rest of her life traveling, in total defiance of convention, alone in parts of the world where few men dared to venture. In Persia, she visited Alamut, Mazandaran, Hamadan, Qom, Esfahan, and Lorestan where she raided ancient graves in the hope of discovering valuable bronze artifacts. She was arrested there and told by the local governor, “No wonder that yours is a powerful nation. Your women do what our men are afraid to attempt.” She died in 1993 aged one hundred.
There wasn’t much left of the castle past the foundations and a few walls, which were in the process of being renovated and rebuilt. But it didn’t matter, as the view was the main attraction and it was awe-inspiring. We took a group photo with Sabine’s camera, which she propped up on a pile of rocks, then set the timer and ran in and joined the picture. We hung out together for a good while just talking and admiring the view until two other travelers turned up on the scene.
They were both guys from the Czech Republic and looked in their early thirties. One of them, Michel, spoke excellent English. He was a fascinating bloke, having visited to date a total of seventy-six countries. I asked him from all his travel experience how this place rated. He described the view with an English soccer analogy. He said it wasn’t quite Premier League like the Himalayas, which were comparable to the likes of the Chelsea or Arsenal clubs, but it was a good solid First Division team with a strong chance at promotion, “Like Derby County or Ipswich.” I laughed.
The five of us then discussed how we were going to get back to town, and the unanimous decision was to hitch a lift to Qazvin. Ricardo seemed skeptical we could get a ride this far (forty-five miles), but having hitched here from England I didn’t doubt for a second that we could do it. Michel was equally confident. In the end, a pickup truck from the village took us to a nearby junction opposite some green fields and a small isolated mosque. Ten minutes later and we were riding along in the back of another truck, this time with loads of tools in the rear making the ride an uncomfortable but welcome one.
We were dropped in another small village and managed to persuade the driver of a beat-up old Land Rover to give us a lift, for a small fee, to the next town. He agreed and cleaned out the back of his vehicle first, which was filled with manure. He did this by spraying it down with a roadside hose. Michel and I grabbed the front seats, away from the smelly mess, and ended up getting the best views as well.
It was my first time in an old style Land Rover. Interestingly, you see a hell of a lot of these ancient Land Rovers in Iran, obviously dating back to before the revolution. In fact, you see an awful lot of three different types of automobile in Iran. The vast majority are old 1960s British Hillman Hunters, or “Paykans” as they are known in Iran. These were manufactured in Iran from 1967 up until as recently as 2005. From 1979 onward, the Paykan, which means “arrow” in Farsi, has been an Iranian model only, after the country purchased sole manufacturing rights. Other common vehicles are blue farming pickup trucks and finally the aforementioned ancient Land Rovers. Apart from these, you don’t really see that many other types of cars. There are a few, of course, with Peugeots now being produced in Iran and increasing in numbers, but it will be a long time before the Paykan gives up the number-one spot. To combat this and add a bit of individuality, you see a lot of Hillman Hunters sporting other more salubrious foreign cars’ badges, in particular the four rings of an Audi’s badge. I don’t suppose they fool many people though, as apart from that they’re all identical.
The manure-smelling Land Rover dropped us by some hay stacks next to a bridge where we all reclined and waited in the now late afternoon sun. We must have been quite a strange sight for the locals out here. Our next ride took us all the way back to Qazvin, in the back of another blue pickup truck. It was a wonderful trip with the low orange sun creating huge curving shadows across the undulating hills, highlighting their natural pink and orange layers of strata.
Michel and I stood up the whole way holding onto the rear of the truck’s roll bar. Our speed was so great that it physically hurt to get hit by a bug or a fly. It was bloody dangerous, but the view and the air rushing all around us justified the risk. Interestingly, as we sped along we could detect going through warm and cool patches of air that would last for maybe five or ten seconds before changing temperature again.
The journey back was great fun all round, except for poor Sabine who got stung by a bee on her bum toward the latter part of the ride, and who had also been sitting in the manure mess!
Tomorrow we were all going our separate ways. I was off to Hamadan, Ricardo was going to Tehran, and Sabine, Michel, and his friend, whose name I never got, were heading to different locations as well. I planned to see Tehran after Hamadan, so Ricardo and I arranged to catch up there and get in contact with Leyla, whom we had met in Masuleh. Before we all parted, Ricardo and I took everyone to the milkshake shop for an addictive “milk banana.”
The special ingredient, I discovered, was not crack but a huge block of vanilla essence added to the mix. It tasted as good as the night before, and we all had two each. As we stood outside in the crowded street finishing off our milkshakes, we were joined by the owner of the shop and an English-speaking friend of his. In no time, we were surrounded by people asking us questions about our countries and wishing us a good stay in Iran. It was a nice end to a great day and a good place to say goodbye to Sabine, Michel, and his nameless friend.
CHAPTER NINE
My coach pulled into Hamadan bus station at about midday. I consulted my map and started to walk through town toward my hotel. Hamadan was a fairly big place of 400,000 people, and like all the Iranian towns I’d seen, was full of life and interesting new sights, sounds, and aromas. It was strange to be on my own again after spending the last five days with Ricardo. I was kind of pleased to be solo though, as I was convinced I had a much better chance of getting to know locals when alone. And this, primarily, was what I wanted to do.
As I walked along the street, I was stopped and consulted by two guys debating something, who seemed to want the opinion of a foreigner. One held an electric drill, which he was trying to sell to the other guy. The seller pointed at the words, “Made in P.R.C,” and said questioningly, and rather optimistically, “Germany?” I shook my head and said, “China” (People’s Republic of). The potential buyer seemed disappointed, obviously hoping for a fine piece of reliable high-quality German engineering.
After some trouble, I located my hotel, the Hamadan Guest House, which was described in the guidebook as the most popular place and deservedly so. I will describe it in my book as “shit” and deservedly so. It was a complete dump with filthy beds, noisy rooms, and no atmosphere whatsoever. It was, however, central, being just off the main square, named, predictably, Imam Khomeini Square.
I checked in, and after quickly dropping off my pack, left for the bustle of the street outside. I went for a snack at a thriving little cafe to get orientated and read up on the place. Hamadan is steeped in history and was founded, according to legend, by the mystical King Jamshid. It has been inhabited for at least four thousand years and was the capital city for the Median Empire (750-550 BC). It was subsequently the summer capital of the Achaemenids (550-330 BC) and was known as Hagmataneh or “the meeting place.” In its heyday, Hamadan was one of the world’s great cities, containing exquisite palaces decorated lavishly in precious metals. However, all this wealth caught the eye of numerous invaders, and with these its importance as a city slowly diminished.
It began its decline after the Arab conquest of the midseventh century, but was restored as the region’s capital for sixty odd years under the Seljuks in the twelfth century. The Mongols weren’t so good to the place and smashed it up good and proper in 1220, as did the Tamerlanes in 1386. After this, it regained some of its former affluence and enjoyed a period of stability until the eighteenth century when the Turks decided to invade.
Until recently, Hamadan had a large Jewish community, which had been in the city since the fifth century BC. This community, like the city itself, has declined dramatically and is now apparently down to no more than thirty- five people. Hamadan contains Iran’s most significant Jewish pilgrimage site, which is a shrine said to hold the remains of Esther, the Jewish wife of Achaemenid King Xerxes I. The Old Testament Book of Esther is named after her, and, along with the books of Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel, paints a favorable picture of the relationship between the Jews and the ancient Persian Achaemenid Empire.
I was in Hamadan, like most Iranian tourists, to use it as a base to visit the famous Ali Sadr Caves some sixty miles from here. The caves sounded awesome and had only been discovered some forty years ago by a local shepherd wandering about in search of a lost goat. What the lucky chap stumbled upon was a spectacular series of
