Eternal Iran

Shiraz

Shiraz has given its name to one of the most famous grapes in the world. Today there is no Shiraz wine in Shiraz. The desert city is 4000 years old and has been called the city of love, gardens, poets, roses and learning. We admit: in no other Persian city people were more open and lovable.

Life in this desert city can be like in a beehive, but between 12 and 6 pm public life comes to a complete stop, even the shops close.

Shiraz has an old citadel, and there Hertha gets the first flavor of what will be her contacts with women throughout the country. She walks slowly towards the entrance gate, when she is all of a sudden surrounded by numerous chador-clad women. It suffices when 2-3 of them speak English to keep the conversation going. All contacts were benevolent.

The citadel with its leaning tower

Inside the citadel

The economic heart of every Iranian city is the bazaar. It has always been pleasant to take a bath in the crowd.

Many of the things offered are unknown to us

In the Friday Mosque we get the first glimpse of Islamic artwork. Since pictures of human beings are not allowed, the Islamic artisans have become masters of ornamental techniques.

Guides

Yes, you need them. First of all, the government wants to know your whereabouts at all times. Secondly you are illiterate, are not allowed to drive and have only crude maps. Unless you like to bargain for 30min with a taxi driver for the price of a trip that lasts only 10min……

Our guides let us travel on a very long leash and whenever we wanted, we were on our own. When strolling alone through the streets, I was never really alone. Very often people asked me for my name, my age, my children and of course “where I am from”. Austria in Farsi is called Autriche (like the French would say). It happened several times that Iranians imitated a fiddler, when I learned that I am coming from the country of waltz (being in a country where dancing is strictly forbidden….).

When I held my “map” for better visibility towards a street lantern, I could be sure that someone would stop and ask me where I wanted to go.

Our guide in Shiraz was “more wide than tall”, was a university professor and in earlier years a wrestler. Because of his enormous weight he was constantly panting and sweating, but he was a bundle of energy. His name was Daryush, the Persian version of Dareios. In the old days there were 3 Persian kings with that name, so he called himself modestly King Daryush IV.  He cannot live on a salary of a university professor, so he works most of the time as a tour guide. He makes sure that by constant eating his shape remains spheric, and since his main food is meat, he suffers from gout.

For the next few days on our trip from Shiraz to Persepolis, Yazd and Isfahan the backseat of a tiny Korean car was our new home.

In general, all our guides were courteous, spoke reasonable English and were knowledgeable. One of them clearly exaggerated and told me that in preparation for his work he had “googled” me.

Shiraz has been the home of two of the most famous Persian poets: Haffiz and Sadi. Their graves are wonderful places and in the evening locals hang out there in high numbers. We are astonished how openly we could discuss sensitive topics and they all seem to be highly educated. This was the one and only time I got a handshake from an Iranian lady. Men and women cannot touch each other in public. Shiraz is known in Iran for their “independent” people. It was the only place in Iran where I detected a young couple on a hidden park bench and the young man had his hand on the shoulder of his fiance.

Tomb of Haffiz at night

The fame of Haffiz and Sadi in Iran is definitely greater than that of Shakespeare in the English speaking world. Here I would like to insert a few words from a travel report by Swiss Nicolas Bouvier, who traveled in the 50’s in a tiny Fiat from Switzerland to India. He had the car door painted with a poem from Haffiz:

No secure roof for the night
Your goal is far away
But believe me, no path is without end
Don’t be sad

Bouvier wrote in his book: for months this poem served as a door opener in all corners of the country, where people have no reasons to love strangers. It is unbelievable, how big the influence of this 500 year old poetry still is and how beloved and well known his verses are everywhere.

On anther occasion Bouvier writes: The purpose of traveling is not that you decorate yourself like a Christmas tree with exotics and anecdotes, but that the road shakes you, flushes you and wrings you, like those towels that have become flimsy due to excessive laundering

Hertha is as usual hopelessly surrounded by young women and she speaks with feministic authority. Her audience is listening with full attention. Later our driver warns Hertha to be more careful. I know that it would be more pleasant to visit Hertha in an Iranian jail than censoring her words.

According to the mullahs’ belief these charming ladies will go to hell for their hair

Related posts:

1. The memory of a traveler, part 1
2. The memory of a traveler, part 4
3. The memory of a traveler, part 8
4. The memory of a traveler, part 7
5. The memory of a traveler, part 2