Genesis 2:8-14
Iranians enjoy pretty lights and welding. Everyone requiring corrective lenses wears stylish eyewear. I may be the only person in Iran with laces in his shoes - should have known I'd need to slip them off so often entering shrines and mosques. Still can't quite get used to seeing books lying face up with the spine on the right. The Little Dipper rises in the night sky.
I saw more foreigners in Ghana. Of course, its the low season for tourism and everyone tells me to come back in the summer. Drivers prefer the volume of their car stereos on '11'. They always apologize that their kids have all their Western tapes.
I know, I know, This Blog Is Worthless Without Pictures. Hey, that's why the Lord God made Google Image Search.
*
I'm going to write this entry from now to then for effect.
H2's friends from Anzali and Rasht have joined us - normally the two towns are steadfast enemies, H2 says, "like Iran and America". They greet each other with "Nuclear power is definitely our right". The wrestling World Cup is on every television in town. Iran invited US wrestlers to participate, but they (or probably some politician) declined. I tell them some American jokes, they want to hear different American accents.
This afternoon we made the trip to Masuleh, a tourist-destination village in the mountains south of the Caspian. Its shuttered up - it being low season - but the main attraction is the network of alleys and architecture whereby one house's roof is the next place's floor. A shy little girl runs away from us, but repeatedly smiles and pokes her head out of her family's residence.
Our driver has recently spent 8 years in South Korea, sending all the money he made back to his wife and kids in Iran. He plays a tape by Mohsen Chavoshi, a pop group that the government allows to sing about girls. The government cracks down on pop music less than it used to because so many of the major stars, like Andy, have moved to the US to produce their work and sell it back to kids in Iran.
We pass a village called Shaft and I take a picture of the sign.
Upon H2's father's recommendation, I got up around 5 this morning to watch the sunrise over the lagoon in Anzali.
*
Yesterday we came down from the snow-capped mountains from the alleged Biblical Land of Nod in northern Iran near Ardabil and past the jungles alongside the Caspian to arrive at the lagoon. Our driver, R, is an excellent practitioner - a lesser man would have gotten us killed on several occassions.
Down through the Hayran Valley Pass, we skirt the river separating Iran from Azerbaijan. R puts two fingers to his head and says if I were to put my foot across the barbed wire fence 10 feet from us I'd be shot. On the other side of that fence, women are not obligated to veil.
R, an older gentleman, plays a tape of the pre-Revolution stylings of Delkash through the Pass. H2 knows the words, too. Another traditional Iranian tape features Iraj Bastami, who died in the tragic Bam earthquake of December 2003 that destroyed one of the country's premier ancient treasures and killed tens of thousands.
R takes us through a 'scenic' detour of Astara - the Iranian side. The Caspian is in sight. We stop by a shrine, located next to it is another martyr's cemetary (see below). The men running things invite us for tea.
*
Its good to know the locals. We started our journey in Ardabil. R has proudly led H2 and I around the local mosque - a magnificent piece of work that spawned the Safavid kings. One of its towers geometrically spells "Allah" in continuous design.
We're running a little behind and I tell H2 to let R know we can stop to eat along the way. H2 informs me that people in Ardabil are highly nationalistic and would never consider eating at a place outside of town, so R takes us to his favorite kebabi. Nine kebabs, three drinks: $6. I swear that we passed a guy in a sweet, sweet Vikings jacket near the bazaar.
I extended my visa to cover an oversight - two petitions, a bank transfer and a lot of patience were necessary to complete the process in two hours. The three-star soldier behind the glass tells us he's working on his Master's in 'psychology of speech'. He apologizes for his poor English, which is actually immaculate.
*
So I heard Dick Cheney shot a man. I'm tempted to add "just to watch him die", but even IRINN reports that it was an accident.
At least half of the network's anchors and reporters are women - none of them showing a single strand of hair. The head covering offers a brilliant disguise for the IFB. Perhaps I'll suggest Mary wear one when I get back. An inset box provides the news in sign language for the hearing impaired. The weather forecast is set to the Muzak version of Phil Collins' "Take A Look At Me Now".
The Fate of the World scrolls by on the ticker...
"Belgian researchers: Muslims are majority of victims of violence done in the name of Islam"...
"Study suggests children raised in orphanages stunted physically, emotionally and intellectually but good foster care can help children grow again"...
"US Media: Cheney's secrecy over shooting of Whittington has afflicted American people"...
"US Media: Dick Cheney did not care to inform Whittington's family"...
"US Media: Cheney seems uncommitted to American people"...
*
I doubt anyone has been in our Ardabil hotel in quite a while. The water out of the faucet turns several shades of lead. The manager kept us at the front desk with a series of questions like "Where does the most famous Iranian football player come from?", "Where can you find the best water in the world?", "What region has Iran's best sites?" - all of which are answered with "Ardabil". Ardabil is probably the coldest tourist destination in the country.
All of the bus drivers have to stop at regular police intervals. They'll be fined for speeding if they arrive too early. Tonight's bus driver swears as he returns to the bus at one stop. They'll often pull over for ten minutes before entering a town.
*
We came to Ardabil from Tabriz, where the temperature had plummeted below freezing and the snow was falling when we arrived after 11 hours on the bus - 3 of which were spent tied up in the gridlock of Tehrani traffic after an oil tanker had flipped.
Everyone I've spoken to claims to have "bad memories" of Tabriz, including H2, who spent two years there at school. He can't believe that I'm excited about the visit. Our ultimate destination is a Cappadoccia-style village called Kandovan, but even that is secondary to my real purpose.
The manager of our hotel offers to take us. Iranians have strong stereotypes about people in particular towns - the 'promiscuous' women of Rasht, the 'homosexuals' of Qazvin, the 'sharks' of Esfahan. The manager and H2 exchange jokes the entire way - "there was a man from Osku (between Tabriz and Kandovan) who told his wife he saved 500 tomans by running behind the bus all the way home. 'You fool', his wife replied, 'you could have saved 2000 by running behind a cab!'".
Maybe their joking is a bad omen. After three attempts to negotiate the mountain pass to Kandovan - through Osku - the manager's poor little engine won't make it. We head into Osku with the snow coming down hard to find a better vehicle. A local says he'll take us. The manager asks the man how long he's had his license. "Two months", the guy says. We pile into his 1957 Land Rover.
*
British archaelogist David Rohl has risked academic scorn in his book "Legend" by advancing the argument that not only does the Garden of Eden exist, it can be located outside Tabriz. Today, Eden is nearly snowed in.
We arrive in Kandovan to see the fairy-chimney houses. One woman lets us into her home, though she won't let us photograph her. Some older kids are bullying younger ones on the streets. Kandovan rests on the side of Mount Sahand - Rohl says this is the Mountain of God.
We stay a short while before returning in the 57 Land Rover to Osku, picking up elderly Azeri men along the way. They're ancient people in an ancient land, speaking an ancient language. The sun comes out.
*
Back in the manager's car, we stop by a local haunt for lunch. Three orders of dizi, three "cokes", three cups of tea: $6.
Gasoline: less than 40 cents a gallon
Movie ticket: 50 cents
CD: 50 cents to 2 dollars
Shaving cream: 50 cents
Cigaretters: 60-80 cents (Winston or Kent)
ticket to Persepolis: 50 cents
Mini pizza: $1.10
Airfare from Shiraz to Tehran: $30 per person
*
I notice that Krissy Wendell, Natalie Darwitz and Jenny Potter are repeatedly lighting the lamp for Team USA in Turin. Kelly Stephens appears to be doing her part by spending several minutes per period in the penalty box. It appears the squad is headed for another showdown against the chicks with sticks from Canada. Go Gophers!
*
Prior to boarding the bus to Tabriz we spent a layover day in Tehran. H2 took me to the martyr's garden, Behesht-e Sahra, Iran's equivalent to Arlington National. 200,000 of the men killed in the Iran-Iraq war are buried here, many of them with family photos accompanying their resting place. "He was 17", H2 says, listing their ages. We speak with one man washing off the gravestone of his former English teacher.
Nearby is the shrine containing the tomb of Ayatollah Khomeini. The men standing in front of us at the tomb wear jackets emblazoned: "Peaceful nuclear power is definitely our right".
On the way back to town, we stop by H2's sister and brother-in-law's apartment for lunch. She's a student of fine arts at the university. Her husband is in video sales, but also makes violins, is a master of pickling and collects African art. He spent two months in Tanzania trading for the works he displays in his home. H2's sister shows me their wedding book. Her husband stands proudly in the middle of the room and announces to anyone who can hear him, "My wife is very beautiful."
Have I mentioned how remarkably hospitable and generous Iranians are? We eat until we're full.
*
Its 2am and we've just arrived in Tehran from the airport when the cabbie laughs and asks me, "Are you a friend of Bush?" He's the second cab driver we've had tonight whose radio is tuned to Radio America.
H2's family has invited me to stay at their home.
*
At the airport in Shiraz I see more mullahs than I've seen the rest of the time. The military is in full force. A group of women - who wait at least half an hour - hold flowers and a banner welcoming the nation's star karate champion back home. When he arrives he briefly waves and walks by them briskly. Crushing.
One popular treat at the airport is a cup of corn. Not popcorn, good ol' kernels of corn in butter.
Earlier that evening, on the streets of Shiraz, a man walked behind us offering "whiskey, vodka, whiskey, vodka". (We decline - a story came out last year of a party where two dozen people were killed by the alcohol served, accidently fermented with battery acid.)
*
The cabbie this night is a well-mannered older gentleman who supplements his income as a school administrator by driving nights. Beyonce is playing on Radio America. Iranians are natural mechanics, necessary to keep their aging Paykans working. "Have you ever seen such a vehicle in America?", he asks me.
He wants to know if Americans have to pay for college. I give him a ballpark figure for Stanford. H2's jaw hits the floor. The older gentleman points out the difference in income levels between our countries.
The driver asks how long it takes to get from my home to Iran. I have four consecutive flights that will last 17 hours with an additional 8 hours in layovers. He asks, rhetorically since I don't answer, "Why do Americans come half way around the world to kill Iraqis?"
He promises me that America will attack Iran.
I saw more foreigners in Ghana. Of course, its the low season for tourism and everyone tells me to come back in the summer. Drivers prefer the volume of their car stereos on '11'. They always apologize that their kids have all their Western tapes.
I know, I know, This Blog Is Worthless Without Pictures. Hey, that's why the Lord God made Google Image Search.
*
I'm going to write this entry from now to then for effect.
H2's friends from Anzali and Rasht have joined us - normally the two towns are steadfast enemies, H2 says, "like Iran and America". They greet each other with "Nuclear power is definitely our right". The wrestling World Cup is on every television in town. Iran invited US wrestlers to participate, but they (or probably some politician) declined. I tell them some American jokes, they want to hear different American accents.
This afternoon we made the trip to Masuleh, a tourist-destination village in the mountains south of the Caspian. Its shuttered up - it being low season - but the main attraction is the network of alleys and architecture whereby one house's roof is the next place's floor. A shy little girl runs away from us, but repeatedly smiles and pokes her head out of her family's residence.
Our driver has recently spent 8 years in South Korea, sending all the money he made back to his wife and kids in Iran. He plays a tape by Mohsen Chavoshi, a pop group that the government allows to sing about girls. The government cracks down on pop music less than it used to because so many of the major stars, like Andy, have moved to the US to produce their work and sell it back to kids in Iran.
We pass a village called Shaft and I take a picture of the sign.
Upon H2's father's recommendation, I got up around 5 this morning to watch the sunrise over the lagoon in Anzali.
*
Yesterday we came down from the snow-capped mountains from the alleged Biblical Land of Nod in northern Iran near Ardabil and past the jungles alongside the Caspian to arrive at the lagoon. Our driver, R, is an excellent practitioner - a lesser man would have gotten us killed on several occassions.
Down through the Hayran Valley Pass, we skirt the river separating Iran from Azerbaijan. R puts two fingers to his head and says if I were to put my foot across the barbed wire fence 10 feet from us I'd be shot. On the other side of that fence, women are not obligated to veil.
R, an older gentleman, plays a tape of the pre-Revolution stylings of Delkash through the Pass. H2 knows the words, too. Another traditional Iranian tape features Iraj Bastami, who died in the tragic Bam earthquake of December 2003 that destroyed one of the country's premier ancient treasures and killed tens of thousands.
R takes us through a 'scenic' detour of Astara - the Iranian side. The Caspian is in sight. We stop by a shrine, located next to it is another martyr's cemetary (see below). The men running things invite us for tea.
*
Its good to know the locals. We started our journey in Ardabil. R has proudly led H2 and I around the local mosque - a magnificent piece of work that spawned the Safavid kings. One of its towers geometrically spells "Allah" in continuous design.
We're running a little behind and I tell H2 to let R know we can stop to eat along the way. H2 informs me that people in Ardabil are highly nationalistic and would never consider eating at a place outside of town, so R takes us to his favorite kebabi. Nine kebabs, three drinks: $6. I swear that we passed a guy in a sweet, sweet Vikings jacket near the bazaar.
I extended my visa to cover an oversight - two petitions, a bank transfer and a lot of patience were necessary to complete the process in two hours. The three-star soldier behind the glass tells us he's working on his Master's in 'psychology of speech'. He apologizes for his poor English, which is actually immaculate.
*
So I heard Dick Cheney shot a man. I'm tempted to add "just to watch him die", but even IRINN reports that it was an accident.
At least half of the network's anchors and reporters are women - none of them showing a single strand of hair. The head covering offers a brilliant disguise for the IFB. Perhaps I'll suggest Mary wear one when I get back. An inset box provides the news in sign language for the hearing impaired. The weather forecast is set to the Muzak version of Phil Collins' "Take A Look At Me Now".
The Fate of the World scrolls by on the ticker...
"Belgian researchers: Muslims are majority of victims of violence done in the name of Islam"...
"Study suggests children raised in orphanages stunted physically, emotionally and intellectually but good foster care can help children grow again"...
"US Media: Cheney's secrecy over shooting of Whittington has afflicted American people"...
"US Media: Dick Cheney did not care to inform Whittington's family"...
"US Media: Cheney seems uncommitted to American people"...
*
I doubt anyone has been in our Ardabil hotel in quite a while. The water out of the faucet turns several shades of lead. The manager kept us at the front desk with a series of questions like "Where does the most famous Iranian football player come from?", "Where can you find the best water in the world?", "What region has Iran's best sites?" - all of which are answered with "Ardabil". Ardabil is probably the coldest tourist destination in the country.
All of the bus drivers have to stop at regular police intervals. They'll be fined for speeding if they arrive too early. Tonight's bus driver swears as he returns to the bus at one stop. They'll often pull over for ten minutes before entering a town.
*
We came to Ardabil from Tabriz, where the temperature had plummeted below freezing and the snow was falling when we arrived after 11 hours on the bus - 3 of which were spent tied up in the gridlock of Tehrani traffic after an oil tanker had flipped.
Everyone I've spoken to claims to have "bad memories" of Tabriz, including H2, who spent two years there at school. He can't believe that I'm excited about the visit. Our ultimate destination is a Cappadoccia-style village called Kandovan, but even that is secondary to my real purpose.
The manager of our hotel offers to take us. Iranians have strong stereotypes about people in particular towns - the 'promiscuous' women of Rasht, the 'homosexuals' of Qazvin, the 'sharks' of Esfahan. The manager and H2 exchange jokes the entire way - "there was a man from Osku (between Tabriz and Kandovan) who told his wife he saved 500 tomans by running behind the bus all the way home. 'You fool', his wife replied, 'you could have saved 2000 by running behind a cab!'".
Maybe their joking is a bad omen. After three attempts to negotiate the mountain pass to Kandovan - through Osku - the manager's poor little engine won't make it. We head into Osku with the snow coming down hard to find a better vehicle. A local says he'll take us. The manager asks the man how long he's had his license. "Two months", the guy says. We pile into his 1957 Land Rover.
*
And the LORD God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground the LORD God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
A river flowed out of Eden to water the garden, and there it divided and became four rivers. The name of the first is Pishon; it is the one which flows around the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold; and the gold of that land is good; bdellium and onyx stone are there. The name of the second river is Gihon; it is the one which flows around the whole land of Cush. And the name of the third river is Hiddekel, which flows east of Assyria. And the fourth river is the Euphrates. (Genesis 2: 8-14)British archaelogist David Rohl has risked academic scorn in his book "Legend" by advancing the argument that not only does the Garden of Eden exist, it can be located outside Tabriz. Today, Eden is nearly snowed in.
We arrive in Kandovan to see the fairy-chimney houses. One woman lets us into her home, though she won't let us photograph her. Some older kids are bullying younger ones on the streets. Kandovan rests on the side of Mount Sahand - Rohl says this is the Mountain of God.
We stay a short while before returning in the 57 Land Rover to Osku, picking up elderly Azeri men along the way. They're ancient people in an ancient land, speaking an ancient language. The sun comes out.
*
Back in the manager's car, we stop by a local haunt for lunch. Three orders of dizi, three "cokes", three cups of tea: $6.
Gasoline: less than 40 cents a gallon
Movie ticket: 50 cents
CD: 50 cents to 2 dollars
Shaving cream: 50 cents
Cigaretters: 60-80 cents (Winston or Kent)
ticket to Persepolis: 50 cents
Mini pizza: $1.10
Airfare from Shiraz to Tehran: $30 per person
*
I notice that Krissy Wendell, Natalie Darwitz and Jenny Potter are repeatedly lighting the lamp for Team USA in Turin. Kelly Stephens appears to be doing her part by spending several minutes per period in the penalty box. It appears the squad is headed for another showdown against the chicks with sticks from Canada. Go Gophers!
*
Prior to boarding the bus to Tabriz we spent a layover day in Tehran. H2 took me to the martyr's garden, Behesht-e Sahra, Iran's equivalent to Arlington National. 200,000 of the men killed in the Iran-Iraq war are buried here, many of them with family photos accompanying their resting place. "He was 17", H2 says, listing their ages. We speak with one man washing off the gravestone of his former English teacher.
Nearby is the shrine containing the tomb of Ayatollah Khomeini. The men standing in front of us at the tomb wear jackets emblazoned: "Peaceful nuclear power is definitely our right".
On the way back to town, we stop by H2's sister and brother-in-law's apartment for lunch. She's a student of fine arts at the university. Her husband is in video sales, but also makes violins, is a master of pickling and collects African art. He spent two months in Tanzania trading for the works he displays in his home. H2's sister shows me their wedding book. Her husband stands proudly in the middle of the room and announces to anyone who can hear him, "My wife is very beautiful."
Have I mentioned how remarkably hospitable and generous Iranians are? We eat until we're full.
*
Its 2am and we've just arrived in Tehran from the airport when the cabbie laughs and asks me, "Are you a friend of Bush?" He's the second cab driver we've had tonight whose radio is tuned to Radio America.
H2's family has invited me to stay at their home.
*
At the airport in Shiraz I see more mullahs than I've seen the rest of the time. The military is in full force. A group of women - who wait at least half an hour - hold flowers and a banner welcoming the nation's star karate champion back home. When he arrives he briefly waves and walks by them briskly. Crushing.
One popular treat at the airport is a cup of corn. Not popcorn, good ol' kernels of corn in butter.
Earlier that evening, on the streets of Shiraz, a man walked behind us offering "whiskey, vodka, whiskey, vodka". (We decline - a story came out last year of a party where two dozen people were killed by the alcohol served, accidently fermented with battery acid.)
*
The cabbie this night is a well-mannered older gentleman who supplements his income as a school administrator by driving nights. Beyonce is playing on Radio America. Iranians are natural mechanics, necessary to keep their aging Paykans working. "Have you ever seen such a vehicle in America?", he asks me.
He wants to know if Americans have to pay for college. I give him a ballpark figure for Stanford. H2's jaw hits the floor. The older gentleman points out the difference in income levels between our countries.
The driver asks how long it takes to get from my home to Iran. I have four consecutive flights that will last 17 hours with an additional 8 hours in layovers. He asks, rhetorically since I don't answer, "Why do Americans come half way around the world to kill Iraqis?"
He promises me that America will attack Iran.
posted by s. at 8:05 AM
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