made it a bit of a building site on the inside, but still well worth seeing. It had a massive central dome some fifty- five feet high and several large columns, again decorated with tiles. At the rear was a room that was once a little private mosque for the Shah. Here the walls were covered in marble and the vaults with shimmering gold and beautiful tile work. It also contained the tomb of Jahan Shah who ruled Persia in the seventeenth century.
I liked the place, but due to the building work and the fact that most of it wasn’t tiled, I can’t say I was bowled over by it. If it had been completely restored then I’m sure it would have been awesome. What was wonderful, though, was the coolness of the interior, which offered a very welcome respite from the blistering heat outside.
When I braved the sun again, it was to head back to the tourist office, where I met a young Swedish couple called Hannes and Malle. Hannes was six foot four with long fat blond dreadlocks and was wearing a vomit-color tie-dye hippie shirt with matching pants, while Malle was short, petite, and of Indian origin. They looked an interesting couple and would have stuck out like a sore thumb just about anywhere, but especially in Iran. I got chatting to them and learned that this was indeed the case. They hadn’t been in Iran long, but neither seemed particularly enamored by the place and Malle said she hated wearing the hijab. Both spoke fluent English, so it was nice to chat away at a normal speed for once. I fancied a spot of food, so asked them if they were hungry and wanted to join me at a cafe. Mr. Khan recommended a place around the corner for us, and whilst walking there, everybody, and I mean everybody, turned, pointed, and then laughed at Hannes and his blond dreads. The locals had never seen anything like it, and poor old Hannes didn’t look happy to be the center of attention. I thought it was great, and most amusing.
Things didn’t get much better for them in the cafe, where both ordered what they thought was vegetarian food only to be presented with a bowl of steaming meaty stew. They pointed this out to the guy working there who helpfully demonstrated how to remedy the problem, which he did by simply plucking out the pieces of meat with his bony fingers then returning the stew. Hannes and Malle handed their bowls over to yours truly and stuck instead to rice.
Malle explained that nobody would talk to her; all questions would be directed through Hannes. With a straight face I turned to Hannes and asked how Malle was coping with this.
In general, they both seemed very unhappy and said they were looking forward to leaving Iran for their next destination, which I think was Pakistan.
As soon as we stepped out of the cafe, Hannes was confronted with more pointing. Whilst working our way through the crowds, we spotted another backpacker and stopped to say hello. He was an extremely friendly Portuguese guy called Ricardo who was traveling overland all the way to Nepal, where he was going to do a load of trekking. I immediately hit it off with Ricardo, who was a soft-spoken polite guy of about my age.
Like me, he was new to Iran, and it turned out had been considering a very similar route around the country to my initial plans. I told him briefly of Mr. Khan’s recommendations and how they could save him substantial time. This he was keen to hear more about, and since Malle and Hannes wanted a drink, I agreed to fill him in on all the details at a milkshake shop. Ricardo recommended a wonderful little place on Imam Khomeini Ave, which we all set off for.
Poor old Hannes got the same treatment the whole way there, with young and old gawping in astonishment and cars narrowly missing one another as their drivers stared at him. Hannes walked looking at the ground to avoid the prying eyes on the way. I can’t say I felt sorry for him though, as I’d got my hair cut short and respectable to fit in before I left, and what’s more I didn’t dress like some lentil-munching soap dodger, so as far as I was concerned, his troubles were pretty much selfinflicted.
The milkshake shop was great, and we were greeted there with warm handshakes and smiles from the staff—all of us except Malle that is, who was ignored. After an animated sales pitch from me to Ricardo on the promised savings of Mr. Khan’s recommended route, Ricardo changed his plans and decided to tag along to Masuleh with me. This was great news as it would be nice to have some English-speaking company for a bit.
Having failed to pay for just about anything over the last two days with Shahram, I gladly picked up the tab for everybody using a mere fraction of the obscene-sized bank roll I had in my pack.
A round of carrot shakes later and we made a move out onto the street. Here, I saw a small stall selling posters which were simply too good for me to pass by. I purchased one of a stern-looking Khomeini for my friend Nick, one of another bearded religious-looking chap for my friend Chris, and two posters of a big muscled Iranian wrestler hugging his minute little old mother, who was wrapped up in a full black chador and wearing big chunky spectacles. It was exceptional. Down at the bottom of the poster were smaller shots of him in different poses to show his various qualities: family man, philosopher, scholar, man of the people, philanthropist, and all-in bareknuckle wrestler. I got one for my ex-girlfriend and one for my brother. I couldn’t stop laughing at the thought of their reaction upon receiving them in the mail.
Unfortunately for Hannes, we now walked straight past a barber’s shop. On spotting him, all the staff inside went crazy and rushed out, leaving their clients in the chairs. They were amazed at his dreadlocks and invited Hannes inside so they could study his hair. I was keen to go in, but there was no persuading Hannes. A couple of the barbers touched his hair out of real fascination. I know he was having a hard time of it, but I thought Hannes could have popped inside for a minute to satisfy their curiosity.
Ricardo and I bailed out on Hannes and Malle at this point and headed off on our own in search of a post office. Whilst walking around in circles, hopelessly lost, we were approached out of the blue by a young guy in his late teens, who said in English, “Can I help you?”
His name was Nima and he was very keen to practice English, so we forgot about the post office and went for a cola with him in a nearby cafe. He was a dentistry student, and wanted to meet up with us if and when we came back to Tabriz. He couldn’t stay for long but passed on his details in case we returned. Before he left, he craftily went up and, under the pretext of speaking to the cafe owner, paid for our drinks. Iranians sure are generous people.
Ricardo still needed to book his bus ticket and get back to his hotel to pack all his gear up, so we quickly got down to the ticket office. After squaring up there, we started the long walk back to his hotel, where on the way we met the most amazing character imaginable.
He approached us like the student before from out of nowhere and with the same greeting: “Can I help you?” There was nothing we needed help with but it was a rhetorical question anyway. With manic enthusiasm, he fired off a volley of words at breakneck speed.
“I want my daughter be superstar!” he exclaimed. “She is singer very good, oh yes!”
“And your son?” Ricardo queried.
“He just be accountant.”
“How old are they?” I asked.
“She is six; he is seven!”
“Are you married?” he asked me in a fraction of the time it would take a normal person to say three words. I told him I wasn’t and was expecting the usual condolences but instead got, “You are very lucky man; it be far better to be single!”
This was a shock to me and to Ricardo who’d obviously already had the same treatment as I had for being single.
“But surely you are married if you have children,” I said.
“Yes, but I do not like her,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, whilst shaking his head.
“I think maybe I do divorce.”
He paused uncharacteristically now for a whole second. “But it is unfair for woman with children.”
When I asked him why he didn’t like her, he came out with a gem. “We have nothing in common. I like detective stories but she doesn’t like them!”
Ricardo and I were in stitches. It sure would have made for some interesting marriage guidance counseling, maybe with him imploring her, “Darling, please, for the sake of our marriage, I beg you to at least try some Sherlock Holmes or Perry Mason. Is that too much to ask?”
Ricardo asked why he had married her if he didn’t like her.
“I meet her twenty-four hours before and think, mmm why not!”
I could well imagine him thinking just that. Her family, he explained, were friends with his family so it had been an arranged marriage. This he said was normal. Whilst on the subject of marriage, I took the opportunity to ask him about the
