Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 49 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Sherrill's Iran Visa Photo A bakery in the desert city of Yazd: ancient walls, but new hooded oven, dark-haired, mustachioed bakers hard at work turning dough into savory flat bread; a young weaver watching the many threads his fingers are moving on his old loom. Memories of Iran, 1999. More memories: Tile-skinned 12th century minaret rising like a giant candle behind a blue-tiled 16th century Isfahan shrine adorned with giant portraits of Ayatollah Khomenei and a young martyr of the Islamic revolution. A boy with a blue ball stumbling down the curve of a hilly street, surrounded by yawning cave houses carved from tufa cliffs. A giant U.S. flag painted vertically onto the side of a Tehran hotel, the stars transposed into skulls and the red stripes dripping bombs. So many memories, both simple and complex.
Everywhere we went in Iran, people stared openly at foreigners, not with hostility but with curiosity. At one shrine that we visited, several boys followed us, trying out their English words. A boy about ten showed Sherrill and me his English workbook, proudly turning the pages. Later, walking through the gardens, a dozen boys came up, one of them handing Sherrill a notebook and pen. She printed, "Hello from the U.S.A." and signed it.
He read it, grinning broadly. Crowds of children and some adults waved as we left, smiling and calling, "Goodbye! Goodbye!"
He read it, grinning broadly. Crowds of children and some adults waved as we left, smiling and calling, "Goodbye! Goodbye!"
In the National Archaeology Museum in Tehran, while we were studying carvings from Persepolis, six Iranian high school girls in black manteaus and scarves walked up to Sherrill. They might have been novice nuns, despite glimpses of blue jeans beneath some of the black coats.
"Where are you from?" one girl peering out from under her scarf asked Sherrill.
"America."
"Welcome," the girl said, with a shy smile, and turned to pass the information to her companions.
"Where are you from?" one girl peering out from under her scarf asked Sherrill.
"America."
"Welcome," the girl said, with a shy smile, and turned to pass the information to her companions.
 Bread bakers, Iran |  Weaver at work, Yazd, Iran |
Sherrill and I visited Iran in the spring of 1999 on a trip arranged by our friend Hala—one of the first groups to go after a hiatus of 18 years. Iran Air gave us excellent food and service, even though the women flight attendants worked in scarves and long black coats. (Sherrill and the other women in our group had to don their own manteaus and scarves before we entered the Iran Air departure lounge at Heathrow in London.) The Iranian movie shown during the flight gave us a glimpse into life in Iran. The love story was quite charming, although the hero and heroine never touched.
In Tehran, we saw that a good half of the drivers were women.
"More than fifty percent of college graduates are women," we were told. "And more than half of the doctors. Many more women are educated, now, than under the shah."
We also discovered that every hotel room included a Koran, a prayer rug, and a small prayer stone on which to place the forehead while praying, and on every room ceiling an arrow pointed toward Mecca. One evening, we had dinner at a restaurant in a converted 15th century hammam: lamb kabobs, salad, and saffron rice, but no wine or beer or other alcohol. A few of us tried a nonalcoholic beer made in Iran. It didn't taste much like real beer, but was better than local soft drinks.
In Tehran, we saw that a good half of the drivers were women.
"More than fifty percent of college graduates are women," we were told. "And more than half of the doctors. Many more women are educated, now, than under the shah."
We also discovered that every hotel room included a Koran, a prayer rug, and a small prayer stone on which to place the forehead while praying, and on every room ceiling an arrow pointed toward Mecca. One evening, we had dinner at a restaurant in a converted 15th century hammam: lamb kabobs, salad, and saffron rice, but no wine or beer or other alcohol. A few of us tried a nonalcoholic beer made in Iran. It didn't taste much like real beer, but was better than local soft drinks.
Mosque & Minaret with Portraits of Ayatollah Khomeini & Islam Revolution Martyr The State Jewels Museum in Tehran was a vivid introduction to the life style of the last shah and Pahlavi family. The jewel collection of the deposed shah and his fun-loving relatives filled many large steel-walled rooms in a bank basement. The spectacle was beyond impressive. How many crowns and scepters, necklaces and bracelets and rings, chests and thrones, and other pieces of royal paraphernalia, all encrusted with masses of diamonds and rubies and emeralds and other precious stones, could a family need?
"No wonder the people overthrew the shah," we couldn't help whispering to each other, as we trudged past the glass cases.
"No wonder the people overthrew the shah," we couldn't help whispering to each other, as we trudged past the glass cases.
Before the trip, reading about Iran, we learned that on August 19, 1953 the United States CIA under Alan Dulles, brother of the Secretary of State, working with Britain, staged a coup to overthrow the democratically elected Iranian Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh so that Western companies could keep control of Iran's oil fields. That coup finished Iran's brief experience of democracy and brought in the dictatorship that led to the religion-led revolution of 1979 and a religion-based society.
An early morning flight on an old Aerflot plane with notices in both Russian and Farsi took us past the snow-topped Alborz mountains to the holy city of Mashad near the Afghanistan border. At the airport, the men were publically frisked, while the women disappeared into a curtained booth. In Mashad, we drove directly to the holy complex, the resting place of the eighth Shi'ite Imam. Twenty million pilgrims traveled to his shrine every year. We could take photographs of the golden domes only from far away. Before we reached the shrine and surrounding buildings, our guide gave the women in our group chadors to cover their manteaus and scarves.
We weren't allowed to carry anything into the complex, not even a purse or camera. In our stocking feet, we were escorted through a series of courtyards, but couldn't go into the holy sanctuary, itself. The obvious devotion of the families and students around us, people even weeping, was touching, although foreign to us.
An early morning flight on an old Aerflot plane with notices in both Russian and Farsi took us past the snow-topped Alborz mountains to the holy city of Mashad near the Afghanistan border. At the airport, the men were publically frisked, while the women disappeared into a curtained booth. In Mashad, we drove directly to the holy complex, the resting place of the eighth Shi'ite Imam. Twenty million pilgrims traveled to his shrine every year. We could take photographs of the golden domes only from far away. Before we reached the shrine and surrounding buildings, our guide gave the women in our group chadors to cover their manteaus and scarves.
We weren't allowed to carry anything into the complex, not even a purse or camera. In our stocking feet, we were escorted through a series of courtyards, but couldn't go into the holy sanctuary, itself. The obvious devotion of the families and students around us, people even weeping, was touching, although foreign to us.
Tufa-carved Village of Kandovan The 10th century poet Ferdowsi, considered the founder of the modern Persian language, is honored with a spectacular marble tomb and monument south of Mashad. The adolescent students we met there were eager to try out their English, smiling and taking our pictures. Some of them wanted their own photographs with us. They seemed happy that we were paying our respects to their hero. When I absentmindedly set a foot on the bottom step of the tomb platform, a boy gently indicated that I should remove it.
A second guide joined us for a while. As we continued driving south the next day, he sang verses of Ferdowsi's poems, accompanying himself on a daf, a traditional goat skin instrument—a cross between a drum and a tambourine. His voice was strong, flexible, fluid.
"I was a music student at the time of the Islamic Revolution," he told us, "but after the revolution music was banned as too frivolous. Now, traditional Iranian music is allowed again."
A second guide joined us for a while. As we continued driving south the next day, he sang verses of Ferdowsi's poems, accompanying himself on a daf, a traditional goat skin instrument—a cross between a drum and a tambourine. His voice was strong, flexible, fluid.
"I was a music student at the time of the Islamic Revolution," he told us, "but after the revolution music was banned as too frivolous. Now, traditional Iranian music is allowed again."
Our itinerary included many religious shrines and monuments because of their beauty and historic significance, but we also were beginning to recognize the intense religious basis of Iran's society. Southeast from Mashad we came to a 12th century shrine rising magnificently from the dusty ground toward endless sky. Skipping in our stocking feet across burning tiles to a tiled courtyard, we reached the shrine and its blue-tiled dome. No images were allowed anywhere, but the tiles were covered with stylized calligraphy. In a small dry garden, several dusty rose bushes struggled to survive under the brutal sun.
"They should know better than to plant roses here," Sherrill said. "I feel sorry for the poor things."
"They should know better than to plant roses here," Sherrill said. "I feel sorry for the poor things."
Sherrill (center) & Traveling Friends For lunch, we stopped in a small town at a store-front cafe with a worn linoleum floor and plastic-topped tables. The only other customers were local men. With their sun-darkened skin, heavy moustaches, bearded and stubbled chins, and clouds of cigarette smoke, they might have been in an old western movie. Patches of sweat stained their shirts and their hands were toughened from physical labor. Our group sat at a table near the open kitchen, where we could see copper kettles and feel the heat from the cooking. Sleeves rolled up on sinewy arms, the middle-aged cook and his young helper dripped sweat as they moved between stoves. While we were eating, more men crowded into the cafe, staring at us through the cigarette smoke.
One of the older men, with a short white beard and large dark brows, shuffled over to Hala and our guide, bowed slightly, asked several questions in Farsi, then bowed again and, belly leading the way, scuffed back across the linoleum to his companions.
"What did he ask?" Sherrill asked our guide.
"Where you're from," he explained, "and if you're Moslem. When I said no, you're not, he asked why the women are covered up, then. I told him that it was to show respect. That pleased him. I'm sure he told the others."
One of the older men, with a short white beard and large dark brows, shuffled over to Hala and our guide, bowed slightly, asked several questions in Farsi, then bowed again and, belly leading the way, scuffed back across the linoleum to his companions.
"What did he ask?" Sherrill asked our guide.
"Where you're from," he explained, "and if you're Moslem. When I said no, you're not, he asked why the women are covered up, then. I told him that it was to show respect. That pleased him. I'm sure he told the others."
Sherrill at restaurant in former hammam Back on the bus, we continued for a while on a road a going east that would have taken us near the Afghanistan border, but we were stopped and sent back because of Taliban movements on the other side. Sometimes, they made raids into Iran and the government was afraid this might be one of those times. As we drove, Hala passed out traditional cookies called ghotab, a Mashad specialty of dough wrapped around a paste of mashed almonds and rose water, not too sweet, but flaky and flavorful.
Another day, we drove through naked hills and low mountains toward the Turkmenistan border, following the ancient caravan route of the Silk Road, along which a series of caravansaries had been built. No billboards spoiled the view along the roads. (Even in the cities there were few. The only large posters we saw in most towns were portraits of either religious leaders or young men killed during the Iran-Iraq war.)
Another day, we drove through naked hills and low mountains toward the Turkmenistan border, following the ancient caravan route of the Silk Road, along which a series of caravansaries had been built. No billboards spoiled the view along the roads. (Even in the cities there were few. The only large posters we saw in most towns were portraits of either religious leaders or young men killed during the Iran-Iraq war.)
Leaving several dusty villages behind, we reached the crest of a small mountain and suddenly the elaborate walls and massive gates of a 12th century royal caravansary appeared like a mirage in the dry valley below. As we came closer, cylindrical corner towers and arched entrances tall enough for loaded camels to pass through came into focus. Behind those thick walls, merchants and their wares—silk, jewelry, gold and silver, and rare spices—were safe from robber bands. Walking into the caravansary was like strolling into the distant past among those long-ago travelers. We almost could hear the braying of camels, the voices of traders, the songs of the servants.
In Royal Caravansary The next evening, back in Mashad, the two guides took us to what they said would be a special performance. When we arrived, all the signs were in Farsi, so we had no idea what was going to happen, but we followed them into a brightly lit room with an octagonal pit in the center about four feet deep and twelve feet wide. Nine boys about eleven to thirteen were spinning and jumping and chanting, as a muscular man played a drum and other percussion instruments. Taking off our shoes, we padded to some seats overlooking the pit.
During the next hour, the boys chanted and performed ritualized calisthenics and acrobatics, using three-foot sticks that they manipulated in various ways. Sometimes, they tossed long bowling pins in the air, catching and juggling them. Other times, one boy would have a turn in the center of the pit, with the others following his cues as they jumped and danced and tossed the pins. After an hour, they were drenched with sweat and panting.
Afterwards, our guide explained that we'd been watching an historic sport in what was called a "House of Strength." In 1220 AD, the Mongols invaded Iran, destroying cities and towns. By decree, no Iranian male could carry weapons or train for war, but boys secretly were trained through sports so they'd be ready for war when the time came—spiritual and mental training, as well as physical. Now, House of Strength teams in many towns compete against each other.
A flight from Mashad to the city of Kerman and then, the next day, a bus trip across a hilly desert took us to the ancient walled city of Bam. The temperature outside had climbed to 100, heat radiating off the road so fiercely that we wouldn't have been surprised if it had melted into black goo, but still the women had to wear their manteaus, trousers, and head scarves. Even in our hotel room, if Sherrill took off the outfit she had to put it back on before she opened the door. A couple of days before, using her manicure scissors, she cut out the coat's lining, trying to make it more bearable.
Then we saw the 2,000 year old city in the distance, its huge crenellated walls and towers against the blue sky giving it the look of a giant dragon marching across the sun-baked hill. Eventually, with our bottles of water, we hiked through the giant mud-brick gate and along the narrow streets of the walled city, trying to stay in the shade. Drinking our water, we climbed past empty mud-brick mosques and shops, the remains of communal baths and houses, and up to the citadel at the top of the hill.
Afterwards, our guide explained that we'd been watching an historic sport in what was called a "House of Strength." In 1220 AD, the Mongols invaded Iran, destroying cities and towns. By decree, no Iranian male could carry weapons or train for war, but boys secretly were trained through sports so they'd be ready for war when the time came—spiritual and mental training, as well as physical. Now, House of Strength teams in many towns compete against each other.
A flight from Mashad to the city of Kerman and then, the next day, a bus trip across a hilly desert took us to the ancient walled city of Bam. The temperature outside had climbed to 100, heat radiating off the road so fiercely that we wouldn't have been surprised if it had melted into black goo, but still the women had to wear their manteaus, trousers, and head scarves. Even in our hotel room, if Sherrill took off the outfit she had to put it back on before she opened the door. A couple of days before, using her manicure scissors, she cut out the coat's lining, trying to make it more bearable.
Then we saw the 2,000 year old city in the distance, its huge crenellated walls and towers against the blue sky giving it the look of a giant dragon marching across the sun-baked hill. Eventually, with our bottles of water, we hiked through the giant mud-brick gate and along the narrow streets of the walled city, trying to stay in the shade. Drinking our water, we climbed past empty mud-brick mosques and shops, the remains of communal baths and houses, and up to the citadel at the top of the hill.
Gate and Wall of Ancient City of Bam
Four years later, I found Sherrill in front of our television, a grim expression on her face. When I asked what had happened, unable to speak, she waved at the screen. A 6.6 earthquake had hit Bam, crumbling the mud brick city, its walls and towers, and killing more than 26,000 people in the modern city nearby. Many countries, including the United States, despite our political differences, sent aid to help the victims. The ancient city, however, was beyond restoration.
It seemed as if malicious gods were destroying the history of the world. Palmyra and other glories of Syria had been devastated, the great Buddha in Afghanistan was gone, and now Bam. This time the cause wasn't human viciousness, but that was small comfort. All across the Middle East and around the world, historic treasures and their record of human achievement were at risk.
It seemed as if malicious gods were destroying the history of the world. Palmyra and other glories of Syria had been devastated, the great Buddha in Afghanistan was gone, and now Bam. This time the cause wasn't human viciousness, but that was small comfort. All across the Middle East and around the world, historic treasures and their record of human achievement were at risk.
Sherrill in carpet store, Iran The next day, we were stunned by the beauty of the blue and yellow tile work in Kerman's 14th century mosque. In one niche, a man crouched, playing a flute, while in another an old man silently prayed. From the mosque, a side passage took us to the great Kerman bazaar, built in the 14th century, then expanded in the 17th century—the new part. The vivid colors and intense aromas of the spice bins almost made us drunk. It was a symphony of smells...Gershwin for the nose. I bought Sherrill a packet of saffron to bring home although she said it was too expensive.
Kerman's magnificent mosque and fabulous bazaar were just two of many unique, historic places in Iran that are part of a global heritage we all share, wherever we happen to live, and for which we all are responsible.
Kerman's magnificent mosque and fabulous bazaar were just two of many unique, historic places in Iran that are part of a global heritage we all share, wherever we happen to live, and for which we all are responsible.
End of Part One
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
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