In the ridiculously long, and so moving queue for foreign nationals to get through immigration at the airport in Tehran, it began to occur to me at what point exactly do the must wear hijab rules of Iran cease to apply and everyone - sorry all women get their freedom back. Waiting at the gate for the flight to board there was a little bit of lax readjustment of falling hijabs, one younger woman had clearly given up caring, but otherwise all the other women remained veiled. However, once we crossed the threshold of having our boarding passes scanned and heading down the walk way, it was game on. This was underlined by the stewardesses who were all showing a full head of hair, likewise the single woman in first class, who had not only disposed of the veil but had stripped down to a singlet and shorts!! Which only served to confirm my suspicion that all those posters that I had seen in Iran comparing the hijab to the oyster shell that protects the pearl were fighting a losing battle.
A travel blog for the thinking clown who has drunk a little too much of the local tap water
Gendered religious questions
So from time to time you might find yourself asking questions about your faith - and despite the literal word of God having been given to a broke, illiterate business man in the 7th century being a good guide, you might want to ask somebody who speaks your language and is alive for some answers. Well look no further than the mosque in Shiraz where men and women can separately seek responses to their questions...I am still wondering the need for separate doors...maybe not to expose men to the repeated question of why do I have to wear this head covering?
Light and beauty
A picture equals a 1,000 words...so here are 3,000 words of sheer beauty showing the morning sun shining through the coloured glass at the Nasir Ol Molk Mosque in Shiraz.
The end is nigh
Rising up over on the edge of town, with a back drop of a spine of steep,snow capped stands one of the oldest and most striking places in Iran - the Zoroastrian Temple of Silence.
Before the arrivals of the invading Arabs and Islam in the 7th century the peoples of Iran were in large part Zoroastrians. They followed the teachings of the Persian prophet Zoroaster and believed in "cosmogonic dualism and eschatological monotheism" - that is the ongoing battle between good and evil and a single god - named Ahura Mazda (Wise Lord). They also came up with the idea of free will, and lived by the creed of humata, hukhta, huvarshta (Good Thoughts, Good Words and Good Deeds) - all concepts which subsequently influenced traditions adopted by Jews, Christians and Muslims alike.
One of their interesting beliefs is that the human corpse should avoid with earth and fire - both of which are considered sacred. So to remedy the problem of disposal, they built large temples on hills at the edge of towns, exposed to the open air to allow carrion (birds of prey) to remove the flesh from the bones. One of the oldest still standing, sits on what once the edge of Yazd, but the sprawling city means that the dormitories of the huge university are within a stone's throw.
However the place is still majestic, atop a natural hill a circular crown was constructed, surrounded by a low wall. From the top you can look out over the mountains to one side with the afternoon sun falling behind them, the flat, rocky desert to another, and everywhere else the sprawl of the city nibbling at the edges. It was easy to imagine the bodies laid out in the tower, and birds circling and swooping.
The buildings immediately below, belonged to the community of workers who prepared the bodies, so explained three chador clad Iranian students I met at the top. Apparently these workers were not allowed to come in to contact with the broader community so they lived an isolated life in a walled compound.
In Iran the practice faded due to the influence of Islam - in a curious way. Islam considers dissecting a corpse mutilation and is prohibited, however newly created medical schools needed corpses so people would break in to the towers and remove bodies. In response Zoroastrians came up with a clever solution - concrete lined tombs, which meant the corpses didn't touch either fire or earth!!
After the arrival of Islam many Zoroastrians fled east and ended up in India - they are known as Parsis (Persians) and continue to practice this ritual. They feature prominently in Rohinton Mistry's fantastic book A Fine Balance, which has a great description of the entire burial process.
Before the arrivals of the invading Arabs and Islam in the 7th century the peoples of Iran were in large part Zoroastrians. They followed the teachings of the Persian prophet Zoroaster and believed in "cosmogonic dualism and eschatological monotheism" - that is the ongoing battle between good and evil and a single god - named Ahura Mazda (Wise Lord). They also came up with the idea of free will, and lived by the creed of humata, hukhta, huvarshta (Good Thoughts, Good Words and Good Deeds) - all concepts which subsequently influenced traditions adopted by Jews, Christians and Muslims alike.
However the place is still majestic, atop a natural hill a circular crown was constructed, surrounded by a low wall. From the top you can look out over the mountains to one side with the afternoon sun falling behind them, the flat, rocky desert to another, and everywhere else the sprawl of the city nibbling at the edges. It was easy to imagine the bodies laid out in the tower, and birds circling and swooping.
In Iran the practice faded due to the influence of Islam - in a curious way. Islam considers dissecting a corpse mutilation and is prohibited, however newly created medical schools needed corpses so people would break in to the towers and remove bodies. In response Zoroastrians came up with a clever solution - concrete lined tombs, which meant the corpses didn't touch either fire or earth!!
After the arrival of Islam many Zoroastrians fled east and ended up in India - they are known as Parsis (Persians) and continue to practice this ritual. They feature prominently in Rohinton Mistry's fantastic book A Fine Balance, which has a great description of the entire burial process.
Taroof and felafel
There is a sometimes confronting culture in Iran that is expressed as taarof, which literally means as my guest. It covers everything from stepping back to allow somebody else to enter before you, to the repeated refutation of payment - even when you are buying mundane things in a shop. It means that often the simple act of purchasing something involves a cup of tea, and then three or four refusals by the vendor to accept your money, before they finally relent and begrudgingly take payment.
I was, as usual, dining alone in a fantastic self serve falafel restaurant run by some Iraqi emigres in Yazd, (One of the Arabian inventions that modern Iranians have embraced) when two young guys in their teens came and sat next to me - one a few years older than the other. The usual conversation started about where I was from, whether I liked Iran and so on. The younger looking one spoke fairly good English and explained that they were friends and were visiting from out of town. Suddenly the older one jumped and dashed off up to the counter and started to rather frantically put together another falafel. He then wrapped it in paper and brought it over and placed it on the tray in front of me. My attempts to refuse it (I had already demolished one falafel, and had ordered a samosa) were repeatedly rebuffed, and when I finally accepted, he stood up and dashed off to get a drink. We continued conversing and when they finished they requested a few photos, said thanks, paid and disappeared in to the night. When I finally finished all the food in front of me and rustled up the energy to walk home, I went to pay. The cashier explained in his broken English that the young guys had paid no only for the falafel they made me, plus everything else I had ordered.
As I walked slowly back to my hotel I got to wondering about whether any teenager had ever shouted a foreigner in Australia, and I just couldn't imagine it happening. The two young guys didn't look very well off, and the food didn't cost that much, but the simple gesture encapsulates the way so many Iranians relate to foreigners.
I was, as usual, dining alone in a fantastic self serve falafel restaurant run by some Iraqi emigres in Yazd, (One of the Arabian inventions that modern Iranians have embraced) when two young guys in their teens came and sat next to me - one a few years older than the other. The usual conversation started about where I was from, whether I liked Iran and so on. The younger looking one spoke fairly good English and explained that they were friends and were visiting from out of town. Suddenly the older one jumped and dashed off up to the counter and started to rather frantically put together another falafel. He then wrapped it in paper and brought it over and placed it on the tray in front of me. My attempts to refuse it (I had already demolished one falafel, and had ordered a samosa) were repeatedly rebuffed, and when I finally accepted, he stood up and dashed off to get a drink. We continued conversing and when they finished they requested a few photos, said thanks, paid and disappeared in to the night. When I finally finished all the food in front of me and rustled up the energy to walk home, I went to pay. The cashier explained in his broken English that the young guys had paid no only for the falafel they made me, plus everything else I had ordered.
As I walked slowly back to my hotel I got to wondering about whether any teenager had ever shouted a foreigner in Australia, and I just couldn't imagine it happening. The two young guys didn't look very well off, and the food didn't cost that much, but the simple gesture encapsulates the way so many Iranians relate to foreigners.
Ingenious indigenous architecture
The old city of Yazd is a sight to behold, a rabbit warren of narrow curving lanes often covered over and made from adobe, with a rough finish that you can see hay stalks in.
The covered walk ways are often colorfully painted domes, with a hole in the middle to allow light in. The skyline is punctured by two very clever architectural innovations. The first is the badghir or wind catcher. A tall tower that has up to eight different faces, and draws in any passing breeze, then funnels it down through its chimney, where if often passes over a pool of water three of four stories under ground. This evaporative cooling method means that the underground rooms can be as much as 20 degrees cooler than the plus 40 degree temperatures outside.
Only the lonely
Sometimes you get the feeling that in the recent past Iran was preparing for a boom, with lavish spending on infrastructure, but sadly it just never showed up, and already things have begun to run down and fade at the edges There is no better example than bus terminals and Kerman in southern Iran was a great example. As I approached it in a taxi, its silver domed roof shone brightly in the distance looking like a football stadium. Inside though the story was a little sadder, there were a number of empty bus company offices in the circular ground floor, the two elevators to the second floor were non functional and covered in a thick layer of dust and rubbish. Upstairs other than the (empty) Internet cafe and (empty) restaurant the other (empty) spaces had windows covered in black plastic and rubbish was strewn all about. One could imagine the grand dreams of the designers and architects, realised by hard working Iranian builders, but the people just never came.
An empty restaurant provides quite a dilemma, no more so than in a terminal. Usually the presence of locals is a good sign that the food is if not digestible then at least affordable, but in a country where meat is the mainstay, vegetarian options are few and far between, and there was no other option, I decided to take my chances.
I had to wake the old man sitting at the desk in front of the door to the kitchen. Using my best international sign language he understood that I didn't speak Persian so turned to the kitchen and called out. A minute or so later a waitress appeared, took one look at me and headed back in to the kitchen. Another minute later a middle aged Iranian, who looked like he had just woken up appeared, and in broken English asked what I wanted to eat. Thanks to Google Translate I could show him in Persian "I do not eat meat", which always provokes looks of disbelief. However in this case he proposed rice and vegetables, which I accepted. In a few minutes, despite my scepticism a dish of rice, vegetables and bread - without meat - appeared, and was quite delicious.
I thanked everybody profusely when I paid, and watched the old man put his head back on the desk as I walked out the door.
An empty restaurant provides quite a dilemma, no more so than in a terminal. Usually the presence of locals is a good sign that the food is if not digestible then at least affordable, but in a country where meat is the mainstay, vegetarian options are few and far between, and there was no other option, I decided to take my chances.
I thanked everybody profusely when I paid, and watched the old man put his head back on the desk as I walked out the door.
A trip to the dunes
After having watched the flat, rocky desert out of the train window for 12 hours I am seduced in to taking a tour to go and see the real desert, a few hours drive south of Bam. Joining me is Pierrick, a Frenchman staying at the same hotel, who is on a multi year wander around the world.
On our way to the dunes we stop in a small town to checkout the bazaar, however its really a people watching exercise - we are in the Baluchi area of Iran - getting close to the Pakistan and Afghanistan borders. People certainly do look different - most men are in salwa kameez, and the women are covered from head to toe in black, but with a few bits of jewellery and colourful weaving on show.
We continue south, pass a huge caravanserai (a sort of human made oasis, where travelers and traders stopped on the journerys to water their camels and themselves) surrounded by a 6ft high adobe wall, which serves as a reminder of the amount of traffic there once was on this trade route from Asia to the Middle East.
Not that long after we arrive at the beginning of the sand dunes, blonde hills of sand with thin spines shaped by the wind standing 100 metres tall. In the distant horizon, a steep line of mountains, incredibly covered in snow, rear up almost touching the sky making a mockery of the size of the dunes.
Our guide shoos us off, directing us to head for the tallest one. Sadly reaching the top of the dune reveals what is seen in most desert tours - the dunes here don't actually stretch that far, and in the not to far distance its more flat, rocky plain. To compound the lament some local boys on motorbikes arrive, and proceed to throw themselves at the dunes at top speed redolent of the scenes from Mad Max - and the brief period of silence and contemplation is shattered.
Fortunately the day is rescued by a family of Afghani escapees who in true Iranian style have brought their mat and are having a picnic on one of the dunes. The language barrier doesn't put a dent in their unflinchingly curiosity about who we are, where we are from and what we are doing here. (We are out of range so their attempts to use the internet as a translator come to nothing) They insist that we join them on their mat, and immediately serve up tea and fruit, and start to tell us about life in Afghanistan and how much better life is here in Iran, although they long to return there. They start to bring out lunch, and Pierrick and I have to use a crowbar to extract ourselves, using the excuse that our driver is waiting.
When we return to our driver he has struck up a conversation with the bikers, and they join us for lunch of bread and cheese.
On our way back to Bam we stop in at the special economic zone, a huge industrial park created by the Iranian government 20 years ago, to generate employment as an antidote to the wave of smuggling and violence that plagued the area. The public safety of Iran makes it easy to continually forget that there are wars raging in almost all of it's neighbours. The zone turns out to be a huge series of car factories - most recently taken over by the Chinese, and a monument to concrete - row upon row of concrete box houses, an artifical lake (in the desert), a few unfinished and unused stadiums, a horse riding area, and a half built roller skating rink. It is another grand economic dream, that is tarnished by its collision in to reality - unfinished buildings litter the landscape, facilities are fraying and already in decline and the only people we see are maintenance workers and a group of local kids on a school excursion. According to our driver it has however been successful in generating jobs and reducing smuggling - even if there are massive car parks full of new cars that no-one wants to buy.
On our way to the dunes we stop in a small town to checkout the bazaar, however its really a people watching exercise - we are in the Baluchi area of Iran - getting close to the Pakistan and Afghanistan borders. People certainly do look different - most men are in salwa kameez, and the women are covered from head to toe in black, but with a few bits of jewellery and colourful weaving on show.
We continue south, pass a huge caravanserai (a sort of human made oasis, where travelers and traders stopped on the journerys to water their camels and themselves) surrounded by a 6ft high adobe wall, which serves as a reminder of the amount of traffic there once was on this trade route from Asia to the Middle East.
Not that long after we arrive at the beginning of the sand dunes, blonde hills of sand with thin spines shaped by the wind standing 100 metres tall. In the distant horizon, a steep line of mountains, incredibly covered in snow, rear up almost touching the sky making a mockery of the size of the dunes.
Our guide shoos us off, directing us to head for the tallest one. Sadly reaching the top of the dune reveals what is seen in most desert tours - the dunes here don't actually stretch that far, and in the not to far distance its more flat, rocky plain. To compound the lament some local boys on motorbikes arrive, and proceed to throw themselves at the dunes at top speed redolent of the scenes from Mad Max - and the brief period of silence and contemplation is shattered.
Fortunately the day is rescued by a family of Afghani escapees who in true Iranian style have brought their mat and are having a picnic on one of the dunes. The language barrier doesn't put a dent in their unflinchingly curiosity about who we are, where we are from and what we are doing here. (We are out of range so their attempts to use the internet as a translator come to nothing) They insist that we join them on their mat, and immediately serve up tea and fruit, and start to tell us about life in Afghanistan and how much better life is here in Iran, although they long to return there. They start to bring out lunch, and Pierrick and I have to use a crowbar to extract ourselves, using the excuse that our driver is waiting.
When we return to our driver he has struck up a conversation with the bikers, and they join us for lunch of bread and cheese.
On our way back to Bam we stop in at the special economic zone, a huge industrial park created by the Iranian government 20 years ago, to generate employment as an antidote to the wave of smuggling and violence that plagued the area. The public safety of Iran makes it easy to continually forget that there are wars raging in almost all of it's neighbours. The zone turns out to be a huge series of car factories - most recently taken over by the Chinese, and a monument to concrete - row upon row of concrete box houses, an artifical lake (in the desert), a few unfinished and unused stadiums, a horse riding area, and a half built roller skating rink. It is another grand economic dream, that is tarnished by its collision in to reality - unfinished buildings litter the landscape, facilities are fraying and already in decline and the only people we see are maintenance workers and a group of local kids on a school excursion. According to our driver it has however been successful in generating jobs and reducing smuggling - even if there are massive car parks full of new cars that no-one wants to buy.
The ancient and the new
The Arg-e Bam or Bam Citadel is an impressive site, despite half of the place remaining in ruins.
Once the largest adobe (which I discovered means non-baked clay or earth) building in the world, it was its own enormous walled city, situated at an important point on the Silk Road, joining Europe, the Middle East and Asia. The actual citadel sits on a hill and towers over the city below it, surrounded by a thick wall that encircles the city.
Sadly in 2002 the buildings which had stood for more than a thousand years -the city peaked between the seventh and eleventh centuries, was destroyed by a massive earthquake. The Government of Iran immediately promised to rebuild the city and work is well under way - but one of the challenges is to mimic the various building styles used in the city over a millennium - particularly challenging given modern buildings in Iran all seem to be steel and cement.
It also raises some interesting questions about authenticity and the tourist experience. What does it mean to go to see an ancient city that has been built in the last 10 years? And how faithful should the reconstruction be?
Reading the Hungry Planet about Iran it had a classic quote about another old city in Iran, "readers have complained given the state of the ruins it is not worth visiting ...." Lesser sites, lesser because they remain more untouched and authentically showing the strains of weathering and time, are less attractive and less visited. (Having myself seen lesser or completely unreconstructed Mayan ruins in Guatemala - largely old temples that appear as hills on an otherwise flat plain - it does require quite a bit of imagination as compared to the impressive (reconstructed) temples at Tikal.) It many ways the quality of enduring whilst everything else around goes on changing both falling down and being built up- the pyramids in Cairo are a case in point - is one of the things that make ancient buildings so impressive. Conversely the act of travelling to a (reconstructed) place also seems to act on the mind and encourage some imagining of what human places were once like.
Sitting on the ramparts at Arg-e Bam, looking down at the city below, and then to the desert as it stretches out flat across the plain to the mountains that rear up on the horizon, hiding Afghanistan and Pakistan (once part of the Persian empire) and beyond to Asia behind them, it was easy to imagine this city as an oasis in the distance for weary travellers. A place to rest, take succour and trade.
Like a bat out of hell
Deciding early in the morning that two days in Tehran was enough I managed to secure a train ticket to Bam, the only challenge being I had an hour to get back to the hostel, pack my bag and get to the train station. I was on the metro on the way to the train station and things were going well until I realised that I was on the wrong line and only had 30 minutes left to get to the station. I was left with no other option than to head above ground and place my life in the hands of a Tehrani motorbike taxi driver.
As I exited the station there he was, parked in the middle of the lane and holding up traffic, a driver with a crazed look in his eye, desperately scanning the crowd for his next customer. Whilst every vehicle on the road in Iran is a potential taxi, mototaxis have a distinctive large plexiglass screen on the front, and often large mittens that are attached to each end of the handlebar for keeping the driver's hands warm. I should have known from the way his eyes lit up, clearly sensing my desperation, that I was about to add to my tally of grey hairs.
After a too quick negotiation in our mutually shared language of hand signals, the driver shuffled me on to the back of the bike, and we took off with equally disconcerting full throated laugh from the driver and a kick from the bike and the throttle was opened fully.
Movement seemed to loosen his jaw, and he began to speak to me non-stop, whilst cursorily glancing at the traffic now and then, despite us being on an 8 lane wide road, and traversing a roundabout where there appeared to be no rules. Talking seemed to require hand gesticulation to really convey the true meaning - so one hand was out of the mitten moving around wildly, and the other hand alone was controlling the beast that was hurtling us along.
Traffic lights in Tehran appear to be no more than advisory, and for my driver not even that. We cross a major intersection by simply weaving through the cross traffic - which has the green light. There is not even a toot of the horn from them - not that this would make much difference. I find us flying down a narrow side street, after pulling off the daring maneuverer of crossing lanes of traffic by slowing down then darting across in a gap between cars, and then heading in to the on-coming traffic - at one point between two cars, to reach the side street. Whilst catching my breath and relaxing because of the lack of oncoming traffic, we hit three speed humps in a row that each time almost fling me up and off the back of the bike. I begin to think I would be safer to have my feat under rather than on the stirrups.
Back on a main drag the desire to communicate hasn't diminished, and at one moment, to emphasise a point, the driver pulls both hands out of the mittens and is waving them about. Time suddenly slows, and I realise I am on a motorbike, travelling at speed with no hands controlling it...fortunately hands on the throttle means we begin to slow and the rapidly approaching traffic island is narrowly averted, hands back on the handlebar we pull in to a lane of oncoming traffic for safety!!
Returning to the correct side of the road allows the driver to demonstrate his signature move. As we pass a pass he makes a hand movement which I initially presume is shooting at passengers on the bus. I then realise he is actually blowing kisses to women in the buses and cars that we pass. As I see on the speedo that we are hitting 70 kilometres an hour, my only thought is what a way to go. The driver jokes about how much I am moving around, and wobles the bike from side to side to show how much it is moving.Left with no other choice, I use everything I have to hold on - my thighs tighten around his legs and I lean in close and grab tight the rack at the end of the bike.
After a few more cuts across traffic, rushes down narrow lane ways, and top speed attempts on wider, traffic filled lanes all going in our direction the train station appears before us. The driver pulls up and I check my watch - what seemed like half a lifetime was 13 minutes!!! We negotiate a price - and he wants $6, because I presume from his hand movements, that he did it in double quick time. This is capped off by a laugh from him. Glad that I have survived, I agree to his price - but this requires getting change from a nearby taxi driver. When I hand over my 500000 riel note ($15) the rather short and portly taxi driver pretends to run off - to guffaws all round. It seems like in Iran as a driver you are either crazy or prankster or both.
Stepping on to the train the slow, steady, linear of movement of a train never made a man happier.
How the other half lives...is full of surprises
As is often depictured about Iran, since the revolution, woman are required to cover themselves when in public, or in the view of male non-relatives. This includes covering the head - using a hijab, and the female form - using a chador. Apparently the strictness with which this is enforced has diminished over time, something women particularly in Tehran have taken advantage of. It is not uncommon to see the hijab pulled way back on the head, to reveal not only the fringe but also frequently almost the full head of hair. And interesting, quite often the hair is red, green or purple!! In Tehran, I saw more women not wearing the chador, and opting for jeans, that the sight of a woman in a chador became surprising. Pushing the boundaries wherever possible, plenty of women have painted their fingernails and accessorise with large pendant earrings and other jewellery. I even spotted the odd tattoo. In a travel agency staffed by four women, all appropriately attired in a black hijab, the English speaking women who helped me book a train ticket had a musical note tattooed on her wrist. When I asked her about whether this was permitted, she said of course, many young people in Iran have tattoos. She explained that she had that tattoo done in Amsterdam, but that she had another tattoo she had done in Iran. Before my disbelieving eyes she stood up and pulled down the top of her top to reveal a few words in Persian script written across her chest. I don't know whether I was more shocked by the tattoo or the fact that she revealed it so publicly. No doubt, despite these small acts of rebellion, women in Iran must tire of the male imposed rules, and whilst there are many things to admire about Iran, the lack of equality sure isn't one of them.
Whilst the situation for women is lamentable, surely for members of the LGBTI community it is disastrous. The pre-Trump former President Ahmadinejad said in 2007 there were no gays in Iran, hence no persecution of them - an effective way of squaring the circle. On a crowded metro train in Tehran I was joined by two transvestites - two solidly built women that towered over their fellow Tehranis. This didn't stop two teenagers from giggling, which proceeded in to more hostile sniggering, elbowing their fellow passengers and drawing as much attention as possible with some comments which even without speaking Persian I couldn't understand were offensive. Probably used to such harassment, the two women turned away and did their best to bravely ignore what was going on around them. And so it turns out that whilst homosexuality is illegal and punishable by death (and at the same time non existent!!) the Ayatollah (the supreme and religious leader) and his successor have both issued fatwas that authorise sex change operations. In fact the government financially subsidises the procedure, and it has been embraced by Iranis to the point that as of 2008 more sex change operations were carried out in Iran y other country other than Thailand. Wikipedia quotes Hojatoleslam Kariminia, a mid-level cleric who is in favor of transgender rights, that he wishes "to suggest that the right of transsexuals to change their gender is a human right" and that he is attempting to "introduce transsexuals to the people through my work and in fact remove the stigma or the insults that is attach to these people."
The thing I am learning about Iran is that there is always a surprise around the corner, as people chafe against rules that don't seem to make any sense.
Whilst the situation for women is lamentable, surely for members of the LGBTI community it is disastrous. The pre-Trump former President Ahmadinejad said in 2007 there were no gays in Iran, hence no persecution of them - an effective way of squaring the circle. On a crowded metro train in Tehran I was joined by two transvestites - two solidly built women that towered over their fellow Tehranis. This didn't stop two teenagers from giggling, which proceeded in to more hostile sniggering, elbowing their fellow passengers and drawing as much attention as possible with some comments which even without speaking Persian I couldn't understand were offensive. Probably used to such harassment, the two women turned away and did their best to bravely ignore what was going on around them. And so it turns out that whilst homosexuality is illegal and punishable by death (and at the same time non existent!!) the Ayatollah (the supreme and religious leader) and his successor have both issued fatwas that authorise sex change operations. In fact the government financially subsidises the procedure, and it has been embraced by Iranis to the point that as of 2008 more sex change operations were carried out in Iran y other country other than Thailand. Wikipedia quotes Hojatoleslam Kariminia, a mid-level cleric who is in favor of transgender rights, that he wishes "to suggest that the right of transsexuals to change their gender is a human right" and that he is attempting to "introduce transsexuals to the people through my work and in fact remove the stigma or the insults that is attach to these people."
The thing I am learning about Iran is that there is always a surprise around the corner, as people chafe against rules that don't seem to make any sense.
All the glittering treasures in the world, for no one to see
The idiosyncrasies of the Iranian regime has gone some way to non Iranians forgetting the madness of the Shah prior to the revolution. That madness is fairly well evidenced by the ridiculous nature of the Pahlavi jewellery collection, open for all to see in a vault in the basement of the national bank in Tehran. After handing over my phone, keys, belt and anything else metal, I was subjected to the closest pat-down search I have ever had, delivered with a happy smile from under the moustache of the security guard. Then across in to another building, past one group of people - bank workers? - sitting around having tea, through another metal detector, down some stairs and past another group sitting around having tea, past another security guard in a skivvy and Iran's national costume - the suit jacket, finally through a vault door about three foot thick and on the other side of a group of people having some tea, there it is was....a darkened room filled with more gold, precious stones - including the Darya-i-Noor (the world's biggest diamond) and the ridiculous golden globe - a 14 kg globe of the world, covered in a mosaic of precious stones marking out the world's landmasses and seas. Sadly no cameras are allowed, so there are no photos to show. Which is in stark contrast to the Glass and Pottery museum, where for 2 hours I was the sole visitor - free to take as many photos as I like. I was transfixed by much more mundane objects recovered from various archaeological sites across Iran. Objects created and used - possibly they sat on the top shelf in the pool room, but no doubt they were dragged out and used when special guests came to visit.
I couldn't help but think about how the glittering objects, often only ever used or seen once like the coronation tiara, created at such expense and precision to reflect light and bedazzle, are locked away in a dark room underground, only visible for two hours a day. Unable to be revealed in their glory - or even photographed for sharing. Meanwhile, the more prosaic items, created to be used, and then likely discarded, or lost in the mist of time, are well lit, almost touchable - on display for all to see, and photograph to share.
Tehran murals
The city scape in Tehran is a fairly ugly affair, plenty of concrete, mixed with the thick haze of pollution, which slightly obscures the dry gray landscape. Its ugliness is perhaps emphasised by the incredible snowcapped mountains that can be spotted on the horizon from time to time when the smog clears. However, Persian culture is highly aesthetic, so to create something for the eye to appreciate, quite a number of buildings are covered in large murals. No understanding any Persian means that the message, probably revolutionary and war mongering, is lost of me - but there does seem to be an awful lot of doves.
The Iran Ski Experience
I am using the excuse that I only brought my snowboarding gear to Iran because I had it in Japan and it was cheaper to fly with it than leave it in storage. This covers my sense of the ridiculous for about the first five minutes, and its all down hill from there. I find a new hostel, which is hidden away in a small, rather primitive village, nestled in the valley about 3 kilometres before the snow resort. Both sides of the valley are covered in snow and show signs of recent avalanche activity - at some points the snow flows on to the road and makes it one car width wide, and head high snow on either side!! The incredible beauty of the snow covered mountains - stand in stark contrast to the scattering of half finished apartments - ranging from concrete slab scraped out of surounding rock, to rusting, steel spines to unfinished monuments to concrete brutalism that are boxier than Mike Tyson. Thankfully the hostel, housed in a once very chic 1960's villa, sits at the bottom of the valley, with a view restricted to the river in the backyard and the steep, unbuilt - or yet to be built - side of the valley.
After the big dump of snow the night before I am eager to get to the resort, but I get my first introduction to skiing in Iran - the resort is closed, says the hostel manager, too much snow. I resign myself to a day of rest, but go through the process of setting up all the gear. This proves a sensible move when 20 minutes later the resort is open, and the taxi driver is coming to collect me in 10 minutes. All of the other guests at the hostel are leaving - that have been stuck in the hostel during the blizzard that lasted for three days, and are keen to get to the outside world while they can.
The resort lives up to its reputation as another relic of the Shah regime. It was built in the late 1960s, and was once full of hip Iranians getting there snow dose. It looks like it hasn't seen any maintenance since the fall of the Shah more than 30 years ago. There are dead lifts all over the mountain face - with pilons askew and the cables hanging limp. The one lift that is operating is powered by a smelly, old diesel beast. After a 20 minute way in the queue, it breaks down 3 times on my first ride. It carries passengers in tiny, brightly coloured purple, fibreglass pods - that on closer inspection are fraying and cracking everywhere you look. The pods were built pre snowboarding, so whilst skis sit OK on the racks outside, you have to shimmy the boards inside, and ride with the door slightly open - as if unmaintained lifts weren't dangerous enough!! Fortunately the queue lines are created by metal cattle gates and turnstiles, so you get plenty of practice squeezing yourself in, before trying to fit the snowboard in!! The snow is fantastic, however visibility is fairly low, at one point I crest a hill to see a massive plume of dark black smoke rising before me. I think, I wonder what the lifties have set on fire to keep themselves warm, but as I come around the corner I see it is the groomer machine - this time a Russian looking relic, that is blowing smoke like a new Pope has just been announced.
The next couple of days are soured by a lack of snow, only two lifts operating, then a gale that blows in which closes the resort. Thankfully I am joined at the hostel by a group of 4 young Lithuanians, who are good coming and remain fiercely optimistic. The storm provokes an avalanche near the hostel, as a huge chunk of snow slides down the opposite valley side, across the river and in to the backyard - destroying the snowman we had built the day before. So much for worrying about provoking avalanches.
Friday - the Iranian weekend arrives with blue skies and no wind, and brings with it the Tehranian terrors - hundreds of the pampered elite from Tehran turn up in all the latest snow gear - no sight of sanctions here. (They probably got it during their last trip to Europe) Suddenly there are 30 minutes queues, and I find myself resenting the spoilt rich kids who love to queue jump, conveniently forgetting my status as a spoilt, rich kid jetting about the world!! During a lunch break I get to see the whole show - plenty of hair, makeup and tight fitting snow outfits on show by the womenfolk, and every opportunity to strip down to their t-shirts and show off their muscles by the men. We are also witness to a strange occurrence - an Iranian celebrity is sitting at the table behind us, and I watch people repeatedly as their faces change recognising him, then they dash over and ask for a selfie, for which he duly obliges, grabbing the phone and snapping away like a professional. In the space of 15 minutes I see this happen at least 30 times, and its all the more intriguing because we have no idea who he is.
Fortunately I have a cold, so slink off home early, cursing the wind blown snow and the locals. I am all set to head off in the morning, when for the third time this trip, it snows over night, the sky is blue and cloudless in the morning and I quickly change my plans. It proves the right move - the lifts all the way to the top are operating, everybody has returned to Tehran and it is a day of pure joy - looping around and around finding fresh tracks every time. Suddenly in one day my opinion about Iranian snow becomes incredibly positive.
After the big dump of snow the night before I am eager to get to the resort, but I get my first introduction to skiing in Iran - the resort is closed, says the hostel manager, too much snow. I resign myself to a day of rest, but go through the process of setting up all the gear. This proves a sensible move when 20 minutes later the resort is open, and the taxi driver is coming to collect me in 10 minutes. All of the other guests at the hostel are leaving - that have been stuck in the hostel during the blizzard that lasted for three days, and are keen to get to the outside world while they can.
The resort lives up to its reputation as another relic of the Shah regime. It was built in the late 1960s, and was once full of hip Iranians getting there snow dose. It looks like it hasn't seen any maintenance since the fall of the Shah more than 30 years ago. There are dead lifts all over the mountain face - with pilons askew and the cables hanging limp. The one lift that is operating is powered by a smelly, old diesel beast. After a 20 minute way in the queue, it breaks down 3 times on my first ride. It carries passengers in tiny, brightly coloured purple, fibreglass pods - that on closer inspection are fraying and cracking everywhere you look. The pods were built pre snowboarding, so whilst skis sit OK on the racks outside, you have to shimmy the boards inside, and ride with the door slightly open - as if unmaintained lifts weren't dangerous enough!! Fortunately the queue lines are created by metal cattle gates and turnstiles, so you get plenty of practice squeezing yourself in, before trying to fit the snowboard in!! The snow is fantastic, however visibility is fairly low, at one point I crest a hill to see a massive plume of dark black smoke rising before me. I think, I wonder what the lifties have set on fire to keep themselves warm, but as I come around the corner I see it is the groomer machine - this time a Russian looking relic, that is blowing smoke like a new Pope has just been announced.
The next couple of days are soured by a lack of snow, only two lifts operating, then a gale that blows in which closes the resort. Thankfully I am joined at the hostel by a group of 4 young Lithuanians, who are good coming and remain fiercely optimistic. The storm provokes an avalanche near the hostel, as a huge chunk of snow slides down the opposite valley side, across the river and in to the backyard - destroying the snowman we had built the day before. So much for worrying about provoking avalanches.
Friday - the Iranian weekend arrives with blue skies and no wind, and brings with it the Tehranian terrors - hundreds of the pampered elite from Tehran turn up in all the latest snow gear - no sight of sanctions here. (They probably got it during their last trip to Europe) Suddenly there are 30 minutes queues, and I find myself resenting the spoilt rich kids who love to queue jump, conveniently forgetting my status as a spoilt, rich kid jetting about the world!! During a lunch break I get to see the whole show - plenty of hair, makeup and tight fitting snow outfits on show by the womenfolk, and every opportunity to strip down to their t-shirts and show off their muscles by the men. We are also witness to a strange occurrence - an Iranian celebrity is sitting at the table behind us, and I watch people repeatedly as their faces change recognising him, then they dash over and ask for a selfie, for which he duly obliges, grabbing the phone and snapping away like a professional. In the space of 15 minutes I see this happen at least 30 times, and its all the more intriguing because we have no idea who he is.
Fortunately I have a cold, so slink off home early, cursing the wind blown snow and the locals. I am all set to head off in the morning, when for the third time this trip, it snows over night, the sky is blue and cloudless in the morning and I quickly change my plans. It proves the right move - the lifts all the way to the top are operating, everybody has returned to Tehran and it is a day of pure joy - looping around and around finding fresh tracks every time. Suddenly in one day my opinion about Iranian snow becomes incredibly positive.
Everybody knows....surreal in Iran
I awake to a cold morning in Karaj - a far flung suburb wedged between Tehran and the mountains. Surprisingly I have slept well and immediately notice I have not been disturbed by the expected 4am call to prayer. In fact, its already day 2 and I am yet to hear even one call to prayer. I head out for a walk on the snow covered streets of Karaj, and whilst there are few people around, no one seems to notice the out of place honky wandering about. There are no imans in their clerical garb, there is the odd chador - something like a burqa but a little more flexible, however I am more struck by our whilst maintaining the appearance of covering their hair and any bodily curves as is required, most women I see reveal most of their hair, by letting the covering sit well back on their head, and making sure their long hair shows out the back. Surprisingly their are a lot of blondes in Iran, and I spot some blue and red hair as well. This colour is accompanied by vibrant red lipstick, and there is also plenty of makeup to go along with this. The oufit is usually completed with a pair of jeans - most women wouldn't seem out of place wandering down Bourke Street.
After what I later learn is the Iranian breakfast - delicious flat bread with labneh or cream cheese or sweet jam accompanied with tea, I make attempt number 2 to get to the mountains. My new taxi driver surprises me by putting on his seatbelt before we take off, and he is very pleased that I already have mine on. As weave our way through the traffic and then hit the mountain road we go through the routine of where are you from Mister? what you think of Iran? Iran good? - all of which leaves him with the impression I am Italian. Exhausting our limit of mutual intelligibility he cranks on the stereo (Iran seems to have only one volume for music - 11) and I hear the soothing tones of Leonard Cohen singing Everybody Knows - a surreal sound at any time, but in the mountains in Iran? I start to think perhaps it is a tribute to the recently deceased artist, however he is followed by Eye of the Tiger by Survivor and then the Eagles and Hotel California. Even my terrible singing can't disabuse him of the idea that I am Italian.
After what I later learn is the Iranian breakfast - delicious flat bread with labneh or cream cheese or sweet jam accompanied with tea, I make attempt number 2 to get to the mountains. My new taxi driver surprises me by putting on his seatbelt before we take off, and he is very pleased that I already have mine on. As weave our way through the traffic and then hit the mountain road we go through the routine of where are you from Mister? what you think of Iran? Iran good? - all of which leaves him with the impression I am Italian. Exhausting our limit of mutual intelligibility he cranks on the stereo (Iran seems to have only one volume for music - 11) and I hear the soothing tones of Leonard Cohen singing Everybody Knows - a surreal sound at any time, but in the mountains in Iran? I start to think perhaps it is a tribute to the recently deceased artist, however he is followed by Eye of the Tiger by Survivor and then the Eagles and Hotel California. Even my terrible singing can't disabuse him of the idea that I am Italian.
Flamingos in Tehran
Iran surprise #81
Iran - first impressions
As we approach Tehran below us the sprawling city is blanketed in snow...although I brought my snnowboarding gear from Japan, it still doesn't quite feel right that a place that I expect to be hot and desert, is currently -10 and snowing. Surprising getting a visa at the airport proves to be a relatively routine - if not expensive affair. After bumping between the visa counter, the health insurance counter and the bank teller, and completing various forms in triplicate - 30 minutes later I have a visa.
I am approached by a mass of taxi drivers when I exit the airport and pick one at random. He leads me across the car park and over a barrier to his car which is parked on the side of the highway. We head off to Dizin - the largest snow resort in Iran - to avoid the chaos of Tehran. Initially, other than conducting a conversation on his mobile, his driving is quite sedate. Whilst the concept of lanes seems fairly fluid for other vehicles, we sit in the right lane moving at a reasonable pace. After 10 minutes the driver explains that this is becauuse he is waiting for the car to warm up - and once this happens, the foot goes down, and we hit hyperspeed. As we get closer to Tehran the traffic thickens and I am remined about the Islamic approach to driving - which seems to been well embraced in Iran. Basically it requires a inshallah (if God wills it) approach to surviving or getting to your destination.Cars dart in and out of any space that almost opens up, and all manuervers are done at top speed. Displaying any intent before you make a turn, slow or decide to reverse, is frowned upon - if not actively discouraged, so extreme attention is required - but this doesn't prevent texting or speaking on the phone, or the ubiquitous fag in the hand. Creativity is encouraged - driving up the wrong side of the road in to incoming traffic, doesn't even raise a honk of the horn or flash of the lights. It has starter to snow, and the windscreen wipers look as though they haven't been replaced since the car was new 20 years ago, not that this would effect the fogging that means I can see lights but little else outside the windows on all sides. My driver astounds me with his dexterity - after failing to cut in front of a queue to pull off on to a slip road on the right - and getting a what for from a fellow driver, he speeds off to the left and joins the queue at the next u-turn opportunity. When there is a break in oncoming traffic and the first car begins to move, rather than wait, he pulls out passing the queue and then executes the u-turn at the same time as the lead car, and without a second thought, cuts off the other u-turning car to merge first...no horn or exclamation from any driver, and the race continues!!
All of the cars on the road show the telltale signs - scrapes along both sides, broken side mirrors, and plenty of dents on the front and back. At one point the road is so narrow, becuase of parked cars of both sides, and a guy who has parked in the middle of the lane to go get a kebab, that as cars pass each other in opposite directions they stop to pull in their side mirrors so they can slide pass each other.
But none of this is to say that safety is not a concern. About an hour in to the trip my driver stops by the side of the road and is met by his friend. He shuffles me in to the new car saying that it has better tyres and is newer than his car. The new driver is actually an improvement, however halfway up to mountain we hit a police road block, and he communicates to me that the road is closed due to avalanche risk. I get out to stretch my legs and within a minute I am covered in snow - it is belting down and the road ahead of us is commpletely covered in snow.The driver pulls out a flask and we have a cup of chai, and I am more than happy that he doesn't try to argue with the police like the animated white van driver in front of us. The police turn on him and almost chase him back down the hill. They turn theiir attention to us next, and I am slightly relieved, if a little dissappointed as we head back towards Tehran to find a hotel for the night.
On my way to Iran
So sayonara to Japan and I am on my way to Iran....with a 9 hour stop over in Abu Dhabi. As I step of the plane, walking down the stairs the air is thick with sand - we are in the middle of a sandstorm!!
At the airport I am immmediately struck by how, particularly in comparision to Japan, this enclave in the desert has transformed itself in to a global hub used by people from everywhere. From well coiffered Arabs dressed in their spotless, flowing white robes crowned by a turban, to weary looking Afghani farmers with age lines etched in their faces with their wives and daughters completely covered in black, to groups of young Indian men listening at full volume on their phones to imans lecturing the world about all that is wrong, to lanky but graceful East Africans, to a middle aged Australian bloke in stubbies, flanno and thongs. As I wait for my flight, the constant last calls for flights to such exotic destinations as Cairo, Lahore, Mumbaii, Moscow, Tashkent makes my feet feel itchy(ier).
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