I’ve slept the sleep of Hypnos, so much so that when I wake for a moment I don’t know where I am. My eyes adjust, and I’m sleeping on the floor of an Iranian family’s guest parlour. I think parlour is an apt word for it, with plush sofas and chairs, a chandelier or three, and some fine Persian rugs underfoot. After a delicious breakfast, I set out with my couch surf host Behzad to explore the city, and more importantly to try to find wifi so I can tell my sister I’m alive.
Behzad is 21, a student, and also employed in his fathers handmade Iranian rug business. He’s an English language affectionado, so much so that he has his quintessential British accent down pat. He carries around a small notebook, insisting I explain every little colloquialism and slang term I utter throughout the course of the day. He hangs on my every word, charmingly scribbling the meanings behind phrases such as “sick as a dog”, “flash in the pan”, and “squeeky bum time”. It’s utterly delightful. He asks how he can become more “posh British”, and I instruct him to watch Downtown Abbey.
Shameless promotion for Behzad’s fathers’ shop
Our first port of call is his fathers shop. Well, shops to be exact. They have three of them in the largest bizarre in Iran. And they’re not alone, there are hundreds of stores selling incredibly intricate and beautiful floor and wall coverings. I want one. I make a tentative inquiry as to the price of two moderately sized, rectangular silk pieces. 700 pounds for the pair. I nearly choke on my Iranian tea.
Hand made down to the last stitch
The larger rugs run into the thousands. Behzad explains that before the sanctions, every shop was doing a roaring trade with the rest of the world, with collectors as far as the US and China. Business is now understandably slow, and I hope for his sake, and indeed for all the generation old traders here that the sanctions lift and normal service can resume.
The bustle of the bizarre
We take in the town. My first real experience of Iranian city life, and you’ve got to be on your toes, or you’ll get them taken off. There’s a constant, teeming two and fro of activity. Trolleys and carts are pushed through the throng to a chorus of “Yallah! Yallah!” (Come on, let’s get going!). Backs are laden with goods. Punters vie for position at colourful bizarre stalls. The air is filled with a constant, bustling chatter. Nobody gives a damn on the roads. It’s dog eat dog, it’s pure life, and it’s wonderful.
The city’s brand new mosque
Behzad does his best to explain various customs and religious traditions, but I’m afraid it’s going to take me more than one teaching to grasp it all. Of particular interest to me is the requirements for women’s wear. I intend to do a full piece about it at some point in the future, and maybe shed a little light on a tradition that many in the West find “fearful” and “offensive”.
Finally online
Facebook, Youtube and other such media are banned in Iran. In order to gain access to such sites, one must acquire a ‘VPN’- Virtual Private Network. I waste no time in enlisting the aid of a local computer boffin to set one up. If the Iranian government want sanctions to be lifted, this nuclear deal to go ahead, and the expected massive influx of tourist dollars, then they’re going to need to do something about their paranoid media black out. Or they’ll have to deal with me, because if I can’t get online, I’m going postal.
All this for about a fiver
Having managed to tell people I’m alive, it’s time to eat, and to figure out this strange money I’ve got in my pocket. Iran uses the Rial as currency, but on the streets, it’s called Toman. You basically knock off one zero and you’re laughing. Of course my small minded maths brain just cannot accept this, but when I figure out that 100,000 Rial (10,000 Toman) is about 2 quid, and a massive lunch for two costs a fiver, well…you do the math.
The Blue Mosque
Some time later having taken in the stunning Blue Mosque and Azerbaijan museum (the region is rich with Azeri heritage), it’s finally time for me to do something I’ve not done in year. Own a sim card. Behzad takes me to a place where I might be able to purchase one. It’s not like any old phone shop in the UK you can rock up to and demand air time. I’ve got to provide my passport, sign my life away, and then…then they fingerprint me. Yes dear readers, you understood correctly; I need to be fingerprinted for a sim card. Orwell eat your heart out.
The guys in the phone shop want pictures with me afterwards too. I’m assured this isn’t anything to do with criminal activity and is merely because I’m something of a novelty. I guess I should get used to it. Sitting in the internet cafe a short time later and I’ve got local kids inspecting the colour of my skin by staring inches away from my face. It’s the price of fame I suppose.
I wish I could spend a little more time here. Behzad has been a wonderful host, his family very welcoming, and I’ve wanted for nothing. I’ve not mentioned yet that I’ve now been here 48 hours, I’ve eaten and slept like a king and I’ve spent less than ten quid. But the rest of the country calls, I’ve only got 30 days limit until I extend my visa. Iran; you and me are going to get on just fine.
The bizarre
Deep in thought
Stones used in prayer by Shia muslims
Designing a masterpiece. All hand drawn
Iran is so safe, they put their currency in the window. You wouldn’t get this in Glasgow
Tabriz
I’ve slept the sleep of Hypnos, so much so that when I wake for a moment I don’t know where I am. My eyes adjust, and I’m sleeping on the floor of an Iranian family’s guest parlour. I think parlour is an apt word for it, with plush sofas and chairs, a chandelier or three, and some fine Persian rugs underfoot. After a delicious breakfast, I set out with my couch surf host Behzad to explore the city, and more importantly to try to find wifi so I can tell my sister I’m alive.
Behzad is 21, a student, and also employed in his fathers handmade Iranian rug business. He’s an English language affectionado, so much so that he has his quintessential British accent down pat. He carries around a small notebook, insisting I explain every little colloquialism and slang term I utter throughout the course of the day. He hangs on my every word, charmingly scribbling the meanings behind phrases such as “sick as a dog”, “flash in the pan”, and “squeeky bum time”. It’s utterly delightful. He asks how he can become more “posh British”, and I instruct him to watch Downtown Abbey.
Shameless promotion for Behzad’s fathers’ shop
Our first port of call is his fathers shop. Well, shops to be exact. They have three of them in the largest bizarre in Iran. And they’re not alone, there are hundreds of stores selling incredibly intricate and beautiful floor and wall coverings. I want one. I make a tentative inquiry as to the price of two moderately sized, rectangular silk pieces. 700 pounds for the pair. I nearly choke on my Iranian tea.
Hand made down to the last stitch
The larger rugs run into the thousands. Behzad explains that before the sanctions, every shop was doing a roaring trade with the rest of the world, with collectors as far as the US and China. Business is now understandably slow, and I hope for his sake, and indeed for all the generation old traders here that the sanctions lift and normal service can resume.
The bustle of the bizarre
We take in the town. My first real experience of Iranian city life, and you’ve got to be on your toes, or you’ll get them taken off. There’s a constant, teeming two and fro of activity. Trolleys and carts are pushed through the throng to a chorus of “Yallah! Yallah!” (Come on, let’s get going!). Backs are laden with goods. Punters vie for position at colourful bizarre stalls. The air is filled with a constant, bustling chatter. Nobody gives a damn on the roads. It’s dog eat dog, it’s pure life, and it’s wonderful.
The city’s brand new mosque
Behzad does his best to explain various customs and religious traditions, but I’m afraid it’s going to take me more than one teaching to grasp it all. Of particular interest to me is the requirements for women’s wear. I intend to do a full piece about it at some point in the future, and maybe shed a little light on a tradition that many in the West find “fearful” and “offensive”.
Finally online
Facebook, Youtube and other such media are banned in Iran. In order to gain access to such sites, one must acquire a ‘VPN’- Virtual Private Network. I waste no time in enlisting the aid of a local computer boffin to set one up. If the Iranian government want sanctions to be lifted, this nuclear deal to go ahead, and the expected massive influx of tourist dollars, then they’re going to need to do something about their paranoid media black out. Or they’ll have to deal with me, because if I can’t get online, I’m going postal.
All this for about a fiver
Having managed to tell people I’m alive, it’s time to eat, and to figure out this strange money I’ve got in my pocket. Iran uses the Rial as currency, but on the streets, it’s called Toman. You basically knock off one zero and you’re laughing. Of course my small minded maths brain just cannot accept this, but when I figure out that 100,000 Rial (10,000 Toman) is about 2 quid, and a massive lunch for two costs a fiver, well…you do the math.
The Blue Mosque
Some time later having taken in the stunning Blue Mosque and Azerbaijan museum (the region is rich with Azeri heritage), it’s finally time for me to do something I’ve not done in year. Own a sim card. Behzad takes me to a place where I might be able to purchase one. It’s not like any old phone shop in the UK you can rock up to and demand air time. I’ve got to provide my passport, sign my life away, and then…then they fingerprint me. Yes dear readers, you understood correctly; I need to be fingerprinted for a sim card. Orwell eat your heart out.
The guys in the phone shop want pictures with me afterwards too. I’m assured this isn’t anything to do with criminal activity and is merely because I’m something of a novelty. I guess I should get used to it. Sitting in the internet cafe a short time later and I’ve got local kids inspecting the colour of my skin by staring inches away from my face. It’s the price of fame I suppose.
I wish I could spend a little more time here. Behzad has been a wonderful host, his family very welcoming, and I’ve wanted for nothing. I’ve not mentioned yet that I’ve now been here 48 hours, I’ve eaten and slept like a king and I’ve spent less than ten quid. But the rest of the country calls, I’ve only got 30 days limit until I extend my visa. Iran; you and me are going to get on just fine.