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With regret I left the postcard mountain village of Masuleh nestled in green foliage in the early morning while the rising sun was trying to shine though ribbons of fluorescent mist. I lugged my pack down many steps before reaching the spot by the river where minibuses wait for passengers wanting to return to the city of Fuman. |
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When I arrived there was no vehicle in sight apart from a
taxi. Against the wall of a house, a bunch of young Iranian men with
backpacks were waiting for something...maybe a minibus? I sat down on the
parapet overlooking the cascading waters and was about to have my breakfast
of bread, goat cheese and tomatoes, when the taxi driver arrived. |
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He then pointed at his watch and mimicked all minibus drivers sleeping soundly! I insisted "Minibus! Na taxi". He obviously looked disappointed... a rich tourist like me should spend money on a taxi! However, he was good natured about my refusal and started asking me the usual questions any Iranian asks a foreigner. All of a sudden, a minibus crammed to capacity with male passengers emerged from the sharp bend chugging up the road. It did not stop though and continued its ascent. It did not look too hopeful. I may have to wait a long time. Luckily, a few minutes later the vehicle reappeared gloriously empty. The taxi driver jumped on his feet, exclaiming, "Minibus", grabbed my bag, helped me on board and went to have a staccato conversation with the driver. The only words I could catch were: "tourist", "Canada"," minibus" and "Fuman". Then to my amazement, the bus took off like a rocket. The young Iranians backpackers had not made a move and were still sitting nonchalantly against the wall. I was totally at a loss at what was happening. Normally a minibus waits to be full to leave. It makes sense economically. So here I was in an empty minibus with a driver grinning at me through his rearview mirror while he was dashing around the sinuous road at what seemed a hundred miles an hour. Even though he did not speak a word of English, he conversed with me non-stop and at times was making the thumb up sign, chuckling . He asked many questions which I completely guessed and then answered. To an audience not knowing English nor Farsi, we seemed to understand each other perfectly. |
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I spread myself a little. My backpack, daypack, camera bag and myself were occupying 4 seats. I could not help feeling uneasy. Despite the early hour, why was I the only passenger? Once we reached the valley, we sped through various villages surrounded by rice fields. There was hardly anybody outside. However at the entrance of a hamlet, I saw a group of locals flagging us down. The driver simply ignored them and drove on. I screamed, "Stop, stop!" pointing at the unfortunate people. |
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The driver just laughed, made the victory sign and screamed, "Fuman, Fuman!". Was he a lunatic, or worse a con artist of international calibre who had decided that I had chartered his minibus? After all, I had found a bad apple in the basket: a dishonest Persian. |
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In despair, I cried showing the minibus "Minibus, na taxi" but the driver kept laughing and putting his thumb up. The normal price of the ride was 200 tomans, the equivalent of 25 cents. Mentally, I started counting all the seats to figure out how much he was going to charge me. When nearing our destination, the driver still looking extremely jovial asked, "Fuman, Rasht?". I nodded, "yes," preparing myself for the confrontation looming ahead at the time of paying. 'Should I involve the police?' I wondered. Upon entering Fuman, to my surprise the driver did not drop me off at the assigned spot. Not surprising, everything this mad man was doing was atypical! I screamed, "Stop, stop" to no avail. He was still grinning wildly and said, "Minibus Rasht!" Was he planning on driving me all the way to Rasht? This was going to cost me a fortune! |
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I had no clue what to do next when all of a sudden, he slowed down and stopped magically. Nervously, I fished out my 25 cents. He helped me down, grabbed my bags and took me to the Rasht minibus. Timidly I handed him my 200 toman bank note. He took it, put his hand on his heart, thanked me, bowed and left.... I'll let you draw the morale of this story! |
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The trip from Fuman to Rasht was blissfully uneventful! Once in Rasht, I explained to a young cab driver that I wanted him to drop me off an specific alley from which, according to my guide book, departed the minibuses to Astara. He nodded in assent and off we went. After about one kilometer he stopped and went into a shop to ask information. I was puzzled. What was going on? While I was waiting, the engine which had been left running died off. When the man came back, the taxi would not start. He turned around, looking quite contrite and said, "Benzine, sorry". We had run out of gas. |
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I frankly did not care; I had all the time in the world. He disappeared with a jerrycan in his hand. A few minutes later he came back and we took off again. |
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We drove two kilometers, then he
stopped in front of one of these police kiosks on the side of the road. He
gestured me to get off and fetched my pack from the trunk. Oh la la la, what
was happening this time, was I in trouble? He went to talk to two young
policemen and then a third one, more important looking came out and walked
towards me. Mama mia, was I in trouble? |
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He repeated patiently, "No minibus to Astara, only big bus from Tehran
stop here and after go to Astara. What country is Madame
Tourist?" Everybody, the taxi driver, the younger policemen were nodding
to confirm. So I thanked him, paid the taxi driver and left pulling my backpack on wheels flanked on each side by an armed policeman as if I were under house arrest. |
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The two youngsters were taking their responsibility seriously and would not have left me until the arrival of the Tehran bus. Curious passers-by kept asking something (maybe, what crime I had committed?) and they simply answered, "Canada," proudly. I was not to take the Terhan bus after all. A providential taxi driver materialized and offered to take me in his savari (shared taxi) to Astara, 2 and a half hour away. He would charge me only 3000 tomans, less than four dollars, provided that he could pick up people along the way. |
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I would have the privilege to sit in the front to enjoy the view of the Caspian sea coast. The young policemen made me understand that it was good value and the deal was sealed. |
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The drive along the coast was very scenic. The Caspian sea was a soft baby blue. We picked up and dropped off many passengers. The driver Ali (another one!) was stopping at every point of interest, pointing at my camera, saying, "Photo". In Astara, which was not to be my final destination, he gave me the grand tour:
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Astara is the frontier town within the Republic of Azerbaijan. Ali made sure to put me in a reliable savari bound to Ardabil, my final destination before he left me. I thanked him profusely for his kindness and we parted. Once in Ardabil, I checked into the Sabalan Hotel run exclusively by a team of older men. They are a little on the slow side but demonstrate impeccable courtesy and efficiency. I arrived exhausted. I had taken 2 minibuses, 3 private taxi and 2 savaris to cover a distance of 200 km for less than 6 dollars... I think I had got my money's worth. This had been one of most entertaining and suspenseful journeys! I fell asleep as soon as I reached my room and did not wake up until the next morning. |
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I enjoyed Arbadil, surrounded by snow capped peaks. There the highlight was the visit of the Mausoleum of Sheikh Safi-Od-Din. At first despite the beautiful ceramics and the dome shaped cupola, I thought I had entered an army barrack or police headquarters because of the presence of armed guards everywhere. I was scared thinking that I had trespassed and that I might be arrested... you do not want to get to the wrong side of the law here! One of the guards smiled at me, greeted me in Farsi (he could not put his hand on his heart because of his rifle!) and invited me in. I visited the shrine in total tranquility; nobody but myself and the soldiers. |
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They allowed me to film but of course not to use my flash. I saw the handsomely sculptured wooden sarcophagi of Safi and other notables placed in ceramic tiled vaults with splendid crystal chandeliers and Persian carpets. Then I visited the adjoining gardens, green, lush, buzzing with crickets where old men coiffed in fur hats were chatting in the shade. |
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Just 10 days left before I join my family in Paris. Time has flown by. I can honestly say that of all the 60 countries I have visited, Iran is top on my list. This part of the world has been a learning experience. People here have taught me humility and kindness. One of the Imam, Ali, has written that should a foreigner visit this land you should receive him or her with opened arms. Should the foreigner lose his or her possessions in this land, it is your duty to replace them. This maxim can be read above the reception area of many hotels. Iranian people have embraced me, they have helped me, they have treated me as a guest they were honoured to receive. They have shown a healthy curiosity and acceptance of my culture even though it is so different from theirs. I will miss them and I will miss all that makes Iran such a unique tapestry: the fragrances, the showers of petals falling in the streets when the wind picks up, the fragrances (roasted nuts, fresh mint, rosewater, spices, baked bread....) I will miss the balmy evenings, the gurgling fountains, the languid call to prayer three times a day, the elegant mosques with splendid ceramics, the tea houses, the gentleness of the locals and so much more. |
