At the ungodly hour of five forty-five in the morning, the bus terminal was surprisingly busy. It was too early for me to function properly, though, and as I waited for my shiny modern bus to arrive, I slowly brought myself out of a dribbling semi-comatose state with a life-renewing sweet black tea.
The night before, I’d made the mistake of arranging a super-early wake-up knock on my door, but had been paranoid that the elderly man at reception, who’d seemed a little preoccupied when I’d asked him, would forget. As a result, I woke up several times during the night in a panic that I’d missed my bus. Since I didn’t have a watch, I’d end up stumbling down to the lobby to check the clock hanging on the wall there, only to discover that it was still the middle of the frickin’ night. It was a complete waste of time and I needn’t have worried, as right at five thirty, there was a
When my bus finally rocked up, and I do mean rocked, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was modern, but only if this was the 1950s, and it didn’t look like it had received a service since then. It was covered in rust, dented, missing both front and rear bumpers, and completely filthy. To complete the look were massive cracks to the windscreen and several of the side windows.
The “luggage” compartment was almost entirely filled with old car batteries and its floor covered in an oily sludge. I was far from pleased. On board was no better, with the springs on all the seats long gone and the once white seat covers now anything but. Taking a seat was an interesting organizational process of making sure no man or woman who weren’t related sat next to each other. At every stop, this arrangement had to be rethought and the seating rearranged accordingly. Being new to all this, I kind of liked the novelty of it, but was well aware that had I to go through the process on a daily commute, the effect would soon wear off. I imagined the chaos there’d be at home were the same system to be implemented on London’s hideously crowded buses and tube trains and wondered how on earth Iranians coped on the metro system in Tehran—a city with 15 million people.
I was placed toward the back and given a “window” seat, although part of the window was missing. The thick, broken glass was sharp to the touch, being anything but normal safety glass. It was a four hour journey to Tabriz, and although I was looking forward to checking out the landscape as we drove, the guy sitting next to me insisted on drawing the thick black curtain to block the sunlight from coming in. As a result, I saw nothing en route and arrived in the city of Tabriz delighted to finally have something to look at.
Tabriz is a thriving city of some 1.5 million people located in the northwest of the country and is the capital of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province. Although modern in the sense of infrastructure and amenities, Tabriz has a rich history dating back somewhere in the region of two thousand years. On numerous occasions in the past, it has been the country’s capital and until the 1970s was the second largest city in Iran. Its history has seen many conquering empires come and go, including the Mongols, who under the leadership of Genghis Khan conquered the country, which they subsequently governed from Tabriz. Famous Venetian explorer Marco Polo traveled through and wrote of the place in the late thirteenth century, at a time when the Mongol Empire reached from Istanbul in western Turkey to Beijing in eastern China and controlled some 100 million people.
One of Tabriz’s more disputed claims to fame is that residing nearby is the location for the biblical Garden of Eden. This theory was popularized by archaeologist David Rohl’s book
Being a Westerner and carrying a huge backpack, I attracted a fair amount of attention as I walked, but when I stopped to look at my map, it was a different matter altogether. I was surrounded by a throbbing crowd in no time, none of whom spoke English past the basics of, “Hello,” “What is your country?” and “David Beckham!” After that, they spoke at me in rapid-fire Farsi in the vain hope I’d suddenly twig and miraculously learn to speak in tongues and understand the language. I did my best to ignore this and stared at my map of the city, trying to work out where the hell I was. My concentration was interrupted by a kindly newcomer to the gathering.
“Can I help you?” he said, warmly introducing himself as Shahram.
Yes, he could help. I explained where I wanted to go, which was a nice-sounding place called the Hotel Azerbaijan, and asked how much a taxi there should cost.
Without further ado, Shahram ushered me away from the crowd, hailed a taxi, and motioned me to get in. I expected him to give instructions to the driver and leave it at that, but in he jumped also and paid for both of us up front. We hurtled off and with very little in the way of introductions, he asked me, in broken English, if I would join him and his wife in the evening so they could show me the sites of Tabriz and take me to a restaurant. I was a bit taken aback by his generosity and initially tried to wriggle out of it. He insisted in the nicest possible way, and then asked what time I would like to meet him.
I explained that, as I didn’t have a watch, I wasn’t sure of the time now, so maybe he should suggest the best time to meet. On hearing this, he immediately took off his own expensive-looking chunky metal wristwatch and handed it to me. I couldn’t believe it, and tried strenuously to refuse many times, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said that if I really wanted to return it to him then I could give the watch back when we met up later. I was touched by his generosity but determined to hand it back at the first opportunity.
We both got out of the taxi just down the road from the hotel and walked the last bit through the crowded streets together. Shahram insisted on carrying my backpack for this short stint but struggled with the weight of it. Instead of putting it on his back, he carried it from two flimsy straps attached to the front, which weren’t designed to hold such a load. I could see his efforts ripping the fabric apart, but not wanting to sound ungrateful, I said nothing. I figured I could always sew it up later, which was preferable to pointing it out now and upsetting him after his astounding generosity.
I was face-to-face again with the obligatory picture of Khomeini, who stared out across the hotel’s spacious and rather comfy lobby. Here, Shahram handed me his card and told me to phone him at four o’clock, at which point he would come over and collect me. He grabbed the number of the hotel and bade me goodbye. The girl behind reception, like most of the women I had seen thus far in Iran, was wearing the full traditional black chador, which leaves only the face uncovered. Her English was excellent and so was her steadfast refusal to negotiate on price. I was happy to pay the asking price, though, as I particularly liked the sound of the room, with its own bathroom, television, and fridge.
I wasn’t to be disappointed; the room was excellent. It was spotlessly clean with all of the aforementioned features as well as a marbled floor, a spy hole in the door, and a wonderfully comfortable bed. The bathroom toilet was of the “squat” variety but was clean and modern. I dumped all my gear, drank a load of cool water from the fridge, and headed outside into the blazing sunshine and the crowds.
Knowing that Shahram was going to give me the whole tourist trip later, I just strolled around getting a feel for the place. One of the first things I learnt here was just how hard it is to cross an Iranian road. None of the supposed crossings were observed in the slightest by the traffic, and as the traffic was constant, you just had to take a deep breath and sprint across. And forget about only looking left and right before stepping out. Check every conceivable angle of the compass and even throw in up and down for good measure. It was nerve-racking to say the least. Even on the pavement you weren’t safe, with mopeds weaving in and out of the crowds and appearing from nowhere. I got a kind of formula down for crossing, which was to only do so when others did, but to make sure I was slightly farther down the road than them, so if things did go wrong, they’d get hit first.
Tabriz was teeming with life, and everywhere I looked was something insane to check out. I stopped by a crowd of men gathered around a television set outside a shop. Here, on screen, were two highly disabled men doing the most incredible break dancing. With stunted legs and arms, they looked like Thalidomide sufferers, but both were as nimble as hell. Their crazy break-dance moves were well-received by the crowd and got a rapturous applause. I couldn’t quite work out if I liked it or not. It would have been considered outrageous in England, but here it was perfectly acceptable and the DVD of it was selling like hot cakes.
I walked on down the road and was struck by another peculiarity, namely just how gender segregated Iran was. On the whole, women walked, sat, or talked with women and men did so with men. It was also something of a surprise to see a number of guys openly holding hands in what would definitely have signified a gay relationship at home. But here, I guess it was just a sign of friendship. After all, homosexuality is highly illegal in Iran and punishable by hundreds of lashes or even death, so it wouldn’t have been a sensible thing to advertise.
There were many very inviting cake shops along the roads, one of which got the better of me and I popped inside. The cakes were all really cheap but of an exceptional quality and really attractive. I bought a whole bag of cream-filled cupcakes, which tasted delicious.
