Iran, as one French writer put it, is 'half the world'. Standing next to the entrance of the bazaar at the northern end of Imam Square it can also seem as if half the world's carpet sellers congregate here. After days and weeks, travelling in Iran's tourist-free hinterland this sudden commercialism and determinedly Anglophone soft-sell can come as something of a surprise.
Opening gambits usually begin with "Welcome to Esfahan', in faultless English. Once they discover that I am from the UK, and my Swiss friends from Lausanne, the conversation usually follows the line of...'Ah! My brother used to live in Saffron Walden', or 'My uncle studied at Basle University'. Inevitably, of course, such pleasantries lead to an invitation to drink tea and a perusal of carpets/miniature paintings /camel bone carvings. After half a dozen such encounters in just 30 minutes the temptation to claim to hail from Reykjavik or Liechtenstein is quite considerable.
Esfahan's mosques are spellbinding even on a cloudy November day but the city's real romance lies - or rather, used to lie - in the chaykhanas (teahouses) of the 33-arch Si-o-Seh Bridge across the Zayendeh River to the south of the centre. These days, only one tawdry teahouse survives, the others, as elsewhere in the country, have been closed down by the government, ostensibly because of the damaging effects of the smoke from the qalyans (water pipes). However, in a country where the public smoking of choking, high-tar cigarettes is completely unfettered this seems a rather odd decision to say the least. Other reasons have been mooted. Most of the erstwhile teahouses were all-male preserves but a handful were places where young men and women could meet, talk privately and perhaps - heaven forfend - participate in such licentious activity as sneakily holding hands.
What is overlooked here is that the Iranian teahouse is a timeless social institution where all manner of men - both working class and educated - could relax after work, spin stories and discuss politics. Perhaps it is this very character that has some bearing on their demise. The charmless and utilitarian, neon-lit fast-food outlets that have replaced many of the traditional chaikhanas are no place to linger and mull over the ways of the world or debate the fortunes of one's government.
Never judge a people by their incumbent governments. Even the shortest of visits and a little intelligent reading between the lines reveals that many Iranians hunger for change as much as their counterparts do in the land of the 'Great Satan' far away across the sea.
Laurence Mitchell
Esfahan, Iran, 4 November, 2008
laurencemitchell.com
Just looking at my own blog I realise that an early error crept in - the very first word in fact!
It SHOULD begin:
'Esfahan, as one French writer put it ...'
Put it down to the pressures of self-editing in an Iranian internet cafe or just too much tea and kebabs.
Posted by: Laurence Mitchell | 21 November 2008 at 10:13 AM