Local radio star in Maradeq (where...?!)

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We returned to Takht-e Soleiman the next morning, it was powerful seeing it again, in a different light, just after dawn. Like a person you felt you knew it better, seeing the place at a different time of day. I just sat by the circular lake and dreamed my dreams, while AS told the others the story of the site. In Persian, it was no good to me, and so I enjoyed the time sitting alone.

More village life was seen from the bus, shepherds with their flocks and a couple of dogs, a boy riding on a donkey, and a woman standing up from her work, thick waisted and dressed in the Kurdish style.

A lonely crater could be seen from Takht-e Soleiman, this was the Zendan e Soleiman, or Soleiman’s Prison. Nothing is left of the buildings, which fell in an earthquake, but the views from the site are spectacular, as is looking down into the crater, 80 metres down and 65 across. The students were singing subversive songs in the empty air. There was no one else to hear.

Later that day in Maradeq near Lake Urmia I got called to the front of the bus as their was a journalist from local radio who wanted to interview me. I cracked up and thought it was a joke,

“No, no, seriously Katherine, he does”

And indeed there was a stranger on the bus, with more pepper than salt hair and a youthful face. My friend, A, said that he would translate, and would I mind if he asked me some questions?

All I could think about in that moment was the things that I couldn’t speak about, the secret confidences and and hilarious things I had seen.

The interview started well, as he asked me why I was visiting Iran and what kind of reception I got here. I was able to speak about how friendly people were, and how happy I was to have the opportunity to visit Iran. I spoke briefly about the art-historical research I was hoping to do, and that this was a preliminary trip for that. He then asked me where I had visited on the trip and what I had thought about it. This too, I was able to relate with little problem.

The next question however was more complex, as I was asked off the cuff what the difference was between British and Iranian architecture?! When I heard this, I turned to AS who was translating my answers into Farsi, asking for some clarification. Later F joked that I should have said that there is no difference at all and that the two styles of architecture are exactly the same. I knew some of the characteristics of Iranian post-Islamic architecture, and could relate those, though to sum up British architecture with the same succinctness was more difficult for me.

Finally the questions were wound up, I enjoyed being able to speak about the trip and to let a wider audience of Iranians know what a Westerner thought of their country and its people. As so many Iranians I met were fascinated to know my opinions about this.

Later that day, looking over a river and mountains, we built a camp fire as the sun went down. Everyone was curled under plaid rugs against the cold, which made me think of Scotland. The guys did what guys always do, and play with the fire. Unfortunately this took the angle of 'wait until everyone gets comfortable and then throw a crate or two on, so everyone one had to vacate their comfy spot on the concrete and move further back! There was a little boy there with the blackest and most uncared for teeth in the sweetest smiled mouth. It was strange as his parents seemed comfortably off and loving. I did not see anyone else with such bad teeth in Iran.

B made sandwiches which were a great improvement on the horrible “burgers” from fast food places. The meat there just looked wrong!

We didn’t really know where we were going to stay, so our busdriver, invited us to stay at his house. All 30 of us! He was the one of the great music, and who also owned a grocery shop in the city, who had given us all an icecream with a bit of persuasion from our leader!

His house was massive, surrounded by fruit trees and stuffed snakes and eagles in the entrance way. Later I was to see a picture of Khomeni painted on a plate in the main room, while in a smaller room where the girls got changed there was a picture of the Shah. It seemed to sum up the paradox of Iran. Either they loved their leaders, no matter what, unquestioningly. Or what they displayed in the public room differed to objects which they cherished privately. Or another alternative was perhaps that the two objects belonged to different members of the household, who had different views… Or even again they meant nothing at all, beyond their decorative or sentimental value…

The driver was able to sleep all of us, boys and girls separately of course, with ease. The men and women of the house, his mother and brothers (he was unmarried, so there were a few jokes about what a catch he would be for me!) kindly brought us tea and fruit from the garden. It flowed into the night. I turned to someone who I knew would understand and said that the room would be great for a party. We could put the bar in the kitchen and the decks at the end of the 35 foot room. We laughed about this, me evidently so loudly that I was voted the loudest laugh of the trip! Traditionally women are not meant to laugh loudly in public, so I wondered if I had offended, but no - they enjoyed it!

Later many of the girls had showers, however although I was just about to take one, I was told by my friend that it wasn’t ta’arof to use all the water without being specifically invited as there were so many of us. I could see her point, as I supposed I would not do it in an English house either under the same circumstances. So apart from a stripwash I stayed dirty.

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