“Dead Tourism”: Reflections on the objects of touristic interest

28/09/08 Shiraz

The two main sights we saw in Shiraz were Persipolis and the tomb of Hafez, the infamous Iranian poet. Many of the other things that had been recommended to us, such as the bazaar and certain mosques, were closed on our Friday evening walkabout of the town, obviously the worst time to go sightseeing, especially because it was the last Friday of Ramadan.

Persipolis was quite disappointing: a 120,000 metre square sight of ruins, elevated on a rock slab base 18 metres above ground level. The construction of the ancient city of Parsa was begun in approximately 518 BC by Darius the Great and continued through his successors Xerxes and Artaxerxes, and it served as a royal palace and a place of celebration for the Persian new year, No Ruz. (We found it amusing that we were potentially visiting an ancient site which served a similar function as Glastonbury or Ibiza, to which debauched subjects made annual pilgrimages in order to savour the finest earthy delights of the time… We wondered if, in 2000 years’ time, the nuclear-stricken carcasses of legendary clubbing venues such as Fabric in London would receive similar reverence…) The lifespan of the elaborate, festive city was relatively short, as it was sacked by the armies of Alexander the Great in 330 BC. What remains after excavation and reconstruction of the mythical location is a meager selection of structures: the grand staircase, the mammoth frame of the entrance hall, a few scattered columns, and a handful of bas reliefs alluding to both decoration and customs. Unfortunately, like so many other locations that have been reaped and pillaged by hungry Western archaeologists, the contents of the museum and the site are scarce when compared to the Ancient Persian collection in, say, the British Museum.

To be fair, we are a hard group to please, what with between us we’ve visited many of the world’s truly phenomenal sites: Baalbeck in Lebanon, Karnak in Egypt, Petra in Jordan, Angkor Wat in Vietnam, the Terra Cota Warriors in China, Machu Pichu in Peru. And compared to those sights, which are both architecturally impressive and well preserved, Persipolis fell short of astounding. But to give it some credit, the site itself is well-curated, with clear panels in English and Farsi which provide you with plenty of information and therefore spare you the expense of a guide. And it is worth climbing up to the tomb carved out of rock which flanks the city, because it offers an interesting overhead view.

More impressive were the tombs of Naqsh e-Rostam, about a 10 minute drive from Persipolis. These consist in 4 tombs carved into a mountainside, the resting places of Darius I, Xerxes, Artaxerxes and Darius II. They hover in the sheer rock face over 15 metres off the ground, giving the sight a slightly suspended, ghost-like feeling. Below the tombs are bas reliefs which date hundreds of years after the deaths of the kings, and the specificities of these are explained in detail in clear panels.

After resting from our morning spent out in the baking sun poking round 2000 year old tombs and palaces, we opted for a relaxing evening at the tomb of Hafez, who had discovered the inspirational mix of wine and poetry long before the likes of Rimbaud, Verlaine, or their romantic contemporaries. His verses speak of love and loss, hope and fate, and are riddled with imagery of birds, flowers and other such components of nature. He is still revered in Iran today, despite (perhaps even because of) his tendencies towards indulgence standing in sharp contradiction to the values of the Islamic state. His tomb is situated in a well-kept park of sorts, with ponds and grassy patches.

Surrendering to the romantic sensation of the whole experience, I bought a small collection of Hafez’s poems in Farsi and English in the bookshop on the premises, and then sat in a corner and alternated between reading his works and observing the many people who came to his tomb. Elevated under a sort of pagoda, groups would become silent when approaching the resting place of their revered national poet, and then their composite individuals would step up to the rectangular marble slab under which the body lay, kneel down, and place their heads on the cold stone. It was almost as if they were in a place of religious worship, such was their expressed reverence.

As i sat there, willingly being taken by the whole scene, J read the last pages of the book that he has been reading since the beginning of this trip, entitled ‘We are Iran’. It is an observation of contemporary Iranian thought and social movements through blogging. The two of us sitting there in that garden, at that tomb, in the wake of our day spent discovering ancient Persian relics, sparked some funny thought in me. The contrast between J reading about contemporary social issues with very tangible manifestations and consequences compared to my delving into some abstract, romantic past, bothered me. It made me remember how I find it disturbing that being a visitor in a foreign country means, more often than not, spending more time experiencing the ‘dead’ parts of a country (i.e. its remote history) instead of engaging with the complexities of the present. Of course, to familiarise oneself with the past is an indispensable avenue to understanding the present. But to prioritize activities such as spectator sightseeing of archaeological relics over more banal interactions or up-to-date research is also shallow, because it can limit an outsider’s understanding of a place to some long-gone era that is scarcely relevant to the present.

My first inklings of this sort occurred during my year spent living in Egypt. At that time, I was seeking out the reasons behind my experiences of alienation and harassment that mired my time in that country. Initially, I blamed various elements of contemporary Egyptian society, including the sharp rural-urban divide, disparity of wealth, wide-spread illiteracy and the rise of political Islam as a consequence of the failed economic and political reforms of the Sadat era.

And then I went on holiday to Luxor and Assouan, the sites of many of Egypt’s most infamous sites, including the Temples of Luxor and Karnak and the Valley of the Kings, and saw things differently. It was about 5 months after my arrival in Alexandria, where i was attending university to study Arabic, which was largely enough time to make me realise what is acceptable attire for women in Egypt: modest dress, not showing too much leg, upper arm or chest. The streams of scantily-clad Europeans on package holidays that I encountered in Assouan and Luxor made me lose my self-righteous disdain for the attitudes of some Egyptians towards me, which I had initially perceived as irrationally sexist and anti-Western. It made me understand that the behaviour of most tourists that come to Egypt actually foster the image of a certain frivolity and unfettered sexuality (compared to what is acceptable and unacceptable in Egyptian society). It also made me remember that I also had once played a part in creating that very image of Westerners in Egypt.

Egypt’s main industry is tourism, and it receives thousands of tourists every year, who flock to its celebrated relics in under-dressed gaggles on the ubiquitous Nile cruises. I had been on a similar cruise several years before, on a week-long class trip. I remember sunbathing topless in the glorious spring heat on the deck of the boat with my blossoming adolescent companions, and wandering round the ancient sites in tank tops and shorts. We were completely ignorant of anything to do with contemporary Egyptian values or manners, and lapped up the ancient history as if is was the only thing of substance in the country. I knew no Arabic, had no concept of the country’s recent history, its anti-colonial struggles, it’s wars, it’s occupation… I also knew nothing about Islam. Again, i was completely ignorant of anything that constituted twenty-first century Egypt, and behaved in according disrespect. And, returning to those tourist sites after having learned a fair amount about all those things, i realised that,similar to my young teenage self, the vast majority of those who visit Egypt are equally ignorant.

The tourist industry in Egypt is based on a civilization that existed somewhere between 5-3 thousand years ago. The millions who partake in that industry have their appetites whetted with visions of the country as a grandiose, mythical land of the Pharaohs. For the most part, they come away from their visit with that idea solidly rooted in their minds, because all they have been exposed to are the radiant sunshine and scenic palms of the tranquil Nile shores, the cradle of modern agriculture; the breathtaking temples and palaces that adorn bygone kings and queens that fashioned themselves as the representatives of Gods on earth. They have been shuttled from from boat to archaeological site in clean, air-conditioned buses, without having to spend too long in the blistering heat or dirty streets of the towns they stop in, or without having to interact with any local people apart from those highly irritating ones who run after them trying to sell cheap plastic replicas of the wonders they’ve seen.

They leave Egypt not having known an Egyptian outside the the frame of tourism, outside their own positions of privilege (obviously, no one can ever truly escape their privilege, to think so is naive, but in this case the extent that such privilege infiltrates every single relation is very strong). They might have had an entertaining Egyptian guide, or bought a carpet from a pleasant man who offered them tea, or been showered with innumerable shouts of ‘welcome in Egypt’. They are undoubtedly more fascinated by dead, decaying bodies (the mummies) than the the living, breathing individuals that populate the country. They probably also got slightly ripped off by a souvenir peddler, and perhaps resent being taken advantage of. The only modern structure that has probably been framed as being of any significance is the Assouan dam, and even then it is no doubt belittled in comparison to the glorious temples that have just been visited.

Basically, that type of tourism constructs an image of Egypt in tourists minds as a place of nostalgic return to a past, dead civilization, which is made to harbour a historical richness that is pre-packaged, sanitised and fit for Western consumption. When they compare this romanticised past to Egypt’s current social ills, including poverty and corruption and the rise of political Islam, the country is seen in a state of regression, because the current culture is rendered devoid of any significance outside the touristic trope. Reciprocally, tourists in Egypt do not even consider modifying their behaviour/dress to suit Egypt’s cultural values. Therefore, in turn, the Egyptians have come to think of foreigners as disrespectful and endowed with unimaginable disposable incomes that enable their jilted consumption of the treasures of ancient Egypt. Both images mutually reinforce the negative aspects of each party’s other, and sustain a tense, problematic relationship between the two.

Although the Egyptian case is an extreme, I have elaborated upon it so much in order to question the extent to which similar patterns reproduce themselves in all touristic destinations. How do we ‘experience’ a foreign country? What do we choose to see, what do we prioritise? Inversely, what do we deem as banal and hence not of interest? We precipitate upon the anti-Israeli street demonstrations in the major cities of Iran that marked the last Friday of Ramadan, but perhaps disregard the groups of schoolchildren leaving school, or the myriad different ways in which women transcend the strict Islamic dress code through hairstyle, make-up and other dress forms…

No traveler should forget the implications of their gaze, and how that gaze creates what is seen of our difference…

Badgirs and bed-ridden in Yazd

24/09/08

Yesterday, after getting all our onward visa business sorted, we finally left Tehran on the night train to Yazd. We arrived at 5am and went straight to the hostel that we had called beforehand in order to reserve some rooms, the Amir Chakmak Hostel, which has a fantastic rooftop view of the Amir Chakmak monument. After sleeping for a few extra hours and going for a whlesome brekkie at the Vali Traditional Hotel (buffet with cheese, eggs, veggies, fresh bread, jams, tea and juice all for $1.5!), 4/5 of us embarked upon the Lonely Planet’s ‘Get lost in Yazd tour’. Di stayed in the hotel because she was feeling unwell after.

Sleepy, dusty,yellow Yazd is a world away from bustling and sprawling Tehran. The houses in the old town are made of stone and mud, and wandering through the capillary alleys that snake between them is like being transported back over 1000 years in history. It reminded me of an intact version of the ancient old town of Siwa, the oasis in the desert of Western Egypt near the Libyan border, which was destroyed in a freak thunderstorm in the 1960s and now frames the new town like the melted backdrop of a Dali painting. And though the old town of Yazd is still very much inhabited, its streets are quiet and deserted, the stillness only infrequently disturbed by a passing motorcycle or a fleeting gaggle of kids on bicycles or running with a football.

Yazd is famous for its badgirs, or windtowers which represent the earliest form of air conditioning. They are cuboid structures that exceed the height of the building by over 5 metres, with slits on the side to channel air in and out of the house via different compartments. One compartment funnels the air from outside downwards, past a basin of water which cools the air before it arrives in the house, thereby colling the house. But when the air inside the house is heated, it rises through a separate channel which expulses it back outside. They are structures that leave me in awe of the brilliance of the pre-industrial, pre-technological human mind, mostly because of its ability to benefit from nature without destroying it. Why can’t modern air con be as eco-friendly?

Another interesting characteristic of Yazd is its history of providing water to a settlement in the middle of the desert. The Yazd Water Museum has an interesting collection of tools and photographs that illustrate the traditional methods used to channel water from the surrounding mountains down into the valley. These consist of underground waterways called qanats, which were dug as a slight incline so as to produce a natural flow downwards. The qanat are made to lead to an underground reservoir, which is built with a domed roof and some badgirs so as to cool the water. Some of the photos in the museum are very impressive and humbling, and show little old men dressed in white caps and shrouds (burial outfits in case the channel collapses and they are buried underground) scrunched in these minuscule channels, with only a hand-held, fat-fueled candle for light.

Scattered throughout the town are magnificent mosques with turquoise-tiled domes and minarets which stand out in striking contrast to the mud-walls and roofs that surround them. The Jameh mosque is particularly exceptional, with its minarets that tower 48m above its majestic entrance. The walls and ceiling of the carpeted prayer area under the dome are equally astounding, covered in mosaics of various shades of blue, white and green, which alternate between abstract geometric and floral designs to calligraphical spreads of the 99 names of Allah.

At one point on the walking tour, you come to a building called the Hosseniya. It is not distinguishable from those around it, an unless you were told it was there, you’d probably walk by without a second thought. But if you enter its nondescript metal gate and climb up through the crumbling arches and stairways, you find yourself on a rooftop from which you can savour views of the whole old town. Various minarets and mosque domes sparkle above the rounded rooftops, interspersed by badgirs and framed by the mountains in the distance.

Unfortunately, when we returned to the hotel, Di was still in a dodgy state, and getting progressively worse. She hadn’t managed to keep any food or drink down all day, and combined with the heat and stress of travel, was risking dehydration. We convinced her that it would be a good idea to call a doctor, who came and after a single looked at her decided to hook her up to an IV drip. This took Di quite some convincing, as she has a veritable phobia of anything needle- or syringe-related. But when faced with the prospect of potentially having to be checked into a hospital if she didn’t improve by noon the next day, she relented and accepted the treatment. The manager of the hotel and his brother were of unparalleled help through the entire ordeal, offering broken but thorough translations between us and the doctor, who didn’t speak any English. Without an instant’s hesitation, they nailed a nail above her bed from which the IV bottle would hang, collected all 3 Persian-English dictionaries in the building in order to assist with the translation, and, after the doctor left, cooked her a huge dish of rice and potatoes (which she unfortunately vomited up not long after).

Di was hooked up to the IV drip for about 3 hours, and suffered from severe bouts of dizziness and nausea throughout. It was worrying seeing her in such an ill and distressed state, and knowing that the whole experience was rendered more stressful by her being in a cheap hostel with communal toilets some 20 metres down the hall from her room (very far for one suffering from diarrhea and vomiting) and in a foreign country where none of us was proficient in the language. Alhamdulillah, by the time the second bottle of glucose was flowing through her, she was feeling better and starting to nodd off. The manager came to remove the IV from her arm, assuring us that he had had adequate training in basic medical tasks during his time as a soldier in the Iran-Iraq war. He was incredibly gentle when removing the tape from her arm, repeating the words ’sorry, sorry, sorry’ each time a single hair was pulled taught by the tape. Afterwards, he took her blood pressure, offered us some dates, and told us not to hesitate if we needed anything throughout the night, he would be awake to help us.

Today, Di is a million times better that she was yesterday. We have come to the Silk Road Hotel to chill in their beautiful shaded courtyard, drink some mint tea and feed Di some rice, so that she regains her strength. This communal space is much lovelier than the sun-exposed rooftop of our hotel and the bathrooms cleaner. But the hospitality of the staff here does not come near the diligent, caring attitudes of those back in the Amir Chakmak. It is truly thanks to them that she is as well as she is now. They serve as a valuable reminder for every budget traveler that the measure of a hostel should not be judged by its gardens or furnishings, but by the extent to which you are made to feel as at home as possible, despite the unfortunate eventualities and strangeness that results from roaming far from home.

Tehran’s grooviest taxi driver

21/09/08

After collecting out Uzbek visas from the consulate, we went on a mission to Karaj, some 40km west of Tehran, where there is apparently a reservoir. It took us about an hour and a half to reach Karaj, on two tubes and then the double decker suburb commuter train. We were travelling at around 1pm, presumably a post-noon Ramadan prayers rush hour, because all the tubes and trains were packed.

Lesson 6: If you’re a woman, NEVER get into the mixed sex carriages during rush hour. You’ll quickly find that many hands use the crammed space as an excuse to occupy rather inappropriate places. Opt for the women only carriage, usually the first on the train.

Once we arrived in Karaj, we went looking for a taxi who would take us up to the reservoir (about an hour’s drive). With the indispensable use of the Lonely Planet phrasebook, we managed to convey our destination and agree on a price.

With all five of us crammed in and ready to go, our driver, Davod, chose a CD and off we went… And what a CD! It began with some hard core/electronic German music, slightly reminiscent of Rammstein. The music then progressed to some more hip-hop/house beats (a la BomfunkMcs), and then into drum and base. As Davod blasted out some hip tunes as we drove into the Alborz mountains, we bounced around in the back, grooving to the unexpected underground sounds of the hip youth. Then Enrique Inglesias remixes started rolling out, stil as loud and still as pumping. I have never in my life given Enrique more than a single though, but these tunes were phat! We bobbed up and down in our seats, swaying with the music and the curvey roads that wound up the mountain.

We never got to the reservoir because i think Davod got bored, so we stopped next to the river instead. We had planned to picknick, but the rubbish and pollution on the sight killed all our appetites. After about 10 minutes, we jumped back in the boogey-mobile and buzzed back down the hill.

The whole trip couldn’t have lasted more than two hours, but it was well fun. Especially to be able to experience the musical tastes of some young bloke, who obviously craved some rocking and rebelling in his life: in addition to the music, there were various skull and crossbone badges and stickers on his dashboard. Obviously, he was aware of the unfavoured nature of his pleasures, because every time we passed the police, he turned the blasting beats right down; only to blast them out again once we were a safe distance away from the authorities.

I wish i’d been able to give him a present of some more music to add to his collection… I could imagine how ace stuff like the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Guns’ and Roses, and Aphex Twin would have blown him away… Just like he did for us in his disco-on-wheels; literally a ride that i’m sure none of us will forget.

Uzbekistan visa in Tehran

21/09/08

The process of collecting an Uzbek visa in Tehran should have been easy, considering that we had applied for a letter of invitation and received a collection notification. We used the company STANtours, which i would highly recommend: fast (7-14 days, we got ours in 7), friendly and do not demand hotel bookings alongside.

However, trying to find the embassy was very difficult, and rendered the whole process much more stressful. Unlike several other embassies that are situated in the centre of town, the Uzbek, and incidentally, Turkmen, embassies are to the far north of Tehran, an area not reached by the metro. Luckily, we had found a hand-drawn map in the guest book of our hostel (Mashhad hostel on Amir Kabir street, also recommended), which was very helpful once we found our bearings. From the metro station Mirdamad (last stop at northern end of Line 1, the red line), take a bus towards Noubaniad. From there, you can follow the jpg image of the map that we used: SEE BELOW (sorry to the cartographers for disseminating this information without your permission, but considering that you left it in order to help others in the first place, i don’t think you’ be very bothered. Thank you, it was infinitely useful, and hopefully will be to many others).

Lesson 5: Uzbek visas are issued at the Consulate, not the Embassy.

A one-month visa costs $75 and is processed the same day, in less than an hour. You need two passport photos. Unlike other visas, where they give you a certain period of validity (1-3 months) during which you can enter and stay however long is permitted by the visa, the Uzbek visa issued in Tehran are quite strict about entry and exit dates, so its better to know approximately the date of entry. If you’re planning on traveling overland through Turkmenistan (in which case you’ll probably be wanting a Turkmen transit visa), your best bet is to make the beginning of the Uzbek visa overlap with the end of your Iranian visa, in case you are refused a Turkmen transit visa. That way, if you cannot travel through Turkmenistan, at least you have the option of flying directly to Tashkent.

 

Art and Authority

20/09/08It was J’s birthday yesterday. The thing he most desired was a cold beer, so we trekked down to the Armenian Club for a late lunch, thinking that would be our best bet. Unfortunately, the only beer on the menu was non-alcoholic, and so our celebratory meal consisted in a sober session accompanied by some mediocre spaghetti, a slightly disappointing but no doubt memorable birthday.

One of the things that we hadn’t expected was the extent of complete shutdown that the city entered on Fridays. Everything was shut, from shops to restaurants to internet cafes,and the roads were quiet. Again, this could have been exacerbated due to Ramadan, but I do get the feeling that all year round, Fridays are a day reserved for rest and worship.

One of the few things that was open was the Museum of Contemporary Art, situated inside Park Laleh. Now here was some life. The park was filled with families and couples, lounging in the grass, playing badminton, strumming Spanish guitars… A pleasant dose of liveliness after the relative desertion of other parts of the city.

The exhibition in the museum was the fourth Annual Iran Typography Exhibition, which meant that all of the pieces on display were calligraphical. There were hundreds of pieces on display, most of them computerized or graphically designed, all of them directly and explicitly religious. The content of the pieces was recurrent throughout the exhibition, as all of the words used were Koranic and referred to Allah. Therefore, all variations were in the form that the words took. The most common words phrases were: ‘Allah’, ‘bismillah alrahman alrahim’ (in the name of God, the most benevolent and most merciful; the opening verse of the Koran); and then variations of the 99 names for Allah (‘alhaqq’, the truth; ‘alawwal’, the first; ‘alakhir’, the last; ‘malik almuluk’, king of kings; etc).

The redundancy could have been boring (and I admit that by the end it was slightly) but for the most part the artists’ stylistic choices in colour, font, contrast etc (note that im obviously not an artist with such limited descriptive words!) made the exhibition very interesting. One of the works that has stuck in my mind set the phrase ‘bismillah alrahman alrahim’ in the form of birds, drawn in white against a blue background. Others listed words and varied the thickness and length of their letters in order to create other patterns or words in a more layered/subliminal fashion.

What fascinated me the most about the exhibition was the notion the because the substantive choices were so limited, the style and form had to be worked on in even greater lengths in order to render each piece unique and enable innovative expression. For the most part, I would say that the artists’ succeeded in doing so.

Obviously, this genre of art is very compatible with the exigencies of the Islamic regime, because the subject matter is completely controlled. In fact, to me, the exhibition felt like a collection of modern Islamic art, in that it followed the conventions of traditional Islamic art (the use of calligraphy and abstract geometrical patterns for the purpose of praise) but through cutting edge means, including state of the art computer design software. I wondered to what extent this exhibition determined the platform of graphic design artists. Were there other such high-profile annual exhibitions in which design artists (or any artists for that matter) were NOT bound to religious dictates? Perhaps, but the lack of any permanent collection in the museum made me unable to answer that question.

I have to admit that throughout I was eagerly seeking signs of dissidence, of divergence from the imposed model. And although i did not find them in substance, i feel that the proliferation of forms and colours was the key to individuality, and that therein lied the potential for subversion. I did not interpret the pieces in the exhibition as expressions of worship. I felt that it was the externalization of individual artistic desires and impulses through the imposed paradigm of worship. As a spectator, I sensed that the more often than not, the words were secondary to the form, mere vehicles through which other feelings could be delivered. In many pieces i felt disillusionment, perhaps frustration. In some i felt a desire to escape, to move far beyond the dictates.

There were, notwithstanding, some through which i felt strong faith; that cannot be denied. But this was not the majority, and I came out of the museum feeling like I had just been in a sort of zoo, where animals are obliged to perform outside their dispositions in order to please the audience. I felt that a burning artistic desire was being shackled.

Troubleshooting

Lesson 4: Internet cafes (coffeenets) are few and far between in southern Tehran. They also close at 3pm on Thursdays and do not open again until Saturday morning…

Tehran: Initial Impressions

Toilets in train station: unexpectedly spotless and squeaky clean.

The first two people we met (taxi driver and hotel manager) were vocally critical of Iran. In the words of the former: ”Mullah, no good”. The hotel manager, Ali, also spoke with disdain about the religious authorities, lamented the absence of discos and whiskey, and even went as far to say that he missed the days of the Shah. They also praised the countries in the world that are so often met with so much disapproval in the Middle East: the US and UK.
We later discussed such overt dissidence and uncommon appreciation for the West, and wondered whether they were their true opinions, or whether they were saying those things to either flatter us or provoke debate. Obviously, the history of Western intervention in Iran (CIA-supported coup of democratically elected government of Mossadeq in the 1960’s; proppoing up the Shah’s brutal regime thereafter…) is reason for distrust and disdain. But, thinking about more contemporary reasons for which the US and the UK are so despised in the wider Middle East, namely support for Israeli occupation of Palestine and the invasion of Iraq, I realized that the view from Iran on such issues is bound to differ. On the former, despite the rhetoric of the Iranian government, I do not think that there is the same amount of identification with the Palestinian cause in Iran as in Arab countries (despite the fact that in many of these, such identification is largely rhetorical and substance-less). Culturally, religiously and linguistically, Iranians are distant from Palestinians, and therefore probably do not see the Israeli occupation as threatening their larger community, as is often the perception from an Arab perspective. I am as yet unaware of the extent to which the the disdain of the Iranian government for Israel is shared by the Iranian population, but I think that the whole issue is more a question of geopolitics than identity. Secondly, the US-led invasion of Iraq, which was seen as an infringement on a collective Arab or Sunni Muslim sovereignty, was in many ways positive for Iran: it toppled the man/regime with whom Iran had engaged in a brutal 8-year war (an end in itself), and thereby shifted the balance of power in the region in their favour.
And then of course it is simultaneously very possible that Iranians are tired of the impositions of their government. But is it dangerous to be so vocal about such views? I would guess that despite the fact that the security apparatus undoubtedly flexes its muscles when appropriate, most often with higher profile individuals (academics, activists, bloggers), the circle of fear surrounding the expression of dissidence in certain situations (ie to foreigners) is weakening…

Tehran bazaar is a combination of Souq al Hamidiyya in Damascus, the suave shopping district of San Remo in Italy and Ikea: beautiful old arches/ elaborate wooden windows/colourful mosque domes lurking round every corner, sheltering endless alleys of gold and silversmiths, watch retailers, fake designer clothing and the most stylish range of kitchen and housing supplies Ive ever seen! It is brilliant and bustling, and does not disappoint.

And yet Tehran is quieter and more low-key than I expected, which is probably because its Ramadan. But also, I feel it is much LESS alien to me than i expected it to be. I think it has something to do with my expectations of Iran being built on images of a staunch ‘Big Brother’ state, complete with massive posters of Imam Khomeini on every street corner, huge Soviet-style buildings and a strong police presence. Instead, in southern Tehran the buildings hardly exceed 2 or 3 stories, the police are few and far between and the political propaganda is not overtly omnipresent (although this could have something to do with having spent the past 9 months in Beirut, where political posters outnumber consumer advertising and there is a tank on every other street corner).
I suppose that Tehran does not live up to its reputation in the Western imagination as the steely capital of the demonised Islamic Republic. Nor does it strike me as overly conservative: alongside the many women in chadors, we have spotted Hermes scarves, Gucci and Dior sunglasses, nose-jobs, exaggerated fringes escaping from hijabs, dramatic make-up and long/spikey hair on men. I feel frumpy with my oversized salwar kameez and tatty black scarf, while my scruffy, untied Doc Martens have received more looks of disapproval than any amount of hair/lower arm/ankle that has peeked out from my clothing.

Its funny, because we claim to be aware of the impact of media distortion on the perception of Otherness. We fashion ourselves as ones who are able to deconstruct the discourses and power relations that inform the way that we think about distant cultures. We feel confident in your non-essentialist view of any religion or ethnic group. And yet, the extent to which we are taken aback by the way in which an encountered ‘reality’ differs from what we have been exposed to betrays the inescapability of our construction. Which is not a bad thing, because it is healthy to be reminded of our bias, our partiality, our preferences, and how those influence the way that we not only see Otherness but also how we behave in its presence.

For me, that is one of the most valuable aspects of directly encountering difference: it makes us as much aware of aspects of the Other as much as what characterises the self. I learned this the hard way, during a difficult year spent studying Arabic in Egypt. It is a reflection that i hope i will never forget, because by recognizing my own agency in experiencing foreignness, I will be less likely to react angrily to the difficulties that will inevitably be faced in that encounter, and look inside for solutions rather than attributing blame outside.

Damascus – Tehran train: part II

17/09/08, 5 pm Damascus – Tehran Train; Tabriz – Tehran leg

56 hours into this increasingly epic journey. The second day was more hectic than the first, with us having to change from the Turkish train onto a ferry across Lake Van, and then onto an Iranian train on the other side. The crossing itself was pleasant enough, although it took place at night and we therefore didn’t have the chance to see the lake and its surroundings by daylight, something that we had all been looking forward to.

On board the ferry, our group of 5, now 6 with our German companion Cordela, received much attention from other passengers who had not been in our carriage and who we had not met yet. J was eager to start conversations in order to practice his newly-learned Farsi (courtesy of the Lonely Planet Farsi phrasebook and some preliminary exchanges with some young boys in our carriage). And then there was the whole taking photographs beside young girls and groups of middle-aged women palaver, which I often find embarrassing but for some reason was more comfortable with this time. Perhaps because their eagerness and curiosity regarding our presence and intent seemed so genuine, so without ulterior motive (i have probably been poisoned by my experiences in Egypt with regard to people flattering your foreignness and then requesting something). The hospitality from our fellow Iranian passengers was honest and warm, and even though we were not yet on Iranian soil, it was a welcome initial exposure to our destination country.

One significant plus to the boat journey was the existence of a panini machine in the snack shop, thanks to which we all indulged in out first hot meal for nearly two days… Who would think that a semi-stale cheese and ketchup toasted sandwich could ever be celebrated as a gourmet meal? Well, with out collective aversion to tinned processed meat and consequently rumbling tummies, it was.

The crossing took about 5 hours, and we arrived in the town of Van at about 3am. All of us shuffled with heavy eyelids to our new train, which was more rudimentary than our former vehicle. We were also told by our new conductor that a copy of our ticket was missing, and fined us $2 each, which i have decided is a scam, for foreigners because, funnily enough, it as only us and Cordelia that were missing the elusive white paper… Hence:

Lesson 3: If purchasing the ticket from Damascus, make sure that there are TWO bits of paper contained in the ticket: a white one and a yellow one.

After managing about an hour’s sleep, we arrived at the Turkish-Iranian border. On the Turkish side, we had to get out and queue for the departure stamp. The sky was just showing signs of daylight and it was quite cold. Luckily, the women’s line was shorter than the men’s, so we finished beforehand, and managed to climb back into bed. The Iranian visa process was much easier, with officials getting on the train and registering passports while it was moving, instead of us having to get off and wait at the border.

The remainder of the journey was punctuated by the minor drama of Di suffering from bouts of nausea and diarrhea, most often while the train was stopped at stations and the doors to the toilets were locked, which happened quite often (the train spent almost as much time in stations as it did on the road, which is why our journey has already well exceeded the estimated 55 hours it was supposed to take). At such moments, no amount of begging or tears could make the conductors unlock the door. One particularly helpful chap suggested that she release her vomit into the small space on either side of the metal pieces that link the carriages together… Di said she was more likely to do it in the middle of the dining carriage as retribution for their dogmatic and uncompassionate attitudes. Luckily, she managed to keep it all under control, and no such punishment was necessary…

18/09/08, 3 a.m. Tehran

After 67 hours, two trains, one boat, 2350 km, and an innumerable amount of Kiri and bread sandwiches, we have FINALLY arrived In Tehran.

The scene at the train station was a memorable one: while the passengers awaited their luggage, they bade farewell to the new friends that they had made on the journey. I watched as Minou, one of the girls that we had taken photographs with on the boat, did the rounds to about 80% of the women in he room and gave them each three kisses and a hug as they exchanges parting words. I thought that this was the first time that I had seen such warmth: where else had i witnessed a group of people who had shared public transport leave as friends? Where else had the shift between stranger and acquaintance occurred with such seemingly pleasurable eagerness? Nowhere else.

We as well left that train having ‘made friends’. Most began relatively harmlessly, but as the journey progressed, some exaggerated enthusiasms came to translate into irritable omnipresences, manifested in the collapse of public/private space, as our cabins because veritable social hubs, and the tendency of people to not take hints after an hour of chatting, we were ready for a break (feigning sleep became our means of escape). One man from Abadan (near Iraqi border) and elderly mother were enjoyable until, after having insisted that she need to see a doctor in Tabriz, the Hajji attempted to massage Di’s upset stomach. On the other hand, when it became clear that we would be arriving in the capital at the wee hours of the morning, another man, Youssef the sailor, was so kind as to call various hotels for us and ask for prices. he eventually reserved us rooms and told the management to be expecting us round 3 am. He also negotiated a taxi for us from the train station to the hotel, and although we still probably paid slightly more than normal, I’m sure that it was less than had we been alone.

The sky is lightening, sleep beckons, and tomorrow the bazaar awaits…

Damascus – Tehran train: part 1

16/09/08

Despite our disorganization and conflicting information concerning visa fees and sleeper-car availability, we managed to nab 5 beds on the Damascus-Tehran train the morning of its departure. Contrary to the information we found on the internet, the tickets were 64 Euros or 4,700 Syrian pounds each, some $106. After having registered our passport information and written out our tickets (nothing in the Syrian transport system is computerized, so the whole process takes ages), we attempted to pay with dollars. The man initially refused, and then, after adding $3 to the price of each ticket, accepted.

 

            Lesson 1: if you want to get this train from Damascus, try to pay in Syrian pounds.

 

            The train is plush. Much more elaborate than what J and I were used to taking in China,  the sleeper cabins each have two bunk-beds, a nice big window and a sink. And they come in pairs with a connecting door in between, which is fun because if you know the person in the room next  to you, with the door open you get a much more spacious area to chill in.

 

            The food, however, will receive a much less favourable review. We had read somewhere that there was no food on the trains, so we took some supplies with us (bread, Kiri cheese, dried figs and apricots, mixed nuts), and thank Allah we did. Not because meals aren’t provided. They are, but they leave much to be desired, especially for the vegetarians among us.

 

            Breakfast the first morning was hopeful: bread, cheese triangles, apricot jam, biscuits, tea and coffee. Good start.

 

            Lunch, however, was significantly disappointing. The contents were the same as breakfast, with the cheese replaced by a tin of tuna. And dinner followed the same pattern, except with a tin of processed meat replacing the tuna.

 

            Lesson 2: Bring sufficient food supplies, especially if there are veggies among you (fresh fruit and veg are very much missed!)

 

            Otherwise, our travel companions are very pleasant. Many of the Iranian men speak Arabic because they are either from south-western Iran or they work in the oil industry, and therefore spend most time in the Arab Gulf countries. They are very talkative, eager to chat bout anything from pre-revolutionary Iranian history and literature, to the difficulties of working away from home and family, to reminding the men in the group to ”veil their women” when we cross into Iran, to proclaiming their admiration for Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hizbullah. In a conversation with J, one man said that he loved Nasrallah more than his own children…

 

            However, we were indicated by several people back in Lebanon to not expect too favourable reactions from Iranians with regard to Lebanon, and Hizbullah in particular, mostly because there is a suspicion among many Iranians that their taxes are going towards arming Hizbullah instead of being invested in national infrastructure and development… Obviously, like all overtly political discussions, it will not be a topic that we will seek out explicitly, but will probably come about as a result of us mentioning that we have all come from Beirut, where 4/5 of us have been living for the past year. Treading lightly all the while…

 

            My affection for trains that blossomed during last year’s trans-China escapade has been rekindled in the 24 hours since we’ve embarked. Trains are both literally and metaphorically more grounded than flying, which means that they are simultaneously a less anxious form of transport (you dont have that sensation of fearing a 10km death drop at every bump of turbulence) and they enable you to really be aware of the distance being covered, and the various characteristics of different parts of each country crossed. I love witnessing the change of scenery, which has so far taken us from barren desert between Damascus and Aleppo, through lush, red-dirt olive groves along the Syrian-Turkish border, to the yellow hills and man-made lakes of west Kurdistan; lakes which are a big source of geopolitical tension between Turkey and Syria because they block most of the water from the rivers that flow southwards from the Black Sea and keep it on the Turkish side of the border.

 

            (Incidentally, the Brits among us only had to pay $20 each to enter Turkey, not the $150 cited to us in Damascus… But us French nationals still got in for free, yay!)

 

            As we move eastwards deeper into Kurdistsan, the Turkish police on the train are getting visibly more antsy. In the dining carriage, they started by merely gossiping about the as yet unveiled women among us and sneaking furtive snapshots with their camera phones. Then all of a sudden, one of them stood up and started distributing mini machine guns (Uzis?) and bullets and cockily loaded their tools of death. Are there PKK rebels on the radar?

 

*          *          *

 

            There is a 40 something German woman in the room next to Di and Caro who is traveling alone. Her name is Cordela. This morning at breakfast, she said that the men on the train keep asking her where her husband is. She had replied that he was at home, so the inevitable question followed as to why he wasn’t accompanying her, and she made some excuse. Di had the great idea that she should tell people she was a widow, but that would probably invite more approaches than quell them.

 

            Most of my travels have been effectuated in a group or in a couple, and I have often been grateful for the security that such company offers. In my experience of living and traveling in Arab countries, where inquiries about a woman’s marital status are usually third in line after those of name and nationality, stating that one is married is a good way of avoiding both unwanted male interest and marriage proposals in the name of acquiring a European passport. I do, therefore, think that it is more hassle to travel as a single woman.

 

            Moreover, I have always enjoyed traveling more when there was an element of sharing in the process of discovery; the idea that one is forming some sort of communal memory that weaves itself into platonic and romantic relationships. Obviously, all individuals involved will perceive and therefore remember differently, it is naïve to think that there will be a single narrative for any given event. And unfamiliar places and strenuous circumstances can strain already-existing friendships. Nevertheless, I do find that shared travel strengthens relationships, through both hardship and enjoyment, and create invaluable, long-lasting memories.

 

            Despite these impressions, I look at the way that Cordela’s status of a single female actually renders her more accessible to the Iranian women on the train than the women in our group. At one point she had over 10 women crowded into her room, communicating is fragments of different language and through a Farsi phrasebook. I haven’t conversed with any women on this train yet. The fact that we are a group does make us more insular, more liable to be content with ourselves, in our own cabins/rooms/company, and ultimately less likely to spend time with others or forge new friendships.

 

            I realise that that is one of the big perks of traveling alone, that it makes one more accessible to those around. And i suppose that is the danger of traveling in a group, that the sense of self-sufficiency and comfort yields a degree of complacency, which restricts the extent to which the traveling experience is one of challenge and discovery. traveling in a group could just come to be transferring one’s ordinariness onto other locations, without really engaging in the difference of those places. But then again, to suppose that one can ever completely escape from those many things that constitute the self is equally naive, and there is no guarantee that being alone makes one lose ones ties to their comfort zone. Solitude can also yield a clinging to a comfort-zone, or even introversion.

 

            I think, therefore, that the challenge of exposing oneself to or engaging with the otherness that travel entails is always present, regardless of companionship. I do, however, think that it requires more effort when in a group. An easy idea to formulate, but no doubt more difficult in practice; and it remains to be seen to what extent we, both as individuals and the sum of our parts, can do so.

 

            (and then, emerging from my room into the corridor, I realize that the whole time that Ive been writing, Di and Caro have been chatting with an Iranian man and his Lebanese wife in their room, while James has been learning Farsi with another man… So maybe, in fact, I should spend less time working on my personal narrative and more time putting myself out there).

the heaviest bag of all

We have already added some spice to the trip by making a series of preliminary bets about who would be the first to undergo or perpetuate a given event. Here are the results so far:

 

Di: most likely to get the first upset stomach

 

Jeevs: most likely to use the word “post” as an adjective (this bet was made between J, Caro and I, and proved to be true when, a few hours later, he mentioned something about water in a “post-evaporation stage”)

 

Caro: most likely to call her lover first.

 

J: most likely to get arrested by the morality police for indecent public behaviour.

 

Me: most likely to loose something important.

 

 

Apart from that, despite my MANY efforts at cutting down on baggage, I have the heaviest bag. This hasn’t been confirmed by exact weight, only comparative human scales. And Di’s is the lightest, much to her credit.

 

DAMN! I tried so hard to be minimalistic! Unfortunately, I am both a translator and a toiletry snob, which means that I’m carting round a dictionary and back up supplies of natural shampoo, conditioner, body lotion and deodorant… So I can comfort myself by knowing that despite my aching back, I am doing minimal damage to my lymph nodes and the environment.  

I wonder how long such persuasion will last.