The ghost ship of Kish Island, Iran

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I was loving Kish Island. Iran really was the friendliest country I'd ever been to in my travels. With my guide, Rahim, our next stop was the ruins of a town called Harireh, most probably destroyed in an earthquake 800 years previously, though nobody actually knows whether that is true or not. Located on the northern coast of the island, I was surprised to find a few Filipino tourists wandering the site. Rahim explained that their visa run tour usually included a free excursion, and many chose Harireh because it was free to enter.

Harireh

It was most likely free because there wasn’t much there: just piles of rubble, a few reconstructed walls showing the layout of the old houses, and a few arches. But what was worth it was the view. We stood on the edge of a perilous cliff and gazed out. In front of me was an expanse of crystal clear azure ocean, unbroken except for a few ships and an indistinct outline of brown: the coast of the mainland, just over ten miles away. Kish Island had one of the best coastlines in the Gulf region, and to my right, on the tip of a headland, developers were taking full advantage of it. A new hotel complex looked like it was nearing completion.

The sound of gentle waves was shattered by a whirring engine. Both Rahim and I looked up to see a gyrocopter, its flimsy rotor blades and toboggan-like body zipping through the air about a hundred feet above our heads. The passenger waved and so we waved back. Then it was out over the sea, like an oversized wasp. Further along the beach was a paraglider. Kish Island was awash with water sports and daredevil activities.

As we walked towards a small cafe that catered to the site visitors, a couple of young Filipino men were walking in the opposite direction. Rahim stopped to chat to them. He found out their names (Rodel and Albert), where they were from (Manila) and what they did in Dubai (waiters at a hotel). They asked Rahim what there was to see at the ruins, and Rahim told me what he’d told me, i.e. that the view was the main draw. Rodel, a rotund man with a round said, “Do you know, in Dubai, the locals never stop to talk to us.” Albert nodded in accord. “They treat us like second class citizens. It’s different here. Iran treats us like people. Everyone is open and friendly.”

Chris de Burgh and the beautiful cock

The cafe was almost full, but Rahim told me to sit down while he bought some refreshments. They turned out to be cans of non-alcoholic beer. While we toasted ourselves, my phone vibrated. It was a Whatsapp message from Rahim’s brother. He was asking me what my favourite rock group were. I replied with Queen. His favourite artist was ageing crooner, Chris de Burgh, and he'd attached a photo of the singer so I would be in do doubt about who he meant. I showed the photo to Rahim who nodded. “My brother loves Chris de Burgh. I do, too. He is very popular in Iran. One day, I would love to see him perform.”

“Really?” I could hardly credit it. In the UK, Chris de Burgh was largely forgotten. While Rahim made a phone call, presumably to work, another message arrived with an accompanying photo. I needed to scroll down but stopped: the message was shocking enough. It read: My beautiful cock!

I involuntarily covered my phone’s screen before Rahim noticed it. Where the hell had that come from? From Chris de Burgh to an indecent proposal in one message. While Rahim took a hearty swig from his can, I surreptitiously scrolled down and laughed. Mehdi had send a photo of himself holding a chicken. Another message popped up to accompany the first: And my gorgeous partridge.

The best sculpture on Kish

As we whizzed along a coastal road towards the Greek Ship, I noticed a gigantic Iranian flag swaying limply from an equally massive flagpole. But there was something else, too: a strikingly tall sculpture. I asked Rahim if we could see it and he happily obliged. The sculpture turned out to be one of the most beautiful I’d seen in all my travels. It depicted a grey winged humanoid holding a lantern in front of it. The angular sculpture towered above me like an angel, or a monster, I couldn’t work out which. Its gaunt stone face stared out across the sea, rather like a human-form lighthouse.

“What is it?” I asked, staring up at the wonder. If there had been a gift shop selling small representations of the statue, I would have bought one for sure. Kish Island were missing a trick, I felt.

Rahim shrugged. “I’m not sure. But it’s fairly new, I think. To be honest, I don’t know anything about it. But come, my friend. We must get to the Greek ship before I return you to the airport.”

The Greek Ship

On a hot July day in 1966, just four days before England would beat Germany in the World Cup Final, a few observant residents of Kish Island watched a large cargo ship approach the coastline. Instead of veering away from the island, as ships usually did, this one carried on towards the shore, even though the Captain surely knew about the shallows and sandbanks. As the people of Kish watched, the ship creaked to a watery halt, some seventy metres from the coast. The ship, the Greek-owned Khoula F, was now stuck, instead of on a journey to Athens. Despite the best efforts of tugs and then salvage teams, the ship could not be moved, and has remained in place ever since.

A park had grown up around this most prime of tourist attractions. It featured benches, parasols, randomly located boulders and a couple of enterprising men offering camel rides. As well as all this, there were a few small statues, a large nautically themed wooden wheel and even a few professional photographers waiting in the wings. A couple of kids were playing on a wooden climbing frame meant to look like a ship.

Unlike everywhere else in Kish, with the exception perhaps of the shopping malls, the Greek Ship had drawn a crowd. Many of the people wandering around or sitting facing the sea looked liked locals; the women headscarved and covered. One young woman maneuvered herself to a rocky outcrop, tottering on high heels until she found a suitable perch. She pouted while her father took a photo. Behind her was the ship.

Even though its hull was rusted and full of holes, stained in every shade of brown and orange, and even though its deck was ruptured and falling to pieces in places, the Greek Ship was still a magnificent sight to behold. It was so big for a start. And it looked like needed to be in a graveyard, especially with its cross-like metal masts standing sentinel above the rotting and gigantic hulk, but it wasn’t – it was just there, in front of me, sitting in the tropical waters of the Arabian Gulf. It was easily the best thing I’d seen on Kish and told Rahim this.

He nodded. “I’m pleased you like it. Most people who see it agree that it is the best thing on Kish, though to me, it’s just a broken ship that the ocean is slowly taking as its own. In twenty years, the Greek Ship will be gone, and all these people will be staring at waves.”

“But by then,” I said, “Kish will be full of five-star hotels and no one will care.”

“I think you are right.”

It was time to head back to the airport in the centre of the island. It only took ten minutes. Rahim insisted on waiting with me until I was at passport control. I shook hands with my new Iranian friend. He had his fellow islanders had been nothing but hospitable to me from the moment I arrived. “Next time,” he said, “bring your wife, bring your friends; Let the world know about Kish Island and the Iranian people.”

I said goodbye, shook Rahim’s hand again and passed through security. Forty minutes later, my fellow passenger and I were taking off into darkness. The bright lights of Dubai were on the horizon.

My next stop on this mammoth strip would take me to the Far East. Seoul, to be exact.

http://theredquest.com

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Comments

[Keep Smiling]

The 'Greek' ship...
..was originally British (built in Scotland) I think!