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A Persian paradox: An accidental tourist in Iran
When a planned tour of the country's nuclear sites went awry, Anne
Penketh discovered instead the enigmatic splendour of the Iranian city
of Esfahan
The Independent/UK
Published: 08 September 2007
The entrance to the Friday Mosque
other pics 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 "In the name of God, the compassionate and
the merciful, welcome to this Iran Air flight to Esfahan." To say that
I am a nervous flyer would be an understatement. So imagine my terror
at being strapped inside a 30-year old Boeing 747 about to take off on
a 40-minute flight from Tehran to Esfahan in central Iran. I knew it
didn't have any spare parts because it said so in the Iran Daily on my
lap, in which the Iranian minister for roads and transport accused the
American trade embargo of "endangering the lives of passengers".
In front of me was a sea of Hermès scarves, on the heads of the Iranian
women who had forked out the equivalent of £20 for the heavily
subsidised return flight. The air stewardess, dressed in a stylish
bottle-green scarf topped with a cap, soothed our nerves by switching
on pleasant mood music, which thankfully continued until well after
take-off. Less than an hour later we had been transported to one of the
most magnificent Islamic cities in the world.
I was an accidental tourist in Esfahan. A small group of Western
journalists had been invited by the government to tour Iran's most
sensitive nuclear sites. But when we arrived in Esfahan on the first
leg of the tour these plans immediately began to unravel. We were
informed that after an afternoon's sightseeing, we would spend part of
the next day visiting a steel plant instead of a scheduled visit to the
uranium enrichment facility at Natanz. Needless to say we rebelled, and
Jafaar, the government representative in Esfahan, became our unofficial
tour guide to his home city.
I had long wanted to visit Esfahan, once the capital of Persia, but had
not been prepared for such splendour. The Persians called it
Nisf-e-Jahan, " half the world", meaning that to see it was to see 50
per cent of all the worthwhile sights on earth. The city, framed by
spectacular jagged sandstone mountains, is an oasis in the desert, and
is therefore surprisingly green, cut through with an elegant garden
boulevard lined by plane trees.
Our first stop was the "40 pillars" palace of Chehel Sotun. The name
arises because its 20 carved wooden pillars holding up an intricately
inlaid ceiling are mirrored in a long reflecting pool, set in a park of
cawing grey crows. Inside the palace is one of the surprises of the
Islamic republic: among the frescoes is one of a topless maiden. The
paintings survived the 1979 revolution thanks to the protection of the
palace caretakers.
We had stumbled on one of the paradoxes of Iran, which seemed to me
like a curious mix of America and the Soviet Union. Behind closed
doors, middle-class Iranians are dressed in the latest Western
fashions, enjoy a glass of black-market wine, and watch satellite
television. Yet outside they are subjected to the watchful eyes of the
state's repressive security apparatus, while women can be threatened
with jail for showing too much hair under their hijab.
Westerners are expected to observe the dress code in Iran. In addition
to a headscarf or shawl, you need to wear a long-sleeved, shapeless,
lightweight overcoat that comes to your knees ` if you can find such a
thing in summer. I was lucky because a friend brought me a cheap black
manteau ` a cotton overcoat ` from the Tehran bazaar, which I wore over
jeans or trousers. (The alternative would have been a borrowed rubbery
black Dannimac, rather inappropriate in the heat.)
On the flight from London to Tehran, it had been quite a sight to see
the plane transformed into a giant changing room when we touched down,
as Iranian women in full make-up and skimpy clothes put on their
scarves and overcoats, smiling at each other in silent complicity. The
strict dress code, in force since the revolution, makes itself felt
everywhere in a kind of sexual apartheid, from hotel swimming pools `
where mixed bathing is strictly forbidden ` to separate entrances for
men and women in the airport departure area. This is where Western
women are most likely to have their scarf yanked forward by a
forbidding old crone in a full-length black chador, as happened to me.
And yet the Islamic Republic of Iran, where the population is mostly
Shia Muslim, is unexpectedly discreet in its religious aspects.
Although every office contains portraits of the Ayatollah Khomeini and
the current supreme leader, the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, you don't hear
the call to prayer from countless minarets as you do in the great Arab
cities. I heard more Islamic ring tones on mobile phones in
predominantly Sunni Muslim Egypt than I did in Iran.
After a copious lunch of salad, including a plate piled high with fresh
basil leaves and walnuts, and kebabs washed down with alcohol-free
Bavaria beer, we piled into our air-conditioned coach. Jafaar took us
to the heart of Esfahan, Imam square, dating from the golden age of
Persian architecture under the ruthless and bloodthirsty Shah Abbas the
Great.
The square ` once used as a polo ground, as you can see from the marble
goalposts ` is stunning. Its uniform two-storey buildings embrace some
of the most impressive Islamic monuments in the world, as well as the
bustling bazaar. Sweating under our hot scarves and overcoats, we
climbed up a spiral staircase to a pillared terrace in Shah Abbas's Ali
Qapu palace, from where he used to watch the polo matches, and we
viewed the full majesty of the square. Opposite us was the miniature
private mosque built by the Shah between 1602 and 1619, which you enter
through a twisting corridor. But the square is dominated by the
blue-tiled dome of the Imam mosque, which the Shah managed to see
completed just before his death.
Jafaar was pressing on. We followed him higher up the spiral staircase
until, red-faced and puffing in the oppressive heat, we arrived in the
music room on the palace's seventh floor, where the musicians would
entertain royal guests from behind an intricately carved wall.
"Why did the Shah build a spiral staircase?" asked Jafaar. We were
still gasping for breath. "For security reasons. A single swordsman
could protect his master by swinging his weapon in his right hand from
the top of the stairs, but those coming up would have to fight with
their left."
But Jafaar kept his best party trick for the Imam mosque. After
entering through the portal, past its swirling calligraphy, you have to
turn a corner into the mosque, which was built to face Mecca. "Listen
to this," he said, and stamped on a central paving stone under the
great dome. The echo went on and on ` up to 17 times, he said. We all
joined in the fun. Jafar invited a little girl to do the same, and her
shy whisper reverberated again and again. "They built it with the echo
because if you do a good thing it reflects on you, or if you do a bad
thing it will too," Jafaar said. "So it means ` think about what you're
doing."
It was time for a break. We joined the sweet-toothed Iranians queuing
up for ice cream, and drank pomegranate juice on the grass. As the
tourists returned to their hotels, Iranian families began to gather at
the end of the day to picnic; some assembled rudimentary gas stoves. A
girl in a headscarf skated in circles on yellow roller-blades to the
amusement of her friends. Small groups, including some women dressed in
the chador, hired a horse and carriage and recorded their ride through
the square on video.
By 8pm it was getting dark, but Jafaar hadn't finished with us yet. We
were driven to the Khaju bridge, which stands over the gushing
turquoise waters of the Zaindeh River, along roads jammed with traffic
as the locals headed for the riverside. Despite the gridlock, we were
told that the number of motorists on the road had decreased since the
government brought in petrol rationing at the end of June. According to
Jafaar, the bridge is the best place for summer picnics, as a cool
breeze runs through its arches, built on two levels by Shah Abbas II on
the spot of a former caravanserai.
While most people were content to sit on the steps of the illuminated
bridge, we saw some Iranians stroking one of the two lion statues on
each side. "Look, the lion's eyes glow in the dark," said Jafaar. It
was the eerie reflection from a yellow street lamp. Further along the
river's curve, where a fountain plays, Iranians hired little boats with
swan necks in a scene straight out of Wagner's Lohengrin, minus the
music.
It was time to head back to our hotel, the luxurious Abbasi, where
dinner ` delicious barley soup, more salad, kebabs and a bright pink
mayonnaise mysteriously called French dressing ` was served in a garden
courtyard. Only then could we return to our rooms to rip off our hot
shawls and overcoats.
The next day, our tourist treat continued. First up was a visit to the
city's Armenian quarter and Vank cathedral, whose sober exterior
contrasts with astonishingly gruesome frescoes inside depicting the
martyrdom of saints. Shah Abbas I, who unified the country, deported
hundreds of thousands of Armenians to Esfahan during a scorched-earth
campaign, and several thousand still remain in the city, although many
families have left for the United States.
Inside the cathedral complex stands the Armenian museum. In addition to
a drawing of a bearded man, attributed to Rembrandt, the museum
contains two unique exhibits. An Armenian had managed the extraordinary
feat of writing on a woman's hair. You can view it through a
microscope. The other curiosity in the museum is the world's smallest
book, an object the size of a microchip that weighs 0.7g and contains,
we were told, the Lord's Prayer in seven languages.
Next on our tour was the Friday Mosque, a sprawling complex rebuilt
after a fire in the 12th century, which has been described as a museum
of Islamic architecture through the ages. Esfahan, invaded by the
Arabs, the Afghans and Tamerlane in its long history, has luckily
escaped a major earthquake. But the city lives in fear of a tremor such
as the one that flattened the ancient town of Bam on the old Silk Road.
When we visited Shah Abbas's private Sheikh Lotfollah mosque, Jafaar
pointed out a row of wooden bricks just above our heads, laid in hopes
of protecting the building from an underground jolt.
As we entered the Friday Mosque, people were beginning to gather for
prayers, the women separated from the men by thick cotton sheeting. The
Shia pray three times a day, with the last prayers taking place half an
hour after sunset. In winter, prayers are held at the Friday Mosque in
an underground chamber lit by alabaster skylights.
A woman followed us out of the mosque. As she adjusted her chador, I
caught a glimpse of her smart black trousers and beige and red jacket
underneath. She snapped open a red mobile phone as she headed into the
bazaar. It was another image of Iran today.
On our last evening in Esfahan, we shook off our minders. It was time
to hit the bazaar. No sooner had Jafaar disappeared into the darkness
than a tall young man with typically Iranian grey eyes sauntered over
and struck up a conversation. "Welcome to Iran," he said to me and my
two female companions. "Are you German?"
You might expect Iranians to be wary of the British, as we seem to be
blamed for many of their woes (although it was Saddam Hussein who most
recently attacked Esfahan, when a rocket slammed into a mosque during
the Iran-Iraq war). The UK did, of course, plot to overthrow the first
democratically elected Iranian leader, Mohammad Mossadegh, in the
1950s, after he nationalised the Anglo-Iranian oil company. But the
average Iranian reaches out to foreigners across the language barrier,
including the British.
Hamid, who worked for one of the carpet-sellers in the bazaar, guided
us to the "best" pistachio store, where sacks full of nuts, dried figs
and sultanas were piled high. There were beautifully decorated tins
containing a kind of cashew-nut brittle in a delicious caramelised
sugar.
Hamid asked whether we had been to a teahouse. Esfahan is renowned for
its ancient teahouses, where Iranians sit for hours contemplating life
in front of their hookahs.
We followed him down alleyways behind the bazaar and finally through a
tunnel emerging into a courtyard. Suddenly, I heard a loud whooshing
noise and saw a burst of flames. I began to wonder whether we would
need to call the tourist police, whose white-and-green cars are parked
at the main tourist sites, but it was only a metalworker plying his
trade in the courtyard. We descended a few more stairs and found
ourselves in the oldest teahouse in Esfahan, where we could see lines
of men drawing on their hookahs on the other side of a curtain.
Mixed hookah sharing was banned a few months ago, when the mullahs
realised that young Iranians were seizing the opportunity for physical
closeness with the opposite sex. But the teahouse made an exception for
Western visitors, and a steaming pipe was brought to our table.
At the next table was a woman sporting one of the accessories of
seduction in Iran: a bandage over her nose. With the veil covering much
of a woman's face, it seems that a nose job is as important as a Hermès
scarf.
After the teahouse, we successfully tracked down a selection of papier
mâché pomegranates, and visited a store specialising in reasonably
priced handmade tablecloths whose colours are fixed by being washed in
the river. After settling up in cash ` even the hotels don't take
credit cards ` we could no longer ignore Hamid's invitation to his
carpet store. At the Paradise carpet shop, the owner was happy to flick
through a book on Persian rugs and talk about the nomads who only sell
their carpets when they need the money.
I didn't bring back a rug, but I did buy a tablecloth and napkins, some
salted pistachios, and a blood-red papier-mâché pomegranate for around
£1.50. I also came back with a mosquito bite on my ankle, two buttons
missing from my overcoat, and a few grey hairs from those Iran Air
flights.
Traveller's guide
GETTING THERE
Tehran is served by Iran Air (020-7409 0971; www.iranair.co.uk) from
Heathrow and by BMED on behalf of British Airways (0870 850 9850;
www.ba.com). Cox & Kings (020-7873 5000; www.coxandkings.co.uk) offers
an eight-night "Treasures of Persia" trip from £1,371, including
flights from Heathrow, transfers, B&B, some meals and sightseeing.
STAYING THERE
Abbasi Hotel, Esfahan (00 98 31 226010; www.abbasihotel.com); from
US$140 (£70) double, including breakfast.
MORE INFORMATION
The Foreign Office (0845 850 2829; www.fco.gov.uk) advises: "There is a
general threat from terrorism. Explosions have killed a number of
people since 2005. Attacks could be indiscriminate, including in places
frequented by expatriate and foreign travellers." British
passport-holders require a visa, obtainable for £68 from the Embassy of
the Islamic Republic of Iran, 16 Prince's Gate, London SW7 1PT
(020-7225 3000; www.iran-embassy.org.uk). Travellers with evidence of
having visited Israel, e.g. with an Israeli stamp in their passport,
will be denied entry.
When a planned tour of the country's nuclear sites went awry, Anne
Penketh discovered instead the enigmatic splendour of the Iranian city
of Esfahan
The Independent/UK
Published: 08 September 2007
The entrance to the Friday Mosque
other pics 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 "In the name of God, the compassionate and
the merciful, welcome to this Iran Air flight to Esfahan." To say that
I am a nervous flyer would be an understatement. So imagine my terror
at being strapped inside a 30-year old Boeing 747 about to take off on
a 40-minute flight from Tehran to Esfahan in central Iran. I knew it
didn't have any spare parts because it said so in the Iran Daily on my
lap, in which the Iranian minister for roads and transport accused the
American trade embargo of "endangering the lives of passengers".
In front of me was a sea of Hermès scarves, on the heads of the Iranian
women who had forked out the equivalent of £20 for the heavily
subsidised return flight. The air stewardess, dressed in a stylish
bottle-green scarf topped with a cap, soothed our nerves by switching
on pleasant mood music, which thankfully continued until well after
take-off. Less than an hour later we had been transported to one of the
most magnificent Islamic cities in the world.
I was an accidental tourist in Esfahan. A small group of Western
journalists had been invited by the government to tour Iran's most
sensitive nuclear sites. But when we arrived in Esfahan on the first
leg of the tour these plans immediately began to unravel. We were
informed that after an afternoon's sightseeing, we would spend part of
the next day visiting a steel plant instead of a scheduled visit to the
uranium enrichment facility at Natanz. Needless to say we rebelled, and
Jafaar, the government representative in Esfahan, became our unofficial
tour guide to his home city.
I had long wanted to visit Esfahan, once the capital of Persia, but had
not been prepared for such splendour. The Persians called it
Nisf-e-Jahan, " half the world", meaning that to see it was to see 50
per cent of all the worthwhile sights on earth. The city, framed by
spectacular jagged sandstone mountains, is an oasis in the desert, and
is therefore surprisingly green, cut through with an elegant garden
boulevard lined by plane trees.
Our first stop was the "40 pillars" palace of Chehel Sotun. The name
arises because its 20 carved wooden pillars holding up an intricately
inlaid ceiling are mirrored in a long reflecting pool, set in a park of
cawing grey crows. Inside the palace is one of the surprises of the
Islamic republic: among the frescoes is one of a topless maiden. The
paintings survived the 1979 revolution thanks to the protection of the
palace caretakers.
We had stumbled on one of the paradoxes of Iran, which seemed to me
like a curious mix of America and the Soviet Union. Behind closed
doors, middle-class Iranians are dressed in the latest Western
fashions, enjoy a glass of black-market wine, and watch satellite
television. Yet outside they are subjected to the watchful eyes of the
state's repressive security apparatus, while women can be threatened
with jail for showing too much hair under their hijab.
Westerners are expected to observe the dress code in Iran. In addition
to a headscarf or shawl, you need to wear a long-sleeved, shapeless,
lightweight overcoat that comes to your knees ` if you can find such a
thing in summer. I was lucky because a friend brought me a cheap black
manteau ` a cotton overcoat ` from the Tehran bazaar, which I wore over
jeans or trousers. (The alternative would have been a borrowed rubbery
black Dannimac, rather inappropriate in the heat.)
On the flight from London to Tehran, it had been quite a sight to see
the plane transformed into a giant changing room when we touched down,
as Iranian women in full make-up and skimpy clothes put on their
scarves and overcoats, smiling at each other in silent complicity. The
strict dress code, in force since the revolution, makes itself felt
everywhere in a kind of sexual apartheid, from hotel swimming pools `
where mixed bathing is strictly forbidden ` to separate entrances for
men and women in the airport departure area. This is where Western
women are most likely to have their scarf yanked forward by a
forbidding old crone in a full-length black chador, as happened to me.
And yet the Islamic Republic of Iran, where the population is mostly
Shia Muslim, is unexpectedly discreet in its religious aspects.
Although every office contains portraits of the Ayatollah Khomeini and
the current supreme leader, the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, you don't hear
the call to prayer from countless minarets as you do in the great Arab
cities. I heard more Islamic ring tones on mobile phones in
predominantly Sunni Muslim Egypt than I did in Iran.
After a copious lunch of salad, including a plate piled high with fresh
basil leaves and walnuts, and kebabs washed down with alcohol-free
Bavaria beer, we piled into our air-conditioned coach. Jafaar took us
to the heart of Esfahan, Imam square, dating from the golden age of
Persian architecture under the ruthless and bloodthirsty Shah Abbas the
Great.
The square ` once used as a polo ground, as you can see from the marble
goalposts ` is stunning. Its uniform two-storey buildings embrace some
of the most impressive Islamic monuments in the world, as well as the
bustling bazaar. Sweating under our hot scarves and overcoats, we
climbed up a spiral staircase to a pillared terrace in Shah Abbas's Ali
Qapu palace, from where he used to watch the polo matches, and we
viewed the full majesty of the square. Opposite us was the miniature
private mosque built by the Shah between 1602 and 1619, which you enter
through a twisting corridor. But the square is dominated by the
blue-tiled dome of the Imam mosque, which the Shah managed to see
completed just before his death.
Jafaar was pressing on. We followed him higher up the spiral staircase
until, red-faced and puffing in the oppressive heat, we arrived in the
music room on the palace's seventh floor, where the musicians would
entertain royal guests from behind an intricately carved wall.
"Why did the Shah build a spiral staircase?" asked Jafaar. We were
still gasping for breath. "For security reasons. A single swordsman
could protect his master by swinging his weapon in his right hand from
the top of the stairs, but those coming up would have to fight with
their left."
But Jafaar kept his best party trick for the Imam mosque. After
entering through the portal, past its swirling calligraphy, you have to
turn a corner into the mosque, which was built to face Mecca. "Listen
to this," he said, and stamped on a central paving stone under the
great dome. The echo went on and on ` up to 17 times, he said. We all
joined in the fun. Jafar invited a little girl to do the same, and her
shy whisper reverberated again and again. "They built it with the echo
because if you do a good thing it reflects on you, or if you do a bad
thing it will too," Jafaar said. "So it means ` think about what you're
doing."
It was time for a break. We joined the sweet-toothed Iranians queuing
up for ice cream, and drank pomegranate juice on the grass. As the
tourists returned to their hotels, Iranian families began to gather at
the end of the day to picnic; some assembled rudimentary gas stoves. A
girl in a headscarf skated in circles on yellow roller-blades to the
amusement of her friends. Small groups, including some women dressed in
the chador, hired a horse and carriage and recorded their ride through
the square on video.
By 8pm it was getting dark, but Jafaar hadn't finished with us yet. We
were driven to the Khaju bridge, which stands over the gushing
turquoise waters of the Zaindeh River, along roads jammed with traffic
as the locals headed for the riverside. Despite the gridlock, we were
told that the number of motorists on the road had decreased since the
government brought in petrol rationing at the end of June. According to
Jafaar, the bridge is the best place for summer picnics, as a cool
breeze runs through its arches, built on two levels by Shah Abbas II on
the spot of a former caravanserai.
While most people were content to sit on the steps of the illuminated
bridge, we saw some Iranians stroking one of the two lion statues on
each side. "Look, the lion's eyes glow in the dark," said Jafaar. It
was the eerie reflection from a yellow street lamp. Further along the
river's curve, where a fountain plays, Iranians hired little boats with
swan necks in a scene straight out of Wagner's Lohengrin, minus the
music.
It was time to head back to our hotel, the luxurious Abbasi, where
dinner ` delicious barley soup, more salad, kebabs and a bright pink
mayonnaise mysteriously called French dressing ` was served in a garden
courtyard. Only then could we return to our rooms to rip off our hot
shawls and overcoats.
The next day, our tourist treat continued. First up was a visit to the
city's Armenian quarter and Vank cathedral, whose sober exterior
contrasts with astonishingly gruesome frescoes inside depicting the
martyrdom of saints. Shah Abbas I, who unified the country, deported
hundreds of thousands of Armenians to Esfahan during a scorched-earth
campaign, and several thousand still remain in the city, although many
families have left for the United States.
Inside the cathedral complex stands the Armenian museum. In addition to
a drawing of a bearded man, attributed to Rembrandt, the museum
contains two unique exhibits. An Armenian had managed the extraordinary
feat of writing on a woman's hair. You can view it through a
microscope. The other curiosity in the museum is the world's smallest
book, an object the size of a microchip that weighs 0.7g and contains,
we were told, the Lord's Prayer in seven languages.
Next on our tour was the Friday Mosque, a sprawling complex rebuilt
after a fire in the 12th century, which has been described as a museum
of Islamic architecture through the ages. Esfahan, invaded by the
Arabs, the Afghans and Tamerlane in its long history, has luckily
escaped a major earthquake. But the city lives in fear of a tremor such
as the one that flattened the ancient town of Bam on the old Silk Road.
When we visited Shah Abbas's private Sheikh Lotfollah mosque, Jafaar
pointed out a row of wooden bricks just above our heads, laid in hopes
of protecting the building from an underground jolt.
As we entered the Friday Mosque, people were beginning to gather for
prayers, the women separated from the men by thick cotton sheeting. The
Shia pray three times a day, with the last prayers taking place half an
hour after sunset. In winter, prayers are held at the Friday Mosque in
an underground chamber lit by alabaster skylights.
A woman followed us out of the mosque. As she adjusted her chador, I
caught a glimpse of her smart black trousers and beige and red jacket
underneath. She snapped open a red mobile phone as she headed into the
bazaar. It was another image of Iran today.
On our last evening in Esfahan, we shook off our minders. It was time
to hit the bazaar. No sooner had Jafaar disappeared into the darkness
than a tall young man with typically Iranian grey eyes sauntered over
and struck up a conversation. "Welcome to Iran," he said to me and my
two female companions. "Are you German?"
You might expect Iranians to be wary of the British, as we seem to be
blamed for many of their woes (although it was Saddam Hussein who most
recently attacked Esfahan, when a rocket slammed into a mosque during
the Iran-Iraq war). The UK did, of course, plot to overthrow the first
democratically elected Iranian leader, Mohammad Mossadegh, in the
1950s, after he nationalised the Anglo-Iranian oil company. But the
average Iranian reaches out to foreigners across the language barrier,
including the British.
Hamid, who worked for one of the carpet-sellers in the bazaar, guided
us to the "best" pistachio store, where sacks full of nuts, dried figs
and sultanas were piled high. There were beautifully decorated tins
containing a kind of cashew-nut brittle in a delicious caramelised
sugar.
Hamid asked whether we had been to a teahouse. Esfahan is renowned for
its ancient teahouses, where Iranians sit for hours contemplating life
in front of their hookahs.
We followed him down alleyways behind the bazaar and finally through a
tunnel emerging into a courtyard. Suddenly, I heard a loud whooshing
noise and saw a burst of flames. I began to wonder whether we would
need to call the tourist police, whose white-and-green cars are parked
at the main tourist sites, but it was only a metalworker plying his
trade in the courtyard. We descended a few more stairs and found
ourselves in the oldest teahouse in Esfahan, where we could see lines
of men drawing on their hookahs on the other side of a curtain.
Mixed hookah sharing was banned a few months ago, when the mullahs
realised that young Iranians were seizing the opportunity for physical
closeness with the opposite sex. But the teahouse made an exception for
Western visitors, and a steaming pipe was brought to our table.
At the next table was a woman sporting one of the accessories of
seduction in Iran: a bandage over her nose. With the veil covering much
of a woman's face, it seems that a nose job is as important as a Hermès
scarf.
After the teahouse, we successfully tracked down a selection of papier
mâché pomegranates, and visited a store specialising in reasonably
priced handmade tablecloths whose colours are fixed by being washed in
the river. After settling up in cash ` even the hotels don't take
credit cards ` we could no longer ignore Hamid's invitation to his
carpet store. At the Paradise carpet shop, the owner was happy to flick
through a book on Persian rugs and talk about the nomads who only sell
their carpets when they need the money.
I didn't bring back a rug, but I did buy a tablecloth and napkins, some
salted pistachios, and a blood-red papier-mâché pomegranate for around
£1.50. I also came back with a mosquito bite on my ankle, two buttons
missing from my overcoat, and a few grey hairs from those Iran Air
flights.
Traveller's guide
GETTING THERE
Tehran is served by Iran Air (020-7409 0971; www.iranair.co.uk) from
Heathrow and by BMED on behalf of British Airways (0870 850 9850;
www.ba.com). Cox & Kings (020-7873 5000; www.coxandkings.co.uk) offers
an eight-night "Treasures of Persia" trip from £1,371, including
flights from Heathrow, transfers, B&B, some meals and sightseeing.
STAYING THERE
Abbasi Hotel, Esfahan (00 98 31 226010; www.abbasihotel.com); from
US$140 (£70) double, including breakfast.
MORE INFORMATION
The Foreign Office (0845 850 2829; www.fco.gov.uk) advises: "There is a
general threat from terrorism. Explosions have killed a number of
people since 2005. Attacks could be indiscriminate, including in places
frequented by expatriate and foreign travellers." British
passport-holders require a visa, obtainable for £68 from the Embassy of
the Islamic Republic of Iran, 16 Prince's Gate, London SW7 1PT
(020-7225 3000; www.iran-embassy.org.uk). Travellers with evidence of
having visited Israel, e.g. with an Israeli stamp in their passport,
will be denied entry.