Touring Tehran
Learning, laughter and new friends make for a magical time in Iran’s capital
THE photo of Amireh and me was taken on my old camera and there is no definition between the blinding peaks that stretch away behind us and the clouds. We stand close in winter gear and sunglasses, her chador showing beneath her leather jacket and pink scarf. We smile for her husband, who is taking the picture.
In another photo, the vast range of mountains is threaded with ski paths and valleys of cracked snow. To the north, across the impassable mountains, is the Caspian Sea and to the east, along the spine of the range, are the Himalayas. We’re 45 minutes from downtown Tehran, in an area known locally as the Alps of the Middle East, where lifts carry tiny skiers on thin wires.
That morning, Amireh and her husband had picked me up from my hotel for a day trip to the mountains. He was an engineer and knew the mountains from servicing the cellphone towers along the huge ridges. He knew what type of snow was good to get his front-wheel drive sedan through and when he should turn around and get down off the mountain.
As we came down, cars were passing tightly on the ice-bound roads, full of families eating treats. Little girls with dark ringlets and pink snow coats peered from the windows and we stopped at a frozen waterfall to watch some people climb.
One of the climbers fell. She screamed as the harness took hold and she swung in an arc across the face of the frozen flow; cheering echoed in the cliffs as they lowered her down.
The road opened out in places further down the mountain and cars passed each other shakily, like overloaded shopping trolleys.
I couldn’t quite understand the excitement when a car approached from behind, some guys hanging out of the windows with their music blaring. Amireh and her husband laughed and honked the horn and let the car pass, explaining that these guys were breaking the law by driving around, windows open, banging the roof and listening to music. Amireh’s husband talked of Persia and its hospitality, teachers and travellers passing through Tehran on the Silk Road, exchanging coins and cultures. And he spoke of modern Iran and Ahmadinejad, once mayor of Tehran, who built a road across the main highway to shave a few miles off his commute.
He explained that the style of Islamic art, with its intricate derivations and complex lines, had developed because faces cannot be depicted — this is considered idolatry.
In the National Museum of Iran, the ruckus of boys who scattered around me each time we passed eventually became a scrum when one of them worked up the
A boy worked up the courage to try his English
courage to try his English. He said, “Hi,” and waved. “Hi, how’re you doing?” I replied. And they all dived around me and turned to shout for photos, then flew back into line when their guide noticed.
At an office lunch, where the women prepared food and the men chatted, a huge man watched me while I ate, minding my manners and taking cues on the formalities.
The manager, who must have learnt English from Emily Brontë, brought the big man forward to show me something he had in his hand. He shyly stepped forward to show me a piece of paper with a drawing of a face. The eyes, nose and smile of a young man written into shape by words woven tightly on the page until a face was there. Everyone smiled and the manager said, “Thank you, my darling.” And I accepted, wondering where in Tehran he had learnt his English.