men, and a Tehrani architect, over a few more teas, relaxing,
chatting, taking in the beauty and peace of the surroundings. Mahmut is quite
adamant that this fairy place is a paradise, but he also complains about
tourists dropping candy wrappings and plastic bottles. Yes, how can one walk
through such pristine nature and yet feel nothing about spoiling it by dropping
such items? In the early evening, we complete our loop and make it back to the
"savari" terminal. There would have been plenty of possibilities for
homestays overnight here, but I did not know this and thus head back to my pension
(and luggage) in Rasht. Dangers and Annoyances
"Western"
prejudice has it that Iran is a very dangerous place, but I am happy to
disappoint my readers: I did not spot any sources of danger, other than being
overwhelmed by the beauty of the country and the hospitality of its people!
From a "Western" viewpoint, there are a few annoyances though. Much
to the embarrassment of the majority, some Iranians (including the government)
are learning how to make money off foreign visitors, especially the accursed taxi-drivers,
of course. Also, every foreigner is still a scarce commodity, so one ought to
be prepared to be intensely stared at (making one feel like a space alien) and
to be accosted innumerable times for the same standard twenty-point-dialogue,
with much plucking of one's forearms to catch your attention or mark a point (I
became very worried I would return home without skin on my arms). But one soon
learns how to cope with such excessive solicitude, and it is really irrelevant
compared to what is being positively experienced. 18 July 1996: - Ghazvin
Through
glorious forest scenery, past a majestic dam, and eventually onto the high
plateau with steppe, I progress south-west to Ghazvin. This is a very pleasant,
small, and clean town, a far cry from the scenes of hell described by James
Clavell in his (1979) "Whirlwind" historic fiction. In general, both
here and elsewhere, looking into the eyes of those older than 30, say, I find
it hard to believe that some of these men and women committed the excesses of
1979... Anyway, this is here and now.
I spot a nice hotel right off the main
square, and they charge 7,000 Rials (no zeroes missing) for a kind of room that
I saw elsewhere often quoted for 60,000 Rials, and without even making a
difference between locals and foreigners. The friendly receptionist seems very
resourceful, so I approach him with my wish to visit Alamut, the nearby but
hard-to-reach fortress of the Assassins. After some bargaining, he sets to his
task and delivers: tomorrow morning, an acquaintance will take me there, in his
four-wheel-drive! (I do not wish to embarrass those readers who have also done
this by mentioning the price that I eventually paid for this excursion.)
I make friends with some of the Iranian
Azaris staying at the hotel, and they call me for tea, which they prepare on a
gas-cooker in their room! Otherwise, I while away the rest of the day by
strolling through town, writing postcards (the first ones I find since Shiraz,
and they are about Esfahan), etc. I simply must mention the place I had dinner
at, namely "Eghbali Restaurant" (on the main street), where you have
to sample their absolutely divine "khoresht", which will set you
back, with all the trappings, by about $2 (no zeroes missing). 19 July 1996: - Alamut - Ghazvin
At
the appointed 8am, there is of course no jeep and no driver, and everybody is
still sleeping fast. After rousing the receptionist from his slumber, things
slowly swing into action, and finally, at 10am, the driver materializes. The
receptionist suddenly decides to join, having never been to Alamut, and we then
pick up the driver's son and a picnic basket prepared by his wife.
The 90km road first goes through a
plain, and then climbs a succession of two steep passes, to the village called
Alamut (no relation to the main castle, though, which is still beyond). This
stretch of the road seems to be the Mecca of Iranian cyclists, and my legs itch
with jealousy as we pass them. Soon after, the asphalt turns into a dirt-road,
and I can better visualize the descriptions of fearless Dame Freya Stark, who
traveled here earlier this century. It also dawns on me that none of my three
companions has ever been to Alamut, as they have no clue where to drive next
and start asking every peasant, proceeding by binary search before locating the
right turn-off. Here the track becomes extremely steep, and I am surprised that
even a jeep can negotiate this slope. Eventually, we cross another village,
whose sewage consists of a minor torrent simply diverted through the main
streets. To my astonishment, some brandnew cars are parked here, and I look in
vain for the helicopter platform where they must have come from.
Behind this hamlet is a huge vertical
outcrop of a rock, on top of which used to stand the main castle of the
Assassins. This is where the Ismailis, a 12th century heretic Shi'a sect, led
by Hassan Sabah (a.k.a. the old man of the mountains), had their main hideaway.
All over the Middle East, they were much feared for a century and a half
because of the political assassinations that their fanatical followers would
stage in public, in return for a promise of paradise, with 72 ever-virgin
female servants ("houris") and other trappings. There is controversy
over the real name of the sect, but it is a fact that it was adapted by the Crusaders
in order to designate murderers (hence the French and English word
"assassin"). To everybody's big relief, the Mongols managed to
achieve where they had all failed so far, namely in capturing this
well-defended stronghold. Actually, they literally did not leave a stone on top
of the other one, so there is not much to see here. But it is getting here and
being here that I came for, and I feel very elated to stand at a place that so
much influenced History. (See, e.g., Maalouf's "Samarkand" for more on
the Assassins.) A quite slippery trail leads from the parking lot around the
rock and eventually onto it: it is dizzyingly high and one can imagine how easy
it was to defend it.
After taking in the place and
picnicking there, we start the long 4hr return journey, interrupted only by a
tea-stop somewhere. Of course, I head back to Eghbali's for dinner. 20 July 1996: - Tabriz
Out
at 7:30am, as recommended by everybody, I stand at the Tehran - Tabriz road,
where it goes through Ghazvin, in order to flag down a bus west to Tabriz.
Every company at the bus terminal had refused to sell tickets to Tabriz, saying
it was easy to flag down a bus. Easier said than done, especially in the
choking fumes of this polluted highway! Moreover, the first buses to Tabriz only
come around 9am, and they are all full! Every bus would then slowly whiz by the
waiting crowd, with a steward shouting out the destination and the number of
available seats, which of course puts a foreigner at a big disadvantage,
especially when he has a backpack to haul around in the by now sweltering heat.
After getting my bearings in this cut-throat competition for seats, I
miraculously manage to secure one in the middle of the last row on some bus.
This of course puts me into the center of everybody's attention, be it for
being offered conversation, food, or drinks, or for being asked to read my
(guide-)books, solve my crossword puzzles, listen to my walkman, etc. They are
all very friendly, and my Turkish takes me very long ways with all these Azaris
(we are now in the West Azarbayjan province) and even with the two Syrians, who
say they are from an area where everybody speaks Turkish as their native tongue
(I did not know Syria had a Turkish minority). However, eventually, their
solicitous frenzy becomes a bit discomforting, and I wait for the bus to arrive
in Tabriz.
Once there, after settling onward bus
ticket and local accommodation issues, I start strolling through town, but
without much energy or gusto for sightseeing proper. It is a pleasant city,
boasting even a pedestrian shopping zone and finally some tape stalls with
blaring rhythmic music, and people watching here is as entertaining as ever. So
I just buy a newspaper and head for some shade in some park. Now, it does not
happen often to a Luxembourger to be abroad and suddenly see the name of a
fellow countryman on the front pages of every newspaper. So imagine my delight
when I see the following headline:
(Iran News, 20 July 1996,
Vol. II, No. 503, Pg. 1)
(Note to the ignorant: Jacques Santer
then was the current President of the European Commission, and was Luxembourg's
Prime Minister before picking up that new post.) Too bad I did not have a copy
of such a newspaper with me at each of my four rejected visa applications at
Iranian embassies in the last two years: now that I have one, I am sure my next
visa application for Iran will go through in a breeze! I feel like telling
every passerby that I am from the same country as this gentleman on the photos
who defies the USA and takes a pro-Iranian stand... 21 July 1996: Exit at the Iran/Turkey
border
A
seemingly interminable 4hr bus-ride takes me in the morning further west, to
Maku, the last Iranian town. There, I join up efforts with Said and Ibrahim,
two Tabrizi businessmen bound for istanbul. By "savari", we cover the
last few "farsakhs" to Bazargan, the border post. The Iranian
authorities are again incredibly slow: it takes them 2 hours to process the
twenty or so people in front of us, whereas on the Turkish side it is a matter
of one minute. Catherine and John, an Australian couple on the Asia overland
trail, soon also make it across, and the Turkish customs officer cheers at her
when she rips away her chador before presenting her papers. Half an hour later,
by "dolmush" (collective taxi), we arrive in DoGubeyazit, and head
almost straight to the first place where we can enjoy a much longed-for cool
beer! Before heading home to Ankara, I spend one day here in DoGubeyazit, which
features after all the gorgeous Ishak Pasha palace found on so many posters of
Turkey, and one day in Erzurum (300km or 5 hours west), which features some
fine Seldjuk architecture. Epilogue
The
reader is of course right in noticing that my exit from Iran was quite
unceremonious and rushed, as if indeed escaping from a prison, although I had
myself preached to Iranians that Iran was not all that bad. I must confess that
I was quite happy to finally be "out of there", to be somewhere where
fun was legal, etc, and even economically depressed eastern Turkey looked like
paradise at that moment. I was happy to have done the trip, that it went so
smoothly, that I experienced so many wonderful things that most people would
not imagine exist in Iran, etc, but I needed to get out of some of its gloom. A
few weeks later, once cozy at home, pouring over my photos, telling my stories
to my friends, receiving the first letters from Iran, etc, I slowly fully
realized what a fabulous trip it was, that I already started missing Iran, that
I actually wanted to go back!
I thank you, dear reader, for staying
with me until this last line.
Khoda hafez,
http://user.it.uu.se/~pierref/travel/iran.trip/
        |
| Next > |
|---|
