The Iranian countryside can be described, in one word, as sublime. Driving on a slightly disintegrated tw0-lane concrete stream, the arid desert quilt surrounded me. Far off in the distance the purple Alborz mountains flaunted its peaks and the rest of the landscape was a quilt of earth tones slightly reminiscent of a medley between the burnt-orange hues of Arizona and sparce groves of trees emulating a Florentine panorama.
Thick clouds nearly covered the sky taunting its below with an imminent rain, the air was thick with moisture, strikingly sharp rays of light breached through the pillowy crevaces in the sky, and a thin sheet of moisture metamorphed the highway to a mirror reflecting the white of the sun.
We were on the road that goes from Tehran to Hamadan, and our destination was Alisadr Cave, one of the largest water caves in the world. As we moved away from Tehran, the urban mega-oasis, the grasp of the Islamic Republic loosened and very small villages held rule in the area. The structures were simple cubicles holding conservative, self-sustaining villagers surviving with the ebbs and flows of their sheeps reproductive rate. Mehrdad, my cousin's bestfriend and the driver, pulled off to the side of the road so that I could take a picture of the shepherders.
"Naveed, If I tell you to run...run," my cousin half-jokingly, half-seriously told me as we neared a shepherd. He was young, maybe 15 years old, his hair was shaggy, his mustache was thin not because he had recently shaved but because puberty had just set in, and while shooting inquistive eyes in our direction he ran circles around his flock with stick in hand rounding up the sheep. With self-made moccassins, muddy brown draped pants that became wider towards his feet, and a white rough-cut shirt with rolled sleeves, he stood in place as we walked up to him and asked him for a picture. His posture became erect, he clasped his stick with both hands and bore it into the ground, and stared. I set my view on him, he was staring at the camera as if he was seeing one for the first time and clicked. We gave a thank-you, he nodded, and once-again he set out to round up the sheep.
On exiting Tehran there was a mandatory stop that doubled as a tollbooth and a protective buffer. After paying the ten cents necessary to get through we were asked to pull-over as a power-hungry soldier looked over every piece of documentation. He nodded us to go as if he'd done his job, but we, with nervous laughter, mocked him for not noticing the driver's home-made driver's lisence.
The conversations were endless. After sharing a mirthful verbal dual of curse words in our native tongues, my cousin began with the jokes. An Iranian joke is hard to translate because it is embedded with culture. The jokes are usually about a group of people, Turks and Rashts being the most popular to rip on.
"A Turkish man is walking across the street when a car swerves out of control and hits him. The Turk, bruised and battered a good six-feet away from the car gets up and yells, 'Aside from me, what if it was a person!"
"Three guys are getting ready to play a game of Spades. One of the three looks over to a Rashti man with a hand in his pocket and says, 'You playing?' The Rashti replies, 'No, I'm scratching it."
And the jokes go on and on. But story jokes are a minor form of obtaining laughter anywhere one goes. Usually it's statements in everday speech, and in Iran statements and sayings are used unique to the Farsi language.
We soon reached Alisadr cave, and prior to entering had a quick lunch. While eating, a boy approached us with a birdcage in his hand and neatly assorted cards in a box in his other hand. He asked us if we wanted our futures told, he opened the cage, a bird jumped out and nipped a random card out of the box. The boy gave it to us and it was a poem by Hafiz. What was initially a unique experience repeated itself, boy after boy, fifteen times before we left.
I noticed something when my cousin and I were buying the tickets.
In English was written: Ticket price - 150,000 Reals.
In Farsi was written: Ticket price - 37,000 Reals.
I'll leave it at that.
As we entered the cave the looming and lit up pictures of Khomeini and Khamenei were pinned up on the wall. After a bit of a walk moving through the thin passages of the grotto we reached a region where lines had formed and people were getting in boats tugged by a tourguide on a pedal boat. The tour guide gave us a line or two of fact and the rest was figured out by someone who scored high on his Rorschach test. This rock looks like the statue of liberty. This rock looks like a dove. Look! A two-headed lion. At one point the tour guide pointed out streaks of new stalagtites that spelled out Allah, in Arabic, on the ceiling. The cave was interesting and before being on our way I held a conversation with a group of Kurds.
We eventually got back in the cars and headed towards Qom.
Showing posts with label Tehran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tehran. Show all posts
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Tehran's Big Bazaar
Outside Tehran's metro entrance a police car, predominantly white with a green stripe going down it's door, was parked. Two soldiers stood next to a cold, rigid looking woman eyeing the women pouring down the staircase checking to see if they were adhereing to the dress code. My mother, my aunt, my cousin, my sister and I were walking across the street on our way to Tehran's Big Bazaar and my cousin pointed the police car - police van pair out not as a threat but a mere observation, and we, as a group, calmly dodged traffic, (By now I've gotten to the point where dodging cars can be done calmly.) and made our way to the metro entrance.
As we stepped on the sidewalk the women quickly whispered something to the soldier next to her and the man marched towards my sister and went to grab her wrist while the second soldier simultaneously opened the van door. My sister cowered behind my mother in fear and they kept asking her to please step into the van. My aunt and my cousin immediately told them that she is a foreigner, and my sister, in Farsi, stated that she's from America.
"But, she can speak Farsi," the soldier stupidly asked, as if the only people in the world who can speak Farsi are Iranian citizens. (There are more Farsi speakers outside of Iran than there are in Iran.)
My sister in English snapped that she could speak English too and the moral police let her off, but the experience had thoroughly frightened her.
We moved on into the metro, and after stepping into a co-ed section of the train we moved onto another station, switched to another metro, went five to six stops, and walked a good fourth of a mile until we turned into a narrow alley that led into the age-old structure.
The life of the bazaar is chaotic. In the background there is a steady stream of commentary being screamed about this-and-that product, either from the stationary stores selling their cheap jewlery, hookas, samovars, etc., from grown men selling loaves of bread or a half-hour shoe-shine, to eight year old boys tugging at your pant leg to tell you your future for a few tomans. This audio deluge pours from every corner of the open four story structure adding to the overwheling eye-candy of the spectacle.
Aside from the rickety, dilapidated appearance of the structure, the crumbled brick walls, the quickly assembled box-like stores built in the middle of the bazaar floor, the glitter and twinkle of stained glass gleaming off the surface of the samovars and hookas, the gaudy gold that seems to show up in every Iranians household, aside from the remarkable layout of the bazaar are the people.
From young to old, women to men, from a little boy carrying a bag larger than his body filling it up with sellable items, to the flabbily obese, gruff Iranian male with sweat sticking his shirt to his chest sipping tea and occasionally calling out a passer-by to buy his carpets, there are people of all kinds. As we walked through the masses we saw a drug addict leaning his forehead half-asleep, half-high against a wall touching his face with his hands. Such sights have mitigated since the Iranian government is going at great lenghts to cut back on drug addiction. In fact, the punishment for smoking crack isn't jail time, it's a lynching.
Tehran's Big Bazaar is a beacon of Iranian culture. In the trade of tomans for trinkets the vendor is not mechanically selling his product with the calculated give-and-take of a vending machine, but is charitably giving his product and graciously receiving currency for being so kind. I'm not saying that the vendors in the bazaar don't expect money, that is far, far from the truth, they do, but the beauty of the exchange is that it retains the self-righteous aspects of the culture that emphasize selfless giving while keeping in mind that a human being, be they American or Iranian, is eons away from being genuinely charitable.
As we stepped on the sidewalk the women quickly whispered something to the soldier next to her and the man marched towards my sister and went to grab her wrist while the second soldier simultaneously opened the van door. My sister cowered behind my mother in fear and they kept asking her to please step into the van. My aunt and my cousin immediately told them that she is a foreigner, and my sister, in Farsi, stated that she's from America.
"But, she can speak Farsi," the soldier stupidly asked, as if the only people in the world who can speak Farsi are Iranian citizens. (There are more Farsi speakers outside of Iran than there are in Iran.)
My sister in English snapped that she could speak English too and the moral police let her off, but the experience had thoroughly frightened her.
We moved on into the metro, and after stepping into a co-ed section of the train we moved onto another station, switched to another metro, went five to six stops, and walked a good fourth of a mile until we turned into a narrow alley that led into the age-old structure.
The life of the bazaar is chaotic. In the background there is a steady stream of commentary being screamed about this-and-that product, either from the stationary stores selling their cheap jewlery, hookas, samovars, etc., from grown men selling loaves of bread or a half-hour shoe-shine, to eight year old boys tugging at your pant leg to tell you your future for a few tomans. This audio deluge pours from every corner of the open four story structure adding to the overwheling eye-candy of the spectacle.
Aside from the rickety, dilapidated appearance of the structure, the crumbled brick walls, the quickly assembled box-like stores built in the middle of the bazaar floor, the glitter and twinkle of stained glass gleaming off the surface of the samovars and hookas, the gaudy gold that seems to show up in every Iranians household, aside from the remarkable layout of the bazaar are the people.
From young to old, women to men, from a little boy carrying a bag larger than his body filling it up with sellable items, to the flabbily obese, gruff Iranian male with sweat sticking his shirt to his chest sipping tea and occasionally calling out a passer-by to buy his carpets, there are people of all kinds. As we walked through the masses we saw a drug addict leaning his forehead half-asleep, half-high against a wall touching his face with his hands. Such sights have mitigated since the Iranian government is going at great lenghts to cut back on drug addiction. In fact, the punishment for smoking crack isn't jail time, it's a lynching.
Tehran's Big Bazaar is a beacon of Iranian culture. In the trade of tomans for trinkets the vendor is not mechanically selling his product with the calculated give-and-take of a vending machine, but is charitably giving his product and graciously receiving currency for being so kind. I'm not saying that the vendors in the bazaar don't expect money, that is far, far from the truth, they do, but the beauty of the exchange is that it retains the self-righteous aspects of the culture that emphasize selfless giving while keeping in mind that a human being, be they American or Iranian, is eons away from being genuinely charitable.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A First Day
I'm sitting here right now with my two cousins and they're completely enthralled by my iPhone, they are in complete awe of the technology and are slowly figuring out its every function. The two of them are extremely amiable, one just having got married, the other still in college, and the warm feeling is incredibly inviting.
But, it has taken 22 hours of travel to get to this apartment in Tehran.
The beginning of the trip consisted of the normal chaos of travel in SFO, baggage check, metal detectors, a monotone women's voice telling me that the terror alert is at Orange and that I should be looking around for anything suspicious, an open grenade, Osama bin Laden, my not- yet-grown mullah-esque beard. Nonetheless, SFO to Amsterdam was a smooth flight, but what I noticed about service in American airlines was the feeling that I was not a human being but just another thing. The drinks were rationed out as if we were facing a drought up tens of thousands of feet in the air, sneer looks were given when assistance was asked for, and behind every cheesy, quintessential stewardess smile lies something that made me, at least, feel slightly uncomfortable.
Once in Amsterdam we were immediately launched into the beginning of the emotional deluge. My mother met her brother, my uncle, that she hadn't seen for 32 years. Prior to landing we had viewed a picture of a thick black haired, desert-brown Iranian male with a mouthful of pearly whites, but the uncle we met in Amsterdam was nearly unrecognizable. Truly the years had weighed down his every feature, from his cheeks that were losing to gravity, his teeth eroded by unfiltered cigarettes and a personality-type that didn't advocated hygiene, he tried to dress nicely, but one can always notice when another tries to dress nice for one specific occasion, but other than that wedding, funeral, reunion they're aloof. But he had traveled the world, was a polyglot with an arsenal of ten languages, and was enjoying himself.
My mother and him talked for the five hours of delay we had, and after an awkward goodbye, a forced European double-kiss that had obviously lost its natural, reflexive motion, we slowly went to the point of no return as he saw us away.
When we got on the airline to Iran the demeanor changed drastically, the Islamic Republic could be felt looming above, but the uncomfort was immediately swept away. When we first took our seats on the airplane instead of hearing a mechanical voice welcoming us to the airlines, we heard the voice of I'm not sure who telling us that God was watching over the flight and that they wished us a safe trip. After the plane was in flight the stewardesses were extremely hospitable, as if each passenger was their guest, instead of giving a cold look when getting a request they gladly finished the task with a smile, the food was saffron rice and chicken, the man serving me offered me a whole can of Pepsi and offered me more if I got thirsty, during the meal the same man walked down the aisle with a tray full of bread for anybody to grab, they held conversations with the passengers, joked, jabbed, jested and created a very comfortable atmosphere, even though the plane was an older model and a bit more rickety than the brand new Boeing 747 we took on our long flight to Amsterdam.
My sister and my mother quickly clad theimselves in the shawls, covering their hair, they both looked foreign by the cacophonic clash of styles that they wore, their shawls were old-fashioned and off colored with the rest of their outfits.
When we entered the ariport the vibe was a little tense, especially on passport check. A tour group of Saudi Arabians in matching white coverings were in front of us as well as a harem of women in black abayas that covered their everything. We eventually made it through, got our luggage and finally met the family in an uproar of excitement, hellos and how-are-yous. The Iranian welcome is great, and after getting our luggage in the cars and seating situated we were on the Tehran roads.
Tehran's roads could be called chaotic, but the word wouldn't come close to defining them. Cars are unruly, serving from one lane to the other, making lanes of their own, pedestrians J-Walking with the will of what seems like a suicide, voices yelling, antiquated car horns beeping, seat belts are a thing of the future and needn't be worn, but we eventually made it home.
After a quick chat with the family we eventually relaxed, and are now getting ready for bed. All in all, a quick analysis of Iran can come with a comparison of its Airlines with Western airlines, in the latter I was a customer, in the former I was a guest. And one thing Iranians always make sure to do is to make sure their guests enjoy their stay.
But, it has taken 22 hours of travel to get to this apartment in Tehran.
The beginning of the trip consisted of the normal chaos of travel in SFO, baggage check, metal detectors, a monotone women's voice telling me that the terror alert is at Orange and that I should be looking around for anything suspicious, an open grenade, Osama bin Laden, my not- yet-grown mullah-esque beard. Nonetheless, SFO to Amsterdam was a smooth flight, but what I noticed about service in American airlines was the feeling that I was not a human being but just another thing. The drinks were rationed out as if we were facing a drought up tens of thousands of feet in the air, sneer looks were given when assistance was asked for, and behind every cheesy, quintessential stewardess smile lies something that made me, at least, feel slightly uncomfortable.
Once in Amsterdam we were immediately launched into the beginning of the emotional deluge. My mother met her brother, my uncle, that she hadn't seen for 32 years. Prior to landing we had viewed a picture of a thick black haired, desert-brown Iranian male with a mouthful of pearly whites, but the uncle we met in Amsterdam was nearly unrecognizable. Truly the years had weighed down his every feature, from his cheeks that were losing to gravity, his teeth eroded by unfiltered cigarettes and a personality-type that didn't advocated hygiene, he tried to dress nicely, but one can always notice when another tries to dress nice for one specific occasion, but other than that wedding, funeral, reunion they're aloof. But he had traveled the world, was a polyglot with an arsenal of ten languages, and was enjoying himself.
My mother and him talked for the five hours of delay we had, and after an awkward goodbye, a forced European double-kiss that had obviously lost its natural, reflexive motion, we slowly went to the point of no return as he saw us away.
When we got on the airline to Iran the demeanor changed drastically, the Islamic Republic could be felt looming above, but the uncomfort was immediately swept away. When we first took our seats on the airplane instead of hearing a mechanical voice welcoming us to the airlines, we heard the voice of I'm not sure who telling us that God was watching over the flight and that they wished us a safe trip. After the plane was in flight the stewardesses were extremely hospitable, as if each passenger was their guest, instead of giving a cold look when getting a request they gladly finished the task with a smile, the food was saffron rice and chicken, the man serving me offered me a whole can of Pepsi and offered me more if I got thirsty, during the meal the same man walked down the aisle with a tray full of bread for anybody to grab, they held conversations with the passengers, joked, jabbed, jested and created a very comfortable atmosphere, even though the plane was an older model and a bit more rickety than the brand new Boeing 747 we took on our long flight to Amsterdam.
My sister and my mother quickly clad theimselves in the shawls, covering their hair, they both looked foreign by the cacophonic clash of styles that they wore, their shawls were old-fashioned and off colored with the rest of their outfits.
When we entered the ariport the vibe was a little tense, especially on passport check. A tour group of Saudi Arabians in matching white coverings were in front of us as well as a harem of women in black abayas that covered their everything. We eventually made it through, got our luggage and finally met the family in an uproar of excitement, hellos and how-are-yous. The Iranian welcome is great, and after getting our luggage in the cars and seating situated we were on the Tehran roads.
Tehran's roads could be called chaotic, but the word wouldn't come close to defining them. Cars are unruly, serving from one lane to the other, making lanes of their own, pedestrians J-Walking with the will of what seems like a suicide, voices yelling, antiquated car horns beeping, seat belts are a thing of the future and needn't be worn, but we eventually made it home.
After a quick chat with the family we eventually relaxed, and are now getting ready for bed. All in all, a quick analysis of Iran can come with a comparison of its Airlines with Western airlines, in the latter I was a customer, in the former I was a guest. And one thing Iranians always make sure to do is to make sure their guests enjoy their stay.
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