Iranian Rappers and Persian Porn

in Iran are very similar to the original ancient methods. The first task undertaken is a detailed survey of an elevated location that is thought to contain an aquifer. A trial well is then dug by a pair of diggers, known as muqanni, who set up a hand-operated winch to bring the excavated material to the surface. The spoil is piled around the mouth of the hole creating the distinctive pockmark. If the muqanni are having a good day then they may hit an aquifer around the fifty foot mark. However, some reach down more than four hundred feet. Once they strike a moist stratum, the muqanni dig down past this to reach the impermeable rock beneath. Buckets are then lowered into this hole to test the quantity of water produced and the hole’s potential as a source for the qanat. The downhill route of the underground conduit is then mapped out. The gradient for this must be very gentle so that the water flows at a slow rate. If the angle is too great, material can be eroded from the base of the conduit and cause substantial damage.

No fancy instruments are used by the surveyor for this, who relies on a level and a long piece of rope. A narrow underground tunnel is now dug from the proposed destination of the water up toward the aquifer well. At standard intervals, holes are dug down along its length and the spoil excavated by further hand-operated winches. This is deposited around the hole, creating mile upon mile of pockmarks across the desert.

The digging is a dangerous job, as not only do the muqanni have to contend with sections of the tunnel collapsing, which then have to be reinforced with ceramic supports, but with lack of oxygen and the prospect of flooding when they finally break through to the aquifer itself. To minimize the risk of the muqanni being washed away in a surge of water, the aquifer well must be bucketed out as much as possible before it is tapped. Due to the inherent risks involved in the construction of a qanat, the muqanni refer to it as “the murderer.” Many will not work on a day they deem to be unlucky, and prayers are often offered by those about to enter a qanat. Although relatively simple in theory, qanats have transformed Iran’s landscape and turned some areas that would be virtually uninhabitable into lush centers of agriculture, a prime example being the desert town of Ardakan, which we arrived at now.

The camel kebab shop was closed, so after a brief look around the place, we decided to head back to Yazd and grab some food there instead. Our guide was a nice guy and even threw in the Towers of Silence that I had visited a couple of days beforehand with Ashkan and Reza. Verity, Tim, and Justin had yet to visit the towers. We parked up at the bottom of one of these where our guide stated, “This tower is the easier one to climb, suitable for women,” pointing to the smaller of the two towers, “and this one is the harder one suitable for men.”

Verity wasn’t having any of this and announced forcefully that she would bloody well climb the hard tower, thank you very much! The guide tried to stop her. “No, it is too difficult for woman; you will not manage.”

That was it. “Hold my water bottle, Jamie,” she demanded, thrusting it into my hands. She marched off toward the men’s tower at a right old speed. I shouted out after her sarcastically.

“Come back, Verity! You won’t manage it; it’s too difficult for a woman. Stick to the easy one!”

She turned around laughing and gave me the middle finger. Verity was first to the top and stepped into the circular tower with a triumphant look on her face.

The guide stayed at the bottom listening to music in his car, which blared out across the landscape, making sure that the Towers of Silence were anything but. At the tower’s summit, we were treated to a fiery orange sunset, which seemed to set the sky ablaze. As the sun slipped past the horizon, we headed down, and a few minutes later we were in the center of Yazd and bidding each other goodbye.

Back at my Iranian friends’ house, I was treated to a wonderful dinner of succulent lamb, mixed vegetables, mountains of buttered rice, and delicious fresh naan bread. When the meal was over, Reza gestured me into the computer room and locked the door. “Super film,” he said with a cheeky grin, putting a DVD into the computer—it was Persian porn time again.

In all honesty, I wasn’t particularly interested and wrote up my diary notes, whilst Reza watched intently. Whereas a young student in Britain watching porn would probably make crude comments along the lines of, “Go on, give it to her good and proper!” Reza made analytical observations like, “This is, how you say, effective. I try with girlfriend,” and, “This be interesting. She is very wide open, yes?”

After about fifteen minutes, he got bored with it and swapped the disk for something even more offensive— Chris de effing Burgh live in concert! The Irish warbler was beginning to seriously get on my nerves.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Den of Espionage

In Yazd’s historic old city is the splendid Jameh Mosque, where a rather bizarre but delightful ritual can be witnessed on Friday mornings. The tradition is for an unmarried woman to climb up to the top of one of the mosque’s towering minarets wearing a weird sort of padlocked hijab, and then to toss the key to this down into the courtyard below. The aim is then for a man, any man, to pick it up, at which point the woman will make her way down and let the lucky fellow unlock her. The next bit I really like—they then go off and have cakes and candy together and possibly get married. I visited the mosque but alas it wasn’t Friday, so I missed out on getting any free cakes or candy.

Despite my wanting to spend some time with the brothers today, their studies got in the way again, so I met up with Verity instead and after visiting the Jameh Mosque together, we set off for the bazaar in search of a suitable present that I could buy Reza and Ashkan’s mother as a thank-you for her hospitality.

I had some hard bargaining on my hands after setting my heart on a big decorative plate with an attractive peacock design. I must have been losing my touch, because I couldn’t get the trader to drop his price one iota. Whilst attempting to cut the deal, I noticed an identical dish in the stall opposite, so headed there after negotiations broke down. The crafty salesman from the first stall yelled something to his buddy opposite, and as a result, he wouldn’t drop his price either. About four stalls down, it happened again, this time with both of them yelling something to the third stall owner, and presumably it wasn’t to give me a good deal. I’d made the mistake of really setting my heart on the thing, and in the end I coughed up the full amount.

We took it easy for the rest of the day, strolling around visiting teahouses and other bazaar stalls and enjoying each other’s company. When Reza and Ashkan were due back from college, Verity and I swapped e-mail addresses and wished each other well. After a fond farewell, I headed to the brothers’ house to present their mother with the plate. She was over the moon with it and laid on a special meal for my last evening with them of burgers, gherkins, soft bread, grapes, and watery, salted cucumber. It was absolutely delicious.

My train left around two in the morning, but as was typical of Iranian hospitality, Reza insisted that I would not be getting a taxi to the station, and he would be taking me instead. Like the night before, I stayed up with him and Ashkan drinking Nescafe and chatting away as best we could. I got to ask them both about their political views, which were almost identical to Pedram’s and the lads’ from Tehran. Bush, bin Laden, and prime minister Tony B-Liar came in for significant criticism and were lumped together and described as terrorists. I told them I agreed.

I left for the train station with Reza and arrived there at about one forty-five. Rather bizarrely, there was a group of four people enthusiastically playing badminton at this hour in a small court opposite. God knows where they got the energy. Reza and I took a seat in the station a few places down from a Western-looking female traveler. Reza turned to me, and in a voice definitely loud enough for the poor woman to hear asked, “Is she attractive? Is she good or is she bad?”

I cringed, but what could I say other than, “She is good.” I hoped she didn’t speak English.

The train was late and when it finally pulled up, I was looking forward to getting some much-needed sleep. Reza and I parted with hugs and promises to keep in touch. I climbed on board just before the train pulled off. Inside, it wasn’t quite the first class Roger Moore affair I’d rather unrealistically been hoping for, but was instead a bit on the rickety side with cramped cabins sleeping six apiece. As I walked down the corridor, I was amazed to find people still awake. In one cabin, an inconsiderate individual was reading a newspaper with all the lights on, whilst the rest of the cabin tried to sleep. I checked the number on the door and was relieved to find it wasn’t where I’d be spending the night. Even worse was a couple of cabins down, where some idiot was listening to music—not with headphones as you might imagine but on a stereo with speakers for all to hear. Lucky this wasn’t where I’d be sleeping either; if it had been then the man’s sound system would have become better acquainted with an open