How can you understand something constantly surprising? After 3 months cycling in Iran, the country seems to me as an optical illusion: picture within a picture, world thoroughly unseen and unimaginable from the outside. Only when I am sitting in the taxi in Teheran, woman on front seat is chatting with the driver in her gentle and soft voice, I find something familiar. I hear a scene from one of Abbas Kiarostami’s movies, for a moment I feel at home.
I entered the country after 3-hours border procedure from Iraq. I had to show all my belongings, explain my solar power sistem, my camera and phone were checked. Investigator wanted to know everything about Iranians in my contacts. Paper in his hands got filled with handwriting: countries I travelled, suspicious phone numbers, my planned itinerary …
In the evening I finally reached Marivan, a lovely town beside the lake in the region of Kurdistan. Every car on the road was the same old white peugeot. Only later I learned all these cars have been produced in Iran, under the same brand name, as the international sanctions make import impossible. Peugeot Persia is one of the widespread models. Nothing is real and at the same time everything is possible. Do you want black or yellow drink?
In the remote mountains above Marivan lake roofs become streets and yards, people walk among chimneys. In the steep village of Howraman Takht I enjoyed company of men, wearing traditional Kurdish costumes named kolobal, brown-felt jackets with distinctive shoulder ‘horns.’ I was writing down words of their specific dialect. When suddenly children filled the streets I realised girls and boys were coming from different school buildings. They will share classrooms only at university.
Soon I learnt about taarof. I had breakfast at the bazaar, fish for lunch at the lake shore and dinner in the bakery – but nobody wanted me to pay! Iranians are famous for their hospitality, but considering taarof, the customary back-and-forth of polite gestures and cultural pleasantries, you have to insist trying to pay for 3 times. Usually they will accept money the 3rd time. But Kurds are different. Spending last months in southern Turkey and Iraqi Kurdistan I was familiar with their custom of incredible and genuine hospitality. It was an honour to be their guest. For first 7 meals in the row they didn’t allow me to pay, can you believe?
Kurdish region was one of the most picturesque of my trip so far: winding roads over high mountain passes, cars loaded with luggage on the roofs, wildboars, birds and turtles around the blue lake. And people, stopping me beside the road to drink cay with them or play a boardgame.
In Palangan village I took rest for a day, expecting rain. Sitting on the rooftop I observed cows returning from the pastures through the narrow and steep stone lanes, men leading donkeys, children’s play. It was late November. In the early night I was reading book beside the warm fireplace, listening to the calming music of waterdrops. Dogs and cats had a short fight for remainings of fish kebab in front of the open door.
Next week I spent on the way towards Qom, one of the most important religious sites in the country. And the rain was following me! It got windy and cold. I put on all my layers of clothes to cycle comfortably. But to travel light, I didn’t take any rain trousers or shoe covers with me. What a regret!
Light rain slowly filled my trainers and my socks became soaking wet. I was high in the mountains, no village in sight. After the pass above 1900 m, I finally saw a house and men in the yard. Desperate I stopped at the front door. Can I change clothes and rest here? Young man in the uniform told me, this was an army checkpost, I was not allowed to enter. Only to change clothes, I insisted. I have to ask officer, he said.
In the concrete shelter for guards I changed into the only remaining dry clothes – my blue street-show costume! How happy and thankful I was for this warm clothing. Soldiers started to trust me and they invited me for lunch in their room. We were sitting on the ground around rice, I drank planty of hot cay. Rain didn’t want to stop. We were waiting, comfortably as friends, listening to waterdrops, my clothes drying above the heater.
Before getting dark I decided to leave in an improvised outfit with shorts, to spare my only long trousers dry. Rain was lighter, roads empty. A car stopped by the road and two men asked me for a selfie. I hesitated a bit in cold, but stopped for a minute. Few kilometres later the rain got stronger, my feet were drowning again. Another car stopped beside the road and a man stepped out. I started to wave I don’t want to make any selfies, when I realised he was wearing an uniform. Police?
He asked me for documents and visa. I was opening my bags in the increasing rain, he was checking my visa while the drops were moisturing paper. Luckily I knew where I was going to sleep as soldiers suggested me Imam Zadeh, a Muslim pilgrimage site with the tomb of a saint in the small town Saruq 20 km ahead.
I pedalled like crazy to keep warm. Water was everywhere. In the early night I reached the entrance door, completely soaked. I bumped into the small room, where guard was watching western movie on an old TV. Without hesitation or understanding and to his surprise I started to change my clothes.
Later a policeman came to help me finding a place for the night. As non-Muslim I was not allowed to stay at the site, he said. I was sitting in the police station, my shoes off, feet in the wet plastic bags. So many questions!
In the end they took me back to Imam Zadeh, an old bearded man awaited with the key in front of my new room opposite the holy shrine. Heater was on and I hanged all my clothes around, tired to death. Following day I was waiting next to the heater until the aternoon for the rain to stop. A strong tail wind finally pushed me towards the rainbow and in 3 hours I was 80 km away! Mountains around were freshly whitened.
I slept in the homes of locals, on the blankets on the floor as they do. I was meeting their families and friends, feeding dogs and opening beehives, holding fresh bread on motorbike, cracking walnuts for sale, playing cards and drinking homemade red wine after dinner. My host told me he was a truckdriver and he had to drive for 14 hours sometimes. He needed to drink for energy. And he drank wine. Sharing the roads with truckdrivers didn’t feel safe anymore.
In the evening conversations I realised two of my hosts got divorced. Surprisingly many people in Iran do, as there are two types of marriage: love and arranged marriage, both with its own rules and misteries.
Mountain landscape changed to brown volcanic formations and desert. Mighty reliefs of ancient kings and their victories in the enormous walls at Taq-e Bostan and Bisotun were replaced by rare dry bushes, trembling in the chilly wind.
I reached the minarets of Qom in the morning, searching for a comfortable place to stay in the city a bit longer. I fell in love with peaceful Emarat Golabgir, a newly restored traditional house with a fountain in the yard and rooms around.
Streets were packed by religious tourists from all over the world, women wearing black burqas, men in various traditional clothes and hats. I entered entirely different world.
I could visit holy shrine of Fatima Masumeh only with a guide, who took me around the blue yards and under iwans amazingly decorated in gold, silver or mirror.
I was not allowed to enter the halls closer to the tomb of the saint, sister and daughter of two of the twelve Shia Imams, where pilgrims were praying, reading Quran, walking barefoot in circles over soft rugs …
I left my bicycle under the young fig tree in emarat yard for a week and drove with a shared taxi towards Teheran.
Excited about metropolis, recently known for big protests and violence, I went straight to the artist center and meeting point at Iranshahr park. In a short time I encountered another face of Iran, the one of freedom, with modern and open-minded people, women with their beautiful hair set free in the public space. Wandering from one gallery space to another, among photos and paintings by local artists, I met F. For her safety I want to keep her name hidden.
After a short talk we were sitting in the darkness of cinema hall, watching The Sun of that Moon (Khorshid-e Aan Mah), a Balochi film subtitled in Farsi. From time to time she whispered to me, assuring if I could follow the plot.
In the next days she turned into my guide through the city. People on the streets were often curiously addressing me and she started to tell them I was her relative from Georgia to drive them off. It was funny and efficient.
Huge diversity of Teheran kept me busy. We strolled through the crowds of Grand Bazaar, ate ob-gusht and proper vegetarian pizza, climbed Azadi tower and visited Former US Embassy transformed into The Den of Espionage museum. Graffiti on the street in front of it, known for its anti-American images, launched me into an enormous empty space trying to understand determination of any ideology. However, after my experience in Iraqi prison, my writing has to go through the small spy window to reach you!
Under ground on the metro I realised last moment I’m entering a women department. But women are allowed to enter everywhere, blue-haired teenager was standing among men in her rebellious posture. Vendors of anything imaginable were coming through the corridors of the moving wagon, accepting payment with cards.
We went with F. to art cinema again, to watch a new American sci-fi movie The Creator. Faces of country leaders were hanging from the red curtains beside the screen. Curious how the Hollywood movie about A. I. made it through the censorship I found a surprising and clear answer. Nothing is real, everything is possible. In the end, it is just a matter of interpretation.
To be continued …