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).
Planes and noise
So at 1am this morning I got on a Singapore airlines flight from Singapore to Japan, however even in my delirious state I noticed a stark difference with my previous flight from Melbourne to Singapore. The plane was almost silent. Granted it was a little less crowded than the Melbourne flight but there wasn't even a dull hum, compared to the raucous noise during boarding in Melbourne - babies screaming, kids yelling and conversations at top volume across the aisles. It reminded me of the thing about Japan - despite the masses of people, everything seems to hum along efficiently, without any excess or unnecessary light, noise or sound. No doubt for some Japanese this is incredibly stifling, but for the visiting tourist the immediate tranquility is calming and enjoyable. Of course the practical silence lasted for the entire flight, not a whimper from a child or overly loud bogan conversations about the latest tattoo. Bring on Japan
Life in the fast lane: San Miguel, El Salvador
Me and Mao
Daring to go where few freedom loving loiterers go, LWAT v Mao, smack down in T Square.
Perceptive viewers will note the disapproving grimace on my face which clearly indicates my disapproval for the Communist ideology which holds oppressing the masses for the benefit of a few as its guiding philosophy, and hence my separati, and hence my separation from the vanguard and hence need to eradicate me. Note also the Free Tibet t-shirt cunningly displayed beneath my shirt !!!
And no, the narrow eyes are not imitation - it was a bright day.
Perceptive viewers will note the disapproving grimace on my face which clearly indicates my disapproval for the Communist ideology which holds oppressing the masses for the benefit of a few as its guiding philosophy, and hence my separati, and hence my separation from the vanguard and hence need to eradicate me. Note also the Free Tibet t-shirt cunningly displayed beneath my shirt !!!
And no, the narrow eyes are not imitation - it was a bright day.
Welcome to China (Beijing, 25/08)
Spotted this little beauty in front of a new pedestrian mall in the middle of Beijing.
From best I can work out it is trying to say the following, from left to right:
From best I can work out it is trying to say the following, from left to right:
- No East German Trabants
- No bicycles (We are capitalists now)
- No wheelchairs
- In either direction
- No dogs (uncooked)
- No war
- No love
- No bad card tricks
- No ice skating
- No drop punts
- No vomiting
- No surfing
- No Falun Gung
- No faiths of multiple Gods (Damned Hindus)
- No flying a kite
- No sleeping on top of each other in tents
- No P-ing
- No fires - especially under jugglers (Take note street performers)
- No mixing food and music
- No people (Every quasi Communists dream !!!!)
Back from the (blogging) wilderness
As you prescient readers have noticed I have laid off the blogging for the last little while. There are two reasons, firstly I basically travelled halfway across the globe in the last two months - from Cairo to Bangkok (almost all over land, including a 7,000 km long train trip) via Istanbul, Helsinki, Moscow, Beijing and Kuala Lumpur. Secondly, I have taken up a couple of new occupations, as the photos show. For a while I became a Finnish potato farmer, and when I got bored of that I decided (or it was decided or me) to become a Major- General in the Russian Army !!!
Sadly I had to retire from both these occupations on the grounds of lack of work ethic.
Anyway, as you can imagine from my usual blundering ways, there have been plenty of adventures along the way, and I am in the process of getting them up on the blog. Today I have put up a few posts about the Syria to Russia part. Hopefully in the next couple of days I will get the Russia and China posts up.
Next I am off to Indonesia for a few months of surfing, and sadly (I am sure you lament it more than me) the trip will reach its end and I will slide in to Melbourne in time for Christmas and the summer holidays, inshallah.
Sadly I had to retire from both these occupations on the grounds of lack of work ethic.
Anyway, as you can imagine from my usual blundering ways, there have been plenty of adventures along the way, and I am in the process of getting them up on the blog. Today I have put up a few posts about the Syria to Russia part. Hopefully in the next couple of days I will get the Russia and China posts up.
Next I am off to Indonesia for a few months of surfing, and sadly (I am sure you lament it more than me) the trip will reach its end and I will slide in to Melbourne in time for Christmas and the summer holidays, inshallah.
The Great Big Transsiberian Escapade - Introduction
By methods fair or foul (I suspect bribes of free computer lessons were involved) my parents managed to get my little story about Damo and I climbing Mt Kilimanjaro published in the local Anglesea rag. This has upped the ante somewhat, driving me to find another adventure as exciting in the doing and the telling as climbing Africa's highest mountain. To my loyal readers I humbly submit that I have found such a story - to be told in four parts - the Great Big Transsiberian Escapade. I beg you to remember that truth is a relative concept, but everything I describe did actually happen - well everything I describe in the photos.
You can click on the links below to get each part as its own page:
Part I The Beginning
Part II Set and Cast
Part III Day by Day
Part IV After
Enjoy !!!
The Beginning of the Great Big Transsiberian Escapade (Part I)
I arrived on the outskirts of St Petersburg just as it was getting dark (around 10pm) and suddenly we went from a narrow, pot holed goat track on to a brand spanking new raised highway. The highway seemed only to take us threw the completely dilapidated parts of town, lots of dark, empty lots, with big bits of rusty machinery or haphazardly stacked shipping containers surrounded by weeds growing through the rusted holes. Eventually it spat us out near to the centre of town, and as we worked our way through the main streets I couldn't help notice the contrast between the huge, old Soviet era buildings - a grey, concrete monstrosity of a factory, walls ten metres high, with only a line of small windows running along the length of the wall at the top, the building stretching monotonously three blocks along, and a old faded neon sign that read "XXX Factory No. 2" (Making me wonder how big Factory No 1 was) making me think inhumanity in a building; or old, fade clay red brick chimneys reaching to the sky dwarfing everything around them - and the new, flashy strips of shops, many simply old buildings converted by a new lick of paint, a balcony here and there, draped with banner advertisements and flashing neon signs.
We arrived at Baltisky station, an ornate, white, classical building, all cornice and balcony which testified to the grandeur of St Petersburg or its revolutionary buildings. Everyone but myself and one other guy got off, and after the drivers had smoked a few cigarettes we set off for the bus station. We finally arrived at 10.30 and it was now quite dark. I managed to find out there was a bus at 11pm to Moscow despite the ticket sellers simply staring at me blankly when I asked if they spoke English, and I set off to walk the couple of kilometres to the train station for Moscow.
The air smelt of the sea, and I as I followed a canal along the streets were relatively empty. Despite the guide suggesting that in the Putin-era Russian streets were relatively safe (apparently the thieves are interested in bigger fish) I felt a little apprehensive wondering what lurked in the dark, my mind throwing up images from all of those Soviet era spy books and movies I had seen of secret police hiding in dark alleyways. I soon hit a main, well lit dual carriageway street, allowing me to relax a little and observe Russian in their natural setting. 
In the half an hour it took to get to the station every person I walked past had a bottle or can in their hand - granted it was Saturday night, but it appeared as though without a drink in his hand a Russian man was unbalanced and was liable to topple over - and I saw a few who had done this. I finally managed to find the station, which wasn't so much a station but a small city within a big one - a series of buildings off the main street, first I got lost in the Metro building, then I found the main station - a huge building housing the waiting trains, a huge, two story marble waiting hall with shops and restaurants lining either side, then an endless series of stalls running the length of the building outside, and then another huge building with a sign saying Ticket Hall No. 2.
Armchair expert
In the three weeks I spent waiting for my visa I became something of an armchair expert on Russian trains. I learnt about the various routes, the various trains, the various classes, the scam of selling all the tickets to agencies to sell on to tourists. I learnt to read Cyrillic in order to be able to check the availability of tickets, and then to sign up to the site so that I could buy tickets on-line. (Frustratingly I wasn't able to complete the purchase) Through all this I discovered that in peak season it is impossible to get a ticket on the three most famous train routes (TransMongolian/Manchurian/Siberian) as all the tickets were sold to agencies or filled with Russian tourists, but that there were other trains that went along the same or similar routes that weren't famous and thus didn't attract many tourists. For these trains there were more tickets available as they could only be bought directly from the train company and I was only competing with Russians. So I looked around and decided on the train to a place called Blagoveschensk - a six day ride almost all the way to Vladivostok, to a town that was on the river that is the border between Russia and China. Once I had worked out exactly which train I was able to take that allowed me to get out of Russia before my visa expired, it became a first thing in the morning and last thing at night to check how many places were left on the train. The months of July and August are the peak periods for catching trains in Russia, lots of Russians' summer holiday consists of catching a train somewhere for a week or two, and lots of city dwellers return to where there are originally from the enjoy the brief period of warm weather - so most guides suggest buying tickets at least a week or two in advance, and to buy tickets through an agency unless you could speak Russian fluently and be able to do with the rather erratic queuing that goes on it Russian train stations. . Having left buying the ticket until the last moment I was unable to get an agency in Finland to buy the ticket for me (and they all charged 60 or 70 Euros for the service anyway), so I started to get a little worried when the two third class carriages went from having around thirteen places each left, to six places left, to one carriage being completely full and six places left in the last carriage, within the space of five days. I had worked out a backup plan of sorts, catching another train on the same day but it only had a couple of places left as well. When I was last able to check availability, in Estonia before I caught the bus to St Petersburg, there were no tickets left on my backup plan train, and only three tickets left on the train I wanted to catch. The LP guide also suggested that the ticket office closed at 8pm so I was anxious about whether I would be able to buy a ticket - even if by pure chance there was one available.
He's got a ticket(s) to ride
Having finally got around to reading the guide I had I discover to my relief that there was an agency at the station that was open 24 hours, had English speaking staff and could book tickets for a small fee. When I entered the waiting hall I followed the Information sign in to a narrow corridor that had a number of different windows that were all closed. The woman behind the one window that was open didn't speak a word of English so just pointed me around the corner. I walked around the back of the hall and then up the stairs to the second floor and stumbled upon the office of the agent mentioned in the guide. Rather than an agency it was actually a luxury waiting room, with couches for relaxing, computers for the internet and a rather dodgy looking massage parlour. I wandered in only to find that none of the staff actually spoke English and had no idea what "book a ticket" meant. Thinking I was in the wrong place I wandered about for a little longer and found a Booking Office, which turned out to be a hotel and rental car booking office, and despite finding someone who could speak English all I learnt from her was that she didn't know where the office the guide mentioned was. I walked out rather frustrated and depressed and began wandering around the station so distracted that even following the Ticket Office signs I was unable to find a place that was open and selling tickets, I began to notice that everything seemed to be dull, as if the lights were only on half power. Somehow, walking out the side door of the station I managed to stumble across another building with the sign reading Ticket Office No.2, with the lights on, if a little dim, the doors open and people wandering in and out - a shimmering oasis in the sea of my despair. Once inside the door, I found to my amazement 50 different windows, each with a different description in Russian specifying who could buy tickets at each window. (Apparently there are windows for veterans of the Great War, cosmonauts, widows, members of the Party, shoe shiners, dancing minstrels etc etc)
The other curious thing was that each window also had a list of opening times, and from what I got to see, they were only open in fifteen or twenty minute blocks, meaning that waiting in a line could be a very frustrating and pointless exercise, and I saw no point in joining any of the six or seven queues that had formed.
After wandering around in circles growing more and more confused, without even a helpful look from anyone in the place, I finally spotted an information window. (It seems that from my appearance that Russians presume that I am a Russian, each time I asked people whether they spoke English they seemed quite surprised that I would ask such a question) Fate then smiled upon me as the woman behind the counter understood a little English and seemed to understand the concept that I had come to the ticket office to buy a ticket for the train, despite my inability to speak Russian. I gave her a slip of paper with the destinations, Moscow and Blagoveschensk and train numbers written on them and she checked on the computer and found to my great surprise and relief that there were still places available (I managed to peek through the perspex to see that there was one spot left on the train to Blago) She even understood my request to find a cheaper class for the St P to Moscow leg, and told me that they were all fool. She wrote down the details in Russian on a chit of paper and then sent me to window 45, suggesting the women there spoke English. So I joined the relatively short queue for window 45, put down my backpack and wondered what would happen next. The queue moved quite quickly and after ten minutes or so it was my turn, so I smiled my best innocent abroad smile and handed over the chit of paper and my passport. Meanwhile the old man who had been served before me started asking the woman a few questions, she started talking to him, then disappeared out the back of the office and then returned in conversation with another ticket seller, finished answering the old man's questions, checked my Russian visa and typed out my name in Cyrillic as written on my visa, let out a loud sigh and said "Mamma mia", her only display of English, and passed the tickets through the window to me. Confused by the speed, complete lack of interaction and the grim look on the woman's face which suggested that I was without luck, I stumbled away with the two tickets in my hand. When I check the tickets I find that indeed I have exactly what I needed, and I think to myself walk in the park, even a bumbling fool like me can do what the guides suggested bordered on the impossible.I walk away with a smile on my face big enough to fit a train in to !!!
Off to Moscow
About an hour later I found my carriage, and discovered I was sharing the compartment with a young girl of five or six, her father/grand father and her gran - an old babushka, dressed all in black. They were most welcoming despite my inability to understand anything they said, or say anything they could understand. After a few failed attempts at communication the young girl spoke to the man then asked me in flawless French, Parlez vous Français ? It turned out she went to a bilingual school in St Petersburg so using my rather rusty French was able to find out that she was off to Moscow for a holiday with her grandparents. After being shepherded out of the compartment so Gran could get changed, I made up my bed and fell asleep almost immediately. In the morning we had a couple of hours before arriving in Moscow and Pops was quite impressed by the places I had been. After several attempts he had managed to get my name right and seemed to be obsessed with it, constantly using it as he told me, sometimes through his grand-daughter, sometimes directly to me in Russian, how he had been to Cuba and Angola during the Soviet times. Finally our train rolled in to Moscow and we bid our farewells and I started to feel as though perhaps my negative prejudices about Russians were a little off the mark.
Moscow, Moscow, city of the Russian tsar
Coming out of the station at 10 in the morning the sky was a dull grey, the ground was still wet from earlier rain and despite the sun trying to break through the clouds the cold was still a little nippy. There are three big train stations piled next to each other and I managed to navigate my way to where my train left from, find a left luggage place (Four different windows each with different closing and opening hours) and then set off to spend the three hours I had before my train left doing Moscow. On the street outside of the station there were quite a few people milling around and I began to notice that Russian came in every stripe and colour - from your white as the driven snow, blonde hair and blue eyes variety (aka Dandy South white Russian/ Baltic Kev), to dark, leather skinned, squat Mongolian looking, to straight up, short, black haired, narrow eyes and small nosed Chinese looking, and everything in between.
Walking away from the station, being Sunday morning there wasn't many people or much traffic about on the wide streets. On my way to Red Square I passed a mix of relatively few old buildings (almost all of Moscow was completely destroyed when Napoleon took it back in the day) lots of Soviet concrete behemoths all grey, symmetrical and bland - built for use rather than looks, a few experimental Soviet buildings - still grey concrete but strange angles smashing in to each other, and surprising a lot of new glass and metal buildings shimmering under the weak sun - either completed or under construction. I also walked passed the New Moscow - a covered walkway of exclusive boutiques, an Italian sports car parked out the front for sale, loud plastic pop music blaring away and all the glamour and glitz you could imagine. The security guards glared at me as I crossed the road to get a better look, clearly I wasn't part of the in crowd.
Arriving at the Red Square the first thing I saw was the Kazan Cathedral, a striking reddy brown building, all triangular towers and silver spires. However as I entered the vast expanse of the square, the walls of the Kremlin on the right, the endless windows of a Soviet concrete monolith on the left both running the 500 metre length of the square, there sits the most bizarre, colourful, swirling shaped fantasy church I have ever seen - St Basil the Fools. Walking the length of the square, like a marching soldier on parade in front of the Party Chairman, the church only became more and more impressive and unbelievable the closer I get. Built in the 1550's for Ivan the Terrible, who wanted to leave a legacy other than the 
worst nickname in history, it is supposedly the symbol of religious Russian architecture.
Staring at it from up close is hard work, the eye never wants to rest, jumping from one part to the next, and then back again, trying somehow to form a single image that takes in everything - and you have to fight off the thoughts that perhaps those domes are actually big lollies. The photos simply don't do it justice. Standing behind the church, looking at the square, the church, the Kremlin (the walled inner city sanctum of Russian power) and the 
river behind me I couldn't help but think of the book Gorky Park, and the part where the detective wanders about in this part of Moscow in the middle of winter in the freezing cold trying to make sense of what has happened. In such a historical place, that I have seen through so many images, both photos and descriptions in books, it is hard not to feel a sense of history and perspective. I also notice is that despite the rough cobble stones every women I have seen is wearing high heels, some look precarious on their six inch stilettos (with matching track suit) but all manage to pull it off without falling - perhaps Russian women learn to walk that way from childhood.
I wandered back around the other side of the square passing Lenin's mausoleum, running out of time I want to see how long the queue is. I discover however that Lenin remains very popular and rather than running just the length of the square, the queue snakes its way along the entire length of the church, then further along through a park on the left, so I don't even bother trying to find the end let alone joining it. In the square 
there a bunch of Russian soldiers wandering about, a guy with a couple of monkeys in leather jackets, a group of look-a-likes - I recognise Lenin, Stalin and Yeltsin but there are four or five more generals - you can have your photo taken with them.
As I wandered out of the square I come across a group of elderly people milling about, a few stalls with pamphlets and lots of hammer and sickle flags. A group of them are standing on the steps of the statue of Marx singing the Internationale. A Spanish tourist is busy filming them with his video camera, and I figure them to be part of the majority of Russians who long for the social security and global reputation of the Soviet days.
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