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.