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Published: November 1st 2009
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Friday is the new Monday, at least in the Islamic world. Most shops and museums are closed, and the weather is a bit dull (but that may be a coincidence). I spent the day leisurely wandering Esfahan, south from the hostel to see the famous river, and the romantic bridges. I was a little surprised at seeing the river, or should I say not seeing it. Even though I had been warned that the river was dry the wide expanse of cracked dried mud was a strange sight. Every fifty metres or so someone was making a slow trek across the dusty dry bed, no doubt a local enjoying the novelty. The river normally runs beautifully clear, but has been recently diverted to towns further north while they build the Esfahan metro (not quite sure how that works...).
More English students to talk to in the gardens by the river. Ali and Reza speak really frankly about the strict moral laws forbidding them from even talking to women they are not closely related to, and the harsh penalties for, say, holding hands. Very frustrated young men. Reza sprinkles his sentences with word-perfect expressions from 'Friends'; "Can I BE any more
patient?" he asks in his Iran-NYC accent. I continue to walk further south to find the Armenian quarter of town, where the Christians are allowed certain luxuries, such as wine. I walk around the lovely mud-brick domes, but fail to rouse anyone to let me inside Vank Cathedral/museum.
Back to Imam Square - where I will return many times before leaving Iran! Imam Mosque is closed, well, closed to me: a never-ending stream of Islamic pilgrims pours out, but soldiers stop anyone else from going in. I walk halfway up the square and enter Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque - which proudly proclaims itself 'The Most Beautiful Mosque in the World'. It's quite small - no entrance halls or court yard, just straight up a curving hallway and under the dome. Nothing but a gracious airy space with a pinging acoustic. Somehow I resist the urge to sing. The tiles through the mosque are set perfectly, and the colours are rich. I sit and gaze at the indside of the dome, just as I did the day before at the outside. The handfull of other visitors wander in and out, perhaps taking a single picture, while I just sit and gape.
Back at the hostel a group of Dutch, cycling across the Middle East, meets up with some Belgians, motorcycling the same route, and swap stories. One of the cyclists was getting an extension to his visa from the local police, and had to leave his bag with them while he went into an internal office. He declared that he was carrying a can of pepper spray, for his self defence, and the police on duty on the front desk examined this with interest. When he came out of the office with his visa, the front desk area was cloudy with pepper spray, and the policemen were sitting there coughing and with eyes streaming. They had obviously tried out this self-defence tool, but were too ashamed to admit it and just put up with the stinging results.
That evening I ate at a popular restaurant that specialised in Iranian food. The family at the next table adivsed me what to eat, then invited me to eat with them at their home the following night. 'Just say yes in Iran' is the Lonely Planet catchphrase - so I did.
Saturday 24 October In the morning I visited the
Borh-e gholha - the 'Flowers Garden', and admired the - well, the flowers really. Oh, and the 'Permanent Cactus Exhibition'. The afternoon was spent leisurely exploring the Imam Mosque, back in Imam Square. It was a quiet, vast place. Impressive courtyard (though filled with a scaffolding-style tent structure) and halls on either side of the main dome. The light kept shifting as I moved around, highlighting different aspects. There were big open spaces in most of the walls which admitted shafts of light, and set the blue and yellow tiles off sparkling. People trod warily, because every noise echoed around dozens of times. A recorded call to prayer sounded while I was there, doubling the already spicy atmosphere. Piles of Persain carpets lay around every corner, rolled up ready for next Friday's surge of pilgrims.
I have dozens of pics of the inside of the mosque, but right now the computer in the internet cafe is not letting me upload more than a couple - stay tuned for more later! That evening I went to Reza and family's house for dinner (Reza is a popular name in Iran!). They, like so many Iranians, want to emigrate - Canada is
first on their list, followed by Australia. The future of their ten-year-old daughter is their main concern, and they don't want her growing up facing the same restrictions and pressures that they had and have. Reza, who met his wife when they were studying accountancy together, told me in the car on the way to their apartment about the time he leant his newspaper to a woman he had never met. She had wanted to see if her name appeared in the graduation list. The police saw him talking and passing the paper to her and arrested him for consorting with a woman not his wife or close family member. He said he was held overnight in the police cell, punched and kicked, and forced to sign a statement implicating him with some other crime. The police are aparently not as rigorous these days, but the strict moral laws still exist.
At the end of our evening Reza and his wife gave me three large boxes of local pistachio-inspired sweets - just the thing when you're travelling with a back pack already burstin at the seams! It was very kind of them, and I have been slowly working through
them (I don't think they will make it to my journey's end).
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