Esfahan

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Day 25. I woke up in Esfahan (or sometimes transliterated as Isfahan) in Iran. My day was going to be spent on a self-guided walking tour, courtesy of Lonely Planet, culminating with my entrance into Imam Square - the second largest square in the world, and apparently one of the most beautiful. Usual breakfast of boiled egg, bread and cheese, and a cursory glace at the many fooball-themed clothes shops near the hostel - none of which sold the 'Iran' shirt I hoped to buy for my nephews: sign of an ambivelent nationalism?

The first part of the tour was through the winding, ancient grand bazar. Once I found the entrance, which was behind a big pile of old cardboard boxes and an rusty abandoned taxi, I plunged into what I hoped to be an exciting - even mystical - experience to involve all the senses and to transport me to the heart Middle East I have dreamed about: heady spices, quarter-tone singing, carpets dyed in colours unseen by Wetsern eyes, from walnut and pistachio nut skin, pomegranate seeds and camel eyelashes. What I found was an exaust-filled race track for a hundred small motorcycles, flying around blind corners dodging - mostly successfully - weary looking purveyors of plastic sandles and Nike back packs. I sought refuge in the frequent verdant courtyards that regularly appeared off to one side; some of which had been where camels trains would have stopped for the night, others held small brightly coloured mosques.

I sat in one of the green courtyards for a while, enjoying the heat of the sun, but also the coolness from the fountain. I thought I was alone, but an oldish man in a suit approached and pointed to some stairs, encouraging me to climb. I had heard that there were some fine city views from above the bazar, so assumed I was about to see one. He led me up a tiny winding staircase, and unlocked a room that looked like a very small library. I removed my shoes, as is the custom for very small libraries in most places abroad, and walked over to the glass doors that opened onto a tiny balcony. Not much of a view, but a refreshing spread of garden and good angle to view the fountain. My host gestured me to sit, and so we sat, not sharing a language, not sharing knowledge of why we were there. After a while I rose and exhausted my Persian vocab in thanking him - and added the very appreciated hand on heart and slightly bowed and tilted head. As I made my way across the courtyard, to rejoin the Iran moto-rally, he called me back and presented me with a can of peach nectar and a small chocolate cake, with his hand on heart, and bowed and tilted head. Very kind - but ... why?

Things were slightly quieter in the bazar; maybe the pre-lunch rush wash coming to an end. As I walked deeper into maze, which winds around for a couple of miles linking Jameh mosque with Imam Square, the shops and stalls increased their integrity (in my eyes), the air cleared, and more Iranian smiles appeared. The atmophere was now peppered with "Hello!", "Howareyou!", and "Whereareyoufrom!" It was as if I had successfully passed through the trial-by-motorbike to allow me to see the real bazar, and was welcomed as a worthy traveller. The dim light and quiany stores came to an end where a new road was being built, unfortunately right through the old bazar. Although the clearing for the road looked complete, there didn't seem to much current progress, and taxis, which appear everywhere in Iran, had managed to turn the rough and dusty cleared space into a road.

Avoiding getting shoved into a taxi by overeager drivers, I managed to cross this new road and re-enter the bazar, coming soon to Jameh Mosque. I paid my 500 toman (50 cents) and entered into the dark and silent entrance hall. It was a forest of ancient pillars, carved with Persian and older scripts, and the eye was drawn continually up to elaborate capitals or little glazed holes in the ceiling. A retired teacher of English appeared out of nowhere and offered to guide me around. Unfortunately most of his knowledge seemed to come from the same guidebook I held in my hand, and the rest I knew from my experience of the architecture of old churches and cathedrals. Two huge domes dominated either end of the mosque complex, and from the courtyard there was an impressive array of blue tiles, sleeping local men and German tourists.

Back on the tour, now the return leg of the bazar to enter Imam Square, which I was looking forward to as one of the highlights of my trip. I paused to see the bird market - quail, chickens and rabbits (honorary birds), and laughed when a young man ran passed me, shouting, "Hello! I'm going to buy a chicken!" Impressively tall and thin 'Ali's Minaret', tetering above the bazar. I lost my confidence in navigating the maze of alleys in the bazar, and stopped every few metres to ask directions. One man, astride a motorbike, whom I asked spoke excellent English, and offered to take me to his brother's carpet shop. I declined, but took his card, and promised to visit his friend who has a carpet shop in in Surry Hills, Sydney.

My first impressions of Imam Square were a little disappointing - there was traffic running through it for one thing, albeit only across the top end. And there were shops all aroung the edges. After getting to know it a little better, after only three minutes gazing around, I began to appreciate it more. Down the far end was the dazzling Imam Mosque, which I won't even try to describe in words - look at the pics. On the side a simlarly beautiful smaller mosque, the Sheikh Lotfollah. And in the centre parallel rows of crossing fountain jets gave the whole place a priviledged air.

I went up the stairs near the grand entrance to the square, and had tea and cakes on a balcony overlooking the scene. Now it was really looking beautiful. I spoke to a bearded young man also enjoying the view and some tea. He, Mohammed, said he had just qualified as a medical doctor, and was preparing for a long shift by relaxing on the balcony. He said his brother was a prominent psychologist in Tehran, and offered to introduce me to the local university faculty of psychology. Oh, and then he said his father owned a carpet shop nearby, and perhaps I would like to see and buy some rugs? I didn't see the faculty or his father's carpet shop, but he introduced me to an very old man who proudly showed his Unesco certificate for producing extra-special hand-printed table cloths and scarves. He looked very picturesque, and knew it, for as I pulled out my camera he imediately adopted the pose he must have put on a dozen times a day for the last few decades, fist poised above a wooden print block. The Germans from Jameh Mosque were not far behind me, so I imagine he held that pose for quite some time after I left.

Walking through the square to the far end I passed a group of young national-service soldiers posing for photos with tourists - so far removed from the media blackout of military personel in Turkey. Horse-and-cart rides around the square, with jingly bells. More random "Hello"s. I was bailed up by a group of students of English and their teacher, who were going to have me help them with their conversational English whether I wanted to help or not. Teacher: "Alright, who has question?" My knowledge of the subtleties of English like the future imperfect subjunctive aorist is a trifle lacking, and they were well up on their technical grammar, so I hope I didn't confuse them. Even their knowledge of colloquial phrasology was impressive - now is it Hungry like the wolf, or Hungry like a wolf? Oh yes, Duran Duran to the rescue. We spoke for ages, each of the eight students coming up with a tricky question. At the end I shook each of their hands, and the teacher distinguished himself by saying, obviously to impress his students, "I love you!"

I wandered over to one of the side arcades of very tasteful shops, hoping to find a postoffice, and was followed by two young Esfahani woman, whoh had been watching the English lesson. They were studying IT at Esfahan Uni, and were both conservatively dressed, with the black wrap-around headscarf demanded of students. Nasim was gorgeous: dark Iranian eyes, just-right nose and stunning smile. Neda was remarkable for the prominent bandage she wore across her nose - obviously one more of the Iranian devotees of plastic surgery. Every street you walk down in a city in Iran you see them, women and men of all ages. Apparently it costs hundreds rather than thousands of dollars, and the results seem to be flawless. I asked Neda if she chose her nose to look like Nasim's, but they pretended not to understand me. It turned out that Nasim's father was working in London, and that he had lived briefly in Norwich (of all places). They helped me to find a bookshop that had a Persian phrase book, and we promised to meet up one day in Norwich.

I returned to the hostel, to join in pizza-eating with some travellers from the train from Istanbul that seemed to be gathering. One man, a retired Turkish judge, was planning his trip meticulously, and explaining his next few moves in some detail. But then his mind seemed to go blank, and he amused us all by asking, "Where am I going tomorrow?"

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Comments

[mary hutcherson]

Persian market and All Saints Day
I have thoroughly enjoyed your account of travels, and this one dealing with your time in Isfahan (one of my rugs is an Isfahan) was most interesting. The pictures of the mosques with that gorgeous blue tile decoration are great, and I have especially liked your accounts of the various people you have met. What a terrible shame that people in high places cannot interact with such friendliness as those who just happen to meet in some place like a Persian marketplace. Today is All Saints Day and we had a lot of music at First Methodist this morning when we call the names of members who have died in the past year -- a very good setting of the 23rd Psalm (I think you were around when we began rehearsing it), a spiritual "Give Me Jesus," and communion music that included your "Holy, Holy, Holy" and "Amen," which I really do like. A very good service. From here on to the end of the year we will be immersed in Christmas music, some of which I like and some -- well, not so much. I hope your travels continue well, and I look forward to your reports. mary hutcherson