It's less than 3 hours by car from Kerman to Bam. We made it nonstop. For the first time Moghadam chose to stay with the car while I toured the city. Bam is an abandoned mud brick city. Visitors rave about the solitude of the place. The day I was there a conference going on: for architects I was told. So instead of an empty, dead city I found a teeming place full of students and academics. In fact, I was so interested in watching the people I can tell you more about them than I can about the city.
I can tell you, for example, that Iranian college students interact pretty much the same as any students that age do. They talked in excited little groups, greeted old friends and flirted with each other just like you would expect. Further, Iranian academics and administrators walk around with the same self-absorbed air that you see on any US campus. I wouldn't have expected it to be any different and only take the time to mention about it because Iran has been so demonized by the Western media. They are, after all, people just like you and I.
Anyway, it took about an hour to see the city and to look at the displays set up for the conference. Back at the car I found Moghadam asleep in the back seat. Instead of waking him up I went and sat at a café and watched the Iranians for a while longer.
On the way back to Kerman we turned off at Mahan. First, we stopped just outside town to visit a garden that was built on the side of the hill. There were orchards along both sides and the trees were in full bloom. In the center, running down the hill, was a series of small waterfalls and long pools.
Thursday afternoon is a time that most Iranians have off - Friday is their holy day - and there were lots of people in the garden. Up at the top there was a large flat area covered with more trees. There were also some carpet-covered benches scattered around and Moghadam lay on one as I walked around. A short way off I noticed a guy playing a little instrument that looked like a lute. I walked over to listen and he and his friend insisted I sit with them. There we were under the flowering tree with the sound of the water running in the background and this guy playing the lute - ah, it was wonderful. Take me back to Iran!
After sitting for a while we pressed on to see the local mosque. This was another lively shrine, full of people. In the central room was the tomb draped in a green shroud. As I was standing there looking at it, two young girls, maybe 8-10 years old, came up and handed me a piece of paper and a pen. I looked at them and asked, "What's this for?"
One girl held up her hand and pretended to write on it with the other. "What do you want me to write?" I asked. By now a little knot of people had formed around us. Someone said, "Sign." Oh I get it, they want my autograph. I signed my name and handed it back, but they insisted I do it twice: once for each of them. They were so cute, how could I refuse?
We continued on our journey back to Kerman. I was sitting, staring out the window at nothing, munching on some pistachios that Moghadam had bought and he was talking on his mobile phone. Slowly I started to recognize something he was saying. He was repeating, over and over, the name of a friend of mine, someone who was currently in Iran. It wasn't until we got back to the hotel, and the clerk translated, that I found out that Moghadam was talking to my friend's driver and that she had sent me a greeting. She was in the north and we were in the south. My opinion of Moghadam's mobile phone was improving.
Back at the hotel the lobby was empty: yesterday's tour group had left. I sat and wrote for awhile and then realized how weary I was of talking to strangers. I decided to retire early and, as the TV offered little entertainment, I got a book out. I opened my window that faced the rear of the hotel and lay down. A gentle breeze blew in the distant sounds of the city: car horns, barking dogs and the evening call to prayers. I read about half the book before falling asleep.
