exhausted but happy.
Iranian taxi drivers can be a pain in the ass. I’d spent the last twenty minutes in animated negotiation with a group of hard-nosed cabbies in an attempt to get a ride to my intended destination of today, the church of St. Thaddeus, but things hadn’t gone according to plan.
I had made my way out to a little junction just outside of Maku where a group of taxis was parked haphazardly along the road I needed to take to get to the church. Despite my best efforts, none of the crafty cabbies, of which there were about fifteen, was willing to take me unless I paid
Taxis in Iran work in a slightly different way from those in the West, in that they can be hired in two ways, either in the conventional manner, or as a so-called shared taxi. This is where the taxi picks up multiple passengers along a standard route in much the same way as a bus does in the West. Both are interchangeable, though, with the driver going for the best option as it presents itself.
My plan had been to catch a shared cab to the church, as the costs for this were much lower, but the cabbies vetoed this option despite there being other people heading along the same route. They insisted that they would only take me privately, and only to the town nearest the church, Kandi Kelisa, but not to the church itself. And for this they wanted a ridiculous amount of money, IR200,000, which at about twenty dollars was having a laugh to say the least.
The fact that they were all together made them impossible to negotiate with, as a sort of group mentality developed that made none of them want to haggle, or more accurately back down in front of their buddies, and especially not to a tourist. A gangly traffic cop from across the street who had been watching all the commotion and lively negotiations loped over to lend his authority to the drivers’ argument. He insisted, in broken English, that their price was an absolute bargain just for me, and that I was a very lucky tourist indeed to have encountered such generous drivers. Yeah right. I shook my head with a laugh. He demanded my passport.
Whoops. I explained as best I could that it was at my hotel in the safe. He didn’t seem to mind and thankfully went back to his traffic duties, which seemed to entail standing in the road staring at my frustrated efforts to secure a ride and not much else.
Things took an ominous twist now as I was waved over by three military guys and a man in a dark suit and shades, who were standing across the main road next to a little office.
“Oh shit,” I thought.
They asked for my passport and once again, I had to explain where it was. The guy in the suit and shades seemed to be the main man and had the distinct air of a secret policeman of some sort. I soon got them all on my side when I produced my Iranian guidebook, which totally fascinated them. Their officious attitudes melted as they flicked through the glossy color photos, smiling and pointing out places to each other. The guy in the suit now explained, in good English, what I already knew: that the cabbies were trying to rip me off because I was a tourist, and that my best bet was to go back to Maku proper where they didn’t have a monopoly, and to get a taxi there.
As I left to go back to Maku, the cabbies waved goodbye sarcastically and had a good-natured giggle at me. That was it; the gauntlet had been thrown.
Once back in Maku, I found it easy to get a driver to agree to take me on a return trip to the church. His price was slightly more than I wanted to pay at IR40,000, but it would be more than worth it to drive past the cabbies at the junction and see their faces drop. I planned not only to wave out of the window but to hold up three fingers, like I had done when trying to negotiate with them, as if to say I had only paid 30,000. It was a bit of a white lie, but I didn’t care and couldn’t wait to see them all again.
My hopes for revenge were dashed when my driver headed along a different route to get to the church, which went nowhere near their junction. It was a much longer drive than I thought it would be, through a near-deserted, barren, rocky landscape whose stark emptiness was broken only by the occasional wandering goat herder or hovering hawk in the sky, of which I spotted a surprising number. The sky was an intense blue and virtually cloudless, save for a few fluffy cotton wool-like forms drifting low toward the horizon. I didn’t see any other cars the whole way there and was amazed at how sparse the area was. It would have been a great place to have had my own car and explore at length.
St. Thaddeus came into view long before we arrived. Although prominent, the church blended in beautifully with the sand-colored rolling hills, as much of the church was composed of a similar shade of rock. Surrounded by a large, fortresslike stone wall, the church was an impressive sight, graced with two large twelve-sided domed towers, one of which also had twelve arched windows. The other tower had four windows and was constructed with alternating black and sand-colored stone. At its western end, the church was constructed with sand-colored rock, and at its far eastern end with black stone. This reflected the other name for the church, “Qareh Kelisa,” which translates from Azeri as “black church,” although the vast majority of it was anything but black. Its isolated location and the fact it was in Iran, where I had not expected to be looking at early Christian churches, made it all the more interesting.
Contrary to popular belief, Iran has a significant Christian community totaling somewhere in the region of 300,000 worshipers. The religion has a long history in Iran with some of the earliest saints spreading the gospels there. Most Iranian Christians are Armenian, but many other Christian communities exist in the country, including Catholics, Protestants, Adventists, and Nestorians. As a result, you can find churches in nearly all large Iranian towns. For the most part, Iran’s Christian community enjoys religious freedom, even to the extent that the country’s outright ban on alcohol consumption is annulled for churches, which are allowed to import communion wine. These freedoms do not extend, however, to Muslims who convert to Christianity. In these circumstances, you run the risk of being executed; under Iranian law, this can be punished with the death penalty.
The cab driver and I approached a little booth stationed by the main entrance. There was no one about so we walked straight into the courtyard in search of someone. The janitor was located in a small building off the main church and welcomed us in warmly. For a very small fee, I was given a little leaflet and entrance to the church itself, which the janitor unlocked for me. The taxi driver was allowed in for free, although for now he remained outside.
I stepped out of the roasting sun into the church’s mercifully cool interior and, like a good Catholic, made the sign of the cross. It was quite dark inside, with only a few hazy shafts of sunlight from the dome above for lighting, and was unlike any church I’d seen before. The first thing I noticed was a load of internal scaffolding supporting the cracked sections of the structure, of which there were many. Some of the larger cracks ran down from the domes themselves. Growing from these cracks were several wild plants. Strangely, the main flooring area was completely empty; for some reason, all the benches had been piled haphazardly on top of one another in a corner. They looked, quite frankly, like they’d been thrown there to create a barricade of some sort and were in a right old mess. To add to the unloved look were several crosses scratched into the walls, which looked very recent and of a graffiti nature. I walked slowly toward the altar, which was made predominantly from stained and dirty black rock and knelt down. Here I said a brief prayer and whilst doing so was joined by the cabby. On seeing me make the sign of the cross, he put his hand on his heart and bowed respectfully at the altar. I found this interesting as clearly he wasn’t a Christian but treated the church with not just respect but a certain reverence. Both of us now had a quiet look around the place.
The first chapel here had been erected in AD 371, which had then been developed into a proper church in the seventh century. Most of what now remained dated to the fourteenth century, although some sections, particularly around the altar, were much older. It was undoubtedly a fascinating piece of architecture and steeped in history, but it was in a very poor state of repair. Up in one of the domes flew two pigeons, their wing beats echoing through the church’s empty interior. The place really needed renovation but since it was a Christian rather than an Islamic site, it would have received no state funding.
I wandered outside to have a look at the exterior, which in many ways was far more impressive and cheerful than the inside. Surrounding the walls were wonderful stone carvings going all the way around, some of which appeared Christian and others Islamic. All were extremely beautiful. One even looked like it depicted good old English patron saint St. George slaying a dragon, although I may well be wrong. I attempted walking all the way around the exterior of the fortresslike wall but decided against it when I came across a section with a steep
