I am looking forward to the morning tour of the city sights. Esfahan has a rich history and culture and there is much to see. You could spend a week getting lost in the bazaar without ever going down the same street twice.
We drive to the main square and I am awestruck by its beauty. On one side is the Shah's palace, opposite is his lady's private mosque, considered one of the most beautiful, and at either end are the main mosque and the start of the bazaar. In the centre are fountains and gardens but it was originally conceived as a polo field. As we enter the main mosque, all the ladies are handed large sheets (hi-jabs) with which to cover themselves. Not content with being made to wear long sleeved dresses, trousers and headscarves in the blazing sun, we will now drown in our own sweat under a bedsheet. We then spend a happy half an hour tripping over them as we wander round. As the tour comes to an end a few of us decide to seek out the famous tea house on the square. As we approach, we are told it is closed but that the gentleman we are talking to knows of another one. He sets off at speed and we track him, right, left, right , right , down several alleys. Finally, there is a tiny alley lined with old junk, sorry, antiquities, and we enter the most amazing smoke filled environment. There is bric a brac on every shelf, lining every wall and cupboard, and even hanging from the ceiling. The room itself is as long and narrow as the alley, with one line of tables and a bench seat. We shuffle sideways past a line of men, all smoking from water pipes, and into the next room. Tea is brought and served, hot and sweet and the gentleman tells us a little of his history and connection with UK. Of course, he wants to sell us a carpet. We leave shortly before we die of asphyxiation from the smoke fumes. We wander round the bazaar, up and down alleys, into little dead ends. It is all covered and we lose our sense of direction. We are looking for another famous mosque, but we move further and further away from the tourist area and into the main alleys of the local bazaar. Each time we stop, some helpful person sends us on our way in the direction of the mosque but we can never find our way out. We begin to think that we will be stuck in the bazaar forever. Search parties will be sent and not return. Skeletons will be found periodically but they will not be ours. Eventually, we will become the ghosts of legend.
Finally, after several more consultations and discussions, we surface outside the bazaar, and into a world that bears no resemblance to the Esfahan we had left as we entered it. This is the Other Half of the World. This is a world of shabby buildings, dusty mounds of bricks and rubbish, random flea markets and other markets, hidden in the bowels of the various shabby buildings. This is where construction attempts at a metro have been started, splitting streets down the middle and preventing any traversing. Grey dust is everywhere. I am thirsty but, despite all the shops inside and outside the bazaar, we can find nothing to drink. Eventually, we find the mosque we are looking for, and a kind passer-by uncovers some water for me.
IN the evening, we walk down to the bridge for the sunset. The clouds are drifting across the sky, obscuring the deep red light. Along the bridge, lovers , families and tourists gather to gaze from the arches. I am torn. Do I watch from the bridge with the others but miss getting a photo of the bridge itself? Do I stay on the river bank with the sun behind me? Do I cross the bridge to the other side? OMG. Decisions. Decisions. I haven't had to make a decision since I packed my bags for this trip. As usual, I try to do it all and end up collapsing in a heap on the far side as the the last arc of the sun finally disappears below the horizon. I sit chatting with the others on the river bank as the bridge lights up for the night. It is magical, and all my reservations about Iran fade away.
We drive to the main square and I am awestruck by its beauty. On one side is the Shah's palace, opposite is his lady's private mosque, considered one of the most beautiful, and at either end are the main mosque and the start of the bazaar. In the centre are fountains and gardens but it was originally conceived as a polo field. As we enter the main mosque, all the ladies are handed large sheets (hi-jabs) with which to cover themselves. Not content with being made to wear long sleeved dresses, trousers and headscarves in the blazing sun, we will now drown in our own sweat under a bedsheet. We then spend a happy half an hour tripping over them as we wander round. As the tour comes to an end a few of us decide to seek out the famous tea house on the square. As we approach, we are told it is closed but that the gentleman we are talking to knows of another one. He sets off at speed and we track him, right, left, right , right , down several alleys. Finally, there is a tiny alley lined with old junk, sorry, antiquities, and we enter the most amazing smoke filled environment. There is bric a brac on every shelf, lining every wall and cupboard, and even hanging from the ceiling. The room itself is as long and narrow as the alley, with one line of tables and a bench seat. We shuffle sideways past a line of men, all smoking from water pipes, and into the next room. Tea is brought and served, hot and sweet and the gentleman tells us a little of his history and connection with UK. Of course, he wants to sell us a carpet. We leave shortly before we die of asphyxiation from the smoke fumes. We wander round the bazaar, up and down alleys, into little dead ends. It is all covered and we lose our sense of direction. We are looking for another famous mosque, but we move further and further away from the tourist area and into the main alleys of the local bazaar. Each time we stop, some helpful person sends us on our way in the direction of the mosque but we can never find our way out. We begin to think that we will be stuck in the bazaar forever. Search parties will be sent and not return. Skeletons will be found periodically but they will not be ours. Eventually, we will become the ghosts of legend.
Finally, after several more consultations and discussions, we surface outside the bazaar, and into a world that bears no resemblance to the Esfahan we had left as we entered it. This is the Other Half of the World. This is a world of shabby buildings, dusty mounds of bricks and rubbish, random flea markets and other markets, hidden in the bowels of the various shabby buildings. This is where construction attempts at a metro have been started, splitting streets down the middle and preventing any traversing. Grey dust is everywhere. I am thirsty but, despite all the shops inside and outside the bazaar, we can find nothing to drink. Eventually, we find the mosque we are looking for, and a kind passer-by uncovers some water for me.
IN the evening, we walk down to the bridge for the sunset. The clouds are drifting across the sky, obscuring the deep red light. Along the bridge, lovers , families and tourists gather to gaze from the arches. I am torn. Do I watch from the bridge with the others but miss getting a photo of the bridge itself? Do I stay on the river bank with the sun behind me? Do I cross the bridge to the other side? OMG. Decisions. Decisions. I haven't had to make a decision since I packed my bags for this trip. As usual, I try to do it all and end up collapsing in a heap on the far side as the the last arc of the sun finally disappears below the horizon. I sit chatting with the others on the river bank as the bridge lights up for the night. It is magical, and all my reservations about Iran fade away.
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