Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn (27 page)

Inside the fortress was a sign announcing, THE EXALTED STATURE OF KARIM KHANI CITADEL AMUSES EVERY NEW TRAVELER FOR A LONG TIME WHO ARRIVES IN SHIRAZ. The structure had previously been used as both a prison and part of the royal courtyard, although not at the same time. I quite liked the idea of its dual use, and whilst walking around imagined a similar scheme in Britain, where maybe the royal family could use the exercise area of Wormwood Scrubs Prison as a courtyard at weekends and a group of inmates could go stay at Buckingham Palace—something I’d be all in favor of.

Although the citadel contained little of interest within, its vast internal courtyard was a welcome sanctuary away from the bustle of the streets outside and had many attractive exotic plant displays. After a good gander at these and around the building, Verity and I got a cab to the Aramgah-e Sa’di or Tomb of Sa’di.

This was a lovely place dedicated to renowned Iranian poet Sa’di that contained a charming mausoleum set in a picturesque and peaceful garden. It had a relaxed and very reverent atmosphere despite the fact that it was crawling with Iranian tourists. Sa’di’s marble tomb was attractive, as was the building it was housed in, but it was more a place to come to relax and soak up the atmosphere rather than stand in awe at the architecture.

It had a nice selection of books on Iran at a little kiosk, which Verity and I browsed through before heading into what for me was the star attraction of the place, a little underground tea shop. This was beautifully decorated and had a delightful fishpond in the center. Its interior was wonderfully cool, which was more than welcome as today was blisteringly hot. I had a cool pomegranate juice whilst Verity indulged in a very strange Persian dessert. It consisted of that classic combination—ice cream, Jell-O, and soft squidgy savory noodles. I gave it a try but didn’t like it one bit. But taste, or lack of it, was no reason to eat or abstain from something as far as Verity was concerned. So long as it had a cleansing effect on her negative toxins, she was happy to tuck right in.

After two juices for me and more strange culinary combinations for Verity, we headed to the coach station so I could prebook a ticket to Yazd. I would have flown, but according to my guidebook there was no airport in Yazd (or so I thought until I got there and discovered one had been built since the book’s publication).

The bus terminal was heaving with people, and as I walked through its crowded interior, loads of bus operators tried to steer me in the direction of their particular company’s travel counter. I wasn’t having any of it and was determined for a bit of luxury on this trip so went straight for the Rolls Royce of Iranian bus companies and over to the Seir-o Safar counter. The helpful man there was dressed up like an airline pilot and spoke good English. He was the bearer of bad news, though, and informed me that all his coaches to Yazd were fully booked tonight.

This wasn’t what I wanted to hear; the last thing I fancied was spending the night on some death trap of a bus for such a long and arduous journey. He recommended another operator and said that their coaches were “okay,” although obviously not up to the superior quality of his. I wasn’t going to take his word on it, and before booking the ticket, I got the guy behind the recommended counter to confirm for me that the bus I’d be getting was the same as the nice modern Volvo pictured on the wall behind him. I repeated the question three times to be on the safe side. He was so determined to convince me he was legit and that I’d be getting a Volvo, that he got up from behind the counter and walked me out to where the coaches were parked. He pointed out the relevant one and said, “Volvo, yes?” It was indeed. I booked a ticket with him a moment later. With this in hand, Verity and I got on the move again.

We strolled to the town center via the city’s ancient bazaar, which was full of weird and wonderful sights. I particularly liked the shops selling sugar, which had chunks of the stuff purposefully solidified into phallic objects that looked for all the world like big sugar lump dildos.

We stopped by a man with a huge silver urn selling tea so Verity could get herself one. Never one to pass on a
chay
myself, I indulged again and handed over the money to the man with the urn. I was amazed at the lack of change I received from my substantial note and was sure I’d been ripped off. Verity was likewise convinced and said to watch closely when the next Iranian paid for a cup, to see how much they were charged. A group of three turned up and ordered tea, but before they had the chance to dip into their pockets, the tea man muttered something to them in Farsi. I was very suspicious of this, and even more so when the three seemed to give me a slight appreciative nod of the head. It was as if he’d said, “Don’t worry about this one, lads. The foreigner has paid for all of you and the rest of the bazaar.” There was no way of proving this, though, and in dollars or British pounds, the cost didn’t amount to much, so we ambled on our way.

Not far on, we popped into a bookshop for a browse around. On the spur of the moment, I said to the shop assistant, “Modern Tacking!” and was led to a huge section of the store dedicated to Germany’s answer to the Beatles. There was an array of Modern Talking material on offer, ranging from quality hardback books to cheap photocopied pamphlets with terrible spellings and rather dubious translations of their lyrics. These were hilarious and had vast sections edited out, presumably because they were deemed inappropriate. One song’s title had even received a seeing to and only “My ****, **** *****” remained. It must have been a racy number, because nearly the entire track was blanked out as well, making it almost indecipherable. Verity and I flicked through a couple of these pamphlets and were in stitches at some of the lyrics.

I wanna freak you here, I wanna freak you there

I wanna run my fingers through your freaking hair

I couldn’t control myself and bought one of these and one of their sturdier Persian-to-English translation books. They were both outstanding.

I took this literature, along with my copy of Hafez that Pedram had given to me, to the tomb of the great man. Like the tomb of Sa’di, Hafez’s resting place was situated in a lovely garden that had a very tranquil atmosphere. His mausoleum was more modest in size and was an octagonal pavilion structure with an internally tiled decorative dome in a kaleidoscope of patterns and colors. The most amazing thing about the place was the absolute reverence with which people treated his tomb. It was as if a revered saint were buried here, not simply a poet who had strung a few ditties together. People would walk up and bow their heads, touch their hearts, and reverently place their hands on the tomb. Iranians sure do take their poetry seriously.

We both sat down in the park, and to fully appreciate Hafez’s work, we had a look at his book together. Now I mean no disrespect to my Iranian friends, and maybe the translation of the book was incorrect, but the verses seemed to all rhyme in a very similar fashion to Modern Talking’s lyrics. To test this theory, Verity and I selected a passage from each book, which we read aloud for the other to guess which one it was from without looking. It wasn’t easy. Perhaps this accounted for the huge popularity of Germany’s finest in Iran. And I wondered if, in years to come, Iran would have a mausoleum dedicated to Modern Talking, where thousands of pilgrims would flock to pay their respects and sit and read their lyrics. It wouldn’t surprise me, and I’ll bet good money on there being one for Chris de Burgh just as soon as he snuffs it.

It is said that if you want to know your destiny, you should open a copy of Hafez and it will be revealed to you. I tried it with Hafez and with Modern Talking. This is what I got, and I’m not saying which is which:

In a quest to find a good eating establishment, Verity dipped into her guidebook, wherein she discovered a fascinatingsounding location called the Restaurant Mir Mohanna. Here it was apparently possible to get a shark kebab served by identical twins dressed rather eccentrically as indistinguishable sailors. This sounded my kind of place, so I lobbied hard with Verity for this option. She wasn’t convinced and favored a more traditional upmarket place called the Soofie Traditional Restaurant. In the end, though, I won through and off we went to go see the salty sailors. It took a while to get there and turned out to be a complete waste of time, as according to a kindly old chap we met there, the restaurant had been closed for years.

We got in a cab and went to Verity’s option instead. Or to be more accurate, we went to a restaurant that sounded vaguely similar to the one we’d asked the taxi driver to take us to.

It might not have been the place we selected but it was nice enough and the food was okay, if a little on the raw side—my chicken kebab sported a few splatterings of blood. Verity of course went for the funny herbivore option. It was strange to again be in a nice restaurant and unable to order a bottle of wine, especially as we were in Shiraz, home of the famous Shiraz grapes used around the world for wine of the same name. We made do with an Iranian Zam Zam cola instead.

Since we were both heading to the same city next and had had a good laugh together, we agreed to meet up again in Yazd, at the most popular hostel there, the Silk Road Hotel. After our meal, we spent the rest of the day window-shopping along the main street, where we discovered a rather interesting baseball cap for sale depicting an Australian flag but with the word PORTUGAL emblazoned across it. I didn’t buy one, but I wish now that I had, as it would have made a great present for one of my Aussie friends. When it was time to go, I said a quick “Adios” to Verity, grabbed my gear, and got a cab down to the bus terminal.

It was dark by now, but it was another tantalizingly hot and sticky Middle Eastern evening. I went to the counter where I’d bought my ticket from and inquired which bay I needed. The man I’d spoken to earlier was now no longer here, and a colleague of his pointed me in the direction of the correct bay. On arrival there, I was astonished to see not a shiny new modern “Volvo,” as promised, but a beat-up old rust bucket that didn’t look like it could make it to the other end of the terminal, let alone a few hundred miles. I couldn’t believe it and was just about to go voice my discontent when it reversed out of the bay and in its place pulled up a shiny new “Volvo.” This was more like it.

Whilst waiting to board I was approached by a friendly man who spoke good but extremely fast and slightly quirky English.

“Ah, you are Englishman from England. I like the Englishman very much!” he said. “I once have English gentleman stay with my family. His name Mr. Montgomery Fielding; he is frightfully frightfully!”

I laughed.

I didn’t get the guy’s name, but he was a real character and introduced me to his son called Reza, who was twenty years old and catching the same bus as me.

“You will sit next to my son on bus and stay at my home in Yazd as my guest,” he stated simply, as if it was totally normal to offer accommodation to complete strangers met at the local bus station only moments before.

Being fully aware of the refuse three times rule of Iranian social etiquette, I did so to check if the offer was genuine—it was. In many ways, this typified the unbelievable hospitality shown by Iranians toward foreigners, and although I was initially surprised at his generosity, I really shouldn’t have been. His son, he explained, was a student and spoke only a little English, so it would be good for him to practice with me. He assured me that Reza would be more than happy to look after me in Yazd and show me around the place. He apologized for not being able to do this himself and explained that he wasn’t catching the bus but staying in Shiraz for a week on business.

One of the destinations in Yazd he said Reza would take me to was a Zoroastrian fire temple. I asked him if he was a Zoroastrian. He said he was and then told me a little bit about the religion’s beliefs, in particular about the earth, the trees, and the water being sacred. I liked that and him very much.

Reza and I both sat at the front of the bus and, although his English wasn’t great, we just about managed to communicate. After some labored conversation, he pulled out his DVD collection, which was contained in a little zip-up wallet. With a mischievous grin, he pointed to one of the disks and said, “Super film!”

At first I didn’t understand what was on the disk, but after a while I managed to ascertain that a “super film” was in fact a porn movie. I asked what the penalty for having this would be. He struggled with the words but answered with exactly the right ones, saying, “You put in cage for maybe two or three year.” That was quite a risk to take for a bit of porn, no matter how super it was. Although I’d planned to sleep on the bus, it didn’t really work out like that as we talked, or struggled to talk, to each other most of the way.

We arrived in Yazd much earlier than the bus was due and got to the terminal at about two in the morning instead of four. Reza gave his older brother a quick call, who came to pick us up in a beat-up old Land Rover. Even at this hour, his brother didn’t seem in the slightest bit tired and was very enthusiastic to meet me. He introduced himself as Ashkan. Ashkan’s English was far better than his younger brother’s, and on the journey over to their house we both chatted away nonstop.