Qatar & Iran 2012

Colourful lamps in Doha's Souq Wafiq

Doha was not supposed to be fun. There were fun elements, of course, as any new destination provides. Especially the exotic ones and I do find the Middle Eastern countries so with their strange rules, clothes and manner: a palpable sense of risk, possibly mistaken paranoia on my part, but nonetheless a feeling that conjures up tales of explorers in bygone ages and the perils they braved.

We arrived late in the night. Three travellers from cold Copenhagen piled into the Coral Hotel at 3am and found our way to our respective rooms for a few hours’ sleep before an 8am breakfast meeting. Our generous sized suites, shared with other colleagues, were sung awake by the mosque situated a few metres away across the road. Little time was spent relaxing as the rush to prepare every tiny detail for the big conference in the Ritz-Carlton jumped to hyper-speed: with only 4 full days to get ready, we worked late into the nights and from early morning, running between the Ritz and the rest, last minute disasters ducked at every turn: such is the nature of conference organising.  Evenings of respite came in the form of the famous Qatari buffet: they are not a slender race, to put it mildly, and when one sees the lavish array of rich foods at the most modest (price) buffet; one understands intuitively how very close desert and dessert come on an unexpected level. The finest of these buffets was that of the Ritz-Carlton. Display tables dotted around and along the expansive dining room; it was seafood themed night and a whole section was dedicated to the rows and rows of lobsters, of which guests were invited to an unlimited amount. Next to that, fish of every colour, shape and size were ready to be grilled upon request.  Salads of every kind filled other tables, from Mediterranean style to Middle Eastern style. Delicious soups and baskets of different coloured breads, dozens of types of cheese, an Italian pasta – hot and cold – table, fruits and exotic things of which I have never seen. Then there were the dessert tables. Yes, plural. Chocolate fountains, exquisite cakes and pastries, custard delights, baklava, mini tarts, mousses, fruit jellies, fruit pieces and the very popular marshmallow on a skewer set beside the running river of warm chocolate crying out to be dunked.

Despite the long days, time slithered rapidly to the big day. We were well prepared, a great list of speakers, a promising number of potential attendees, volunteers to assist with the ground-work, Helle Bank Jørgensen flown in to be a moderator, a partner journalist from Belgium to professionalise the media outputs. Things were well set and they ran pretty smoothly. Mary Robinson was my favourite attendee / speaker, and she spoke passionately about the missing element as she saw it in the battle against climate change: People. The climate change catch-phrase of the time is PPP – public private partnerships. But where are the people? There should be four P’s she opined. That is the missing element: without people, there is no catalyst for real change. She spoke of how heartening it was to see the Arab Youth Movement displaying the passion of young people, and how so much more of that passion for change needs to be charged to motivate and activate a stagnant talkshop of corporations and governments about what ought to be done, but doing little more than expressing intentions and aspirations. She is an inspiring woman, and a sweet friendly one too: she graciously thanked personally us for our work on the conference, and agreed to pose for a photo or two with myself and my Irish colleague. Irish eyes were smiling for that photo-shoot, I can tell you!

The plush surrounds of the Ritz-Carlton, with its thick cushion of carpet lining the shiny marble floors that sparkled against the crystal-dripping chandeliers was left with a trail of debris from the 600+ guests who attended. A resounding success.

At 9am the following morning, a flight was set to leave Doha for Shiraz via Sharja. And I was going to be on it. So too was Morgan, my Irish colleague – and friend. We had decided that since we came so far, and the company were paying for our flights to/from Doha; why not delay the return trip and do a little exploring of the exotic ME. Iran was the chosen destination. Located just across the Gulf, the little we hear of what life is really like for the inhabitants divorced from the awful political /religious regime they are subject to, was irresistible territory for exploration.

We arrived in the late morning without visas. To have applied for one prior would have been the sensible course of action, but the plan to visit was too last-minute (by months) for this option. So we risked an application on-site, reasoning that carrying an Irish passport was innocuous enough.  However, being an unmarried, unrelated male and female travelling together was likely to be problematic. I brought a ring to feign marriage if and when necessary.  I also brought a scarf as hijab which was entirely necessary. At the airport, it took many hours to be processed by the sweet smiling men who seemed to take a real interest in us outside of the visa application process. Big smiles greeted our pale faces and “welcome to Shiraz” with enthusiastic nods were issued to us by staff and non-staff alike. Eventually the visa was processed, a big sticker visa taking up a page in the passports, and costing us $75 including the mandatory insurance. We then headed through passport control only to be set upon with many more questions. The men there seemed so open and friendly, that when I was asked if we were married, I answered in the negative. Related? Negative again. The man peered at me curiously through the glass with a half smile. “You are friends?” he inquired. “Yes” I confirmed. “How long you friends?” the next question. “Since September. We are colleagues”. I replied. A very puzzled look crossed his face. “How many years you are friends?” he clarified. “Not years -months. 3 months” I replied. A huge grin broke across the man’s face. It was infectious. And his next question kept me smiling, as he asked with a cheeky grin “Have you had other friends before?” At this point I was keeping in the laughter, as I tried to think of a way to explain ‘platonic’ to this man with a dirty mind and limited English. The best I could come up with was “Friend – not boyfriend - Mr Morgan is the same as a girl to me!”  Now he was laughing too as he processed the strange exotic cultural customs of the pale happy Europeans.  Satisfied with our little chat, he hopped out of the booth and offered to find us a taxi. He had the luxury of leaving his post as there was nobody in the airport. Iran is not exactly tourist-central these days.
He greeted a moustachioed man walking towards us from the abandoned x-ray scanning post. It was the taxi driver. So low was security that he just walked through the airport entrance across the hall and through what should be airport security. They talked in Persian for a minute and then asked us where we were staying. In truth, we didn’t actually know. We had great intentions of finding a host to stay with prior to landing, but we never did find a minute on Doha’s slow internet to contact potential hosts. The best we could do was scribble down 2 random hotel names found via a simple google search, and the names and numbers of 2 hosts who had expressed willingness to host us. Since it was lunchtime by then, it was too late really to ask a host for accommodation for that night. We had to resort to a hotel, and since the taxi driver spoke no English, pointing to the name of the hotel in my little black book was the best we could do. He clearly didn’t know where it was, so the airport staff – all of them – were consulted. They circled around us, and we watched and listened to exotic Farsi debate.Finally it seemed a decision had been arrived at and we were ushered outside to the taxi. Now the taxi had no sign of actually being a taxi. Rather it was a 25+ year old rusting jalopy.

Day 1

There was no sign of any other occupied vehicles, let alone taxis, so we just hopped in and hoped for the best. As we drove, at alarming speeds weaving in and out of traffic, the driver started rooting for something in the glove compartment. A rather precarious activity given the speed he drove at. I looked again for a seatbelt and confirmed that there were in fact no seatbelts at all in the back seat. He found what he was looking for and handed it back to us. It was a card for the Arian Hotel. “Very good” he exclaimed. “Arian very good hotel”. We responded with “No, we want Dorya Hotel”. I could see his brow furrowing in the mirror. “Dorya very bad. Arian very good hotel” came the response. “We issued a few protests that we were looking for cheap, not good, but I don’t know how much he understood. When eventually, he said while shrugging “Dorya no”, it became clear that he didn’t know where the hotel was and all that chatter in the airport was most likely the airport staff confirming they had no idea where the Dorya was either. So we were brought to the Arian Hotel.  A very new hotel, only open a few months. By European standards, it is perhaps a 2 star at a push, but it was clean and the staff were exceptionally nice. The pretty girl with the braces behind at reception spoke fairly good English. But it became clear very quickly that this was not the reason we were brought there, as the taxi driver proceeded to flirt with her.  We were given the luxury suite set aside especially for foreigners (i.e. the toilet is not a hole in the floor with a hosepipe at hand) for the grand price of $24! In fact, that is very expensive by Iranian standards.  Their currency is worth so little, the $25 I had left was enough to cover me for the week. In my hurried decision to go there, I had neglected to consider the sanctions taken against Iranian banks which cut them off from the rest of the world. So my credit cards were useless. It limited my spending on trivialities, but there’s no harm in that of course. At this point I was wearing the mock ring, and we declared ourselves to be married as staying in the same room being unmarried is not acceptable, and in fact punishable by corporal punishment and imprisonment. Best play it safe, we thought, and keep ourselves and the hotel out of any potential trouble.

We were absolutely exhausted by this time. You see, on the Saturday night – the night before the conference – we were up working until 3am and had to rise and go to the Ritz at 6am. A loooooong day of work and then a late dinner meant no sign of a bed before 1am. Then up again at 6am to pack and get to the airport. But it was too early to retire in Shiraz, so we opted to go for a wander and find what the city had to offer. The hotel was just 10 minutes from Zand – the bustling main street, choked with traffic and people. Also where we could find the foreign exchange shops to change our dollars to rials. The city was noisy: everywhere cars, none younger than 10 years old, most of them rickety dangerous looking bangers, spewing fumes and honking wheezy horns. The manner of driving, chaotic. There appeared to be one rule only: each to his own. So dangerous weaving, sudden acceleration, jerky stops as people casually crossed busy roads. Of course there was no such thing as pedestrian lights, and even if there were, one got the feeling that they would go unnoticed or ignored by the Shirazians. Most people openly stared at us. We stuck out like sore thumbs, especially Morgan with his shock of gorgeous red curls. Those who had a sentence or two of English stopped us and asked “Where from?” and were visibly delighted to be engaged in limited conversation with these pale aliens. Oftentimes, one of a crowd asking “When you from?” and then reporting back to his crowd of friends nearby who then turned to us and waved enthusiastically.  I can only imagine that this is how celebrities feel! Children were great: they would point and smile and sometimes be brave enough to approach and ask us unknown questions in Farsi. We could but smile and make gestures to them. Some delighted to see a camera and a picture of themselves taken. Many of them, rushed up, speaking some words, and when they got a smile in return, they broke into giggles and ran back to their shyer friends who smiled and waved at a distance.  One woman in particular was very memorable. While browsing map for where to visit next, my arm was grabbed by a short woman who looked like a dark Barbara Streisand: “I love you, I love you, thank you very much you’re welcome” she exclaimed, her face crinkled in a huge smile! What could I say back to her, only “I love you too!” And off she went, turning to wave wildly and smile back at us as she disappeared into the crowds.

As we headed back towards the hotel along the Zand, a young skinny man approached us and spoke in broken English. He told us that he was learning English and wished to be a translator someday. He asked lots of questions and offered to drive us to Persepolis the following day if we so wished. Now, Persepolis was high on our list of places to visit. It is very ancient city and palace ruins, pre-dating the pyramids, located about 70km outside of Shiraz. We were a bit dubious of his offer, and he read this in our reaction, so proceeded to assure us that he wanted no money for this and that he would simply love to be able to show us this place of which he is so proud to live near. He also wished to bring us to his home-village high up in the mountains. We threw caution to the wind and agreed to meet him early the next day for a day out in the Iranian countryside. Hamed was his name, and he was a total chatterbox! For the next hour he strolled with us, even stopping to buy us fresh bakery bread, still hot from the oven. The bread eaten by everyone (it seems) is a thin round flatbread, usually found folded up in bags. We were starving by now, having had nothing since breakfast, so we gratefully accepted the delicious offering. And so the deal was set over bread broken together. No backing out now. We returned to the hotel, escorted by the still chattering Hamed, and we wished him a goodnight. We collapsed asleep until morning.

Our guides: Hamad (left) and friend

Sure as his word, Hamed was awaiting our arrival when we came downstairs. We checked out and checked into Hamad’s rickety car, of which he was so proud. “You like my car? It very very good” he told us over and over. It was an “Iran Khodro”.  We were not just 3 in the car: his friend whose name I cannot recall, was sitting in the front seat. He had no English really, but held fascination enough to take photos – usually when we were not looking. I think he may just have been a bit shy, but it nonetheless came off as slightly creepy, when one finds oneself being quietly filmed from a phone held over a shoulder in the front seat of the car.

Hamad was a good guy. He stuck to his word and drove us the 70ish km to Persepolis, all the way there, chattering away about things we passed on the road, mostly in terrible English which didn’t always make sense. After a while, we asked less and less for clarification for his odd phrasing and he seemed happy enough with a ‘mmhmm’ or ‘yep’ or ‘really?’ when he adopted a certain tone. A well timed laugh went down very well. Morgan pointed out that he sounded, at times, not unlike Borat!

Persepolis

Persepolis was a fascinating place: huge ancient pillars jutting out of the sand, huge chunks of carved rock in animal head shapes, intricate and well preserved depictions of visitors bearing gifts to the ruler, the symbol of renewal depicted as laurel trees frequented the stone wall carvings. This massive site was framed by large rocky hills set behind. And high up in the hills, carved out caverns as tombs for the important dead. We clambered up these rocks, snapping pictures as the view shifted with our altitude. The sun shone strongly and I was, for once, grateful for the hijab that protected at least some of my face and my neck.  When we had exhausted the site and ourselves, back into the car we went, and off to Hamad’s clear favourite destination of the day: Home! He was so excited to bring us to his home village and to meet his family and their animals and their mountains. “The mountains are grand” he would enthuse over and over, never getting tired of our affirmations, which dwindled to ‘mhmm’ noises eventually.

Ruins of Persepolis

The journey from Persepolis took us through beautiful countryside between tall chocolate coloured mountains. Waterlogged paddy fields dotted the mostly barren orangey-brown landscape, in patches, thick with dark green scrub bush.  The bumpy dusty roads dipped and curved to the rhythm of the mountains, until finally, a sharp turn down a dirt track brought us to a the tiny rural village Hamad called home.  We were brought to his house. A modest affair, with roughly laid brick, the cement clumpy and uneven. The house was deceptively spacious; a big living room with posters of martyrs, religious figures and stuck on photographs of family members. The lower third of the walls had big shiny white tiles, and in one small wall area, a painted tile picture of a mythical Persian women wearing ornate colourful clothing, playing a harp.  Hamad’s mother spoke no English, but understanding her welcoming gestures required no spoken words. Her face was kind; lined with millions of crinkles from smiling and squinting in the bright sun. She smiled the whole time we were there, often shyly avoiding eye contact but watching closely when our eyes were averted. Her clothes were traditional for the country folk of the Fars region: a long wide dress coming right down to the ground, made up of two layers – the outer brown, the inner a black layer, which folded over themselves making thick ripples that gave the illusion of a thicker fabric. Over this she wore a pink coloured final layer that came over the front and back of her dress and covering her arms, but leaving the sides free where the brown skirt was visible. Her double layered scarf-hijab was tied neatly under the chin. The under-layer was a bright blue and the top layer black with gold circle patterns. The combination framed a cheery air to her wrinkled face.

With Hamad's family

Lunch was a rustic affair, and absolutely delicious. We were given the option of sitting outdoors or indoors. We opted for outdoors and the plastic sheet with bright coloured patterns was spread on the carpeted area on the ‘patio’ area just under the window to the living room. Bowls of food and piles of flat-bread were placed before us: a bowl of roughly chopped sheep cheese (incidentally the sheep from which it came bleated softly across the yard), torn chunks of lettuce, a bowl of sliced tomatoes and a coarsely chopped red onion. Finally two places with eggs cooked in thin omelette style were placed down.  We gratefully began by tearing pieces of bread off and wrapping a mix of the offerings before us, but within seconds, scores of big black flies started landing and hovering around the food. Our first bites were taken holding the filled bread in one hand, using the other hand to swat constantly at the black irritants vying for a free meal. We didn’t take long to give up and head inside, each of us carrying what we could, we settled ourselves in the only carpeted room in the house and continued our meal. It was so gratefully received by hungry stomachs that had spent hours walking and climbing around Persepolis. When we had eaten our fill, the standard thermos of tea was shared around, followed by the bowl of sugar lumps. They do like their tea sweet.

On the far side of the valley, across the rough muddy dirt tracks, shone the teardrop shaped roof of the village mosque. Unlike some of the city’s very ornately tiled roofs of mostly blues and greens; this particular specimen looked like it has been wrapped in tinfoil. The locals were nonetheless extremely proud to show us their place of prayer, and Hamad, his brother, his cousin and us two foreigners, were squashed into the car and bumped through deep potholes, down through a precarious looking dip into a dry riverbed and skidded on a large sheet of ice where the sun had not found the ground that day, until we reached the mosque by the graveyard with its long flat tombs, unlike the upright stones common in the western world. We all removed shoes and stepped into the simple carpeted building; half of it partitioned off with dark green blankets suspended on a string – the female section perhaps? I forgot to ask, distracted by Hamad’s chattering about the gorgeous silver lattice rectangle in the centre of the room. It was a tomb, and the locals proceeded to lean their foreheads against it and kiss the tomb several times in deep reverence for whoever was inside. We were encouraged to take photos and speaking loudly was apparently not the same faux-pas that churches deem it to be, as Hamad endlessly shifted positions and people for various photo shoots.

We had arranged by text message during the day, our accommodation for the following night. We were to be hosted by a guy called Roozbeh. The arrangement was to meet him on Zand – the main street through Shiraz city at17:00.  By now, time was getting on, and there was a long trip back to the city from the magnificent rural setting we were enjoying. Hamad understood this, but his casual nature, so typical of the Shirazi people, was loaning him no sense of urgency. On the bumpy ride back towards his house, he pulled in at a neighbouring farm with many animals and a Bedouin style tent of black woven animal hair where the couple lived.  We were brought into the tent to see the fire burning with the kettle on the hot ashes. Then out again to meet the animals. Goats and sheep were huddled around the yard, with one kid bleating at its mother. From a shabby cement block structure, the sweet sound of very young kids bleating purred in the background. And a lazy looking donkey plodded slowly along sniffing for something to chew.  Children appeared peering curiously at the newcomers, some of them waving, and giggling when we returned the gesture. Back into the car and we were driven back to his house, where his mother spoke something to us, holding my arm as she did so. Her kind face and tone had an imploring quality, and Hamad translated, that she wished for us to dine at their house that night and stay there as guests. It was very touching, that this sweet woman who knew us only as pale strangers their son dragged home, wished for us to remain at her home so as to treat us so kindly and generously even more than she had already done so.  We politely declined and clambered back into the jalopy for the trip back to Shiraz.

We arrived at the meeting point where Roozbeh was to find us. At least, Hamad said that we had arrived at Karim Khan citadel. Some phone calls later between Roozbeh and Hamad concluded in Roozbeh taking a taxi to our location, several kilometres from Karim Khan! A friendly bespeckled man in his early thirties greeted us. We said our goodbyes and ushered thanks again to Hamad, and set off with Roozbeh on the next leg of our adventure. Roozbeh introduced himself as a geologist engineer, an avid cyclist and as a native of North Iran, but lived outside Shiraz for work reasons. We hopped out of the taxi at Karim Khan: a monumental citadel at the very opposite end of Zand, and we took a short tour costing 5,000 Iranian Rial – equivalent to €0.31.

Karim Khan Citadel

It was beautiful: dark as it was at this hour, the courtyard was flooded with a soft green light from lanterns set in the ground, illuminating the grove of orange trees and casting leafy shadows on the orangey high walls and cobbled ground. The doors along the courtyard brought us into various different craft shops, where craftsmen were plying their trade: we had a demonstration of how Iranian inlaid wooden boxes are painstakingly made using long thin sticks of coloured wood and metal, impossibly cut into three sided triangles, then placed together and glued to make a tiny bundle of coloured sticks. Then the bundle is pushed into a hole in the wood, and snipped with a sharp metal tool, leaving the top patterns of coloured triangles exposed as flat surface. It is then sanded down and lacquer applied for a beautiful finish. Painstaking work with gorgeous results. There were painters exhibiting, glass makers showing their wares, wooden carvings and many other beautiful crafts on display at the Karim Khan. And I have to mention the stain glass windows in the citadel: simply stunning arrays of tiny coloured glass separated in intricate patterns with fine wooden pieces.

Our next move was to find dinner: Roozbeh had promised his housemate and colleague that he would bring back a particular sandwich: some mystery meat sandwich. So the boys were to have that, and for me, Roozbeh suggested he cook something when we get back to the house. So once the sandwiches were bought, Roozbeh asked us had we tried faloodeh – the traditional Iranian noodle ice-cream dessert. Yes, noodle ice cream! When we confirmed we had never heard of such a thing, he insisted on buying us one to eat on the journey home. And they were delicious: a creamy and crunchy frozen treat with a sweet lemony flavour. It wasn’t to be our last faloodeh of the holiday.

Faloodeh - "spaghetti ice-cream"

We hopped into Roozbeh’s Nissan 4x4 with our ice cream and he proceeded to drive us the 60km to his town of Bayzâ, up through the hills until we had a panoramic view across the yellow streetlit city from unlit country roads; which, incidentally, were excellent roads, very new.  After nearly an hour’s drive, finally we pulled up to an ugly block wall with a huge metal gate that had some ornate patterns in welded steel at the top. It didn’t really do much for the general aesthetic of the gate which was bleak and ugly also. Beside this big gate was a people-sized one – also ugly – and we entered through here, up some steps to a wide patio area, past the outhouse (as is standard for many houses still, our host commented) and into the house itself. The entrance was tiled and chilly, with shoes and slippers abound. Our shoes came off and we stepped in through the next door which led into the very large living space, which was very well heated by a gas stove on the wall with a huge silver pleated pipe coming out the back and into a vent in the pallid wall. White plastic garden furniture stood near the counter separating the kitchen area from the living area, and further towards the windows, four armchairs faced the television. Roozbeh’s colleague and part-time house-mate sat puffing on a small black pipe vaguely watching something on television.  We were greeted with a smile but he didn’t speak much to us, preferring instead to occasionally chatter a bit to Roozbeh in Farsi. But he was polite in his manner, and friendly in gesture.  The two boys started into their mystery meat sandwiches, while Roozbeh and I rooted through the fridge for something to cook. Spinach, baby courgette, tomato puree and eggs with some spices I found in the cupboard were to be the ingredients, and they made a very tasty mix. The eggs, in fact I couldn’t help but notice, had a yolk of so deep a colour it was dark orange, almost bordering red. Really delicious too. With this, Roozbeh had prepared a tub of plain yoghurt with grated cucumber and garlic, and dried mint mixed in. The seemingly standard bag of flatbread emerged and I had a very tasty dinner.

After dinner, we were offered shisha and happily accepted. The coals were lit over the flames of the gas cooker then placed into a metal mesh basket supported by four long chains. With the coals showing ember sparks, Roozbeh proceeded to expertly swing the basket in a circular motion to blast it with air. When it was glowing ready, the shisha was placed on the plastic dining table, now cleared of plates, and the coals were sat on top of the tin foil covering the mixed fruit tobacco at the top. The ritual of the sweet perfumed dessert smoke began with the pipe being puffed and passed in slow circles.  We chatted about things and places and the usual pleasant new-people-casual-chat topics late into the night.

A typical Iranian breakfast is so nice: once again, the sealed bag of chewy flat-bread is taken out. Carrot jam was a standard, and we were also shown a jar of homemade sesame seed paste mixed with grape jam. A big pot of Iranian tea was made, sugar added of course. The plan for the day was for Roozbeh to drop us off to go hiking at a place called Lost Paradise, while he attended at work for a few hours.  Lost Paradise was another 60km from Bayzâ, and very close to where Roozbeh needed to be for work.  Listening to an interesting mix of music in his jeep, from musical numbers to Leonard Cohen to Iranian rap to Andrea Bocelli, the journey took us through the tiny towns of Khajeh, Badomak, Dozde Kordale and many others whose name flew past too quick for my pen.

Lost Paradise: View from the Top

We pulled up along a dirt track that led into Lost Paradise. It was well signposted in English as well as Persian. Roozbeh gave us instructions on how to navigate the great gorge. Follow the path until you see the waterfall. Then cross over the right side of the river by the pipes, and continue up on that side. When you get to the huge waterfall and cannot continue straight, turning right up the gorge will lead you to an isolated village at the top of a hill.  The air was chilly and gusts of wind occasionally swept leaves from the trees and the ground in a fleeting whirlwind of nature’s debris. A puddle on the ground along the dirt track was frozen over with a thick layer of ice. But in the sunny patches, the temperature was very pleasant.  We followed Roozbeh’s instructions as best we could, but at one point, we were walking on the pipes (there were two that ran side by side, widening at some points but manageable) over deepish pools of water in the flowing river. They bounced and rattled in their wake, so whoever was walking at the back had the toughest balancing act. We found our way over to the right side of the river, hopping from stones and across low twisting tree branches.  Carrying my handbag was not a good bag decision that morning. Over rocks and up ledges, weaving as camels do up sandunes, we clambered and rose high up the rocky walls, the well-worn routes littered with a lot of rubbish like coke bottles and empty packaging. Like a trail of non-biodegradable, environmentally damaging breadcrumbs, it made finding a safe route very easy.

When we arrived at the final big waterfall, we had been trekking well over an hour. Turning right, up over the rocky crevice, we continued to clamber until the rocks were interspersed with patches of soil, eventually grassy scrub and opened out into wide fields. We were now at the bottom of a field, and looking up through the trees, some of the village houses were visible. We continued up towards the village, eventually stopping by a field filled with horses, next to another with dozens of sheep grazing. Enjoying the view and the break, we ate the fruit in my bag and rehydrated. On the descent back down to the rocky gorge, we heard voices coming from behind. Some of the village folk were making the descent too. They caught up with us in seconds and asked us about ourselves in very broken English. We tried to engage them in conversation as best we could. It was funny to deduce “maths teacher” from him using the word “teach” which he had, and then counting to 5. We didn’t speak very much on the way down, but we did keep pace with them: which was no easy task. This was a regular journey for these surefooted men, and they leapt and balanced dangerously, but so at ease, like mountain goats. They chose the fastest route for much of the journey back, nipping lightly over the metal pipes, that bounced terrifyingly in their wake as I shuffled somewhat awkwardly with a clear vision of breaking my ankle in a drop to the freezing water below. Somehow, somehow I managed to scurry behind them without slipping, in what felt like a land-record for speed-hiking. It took us less than 30 minutes.

We arrived back to the muddy track that Roozbeh brought us to where we found him strolling towards the river. He exchanged some friendly banter with the maths teaching speed hikers and they waved goodbye to Morgan and I.

Back into the jeep and we headed for lunch at Roozbeh’s workplace: a house rented in a small village only a few kilometres from Lost Paradise had only the vaguest hint that it might be an office: the computer and printer tucked away at the side of the large living / dining room. There was a lovely smell of food cooking, as Roozbeh’s supervisor had been expecting our arrival and had made preparations. Plates with rice were put before us –locally grown rice: there are a surprising number of paddy fields around Shiraz – and then bowls of two types of vegetable pickle, a meat dish for the men, and a plate of specially prepared egg and spinach pancakes for me. Once again, our day of trekking had built up a healthy appetite and we ate well, washing it down with alcohol-free peach “beer”! In truth, it was peach lemonade, but I think the word “beer” is slightly enchanting to the deprived Iranian folk.  More of Iran’s strong black tea followed, with lumps of golden coloured saffron sugar on offer this time. I am not convinced it changed the flavour very much, but it really did look very pretty.

We issued our thanks for the wonderful hospitality and set off back to Bayzâ.  The plan for the late afternoon was to take a private taxi to Shiraz and do some sightseeing. Now a private taxi, you might assume, is the expensive one: but you’d be mistaken. A private “taxi” is essentially someone with a car who happens to pick up as many people as he can in said car, and drop them to the city for a (very small) fee. It was approx. $1 for the 60km journey, during which I sat in the middle of the back seat, with a woman carrying a baby on my left, Morgan on my right and a friendly curious man who had zero English in the front passenger seat, who valiantly attempted communication for the entire journey. When I fished out my Farsi phrasebook, he was delighted! He would point to phrases that he wished to express, or something questions, in which case, I had to root around the book for a suitable answer to point out. A slow conversation took place where we told him that we were coming back to Bayzâ at 8pm, but he informed us that the last private taxi was coming back at 6. Now this was too early for us, so we gave Roozbeh a call to get him to speak with the driver and his front seat passenger who seemed to know that day’s schedule. Roozbeh assured us that we would be able to find one at 8pm and not to worry about it. The “taxi” dropped us off at Karim Khan citadel again, a spot where we could find our bearings, and also quite close to some of the city’s famous tombs we had been urged to go see. Shiraz has a rich and interesting history of scholars, poets and philosophers of which they are rightly proud. Many of these important people, and some religious figures too I should mention, have been commemorated with beautiful ornate tombs around the city and in the hills. One such tomb was located just across from the Citadel. A round building with a door on either side, it was surrounded by gardens of orange trees, their branches weighed down, even during this cold season, with bright juicy orbs. The tour was very quick: it was quite small inside, with some nice artwork, some artefacts from bygone eras and the tomb itself of course. The same style as the religious tomb we saw in Hamad’s village mosque. The guard on duty smiled at us from his slouched easy position in his chair. “Where you from?” He enquired. We told him and he immediately responded with “Bobby Sands”! We were surprised, and nodded in recognition of the controversial name.  Martyr figures are publically displayed all over Iran. Through nearly every town we passed, large posters of local dead young men were on display. Our next port of call was to the infamous Vakil Bazaar: a beautiful ceilinged old building that seemed to go on for miles. Pungent spices perfumed the air from the many spice shops, their number equalled by the rug shops with their intricate patterned carpets of deep reds, blues, gold and black seeming magic even in this crowded loud place. I was surprised that the vendors were not in the habit of pestering passers-by for sales. Even when standing in their shops, often it would take an active calling for attention or help. For this I was grateful: these market-style shopping experiences can be somewhat stressful if most of your time is spent saying ‘no’ to pestering salesmen. I made one purchase: a plastic jar of Iranian honey from a quaint spice / tea / aged black curd (which is sour to the point of being painful on the palette!) shop.

When we finished up our time in the bazaar, our next port of call was the stunning Tomb of Shah Cheragh: an enormous colourful mausoleum and place of pilgrimage for Iranians. It is the resting place of two brothers who had sought refuge in the city of Shiraz when the Shia were under persecution. From the outside, the complex which houses these two brothers is palatial: an enormous blue mosaicked teardrop shape roof rests high over the entrance arch. Upon entering, men and women are separated, and in the women’s search-tent, a sweet wrinkly lady asked me through gesture if I had a camera in my bag. I nodded and showed it to her. She ushered me back outside and beckoned for me to come with her. She told me where we were going but I could not understand her words, so I obediently followed the little be-scarfed woman. She was taking me to a porto-cabin where tourists’ belongings that were forbidden in the sacred place were to be stored until we exited. I exchanged my camera for a small orange ticket and headed back to the ladies’ tent. In the tent, the old woman fixed my hijab. I had arranged it for comfort, tying a knot in the back to prevent it slipping, which it did when worn any other way. But she re-arranged it to look like the local style, with the length of it covering my neck completely. She then gave me a huge pale pink sheet with tiny blue flowers printed on it, and swept it over my head. I was to hold it in the front to keep it on, and suddenly for the first time I blended in. 

Morgan was waiting patiently for me to emerge from my extended entrance ordeal. Into the beautiful complex we strolled, only Morgan looking like the tourist now. There were two separate tombs housed in separate buildings – mosques, actually – on different sides of the grand courtyard, which much have measured about 2 football pitches. We took our shoes off and left them at the booth where one leaves one’s shoes, and we entered our respective sides of the mosque – gender segregated, you see. The inside was nearly overwhelming. High ornately shaped ceilings stretched above, there was no flat surface bar the floor where women kneeled and bowed their heads to the floor in prayer, some sat reading the Qur’an, and others were still with contemplative airs about them. The mosaicking was exquisite in its detail, but garish (I thought) in its design: most of the tiles used were made of mirror which caught every lamp in the place making it extremely bright. What life is like inside a disco ball, crossed my mind.  It was nevertheless an extraordinary place. I didn’t stay too long, feeling slightly like my gawking looks were a bit disrespectful of these pious folk lost in worship.

Shoes went back on, only to come back off when we reached the entrance to the next tomb/mosque across the courtyard. Again it was quite similar to the first one, bright with mirror tiles and hitting a garish note on my Western scales.  

Soon enough it was time to make our way back to the private taxi station – in reality, a non-location: one might say it was beside a kebab shop, but completely unmarked, there just happened to be some men standing by the cars that were there, this unofficial taxi service was something that one just knew through word of mouth. As might have been predicated, there was a little trouble finding a taxi that was heading to Bayzâ. It was so far outside of the city, that a one way trip for just two passengers was not financially appealing to the drivers and we stubbornly stuck to the price that was usual (according to Roozbeh). We said we could wait for more passengers, and so we did wait. But to no avail. The driver with his poor English asked to speak with our “guide” – we called Roozbeh and they exchanged conversation for a few minutes. Finally, when just one more person (usually it would require 2 more people) sought passage to Bayzâ, we began our journey. We didn’t know it at the time, but Roozbeh had agreed to pay him a little extra upon arrival by way of incentive.

An hour or so later, we arrived back in Bayzâ and our final night with our exceptional host. This time I did the cooking, using a mixture of vegetables, spices and noodles on one dish; scrambled eggs in another, and the boys had a mix of tuna and red beans in another. The bread and yoghurt present as always. No shisha this night, but we still managed to stay up late, talking and watching some of the many satellite channels.

When we woke up, Thursday was upon us already. The week chock with new sights, smells, adventures was sifting as fast as sand through a timer. We were to part with Roozbeh this day, all three of us taking a private taxi to Shiraz, then he would travel on a 19 hour bus journey to the north of Iran to visit his family for a week. Morgan and I continued on our meandering journey in and around Fars. Our next host was to be a young man by the name of Sobhan. We agreed a meeting time of 5pm, once again by the landmark Citadel. We had some hours to spend before the meet, so more of Shiraz would be explored in the afternoon. The day was overcast and from time to time it drizzled, sometimes worsening to rain. But temperatures were fine for walking, and we strolled across the city to see the Tomb of Hafez – a Persian poet adored by the people of Shiraz who learn by heart his verses. Set it beautiful gardens, the tomb sits under a six columned circular pavilion, each column ornately decorated in carvings, the inner ceiling a colourful burst of intricate Islamic mosaic work. Being a Friday, the weekend was in full swing and the place was quite crowded, despite the weather which issued bursts of intermittent rain. During the worst of the showers, we took to the little craft shops on the grounds, and browsed more the Iranian arts and crafts.

Time was moving on so we strolled back towards the city centre to take one more look in the bazaar before meeting our next host Sobhan. The clouds continued to gather, and just as our meeting time approached, the heavens opened and heavy fat drops of rain started to pour. Good as his word, Sobhan came and found us standing watching the rain at the entrance to Karim Khan. He explained that his friend’s car is parked fairly nearby, so we three dashed to the Peugeot 206 where his friend Saman was waiting.  The shower cleared as the Saman navigated his way expertly through Shiraz’s crazy traffic. They decided to show us one more sight, set in a mountainside, the newly restored Qur’an Gate. Beautiful steps led upwards along the side of the hill, with huge slabs of rock carved into flat blocks, set at different depths were lit up with different coloured lights lining the side of the hill. The Gate is famous for the small room at the top which houses two handwritten Qur’ans which are supposed to bring blessings and luck to those leaving the city under this city gate.  The panorama from the top was quite beautiful: the twinkling city of Shiraz nestled between the big dark mountain ranges.

Back at Sobhan’s house, we met his brother Sajad. Saman joined us too and we sat on couches in the living room, exchanging stories and getting to know each other. Hunger was mounting for all of us, and something happened which Sobhan explained is pretty common: a neighbour knocked on the door and left in a pot of Ashe – a traditional Shirazi vegetable soup. It was ladled out amongst the five us and disappeared quickly. Morgan and I volunteered to cook dinner for everyone that night: as a gesture of thanks for their kindness and hospitality. We rooted in the kitchen for ingredients, deciding with what we had to make a Spanish omelette style dish, as we had lots of eggs, onions and potatoes on hand. This we served with yoghurt, flat-bread and a tomato and cucumber salad. Simple but effective: it disappeared pretty quick.

After dinner, conversation resumed and turned to music when Sajad produced a hammered dulcimer: a traditional Persian instrument with a most beautiful echoing sound as the thin bamboo sticks with red felt tip touched off the stretched metal strings. We all had a go on this, laughing as no matter how unmusical the player was, somehow it still sounded lovely! We learned a lot from these three young men about what life is really like in Iran: they told us, sadly but with a resigned smile, of how they could never be seen with a girl unless she was their sister. The punishment being lashing and imprisonment for both parties. They marvelled at how very independent we as unmarried people were. Dependence on family is very strong in their culture. They spoke of how life might be like if they left Iran, with a kind of giddy nervousness.  I sincerely hope they do each get the chance to experience life without such extreme restrictions. But despite their curtailed freedoms, forced military service, unfair rules and oppressed existence: they seem to accept it with grace and even humour, and where they can, find covert loopholes – alcohol, for instance, is brewed quietly and distributed secretly!

The next morning was our last in Iran: the brothers Sobhan and Sajad took us on one last excursion, walking us to some lovely gardens nearby where we strolled in the warm morning sunshine in the dappled light under orange trees. By the entrance as we took some photographs to remember our short time together, a middle aged woman gestured for permission to have a photo taken of us together by her husband! I gladly obliged, knowing I would miss this pseudo-celeb treatment, and had one taken for my own album.

Across the road from the gardens, a huge rocky hill had steps carved in leading up to and around a man-made waterfall. It was another of Shiraz’s tomb sites. We climbed up the sandy-orange coloured steps and weaved our way up to the top, soaking up the late morning sunshine. When we arrived back to the ground, it was time to find a taxi and catch our flight. The brothers found us a taxi for a fair price and we said our fond farewells, promising to keep in touch and share photographs of our fleeting time together. Those promises were meant and have been kept.

It was an amazing five days. I have never experienced such warm hospitality from all across society: from poor country folk to highly educated professionals to university students. Even the strangers on the street were kind with their smiles and friendly with their greetings. It is a country so misrepresented by the media, and so hidden from the world by a leadership not one single person we met had the vaguest positive thing to say about. I can only hope the taxi driver who said in a calm sounding wisdom that no extreme situation ever lasts, sees the day very soon where his prophesy comes to be.

The City of Shiraz