Guestbook

In the garden of Akbar's Tourist Guesthouse, the palm leaves overhead rustling in the gentle breeze, I'm thumbing a large guestbook marked '1998'. Its pages are yellow and stained, and many have come undone over the years. The entries, however, are far from musty. Many kind words to the owner, of course, but also wonderfully detailed travel tips: where to go in Iran, which Pakistani hotels to avoid, how to recognise counterfeit Afghan banknotes. Silly jokes abound. Some travellers attached mugshots—hairdos and spectacles betraying that 1998 indeed lies further in the past than I would like to admit.

Where to start?

'I found those guestbooks two years after the earthquake,' Akbar says. 'It took us that long to clear the rubble. They're one of the few things I still have from the old days. I dip into them whenever I feel down. Always lifts my spirits.' His hands clench the armrests while he speaks, the skin translucent and papery like the pages in front of me.

In many ways Bam feels like the end of the world. Squeezing the desert highway to a road just wide enough for two lorries to pass, this oasis town very much marks the divide between urbane Iran and the sheer emptiness that is the southeastern province of Balochistan—a place so barren that only the most determined of shrubs stick it out (along with the odd drug trafficker and one or two unruly tribes). For many years, Bam served as a staging post for those en route to the Indus valley, some 1400 kilometres beyond. Its tranquil streets lined with date palms made it the perfect spot to unwind and brace yourself for the trip ahead, while Bam's Unesco-listed citadel ranked as one of Iran's star attractions. Then disaster struck. On 26 December 2003 a massive earthquake flattened the town, claiming the lives of one-third of its population and not just damaging but pulverising its 2500-year-old citadel.

Box of dates showing the citadel in its former glory

Bam quickly scrambled to its feet. Many homes have been rebuilt and an international team of experts even set themselves the herculean task of reconstructing the citadel. But despite the efforts the ghost of the earthquake still lingers. The empty lots give the streets a gap-toothed appearance, and what is there is either unfinished or very new. What's more, local tourism took a bad hit. With the destruction of the citadel the town lost much of its appeal.

Akbar's face shows no sign of emotion as he describes the day that changed everything. Two guests died. His son lost his best friend. The guesthouse was turned into a heap of broken bricks. For months life was lived under the canvas of Red Crescent tents. 'We're back on our feet. But it's difficult. The days of tourism are over. I have no choice but to let our rooms to Pakistani merchants who come here to buy dates.'

The sound of the wind playing through the date palms fills the silence. Dates, Bam's divine dates. Only the palm trees survived the earthquake unscathed. They're all the community has left.

Akbar heaves himself out of his chair and smiles. 'Before you go,' he says, 'don't forget to sign our guestbook. It's more than ink on paper you leave behind.'

I pick up a pen and add my voice to an inaudible chorus of ghosts.

Eat and Be Quiet

Leaders and their legacy: bas relief at Persepolis...

Switch on any Iranian telly, flick through the five or six state-run channels on offer and you would be forgiven for thinking that the country is inhabited by a seething mass of flag-waving maniacs who spend most of their time running from the mosque to a meet-and-greet with the Supreme Leader (as Ayatollah Khamenei is lovingly referred to) and back. The unrelenting flow of images showing manifestations and mullahs trying to sing through their nose is only interspersed with something that outshines all: Premier League football.

My favourite bit is the English-language ticker on the national news channel. Here, the obsession with the U.S. and Israel reaches great heights. The world could be on fire and you wouldn't know, but you'll hear all about it when nurses in Minnesota go on strike or a soldier of the 'zionist regime' accidentally kills a mouse by stepping on it. Anything negative or defamatory will do.

Switch off the telly and leave the room, and you'll find a different Iran. Compared with certain parts of Turkey religion is a rather subdued affair. In Shi'ite Iran, the call to prayer sounds three rather than five times a day, and many women dress as liberally as they can possibly get away with. Politics, much to my surprise, is something that leaves most people cold. Mention the president's name and chances are you'll hear a deep sigh.

Of course, things were different three years ago, when thousands upon thousands of young Iranians took to the streets to protest what they believed were fraudulent presidential elections. 'There was something in the air,' a young carpenter told me. 'For a few days, we felt that we were on the brink of a new era. But we never stood a chance. I remember being at the head of a crowd, watching the Basij militia advance. When I looked over my shoulder, my friends had disappeared. I was beaten up so badly... I didn't have the guts to return the next day.'

...and a mural in Esfahan

'They wanted to teach us a lesson,' a bank clerk from the south told me. 'They wanted to make sure it wouldn't happen again. And it hasn't. The forces we are up against are too strong. Look at what's going on in Syria at the moment. People are being massacred by the hands of the forces that are supposed to protect them. And the world just stands by.'

'But there must be more to the current docility,' I said. 'Aren't people simply too well-off?' 'Oh, absolutely,' he smiled. 'Most of us are doing relatively well. You'd think twice, wouldn't you, before risking everything you have. People have a mortgage to worry about, they want to be able to send their children to university. As long as they get by they're willing to sacrifice part of their freedom.'

A retired teacher in a small town gripped his cane and looked me in the eye. 'Eat and be quiet. That's what this regime wants us to do. Eat and be quiet. Like animals. And we obey. We live life to the best we can and steer clear from politics. Don't forget it's only a minority that supports this regime. But it's a very determined minority.'

'Have you never thought of leaving the country?' I asked him. Every year tens of thousands of educated Iranians take the plunge and build up a new life elsewhere. It is estimated that the Iranian diaspora amounts to four million, with large concentrations in the U.S., Canada, Australia and Sweden.

'No,' the old man said. 'I've seen the world. I've been to many places. But this is where I belong, here, in this town.' Then, with a flush of anger: 'I want to live like a gentleman in my own country. Is that too much to ask?'

Persian Pilates

Is it a religious ceremony? Avant-garde theatre? A gym for the financially challenged? No, it's zurkhaneh, an ancient pastime unique to Iran. Every day, men around the country gather for hour-long workouts consisting of a series of ritualised exercises performed to the beat of a drum and the sound of sung poetry. Watch, listen and, for full effect, remember that even though there is no element of competition to zurkhaneh these men do their utmost to outsmell each other.

The Face of an Acquaintance

The beauty of fiction is that you're free to read into it whatever you want. 'Meaning' is not something the author shrouds in sharp wit or dense allusion, there for the perceptive reader to discover; it's something that comes about quite erratically, depending on a host of factors that are not easily identified. A text only takes on significance as the reader engages with it, as it comes to life in his imagination. In other words, a work of fiction is as multifaceted as its readership. As such, it's the perfect antidote to fundamentalism. No wonder then that novels are among the first victims when a totalitarian regime sweeps to power.

The Kaluts: sandcastles in the desert

Of course, I'm not telling you anything you didn't already know. It's just that this very notion lies at the heart of a Persian novella I happened to read (and reread) while traversing Iran: The Blind Owl (1937) by Sadeq Hedayat. A dark tale about a man who takes apart his soul piece by harrowing piece, the novella is centred on a limited set of images and scenes that mirror one another so maddeningly that it seems hard to make sense of it all. Something is expected of the reader, whether he likes it or not. His freedom comes not without a sense of obligation.

What follows is an excerpt. Upon reading it I couldn't help but think of the way many older Iranians speak of the years before and after the 1979 revolution. Something essential was lost. Something that stretched well beyond the political, touching on the personal, on the way people regard themselves. That this revolution took place 42 years after The Blind Owl was first published doesn't mean we can't use it as a prism or a point of reference or anything that suits us best. Like I said, no one is stopping us from distilling our own essence from a book. Except in Iran, of course, where The Blind Owl has been banned in its original form ever since the clergy assumed power. Which, true to the spirit of its people, didn't keep it from becoming the country's most cherished work of fiction.

The rising sun was burning hot. I reached some quiet and empty streets. On my way there were some grey houses designed in strange, singular, geometric shapes: cubic, prismatic and conic houses with low, dark windows; the windows did not have any shutters and the houses seemed to be temporary and abandoned. No living being, apparently, could live in those houses.

Like a golden knife, the sun sheared the edges of the shades and took them away. Everything was quiet and speechless, as though the elements of nature were obeying the sacred law of the quietude of the burning atmosphere, the law of silence. Every place harbored so much mystery that my lungs did not dare inhale the air.

Suddenly I realized that I had left the city gate behind. With a thousand sucking mouths, the heat of the sun was drawing sweat from my body. Under the blazing sun, the desert bushes had assumed the color of turmeric. From the depths of the sky, like a feverish eye, the sun bestowed its burning heat on the silent, lifeless scene. The soil and the plants of this area, however, had a special aroma, an aroma so strong that upon inhaling it I was reminded of my childhood. I clearly recalled not only the activities and the words but the whole time as if it had happened only yesterday. As though reborn in a lost world, I felt an agreeable giddiness. This feeling, which had the intoxicating quality of an ancient, sweet wine, penetrated my veins and sinews, reaching my very existence. I could identify with all the thorns, rocks, tree trunks and the tiny shrubs of wild thyme. I recognized the almost human-like scent of the vegetation. I began to think of my past—of my own far and distant days—but all those recollections, as if through some magic, sought distance from me; they were living together and had an independent life of their own. I was no more than a detached, helpless witness with the feeling that there existed a deep whirlpool between me and those recollections. Compared to those days, today my heart was empty, the shrubs had lost their magical fragrance, the distance between the cypress trees had increased and the hills were dryer. I was no longer the creature that I used to be, and if I could materialize that creature and speak to him, he would not hear me, nor would he understand my words. He would have the face of an acquaintance but he would not be mine nor part of me.

For an uncensored translation of The Blind Owl, see here. A word of warning, though: it is said that the book has driven many readers to suicide. Hedayat himself didn't fare much better. Fourteen years after publication he gassed himself in his Paris apartment.

Caravanserai

Seljuk-era caravanserai tower in Shafiabad

Once upon a time, long before the advent of asphalt and bicycles fitted with Rohloff speedhubs, travelling along the Silk Road was something only stark raving lunatics or unhappily married men would undertake. Distances were vast, climes inhospitable and the people your trading caravan ran into were more likely to loot your booty and roast your camels than to gingerly enquire about the price of your wares. Such were the dangers that most merchants preferred to stick to a relatively short stretch of the route, toing and froing between staging posts to buy and sell goods. But even then trips could easily take several weeks if not months.

Over the centuries countless caravanserais were built to facilitate trade. These walled and guarded inns typically consisted of a number of vaulted rooms arranged around a square courtyard. In Anatolia, the eleventh-century Seljuks took things to a new level by ensuring that a caravan never need spend a night out in the open. A huge engineering feat, seeing that on a good day a fully loaded caravan would cover a mere twenty-five kilometres. Five hundred years later, the Safavid ruler Shah Abbas I laid the foundations for his reputation as the greatest builder of all by ordering a network of 999 caravanserais to be constructed across the Persian Empire.

Today, most caravanserais have disappeared under the sands of time. That doesn't mean the concept has vanished altogether. On the long desert road from Esfahan to Yazd lodgings are sparse though perfectly positioned. No caravanserai every twenty-five kilometres but a few lovely guesthouses, each a day's ride apart. First up was Mohammad's homestay in Toudeshk (see previous post). For the following night, he told me, there would be two options. 'After eighty kilometres you will see the remains of a caravanserai. There's an old man who cooks up simple egg dishes for truck drivers. His clothes are always dirty. He will let you stay for the night, but be careful: at night he will lie down next to you and do dirty things. But don't worry. Just show him your phone and say: police.' Although I can't deny the bit about the egg dishes sounded appealing, I decided to settle for option two: the village of Aqda, some forty kilometres down the road from the crumbling caravanserai, where a couple of paramedics were known to host the odd cyclist.

Recently restored caravanserai in Aqda

I got there just before sunset. I parked my bike next to an ambulance and knocked. A barefoot paramedic opened the door, a look of surprise on his face. He let me in, but instead of being shown where to roll out my sleeping bag I was told to wait. A few minutes later a lanky young man showed up. In broken English he told me about a hotel he was running. As he was still in the midst of converting it from a badly dilapidated mansion to a proper guesthouse, he slashed the room rate at the drop of a hat. The place was nothing short of sensational. Carved niches, vaulted ceilings, a small but elegant courtyard. Pictures of the mansion before the renovation showed what a marvelous job he had done. The manager smiled at my impressed ohs and ahs before adding gloomily that things didn't look so bright. Several months had passed since the first rooms were finished and I was only guest number twenty-three. Neither hotel nor village was listed in any of the guidebooks.

The bane of Lonely Planet, I thought. Whoever is listed in The Book, as it's commonly known among travellers, can be certain of a steady income. His neighbour, who might be running a place just as fine, will struggle to survive. The power Lonely Planet wields was illustrated by the fact that earlier that week I had been asked to edit a letter to Lonely Planet for a well-known hotel in Esfahan. As it happened, one of the authors had witnessed an argument between a member of staff and one of the guests while doing a write-up on the place. Management feared that with a single click of a button their hotel would be wiped out of the next edition of Lonely Planet Iran, which is due to appear this summer. Needless to say, the tone of the letter was pleading, like a prisoner trying to get the king to see that a beheading might be a bit on the harsh side.

However, a lack of guests wasn't the only thing that was troubling the affable Aqda hotel manager. Everything that needed to be done had to be done alone, his Dutch companion unable to return to Iran. Dutch companion... Is his name Sebastiaan, by any chance, I asked. Several people had already told me his story. Trundling through Iran as a backpacker a few years ago, he liked it so much he decided to stay and run the Silk Road Hotel in Yazd, 'the most talked about travellers' stop in Iran,' according to The Book. The place got off to a flying start, whereupon he set up a number of activities in the Yazd area, including the project in little Aqda. Then his luck changed. Wanting to return to Iran after a short break in Holland, he was denied a visa. He hasn't been back since. God knows how much time, effort and money have gone to waste this way.

Guest number twenty-three is checking out

It raises a few questions about the priorities of Iran's ruling elite. On the one hand the rather ambitious aim is to attract twenty million visitors by the year 2020. The potential is certainly there. Iran is a gem of a country, inhabited by some of the kindest and most welcoming people you can imagine. On the other hand small-scale initiatives such as Sebastiaan's are nipped in the bud. A few weeks ago, the authorities even went so far as to close down the Silk Road Hotel. For renovation, the official story went. But it was rumoured that things had got a bit too liberal to the taste of some. When I arrived it was business as usual, though every other night the hotel's courtyard restaurant would be visited by a smartly dressed gentleman eager to chat with foreign guests. After some innocuous questions he would invariably ask whether we had seen or done any 'crazy things' in Iran.

My contribution to tourism in central Iran amounted to putting the Aqda hotel manager in touch with Mohammad in Toudeshk, whose network is impressive by any standard. Mohammad promised me to pay him a visit and recommend the place to his guests. I hope it will make a difference, though it seems Iran has a long way to go if it ever wants to restore the scores of travellers of the days of yore.