Isfahan, Iran

Chapter 10 - Hand to Mouth to India

I came into Teheran in the early morning, only 30 days after leaving England but it seemed that many months of experience had passed in the meantime. I booked a bus ticket to Isfahan straight away. Public transport is amazingly cheap in oil-rich Iran and I had no inclination to hang around in this notoriously-polluted city.

I made friends with a fat, smiling man who ran the find-out-your-weight machine and he gave me some of his lunch: a nutty paste sandwich, complete with the ubiquitious soft drink in Iran, called Zam-Zam-an irreverent reference to the Zim-Zim holy spring waters at Mecca. He told me of his happy visit to England, where he had fully utilised the cultural experience by playing the fruit machines in the arcades. Gambling is, of course, forbidden in Iran, as the Qur'an condemns the practice of trying to get something for nothing (though you normally get nothing for something). But as my friend claimed he'd had a map of the symbols on each reel, I suppose it was technically more fraud than gambling, standing there all day using the nudges to win jackpot after jackpot.

Nobody had heard of hitching in Iran and there appeared to be no word for it in their language, Farsi. The entire 3000km length of the country could be crossed for about 15 dollars on a bus and so I don't suppose many people bothered standing around in deserts to get a free lift. I was feeling too lazy to find the motorway just then and I was busy assimilating the new vibes that Iran presented. Every woman in sight had her head covered with some kind of wrapped scarf, many of them wearing the full-length black chador that kept them nice and warm during the 40c. summer months.

The average skin pigment was only slightly dark and so I passed easily enough as an Irani. The men cut around in shirts and trousers, looking decidedly more busy than me. As I came closer to Asia, mats on the street sold biscuits or newspapers but the high-rise buildings lurked even here. I boarded the bus with a loaf of bread and 300 Toman in my pocket-about half a dollar. It was good to be in shallow financial waters again. I couldn't feel much like a renunciate with a bulging wallet! I also hoped that my poverty might bring me closer to the Iranis, throwing myself upon their mercy as it were.

I sat up front with the driver and played some blues harp for him, while he plied me with cups of chai and with handfuls of seeds that take about thirteen years of practice to get the dexterity needed to open the shell. He insisted that I was completely crazy and after the 6 hour journey, he dropped me off in Isfahan with a parting present of another 300 toman so that I could afford the next bus.

Everywhere there seemed to be huge pictures of the previous two Ayatollahs and less frequently, of the new president. Big Brother is watching you? The sun was setting and all was magic as I strolled through the streets of Isfahan: still today the bejewelled prize of Persia, famous through the ages for its spectacular architectural tributes to heaven. It was too dark to really see anything much but I felt moved anyhow.

I passed a carpet shop and a young guy with clear English invited me to come in. Pretty soon, I was spinning stories about travelling with all the strength and glory of Allah behind me, whilst they plied me with eggs and bread.

"Many people talk about 'Allah providing'," They told me, "but you actually mean it!"

Then they led me down the lane that brought us to the Ayatollah Khomeni Square that they claimed to be the largest public square in the world. Closed shops bordered the stone-paved terraces that perimetered the area and in the middle were large lawns, with ponds and fountains in the centre and hundreds of families making picnics on the grass. Horse-driven wagons galloped up and down the terraces, where youths played five-a-side football with a tiny ball and hockey-size goalnets.

One of the enthusiastic carpet-lads took me to find a family who could give me dinner and watch over me as I slept on the ground. As we walked around, we met an off-duty policeman who wanted to find me a job in a local factory. I declined with the excuse of bad health.

After a while, we found a visiting family from Teheran and I was invited to sit on their laid-out picnic mats. They served up an impressive array of rice, meat dishes and soup and though i was still full from the eggs and bread i had to find room just so as not to cause offence. A common dilemma for visitors in Iran. I took out my sleeping bag to lay it out on the stone tiles and saw the son of the carpet shop owner running down to meet me. He insisted that he would sleep outside also, to ensure my safety on my first night in his city.

His name was Ijaz and he looked like a second-hand car salesman from Liverpool, who had undoubtedly spent long stretches on his life both behind bars and sitting on stools in front of them. Actually, he was an exceptionally nice guy but his scarred and battered face with suspicious semi-crossed eyes and bushy eyebrows suggested something far more devious and scheming. It was quite comical to watch his short figure ambling around the Square; dressed up in a smart grey suit. His elegance lasted from the feet up to the neck where his head took over and exaggerated the whole dodgy effect. He looked like a defendant in court wearing smart clothes for the first time.

He spent his days on the lookout for the trickle of tourists that dared to brave the reputation of his country. He accosted them with a friendly greeting in English or German and they'd immediately shrink back in horror. If he was lucky, his charm would overcome their doubts and they'd allow him to drag them off to see Persia's finest carpets. Even then, Ijaz told me, suspicions could still arise. He had taken a man from Taiwan back to the shop but the tourist became paranoid as they walked around to the side entrance-the front being closed in observance of the holy day of Friday.

"This is no shop! Who are you?" The Taiwani had suddenly cried with flaring eyes.

"Oh yes, this is my father's shop and-"

"No! No! Get away from me! I know Tai Kwon-do!" His customer had shouted in terror, throwing up his hands into a chop stick stance.

We settled down to sleep and I couldn't help from grinning as I heard Ijaz's teeth chattering. I had to lend him my coat to keep him warm.

Amid dreams, I heard the call of the morning prayer before dawn, accompanied by a fanfare of horns and trumpets-at least, I think I heard that and then a while later:

"And behold! Morning's stone dropped into the bowl of night, Has put the session of stars to flight, And the sun has looped sultan's turret In a single golden noose of light" (Omar Khayyam)

The first rays of day climed the horizon and struck the dizzy minaret towers of the huge blue mosque that command the Square and which draw tens of thousands of touristic faithful each year to pray within this amazing structure.

Bleary-eyed and dazed, Ijaz and I faced each other like a pair of old tramps and exchanged impressions of the cold and discomfort. I wondered if he now regretted his noble gesture and i tried to imagine soemone in Europe doing the same for some vagabond who wandered in from god knows where.

We took off for some breakfast of bean stew and nan bread, courtesy of Ijaz and then I washed up at the local Hamam-here just a functional unit where a person can shower and wash in privacy; not the luxury variety of the Middle Eastern kind, which are equipped with steam rooms, dry rooms, icy baths, herbal fragrance and all of the rest. Staying clean has always been close to the hearts of Islamic people and it has always been a source of pride against the Christian infidels, who have only really taken to bathing regularly in the last fifty years. Most of the world still considers us to be a filthy people.

Ritual Islam requires all believers to wash their extremities before worship and there has never been any separation of rank in the washroom or in the prayer hall. This puts to shame our own history, according to George Orwell, working class estates of England in the 1930's averaged only one bathroom and toilet for every fifty houses.

There was never really any consciousness of cleanliness in the West, until the governments eventually forced hygiene on a reluctant public who would have preferred to keep their cess pits adjacent to their water supply. Islam, however, has always had quite explicit guidelines about health from the commandments in the Qur'an and by the recorded practices of the prophet, Muhammed, in what amounts to a very large game of ‘Muhammed says’.

Muhammed says don't eat with your left hand-very good.

Muhammed says suck your fingertips after a meal-well done.

Write a book speculating about the depravity of the Prophet's family… Wrong, Salman Rushdie! You're out!

So, looking a lot more Islamic, I returned to the main square and sat on the cool blue tiles by the grand blue mosque that provided welcome shade at the South end. I had to sit outside as they charged foreigners fifteen times more to enter than for Iranis-it still wasn't much but it was more than I had.

Anyway, I was quite content to stare at the patterns covering the front side in what must be the crystallisation of Islamic artistic excellence. One of the least remembered ten commandments that the christian are always on about is that we shalt not make any likeness of any form of the heavens above, the earth below and hell beneath the earth. That rules our pornography for a start. While this may only have been a warning against idolatry, for thirteen centuries the creativity of Islamic artists has been forced to internalise in the innocence of perfect symmetry, finding new dimensions of expression in patterns denied of any identifiable imagery.

It all seemed very reminiscent of the visions of my psychedelic past and I was so startled to see the pictures behind my eyelids staring back at me from 100 foot tall minarets. I soon fell into a trance and lay down to join the mass drowsiness that falls upon Iran in the middle of the day. The Square became quiet at this time as all of the shopkeepers closed up for lunch. It was hard to imagine this place full of screaming Muslims in the frenzied demonstrations of the '79 Revolution.

In the evening, I met a slightly gawky but intelligent Belgian called Garick. We gratefully exchanged experiences of fitting in with Iran's social mesh-especially concerning conduct towards women. The black chadors succeeded in depersonalising the females, so that we couldn't tell much about their appearance and age. Instead it made them into a kind of street hazard that we dreaded colliding with lest our eyes be plucked from us in accord with Islamic justice.

Garick told me that he had recurrent nightmares of tripping on a paving stone and grabbing out with his hands as he fell-straight on to the bosom of a young Irani virgin! Surely a shotgun wedding scenario.

It seemed so incongruous that although these measures were taken to prevent the leering at women in public yet we were often asked in conversation how we liked the Irani girls! In reality, we did our utmost to avoid any kind of contact with women at all. It seemed that even meeting the eyes of a woman for too long would be an implicit statement of intent or betrothal. For all of that, the elusive charm of the fairer sex could not be completely hidden and even the flash of a dark pair of eyes could leave the impression echoing around in my fantasies for days afterwards.

In the evening we joined the local guys playing football on the tiles, the national sporting obsession and we embarrassed ourselves dashing and slipping about in sweaty clothes and red faces. Eventually I had to collapse by the side and save some face by giving a small blues concert.

I passed a few happy days in Isfahan, recovering after the 35 hours of bussing from the middle of Turkey. It was the first time I'd stayed put for more than a day in the three weeks since leaving Budapest. I'd wake in the mornings to the prayer calls and shortly after, I'd hear the sound of water gushing onto the tiles. I'd have to rouse myself to make way for the hosemen to clean the area. They patiently waited with big grins while I gathered up all my belongings.

I hung about exchanging English lessons for meals with the many students who came down to the Square to meet tourists. I also made friends in the various carpet shops to extend my network of hospitality and keep hunger at bay. When no kebab-bearing benefactor materialised I'd buy some slices of flat bread and a bag of fresh dates. I could eat six such meals for a dollar.

I made yoga and performed inadvertent clarinet performances, as crowds of entertainment-starved people would gather whenever I took the time to practise. Many forms of music and all kinds of dancing were banned in Iran,. It was thought to be the clear preliminary to the meeting of the sexes and the 'inevitable' illicit copulation that would follow. For these crazy reasons, I was always a little shy to play but one and all would urge me on. Their spirit of fun was alive and kicking beneath the layers of religious monotony.

Intelligent conversation could easily be found and the Iranis carried themselves with a kind of dignity that i had to admire. Begging was rarely seen and the only observable life focused around business enterprise, the families that walked around together, or the young men who milled around dreaming of a life of fulfillment in either marriage or:

"How is it possible for me to go to your country?" I was forever asked all across Turkey and Iran. It was depressing to meet so many people who were dissatisfied with where they were and they could not understand why I should want to leave the idyll of England. Across the Muslim world and India, it's widely assumed that everyone drives sports cars and that the women are just waiting in the streets to make love to you. On the more practical side these people crave an honest police force, a free hospital service and the kinds of modern technology like heated showers and washing machines that are hard to find in the poorer countries. Iran wasn't that poor but its people were very quick to believe that all their problems would dissolve if they only lived in one of the more-developed states of Europe.

I wasn't much of an ambassador for England. I confused all of their expectations and images by ranting on and on about the drudge of everyday life in the West. I told them how we too have people living in the streets and children on drugs; how countrie in Europe have lost their identitynd everyone lives lonely, selfish lives. I'm not really that down on where I come from but I felt obliged to offer a counter to the hopeful naivete of their dreams. What a misery-guts. But weirdly, when arguing with an orthodox Muslim, I always seemed to be holding up England as a model of personal and social freedom-something I never expected to do.

Whilst chatting to a student of English, I was reminded that this area of the world was one of the traditional centres of Sufism. It occurred to me that it would be cool to meet these mystics in person, having been a reader of Sufi poetry and stories for years. A Professor I knew told me I'd have to go to Kurdistan to see the Sufis. He related how he'd been in that area and had personally witnessed a devotee's head being decapitated, placed on a table and then reattached without any injury or loss of life.This sounded quite funky and before I could even make any plans to leave, I met a young guy whose father drove buses to Sonedad, the capital of Kurdistan in West Iran.

In a whirlwind of events, I was whipped off to this young man's house for the night. In the morning I acquired a 4 week extension on my visa by telling the immigration officer how much i wanted to study Islam - how could he say no? By the evening, I was on an evening bus going West, an address in my hand of some of the professor's old friends.

Fate had picked me up again and I settled down for another 12 hours in the cocoon shell of an Iranian bus. The land glowed outside in the sunset and a smoky veil lay on the contours of hills asleep on the horizon, resembling Arabic script or large reclining beasts. If one ignored the plastic rubbish that blew around as copiously as the tufts of bush, then it was all quite beautiful.