brothers sang harmoniously with Celine and then did the exaggerated rapper-style hand moves to Eminem. It was a good laugh all round, and just like Pedram and the boys, they saw no contradiction in being equally enthused with both styles of music.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Although Susan and Hattie wanted to meet up with Ashkan and me today, I was determined not to go through with it, as I simply didn’t want to get her into any trouble with the law. It was all very well for me to take risks, but I didn’t like the idea of Susan being accused of anything untoward with a non-Muslim male, despite how innocent it all would have been. With this in mind, I told Ashkan that when I was in Shiraz, I had arranged to meet up with a friend of mine (Verity) who was arriving in Yazd today, and because of this I wouldn’t be able to meet the girls.
He understood and said that he had to go to university for a couple of hours, so it would have been difficult to meet them anyway. This was good news; I had a few things to organize today, including finding three people to come on my desert tour. I hoped that if I could meet up with Verity, she’d also be keen to come along on the excursion. I also needed to find out about train times going north and had been told it was necessary to book these long in advance. Reza kindly took me to the train station to make the necessary inquiries.
It was an interesting situation at the station, as the girl behind the counter spoke far better English than Reza, but he was reluctant to let her speak with me and seemed determined to prove his linguistic skills were up to the task. He struggled valiantly to translate for me but couldn’t do it, and I don’t think he even grasped exactly what I wanted to find out. In the end, he admitted defeat and the girl explained all I needed to know. He apologized to me for not being able to help. His brother’s English was far better than his, and I think it annoyed him that I had near-normal conversations with Ashkan, but with him it was much more basic. I told him a white lie and said he’d actually been a lot of help with the translation. I don’t think he understood this either.
I booked my train journey heading north and opted for a first class ticket, which I was delighted to learn was an overnight sleeper train with cabins and beds. I’d never been on anything like this before and imagined it to be very sophisticated and Orient Express-like. To me, it sounded the sort of train Roger Moore would catch in a James Bond film with some gorgeous Soviet spy, and in my rather deluded head, I imagined a similar scene in a couple of nights time, with my own spacious cabin, a magnum of champagne, and a busty Bolshevik to entertain.
Whilst leaving the station, I nodded a little hello to two Western backpackers I saw getting off the train who nodded likewise in return.
Like his brother, Reza also had to go to university today, so he offered to take me into town before he went. As I fancied a bit of a walk, I asked him to drop me on the main road heading into town so I could do a bit of sightseeing on the way. When he pulled over, I thanked him for the ride and said I’d catch up with him some time in the evening.
Whilst walking down the road, a guy on a moped pulled over and said hello to me in English and asked where I was going. I hadn’t really made up my mind as to my destination yet but was considering going to a famed prison of Alexander the Great, so said, “Alexander’s prison.”
“Jump on,” he replied, so I did. I loved the fact that in Iran a complete stranger would happily stop and offer me a lift, even when I hadn’t asked for one, then go out of his way to take me to my destination, and all simply because I was a foreigner and, as he saw it, a guest in his country. I say this sincerely: Iranians are the nicest people I’ve ever met. It was just so easy to get to know people there that I can never imagine being lonely in Iran.
We shot off on the bike at a suicidal speed, weaving in and out of the traffic as we went. I held on with one hand and with the other secured my hat on my head so it didn’t go flying. He dropped me at the prison, wished me well, and was gone as quickly as he’d arrived.
Outside the prison was a group of five young guys all around twenty years old who were hanging out together. Just like my friend on the bike, they came up and started talking to me without any prompting whatsoever. Two of them spoke good English and, after going through the normal list of introductory questions, asked if I would like to come for a drink with them. I politely declined and explained that I was going to have a look inside the prison first. They said that the prison wasn’t up to much and recommended I didn’t waste my money. They were right.
It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to browse around, and there was very little to see. It looked nothing like a prison; in fact, it didn’t really look like anything in particular, being little more than an old building with a few empty rooms. It had once had an infamous reputation and was written about by Hafez, but it was very hard to picture it back then as there were no cells or any sign that it was once used to incarcerate people. I left and found the guys still messing about outside.
They asked me if I would like a lift anywhere in their car, which predictably was a Hillman Hunter. I took them up on the offer and got a lift to the main square. In the car, there was a lot of good-natured banter, and when we got to the square, I was surprised to find they apologized for this and said they hoped they hadn’t made too many jokes at my expense. They were a nice bunch of guys. I thanked them, assured them it was fine, then strolled down to the Internet cafe that I’d briefly popped into the night before.
I had a reply to the e-mail I’d sent Ricardo, who was now in Pakistan after visiting the remains of the ancient city of Bam, which had been devastated by an earthquake in 2003 that killed up to 40,000 people. He wrote:
Hi Jamie!
That’s great! You can see, again, how does Iranians really live. I’m in Quetta, Pakistan. This is the Third World! And I’m sure in India it will be even worse. From the border, I came in a fourteen hours bus trip on an unbelievable piece of junk with four wheels. From Yazd, I took a morning train to Kerman, then a bus to Bam. The city is completely destroyed. I didn’t see one single house not damaged. Most of the people is living in tents and cabins. But I was happy for being there, seeing people trying to live again after losing everything. I was looking forward to see Mr. Akbar, from the former Akbar Guesthouse. He also lost everything but now he built a very small house for his family and has three tents for the guests. He’s such a nice person with a very positive attitude. From Yazd, I traveled with Charlie, a nice young guy. I don’t think he realized the real situation in Bam. He asked for an Internet cafe (obviously, there was any); in the only kind of restaurant (an Inn) he asked for a menu (there wasn’t any menu, just two “meals”) and the first thing he asked to Mr. Akbar was the price for a night, which is somehow rude. Mr. Akbar answered very well: “Why are you asking for the price? You should be glad for having a place to stay after what happened here. I’m not asking for money, just accept what people give me.” If you go there, please tell Mr. Akbar that I told you about his guesthouse. I promised him I would tell everyone I know.
Have a nice journey,
I’ll tell everybody, too, Ricardo; I’ll put it in a book.
Whilst at the Internet cafe, I got talking to the two Westerners I’d seen this morning at the train station. They were both New Zealanders of about my age called Tim and Justin. I mentioned the desert tour to them and both were immediately interested, and after a bit of a sales pitch from me agreed to come along. This was excellent news. I now needed only one more person to make up the numbers, but if I couldn’t find anyone, then I was prepared to pay the difference myself.
Tim and Justin wanted to go and look at the historic old part of Yazd and asked if I wanted to join them. I did.
The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) describes Yazd as one of the oldest towns in the world. The old part of the city was hugely atmospheric and extremely difficult to navigate through. It was a mishmash of interconnecting alleyways through an area of sand-colored mud-brick houses, nearly all of which had the characteristic
An interesting feature on many of the doors in the old town was that they had two doorknockers instead of
