Free Again
When I arrived in Shiraz I noticed that there were black flags throughout the bazaar and even in some mosques. When I inquired, I was told that they were in observance of the death of Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed, in 680.
One night as I was lying in my room, I heard the sound of chanting coming from the street. I sat up wondering what the heck was going on. The evening call to prayers was over, so what could it be? I quickly grabbed my jacket and headed off to find out.
On the street in front of the hotel I found men marching in two lines. At the head was a man chanting through a loud speaker. The men marching behind him were dressed in black shirts and carried a little device I later learned was called a shallagh. It was essentially a short wooden handle with a cluster of light chains attached to one end.
The men marched along and every 8-10 steps they turned to face each other. As they did they chanted, “Hussein, Hussein.” At the same time they hit their backs with the shallagh. Eight paces forward, face the center and hit your back – over and over again.
There must have been a hundred or more men in the procession – slowly they marched past me. Standing there alone in the darkened street, a shiver went though me. Somehow I found the whole thing frightening, this intense religious feeling is so alien to me. There was something going on here I had trouble understanding. I also found it a singular sight and the memory of it comes back to me whenever I think of Iran.
Shiraz – Friday, April 16
We took off early for Shiraz and for the first time left the desert. We climbed into some hills where there were frequently streams and wild flowers along the road. Before long we stopped in a little town, I forget its name now, to visit yet another mosque. We found the door locked and went looking for the key. Moghadam asked some kid in the street and he directed us to a nearby bakery.
While Moghadam was trying to convince the guy with the key to open the door for us, I watched them making bread. I had seen the same scene in every town I visited. Four or five guys form an assembly line around a huge oven. The oven itself has a conveyor belt that transports the bread through it. Two guys feed flattened balls of dough in one end and the rest pick the baked bread off the other end. There is usually a line of customers waiting and they carry the still warm flat bread away draped over their arm. I had that same kind of flat bread at almost every meal in Iran.
Moghadam finally convinced the baker to walk over and open the mosque for us. Inside scaffolding covered almost everything and, after the work of getting the guy to come unlock the door, there was very little to see.
As we finally neared Shiraz, we passed thought orchards where families were having picnics. You could see the kids running around, the woman getting the food together and the men lying around on blankets smoking.
We pulled into Shiraz at 2:00. We had made excellent time because of Moghadam’s reckless speeding. Near the end he was going 95 mph (140 kph) on a narrow two-lane road.
I was staying at the Park Hotel near the center of town. When we arrived, Moghadam came in with me – I assumed he would be staying and I would have to follow him around the rest of the day. Instead, as soon as I was checked in, he said good-bye. I was caught a little off guard and fumbled for some money to give him as a tip. We shook hands and then quickly he was gone. It took me a few minutes to realize how relieved I was.
In his defense, I’ll say that Moghadam was trying to do his best to show me his country and it’s true I had seen more with him. It’s just too bad I didn’t want a guide. As I sat waiting for lunch, I started a new section in my journal. I called it Free Again. This, of course, says more about me than it does about Moghadam.
I had been told that everything would be closed on Friday. On the way in I had seen some shops that were open so I decide to take a short walk and see what was going on. First, I walked toward the bazaar – where else? Along the way I consulted my map and decided to change direction and head for what I thought was the main mosque.
When I got there I discovered it was the Mausoleum of Shah Cheragh, an important pilgrimage site. The huge courtyard, the biggest I had seen in Iran, was full of activity. Around the outside was a colonnade and people were sitting there in the shade. I could see that I had come to the right place.
I had read that the tomb was closed to non-Muslims, but I thought I would try to peek inside anyway. After standing around for awhile to see how things worked, I took my shoes off and left them at the shoe repository. I then walked to the entrance of the prayer hall and stood there for a few minutes too. No one seemed to notice me so I walked inside slowly.
The shrine was divided in two by a drape-covered fence – one side was for men and the other for women. The tomb itself was right in the center. The place was packed so I found a spot along the wall and stood quietly looking at the building and the people. I looked up and noticed that the walls of the shrine and the inside of the dome were covered with mirrors. On the carpet-covered floor, I saw men kneeling in praying or sitting reading the Koran. I walked around a little and then left.
As I was putting my shoes on a family came over and tried to talk to me. They spoke no English and I still didn’t know any Farsi, but we had a pleasant little interchange anyway. That’s one of the most endearing things about Iranians: they were never shy and didn’t let their lack of English stop them from making me feel welcome. As I was walking away, a soldier that had been standing in the little group walked over to me. He leaned close and said, his desire to communicate out stripping his command on English, “I love you.” What can you say to that? Well, I said, “Thank you very much,” and he smiled shyly at me.
I found a spot on the colonnade that surrounded the courtyard and sat down to record my impressions. As I was writing two soldiers came over and bent close pretending that they were tying their shoes. I figured that were trying to see what I was writing so I invited them to look at my journal. Again we didn’t have a common language, but still had a pleasant little conversation. Before I left them I took a picture of them saluting me!
I walked a bit farther south and saw a crowd down a dusty lane. A guy sitting at the mouth of the lane said to me, “Welcome to the general cargo bazaar.” He had a big smile on his face like it was some kind of joke. What I found was a flea market in an open field. It had the oddest collection of stuff I have ever seen: doll’s heads and car radios piled on the same blanket with broken sunglasses and shoe soles. There were also folks selling food and one guy was playing some variation of three-card Monty – a game where you bet which card will be red and which black.
On my way back toward the hotel I passed through a nearby market. As I was walking I heard someone yell, “Hey mister, execute me. Execute me, mister.” I stopped in my tracks and turned around and saw a guy smiling at me. He was selling potatoes. “What? What did you say?” I asked. “Execute me, mister” he repeated pointing at my camera.
After I took his picture he insisted that the man in the next stall come take our picture together. We stood with our arms around each like long lost friends for the picture and the small crowd of Iranians that had collected to watch the fun. As I was putting my camera away and prepared to head off, he handed me an ice cream sandwich! There simply seemed to be no end to this hospitality.