Jamie Maslin - Iranian Rappers and Persian Porn

In need of a strong caffeine injection, and an opportunity to formulate a plan and get my head together, I headed to a café inside the border control building. Even walking the short distance there, I was approached by several money changers touting for business. Again, I felt pleased to have read up on this before getting here and shook my head at them with a smile as I passed.

The café was packed, and despite pointing to a cup of coffee, I was given tea. I wasn’t bothered, so long as it had caffeine in it, and was just about to sit down at one of the tables with a few spare seats when I realized I couldn’t, as sitting on one of the seats was a woman. It is considered a big no-no to sit down next to a member of the opposite sex who is not your spouse, a close relative, or a person you’re familiar with, unless specifically asked to do so. This etiquette stuff was going to take some getting used to.

I found another table completely free of women and plonked myself down. Whilst sipping away at my tea, I dipped into my guidebook to read about the surrounding area of northwestern Iran. One attraction in particular caught my attention. A church by the name of Kelisa-ye Tadi (the Church of St. Thaddeus), described as one of the most famous and remarkable Christian monuments in Iran, was relatively close by, at fourteen miles from the next town of Maku. Its origins dated back as far as AD 371, and although it had only one service a year, held on the feast of St. Thaddeus when pilgrims traveled from all over Iran to attend, it was open daily for tourists. The guidebook recommended chartering a taxi to get there, which, including the return journey, would apparently cost a very reasonable IR25,000—about three dollars. Not bad for nearly thirty miles. Cabs are cheap in Iran as gasoline only costs an amazing thirty-seven cents a gallon (at the time of writing).

I decided the church would be the first place I’d visit tomorrow, but for now I wanted to get a bus into Maku, the nearest town from the border and once there book into a hotel. I headed outside and got my first glimpse of Iran. It was rugged, blue skied, fresh aired, and very sunny. As the majority of pictures I’d seen of Iran in newspapers and magazines at home were, almost without exception, in black and white and of a depressing nature, I almost felt surprised that the sun was still shining on this side of the border. Naïve, I know. The place was awash with color, and everyone seemed chilled out and had big happy smiles. I started to realize that things in Iran might be very different from the image I had of the place in my mind, and from the one portrayed in the Western media.

I proceeded to turn down several animated money changers, and, after soaking up the mountain scenery for a minute, I started my Iran journey proper.

Astatesmanlike picture of the late Ayatollah Khomeini greeted me in the slightly musty but welcoming lobby of the Hotel Alvand in Maku. Manning the reception desk was an attentive, grandfather-like figure who, in between sipping away at a little glass of tea and chomping on pistachio nuts, negotiated a price for a room. We settled on IR30,000, which, at about three dollars and fifty cents, seemed reasonable enough to me. In addition to handing over the money, I was also required to do likewise with my passport. This I did, assuming that it would be handed back after the appropriate reference number had been jotted down, but off it was taken and locked in a safe.

“Hello, hello, what’s all this about?” I thought, and requested it back.

The friendly manager shook his head, and with the help of an English speaker in the lobby explained that whenever you book into a hotel in Iran, by law, you’ve got to hand over your passport. I wasn’t overly keen on this little procedure, but what could I do?

The room was very basic, but after last night’s less than salubrious accommodation, it was complete luxury for me. The view from my window was a breathtaking one of the huge rocky mountain gorge in which Maku was situated. A section of it contained a massive overhang of rock, which, if it ever fell down would wipe out a good bit of the town. This bit of the gorge looked well worth a visit.

Lurking suspiciously in the corner of my room were the most unhygienic pair of plastic sandals the world has ever seen. The sandals were a dingy white, imprinted with a nasty black sludge, presumably the result of countless applications of filthy feet and deposits of sweat and dead skin. God knows how many verrucas and fungus infections currently called them home, but one thing was for sure: my feet weren’t going anywhere near them. Even looking at them made me feel queasy, so holding them at arm’s length, I placed them in the cupboard and set off for the communal shower down the hall with my ten toes out for all to see.

The amount of soap and shampoo I smothered my body with was obscene. I used an industrial quantity of toothpaste, had a shave, and after putting on some clean clothes, which could no longer consist of shorts since exposing your legs in public in Iran is a big no-no even for a man, I felt like a different person and was ready to go exploring.

The air outside seemed to crackle with an electric charge such was my overwhelming excitement and anticipation to finally be here, in Iran! Maku was thriving with traffic and people, and consisted of one long main road lined with all manner of different shops, which were squeezed between the precipitous sides of the aforementioned mountain gorge. The gorge was spectacular and completely dominated the whole area for miles around.

The overhanging rock visible from my hotel window seemed to beckon me, so I decided to hike on up. It looked accessible through a slightly rough area off the main road, lined with lots of abandoned or partially collapsed houses. I was a bit apprehensive at first about going through here, but then thought, “What the hell?” I needn’t have worried. The people were all very friendly, and some of them greeted me with a warm, “ Bonjour monsieur ” as I walked through their neighborhood. This greeting I assumed was simply the locals using a Western language they were familiar with rather than me looking French—or at least I hoped so.

After the houses, it was steep, rough terrain where several fallen boulders had blocked my route. I puffed and panted my way over a couple of these before realizing an established path ran nearby. The higher I climbed, the more impressive the mountain overhang became.

From the town below, the overhang had looked quite interesting and maybe worth a visit, but close by it was incredible and far larger than I’d thought. It was a huge tidal wave of rock, looking as if it were just about to break, swallowing everything in its path below. Interestingly, there were a couple of small trees growing almost horizontally from the side of the rock, hundreds of feet above me, clinging tenaciously to life.

I felt dizzy just staring up at it and had to sit down. Whilst gazing up in awe, I was approached by a local guy of about eighteen with a big friendly smile. He spoke no English but gestured for me to follow him. I got up and walked over to what looked like the remains of an old tower or chimney, then climbed up and looked inside, revealing… nothing at all.

My friendly guide gestured that I should maybe take a photo of it. I politely declined and pointed to the tsunami of rock above. It was the equivalent of standing next to a mighty elephant and taking a photo of its steaming pile of poop. There was just no comparison between the chimney and the rock face. It was simply too big to get in the viewfinder, and despite trying many different angles, I only managed to capture a mere fraction of its size and, as such, a fraction of its splendor. The local guy left soon after, leaving me to admire the site all by myself.