Our host family, still believing us incapable of doing anything by ourselves, very kindly arranged a hire car to take us to Persepolis along with mother and sister. The place was awe inspiring and overwhelming in scale, an ancient place that can only really be described in pictures (coming soon hopefully!). I can add that the place was built mostly by Darius the Great and Xerxes I, names previously known to me only through ancient Greek texts that I invariably failed to translate accurately. The place is one of the wonders of the ancient world and generally considered to be the most impressive remains from the Near East region, bringing together art and design from Italy to India, the largest coming together of cultures ever seen at the time. Alexander smashed it to smithereens to prove a point. Git.
12-Apr-07
Another blinkin' garden, this time the huge Eram Garden. Actually it was lovely there, full of blooming roses that smelt of romance and adventure, riotous assemblies of anenomies from every colour gazing up one-eyed at us and the sun. After stuffing us to bursting again, this time in a traditional restaurant with live music and no tourists the family, so amazingly kind to us throughout our stay, dropped us at the bus station for our overnighter to Esfahan.
13-Apr-07
Actually slept on the bus, thanks to Ellen's knock-out powder. we arrived at our new host family in the morning, greeted by Mehrnoosh who looks like a prettier version of Penelope Cruz (no ugly duckling herself) in a palatial apartment complex owned by her family, individual members of whom seem to occupy a floor each from what I can tell. Exquisite, ornate and spacious we have landed on our feet again, and even better Mehrnoosh has chosen to spend her day guiding us round the less accessible sights in Esfahan in her car, sights that we almost certainly wouldn't get to otherwise.
Well, they say 'Esfahan: half the world' and they may well be right. Despite the colossal size of the city it feels so wonderful here, the sun is shining, everyone is relaxed and happy, and everywhere we go seems to be studded with impossibly exquisite jewels of buildings. Our host lives in the Christian Armenian quarter so naturally we began from there, from the Vank Cathedral (of which it is an unfortunate quirk of speech that Persians tend to pronounce their Vs as Ws) which comes with a museum whose main purpose seems to be to publicise the genocide atrocity committed against Armenian people by the Turks, with whom relations are still strained to say the least almost a century later. Inside, the cathedral itself was very rich, covered in heavy, opulent paintings from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. A common theme seemed to numerous and imaginatively varied torture scenes featuring the hapless Saint Gregory as victim. After seeing so much art from other religions on this journey it does strike me that the Christians have an unhealthy obsession with pain and suffering, almost to the point of fetishism.
Next stop Ateshkadeh-ye Esfahan, a partially ruined yet surprisingly together Zoroastrian fire temple given that it is 1800 years old. Perched atop a hill west of Esfahan the views of they city and surrounding mountains were quite something. Being constantly overtaken in the scramble up and down steep, slippery and precarious slopes by old ladies in full chador and stiletto heels was not so life-affirming, however!
We reached the 'shaking minarets' of the tomb of Abu Abdollah in time for their 2 p.m. shake, where they were made to wobble a worrying amount as they towered above us by a small chap who thankfully did not collapse them entirely. A ride south took us to our host's family garden, which actually turned out to be a huge ornately carpeted bungalow set in extensive grounds where practically the whole family (Iranian-scale family, no small thing) had gathered for the Friday barbecue. Laughter and smiles abound, and deliciously tender chicken kebabs conspire against me as I struggle to remain objective about this fabulous city.
We walked off lunch/dinner in the evening among Esfahan's famous bridges that span the Zayandeh, most of which are sympathetically illuminated at night highlighting their numerous soft sandstone Persian arches as they stretch off across the doomed waters: this river gushes from the mountains in the west, through the town, and out to the desert where it just peters out; I had always thought that all rivers made it to the sea. My favourite bridges were the Kahaju and Chubi, both graceful and around 400 years old with very pretty adjoining tea houses. All very civilised, finished off with our first taste of the hugely popular Iranian Pizza which despite many negative reports was great. Returning to our own palace I am sure I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. What a first day!
14-Apr-07
Overslept, surprise surprise. I guess our planned walking tour through the historical city will take 2 days rather than one. I smile smugly to myself as I acknowledge that we have as much time as we choose to take, but the smile is wiped off some time later as the rain descends. Ah well, the bazaar it is!
The bazaar engulfed us and wouldn't let us go. It us the finest non-food market we have encountered and consists of around 10 kilometres of twisty covered alleyways - not to mention countless dead-end off-shoots and courtyards - joining 2 ends of the old city together. Perfect for tourists like us it is a blend of everyday Iranian shopping and Persian handicrafts: one minute wellies, the next golden antique jewellery. The unique craft of Esfahan though is the art of the miniaturist who takes a piece of camel bone or ancient paper and paints delicate scenes, usually of courtly romance, polo or landscapes, using a magnifying glass and the thinnest of brushes made from as little as 2 cat hairs to apply natural paints made from gold, lapis lazuli, umber and so on. Their skill and speed is really something to watch and the best pieces command thousands of dollars.
Even more than the miniatures I shamefully confess to falling foul of the worst of bourgeois pursuits: the Persian carpet. The carpet has been something of a constant presence on our journey along the silk roads, from China through Central Asia to here, and while I have always admired the skill of the carpet weaver it has taken until Iran to make their enchantments work their deadly stuff on me. I'm afraid that despite the different kinds of beauty in each country's own style the Persian carpet is superior. By a mile. And for me personally the Esfahan carpet is king with tis swirling organic floral curves and spirals, rich blues and Byzantine (excuse the geographically inappropriate adjective) central motifs. I now know something about silk/wool blends, single versus double knotting, regional differences in pattern and dye, and all the rest of the intricacies that ensnare me in their mysteries. I need a Persian carpet, my life is not complete without one, and I don't know why. This is a hateful curse.
The evening was another effervescent family affair as we learnt how to cook (and subsequently demolish) various Iranian specialities not least of which was an incredible aubergine dish consisting mostly of olive oil, garlic and salt. I an delighted, although my arteries aren't, that Ellen bagged the recipe. Being a dry country where alcohol is strictly prohibited, the population does of course drink like fish and the already perfect day was made complete courtesy of a couple of bottles of Absolut Citron, sending me to bed in a rapturous haze.
15-Apr-07
I woke early with crazy patterns from carpets, miniatures and ornate boxes swirling around in my head, teasing me awake until they were replaced by some of the more whimsical reminiscences from the Iran leg of our journey accompanied by random superlatives (this is not a country that understands the concept of mediocrity in any aspect of life):
- In Mashhad our host drove us around in a 40 year old Hillman Avenger of all things, the old man being something of an Anglophile who, not having been back since buying the car new, may well retain a 1960's impression of the place. Oh how he'd be disappointed.
- In Boshrooyeh I switched on the telly to be greeted by Harold Lloyd in some typically implausible situation. This was not quite as unexpected as the response it invoked from our host Hamid, a pretty retrained and conservative Muslim who piped up, "Oh yes, a cut above Keaton and Arbuckle but Chaplin is king of course!". Hoots.
- Iranian cuisine is best, no argument: kebabs that offer tender marinated meat rather than the cubes of crusty, almost pure fat preferred across Central Asia; lamb in a rich sauce of walnuts and pomegranates; unbelievably silky aubergine dishes; huge handfuls of fresh unadorned herbs that accompany every plate; sticky sweet dates with tangy yoghurt; lithe long rice suffused with saffron, every grain separated; flat breads to die for; endless heaps of sweet juicy oranges; improbably numerous varieties salty pistachios . The fizzy yoghurt drink is just plain wrong though.
- Iranians are the worst drivers in the world. Statistically the death toll is highest although the number do not convey the true horror of travelling along the roads of this country. I may never be scared of anything ever again; give me crazy Russians any day.
- Iranian hospitality is inversely proportional to their driving skill. Delightfully kind and universally helpful this is the real wonder of Persia, and rather ungratefully I find myself on occasion shying from it as it threatens to spill over suffocatingly into yet another hostage situation where we are forced to eat delicious morsels and visit (with no effort on our part) amazing places. But such open-hearted love of one's fellows is a valuable lesson for us westerners and may be the only commandment worth heeding (Jesus certainly thought so).
16-Apr-07
After another delicious breakfast Mahrnoosh helps us get our onward rail tickets first to Tehran and then on to Istanbul (starting the same day so we don't have to stop over in the huge grimy metropolis that may well have the worst traffic in the world), our last hurrah in Asia as we travel the length of Turkey to the edge of Europe over 3 days to reach something of a finishing post: Istanbul is the traditional end point of the silk roads as Xi'an is the beginning, although in reality some caravans continued on south to Damascus, or further west to Venice and even Paris. We leave Esfahan on Wednesday with something of a heavy heart which is of course lightened by the prospect of being reunited with friends and family. If I've learned anything at all on this trip its that the connections we make through love really are the only things that count for anything, and while I doubt I will ever feel settled I know that these links will always bring me back.
The rest of the day was spend lazily soaking up the atmosphere, strolling over ancient bridges and along the river. We stopped for tea in the Esfahan equivalent of the Ritz, the courtyard of Abbasi Hotel next to a tinkling fountain in the shade of tall, leafy plants listening to prayers being melodically called from Hussein Mosque next door. Bliss, finished off with some unarmed combat in the gold and silver bazaar where I honed my bargaining skills on unaffordable trinkets and baubles.
17-Apr-07
I really have no idea what we did today. Time disappeared amongst the minarets and dusty streets, and the only event of consequence I can recall was an amusing skit in the main bazaar. I was haggling over some small items of no consequence again, really just for the hell of it (it is a sport here). Discussions were protracted and involved walking away, gnashing teeth, sucking air, handing money over and snatching it back and generally hamming it up on both sides. Having finally, finally got the price I was aiming for I took my spoils and left with a growing feeling of guilt, so good was the hang-dog expression on the part of the seller. Having decided that I had now earned my next belt in Bartering, my soft-heartedness still left something to be desired as I painted myself the villain, imagining a destitute trader unable to feed his family, wolves at the door, the end of all things. I couldn't help it: I went back and handed over the extra note he had been pushing so hard for.
The guy practically fell off his chair with hysterical laughter. I think he may have ruptured something.
18-Apr-07
Another lost day wandering and making arrangements to meet up with Nic in Istanbul, which I'm really excited about: she's a top travel companion and it sounds like she's done a sterling job on the hotel front again. Saying goodbye to our magnificent host family was very sad, we will miss them a lot, mitigated a little of course by the farewell feast, including my all time favorite Iranian dish Fesenjun which consists of some kind of meat (chicken this time) in a rich walnut and pomegranate sauce. But eventually we did tear ourselves away, and despite having the only taxi driver in the world that does not know the way to his home town's train station we did somehow arrive, and before midnight I was sound asleep in a six-berth shared with a refreshingly unobtrusive family.
19-Apr-07
We pulled into Tehran at 5 in the morning, and stashed our bags bleary-eyed and irritable. As neither of us have a burning desire to be in this sprawling, noxious metropolis any longer than can be helped, especially after our week in the Finest City in Asia, we planned our transport so that we didn't have to spend a night here. This did mean getting in at just before dawn though, and such an ungodly hour called for immediate implementation Operation Genteel: a taxi to the best hotel in town where we could partake of that most civilised of things, the buffet breakfast, and recline on sumptuous sofas with the papers. I am pleased to report that we managed to pad it out for 3 hours, just in time for the opening of the National Carpet Museum next door (yes, my obsession continues).
Despite dire warnings about Tehran's lack of appeal and notorious traffic I thought it was quite vibrant with a buzz all of its own and certainly the roads were no worse than the rest of Iran = possibly even better than in holier-than-thou Mashhad (too many Insha'Allahs and not enough driving lessons). After braving the rather uninspiring metro system we finally passed through passport control and onto the Trans-Asia Express to Istanbul, a 70 hour epic that we began in style by having a very plush compartment all to ourselves: blissful solitude after so long with other people.
20-Apr-07
Joined by a couple at Tabriz, our train passed through landscapes as dramatic as any encountered so far: huge looming snow-capped mountains. bridges over steep ravines and through red gorges, tunnels galore at times as well as chasing sparkling rivers through emerald rolling hills. Certainly it was a contrast to the East's more austere beauty and it was really frustrating to see it all whizzing past us, inaccessible as we clock up the miles relentlessly/ Our curses were matched by vows to return and explore this stunning area again one day.
Immigration at both Iran and Turkey's checkpoints were straight forward albeit predictably tedious, and despite the ban to this website they did actually let us pass through unscathed so we could continue through Eastern Turkey to the shores of Lake Van, which we cross by ferry before boarding a new train for the rest of the journey/ Leaving a country as wonderful, bewildering and emotion-inducing as Iran is a wrench, it is such a special placein so many ways but the government really does suck and it has been a great relief to find out just how unpopular they are among their own people. They are almost as unrepresentative as the White House.
21-Apr-07
We arrived at the eastern shore of Lake Van 5 hours late and in the middle of a blizzard/ It was very unexpected indeed to find ourselves on a snow-white landscape, but we made up some time during the 7 hour crossing and finally got to the other side, and our beds on the new train, a little after a truly stunning dawn of swirling pinks, oranges and blues. This time we were sharing with an American couple which at least had the advantage of no language barrier - actually they were gret company. A lazy day spent staring out of the window, reading and general relaxation in preparation for the sensory onslaught that is Istanbul which seems to be known by everyone we speak to as City of Thieves. Should be interesting...