May 5

My last days in Iran

View of EL Goli, a pleasant hillside garden and park around an artificial lake

Time goes by swiftly; the count down has started and I shall be sorry to leave Iran.

The last time I was in touch I was still in the Northern town of Tabriz. My last half day in Tabriz was unexpectedly pleasant. As It had poured all night I had decided against visiting El-Goli park, 8 kilometers away from the center. However, by the time I left the hotel I was delighted to see that it had stopped raining. All the colors, so vivid and fresh in the sunlight seemed to jump at me. I took the direction of the bazaar, wanting to make a few purchases. I needed, among other things, to buy deodorant.

As I did not feel like carting my glossary with me, I had attempted to memorize the Farsi equivalent:
"Zedd e aragh". I kept repeating it,
"Zedd e aragh, Zedd e aragh" on the way to the chemist. Unfortunately, after 10 minutes I had a lapse of memory!

However, luck was to be with me. A young Persian man approached me politely. He had seen me before at the Coffee Net and was wondering if he could accompany me for a while. He was an English student by the name of Attila. Attila!

Tabriz Jame' Mosque in East Azarbaijan province

Unlike his namesake, the ferocious and bloodthirsty chief of the Huns after whose passage, if I remember correctly, grass never grew again, this Attila was most kind. He helped me shop for deodorant and took me straight to the carpet making section of the bazaar. I would have probably looked for it for hours! Then we went to see the Jame' Mosque. I had seen its minarets the day before but never found the entrance. The portal was superb, all tiled with colourful ceramics. Near the Mosque, a magnificent library with elegant arches and intricate woodwork as well as a school for students of Islam, a sort of seminary. In the courtyard, a great many Mullahs, I had never seen so many at once, in their flowing robes and turbans, chatting away.

Then I went back to the hotel to get ready to go to the airport. Tabriz's airport, pompously named international is the size of a pocket hankerchief. Around it rainbow colored hills of rich moist soil, mostly red with touches of gold and green. Inside, my luggage and I were checked twice but this time I remembered not to put my head through the X-ray machine! To my relief Caspian Airlines did exist as attested by its shiny counter! I was the first in line and was surprised to be assigned a seat number. This time there would be no mad rush for a window.

The airport staff was friendly and relaxed, almost too relaxed. As I was sitting on the plane ready to start moving, I saw an attendant running at high speed on the tarmac, pushing in front of him a handicapped chair with the front two wheels up in the air. Sitting on it an unfortunate old man who was hanging on to dear life! He had probably been forgotten. When they arrived at the ramp, the attendant pressed with time, grabbed his victim's arms, put them around his shoulders and gave him a piggy back up the stairs! The poor man was "plonked" on the seat next to me. His eyes were closed, his lips moving imperceptibly...I am sure he was thanking Allah to have arrived in one piece! The plane started moving and as we went by I saw impeccably maintained flowers beds all along the runway!

The flight was short, one hour. Going to Central Tehran from there by taxi took twice as long. The traffic was indescrible. A sea of vehicles, motorcycles, trucks travelling at high speed between lanes, swerving or doing u-turns without signalling and honking madly. I think Tehran drivers are a talented breed indeed to come out alive from such chaos. That evening, I had been invited into another Iranian home to spend the night, that of Hossein, the man who had greeted me at the airport with flowers. He was not to be there, but his wife Mahnaz would be honoured to have me as a guest.

She was there to greet me. I almost did not recognize her without her dark chador. In the privacy of her home, she was wearing a pretty short summer sundress, and her lustrous hair was cascading freely upon her bare shoulders. She served me tea and cakes, and then a tasty meal: chicken khoresht (stew), yogurt, salads and olives. Then we sat in her elegant living room, all white, with arcades and we had fruit, dates, nuts and more freshly brewed tea. She took out her photo albums and told me in halted English her life story.

The next morning, I was up at dawn to catch a bus to Kashan 3 hours south of the capital. When I arrived, the bus did not stop at the bus station but on the side of a bus square. The attendant gestured me to get off, brought me my pack and asked, "Taxi, hotel?"
I answered, "Dale (meaning yes)."
He then took me to a really old man, most definitely on the geriatric side. Was the man his great uncle or his grandfather? I asked skeptically, "Taxi driver?"
The boy answered, "Dale," while grandpa was nodding his head enthusiastically and grinning.

I shrugged my shoulders, "Okay, no problem how much does he want to take me to the Sayyah hotel?"
The man said a few words, still grinning. "1000 tomans", replied the boy. I was shocked. This old age pensioner was a first class entrepreneur; that was twice the expected price but I was not going to bargain. This man, too old to be working, could use the money. So off we went to his car that had even more vintage than he and it definitely was not a taxi. The engine coughed, the exhaust made an alarming exploding sound, spat dark smoke and we took off chugging along to the hotel.

Once there, my "golden" boy asked with a hopeful look in his eyes, "Abyaneh?" Abyaneh is a name of a village (only accessible by car) where many travellers go.
I asked the hotel receptionist to tell him that I had not made any plans yet.
The man smiled, said his name several times "Abbas, Abbas" bowing and left.

Later, at lunchtime I joined Hossein, Mahnaz' husband, and his group of Dutch tourists in a fancy traditional restaurant. Hossein introduced me as "Miss Dapheenee", his lady friend from Canada. Everybody greeted me warmly and showered me with questions, especially the women.
What was it like to travel alone in Iran? Was it safe? Was it difficult? How did I know where to stay?

Like other Europeans I had met previously, they had been told that they could only be granted a group visa and that their passports would be given to them at the airport at the time of leaving for Iran!

I talked and talked, and gorged myself on the buffet offering a variety of typical dishes, courtesy of the tour company. Then the Dutch tour leaders, Marius and Hossein, invited me to join the group in their afternoon sightseeing. After boarding a comfortable airconditioned bus with my new friends, we first went to the Shahzadeh-Ye-Ibrahim, an architectural jewel with a delicately decorated turquoise dome and a serene inside court yard with a central pool.

Refreshing looking pools amoung fruit trees

Then we visited a famous garden called Bagh E Tariki-Ye Fin, full of trees and fountains. The place was packed, with mostly Iranians, families and noisy school groups.

Exterior view of the central pavilion showing the front pool

People were throwing coins into the water for good luck and shouting at us, "Where are you from? Holland? Very good. Welcome to Iran!" A song I had been hearing minus the Holland part a hundred times at least!

Then the group left me to head back to Tehran. They had to catch a flight at 3 in the morning, the unfortunate souls and were planning to paint the city red drinking tea until it would be time to leave for the airport!

The next day, while I was debating what to do, the phone rang in my room. Sure it was a mistake, I answered, "Allo?" A voice said, "Miss Dapheenee Robets, there is Abbas waiting downstairs to take you to Abyaneh." The golden aged taxi driver! I had completely forgotten about him. He had decided without asking my permission that he was going to take me sightseeing after the overly generous fare I had given him the previous day. There he was in the lobby waiting. He greeted me with a wide desarming smile. Grandpa Abbas was in his Sunday's, I beg your pardon, Friday's best, with a freshly ironed shirt, a carefully clipped moustache and cleanly combed back snowy white hair, neatly arranged on a wrinkled, friendly bronzed face. How could I resist?

We agreed on the price after some bargaining. The way to Abyaneh, some eighty kilometers away was quite scenic. We went through desert, hilly countryside first. Then we swerved to the right and took a road winding through a valley. The road followed a river bordered on one side by a narrow ribbon of luxuriant vegetation. A curtain of tall, slender leafy trees, their foliage gently moving in the breeze in a kaleidoscope of spectacular hues, silvery white, gold, copper and pale green. All around just stark granite cliffs, imposing stone cathedrals that erosion had sculptured into most spectacular and eerie shapes.

The village of Abyane is unique in its setting. Built in terrasses on rocks, it has reddish brown mud houses huddled together. The homes have lattice windows and extraordinary wooden balconies jutting out of the higher floor over precipices, as if suspended into mid air. There are no walking alleys so to speak or steps, just rough uneven gravel paths full of roots. I do not know how the old grannies shrouded in their light coloured hedjabs

I have seen carrying heavy loads on their bent backs manage them without breaking their necks.

Tomorrow I am heading back to Tehran, after some more sightseeing in the morning in Kashan.

May Allah be with you all and guide your step! Keep smiling!

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