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.