Iran : 24 Hours in Shiraz. Cut Throat Razors, War, and Poetry.

Naqsh-e Rostam, Near Shiraz, Iran

“He wants to ask you a question.” Faroud was our non-official translator. “Sure. Fire away”. Mohamed was driving, and his English wasn’t great. My Farsi, for all intents, is non-existent. “He says, yesterday, were you a little scared to come with us, and get into our car?”. It was a legitimate question, and had been brewing for 24 hours. It all started as a simple black-market currency transaction on the side-walks of Zand Boulevard – the main thoroughfare of Shiraz, Iran. Over the next 24 hours,  from cut-throat razor blades to poetry, Shiraz was going to live up to it’s deserved reputation.

Yesterday, I had handed these same guys $500 US dollars in exchange for a huge wad of rapidly depreciating Iranian rials. Five Benjamin’s is two weeks average wage in Iran. On the streets, they must have seen the remainder of my US dollars, the bills were stashed not-so-stealthy in an old envelope with a clear window. Ben Franklin may as well have been winking. Soon after, Phillipa and myself soon found ourselves walking down a Shirazi alley-way, with three Iranian strangers, and getting into a car for a destination unknown. At this point, I was more than aware that my small backpack contained every bit of cash I had left in the world. The US dollars, and the Rials.

“Why don’t you, ask him how did he know I wasn’t some crazy foreigner who was going to pull out a knife, take my $500 back, and then steal his car?” We all smiled. No answers were necessary. After trekking around the ancient Iranian countryside all day, we were pretty beat. Despite the differences in our backgrounds, and the short time we had known each other, we had developed the implicit trust of old friends.

Necropolis Naqsh-e Rostam, Iran

Sometimes, you have to take a chance in life. You have to ask, what’s the worst that can happen? Actually, as a westerner in Iran, maybe that’s not the question to ask. But the point stands – if you don’t take a risk in life, what’s the point of living? Quitting my job, was a risk. Flying one-way to Iran with no visa, was a risk. Jumping in a car with two Iranian men, and Phillipa, was a risk.

Twenty-four hours ago, Muhammad asked me,  at the conclusion of our black market exchange dealings, “do you want to come to my house and drink?” I delivered my answer, only after sizing him up, staring in his eyes, and looking at his body language. “Yeah. Sure. When? Now?”. He nodded. “Ok, lets go”. After a quick walk to his car, we were on our way, to our first authentic Iranian household encounter.

We started the walk to Muhammad’s car with three guys, one guy got waylaid by a phone call, so it was Muhammad, Faroud, Phillipa, and myself who jumped in for destinations unknown. I call it being “street smart”. Others say it’s being “not smart”.

 

click to see an interactive map showing the location of this article

 

 

They were just regular Iranian guys. Mid-late twenties. Cool. Muhammad was a street wise entrepreneur, with many irons in life’s fire. Faroud was intelligent, well spoken, a student of Engineering. Standard Shirazi issue. A phone call from Muhammad to his mother, totally put my mind at rest. “He’s telling his mum that he’s bringing some foreigners home for lunch”.

Muhammad’s house was huge, but according to Faroud, this was a pretty normal house for Shiraz. He added the disclaimer of “in every city around the world, of course there are people with little money, and people with more money”, using a high and low hand gesture to make sure we understood. The ladies of his family, mother and sisters, were modern, radiant, and personable. His Father was strong, solemn, with a firm handshake and eyes that clearly had seen enough in this world not to be totally surprised by two random Australian’s entering his home.

We soon became aware, that Faroud had a severe hangover. Still, he soldiered on with the translating duties, being the only one amongst all of us who spoke both English and Persian. Phillipa removed her headscarf, seeing and feeling the casual atmosphere of the home. It must have been quite a relief – we have been in Iran almost two weeks, and this was the first time she could socialise without wearing the headscarf.

We chatted. “Muhammad says he is a good barber”. Faroud continued with the translations. Lunch was going to take an hour to prepare, so whilst mum cooked, we ate pistachios and fruit. “Great! Can you ask him where there’s a good place to get a haircut in Shiraz?” Every traveller needs a hair-cut sooner or later. “He says he can cut your hair now, if you like? We have time. Do you have time?” Faroud was laughing as he translated. “I have all the time in the world. Lets do it.” There were a few more communal “OK’s”, and all round looks of surprise, the I adjourned to the bathroom of an Iranian man I had only met an hour or so ago.

Muhammad soon entered, smiling, with a cut-throat razor blade in his hand. Just me, and Muhammad. I thought of my friends in Australia, and what they may have thought of this situation. I looked out to the loungeroom, only to trade looks of “can you believe this” with Phillipa. But, she had disappeared.

He cut my hair, expertly, then pointed at my facial hair. Which, once again, had attained the hipster castaway look that seems to be a speciality of lazy western travellers. “Take it all off. Gone. Understand?” After a few runs with the clippers, Muhammad, whose English was now warming up, looked at me, laughed, and said “Norway, stop now! haha!”. I had no idea what he was talking about. Faroud wasn’t there to translate, we were on our own. I didn’t have a mirror, to see why he was laughing at as he stroked his own chin. He gave me that look of do you get it? And said again, “Norway, stop now!”.

“What? Norway? What do you mean? I don’t understand?“. He pointed out a mirror on a far wall, and told me to get up and look. “See? Black Metal! Norway, stop now! hahaha!“. Muhammad the Iranian, who had never left Iran, had a knowledge of popular western culture so nuanced that he was crafting jokes based upon an understanding that Norway was indeed the home of the sub-genre of Heavy Metal music known as Black Metal.

I looked in the mirror, and saw he had removed most of my beard, but had left a long, staunch, moustache. Vertically dropping by the corners of my mouth and down under my chin, I looked like a stand-in bass player for Metallica. Oh, Norway stop now, black metal, yes!  I laughed, Mahamoud made the devil sign with his hand, and laughed some more.

A couple more clips, and he asked me to stand up and look in the mirror again. “This is Iraqi – Saddam!”. Now I had a regular moustache, with a little hair under my bottom lip. Laugher continued, I sat back down. He clipped some more.  “Now, this is Iranian man style”.  Indeed, I now had the moustache style that Muhammad’s father was rocking. I considered stopping at this point, but decided against it. A clip more. “Look now! Charlie Chaplin!”. This was too much. We were both loving the ridiculousness of a situation that only carefree and unrelenting trust of perfect strangers could bring.

A clip or two later, we wrapped it up and returned to the family room.

 

Kaba-ye Zartosht, near Shiraz, Iran

 

“Where’s Phillipa?” I couldn’t see her anywhere. “She’s in there, with his father.” Faroud was reading, chilling alone in the family room, pointing at the entrance to a room I had not yet visited. I walked over, and stood in the doorway. It was a beautifully unexpected scene. Phillipa was sitting on Persian rug with Muhammad’s father, smiling, staring at his hands. They both couldn’t have been more calm and relaxed.

I knew, thanks to the broken banter Muhammad made during my haircut, that this man was the father of five children, a former power-lifter, and an eight year veteran of the Iran/Iraq war – the longest conventional war of the 20th century.

Fought between 1980 and 1988, the Iran Iraq War was two nations slaughtering half a million soldiers and civilians,  in an eight year battle supported and encouraged by Eastern and Western interests. Indeed, the USA was supplying weapons to Iran, in a callous violation of the very sanctions they had imposed on Iran.

Sickeningly, many other countries also supported Iran and Iraq during this war, supplying weapons, armaments, land-mines, materials useful in the creation of weapons of mass destruction, as well as huge quantities of  pre-cursors to aid chemical warfare. And well, just generally taking sides with one or both of oil rich nations in the hope of favourable trade when the dust settled. That is to say, make a quick buck.

Common understanding is that Iraq was the aggressor,  invading a weakened Iran in the wake of crippling sanctions introduced by the US government in 1979, an economic noose that has been in effect now for 33 years in Iran – long before the positively recent claims of Uranium Enrichment and Nuclear weapons capability. The end result of the disgustingly brutal war was zero gain to either country, apart from an end to the war. It was a huge economic and humanistic loss that is still being felt. An eight year nightmare that simply returned each country to the state of relative peace they had before it started. Oh, and a few favours to be repaid to other nations.

Now, today in 2012, Muhammad’s father was sitting with Phillipa by his side, deftly adding calligraphy to an artwork he began in 1986, during the war. It was a composition of words from the poet “Hafez”, the most popular and universally loved poet in the history of the Persian people. With a deft hand, he had placed the flowing Persian script into a geometric design, appearing somewhat like a stylised flower.

In the same calligraphic Persian script, some 28 years later, he was finally completing the artwork.

He looked up at me, then at Phillipa, and spoke in his own language, pointing at the art.

“He says to wait until it’s dry”.

Faroud had joined us, he was drawn in by intrigue.

Perhaps this moment was always meant to be.

Maybe this Iranian man, who had seen more in his life than I could possibly imagine, was destined to find himself in a state of total peace, in his own home, with the most unlikely of companions.

But, I’m sure nobody could have guessed that 28 years after the war surviving father of five had began this artwork, it would be completed with the words – “dedicated to Phillipa”.

This is what travelling is all about.

I don’t have a destination.

The journey, is my reward.

Nate.

 

PS, the photos here are from “Nashq-e Rostam – a 3000 year old Necropolis of Kings, carved into the side of a stone mountain near Shiraz, Iran. Getting here was another risk. After visiting the ancient city of Persepolis, my taxi driver said some words to me. What I understood was “do you want to see…”. Of course, I answered “yes”. Without having any idea as to where I was going.

PPS, thanks to the aforementioned sanctions, I have no idea if anyone is reading this blog, as I can’t access any statistics, at all, from within Iran. This is not Iranian government censorship, this is Google saying “we know you’re in Iran, so we’re not allowing you to access our products”… so, if you are enjoying this Iran series, feel free to leave a comment.

* names have been changed in this story, in case I let slip something that could get these guys into trouble.

Thinking of visiting Iran yourself? Free Iran visa on arrival advice – click here. 

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36 thoughts on “Iran : 24 Hours in Shiraz. Cut Throat Razors, War, and Poetry.

  1. Wow great post Nate. You seem to have found yourself in the home of some awesome people. I can’t wait for the next post on the rest of your visit to Shiraz. Cheers!

  2. great post, just make sure u use the word “persian” for the language not “farsi”, farsi, more correctly Parsi, is what they language is called in Persian itself, for English and other european languages, its Persian

    like how French ppl themselves say “francais” but its “french ” in English :)

    some iranians might tell u otherwise but Persian is the correct term

    1. Hey Soroush…yep, I’m aware of the differences between “Persian” and “Farsi”. However, I will often use the word “Farsi” when speaking to Iranian people, just as I would use the word “español” when speaking to Spanish people, as in “no hablo español” ;) Keep in mind, English is a language that has traditionally adopted many words from many other languages, it’s a sign of respect for other languages.

  3. Hi Nate,
    I followed a link to your blog on Twitter with your first post on Iran and I’ve been looking forward to your updates ever since. I left Iran for Canada when I was 16 years old, along with my family about 16 years ago, and I haven’t been back since. Through your blog I’ve been vicariously visiting the old country. It’s been a great pleasure reading accounts of your adventures there.

    Likely you know this already, but I thought I’d mention it in case others were interested: The first picture above is the tomb of Xerxes I, the Persian king who famously lost the battle of Marathon trying to conquer Greece. In the second picture from left to right are the tombs of Darius II, Artaxerxes I, and Darius I the Great. The latter ruled the Persian empire at its peak. By average estimates he reigned over above 40% of the world’s population, possibly the highest such proportion in history. The mysterious cube-shaped structure in the third picture may be another royal tomb, though it’s uncertain. In the second picture between the tombs of Darius I and Artaxerxes I, close to the ground, is a bas-relief depicting the triumph of Shapur I over Roman emperors Valerian the Elder, Phillip the Arab, and Gordian III. Valerian was the only Roman emperor ever captured as a prisoner of war, and the one shown kneeling is probably Phillip. The relief is from the Sassanid dynasty, around 250 AD. The tombs belong to Achaemenids, from around 500 BC.

    You’re very brave to take such incredible risks. Going to Iran without a visa is one thing, but getting in a car with total strangers after having shown them wads of cash…! I’m happy it’s worked out well, and hope you will continue to have a good time there. Thanks for the beautiful pictures.

    1. Thanks for the info on the Kings, really appreciate it. As for my “braveness”, I would have to say that risk-taking is perhaps the lowest form of bravery ;) But, it has worked out very well, I’ve made friends for life. As for you, I hope that you get to return to your home country one day. From talking to many locals, I understand some of the issues Iranian males may face when returning to Iran, such as military service. In any case, please enjoy the rest of my series on Iran, and thanks again for leaving a comment.

  4. Wow, what an amazing experience! I agree, that is what travel is about. I love that you are totally open to seeing where the experience takes you. Can’t wait to read more. :)

    1. It really was a great day, and there is more to come. Personally, I think it’s really important to be open when travelling – hey, who knows what may happen to you when you’re on the islands (very soon!) ;)

      1. Haha You know it, can’t wait to go, about 8 days and counting. I’m going with open head and heart to find some inspiration I seem to be sorely lacking lately. Can’t wait to be traveling like you, instead of just taking a vacation.

  5. Beautiful post! You seem to travel exactly as I do… on pure instinct, guided by body language and a look in someone’s eye. Had the most incredible world experiences this way! Glad your journey is proving rewarding.

    1. It was such a great day Paul, everyone needs a day like that at least once in their lives. In Shiraz, Iran – it’s likely to happen much more often than that!

  6. Hey Nate, thanks for sharing this awesome trip. It’s been great following you around and I’m loving these photos. I can just imagine how cool it must have been for you guys to stand there with almost no one else around looking up at those carved rocks with only the wind breaking the silence. Hearing about your experience with the local family just makes we shake my head every time I see a “Club Med” type ad pretending to offer a “travel” experience.

    1. Cheers Eugene… “Club Med Iran” ..a has quite a ring to it ;) But seriously, Iran is a fascinating nation, made all the better by the most welcoming and genuinely friendly and hospital people I have ever encountered.

  7. Bravo! I have no doubt that my trip to Iran will be very pleasant and fascinating. By the way, It seems that it is not too hot and not too cold, right? Congrats again and again!

  8. You’re really getting in deep now! Great story! And thanks for showing us the real side of a place few people on my side of the world know much about.

    1. Cheers Justin, nice to hear from you again. It really is one of my goals to spread the word about Iran, and balance the reporting of the main-stream media. Glad you’re enjoying it, good luck with your prep!

  9. Loved reading this account. This is what traveling is all about; meeting locals, taking ‘considered’ chances and finding out about the culture and people first hand. Sounds like you had a great time!

  10. Caught this thread via Steve Huff’s site. Really great photos. The whole Iranian series is so inspirational. The very concept of risk being necessary to truly live life has been dominating my thoughts as of late. You guys are really walkin’ the walk’.

    God speed!

    1. Wow Tad, that’s a really nice comment. I’m glad to have provided a little bit of inspiration – I hope you do what you need to do in your own life, so you can really start living.

  11. I just wanna say it’s cool to see Iran from your perspective… If you wanna come back again I’ll be more than happy to show you much more…

  12. Hi Nate, thank you for such great post. It is so full of life that tells the kind of person you are, lifely and joyful. Travel should be like yours, exploring cultures, history & people. I am following your advise. Awaiting for more tells & wonderful experience from your next trip to Iran. My next destination is gone be Iran. Best Regards

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