Eshfahan

Coming to Eshfahan, I noticed one thing - I was really tired. As I got off the bus and dealt with the whole "Mister! Mister! Money change! Taxi!" business, I realised that Iran was starting to seriously piss me off. The young guy who put his face 10 cm from mine at the bus station felafel shop and proceeded to ask me inappropriately random personal questions certainly didn't help to make me feel "Welcome in Eshfahan Mister!"

Chinbotsu. This Japanese word means 'sinking ship' and usually is used to described a hobo backpacker who stays in a hotel for too long... I got to Amir Kabir Hostel by jumping on the first random bus heading in what seemed like the right direction. Dorm was full, but Junko had told me about the room with no bed. At 25,000 R ($3.50AUD) per night, "the mosque" has got to be the cheapest place in Eshfahan. Being "closer to God" (in the owners own words) has become addictive. The people here are great. Met a Czech couple heading to Afghanistan. Was about to go to Teheran and get myself an Afghan visa when Charlie turned up. A Malaysian student living in New Zealand, he happenned to have a tent and a desire to hang out with some Kurdish nomads. Hence, change of plan - we're meeting in Sanandaj on the 30th, then hiking through the villages near the Iraqi border.

However the strangest thing happened on my first night in Amir Kabir. Heading out the front door, I met none other than Eijiro-san - one of my favourite students from Japan. I'd actually been thinking about him a few weeks prior, given his interest in Eastern Europe. Well, the focus of interest has certainly changed. 10 minutes later we were out to see the Zarkuneh - a traditional Persian sport. Very weird: a group of guys in the middle of a ring engage in super-masculine feats of strength while another guy beats a drum and recites Hafiz.

The next day we hung out near the river, having some tea in a teahouse underneath one of the bridges' arches. Interesting atmosphere, with many people picnicing by the river. Aside from the riverside, the other main fat-camera-toting-German attraction in Eshfahan is the Emam Khomeni Square: home of 2 magnificent mosques and one palace. Ok, it's very beautiful, but it's also packed with tourist souveneir shops and most of it is under renovation : hence the difficulties in making decent photos. Still, I will be happy to sit here for two more days and do very little aside from strolling around the cit, playing Saz and eating icecream.

Yazd

You really wonder about why there's a city here - rocky desert, sandy desert, desert mountain, and... Yazd - a sprawling modern city and with a sprawling ancient mud-brick town. Unscathed by Genghis and Timur, it is now feeling the influence of a modern way of life, as fashionable youths hoon through the twisting mud-brick lanes on motorbikes with no regard for pedestrians. Still, it's easy to imagine what life was like 400 hundred years ago, as you pass men in turbans and women with black chador clenched in their teeth.

I feel awful. No particular reason. I walk through the old mud-brick lanes and get lost in the maze a few times. Finally I make it out onto a main road and stumble across an owner of an English school who all but offers me a job, and tells me how to find the Zoroastrian temple. Built last century, the temple is not so exciting, yet the flame has reputedly been burning since 400 A.D.

I take two busses and walk through what feels like a 2 km construction site. At the end of the road is my goal: The Towers of Silence. Given the Zoroastrian obsession with the purity of the elements, burial or cremation were not possible. Hence, bodies were left in these towers for the vultures to tear them apart. A priest would sit next to the body and watch which eye was torn out first to determine where the person would go in the afterlife - heaven or hell.

I climb up one tower then the other. I sit looking out over the desert for 3 hours, until I regain the desire to interact with fellow humans.

Then I visit the modern Zoroastrian cemetary. All the graves are made of marble and concrete - so that the body doesn't touch the earth. On my way out, I see a few people having a picnic. They call me over, they make me sit, they make me eat, they make me drink. The Zoroastrian women find my embarassment very amusing as they feed me soup, vegetables, bread, rose-water bisquits, lemonade, tea... Turns out that I've come across a funeral and this is the after-party.

A car comes and stops by the cemetary: an American-Iranian visiting the country for the first time, and his uncles friend. They tell me many things... for example, Parsi has about 10 words for "pimp". They take me to a tea-house in the garden of Regent Zand's holiday palace and we smoke a mint-hubbly and drink tea. Suddenly, I look up to see Junko standing across the other side of the garden fountain. The world is an amazing place.

Bandar - Bam - Kerman - Shiraz

Half way through my stay in Iran now, and it's quite pleasant, if not what I'd expected or hoped for. Communication is incredibly difficult since not many people speak English and all the signs are in Farsi. Communicating via hand gestures has proven more difficult than in other countries - e.g. today it took 10 mins for the bus driver to realise that I wanted to know when the bus was leaving, when I was pointing at my watch then the bus...

People are generally friendly, although I do pick up bad vibes from a lot of the unemployed, uneducated youth who seem to sit around various streets doing nothing. I haven't really experienced the culture of hospitality that I'd read about, and the tea culture is something that seems on the margins of everyday life. Oddly enough, the friendliest people I've met in Iran have been Afghan.

The journey from Bandar-e Abbas to Bam cost me $2, on the lowest class of bus which broke down in the middle of a desert. The driver had worked for Iran Oil during the Shah's reign and could speak English. However, he was now forced to drive a bus for political reasons. Most of the other passengers were Baluchis heading to the Afghan border town of Zahedan (famous for two things: guns, drugs and fundamentalist Islam). Despite the lack of English, some of them let me know what they thought of Europe and European values. The highlight of the trip was when the bus stopped by a heard of goats in the desert. Half the passengers got off and started catching goats and stuffing them into the bus luggage compartment.

Bam was fascinating. The city looks like the earthquake had happenned yesterday, not 15 months ago. Everything is in ruins. I spent the whole day there walking around talking to people and taking photos. Most were incredibly friendly and wanted to tell me about their lives despite limited English. I stayed at Akbar's Guest House. The owner is a very distinguished retired English teacher and it was interesting to talk to him. The only other foreigner there was Koji (from Japan), who'd come in from Pakistan. We've ended up travelling together since.

Kerman was a disaster. We got dropped off on the outskirts of town, then stumbled around trying to get our bearings. All of our questions about street/park names were met with: "Mr! Mr! Taxi!?" Ended up finding the hotel after 2 hours. They wouldn't take us : "We're full." Bullshit - you just don't want to take foreigners. 3 hotels later, we walked through the bazaar, caught a bus to the bus station and went to Shiraz.

Now relaxing in Shiraz. Great city - fragrant gardens, sunny weather, educated, friendly people. The mausoleums here are amazing: the interiors are shimerring mosaic of mirrors that really does your head in. We even got shown areas usually only open for muslims. Today we went to Persopolis. Absolutely worth the effort : the ruins are some of the most spectacular I've ever seen - up there with Efez. Tomorrow, I'll head to the countryside in the hope of hanging out with some nomads, then heading to Yazd.

Bandar-e Abbas

Buying a bus ticket can be as difficult or as easy as you make it. Like in Turkey, Iran's bus stations are full of touts who desperately want to know where you're going and how. Unlike in Turkey, these guys expect a tip for their 'services'... I fell for the 'scam', but it only cost 15 cents - hence no need to complain. Ticket cost $11USD for 1360 km in a brand new luxury coach... not bad.

Bus left one hour late. Reason unknown. Unlike Turkey, it soon became apparent that there was no tea service, even though ice-cold water was available from a tank. Driving looks like this: you step on the accellerator, then flash your lights if the vehicle in front is too slow and hope they move. In the middle of the night I woke up to see one of the bus drivers beating the crap out of a passanger in a nearby seat. Don't know what the problem was, but soon after, everything became quiet.

Southern Iran is worlds away from the north. The mountains look like a slice of the continental shelf had been simply lifted out 2000 metres and left sitting there. Scorched by the blistering sun, they are only covered by the thinnest of shrubs. Yet in the valleys below, there are patches of lush palm trees and some signs of cultivation (I think nuts).

Bandar-e Abbas is scorching. After 20 hours on the bus, I'm exhausted. I get to the bus station, and check onward bus times, then sit with some people peddling kids toys and play my Saz. Next, the taxi problem. A dude wants to drive me for $3 to the centre of town. I insist that he find some passengers to share the ride with. End up paying 50 cents.

The place is dead in the middle of the day, the bazaar mostly closed. The shop owners lazily sit around. I seem to be the day's main attraction. Talking to these people, it is apparent that this is a very different Iran. Half of these people are either Afghan or Baluchi or Pakistani. I see several women in red Burka (face mask) - not the Taliban version, but a 18thC Portugese fashion accessory that has somehow been assimilated by the local culture. I meet an Afghan owner of a women's clothes store. We sit down in his shop and have a chat. He's lived in Iran for 20 years but doesn't like the place. Afghan refugees get no education here, hence the kids do all sorts of random jobs on the streets and are stuck in a cycle of poverty. He hopes to go to Holland in two months for study, but has no passport. He also tells me he loves Bin Laden and has all of his speeches on VCD.

I'm staying at a mosaferkhuneh (cheapest grade of hotel, illegal for foreigners to stay at). It costs about $2USD per night. The other guys in the dorm are very friendly, but but speak little English. When the bazaar opens I think will need to go and buy myself a Pakistani outfit. I'm glad I bought the Kurdish head scarf in Sanliurfa. With any luck, turning up wearing these two fashion items at Melbourne airport will get me arrested. The Persian Gulf looks very inviting. Hopefully I can go for a swim.

Crossing the Road

All the legends are true : you see 4 lanes of one way traffic which doesn't obey speed limits, stop at a red traffic light, let alone a pedestrian crossing, and you wonder how the hell you will cross the road in Tehran. Solution: you look very closely at the shifting mass of steel and glass, then walk into the smallest gap in the traffic. Inshallah, the car you've walked right in front of has functioning brakes. You continue to do this across 4 lanes... and then you suddenly hear a loud screech of brakes. Reason: motorbike going the wrong way up a one way street has missed you by 10 cm. You should have looked left then right.

Life on Sayat-Nova Street

It seems, good, doesn't it... living on a street named after one of the greatest trobadours that's ever lived, in the centre of Yerevan - capital of the land of pomegranates, avant-garde cinema, tall mountains and heart-wrenching music. However, my time in Armenia has been severely spoilt thanks to the horrible woman at whose house we are staying.

The following is a list (probably incomplete) of Anahit's rules:

- don't move the washing machine.
- when you cook, do not use more than one pot.
- do not leave leftovers for the next day in the pot you use.
- do not take a shower between 9 am and 6pm as the house might run out of stored water.
- turn on the heater for the water 2 hours before taking a shower, then turn it off not to get electrocuted.
- close all doors so that heat doesn't escape from rooms.
- when you close doors, do it with great care as to not damage the door.
- when you sit on your bed, do not sit on your doona as to not damage it.
- when you pour water into the kettle, do not bring the kettle to the tap, but use one of the plastic bottles next to the tap.
- replenish the plastic bottles after use, but do not screw the lid on, so that the chlorine will escape in gas form.
- when you are in the kitchen, do not stand near the fridge as to not warm it with your body heat.

Breaking any of these rules by any tenant ensures a circular rant at high volume, directed at me (since only I understand Russian). Naturally, my efforts to help out all parties involved go unnoticed. Today, I get this: "You are Polish - a brave, noble nation. Why do you act like you are Japanese? We Armenians don't change our nationality. Why didn't you admit to moving the washing machine, but were sneaking about in your dealings..."

The machine was moved a week ago. I did not move it. I don't know who moved it.

I am not normally vindictive, but for the sake of other travellers, I shall do my best ensure that this woman's "homestay option" is no longer listed as an "option" in any forthcoming edition of the Lonely Planet guide to the Caucasus.

Nagorno-Karabakh

To most who've heard this word before, it usually brings to mind only one thing: a 5 year war that killed 30,000 people and left both Azeri and Armenian relations and economies in tatters.

Aghdam. The sound itself is as unpleasant and heavy as what it represents - city of formerly 100, 000 inhabitants, bombed, sacked, looted and left to stand empty for 13 years in no-man's land.

It turns out that we need a visa, as Karabakh regards itself as a country, despite the fact that the rest of the world (minus Armenia) disagrees. Naturally, the embassy has moved and we have to travel to the grotty outskirts of Yerevan, to find it standing regally in between two crumbling housing estates. $25, 3 hours, a few basic questions and an offer of a taxi driver for $250 to drive us there (rejected), and we all have visas.

Junko and I have found one other person to travel with. Pablo poses as an Argentinian school teacher, whilst being an Italian / Argentinian duel-national journalist and a huge fan of Ryszard Kapuscinski. He's been practically everywhere. Thanks to a dark complexion and the ability to grow a 4 finger long beard (official Taliban requirement), he's even managed to hang out in Kandahar. I tell him about Aghdam. He also thinks that going there a great idea.

Most people would think otherwise. The city is in a restricted military area and the embassy will not give us permission to visit. Landmines pepper the disused side-streets, and if one ventures past the mosque, there is a small chance of being targeted by an Azeri sniper from the other side of the line of control.

3 days later, after yet another infuriating negotiation involving 3 people talking at me simultaneously in 3 different languages, we have a taxi driver and a decent price. The drive is stunning. All of Karabakh is covered by snow-capped mountains and green meadows (albeit full of landmines). We pass a tank manouvering by the side of the road, a platoon of soldiers, and derelict houses. Coming to a small town, we spot a high-rise peppered with bullet holes. Pablo decides to take some happy snaps.

Bad move.

As soon a we make it back to the car, 2 men appear from nowhere and the usual starts: "Who are you? Where are you from? Why are you photographing this? Why does this interest you?" Not long after, a police car arrives and we are driven to the local station.

It's like a scene from a Bond movie. The police commissar has two gold canines, a tatooed hand, and I can almost spot the shadow left by the Lenin portrait that would have hung on the wall behind his head 15 years ago. He takes my passport and flicks through it at a well-practiced snail's pace. Meaning: I could do this a lot faster, but I am in control of everything here, including time.

Next, the inane questions: "It says here you are registered as living in Belarus, but you said you are from Poland." I have to explain to him that my Belorussian visa was valid for 13 days, and hence it's unlikely that I reside in Belarus, despite the registration required by Lukashenka's soviet-style government. I win. Next: "Why does it say 'Ankara' on your Uzbekistan visa?" "How did you come to Armenia?" "How did you come to Turkey?" and so on for half an hour. Junko's passport is next. He is only interested in the Pakistan visa, despite the fact that she hasn't been there yet. Luckily, the moron doesn't look into Pablo's Argentinian passport, as the passport would suggest that Pablo had arrived in Nagorno-Karabakh by UFO, as his Armenian and Georgian visas are in his Italian passport.

Finally we get to the main issue: Aghdam and the Nagorno-Karabakh accreditation card which doesn't permit for us to visit the place. I play the 'dumb tourist' card and 5 minutes later we are out of the station and on our way to Gandzasar monastery in the north of the "country."

Susa

On top of a snowy plateau stands a city. In the middle, white on white, a brand new cathedral. The inside is almost completely bare. The only worshippers, a group of monks saying mass for themselves. Their singing is discordant, just like the sight of the cathedral - unblemished, yet somehow wrong, grating against the surrounding space.

Soviet-era high rises tower around the cathedral and upon the surrounding hills. Most of them are derelict, bombed-out, burnt-out hulks. In some of them people are still trying to somehow make a living - plastic sheets for windows, metal pipes poking through as improptu chimneys for improptu wood-fired stoves. The empty hulks still provide a source of sustenance - a former window frame, a broken door - anything will do as firewood.

A mosque stands down the hill from the cathedral. From the outside it is quite pretty - an old
Persian design. Inside, everything has been stripped bare. It's strangely quiet in the surrounding streets. A few dogs scavange food from piles of rubbish. They shuffle into the shadows when I approach. We come to a shop. Inside, everything seems normal - the usual variety of food and other daily supplies. The people inside are cautious, reserved, but not unfriendly.

In the central square, a soviet era statue sits on a bench, a contented look on the worker's face. It seems that it's all that remains of the tolerance and coexistance that was once Susa's claim to fame.