Emails from the Edge (13 page)
Read Emails from the Edge Online
Authors: Ken Haley
On arrival in this town, a mere 50 kilometres from southern Iraq, the BBC informs me Bush has demanded Iraq re-admit weapons inspectors and Baghdad has refused. I watch and listen to learn whether this presages the use of Kuwait as a launchpad for military strikes against Iraq. It is disturbing that, this close to leaving Iran, I cannot be certain whether at the last minute Kuwait must be dropped from my itinerary.
DAY 200 (28 NOVEMBER): CHOGHA ZAMBIL
Having negotiated a round-trip taxi to Chogha Zambil, site of a ziggurat from the 13th century before Christ, my excitement is palpable. Built by the Elamite civilisation, it lay buried beneath the sands until an oil explorer rediscovered it in 1935.
Karim, my driver, must attend to practical matters first. Before leaving Ahwaz, he requires a police permit. Whether this is because of general security worries, or because he's an Arab and the Persians have always liked to make them feel small and inferior, I have no way of knowing.
We pass still-flaring fires from the oilfields first developed by the British almost a century ago but that's almost postmodern compared to our UNESCO-listed destination where reconstruction of the great ziggurat is proceeding under a hot desert sun. This man-made mountain was the pinnacle of a royal capital, a city complete with shrines to its chief gods and goddesses.
Next to the ziggurat we linger by a sundial, which has been telling the time for over 3000 years. Iraq is just over the horizon, and the year might as well be 640 BC, when Chogha Zambil was flattened by the Assyrians.
DAY 203 (1 DECEMBER): YAZD
Tonight I am reintroduced to Ali Heidari, a Yazdi I met in a Tehran museum. It turns out that Ali lives a good way out of town, so he has arranged for me to stay the night with a friend of his, whom I will call Musavi, and his family. Dinner is typically overgenerousâI stopped counting the courses at seven, but the pick of them was
eshkangh
, a rich stew-like soupâand it is all I can do not to demand the immediate presence of Musavi's wife, who never puts in an appearance and whose name I never learn. Ali conveys my gratitude to her through Musavi, but says this is the traditional way and I mustn't embarrass my host.
After dinner, Musavi shocks me with an offer. âHe says, “Would you like to smoke opium?”' Ali tells me a second time. My life passes before my eyes. In Australia I would no sooner try hard drugs than walk. But, hey, I've survived 47 years without opium and, if the gods smile on me, I may last another without a second invitation. âWhy not?' I say through a forced smile.
Five minutes later, a friend of the friend of my friend knocks on the front door, and Musavi and he lug a silver brazier into the living room. They begin heating the substance they will later tamp into the bowl of an outsize bong worthy of an American Indian peace parley. I ask no questions: this is Islamic Iran. I exhale a cloud of smoke long and slowly from my nostrils, pass the pipe and wait for the âhigh'. But not until the bong has circled its way round a second time does it hit meâa mild but pleasantly delirious concussion as if I had been tapped between the eyebrows with a rubber-topped mallet.
DAY 204 (2 DECEMBER): SHIRAZ
In this southern city of grape fame, I learnt this afternoon that George Harrison had died. Apparently it was common knowledge in the West that he had terminal cancer but, not knowing this, my immediate reaction was that my informant was perpetrating a sick joke. Komeil Noofeli, a lively tourist guide in his mid-twenties, found out about it only because a 50-year-old woman from northern Englandâa tourist with whom, improbably enough, he has fallen head over heels in loveâemailed him.
Noofeli, whom I frankly sought out for curiosity value after reading in my guidebook that he spoke Australian, is happy to show me over Persepolis in the morning. We seal the arrangement with a handshake. âIt will be bonzer, won't it?' he beams.
DAY 205 (3 DECEMBER): PERSEPOLIS
Komeil, who doesn't drive, has chartered a taxi for the half-day round trip to Persepolis. This is where the glory that was Persia began, with the construction before 500 BC of its summer capital.
You do need to bring a vivid imagination along to furnish and finish the ruins, as robbers have made off with much of what time hasn't eroded. But with bas-reliefs of kings and courtiers, sturdy granite columns and beckoning doorways, as well as still expressive sculpted horses' heads, there is enough material left to do the trick.
DAY 210 (8 DECEMBER): BUSHEHR
Partly because I've come this far but mainly because Bush's battle with Saddam is in the war-of-words phase, I recommit myself to visiting Kuwait.
Valfajre Shipping Co. confirms that its regular ferry service to the emirate will leave on Monday afternoon. A fax of my hotel booking is accepted as a substitute for a Kuwaiti visa (to be issued on arrival), and my return to the Arab world (Saddam and Bush permitting) should now be smooth sailing.
KUWAIT: 11â17 DECEMBER
DAY 213 (11 DECEMBER): KUWAIT CITY
Boarding yesterday was at 3 pm. Our ferry, which normally plies to the mouth of the Gulf but has been diverted to the Kuwait run, roared to life two and a half hours later, and pushed Iran away from us like the remains of a dinner that had left us feeling overfull.
We left directly after the
Iftar
meal: this is Ramadan, so not only must we fast by dayâa good discipline, and one I followed in Iran tooâbut we must break our fast as soon as the sun has set. As the crossing to Kuwait should take eighteen hours, I was fully ready to continue fasting if there were no accessible toilets, but while waiting on board I checked out the âfacilities' and saw my fears on that score were unfounded.
Farouq Shah, the officer in charge of saloon passengers, is open-faced, a master of delightfully quirky English, and quite willing to speak his mind once out of land's view. He solemnly predicted that within five years there would be a âsmall revolution' in Iran, seemingly unaware what an oxymoron that really is. What I think he meant is that trying to apply an overcoat of Islam to the surface of Iran's sense of self and cultureâwhich is older, and believes itself superiorâis, like any job of painting, one that will never be a complete success. In time it peels away.
The tension between pure Iran and pure Islam has its humorous side. Under a revolutionary edict, parents must give their children Islamic names, not Iranian ones. âThe man [official] says to me, “You cannot name your son Kourosh (Cyrus),”' Farouq told me. â“You must name him Mohammad or Ali.” I say, “Mohammad is a nice name, but not for my son.” '
Speaking of names, I remarked that our ship was Iran-Hormuz 24. âWhy don't you call her something like Queen of the Gulf?' I asked. âWe wanted to do something like that,' Farouq replied. âBut since the revolution we cannot make our ships have interesting names. So the managers decided that because all these ships go from Iran to Hormuz they would use numbers to make them different. Not so interesting, but different.'
We dock right on timeâand then lose two hours at Customs. Not through meanness or hostility, I hasten to add. Kuwaitis are happy to see Western visitors (there are all too few of us), but somehow the visa-validating papers from my official host, the Hotel Carlton, have not arrived.
Phone calls are made, I must be patient. Everyone's baggage is being opened and searched in a vast concrete bunker, and tempers flare as there is no airconditioning. Eventually, a driver from the Carlton arrives to collect me.
Upon arrival I am comforted by the old-fashioned formality of the sign over reception, âThe hotel policy is to give satisfaction in every way and upon this the manager's endeavours are concentrated.' Late at night, men pass eagerly down the corridor with women clearly not their wives, bringing fresh meaning to this missionary statement.
But by day, on the streets, sex is blacked out. Full-length chadors, even the
burqa
âwith that beak-like face shroud associated with Afghanistan under the Talibanâgive immediate notice that Islamic rectitude is fiercer here than in, say, Tehran.
DAY 215 (13 DECEMBER): KUWAIT CITY
The National Assemblyâdesigned by Joern Utzonâarchitect of the Sydney Opera Houseâis set in parklike grounds and it was only luck that the guard wandered off just before my arrival, enabling me to roll unhindered past the flowerbeds to an excellent vantage point about 50 metres off to one side of the building.
But these same guards must be given full marks for athletic prowess and devotion to duty. This one bounds across the lawn, quivering with affronted dignity, and hollers in my face, âStop!' followed by a string of Arabic words whose meaning leaps all language barriers. When he covers my camera lens with his hand, I roll away to get a clear sighting. Clearly I am up to no good: he clamps one palm over the lens again, while radioing for assistance with his free hand.
Eventually, his superior arrives and, after a quick inspection of my backpack and with extreme reluctance, allows me to take one photo of the empty but strategically situated building.
Kuwait City certainly boasts the most sumptuous shopping malls I have seen anywhere: the brand spanking new al-Sharq mall is strictly for those who have shopped until they dropped and gone to heaven. (But, during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, Scud missiles fired by Saddam's troops will narrowly miss the kilometre-long shopping centre, a reminder that luxury attracts the demon of envy.)
The West has always had a stereotypical view of Arabs. Contemplating a tour of the Arab world immediately after September 11, I wondered how much had changed in the way
we
viewed
them
and, more important from my point of view, how differently
they
now regarded
us
. Kuwait would provide my first clue.
Desert Storm was fought to right a wrong, to declare once and for all that the invasion of a sovereign state âmust not stand' (George Bush senior's words). As the war clouds gathered prior to the liberation of occupied Kuwait, Bush senior also spokeâit seems improbable now, but he didâof bringing democracy to the emirate. Western democracy, with its multi-party elections, would have been a second blow to Kuwaiti traditional society. Kuwait is an absolute monarchy. Three times in its modern historyâin 1976, 1986 and 1999âthe Emir has dissolved parliament, although you could hardly argue that the people's representatives had been dismissed, because women couldn't vote. The ruler's consultative councils had merely advisory powers.
But you couldn't deny that Kuwait had democratic institutions of a kind, even if parliament wasn't one of them. The
diwaniya
(or âsitting circle', from the Turkish
divan
, whence we get the English âdivan') is where men regularly gather to chat about anything from football to politics. It's the Kuwaiti equivalent of a pub. A pub with no beer, certainly, but one with those water pipes that make life such a heady pleasure from Morocco to Oman. That, and good strong coffee (arabica, of course).
Tonight I push out to the old city
souq
, where a high-ceilinged market building is now occupied by neat boutiques opening onto an inner courtyard. This is filled by, yes, divans, where gentlemen of leisure sit clad in white robes, on their heads the distinctive Kuwaiti quoit-like rope circlet. Ever-obliging waiters hover discreetly, filling coffee orders and refilling hubble-bubbles. Here, everyone has an opinion and no one is afraid to voice it.
Mordi, a journalist in the foreign-media monitoring division at Kuwait TV, says, âThe Americans helped us [in 1991], we are grateful for that. But we know since then they do it for money. For Americans and Europeans, everything is money.
âAmerica only is like this' (he rubs two fingers together) âwith Israel, and in Srebrenica [Bosnia] more people died than in New York [on September 11] and nobody does anything.'
Mordi likes Americans for their openness but distinguishes between the people and Washington. âThe [US] government wants to control everything everywhere, it doesn't respect the traditions of other peoples.'
DAY 216 (14 DECEMBER): FAILAKA ISLAND
Today is the fourth straight day on which it has rained. Rain is so rare in Kuwait no one will believe this. The newspaper says this is the heaviest December fall since 1934. Through a soft drizzle I wheel through a ghost town, on this island in Kuwait Bay which I have reached after an hour's ferry crossing from the city.
This was the scene of some of the worst pillaging by the Iraqi invaders during their eight-month occupation in 1990â91, during which they trashed the town and torched the museum.
The whole town is a museum now, and the ex-museum is part of it.
Back on the mainland I see a man wearing a red-and-white chequered kaffiyeh, a Saudi with a gap-toothed grin and a falcon on his wrist. I am told he has been appointed Chief Falconer by Sheikh Hamid, the Deputy Prime Minister, and his bird is from the Rolls-Royce of breeding grounds, Failaka.
This afternoon I visit Kuwait's Grand Mosque, surely without peer in the Gulf. The more I travel, the more I appreciate these spiritual retreats, where the eye instinctively looks up in awe.
DAY 217 (15 DECEMBER): OUT OF KUWAIT CITY
Thirty kilometres west of the capital, I ask the taxidriver to stop. I offer him the camera, and say
âal-Khaleej'
, pointing to a light-blue horizontal trickle that tapers to a tip about 500 metres in front of our eyes. Pointing the camera at it, he snaps. I'm satisfied. âThe end of al-Khaleej,' I exult. This is as far as the Gulf goes. From here, due west, lie land, and sand, all the way to the Suez Canal.
In 1920, the year my father was born, Kuwait was invaded by its larger neighbour. No, not Iraq. Back then, it was the newly emerging nation of Saudi Arabia that violated what was not formally a nation but a Turkish domain under British protection. British troops turned a decisive battle against the Saudis here at al-Jahra. The Red Fort (or Red Palace) was the prize. Comprising 33 rooms, six halls and two diwaniyas, as well as stables for the cavalry's mounts, it alsoâas the official brochure breathlessly informs the visitorâhas a gate âused as a woman exit and called the secret door'.
DAY 200 (28 NOVEMBER): CHOGHA ZAMBIL
Having negotiated a round-trip taxi to Chogha Zambil, site of a ziggurat from the 13th century before Christ, my excitement is palpable. Built by the Elamite civilisation, it lay buried beneath the sands until an oil explorer rediscovered it in 1935.
Karim, my driver, must attend to practical matters first. Before leaving Ahwaz, he requires a police permit. Whether this is because of general security worries, or because he's an Arab and the Persians have always liked to make them feel small and inferior, I have no way of knowing.
We pass still-flaring fires from the oilfields first developed by the British almost a century ago but that's almost postmodern compared to our UNESCO-listed destination where reconstruction of the great ziggurat is proceeding under a hot desert sun. This man-made mountain was the pinnacle of a royal capital, a city complete with shrines to its chief gods and goddesses.
Next to the ziggurat we linger by a sundial, which has been telling the time for over 3000 years. Iraq is just over the horizon, and the year might as well be 640 BC, when Chogha Zambil was flattened by the Assyrians.
DAY 203 (1 DECEMBER): YAZD
Tonight I am reintroduced to Ali Heidari, a Yazdi I met in a Tehran museum. It turns out that Ali lives a good way out of town, so he has arranged for me to stay the night with a friend of his, whom I will call Musavi, and his family. Dinner is typically overgenerousâI stopped counting the courses at seven, but the pick of them was
eshkangh
, a rich stew-like soupâand it is all I can do not to demand the immediate presence of Musavi's wife, who never puts in an appearance and whose name I never learn. Ali conveys my gratitude to her through Musavi, but says this is the traditional way and I mustn't embarrass my host.
After dinner, Musavi shocks me with an offer. âHe says, “Would you like to smoke opium?”' Ali tells me a second time. My life passes before my eyes. In Australia I would no sooner try hard drugs than walk. But, hey, I've survived 47 years without opium and, if the gods smile on me, I may last another without a second invitation. âWhy not?' I say through a forced smile.
Five minutes later, a friend of the friend of my friend knocks on the front door, and Musavi and he lug a silver brazier into the living room. They begin heating the substance they will later tamp into the bowl of an outsize bong worthy of an American Indian peace parley. I ask no questions: this is Islamic Iran. I exhale a cloud of smoke long and slowly from my nostrils, pass the pipe and wait for the âhigh'. But not until the bong has circled its way round a second time does it hit meâa mild but pleasantly delirious concussion as if I had been tapped between the eyebrows with a rubber-topped mallet.
DAY 204 (2 DECEMBER): SHIRAZ
In this southern city of grape fame, I learnt this afternoon that George Harrison had died. Apparently it was common knowledge in the West that he had terminal cancer but, not knowing this, my immediate reaction was that my informant was perpetrating a sick joke. Komeil Noofeli, a lively tourist guide in his mid-twenties, found out about it only because a 50-year-old woman from northern Englandâa tourist with whom, improbably enough, he has fallen head over heels in loveâemailed him.
Noofeli, whom I frankly sought out for curiosity value after reading in my guidebook that he spoke Australian, is happy to show me over Persepolis in the morning. We seal the arrangement with a handshake. âIt will be bonzer, won't it?' he beams.
DAY 205 (3 DECEMBER): PERSEPOLIS
Komeil, who doesn't drive, has chartered a taxi for the half-day round trip to Persepolis. This is where the glory that was Persia began, with the construction before 500 BC of its summer capital.
You do need to bring a vivid imagination along to furnish and finish the ruins, as robbers have made off with much of what time hasn't eroded. But with bas-reliefs of kings and courtiers, sturdy granite columns and beckoning doorways, as well as still expressive sculpted horses' heads, there is enough material left to do the trick.
DAY 210 (8 DECEMBER): BUSHEHR
Partly because I've come this far but mainly because Bush's battle with Saddam is in the war-of-words phase, I recommit myself to visiting Kuwait.
Valfajre Shipping Co. confirms that its regular ferry service to the emirate will leave on Monday afternoon. A fax of my hotel booking is accepted as a substitute for a Kuwaiti visa (to be issued on arrival), and my return to the Arab world (Saddam and Bush permitting) should now be smooth sailing.
KUWAIT: 11â17 DECEMBER
DAY 213 (11 DECEMBER): KUWAIT CITY
Boarding yesterday was at 3 pm. Our ferry, which normally plies to the mouth of the Gulf but has been diverted to the Kuwait run, roared to life two and a half hours later, and pushed Iran away from us like the remains of a dinner that had left us feeling overfull.
We left directly after the
Iftar
meal: this is Ramadan, so not only must we fast by dayâa good discipline, and one I followed in Iran tooâbut we must break our fast as soon as the sun has set. As the crossing to Kuwait should take eighteen hours, I was fully ready to continue fasting if there were no accessible toilets, but while waiting on board I checked out the âfacilities' and saw my fears on that score were unfounded.
Farouq Shah, the officer in charge of saloon passengers, is open-faced, a master of delightfully quirky English, and quite willing to speak his mind once out of land's view. He solemnly predicted that within five years there would be a âsmall revolution' in Iran, seemingly unaware what an oxymoron that really is. What I think he meant is that trying to apply an overcoat of Islam to the surface of Iran's sense of self and cultureâwhich is older, and believes itself superiorâis, like any job of painting, one that will never be a complete success. In time it peels away.
The tension between pure Iran and pure Islam has its humorous side. Under a revolutionary edict, parents must give their children Islamic names, not Iranian ones. âThe man [official] says to me, “You cannot name your son Kourosh (Cyrus),”' Farouq told me. â“You must name him Mohammad or Ali.” I say, “Mohammad is a nice name, but not for my son.” '
Speaking of names, I remarked that our ship was Iran-Hormuz 24. âWhy don't you call her something like Queen of the Gulf?' I asked. âWe wanted to do something like that,' Farouq replied. âBut since the revolution we cannot make our ships have interesting names. So the managers decided that because all these ships go from Iran to Hormuz they would use numbers to make them different. Not so interesting, but different.'
We dock right on timeâand then lose two hours at Customs. Not through meanness or hostility, I hasten to add. Kuwaitis are happy to see Western visitors (there are all too few of us), but somehow the visa-validating papers from my official host, the Hotel Carlton, have not arrived.
Phone calls are made, I must be patient. Everyone's baggage is being opened and searched in a vast concrete bunker, and tempers flare as there is no airconditioning. Eventually, a driver from the Carlton arrives to collect me.
Upon arrival I am comforted by the old-fashioned formality of the sign over reception, âThe hotel policy is to give satisfaction in every way and upon this the manager's endeavours are concentrated.' Late at night, men pass eagerly down the corridor with women clearly not their wives, bringing fresh meaning to this missionary statement.
But by day, on the streets, sex is blacked out. Full-length chadors, even the
burqa
âwith that beak-like face shroud associated with Afghanistan under the Talibanâgive immediate notice that Islamic rectitude is fiercer here than in, say, Tehran.
DAY 215 (13 DECEMBER): KUWAIT CITY
The National Assemblyâdesigned by Joern Utzonâarchitect of the Sydney Opera Houseâis set in parklike grounds and it was only luck that the guard wandered off just before my arrival, enabling me to roll unhindered past the flowerbeds to an excellent vantage point about 50 metres off to one side of the building.
But these same guards must be given full marks for athletic prowess and devotion to duty. This one bounds across the lawn, quivering with affronted dignity, and hollers in my face, âStop!' followed by a string of Arabic words whose meaning leaps all language barriers. When he covers my camera lens with his hand, I roll away to get a clear sighting. Clearly I am up to no good: he clamps one palm over the lens again, while radioing for assistance with his free hand.
Eventually, his superior arrives and, after a quick inspection of my backpack and with extreme reluctance, allows me to take one photo of the empty but strategically situated building.
Kuwait City certainly boasts the most sumptuous shopping malls I have seen anywhere: the brand spanking new al-Sharq mall is strictly for those who have shopped until they dropped and gone to heaven. (But, during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, Scud missiles fired by Saddam's troops will narrowly miss the kilometre-long shopping centre, a reminder that luxury attracts the demon of envy.)
The West has always had a stereotypical view of Arabs. Contemplating a tour of the Arab world immediately after September 11, I wondered how much had changed in the way
we
viewed
them
and, more important from my point of view, how differently
they
now regarded
us
. Kuwait would provide my first clue.
Desert Storm was fought to right a wrong, to declare once and for all that the invasion of a sovereign state âmust not stand' (George Bush senior's words). As the war clouds gathered prior to the liberation of occupied Kuwait, Bush senior also spokeâit seems improbable now, but he didâof bringing democracy to the emirate. Western democracy, with its multi-party elections, would have been a second blow to Kuwaiti traditional society. Kuwait is an absolute monarchy. Three times in its modern historyâin 1976, 1986 and 1999âthe Emir has dissolved parliament, although you could hardly argue that the people's representatives had been dismissed, because women couldn't vote. The ruler's consultative councils had merely advisory powers.
But you couldn't deny that Kuwait had democratic institutions of a kind, even if parliament wasn't one of them. The
diwaniya
(or âsitting circle', from the Turkish
divan
, whence we get the English âdivan') is where men regularly gather to chat about anything from football to politics. It's the Kuwaiti equivalent of a pub. A pub with no beer, certainly, but one with those water pipes that make life such a heady pleasure from Morocco to Oman. That, and good strong coffee (arabica, of course).
Tonight I push out to the old city
souq
, where a high-ceilinged market building is now occupied by neat boutiques opening onto an inner courtyard. This is filled by, yes, divans, where gentlemen of leisure sit clad in white robes, on their heads the distinctive Kuwaiti quoit-like rope circlet. Ever-obliging waiters hover discreetly, filling coffee orders and refilling hubble-bubbles. Here, everyone has an opinion and no one is afraid to voice it.
Mordi, a journalist in the foreign-media monitoring division at Kuwait TV, says, âThe Americans helped us [in 1991], we are grateful for that. But we know since then they do it for money. For Americans and Europeans, everything is money.
âAmerica only is like this' (he rubs two fingers together) âwith Israel, and in Srebrenica [Bosnia] more people died than in New York [on September 11] and nobody does anything.'
Mordi likes Americans for their openness but distinguishes between the people and Washington. âThe [US] government wants to control everything everywhere, it doesn't respect the traditions of other peoples.'
DAY 216 (14 DECEMBER): FAILAKA ISLAND
Today is the fourth straight day on which it has rained. Rain is so rare in Kuwait no one will believe this. The newspaper says this is the heaviest December fall since 1934. Through a soft drizzle I wheel through a ghost town, on this island in Kuwait Bay which I have reached after an hour's ferry crossing from the city.
This was the scene of some of the worst pillaging by the Iraqi invaders during their eight-month occupation in 1990â91, during which they trashed the town and torched the museum.
The whole town is a museum now, and the ex-museum is part of it.
Back on the mainland I see a man wearing a red-and-white chequered kaffiyeh, a Saudi with a gap-toothed grin and a falcon on his wrist. I am told he has been appointed Chief Falconer by Sheikh Hamid, the Deputy Prime Minister, and his bird is from the Rolls-Royce of breeding grounds, Failaka.
This afternoon I visit Kuwait's Grand Mosque, surely without peer in the Gulf. The more I travel, the more I appreciate these spiritual retreats, where the eye instinctively looks up in awe.
DAY 217 (15 DECEMBER): OUT OF KUWAIT CITY
Thirty kilometres west of the capital, I ask the taxidriver to stop. I offer him the camera, and say
âal-Khaleej'
, pointing to a light-blue horizontal trickle that tapers to a tip about 500 metres in front of our eyes. Pointing the camera at it, he snaps. I'm satisfied. âThe end of al-Khaleej,' I exult. This is as far as the Gulf goes. From here, due west, lie land, and sand, all the way to the Suez Canal.
In 1920, the year my father was born, Kuwait was invaded by its larger neighbour. No, not Iraq. Back then, it was the newly emerging nation of Saudi Arabia that violated what was not formally a nation but a Turkish domain under British protection. British troops turned a decisive battle against the Saudis here at al-Jahra. The Red Fort (or Red Palace) was the prize. Comprising 33 rooms, six halls and two diwaniyas, as well as stables for the cavalry's mounts, it alsoâas the official brochure breathlessly informs the visitorâhas a gate âused as a woman exit and called the secret door'.
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