Being There - Friday, February 12th

The trip couldn’t have gotten off to a more dramatic and infuriating start. Over a period of several weeks I had carefully packed my bags with kit tirelessly trawled from all four corners of the internet, and I was feeling rather smug about myself. I had two pairs of sunglasses (exactly the same £10 pair) as I have more than just a bad habit of misplacing them. I had inner and outer ski gloves, two plug adapters, spare camera batteries, two torches, an inflatable pillow and even a dirty old eye mask from my travels past. I would have made made a troop of boy scouts flush with jealousy.

The coach ride to the luxuriant, purple tinted Heathrow Terminal 2 was as smooth as a Sheikh’s bedsheets. I stood proudly on the escalator, chest puffed, gently cresting the departures floor with a smile so big that I was worried I would get pulled into a side room and invaded. I’d waited so long for this day. Finally, it was happening. Finally, I was going to Iran.

I’d booked the tickets about 6 months previously and gotten a price so good for them that omitting it from casual conversation with friends seemed churlish. I pulled up the tickets on my phone and entered the reference. It didn’t work. After running a few panicked additional searches on my phone, I discovered that the confirmation email wasn’t a confirmation email. It was a holding email and the travel agent’s subsequent email telling me I didn’t actually have flights had landed swiftly in my junk folder four days later.

If i could have folded the kitchen sink into my bag I would have. Yet the only thing I had managed not to bring with me were valid tickets. Cue a mad dash to the ticket counter and a rather embarrassed explanation of my quandary. A quick search on his computer revealed that there were no seats to speak of. In fact the previous flight was overbooked so there was a waiting list. And they were all Star Alliance regulars. Apparently.

At this point I was fighting tears so eager to escape me that the person at the desk would have needed a poncho had I blubbed. Months of planning, expectation, excitement and it was bollocksed because my Gmail filter was having a bad hair day. The next Turkish Air flight to Iran was two days later. There was one Azerbaijan Air flight that would have arrived 24 hours after departure later that eve, 7 of those hours being stuck in Azerbaijan’s only international airport. However adventurous that sounded, the iranian government had these flight details on my visa, and they don’t like being disappointed.

So I was totally buggered. That was about the most delicate way I could describe my position. What a wally. Then the begging began. I would have sold my own mother (sorry mum) into white slavery for a seat on that flight. The ticket counter staff could clearly see I was a man in need. But nothing could be done. “What about the connecting flight to Tehran?” I wailed. I could at least find something heading to Istanbul and get the connection. “That’s full too.”

His supervisor came over and tried to work his voodoo. Frantic tapping ensued, eyes darting around a screen that I had absolutely no visibility  of. They could have been playing solitaire for all I knew. A trainee girl on her third week was also observing and kept giving me a look that sat somewhere between ‘you poor fool’ and ‘what an idiot’.

Suddenly. There were seats! Several of them. More frantic tapping ensued. I had 15 minutes until the gate closed and still needed a seat on the connecting flight. To my utter bewilderment they found that too. The problem was that I couldn’t book the second leg without the first and they only had the first flight on hold as (I was kindly informed) there was a high likelihood that a Star Alliance card holder would boot me off.

And so they came. Panicked businessmen and a man on his way to a wake. All dripping with the self-assured air of men who were to be obeyed and, unfortunately, men who had Star Alliance Gold cards.

One by one the seats fell. Jubilation turned to desolation. Finally there was one seat left. But the fates had decided it was to be mine. However they subdued any hint of hubris by making these new flights a tad dearer than the ones booked six months ago. I took out my credit card and watched it go through the porn equivalent of quadruple penetration. It was the most expensive mistake I’d ever made but I still couldn’t be any happier. This is why credit cards were invented. For idiots. Idiots like me.

After a light sprint through security I was on my flight. Azerbaijan airlines eat your heart out. I had be best legroom seat in economy and my own touch screen telly. I even had a menu with dinner options. I breathed deeply and put on Furious 7 to steady the nerves.

It turns out that Turkish Airlines very helpfully preserves the modesty of any half bikini’d woman by blurring anything below the neck that not wrapped in black leather or a burka. So, as you’d imagine, much of Furious 7 is quite literally, a blur. Ironically, the scenes filmed on the beach in Abu Dhabi were given the most attention by the eagle eyed censors of Turkish Airlines.

Furious7, courtesy of Turkish Airlines

I flicked the channel over to Black Mass, a poorly reviewed Johnny Depp gangster biopic. It seemed that swearing and violence were also in the crosshairs of those pesky censors, so all in the film was about 18 minutes long.

So I went back to Furious7 and had some time to mull over why exactly I am bothering with this trip at all. The general response that I get from people when I tell them I’m taking a two week holiday in Iran is that I must be having a breakdown or under the grip of serious mental illness. The truth is I’m not really sure why exactly either.

Like many things in life, it was the combination of a few factors. I’d been keen to go skiing again after a 5 year hiatus and I wanted to go to a country that felt like a genuine adventure. Iran seemed to fit the bill perfectly. It was also quite cheap to get to, or so I thought, and quite cheap in general. A day of skiing is meant to be about €20, and ski hire is equally good value. Despite the lifts being a famously French built, pre-revolutionary hangover, the skiing itself is also meant to be pretty good.

And that’s only the skiing. More importantly, everyone I know who has ever been there has claimed that it’s the friendliest and most welcoming country around. Quite different then, from it’s PR disaster of a reputation. In fact I hadn’t booked a single hotel room, as I’d heard it was likely I’d be invited to stay in a few places along the way. I’d even packed 20 out of date London post cards as thank you gifts for potential home stays.

As well as the above, the food has been widely praised and their cultural heritage is one of the greatest on earth. To add to all this, it is said to be one of the most stunningly beautiful, geographically varied countries on earth. The real question is. Why on earth wouldn’t you want to go there!?

I try to explain this to people but their attentions generally turn to which items of my clothing they can inherit from me once I get beheaded. sadly this is the kind of image that many people in the west have when you talk about Iran.  

the highly unrepresentative view of Iran many hold in the West

Some people will also remind me about the storming of the British embassy four years ago. 

In spite of all this pessimism, I still had high hopes for the trip.

Setbacks like this are part of the joy of travel, I say to myself while enjoying the most expensive cinema outing in the history of man. 'You can’t put a price on memories’ was another mantra I was murmuring to myself repeatedly. Then the booze wagon arrived. “How many am I allowed madam?” She shrugged back. I obliged and I spent the rest of the flight trying to get my money’s worth.

Unfortunately we are back in the present and I’m not out of the woods yet. There is still the the very real potential for refusal at the iranian border. I only have an email from the visa office confirming my approval and have only their word that it will be waiting for me in Tehran. That may not be good enough.

The other issue is that we are heading into severe thunderstorms around Istanbul and will likely delay the flight. The captain can’t say by how much by exactly. This is a problem as there are no flights to Iran for another 2 days, and the connection was very tight as it is.

The final problem is that someone just got on the tannoy and asked “can any medical doctor on board please identify themselves immediately.” I wish I was joking but I’m unbelievably serious. 

An Angel Called Nima - Saturday, February 13th

We touched down with little over an hour to go before the connecting flight to Tehran. Another short sprint across an airport was needed and soon I was well ensconced in my seat. Sadly the seat fairy hadn’t paid a visit this time. I was bang in the middle, and in Japanese PoW fashion, couldn’t extend any of my limbs without hitting a person, or a seat.

No matter. The seat fairy had a bit of karma in her and had sat me down next to a real gem. Nima and I got talking almost instantly. A bookish, slightly doughy, man in his 50s who had moved to Germany some years ago to pursue a PhD in wireless technologies. His time in the motherland had inflected him with an endearingly Teutonic sensibility. Having discovered my intentions he quickly fell into the pervading school of thought that, clearly, this chap is a nutter.

When I explained the story of my ticketing crisis he also came to the conclusion that I was a disorganised nutter and spent much of our time together trying to instill some kind of decorum in my approach to this journey.

Once we had landed and I’d wobbled off the plane like a freed veal calf, he put every effort into making sure I stayed out of the soup. He helped me obtain my entry visa which was invaluable. The process of different windows and inevitable top up fees was not intuitive by any means and I’d still probably be at the airport of it weren’t for him.

Iran airport itself was a curiosity. Sanctions had forced the Iranians into being almost entirely dependent on themselves and a few other non-western states. The airport had been built by Iranian engineers and painted a picture of a country that had been left out of the world stage for the last 40 or so years. There were no Rolex ads, nor was there any other advertising except one solitary ad for a lesser known South Korean phone brand. The only decor in the terminal were posters advertising Iranian travel hotspots… And certainly no branded dining to speak of, not even a Pret.

Once I had Visa’d up he helped me find a currency exchange that gave me the best rate and even negotiated a car to take me directly to the ski resorts 3 hours from the city. I had planned to take the bus to Shemshek  (apparently the more challenging of Iran’s two ski resorts) but total lack of sleep and a stressful trip twisted my arm for me.

Iranian Visa!

Nima had done a wonder of a job finding a driver too. My chariot was a beaten up old Samand. A car designed and built entirely in Iran. In fact all of Iran’s cars were home grown. Even the ones that looked a lot like Peugeots were in fact Iranian copies. And looking at them you could sort of see it. But as fakes go, it’s not bad work.

Nima joined us for the drive as we were dropping him off at his home in Tehran. Throughout the trip he regularly dispensed his charming brand of pedantry, educating me in all things Iran. It was enlightening and I couldn’t have been more grateful to him for all of his kindnesses. He asked for nothing except a mention in the blog so I thought the least I could do was dedicate this chapter to him.

During the drive into Tehran it was decided for me that we would be going to the other ski resort, Dizin, and I had little say I’m the matter. I was left in the very capable hands of my driver Ahmad, after a warm farewell at Nima’s home. Aside from a habit of talking to himself incessantly and changing the radio station every 30 seconds, Ahmad was a stand up guy. We even stopped for a breakfast together at the Iranian equivalent of a roadside diner. The meal was on me, of course, but considering his wife had recently died of cancer I was in no position to deny the chap a free meal.

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Taxi to Dizin

Sadly his English was nowhere near as good as Nima’s but that had its perks too. You certainly don’t feel as guilty for not making idle chat and considering I was a sleep deprived mess there wasn’t going to be much of that.

Soon the snow capped peaks that had stood like guardian monoliths over Terhan had engulfed us. The drive was as beautiful as any alpine road with the added benefit that it was Iran and therefore a massive novelty. There weren’t many chocolate box chalets to speak of but cetainly an abundance of makeshift roadside diners.

Once we got there I settled up and went to find some lodgings. The first place I walked into was a hotel that looked like the set of a Roger Moore Bond flick. An orgy of wooden lacquered furniture and giant leather backed sofas trimmed with Persian patterning. It smelt like it would blow my budget and I was already handing out pounds like they were going out of  fashion. Remeber, there are still technically sanctions in place so there is no way for love or money that I could get into my bank accounts here. What you bring is all you have. A bad budgeter’s worst nightmare.

About two hours before my flight I’d read in the Lonely Planet that couch surfing is not banned here. So I hastly set up a profile and sent two messages. One to a guy in Shemshek and one to a guy in Dizin. Given the timeframes, it was a serious long shot. Thankfully the hotel had free WiFi so I checked my messages. Lo and behold, Alex from Dizin had replied. He wasn’t in town but he said he could sort me out.

I called and he said that his friend Mahmoud was on his way to the hotel to pick me up. Alex had a strong American accent and spoke English fluently. He warned me that Mahmoud did not. Once under Mahmoud’s stewardship I  would sort out my skiis, passes and find the cheapest lodgings in  town. Mahmood diligently appeared and we set off.

The ski shop was made of unpainted cinder blocks and the kit had seen better days but it was cheap as chips and did the job. As I wasn’t sorting lodgings until the skiing was done, I had to change into my ski kit then and there. Clearly prudishness isn’t really a thing in Iran, as I stripped down to my privvies with three men watching and quietly passing judgement.

Once that was done it was time to ski. I had arrived in a state of near delerium but the thought of skiing for the first time in 5 years stirred my soul to the point of frenzy. To help things along, there had just been a snow dump and there wasn’t a cloud sullying the the horizon, end to end. Nothing was getting in the way of me and my afternoon of skiing. Especially not fatigue.

As we ascended the first rickety French gondola I mulled over just how drastically things had turned around in 24 hours. This time yesterday I hadn’t even started  packing, now I’m about to ski in bloody Iran with my new mate Mahmoud!

The skiing certainly didn’t disappoint. As good as the majority of European slopes I’d been on but very empty. There were no Burkas or even veils, no forms of segregation and not one poster of the Ayatollah. It was certainly a joy unlike any other I had experienced. Suddenly the events of yesterday had melted away and I could focus on the here and now. My heart felt like an orb that was about to burst with the sheer glee. ‘Who was the nutter now?’ I mused.

Click on the picture to activate the slideshow. 

After a solid few hours on piste and even a bit of cheeky powder along the way, we stopped for tea. Iranians seemed to have filled the alcoholic void in their lives with caffene and sugar quite comfortably. They easily drink the English under the table in tea terms. As Mahmoud was seemingly mates with everyone, we ended up having tea with two chaps in the operations  room of one of the ski lifts.

As none of the three guys spoke a word of English,  I brought out my London postcard party trick. They were all enthralled until one of the post cards revealed two fat, bare arsed women running in front of Big Ben. Suddenly the atmohere got a bit frosty and the postcard was hurried out of sight. It has since been removed from the deck.

The offending postcard

My lodgings were 10 minutes down the road by car from Dizin’s ski area Mahmoud kindly escorted me to a house down a side alley and left me to it. The palace was more than adequte. A ligerimg smell of gas and a constant tapping sound from the radiator were the only real causes for alarm. The house consisted of several rooms with thin mattress es on a well carpeted attic room adjoimed by a semi-functional hamam shower. I spent an hour in the hamam. The experience was just as reviving as the moment I hit the slopes earlier that day.

Dizin itself is hard to describe. There is no architectural through line whatsoever. It’s essentially the outcome of a complete absence of planing laws. Each house seems to be a different style, material and colour. All cobbled together in a valley that feels very far removed from the rest of the world.

Later that eve Alex, his best friend Reza, Reza’s wife Reia and their 3 year old son Rasa, another female friend and dear Mahmoud came to the house. Reza , it turned out, had an extended family in Manchester and a neice called Chandice. Alex had said earlier that he was now coming to town, in part to celebrate my arrival. And celebrate we did. It turns out that the home brew scene in Iran certainly is alive and kicking, with surprisingly good results. We had some of the best plastic bottle Grappa I’ve ever had and some tasty Shiraz, from Shiraz.

The Iranians were, by most  accounts, the inventors of alcohol and many view this little 35 year highjacking by Islamic fundamentalism  as a minor ink stain on the glorious history of these people. I was inclined to agree. Normally when you cut a country off from the rest of the world they tend to collapse. In Iran they were able to hack American military drones and land them using their own home brew tech. That’s impressive to say the least.

We made Iranian style  burgers, danced and conversed on just about every topic imaginable. It felt like an evening with old friends. Alex had spent much of his life in Canada and everyone else spoke fluent or conversational English which made things very easy. Tomorrow, we would ski together as a group. Squad skiing in Iran, I thought. How marvellous.

Dizin was apparently at about to undergo a sea change in the next few years. From sleepy mountain town to the Iranian equivalent of Gstaad. Poor them, I thought, they don’t know what the hell is coming to them. Although it did mean that Mahmoud and his family were likely to hit the big time given the land they owned in town. That tickled me.

Personally, I’d come back here for the tap water alone. It’s got something addictive in it. Caffeine from the tea perhaps.

An Iranian Ski Crew - Sunday, February 14th

The strange thing about skiing in Iran is just how much the place has the skeleton of a glamorous European ski resort, but none of the organs to go with it. But of course, when you learn of the glamorous origins of Dizin’s skiing, it all begins to make sense.

During last night’s festivities, Reza had showed me a YouTube video where American Olympic Skiier Billy Kidd (no, not The Kidd) and a thunderously attractive accomplice have a day out skiing with the Sha’s wife. It was a mini documentary made some time in the early 70s and contains some deliciously cheesy commentary that was very de rigueur for its time.

In the video you see an Iran that oozed glitz and glamour from every square inch of its being. Billy Kidd even wears a cowboy hat while he skiis. It’s marvellous and you can see it below. 

Sadly the revolution froze Dizin in time and all its many luxurious adornments have withered on the vine and died. There are still a good number of wealthy Iranians who come here, but it is in most ways far removed from its distant European cousins. But does it really need to glam up? I was in two minds about it.

Certainly, the place could use a bit more than just a lick of paint but heavy development would end up changing the way of life for the local people here permanently. They were nomadic farmers, not swiss watch sellers. I mulled this and noticed just how many houses were falling apart and decided that maybe some well directed investment wouldn’t go amiss. Sadly, It’s never well directed though. Even at the best of times.

The six of us had a hearty breakfast of smooth sausage meat omlette and  cheesy honey bread. It was the business. All chased down with home brew coffee and, of course, plenty of tea.

I realised later on in the day that I had not felt the slightest hint of loneliness since my arrival, essentially since sitting down with Nima in Istanbul. I’ve felt lonelier at my office desk than I have in one of the world’s most isolated and feared counties….now there’s an irony.

In fact it was quite the opposite of loneliness. I felt like an old friend or even family member and was never treated like a tourist, save perhaps, for Nima’s well intentioned shepherding. Before I choke on my own smug, it’s important to remember that I’m barely two days in, plenty more opportunities to get shafted.

During the festivites last night I had learnt my new favourite Iranian word, ‘mizun’, which literally translates to 'middle’. Used in most Iranian conversation however, it means that you are in a well balanced state of inebriation. So if you have just reached a perfectly full/drunk/stoned state then your general response to offers of a top up is 'mizun’. I shall try and introduce this concept to friends back in the UK, but I’m worried it won’t get much purchase.

During one of my ski lift trips with the  lads I also learnt that the word paradise actually came from Persia (Old Iran to you ignorants). It was what the Greeks called the country due to it being such a, well, paradise. It’s far too early in my trip to say whether or not it is indeed as the Greeks described. From the measure of the first 48 hours it’s off to a darn good start though.

My only concern is that as Iranians become exposed to more tourists then they will lose their hospitable nature. No one in London would have treated me this way. Quite the  opposite. I think most  Londoners, myself included, get a special type of schadenfreude when they see tourists suffering. 'Good, that serves you right for being a silly tourist’ we mutter under our breath as they wail to the police about their stolen fanny pack. It’s especially fulfilling if they’re an obese American from The Red States.

Ski Squad

One has to just hope that Iran’s good nature is so deeply ingrained on their national psyche that it will be there forever,  like the Alborraz mountains.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

Skiing was done for the day and we went back to the crib. I said my goodbeyes to Reza and his delightful family. It was just me and Al left, and we would head back to Terhan in a taxi later that eve. Al had gotten the price to well below the mega deal I thought Nima had gotten me from the airport. I wish he could have been with me for the rest of my trip. Not just because he spoke Farsi and was well connected but also because he was a very affable kind of guy.

Al had a flight to Istanbul at 2am so his place  wasn’t free but had promised to find me cheap digs once we had fast internet at his place in Terhan. I think, very reasonably, that Iranian hospitality stops short of giving a near stranger keys to your flat for free. Airbnb doesn’t exist here, but it certainly will soon so they can start a more official system of charging for the pleasure.

Goodbye Dizin!

The drive back to Tehan began as the sun was settling in for the night and, over the space of 30 minutes, made such deep impressions on my retina that I was certain that I would return one day. A stunning canvass of reds, oranges and purples worshipped by the deep blue edges of the range’s many peaks and hulking slopes. You feel somewhat insignificant at such a sight. Then the stars fade through and you revise down your  personal significance in our galaxy by several orders of magnitude. To almost nothing really. Not the most cuddly of  notions.

Thankfully we stopped to eat before I metaphorically crawled up my own arse using the lubrication of my own pretentiousness. We stopped at at a place called Dahati for some ice cream with raspberry coulis. And bugger me it was tasty. The milk was from a local daiy farm and the coulis was not quite as local but still Iranian, obviously. Eat your heart out stars, this little piggy just got ice cream.

Tehran traffic is a sight to behold. The pollution is so thick that you can feel it leaving an unxous film on your palate. The city’s population swings by as much as 8 million people each day. That’s just about fine when you’ve got an underground, overground, boats, trams, cable cars, and a barely capable rail network. Terhan has none of that. It just has cars. Lots and lots of home brew cars.

Apparently they also celebrate Valentines in a big way here so this traffic was particularly awful as half of Terhan tried to satiate their nagging wives by taking them out for a kebab.

Al informed me that there was Shiraz at home and a massive jacuzzi in his building’s gym. Good thing I brought swimming trunks for just such an occasion, I thought. God travelling is tough.

So my Valentines was spent skiing with great company and potentially getting pissed with a bloke in a jacuzzi. We are about to arrive at his place so I can’t guarantee the jacuzzi happens.

However, even without the jacuzzi, today easily qualifies as the best Valentines I’ve ever had. I doubt that will surprise any of my exes.

Beckett’s Basement and Another Angel - Monday, February 15th

Soon we had arrived at Al’s family home. A well appointed apartment block in a smart Tehran neighbourhood. Once inside I was introduced around his close and extended family. Before I had time to breathe I was engaged in conversion by his ebullient uncle Reza, a civil engineer who had been working in Los Angeles for the last 20 years.

He had an opinion on nearly every subject and was not afraid of expressing himself with a kind of frenzied gusto that meant just watching him  articulate thought was a small pleasure in itself.

Ali had heard of a free guesthouse in the city specifically for travellers like me. A few quick searches on the web and we had the telephone number of Reza, the community’s mysterious overseer. His only photo was black and white and of a bald man with a very stern expression, dressed in a black suit. I was sceptical to say the least.

To my surprise he picked up phone and he said I could swing by at all hours. It was exceedingly casual. After taking down the address me and Ali could both enjoy the rest of our evening without worry.

More of the Shiraz in plastic bottles was brought out and poured into wine glasses so large they could have taken an entire litre. Al and I then made our way to the basement where I was greeted to the sight of a 25m pool and an adjoining jacuzzi. It was shared by the building but rarely used after 10pm.

The room was presided over by an enormous glass roof which would have born marvelous star gazing were this not the pollution capital of the middle East. We poured more Shiraz into China teacups (the glasses weren’t allowed to travel) and toasted to a fantastic Valentines day.

The setting for a definitely not homo-erotic Valentines boozy Jacuzzi 

Confronted by the obvious homo erotic setting for our our evening drink we naturally spoke about women for the duration. Having had our fill of wine we retired upstairs to a delivery kebab. Al had ordered from the best place in town and each course came freshly vacum sealed.

It was certainly better than anything London had to offer. He advised me to add an egg yolk and a spice called Sumak to the rice. That took it to dimensions I never thought a kebab could be privy to. It’s coming to London with me (sorry Laura).

It turned out that one of Al’s many relatives was heading to his place very near where this halfway house was, so I was offered a lift. Al and I had a very protracted and definitely not gay goodbye hug and I was off to my new diggs for the night.

Al’s relative spoke fluent French as a few of the older generation do around here so we were clucking like a pair of old hens by the time the Peugeot’s engine started. Charles Aznavour blasted through the radio as we raced through Tehran and I once again was mulling over just how surreal my situation was. Little did I know what was in store.

We arrived at a normal enough looking house in the centre of town and I buzzed the doorbell. At this point I had so little primed of my expectations that a  mustachioed dwarf dressed in a nappy would not have been a total shock.

Instead, I was greeted by Reza himself, suspiciously more follicled than the picture that had made him look like a dead ringer for Ernst Blofeld. He asked me where I was from then pointed to the basement and then shuffled away upstairs.

The basement was hard to take in at first. A large, open plan room the size of a 5 a side pitch covered and I mean, completely and utterly covered, ceiling et al, in posters with photos of various sites around Iran. Not a single inch of wall had been untouched. The room was lit by two lone, naked, halogen bulbs that dangled lazily from the ceiling. In the middle was a large assortment of tables that looked like they had been salvaged from an artist’s studio. The only person in the room was sat, glued to a laptop and didn’t seem to notice that I was even there.

Beckett's Basement

He was a bearded chap in his late 20s, wearing horn rimmed specs a plad shirt and sporting an artificial hunch so tightly pronounced that he looked like he was trying to hide in himself.  

I began to extract some basic information from him, which was hard as he talked in a drole monotone while fixing his gaze at the screen and didn’t seem particularly keen to crane. It turned out that he was called Ali and was essentially the Turkish version of a hipster.

He had been an accountant for an art foundation until he was made redundant at the start of the year and was neck deep, it seemed, in the throes of a total nervous breakdown. It turned out that it was his birthday today and I’ve never seen anyone quite as miserable about the fact. He had just accessed Facebook for the first time in over a month. 

“I hate you” he droned, as he flicked through each birthday message. There was so little passion in his voice that even Siri would have probably given him an earful for being such a bore. 
“I hate you….I hate you.” The messages went on and on while I stood silently and began looking for the exit upstairs. 
Then there was a deep, lengthy pause. Surely he was done? 

“I hate all of you.” The words rolled coarsely out of the back of his throat.

As this was going on I couldn’t help but feel that someone had dropped me into one of Samuel Beckett’s lesser known theatrical indulgences.

“What did you do for your birthday Ali? Have you been in the basement all day?”
“There was a German girl. She came. But she’s gone now.”

As the scene was reaching a peak weirdness, a Dutch bloke called David walked on set. A new arrival, phew. To his credit David was quite sane. Although, as far as I could tell, his occupation for the last four years had been organising a festival that was meant to have 7 million attendees over 21 days… That no one had ever heard of.

“It’s going to happen organically” he exclaimed. I didn’t want to tell him how to do his job but getting that many people together over 21 days may require more than just telling people that it’s going to happen. Anyway. I’ve never organised a festival so who am I to point fingers.

So as to quietly make the point I asked him what the biggest single music gathering in history was. Apprarenty the crown went to Rod Stewart’s famous Red Square concert. 3 million unfortunate Russians actually turned up to hear him sing. “He appears three times in the top ten ” said David. 
“Well, you might just about have a chance then.”

The dorm already had occupants so we had to use torchlight to navigate.  Inside it was low ceilinged, narrow, with barely room to walk between the wooden beds. As David and I shuffled along, the room narrowed and the air became heavier, and ever so slighly feted. Finally we reached the end after passing several rows of snoring heaps, dodging laundry lines and the occasional spiders web.

The beds weren’t really beds but resembled open coffins, except of course, that coffins have padding. This had a pillow that felt like it was filled with bars of soap and a sheet in place mattress which really worked wonders at softening the wood. David and I were so close that we could practically feel each others breath. To make matters worse a plague of mosquitoes had really taken to the climate, and the pillow had something crawling on it when I put my head down.

As the great Billy Butress once said, you pays your money and takes your choice. So, if something is free, it’s usually for good reason. It has to rank as one of the worst nights of sleep I’ve ever had.

I packed as soon as I was up the next day. The only person awake was the missing piece of the Beckettian puzzle. A rotund and exceptionally pale German girl sat frantically scrawling on a pad of paper, alone, illuminated by the same swinging, naked halogen bulb. She had a mystery injury that prevented her from walking (where the hell was she last night?!) And didn’t look up from her scribbling while feeding me scraps of information on her situation.

I was so desperate to leave Beckett’s Basement that I didn’t shower. I needed natural light and sanity.

I hit Tehran with only three goals for the day. 1. Get my phone to work. 2. See the grand bazaar 3. Get out of Tehran.

The first phone shop I went to was staffed by two charming girls who attempted to deal with Irancel for me while I sat and waited. An old chap with a giant grey handlebar tache sat mute next to me. I turned around and as if by magic, he was grinning and holding a cup of tea for me. For the life of me I never found out where he got it from as there was no tea making kit anywhere in that room.

The girls couldn’t fix my phone and I left smiling, full of sugary tea and many fake Oreos.

Thankfully, en route to the Bazaar, I met a gentleman man called Reza on the metro platform who helped me nail the first two of my day’s goals.

As a brief aside, you may have noticed that a lot of people in Iran are called Reza. The simple answer to that is that most men were called Reza before the revolution, named after the first Shah. Almost no one under the age of 35 here bears the name.

Reza was around the same age as Nima had spent most of his life in  Boston. He had qualified as an engineer from MIT, so to say he was bright was an understatement. It’s such a testament to the intellectual prowess of this country that so many of its citizens have achieved degrees from Ivy League schools. Domestically alone, Iran is the second highest producer of trained engineers on earth. Quite a feat.

I told Reza that I needed to get my phone working and he promised that he would not leave my side until this was done. But first he would treat the to lunch at one of the bazaar’s most celebrated haunts. The name of this restaurant was literally translated as ‘The old Islamic Scholar’. Another hint at their nation’s obsession with education.

Reza, like everyone else I had met felt a personal responsibility for me and even paid for the meal. True to his word he gave several hours of his time away to make sure that I had a working phone. All the while he educated me on Iran’s culture, traditions and peculiarities.

It was another of the many emotional goodbyes I’d had on the trip. It was so hard to articulate just how grateful I was for all of the many kindnesses I had received. It really was overwhelming at times.

Lunch with Reza in the Grand Bazaar

After more bazaaring I nipped in a taxi back to the dreaded basement. Truth be told, Tehran itself is without much in the way of charm as a city. There are a few sites and museums of note but it should be a place you pass through, not a place to camp down. The experience of being in it is exhausting in itself and I looked forward to escape that evening.

The plan was to make my way south to Esfahan, a more relaxed and better historied city then Tehran. On my way there I would stop in a small oasis city called Kashan, three hours bus south of the city.

Back in the basement I met a six foot, eight inch tall Lithuanian with a large earring called Roka. He had a skittish disposition that he assured me was due to two days withput sleep. Having not had a good night of sleep since Thursday I could empathise.

It turns out that he had arrived from the airport at 5am and had spent the day with Ali, which I think accounted for the majority of his eccentric behaviour. Upon hearing my plan to leave right  then and there for the South, he asked if he could join.

So I left Tehran with a new, giant travelling companion. The Vladimir to my Estrsgon. I only hoped that Iran had a coach that was big enough to fit him.

A Grand Day out in the Desert - Tuesday, February 16th

We pulled into Kashan late at night and got a taxi to a place called Ehsan House that had been highly recommended by one of Al’s previous couch surfing guests. It didn’t disappoint.

For the princely sum of £10 we had a twin room with something that could pass quite happily as a mattress. There was a squeaky clean communal shower, fresh towels and even, to our amazement, a sit down loo. They even threw in a breakfast.

The building itself was lovely too. A traditional mud brick guest house with rooms facing into a quiet courtyard with a decorative, blue tiled, rectangular pool. The only noise was the gentle babble of the fountain in the pools’s centre.

I was jittering with joy at all of these comforts. This was the first actual bed I’d had since Thursday. Finally, an opportunity for a full night of sleep. After a lengthy shower, I collapsed into a deep and luxuriant slumber.

In the morning I put on my running gear and hit the town for a morning jog. From the top of the guest house you could see the whole city. It really was a jewel in the middle of a vast desert expanse. Much like Tehran, but it was presided over by an even more forbidding set of looming snow capped mountains. A sight to behold.

The run was one of the more unusual I’ve ever had. Kashan is not a major destination by any stretch and it became clear that few, if any, European guests had gone on a run. Thankfully the main reaction on the street was nearly every bloke downing tools, smiling, waiving and shouting ‘SALEM!’ (Hello).

Not one women, however, made even a single attempt to acknowledge my existence. This wasn’t a surprise. Kashan is a much more conservative town then Tehran. Women are all, without exception, in full black Burkas. Not a headscarf in sight. Public fraternising with a Westerner would, therefore, not be taken well by the men.

Once back at base we settled down to a breakfast of champs. Bread, eggs, orange slices and gallons of tea. It was here that I discovered carrot jam. It’s basically sugar and carrots but it’s a real winner  We have seriously missed a trick on the home front with this stuff and I shall be rushing to make batches once home. Brace yourselves.

Roka and I decided to do hit some sights. Kashan is famous for its traditional Iranian houses so we made tracks to its most famous one. On the way we met an bearded, weather beaten older gentleman who spoke excellent English and  French. He had lived in Paris for some years, as well as a number of other countries. He pointed over to a large mud dome and said “you should go see the town asshole.” God, I thought, he must be a real dick of they locked him in a giant windowless dome.

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The Wise Old Man of Kashan

It turns out the town asshole was actually an ice hole. Until 50 years ago it was a giant domed pit used as a storage facility for ice during the summer in order to keep everyone’s cocktails refreshed. Back then you could drink, you see. Now it was a giant hole in the ground with a dome on it. It would certainly have made a good spot to keep your town asshole if needs be.

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The Kashan Ice Hole

Roka told me that in Lithuania you can tell an area is poor by how many hairdressers and pharmacies there were. The more of them, the shittier the area. I said that sounded a lot like Mayfair in London, just with slightly more niche pharmaceutical products. We scanned the streets and there was only one hairdresser. “Well, clearly Kashan is doing better than Mayfair.”

We wandered around the pretty but not particularly enthralling house and decided one was enough. Especially after we bumped into a particularly obnoxious group of tourists from Shanghai.

I got talking to the kindest looking women of the group and she admitted that China could learn a great deal from Iranian hospitality. I said I’d never been to China, precisely because I’d heard how inhospitable they were there. She nodded in rather hushed agreement.

Roka and I decided to pool our resources and get a private car to take us around Kashan’s peripheral sights for the afternoon. We found a driver called Maddi who would give us a 5 hour private tour for £10 a piece.

We began at the underground city. A 1300 year old network of tunnels that had been built as a way for the men to stash their women and children away during times of war. It was a very impressive bit of engineering.  Which is no surprise given that everyone I meet in Iran seems to be one.

Maddi asked us to answer a multitude of questions on the site. Why didn’t it collapse in earthquakes? Why were the floors U shaped? How did they ventilate it? Each time we got it wrong we were greeted with a finger wag and the word “Think!”. 'The tests normally come at the end of the lesson Maddy,’ I very nearly blurted. But he was doing it in such a nice way that I just shut up.

The next stop was a large mosque that had a cemetery next to it. All the the headstones were photos of young men, many a good deal younger than myself. This is a fairly common sight around the country as over 2 million, mostly young men, were killed during the 8 year Iraq/Iran war. It’s a heart rendering sight.

While we were driving I asked Maddi why he didn’t have a wife. He said on $300 a month it was pretty hard to afford one. I told him that he was honestly not missing out and should probably wait till he finds a wife who can support herself. I’d met a number of female teachers and doctors on the trip and felt Maddi could afford to wait. He agreed that essentially hiring someone to nag you seems counter-intuitive. Best to let them earn the right to nag. We all nodded in agreement.

The rest of the day was essentially a road trip around the desert. We mucked about on sand dunes, ambled on a giant salt pan, and tried to feed some roaming camels by hand.

The desert scenery was consistently stunning. There was a guilty pleasure in being chauffeured around a landscape that is so unforgiving to those who end up stuck in them. It was the perfect antidote to Tehran.

Back in Kashan we had a quick turnaround to get our bus to Isfahan, with all its history and beauty awaiting. I had a hot date with a guy called Masoud that I’d met on the couch surfing app. His interests included 007 movies so there was no chance I could refuse. I could only hope that my experience with him would be as good as Al. It would be quite a challenge.

Meanwhile Roka hadn’t managed to secure a couch date and was scouring the app on the bus with the same pained expression that an old flatmate of mine used to default to while scouring Grindr.

I very much enjoyed our day together but I felt the time was right for us to go our separate ways soon.

Sadly for Roka, his couch date stood him up. Thankfully mine was more than accommodating and said he could host us both. Masoud was a real  gentleman and, much like everyone else from Iran, keen to make our stay as comfortable as humanly possible.

We were very lucky as Masoud’s parents, two sisters, bother and their respective spouses and children were home to visit. I was thanking my lucky stars for the decent night of sleep as these occasions can require a little energy. I felt I was getting fairly pro at navigating the  intricacies of Iranian family politics so it was less of a drain than it might have been.

His family were delightful and full of questions on the trip and thoughts on the Iranian people. His step brother had worked all over the world in the jewelry business so was more keen to talk business. We ate chicken kebabs with a local sauce made of saffron and yogurt. It was a great combination of sweet and bitter. Certainly another one to take home with me.

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Esfahan Kebab Dinner with Masoud

Once all conversation was exhausted I brought out the trump post cards and watched as they busily discussed pictures of what London looked like 15 years ago. I didn’t want to confuse them by explaining this so hopefully London will be a pleasant surprise when they do ever get the chance to visit.

Mercifully the card with the two hefty bare arsed ladies had been given to Al as a parting gift so there was no chance of horribly offending my lovely hosts.

Masoud, Rokas and myself retired to the apartment upstairs and watched the Champions league on the telly with a thermos of tea and some biscuits. Once again, I was humbled by Iranian hospitality and wish I had more than post cards to thank people. Although they seemed happiest when I told them how much I loved their country.

Another sitting loo at this place was the cherry on top. Utter Bliss!

Tea or Beer? - Wednesday, February 17th

In the morning I decided to go for a run up the hill that I had seen when we arrived yesterday. Night time’s inky cloak had somewhat obscured the sheer size of the thing. The hill was in fact a 2000m high mountain called Sofhe and there was absolutely no way I was going to scale it on my morning constitutional.

I decided instead to get about a quarter of the way up the foot. Even this was a bit of a slog as the road from the house was two miles up a steep hill. Once at the foot I was presented with another slight impediment- a six lane motorway. No matter, for there was an underpass that helpfully reduced the crossing to four lanes of traffic.

Once across, there was a three metre high concrete wall that was pretty much impossible to scale. My only option was to run on a microscopic path that sat alongside the  motorway and hope that there was a break in the wall. Mercifully, it came after less than a km. Enough time for the oncoming traffic to let me know what their sentiments were.

Once above the wall there was a barbed wire fence blocking access to the hill. I had the feeling that someone up there didn’t want me climb it. But, lo and behold, there was soon a hole in the fence and I could finally ascend. It was worth the hassle. After only a few minutes of scaling the uneven rock and rubble, I was gifted a view of the whole city and beyond. The landscape was so flat that you could see for at least 50 miles.

Once that was done I made a beeline back to the hole in the fence and prayed that this site wasn’t of military significance. There was a military base at the foot of the mountain and I doubt they take too kindly to trespassing joggers. Especially ones carrying a gopro.

When I got back, Masoud had prepared a hearty Iranian breakfast. I was already feeling spoilt beyond measure. I had been told that this would happen a lot and that the best response is to lie back and take it. In fact, it’s ruder not to accept Iranian hospitality. I could live with that.

Normally Masoud would be working as a manager in his father’s steel business but had been given the day off specifically to look after us. I could just imagine the blood draining from my manager’s face as I asked him for a day off work to look after an Iranian house guest.

We began by walking along the Zayandeh river and criss crossing its ancient bridges. The scenery is not unlike the banks of the Seine in Paris, with wide promenades on both sides at the water’s edge, presided over by flanks of well pruned trees.

Masoud had originally wanted to be a doctor, but the pressure from his father was such that his arm was twisted into the family steel business. He said that it was fortunate in some ways as the lifting of sanctions means that global demand for one of his country’s chief exports will only grow.

I warned him against trying his luck in England. A large number of my banking colleagues were engineers by training due to a lack of engineering jobs. “And you really don’t want to become a banker Masoud, trust me. Everyone thinks you’re a dick.”

Rokas and I both seemed to have unique characteristics that drew unusual amounts of attention. Obviously his height drew a few bemuesed looks and comments here and there. Not many people here are above 6ft, let alone 6"8.

The fact that I was from Britain was mine. A number of people I had spoken to here hadn’t encountered British travellers before. I can imagine friends shaking their heads while reading this knowing that for some people I am the first Brit many Iranians will ever meet. I hope more come here quickly to dilute the effect.

Masoud and the many beautiful bridges of Esfahan

We made tracks to the Naqshe Jahan, the third biggest square on the planet after Tienanmen and Red Square . Here, thankfully, there were no associations with past atrocities- namely, the massacre in Tienanmen and Rod Stewart’s  famous live show.

It was eye wateringly large space. Enough to easily fit in 15 full sized football pitches. Unlike the frenetic atmosphere Jemaa El Fnaa in Marrakech, this has a much more measured pace to it. No one here appears to be in a rush for anything.

At no point were we hawked in the Bazaar either. The lack of attention was perplexing. It seems that there simply hadn’t been a volume of tourists around here for at least 30 years. It was more like a supermarket than a Bazaar.

We were joined by Masoud’s brother in law, who ran a gold distribution business from the Bazaar. After a quick chat with Masoud we were offered two choices for a pre-lunch drink. “Tea or beer?”
Having assumed that it was the local 0% beer we initially said tea. Just to be sure I asked “you mean, real beer?”
“Yes, real beer.” Came the response with an impish smile. 
“Well in that case, yes please!”

We were hurried into the back warren of the Bazaar. Some of these passages were many hundreds or even a thousand years old and I pondered at the unknowable secrets they had been privvy to. We were ushered into an upstairs office where we could spy on the goings on of the Bazaar below.

The office had a London speaksesy feel as there wasn’t enough room to swing a Persian cat. There was also a small TV screening Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland dubbed into Farsi. The hipsters would bloody love that, I thought.

To Roka’s and my surprise, some paper cups with little pink butterflies on them and two 50cl cans of Tuborg Special Brew were produced from under the counter. They were accompanied by a plate of pistachios. Now we’re talking!

Grappa, wine and now 8% beer. Not quite the detox holiday I’d imagined. A pleasant surprise nonetheless. We talked politics and after a few more drinks the guys pulled out an Iranian gold ingut from the safe for us to play with. It weighed more than my weekly shop and was a little worried about dropping it. This being pre-midday, the Special Brew had made swift business of me.

“What happens if the police catch us?” 
“Tourists will have no problem, but we would go to prison.”
Again I was amazed at the lengths that people would go to in order to give us a good time. We quickly finished our beer and went to get a spot of lunch to soak it up.

The dining hall next to the Bazaar looked like it hasn’t changed in 500 years. The windows were intricate patterns of blue and red stained glass and the meals were all taken sitting on a raised platform. Once again my food came with the delicious, thick yellow sauce known as Horosh Mas. I remembered that it had saffron and yoghurt but there was more to it. “What’s the other ingredient Masoud?”
“Meat.” 
“I see.”

Lunch in the Bazaar 

We offered to pay for Masoud’s lunch but he took it as a grave insult that we had even been seen touching our wallets in his company. “You are my guests. Please.” And promptly paid for all of us. It was heart warming and I wished there were another way to thank him beyond my outdated London post cards.

We then went to the Masjed e-Jameh, the largest mosque in Iran. It’s 800 years of history makes it a real pinnacle of Islamic architecture. Masoud insisted on paying for our tickets and even our audio guide. The guide was actually an old non-smart phone that had some dodgy recordings on them. Rokas and I did our best not to crack a smile for fear of offence.

The most astounding thing about the place, aside from unspeakable beauty, was the total lack of tourists. We were completely alone for for the whole day. We spied two chirping older ladies who looked European and asked where they were from. 
“Denmark.”
“Small world! My mother is Danish and Roka has spent the last 11 years working in Copenhagen.”

As if by magic only the second set of tourists we’d seen all day (after the Danish ladies) appeared from nowhere. 
“I’m from Aarhus” said a heavily bearded man. (Aarhus is Denmark’s second city). We all shared a slightly bemused giggle and went our separate ways.

This was indeed a very small world. Smaller still for those with links to Denmark, it seemed.

Farewell Masoud - Thursday, February 18th

In the evening we went out for dinner with Masoud. He said that we were picking up one of his friends called Eli. “She’s a really cool girl, you will like her.” And indeed I did.

Eli was a whirlwind antithesis to the stern face of Iranian feminity that I’d seen for much of on this trip.  Vociferous, opinionated and fearless. She had an aura of razor sharp intelligence that danced off of her every word and gesture. Her personality flew in the face of everything that a Westerner would expect an Iranian girl to be. I’d known her for two minutes and she was already one of the most arresting and intriguing people I’d ever met.

After the usual introductory patter, the conversation turned to our favourite Disney films and TV shows. Like me, she constantly watching Friends from beginning to end. “You always pick up new things each time!” She exclaimed. It also turns out that it’s easier to get pirated movies online in Iran than the UK. 
“Do you ever go to the cinema?” I asked. 
“We went a few weeks ago. Iranian films are so dull that we both fell asleep.” She confessed.

It became clear that Masound and Eli were involved in the Iranian equivalent of dating. This was not immediately obvious. Their relationship highlighted the gulf between public and private life in Iran. In Iran you don’t have girlfriends, publicly at least.

They had met on a year ago on a website that was meant to be used by Iranians to make friends abroad and practice English. But people quicky realised its potential for incognito dating.

We stopped at a restaurant for dinner. It was unlike I’d seen before. A 20 foot high water feature, in the style of an erupting volcano, formed the core of the room. Around it were doors leading into individual carpeted dining booths. I let out a little sigh. The prospect of another sit down meal was  daunting. I have the flexibility of the tin man at the best of times.

Once again I offered to pay as we were ordering but Masoud was resolute in his generosity.

Soon we were well ensconced in dinner and I was keen to probe Masoud on the inner workings of Iranian relationships. 
“How long do people date before they marry their girlfriend?” I asked. 
“Men never get married to their girlfriends.” She said as she shot him a pointed glance. I had clearly stumbled across a bit of a sore spot.

After dinner we decided to retire back to Eli’s place for some Hukka. Esfahan is a fairly conservative place and Hukka bars are few and far between. Girls can’t even smoke in public in Iran so, like many things, it’s all done behind closed doors.

In this vacum of expression it is the things that remain unsaid or physically unrequited that are meaningful. There was a language to it. Glances and gestures where you could feel meaning beneath the surface. As they spoke, without making eye contact, they made an almost inaudible kissing sounds. Literally air kissing.

It was heart warming to see. I only wished they had more opportunity to fully express themselves. They did manage a few pecks as we left but it felt very restrained. Not a tragedy but certainly a great shame that they had only fleeting physical outlets for their emotions.

One thing that had struck me was that Eli jumped straight into a pair of leggings when we got home. Women can’t wear anything remotely skin tight in public so this was the first time I’d seen even the faintest hint of youthful female form in 5 days. I realised that I was staring at her and forced my attentions back to the Hukka. The poor blokes must be going nuts here, I thought.

In the morning Masoud had once again conjured a delightful breakfast. This time we were gifted with a traditional Esfahani speciality. A giant bowl of Neaty Haleem. “What are the main ingredients?” 
“Yoghourt.. And meat.”
I saw Roka’s eyes widen, and the corners of his mouth drop. The meat in question was jellified animal fat that gave it a texture that was more than phlegm like. Being a regular porridge eater this wasn’t too taxing for me.  A little sugar or honey made it quite palatable.

Roka looked at his bowl of Haleem as though a cat had just vomited into it. While Masoud was talking to me I noticed him take the honey and pour most of it into his bowl so as to drown out any trace. Three large spoonfuls later and he had made light work of it. 
“Would you like some more?” Asked Masoud. 
“No thanks, I’m still full from last night.” Came the rather rehearsed reply.

After breakfast it was time to say goodbye to his family. His mother said that next time I come back she hoped that I had a wife. I said that I hoped Masoud would have one too. Even at 35 years old a child was still expected to live at home until he married. Masoud was quick to point out that he lived in a separate apartment. I told him it didn’t count if it was the same building. “Nice try mate.”

We took Roka to the bus station. It was time for us to part ways. I had certainly enjoyed our time together. But there had been moments where I had found his company frustrating. Getting him to volunteer conversation, for example, was challenging at times. Often he preferred to let me fill the voids while he quietly observed. When he did speak it was sparing, to say the least. Still, theres no shame in being pensive.

It’s worth noting that bus stations in Iran are rather shouty affairs. The free market economy is very much alive and well here and rival bus companies vie for your attention as you arrive at the ticket counter. Given the near identical service offerings, a prize ticket shouter is worth his weight in gold.  It’s a little off putting at first but soon becomes more of an intriguing spectacle.

Roka and I said our goodbyes. I wanted to head 7 hours east of Esfahan into the desert outpost of Germeh.  Short on time, he had chosen a closer destination to the west that was of special interest to him for reasons I couldn’t fathom.

When we hugged, my head could only get as far as his chest. It must have looked like a father saying goodbye to his child from a distance. He left and Masoud and I went to visit Esfahan’s most famous Christian site, The Church of St Joseph of Aremathia.

On the way I noticed a number of Buicks parked on the street. Apparently Esfahan had been a haven for American expats before the revolution. When the new regime swept to power, the Americans left but the cars stayed. “You should stay until tomorrow. All the Buick drivers take them for a spin.” Sadly I would have to leave that to my imagination.

At the church Masoud finally let me pay for something during the stay.  Given his previous generosities, and the fact that this was ostensibly a Christian monument, it felt more than fair.

The church was a bit of a curio. Built at the start of the 17th century, it was actually at the insistance of the Muslim Safavid leader Kelisa-ye Vank that it came into being. Unsurprisingly, there were strings attached.

The main stipulation given to the Armenian Christians was that it needed to adhere to Muslim architectural principles. What you get, therefore, is a completely unique hybrid of church and mosque. The roof had a curved islamic dome but there is also a belfry tower right next to it. Inside, enormous Christian murals comfortably sit alongside intricately patterned Islamic tiles as though they had always been bedfellows.

Freedom of worship is still allowed now in Iran, as it was 400 years ago. There are around 5000 Christians in Esfahan and they go about their business unmolested.

The church museum had a memorial to the Armenian Genocide in it. It was the first Genocide of the 20th century and between 1915 and 1917 over 1.5 millions Armenian Christians were killed by the Turks. The whole museum was packed with schoolchildren form Shiraz. I was glad to see that educating children on the darker sides of religion was not a taboo here. Especially since Muslims were doing the killing.

I had time for a quick hair cut at Masoud’s favourite barber and then we were off to the station. Iranian (and many Islamic) weekends start on Thursday afternoon and end on Friday eve. Saturday and Sunday are both working days. This meant that we were stuck in heavy traffic and would miss the bus to Khur. This was a bit of an issue as there is only one bus a day.

Not a problem, Masoud got on the case and somehow managed to call the driver and asked him to hold the bus. 
“Why on earth would they hold up the bus for me?” I asked. 
“You are tourist. Of course they will hold the bus for you.”

Again, I imagined doing the reverse of this with a bus in the UK with an Iranian travellar. I think the bus would intentionally leave early. True to his word, the bus was waiting for us, 10 minutes after it was meant to leave.

There was time for me to exchange yet another emotional goodbye at the terminal. I gave Masoud a London post card, making sure that all the monuments on it still existed. He gave me large box of Mozzafsri Gaz, a sugary, pistachio laced cake about the size of a hockey puck.

It was probably the hardest goodbye so far. “I hope we will meet again Masoud, in this life or the next.” I said, shamelessly stealing the line from Gladiator.

And so to my next destination. The Ateshooni guest house was a 6 hour bus ride to a town called Khur and then another 40 minute taxi  journey from there. Population 260, 10 goats and three camels, according to the guide book. The difficulty getting there was precisely its allure. Only one daily bus in and out. I just hoped that the group from Shanghai weren’t Waiting for me.

Getting in touch with the mysterious proprietor Myzier wasn’t easy. He did eventually answer my email after a day or so. But my follow up emails haven’t received a response. Given how hard it is to get to, and that my bus is very much Iranians only, I’m sure there will be some space.

3 hours to go. I’ve got some Don Henley, a ton of Iranian snack foods and an unendingly breathtaking desert landscape to oggle. And my god what a landscape. The setting sun has turned all the distant mountain peaks a crimson red. It feels like we’re taking a bus across the Martian surface.

So far I’ve managed to piss off the whole bus by dropping the entire contents of the sweet box Masoud gave me on the floor. They were packed in a kilo of fine caster sugar. When we finally cleaned up the mess I offered them around. No takers sadly.

The caster sugar from my Iranian sweets made it look like I was having a little too much fun on the coach journey. 

Just Deserts - Friday, February 19th

The Ateshooni guesthouse was as far away from civilisation as one could get in Iran whilst still having creature comforts. An oasis strewn with date palms in the middle of the desert. It’s seven hours from anything you could call a city and about 35km from the nearest town.

There are no homestays here so the guesthouse is the only option. And it’s by no means a bad one. The building is a restored 19th century baked mud castle and packed with character. It’s also run by a bearded man who looks like the Iranian Uriah Heap. My only issue is that there is only one common area. My room, whilst lovely, is not where I plan to spend my entire evening if I don’t like the other guests. This was a bit of a quandry.

I arrived to find an Australian gently lounging himself on the carpeted living space. Australians are a bit like the herpes of the travelling world. You may think you’re rid of them but they never really go away for long. I generally find Aussies (especially from Sydney) so odious that I try and avoid conversation unless absolutely necessary.

The only other person staying was called Barrie from Rotterdam. It turns out that we’d actually spoken on the phone before. Al had given me his number and I had called for travelling advice. Small world.

The Aussie turned out to be from Melbourne and actually a decent bloke. I’ve met some lovely Australians and even befriended a few but by and large they irritate the piss out of me. Second only to Germans, of course. I will add that there are many Germans I love dealy, but they are an exception to the rule.

The next day my alarm woke me up at 5:30. Last night’s dream had involved a Dutchman, some carrots and one of my exes but I couldn’t remeber the plot for love or toffee.

The plan was to climb the large hill/small mountain behind the town and get a few shots of the sun rising. Aside from confusing a dog for a jackel (it was super scary, honest) it went pretty well. You can click on the photos below to see the sun rising over Germeh.

Click on the image below for the slideshow of the sun rising over Germeh.

After a triumphant breakfast I set about the town, rounding the first the corner straight into a group of old men. A man called Jawad approached. He explained that a local parliamentary candidate was coming to speak to the village bigwigs in order to canvass votes. I was cordially invited to hear him speak.

We all sat around in a circle with our legs crossed and a large bowl of thick veggie gloop was passed to all in attendance. Apparently the way to your votes here was through your stomach. Take note Boris.

I’d just eaten my fill but Britishness spurred me head first into my hearty second breakfast. By the time the candidate actually spoke, I was practically crying veggie gloop.

It soon became clear that most of the bigwigs were here for a free meal.  The butcher, baker, and candlestick maker had slipped into comas after the first five minutes. I assume the women had too but they were hidden behind a tarpaulin, so who knows. By the end I was the only one paying attention. I only knew four words in Farsi so this was good going.

Germeh Political Gallery

Following the political gathering, a jog was in order. The various excitements on offer having been exhausted after less than an hour.

The plan was to run to a thermal spring 15km away through untracked desert. Maswad (sort of a concierge)  deposited me by the local dam and pointed to two mountains. “Go that way and you’ll find thermal bath.” Unfortunately I missed the bit that said “make a sharp left after the mountains.”

The run was something special. An enormous dry riverbed with the texture of a burnt marshmallow followed by a wide dusty expanse. Uninterrupted desert views as far as the eye could see.

There was something that could be a town in the distance and so I plodded towards it. After two hours it became obvious that I had cocked up massively. I should have been at the thermal bath quite some time ago.

Closer inspection revealed that I had run to a cemant factory. I was shattered and couldn’t really go on. Thankfully I managed to catch a bar of signal on the road next to the factory and called for an escort. Maswad in shining Samand retrieved me just as day fell. “You didn’t turn left.” 
“So I gather.”

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Motorway WC in the Desert 

Feeling Very Alone

His car was quite literally held together with used chewing gum. The odometer had just shy of 250,000km, and it showed. The body had the aerodynamics of an freight liner and as we cracked 140k/h, I could  actually hear the car falling apart. ‘Killed by a car crash in the Iranian desert.’ I imagined friends thinking it a very befitting death.

Exhausted but back at home base safely, I prayed to the guest fairy for no more company. There were no Australians to speak of, instead there was a gay couple from Stuttgart. 'Two Germans. Oh Christ’, I thought.

To put this in context, I’d made a special effort to turn 2016 into a 'be more open minded about Germans’ year. It was the only reason I went to Berlin to see in the New Year.

But it got off to a bad start. First rejection from the Bergheim. Then rejection from several other clubs for no reason whatsoever. I’d come all the way to Berlin and I was being rejected like a fat girl on prom night. How dare they.

Now they’re trying to ruin my quiet evening in a desert paradise. They talked about me in German and  sniggered, assuming a Brit couldn’t possibly speak German. Oh, but I can. I’d even told them that I had lived in Switzerland. So now they were insulting my intelligence and the fact that I had chosen not to wear underwear (I had shorts on, don’t worry).

The one called Axel had a laugh that was so  grating that I would rather have listened to a bag of puppies being drowned. The first time I heard it I choked on a digestive biscuit and nearly died. I would have given anything for room full of Australians (not from Sydney). His travel stories were shit too.

I desperately want to be friendlier towards Germans but I’m not getting any leeway. I’m sure the Germans have camps for xenophobes like me. They’re pretty good at that sort of thing. Or so I’ve heard.

The one called Fritz had been telling me about how much he hated cats. “Zey are ze Antichrist.”
As if by magic, a Persian cat appeared. 
“Watch out for him. He always attacks people in the room who are afraid of cats….he’s a bit mad…I think he has rabies.”

With that Fritz was quickly dispersed. The worst bit is that they really do mean well. I’m just a terrible human being.

A middle aged French woman practically wearing a copy of Eat, Pray, Love aroud her neck checked in. I left her to them. The French. Well, there’s another story.

So, there are two takeaways for today. 1. Xenophobia is incurable. 2. Consult a map before you go for a long run in the desert. Or you’ll get your just deserts. 

A Night with Pussy - Saturday, February 20th

During the middle of the night something furry began to stroke my face. The immediate assumption was that a camel spider had snuck into my room and was about to have its way with me. The room was pitch black with a light switch in the far corner. I scrambled for it and followed with a volley of frantic blows to the ground using the heavy fleece bedding.

Once I’d exhausted myself I scanned to see it there was anything left of the eight legged assailant. The only thing in the room, aside from a messy bed, was a cat sitting in the corner. The same cat I had used to scare the Germans. My chickens had come home to roost.

Somehow the cat had forced the window open and had taken a fancy to me. I was too tired to get rid of it so I went to bed. Soon the cat was at it again. It seemed to be going through some kind of feline puberty. Moaning and rubbing against me furously while shuddering like a paint mixer. Like a cross between a purr and an orgasm.

Whenever it didn’t feel it was getting enough attention, it clawed me. Knowing I was too tired to get up, I was hostage to it. Eventually it was too much and at 2:30 am I threw it out the window and locked it.

Just as I was getting to sleep, it forced the window open again and began frotting against me in it’s usual, very unsettling habit.

At 3:00am I threw it out again. The window lock was inspected and seemed in good order. At 3:30am he had managed to break in again and it was thrown out of the bedroom door. I engineered a double lock using a tissue (I’m not going to explain how) to ensure it could not possibly break in again.

At 4:00 am it was confirmed that the lock had worked. The cat, knowing the gig was up, began relentlessly scratching the wooden window frame.  This was accompanied by a meow that sounded not unlike a baby crying. It was the one night stand most men had nightmares about, except with a cat.

I imagined friends asking me about my trip. ‘Did you get any while you were in Iran?’ 
'Yes. Yes, I got a lot of pussy. Too much in fact.’

At 5:30 am my alarm went and it was time to head to Yazd. I hope they don’t have cats there.

Deserted - Saturday, February 20th

My nocturnal tryst with the cat had left me somewhat sleep deprived. But I had another date with a 7am bus bound for Yazd so there really was no rest for the wicked.

Yazd is a mud forged desert city that was nearly three milennia old.  Marco Polo had  given it the seal of approval, calling it ‘a very fine and splendid place.’ It’s heyday was in the 14th century and many of those buildings still stand so this day. So this was going to be a potential highlight. Which is hard, because there have been a fair few of them already.

When my taxi arrived at the bus station there was a sign in Farsi saying that the only bus out of Khur to Yazd would not be running that day. Apparently no one had reserved it so they assumed no one wanted to go.

With only a brief puase for thought my kindly old taxi driver was helping me hitch rides off the side of the road. Hitchhiking doesn’t really happen here so this was a wee bit of a long shot.

Fortune eventually came in the form of two enormous flatbed trucks. They were carrying dry concrete and stopping via Na'in. From there I could take a bus to Yazd.

This was the first time I’d ever gotten a hitch from a truck before so I was  rather excited. The driver was a warm, jolly little man called Sayed. For an Iranian truck driver he knew a surprising amount about UK politics. We somehow managed to eek out a conversation about the EU referendum. He backed David Cameron. “He’ll be so glad to hear that.”

Once politics was done, we switched to more cerebral conversations about women. Sayed had a seemingly endless stream of naughty pics in his old Sony Ericsson. I remember the phone fondly. It was one of the first colour screen phones and at 16, I was using it for naughty pics
too.

It’s important to bear in mind that the women in these pics were still clothed and many still in head scarves. They just had very lascivious looks to camera. That’s more than enough around here. It probably would have been for me at 16 too.

The 2003 London post cards I had bought were becoming the purchase of the  trip. As it’s rude to give money for generosities so these were the next best thing. People really loved them and I’d brought 20 so could afford to be generous. Sayed put his proudly on display in his truck window. “Londan. Very Good!” He exclaimed.
'Wait till you see the tube at rush hour’, I thought.

We stopped and Sayed’s slightly less cuddly friend got out from the sleeping area behind the driver’s seat. They offered me the flat bed and I was more than happy to oblige. I thought about explaining the reason why I was so tired but it would only have led to confusion.

After a few precious hours of sleep both trucks stopped for a spot of lunch. A mat was put down on the floor of the lay-by and the four of them treated me to a lunch of tomato, cucumber, cheese, dates and fresh bread. Oh, and tea of course. Lots of tea.

I tried to imagine a British truck driver settling down to the same  healthy spread, but couldn’t. A sweaty Rustlers cheeseburger sprang to mind.

We got to Na'in and said our goodbyes. Being on the flat bed in the truck was the most comfortable (but by far the slowest) method of transport I’d used so far. Highly recommended if you’re not in a hurry. They left me by the roadside and the bus arrived half an hour later. The Iranian equivalent of synchronised mass transport.

It seems that instead of the government paying for anti-speeding adverts here, they just take the wrecks and place them on platforms near motorway checkpoints. A bit grizzly but probably quite effective. I’m glad they took the bodies out first. Think that would have been over egging it a bit. 

Do You Want to Drink Pussy Juice? - Saturday/Sunday, February 20th/21st

Soon we were in Yazd and it was time to meet the third host of the trip, Mohammad. He was an English teacher and I  went straight from the bus station to his classroom to meet him.

Mohammed was a goateed, energetic little man and was almost certainly the inspiration for Ohmid Jalili’s Iranian shopkeeper character. Every word was pronounced with a flourish of limbs. It was hard not to smile when listening to him speak.

He was teaching until 9pm so I went out to do some sightseeing before nightfall. The old city was an enchanting maze of low slung, mud walled alleys. The weatherbeaten, heavy wooden doors betrayed the scars of age that couldn’t be patched by fresh applications mud. It had character of its own that I felt had been lacking from Tehran and to a lesser extent, Isfahan.

Yazd wind catchers - 5000 year old technology that's still in use today. 

To get a good photo of  the city at dusk I needed to go to the top of one of the traditional tea houses. I explained this to the proprietor of one and  he duly showed me up to the roof. Not before we had taken several photos together together, of course.

I sort of know how a C list celebrity feels like now. Especially as I have absolutely no discernable talents to speak of.

Never lacking for a new friend

I sat for over an hour listening to evening prayers in the shadow of the Masjed e Jemeh (a large, very beautiful mosque) and became friendly with a man on a roof a few houses down. He had a flock of trained pigeons and  kindly sent them on a circuit that passed right by me for photo ops. Eventually it was dark and we warmly waved one another goodbye.

Trained Pigeons Flying During Prayers

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Yazd at Dusk

Back at Mohammad’s classroom, it turnd out the lesson had been inspired by my hitchhiking adventure. On the screen was a video of the famous hitchhiking scene from the 90s comedy classic Dumb and Dumber. “I like to teach how to understand movies and TV.”
He said he had also shown them scenes from the sequil. 
“It wasn’t my favourite” I said. He shot me a hurt look.

I was invited to talk to  everyone in the class and help them practice their English. After this has been exhausted we played 20 questions. I chose David Cameron but seemingly no one had heard of him. Not even Mohammad the English teacher. Oh dear, I thought, even Sayed the truck driver knew who he was.

The all male advanced English class turned up at 8pm.  The lesson plan was to go to a traditional tea house and smoke Hukkah together. It certainly beats 20 questions.

And so we were accompanied by Masoud and Hameed to a traditional Yazidi tea house. A large open courtyard with a pool of water in the middle surrounded by carpeted lounging benches. 
“Would you like to drink some Pussy Juice?” Asked a beaming Mohammed. “It’s a local speciality.”
I was too busy choking on my tea to reply. If this was an invitation to go whoring, it was certainly the least delicate I’d ever received.

After I had caught my breath he explained that water infused with Pussy Willow was on the menu. The literal translation from the menu was indeed Pussy Juice.

It seemed then, that Iran had an abundance of different kinds of Pussy on offer, given the events of the last few days. I duly ordered it and gave it a go. It tasted like homeopathic medicine. In fact, I think it actually was a homeopathic medicine.

Mohammad’s pupil Masoud then took me for a joy ride around town. Apparently the most popular channels in Iran are BBC Persia and another channel sponsored by ITV. “What’s your favourite programme?” 
I asked. “Top Gear.”

It turns out that Britain had been quietly colonising the rich cultural heritage of Iran via the medium of Jeremy Clarkson. Now I understood why so many Brits were being refused visas. “Do Iranians think he’s funny?” “Yes. We were pretty angry when he got fired.” He wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about Chris Evans. “No one knows who he is. But Joey will be pretty cool.”

Masoud took me to his family home, built in the traditional style. It had stood roughly in this fashion for a millenium. On the roof I asked him why the two next door houses were complete wrecks. “Who do they belong to?” 
“Jews that went to Israel in the 50s.”
“Why didn’t they sell them?”
“Jews never sell  anything! They just buy!”

Sunday morning rolled in and instead of pussy, I was woken up by a cock. The loudest bloody cockerel I’ve ever heard in my life. Inially I thought he was in the room with me or had snuck jnto one of the prayer towers.

During my time with Mohammad I had noticed a slight aggressive streak in his demeanour. I sensed this was the result of an insecurity so over breakfast I probed him. It turns out he had hit some pretty hard times as the result of a number of failed business ventures. He had numerous debts and had sold his car to pay a loan shark.

The pain and exasperation were written all over his face. Yet he still was kind enough to take a complete stranger into his home and  treat him to Hukkah (not hookers) and tea at a smart hotel. You could see that he was nearly at the end of his tether and but he still made the time to make sure I was looked after in his city.

It all made sense now and in wished there was something to do to help. Regrettably, there wasn’t.

24 hours had elapsed in Yazd and it was already time to go to my next destination. The eastern city of Kerman. There I would meet my Couch Surfing friend Shiva and we would take tea together. Shiva (a woman) had hitchhiked all over Iran and Armenia as a solo traveller. I was excited to meet this character.

Tomorrow, a moonlit stay in the desert Kaluts. A field of monolithic, wind shaped towers a day’s camel trek into the vast eastern desert expanse.

But until then I’m sitting next to my new, rather rotund friend Said. He’s an engineer (of course) and keen to share chocolate and his flavoured pumpkin seeds with me. He also has porn on his phone. I stop short of asking him to WhatsApp me a few choice vids. I’m not that desperate. Not yet.

Friends at the Edge of the Earth - Monday, February 22nd

The coach pulled into Kerman station late on Sunday and I was greeted by Shiva and her friend Ali. They had hitchhiked around the Iran and eastern Turkey together and were happy to hear that I’d sampled the delights of an Iranian truck’s business class flat bed. “It’s the best!” Exclaimed Shiva. “Agreed. My only issue was that the porn is on a very small screen.”

Ali would be my guide in the desert Kaluts. Sadly camping was off limits due to permit restrictions but I would be staying in a small town on the edge of the desert which suited me just fine.

Ali was a scholarly and very amiable fellow. Taught skinned, beardless and youthful for his years. He had a well measured countenance that was instantly reassuring. He  also had a batchelors degree in tourism and spoke excellent English to boot.

During our conversations he also revealed that he quite enjoyed playing chess with six people simultaneously. I was in no hurry to reach for my travel chess set.  When he wasn’t trouncing hoards of chess players in succession, his time was spent running a successful travel business and playing goalie for the local football team.

After taking me for the best falaffel sandwich I’ve ever had (it was drowning in pickles), they deposited me at my guesthouse. I had asked for the cheapest digs available in Kerman and these didn’t disappoint.

The Milad guesthouse felt more like a government halfway house for Iranian ex convicts. For £4 a night you got four walls, a matress and a pillow. The walls were tastefully decorated with Farsi graffiti carved by previous occupants ushing their lucky shivs. The house itself was nestled cosily on a six lane motorway, with excellent views. I said I would pay in the morning but they were rather insistent that it was advanced.

A morning shower set me back a whole extra pound. When I asked for a towel, I was given something that looked more like an expired oven glove. Except oven gloves tended to absorb liquid. This just did a semi-reasonable job of redistributing it.

Again, ‘you pays your money, you takes your choice’ and it was just fine for my purposes. Morning broke and Ali picked me up for our excursion several hundred kilometres into the desert.

From the outset it felt more like a blokey road trip. We exchanged very frank conversation on a number of personal topics. Even though he was technically on my clock, it didn’t feel like he was singing for his supper.

“Iranians have everything and they have nothing.” He mused. It was possibly the best summary of the state of Iran that I had heard so far. The country was blessed with unrelentingly beautiful geography, world class education, ancient cultures… I could go on and on. Yet they are still very much trapped.

The whole system here seems to be geared towards preventing young people from expressing themselves publicy. Iran has one of the youngest demographics in the world but power rests firmly in the hands of an older, conservative religious elite. The young see political participation as futile and so there is widespread apathy. Resistance is very much of an underground nature.

It also turns out that freedom of worship isn’t quite as free as had been previously advertised. Non-muslims are free to practice religion but cannot be seen discussing their religion publicly. This also has to lie under the radar of the authorities.

Being in a place like this makes you realise the immense fortune of living in a culture where the freedom to choose your lifestyle is barely questioned. Here it’s a dream shared my millions of young people who are totally dispossessed. They feel that the state has highjacked Islam, using it to create a system that suppresses its people.

There was plenty of food for thought as we drove through the desert. En route, we stopped by the remnants of a traditional village reservoir. It could hold around 30,000 litres of water, or five routemasters to you and me. The walls were 15 metres high made of a combination of ash, eggs and camel milk. “I hope the village had more than one camel.” A wry pause. “Or chicken”. 

We stopped for lunch by the edge of the Lut Desert and made a new friend who really wasn't camera shy. 

The Kaluts were an unusual geological phenomenon that resulted from the desert being on an ocean floor millions of years ago. Once the powers that be had pushed it above ground, the soft, water logged sand was shaped by thousands of years of heat, wind and occasional rain.

The result is an endless field of copper coloured hills that look a lot like camel humps and others that look like skyscrapers. The resulting shape depended on the way that the ancient ocean currents had deposited different types of sediment.

For three days I hadn’t seen a single other tourist and was delighting in the fact. Ali said I was free to wander as I pleased, providimg I didn’t go completely off on one.

Soon I had scaled a peak with a satisfying view and was nestling in for a meditative evening alone. The setting sun’s heat gently caressing my face. I felt like I was on a precipice at the edge of the known world. Beyond, an uncharted  desert endlessness that eventually became Afghanistan.

My communion with nature was interrupted by a noise behind me. I turned to see an unmistakably lanky figure shuffling across the sand below. 
“Rokas!!” I exclaimed with arms above my head. 
“How are you my friend?” Came the bellowing reply. 
“Oh, I’m just fine. What took you so long?”

Rokas and I had literally parted ways (he went west, I went east) three days previously with no intentions of meeting again. The fact that our accidental reunion had happened in such a completey remote setting was extraordinary to say he least. 

I would be lying of I said I hadn’t missed his presence. And quite a presence it was. We exchanged war stories and shared advice on where the other should go to next.

The setting sun gifted us a symphony of desert colours that rendered us somewhat speechless. The shadows of each enormous structure reaching desperately into the horizon. Then the inevitable disappearance of the sun behind the distant mountain peaks. It was a moment worth sharing.

And with that we said our goodbyes again and made no further plans to meet. Fate, it seemed, was keen to do the heavy lifting for us.

That night Ali and I retired to the traditional palm roofed homestay on the desert’s edge. Seranaded by the howl of desert jackals we righted the world’s wrongs over tea and curded aubergine.

Tomorrow, a sunrise run through the Kaluts, some go-karting and an evening of Zuhane. The latter being traditional Iranian bodybuilding and a popular spectator sport. I’m curious to say the least. 

Dinner with Ali in the Desert

A 105 Year Old Smoking Strongman - Tuesday, February 23rd

The desert air gifted me some of the deepest sleep I’ve had in some time. That was, until my 4:30am wake up call from darling Ali.

Stony silent, we drove into the desert to watch the sun rise over the Kaluts. It was a true spectacle. Like watching dawn break on Mars.

When the show was over, it was time for a morning jog. Ali was jumpy about letting me go too far into the desert without supervision as any injuries would cost him his livelihood. So, much like the famous Siberian training scene in Rocky IV, I was tailed by a car driving very, very slowly.

During the summer the temperatures here can regularly reach as high as 55°C. In fact the record for the hottest surface temperature on earth was set  just down the road. 70.6°C. Not a place for the feint of heart. Thankfully this being winter, today’s top temperature was positively fridgid 27°C.

Back at our homestay, the welcome reappearance of carrot jam. A whole jar of the stuff. I even had a hot shower, powered by a furnace fuelled by dry palm leaves. They had been diligently chopped in preparation for my morning ablutions.

All in all, the proprietor Mustafa spent about an hour labouring to give me 10 minutes of hot water. Spoilt doesn’t even cut it.

Mustafa was a sage old gentleman and immediately apologised for the state of his hair and beard. One of the villagers had died an untimely death and so the way the whole male population of the village payed tribute by letting their hair and beards go untouched for fourty days. It’s a simple but very touching act of remembrance. I wondered what the women did.

The Iranians, by and large, have much more respect for their dead than European  societies. We have a quick funeral and shove them into a hole on the ground. Out of sight, out of mind. Here they hold mass family gatherings on the anniversary of a death to celebrate and remember each relative. This happens every year, so they are never forgotten.

It’s hard to overstate the importance of family structures in Iranian society. You don’t leave home until you are married here and there is still a fair amount of arranged marriage. Although it’s seriously on the wane. On working days, almost every emplyee in every office, farm and factory downs tools and heads home for lunch with their families.

There are, of course, positives and negatives to the centrality of family life to Iranians. It can be a great support network in times of strife. Or it can be a choker on your ability to live an independent life and make your own choices.

I’d heard arguments for both sides and felt that the right answer was somewhere in the middle of the two. The difficulty was navigating your way to that balance. It’s a process that takes time and for many, has not yet begun.

When we returned to Kerman, we picked up a few friends of Ali’s and made our way to the Holiday Village. There was a go karting track there that was apparently one of the best in Iran.

We passed a 1970s  Chevrolet on the way and I remarked that I had seen many Buicks in Isfahan. Ali explained that they are actually used in beauty pageants, strictly limited to American pre-1978 cars. I’m sure many Americans would delight this little fact.

The Holiday Village was 30 minutes out of town and a bit of a curiosity. There was indeed a go karting track. There was also a mini fun fare, a large swimming pond, pool tables, a restaurant and the shell of a half built hotel. What there clearly wasn’t, was other people.

Thankfully we had a nine strong group so could sort of fill the void. Not that we planned to do anything except go karting.

The karting itself also had a few notable absences. No safety briefing, no protective suits, no  supervision and no seat belts. What it did have in spades was a driving experience so terrifyingly fun that it made me glad I  had spare underwear in the car.

Later that evening we went back into Kerman to watch Zuhane. A sport that dates back around 3000 years. There isn’t any competition as such. It’s best described as  peaceful war games aerobics for manly old codgers.

The action takes place in a 16 sided pit surrounded by an audience and is presided over by a Morshed. Essentially a sedentary referee/pacemaker with a drum and a microphone. The man in the middle of the bullseye in the pit does an action, then the rest copy it. Simple.

The only exception to this is twirling. Only one person can twirl. The others watch and stop him falling over. How twirling was party to ancient military combat is a question I simply can’t answer.

The leader of this particular group was a former military man called Dr Zackeri. He was 105. Although sporting a slight but unyielding hunch, he was lean as a whippet with skin taught as a snare drum. He shuffled around the room with an almost crab like grace.

I asked if he had a secret to his youth. “Cigarettes. I’ve been smoking like a chimney for 70 years and it’s kept me going.” 
“Anythhing else?” I wasn’t entirely satisfied. 
“At 60 I married a 16 year old.”
Duly noted.

I had assumed that the good Dr Zackeri would be a mere observer of his
ten man band of strongmen. I was wrong.

After a prayer the Morshad began a heart thuddering beat and I watched Dr Zackeri perform 20 minutes of press ups. Then 20 minutes of vigorous mimicery of armed combat. Lunges, shield  thrusts, arm thwacks and neck rolls. My jaw was on the floor after the first ten press ups.

When I thought he had finally worn himself out, he paused to speak. Barely out of breath. 
“An old lion is still a lion.” He roared. 
And with that he picked up two solid walnut wood batons, far bigger than his own thighs and began swinging them over his head like they were full of helium. 
“Are they heavy?” I asked Ali. 
“I can barely pick them up.” He confessed.

When it was all over we said our goodbyes. Outside, wearing a cream four button suit, was Dr Zackeri. True to his word he was puffing on a thin molasses coloured cigarette. He said it was most effective if you hold the smoke in as long as possible.

Zuhane in action

We made straight for the bus station. It was time for my overnight bus to  Bander Abbas, a port town on the Arabian Gulf. From there I would take a boat to Qeshm island. Perhaps there would be a beach or two waiting for me there. Either way, it was a refreshing break from the desert.

It was another emotional  goodbye. Shiva and Ali had been wonderful hosts and had really gone out of their way to make my time in Kerman as special as possible. Like so many other Iranians, I would miss them a great deal.

Food for Thought - Wednesday, February 24th

The coach pulled into Bander Abbas at 5:30am and it was a short taxi to the ferry terminal. Soon I was on the first boat of the day to Qeshm, the main city of Qeshm island.

Bander Abbas,  incidentally, is one of the few places where a guidebook has ever explicitly said ‘just don’t bother’.

Our crossing was gifted with an extraordinary sunrise. The sun stained the misty morning clouds a deep crimson. The mill pond state of the Arabian Gulf mirrored the bleeding sky and for 10 minutes the Western horizon was ablaze. It looked like Armageddon.

I was meant to be meeting my new Couch Surfing (CS) friend Omid.
In a town called Dargahan, 30 minutes west of Qeshm.

Shiva had informed me that Couch Surfing was now banned in Iran. I had assumed it was the government trying to exert greater control but it turns out that hoteliers had lobbied for proclamations against it. The website itself is working fine so I shall use it until I’m told not to more directly.

Incidently, Tumblr and Facebook are banned in Iran. As a result, they are not being heavily monitored by the government and given the microscopic readership of this blog, I doubt it’s generating any attention. Although I’ve changed some names, just in case.

Omid was not quite what I was expecting. His CS profile had a beaming smile and was full of jokey wisecracks about his hobbies. When he turned up, he was the moodiest person I’d met in the country so far.

As I got to know him he revealed himself to be one of the most complex and intelligent people I’d met so far. His attitude was born from the frustration of being stuck at home, in a one horse town with his family. Even though he had a degree in architecture, he was limited to working within commuting distance from them home until he marries.

This frustration coarses through his entire being. The company of free roaming westeners coming through his home probably compounded it.

He confessed that he didn’t have many friends as the islanders were narrow minded. CS was the best way of meeting new people and practising his English.

Shiva had given me a contact in the west of the island called Asaad. He ran a homestay and also organised tours of the geological park that protects half of the island from development. Omid’s father happened to be a taxi driver (most people here seem to be) and gave me a ride to Doulab, an hour west from my homestay.

Assad was last personality I was expecting to meet on the edge of such a barren and coarse island. His English was nearly flawless and he had a disarming, gentle aura about him. He had grand ambtions to be the number one guesthouse in Qeshm. By default he seemed to be there already.

He and his wife fed me lunch, and sent me off into the Wild West on the back of a motorbike. By all accounts Qeshm island is a bit of a geologist’s wet dream. My interest in the field is cursory at best. But after 10 minutes on the motorbike, it was easy to see why they get so frothy for it.

Like the Kalut desert, it had an other worldly feel. We motored between soaring layers of ancient rock formations. Some looked like a giant slice of layer cake, others like mushrooms.

The motorbike ride made yesterday’s safety free karting seem like a game of hopscotch. There were no roads to speak of and my guide had taken it upun himself to reduce me to tears.

We hurtled around the landscape like a pair of escaped convicts. Some of the bumps were so hard hitting that my spleen feels like it’s been permanently relocated to my ear canal.

The first stop was a salt cave. And not just any old salt cave. It was the biggest and oldest salt cave in the world. And by default, the known universe.

Gingerly, we made our way through in monastic silence. It took me less than a minute to accidentally knock off a 15,000 year old salt stalactite from the ceiling.

My guide, not knowing a word of English, simply gave me a disappointed look and shook his head. Strangely enough, he didn’t seem that keen to go on much further.

I decided that a cave made entirely of  salt is pretty much the best place in the world to wound yourself. If you did fall badly then your friends couldn’t make fun of you. The salty cave has that one covered.

Qeshm Salt Lake

Next stop was a swim in the Persian Gulf. It was almost the main reason for the island detour and it didn’t disappoint. The beach was free of any signs of human existence. It lay in the shadow of a mountain covered in salt, giving it an alpine quality. The air was thick with a hot, murky mist. It all combined to give the scene a very etherial feel.

This was somewhat spoilt when I caught my guide popping a squat in the sea about 100 metres away.

Persian Gulf

Next we bouldered through an enormous canyon. Its white stone polished smooth by millenia of wind, rain and tourist’s fingers. We frolicked about and eventually climbed out to see the view.

I picked up a stone and threw it into the gap in the canyon knowing full well that it’s impossible for a man to watch and other man throw a stone and not do it himself. Soon we were both chucking whatever we could get our hands on in order to produce the most satisfying crashing echos from the depths below.

Back at Asaad’s, his wife cooked up a delicious veggie supper. He had a group of French middle aged cavers to  stay. They weren’t Parisian so it didn’t completely ruin the meal.

As a parting gift they gave me a hand made purse filled with shells. It was a particularly kind gesture given that I wasn’t their guest. When I offered to pay for dinner and lunch they refused. So I said I would give them a mention in the blog. With all its millions of readers.

I hitched a ride back to Dargahan on another truck. This time, it was a postcard of Tower Bridge that served as my means of payment. He was so delighted that he bought me a second dinner of two cheese filled crepes, a salty yoghourt drink called Douk and a bottle of water for good measure.

Back at my homestay I had a quick turn around before an evening on the town in Qeshm with Omid and friends. Before I could explain that I was as stuffed as a foi gras goose, Omid’s father had liaid out dinner number three.

Barely able to stand, I got a lift to the bright lights of Qeshm town where I met Omid and his two friends. Off we went to the shops to collect what turned out to be dinner number four.

Refusing Iranian hospitality is a futile act and you are much better off being a glutton than saying no. We sat on a hilltop overlooking the sparkling lights of the city and talked about TV shows. And, unexpectedly, philosophy.

They were very much in agreement that Jeremy Clarkson should not have been fired and shared the frustration of many Iranians over the choice of Chris Evans. We also all agreed that Tru Detective season 1 was a masterpiece and 2 was pants. One of them was a big fan of the IT Crowd.

We then moved on to the topic of philosophy. This was pretty surprising as we were in a region that most Iranians considered to be backwater. A bit like someone asking you for your views on Voltaire in an Isle of Man Post Office queue.

The all agreed that Bertrand Russel and his British counterparts had a more pragmatic and practical philosophy compared to their haughty neighbours across the channel.

I was a little aghast. My friends at home were, theoretically at least, meant to be pretty well educated. But not once had philosophy made it to the table. “Did you all study philosophy at university?” I queried. 
“No, engineering…and architecture.”

So far this trip had taught me that Iran prizes intellectual brawn and access to knowledge above almost all else. On more than one occasion, I’ve been asked on my views on Hafiz’s potry. Hafiz is considered by many to be the poet laureate for Iran and most homes here are deemed incomplete without a copy of his Divan.

I sat there wishing that some of my friends has the same intellectual hunger and desire to debate more esoteric issues. Then again, who am I to talk. Omid asked me if I wanted ice cream. How could I possibly refuse.

More Shiraz Please - Thursday, February 25th

My final stop was the city of  Shiraz, the home of Persian culture. A number of Iranians have told me that it’s the best city in Iran, so I have high hopes.

The bus from Bander Abbas to Shiraz was 13 hours long. An ambitious schedule dictated that I would need to fly if I wanted any time in Shiraz at all.

Sadly, the bad reputation of internal Iranian flights preceeds them. Sanctions have left the country with an ancient domestic air fleet that is short on spare parts. So short in fact, that I’ve been told they have to make some of the parts themselves.

Thanks to the dropping of sanctions though, the Iranian government have struck a deal with Airbus to begin replenishment of their stock. But this will take some time to  materialise.

Bandar airport itself was a dream. Clean, modern and very small. The plane was also small and propeller powered. But neither clean, nor modern. An ATR 72 prop plane that looked like it hasn’t had any work done on it since the Spice Girls had their first number one single.

My neighbour on board was Amir, and by the look of him I had assumed he was an engineer before we even began talking. And indeed he was.

I wanted reassurance from a professional that internal  Iranian planes are safe. 
“It’s pretty safe flying internally in Iran, isn’t it?” I asked, smiling nervously. 
“Not really. The ATR 72 the propeller engines aren’t very reliable.  Although crashes tend to happen when they land.” He paused, I didn’t have much to say to this. 
“We’re really looking forward to the Airbuses!” He beamed. 
Without noticing, my hands had gently crushed my empty water bottle.

Amir and I got along very well. His academic air reminded me of Ali in the Kaluts. I learnt that there are  some good reasons why Iran’s relationship with the West is on the up. The current president, Rohani, had actually studied at Glasgow uni and the foreign minister was educated in America. I gather they were engineers too.

After a mercifully smooth landing in Shiraz I was off to meet my final host, named Peyman. He had come highly recommended by Assad in Qeshm Island.

You may have noticed that there is a bit of a linked chain of people around the country.  Homestays in Iran are generally a breeze as you are very likely to be picked up by your current host’s contact in the next place you go to and so forth.

Shiraz airport, like Bander, is also very modern and well appointed. It seems only Khomeini international airport is the one that is wanting for a bit of charm and character. Which is a shame, as it’s the only one most foreigners go to.

Driving through Shiraz in the magical early evening light, I already felt that this was quite a special city and one I would get along with. I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly. But I just knew I liked Shiraz and wanted more.

Peyman was meting me at the Shah Chergh mosque, where he was showing around some other guests. It is one of the holiest sites in Iran as it contains the remains of Sayed Mir Ahmad, one of Imam Reza’s (The holiest of the 12 Imams) brothers.

I was greeted at the entrance by a grinning little man called Ali who was part of a uniformed troop of free guides for the mosque. He had a degree in optical and lazer engineering but was struggling to find work so was doing a master’s. He did this job once a week, just out of love of his city and refused any tip whatsoever.

The mausoleum was first erected in the 12th century in is not a bad final resting place. An enormous pillared box made of silver and green glass. You can slip money in through glass slats so the tomb itself is actually hidden under a pile of banknotes.

As we entered we were sprayed with a mist of rose water by one of Ali’s colleagues. Given that it had been some time since my last clothes wash, this was very welcome.

I finally caught up with Pyman at the Bazaar near the mosque. Shirazians were by far the friendliest of all Iranian people. So much so that on walks you have to factor in extra time for people stopping you and asking you questions.

By the time Peyman arrived I had amassed a crowd of about ten Shirazians. All wanting to ask me questions about my trip, my views on Iran and, of course, the EU referendum.

Peyman’s other guests were a group of three Poles. They were all about to qualify as Public Prosecutors so were not to be trifled with. It turned out that they were actually very sweet and were all so short and lithe that but felt like an evening with a gang of hobbits. The Gandalf to  their Sam, Pippin and Merry. Actually Rokas should be Gandalf. I’m sure I’ll bump into him soon.

The Poles had arranged to attend an evening of Dodor. Essentially doing what westerners do in nightclubs, except in traffic. The form is simple. Cars stuffed with single women go in one lane and men in another. Men have their windows down and do the peacocking and women keep theirs up. If a woman likes the cut of your jib then she will lower her window. Then you go have ice cream together.

The whole thing sounded adorable but I opted to go with Peyman and six of his mates and watch other people do the same thing but in a shopping mall. The mall was much the same as any I’d been to before. Except that everyone in this mall looked quite healthy and well turned out.

We had taken the metro there from the old town and I can happily report that it beats the London underground hands down. Spacious, clean and very cheap. I could have sat on it all day. They were so proud of it that the video screens in the trains were showing a documentary film of its own construction.

I had somewhat fallen for Shiraz. It had all the buzz of Tehran but was less busy and polluted. In fact it had certain aura of calm to it. It could easily match the history of Isfahan but it was adourned with public spaces and greenery in a way that no other city here was.

I explained this to Peyman and he said that this wasn’t a surprise. “Shiraz is known as the city of 1000 graves.” The graves were the noblemen, poets and philosophers that had called Shiraz their home for millenia. There was a widespread beleif that their spirits are what imbues Shiraz with its special character.

It also costs $60 a month to rent a decent 70m squared flat. A good place then, for a Brit to escape to if they are on the run from the law. If you can get a visa.

The Poles met us at the mall. Sadly, they had been unsuccessful in their attempts at Dodor. They all looked about 12 so this didn’t come as a huge shock.

We are all a bit knackered so decided to eat hot dogs and play some Iranian card games at Peyman’s place. It was then that I realised that I hadn’t had a lick of alcohol for over a week. That’s probably the longest I’ve gone without a drink since I was 18. Did I miss it? No. Funnily enough, not a bit. 

Iran Goes to the Poles - Friday, February 26th

Back at Peyman’s place we settled in to some evening cards. Adam, one of the Poles, had been complaining about having a cold coming on. Peyman said he had a local smokable remedy to hand that worked miracles. He would not, however, reveal the origins of this medicine until after it had been smoked.

Peyman diligently set up a water pipe and pulled out a bag that looked like dried herbs. We all suspected that this was just a ruse to get Adam really stoned but he assured us it wasn’t anything close to what we had assumed it was.

With some trepidation, Adam puffed on the mysterious herbs. “It taste quite good.” He mused. “Very smooth.”
After a few more hearty puffs he couldn’t wait any longer and demanded to know what exactly he had been filling his lungs with for the last five minutes. 
“It’s donkey shit….from a female donkey.” Said Peyman, with a wry smile.

Adam scoffed a little. His eyes widened and the sides of his lips curled downwards. The room was silent. “Hmm, this is first time I have smoked shit before.” He put the pipe down gracefully. 
“Any one else want to try?” 
No takers.

Peyman had been another gem of a host on the trip. Lanky, bushy haired, with a feint handlebar tache, he was wise beyond his 22 years. Aside from running a homestay he was also a full time student of industrial engineering and tourism.

Since he had started running it last August, he’d hosted  Italians, Spaniards,  Germans, Danes, Mongolians and even someone from Greenland. No Brits though. I was bashfully flying the flag once again.

Our first stop for the day was Persepolis, on of the ‘must see’ Iranian historical sites. Peyman was in training to qualify as a tour guide so was more than happy to take us around free of charge.

Built by Darius I in 530 BC it was essentially a way for the Persian king to show leaders from around the Indian Subcontinent and Middle East that the Achaemenid Empire were not to be trifled with.

Everything about it defies proportion. An enormous palace with roof supported by 20 metre high columns. Each wall and entrance was replete with exquisite reliefs. Many depicting the strength of the  king and the plethora of nations that came to swear fealty to him.

Sadly most of the place is in ruins thanks to Alexander of Macedonia. Funnily enough, they don’t consider him 'The Great’ over here. This means a little imagination is needed to get the full thrust of its grandeur.

Peyman informed us that they found evidence here that the Persian Empire had invented insurance, intelligence services and maternity leave.

I added them to the already enormous list of things that I’d been told were original Persian inventions. Human rights, agriculture, the postal service, medicinal alcohol, hospitals, anesthesia, guitars, pianos, shoes, sandals, boots, trousers, Polo, chess, poker, fridges, kebabs, wine, biscuits, rice, ice cream, yogurt, Valentines Day, air con, tulips, roses, ceramics, bricks, pearls and chariots were but a choice few.

I was beginning to wonder if there was a list of things that that Persians hadn’t invented.

Turning the lens to Iran’s future, today also happens to be the election day for Iran’s 290 seat Majlis (parliament). These  elections only  happen every four years and are as important now as those for the president. This will be the 5th since the revolution.

Every town and city I’d visited had been plastered with various  candidates and it turns out I’d even sat at a rally for one of them in Germeh.

Last time around widespread apathy by younger voters meant that turnout for reformist parties was painfully low. This time things might be different.

Iran’s deeply unpopular leader, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, was at the helm when elections last took place. He was succeeded by the popular reformist Rouhani in 2013.  So there is a whiff of change in the air.

Many are still quite cynical. I asked Peyman why he wasn’t voting. “I don’t want to get involved in all that political bullshit.” It is a sentiment echoed by many young voters I’d met across Ian who are pro-reform. There simply isn’t enough faith in their democratic system for them.

Most of the people I had met are realistic and see reform as a gradual process that will happen in stages, over time. No more revolutions, thanks very much.

They recognised that the elections aren’t 100% free and fair but it’s still participation that many other countries can only dream of. In fact, turnout is higher than many developed nations. At the time of writing this it looks like it will be above 60%. They have had to extend polling due to higher than expected turnout

Still, the leaders of the reformist green parties have been under house arrest since 2009. This happened when they claimed the election was stolen by widespread rigging and intimidation.

It was certainly an interesting time to be in Iran. It all felt a little surreal.  Sitting on the carpeted floor with an Iranian family and a group of Poles.  Passing the Hukkah around and munching on dates. All to the background of rolling election coverage. We kept switching to BBC Persia to get more balanced punditry.

Before heading home to watch the election coverage at Peyman’s, we had all decided that we needed a dose of local Shiraz life. So we went to a trendy café and played Billiards over coffee and milkshakes. Once we’d had our fill, the café also had multiplayer Mortal Kombat on Xbox. How could we possibly refuse.

It was my last full day in Iran. The time in the café was beginning to wean me back onto life back home. The women in Mortal Kombat were practically naked and, shockingly, veil free.

On our way home I started to sneeze quite vigorously. “I’ve got something for that cold back at home.” Peyman grinned.

An Iranian Future - Saturday/Sunday, February 27th/28th

As a way of saying Thank You, the Poles kindly gave Peyman a Best of Chopin CD and a little red picture book on Poland and its various attractions. My London circa 2003 post cards were royally trumped.

I’d managed to give 17 of the 20 cards as keep safes during the trip and so the last three were reserved for Peyman and his family. As usual, I wrote a short note of thanks on the back. 

Not wanting to be completely outgunned and in an attempt to fully express my thanks to Peyman, I managed to rustle up some pound coins too. It was the best I could do. Who wants to listen to a bloody funeral march anyway, I thought. 

Peyman’s place was a little out of town so it seemed fitting that I’d have a last run on the small mountains/large hills opposite his home. It was a glorious morning and I was keen to get as much out of my system as possible before my three flights home. 

Once I had scaled the not so dizzying heights, I sat to admire the view of suburban Shiraz and the rocky hills that surround it. It was a good time to take stock of the last two weeks. 

Initially I thought it was hard to know where to start with this trip. But actually it’s easy. You had to start with the people. 

I had been told that it was the people of Iran that defined most travellars’ experiences in the country. Quite how much they had made this trip what it was, was something I could not have predicted. 

I’d experienced kindness and generosity beyond measure. Everywhere I had been, people had bent over backwards to make sure that my stay was special, comfortable and memorable. It’s not an understatement when I say that this trip has done wonders for my underlying faith in humanity. 

The key questions really are, will it last when the inevitable wave of tourists come? And if you take away the people, is Iran still a great place to visit? Culture, food, landscape and value for money were all big ticks but I can think of plenty of other countries that offer those in spades. 

Later in the day I would discuss this over tea with Peyman. We both shared the same view. Namely, that the way Iran dealt with modernisation was critical to its future desirability as a tourist destination. 

Reformist and moderate parties had made heavy gains in the elections with a pretty impressive 70% (official) voter turnout. This time it did feel like Iran was taking control of its own destiny. Not all this change is good news, of course. 

Almost all of Peyman’s friends no longer saw the value of Iranian traditions and heritage. They were so forward, and westward looking that there was a real danger of his generation abandoning what makes Iran so great. 

Peyman was something of a New Renaissance Iranian. He was a good Muslim and prayed often. He respected traditions and wanted to foster them for a new generation. Yet he was also one of the most open minded and hearted people I’d ever met. He saw Iran as part of a much bigger piece of an international puzzle, not an island. I hoped there were more people like him. 

Like Mohammad in Yazd, Peyman’s family had also fallen on hard times and he had sold his car to help his family cope. 

Again I was so touched that a family who were struggling to make ends meet had taken in four complete strangers as houseguests. They had really bent over backwards to make our stay comfortable. And it was only one of many experiences like this. 

I asked Peyman if he felt that this hospitality was ingrained deeply enough in the culture to survive the inevitable new wave of tourism that would flood the country. 

He thought so, but we both agreed that Iranians would be a bit less keen to organise free homestays once they got wind of the income porential of Airbnb. He told me there is already a home brew version here that’s getting some traction. 

We strolled through the Bazaar and he helped me avoid the dodgy stalls whilst picking up my souvenirs. Once shopping was done, we went for a farewell Hamam together.

It was a 300 year old building and the only tourists to have set foot in there were Peyman’s guests. Its principal use was still as a place for tired Bazaar workers to socialise and wipe off the day’s grime. 

The whole scene felt almost operatic. Balding, pot bellied men sauntered in and out, shouting for more soap and applying shampoo to one another. It was all so blokey. 

I got a proper scrub down from a wiry man with no front teeth. It felt like a ceremony preparing me for the long journey ahead. So much dead skin came off that by the end I was several pounds lighter. 

We talked about Peyman’s ambition of setting up a modem Hamam with a coffee house attached. It would offer more modern services, including a full massage and have a permanent section for women too. 

Somehow I knew that he would find success in this endeavour. He just seemed like that kind of person. 

Peyman was not a man quick to betray emotion so our farewell was more like someone dropping a mate off at home. We stood by his car for one last time and I admired the sun’s dying rays caress the russeted turrets of the citadel. The same magic light that had played me in two days earlier. 

Sadly, the curse of the air travel fairy had struck again. This time, though, it wasn’t my fault. I was informed at check in that my Iran Air flight to Tehran was cancelled. 

This was a bit of a headache as I needed to catch the connecting flight to Istanbul. It was at 21:30 and I feared that it was the last one of the day. 

Fortune came in the form of Qeshm air. They were running a last flight to Tehran an hour later. I’d arrived with bags of time so was one of the first to sprint to the somewhat pokey Qeshm Air ticket counter and bag a seat.

They were able to squeeze me on and not charge anything for the privilege. A farewell gift. Iranian internal Airlines are all state owned so prices are basically the same for each route at any time. 

Now the worry became whether I could make my connection. The Istanbul flight was at a completely different airport, over an hour away from the one for domestic airport. And we we have been told there is a delay. 

Thankfully we weren’t held up for too long and soon we were on board a vintage Fokker 100. If memory serves me correctly, it’s even less safe than the ATR. Although this does have real engines. 

There wasn’t a date stamp on the plane but the safety briefing card was replete with calm, sideburned men and plenty of tan and tope. Enough said. 

One thing is for sure, they actually lit planes quite nicely in the 70s. The cabin was a bathed in a dim beige light that felt more like a teenager’s basement than a commercial airliner. Moist towlettes were handed around before takeoff. I could certainly get used to this. 

We landed incident free and I shared a taxi with two sickly Czech engineers whom I’d met in Shairaz airport. “I have cold a lot of time.” One wheezed. 

They were two of the dullest people I’d ever met and I wondered how on earth they’d gotten the gumption to come here. If they can do it, then just about anyone can, I thought. 

As Tehran glistened by the window, I was beginning to look forward to the comforts of home again. Thick mattresses, loo roll, Facebook, bacon to name but a few. Although it was hard to concentrate much over the sound of coughing Czechs. 

The faces of my trip’s encounters danced in my mind. Nima, Al, Reza, Masoud, Eli, Mohammad, Omid, Assad, Peyman. I hoped I would get a chance to meet some of them again. 

I can’t say when I’ll next be back in Iran. All I know is that this won’t be the first or the last time I visit this wonderful country. I just hope when I’m back the changes will have been for the good of it’s wonderful people. 

Price list

Most taxi journeys in a city: 50p-£2
4 hour taxi ride: £30
A decent meal: £4
Very good Ice cream: £1
A halfway house hotel room: £4
A VIP overnight bus: £6
A 5 hour daytime VIP bus: £3
Tea: generally free
Bottle of water: 10-20p
Internal flight (almost any): £30

Corrections

In a previous post I referred to the Arabian Gulf as being the southern coast of Iran. There is a great deal of dispute surrounding this as it is also referred to as the Gulf of Iran internationally and both are used. 

Had I known I would have use the term Persian Gulf. Please see Wikipedia for further info. 

Also I said that the name Reza was commonly used as it was the name of the first Shah. In fact it’s after the first Shiite Iman that the Sha took his name from and people take the name from the that. After the revolution the name fell out of fashion.