Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn (15 page)

B
y eight o’clock, Ricardo, Sabine, and I were chartering a taxi. The drive to the Castle of the Assassins was spectacular, taking us along meandering gravel roads through absolutely breathtaking mountain scenery.

The view from the car may have been great, but the car itself wasn’t. It was in a terrible condition and felt very unstable, rocking from side to side like a skateboard with loose trucks. The driver pulled over at an isolated little roadside store to give the car a breather and its brakes a rest, which were smoking, and I mean that literally. I got out and took a photo of the billowing white fumes wafting up from the front wheel arches. It wasn’t a reassuring sight considering the steep, curvy nature of the road and its many nasty vertical drops. We all popped into the roadside shop whilst waiting for the car to recover. Five minutes later and we were back on the road. The condition of the taxi was no reason for the driver not to put his foot down, though, and it was full speed all the way to the village of Alamut. Here the driver indicated that we should get out.

“What the hell’s going on?” I thought. We still had thirteen miles to the castle, but the devious driver tried to make out that we’d only paid to get to this village, and if we wanted to go all the way to the castle then we’d have to come up with more money, to the tune of IR60,000. That was what we’d paid thus far and had traveled many times the distance from here to the castle. I told him that if he didn’t stick to the normal deal, he’d get nothing (we hadn’t paid him yet) and we’d hitch or catch another cab. Another annoying stand off set in with all of us determined not to give in first.

After about ten minutes of sitting around in the roasting sun, Ricardo and Sabine reluctantly agreed to give him a further IR10,000 to take us all the way there. He was very lucky to get this, as by now I was keen to tell him to take a long walk off a short pier. Our crafty driver dropped us in another village and pointed us in the direction of the castle, which he assured us was walkable from here. We took his word for it but were apprehensive since it would have been easy for him to stitch us up in revenge for the contretemps earlier.

We walked into the village past several mud-brick houses and inquired with an old woman who was beating an intricately designed Persian rug as to the whereabouts of the castle. She spoke no English but a young man nearby helped us out. Worryingly, he also informed us that the next bus back to Qazvin left not in the afternoon, as we’d assumed, but tomorrow morning. This was a problem as we were in the middle of nowhere in rural Iran and had no chance of finding a taxi out here.

Whoops.

I was convinced we could hitchhike back, but Ricardo and Sabine weren’t too keen on the hitching option. We decided not to worry about it until we’d located the castle we’d come all this way to see.

It was a steep walk to the castle. We’d not hiked for more than a minute when a four-wheel-drive pickup truck came by and offered us a lift. This was what I loved about Iran: one minute you could be peeved with some crafty taxi driver for trying to rip you off, and the next some generous stranger was going out of his way to help you out. And go out of his way he did—not only did he give us a lift to the path just below the castle, but he also gave us some fresh figs and a frozen water bottle full of ice. The figs were fresh, not dried—green on the outside and fleshy red on the inside and unlike any I’d tried.

We thanked him, and cooled off for a minute by a clear stream before starting the steep trek to the top. It was a beautiful but tiring walk past a towering sand-colored rock face up to a little plateau. Here the track changed direction, hugging the rock face to our right, which led onto a series of steps winding up the cliff. The plateau was a great place to take a breather and take in the view. On our left were mountains of surprisingly varied colored rocks. There were shades of pink, yellow, green, and even purple, making them look like a vast pastels picture. Farther on from this was a little valley almost entirely enclosed by dramatic crusty layered rocks jutting up from the ground as if thrown skyward by some enormous force. Down in the valley was a flat piece of lush grassy ground almost in a perfect circle surrounded on its outside by proud, elegant, upright standing poplar trees, which were slowly swaying in the breeze. And in the distance, framing the whole picture, were the towering Alborz Mountains reaching to the huge endless blue sky above.

It was a great sight and one that only got better the farther up we went. When we reached the top, the castle came into view. The castle was called Alamut, which was one of several local fortresses known collectively as the Dezha-ye Hashishiyun or Castles of the Assassins. These once strongly fortified bases had been the hideouts for followers of a peculiar religious cult based, somewhat loosely, around the teachings of Ismailism.

The cult was founded in the eleventh century by a complete nutter by the name of Hasan Sabah, who recruited followers from as far afield as Khorasan province in eastern Iran and parts of Syria. His group were widely feared and for good reason, as they weren’t adverse to a bit of beastly barbarity—their specialty being the murder of religious and political leaders. It’s purported the assassins’ crafty leaders would lure their followers into the castle’s beautiful gardens where irresistible maidens would tend to their every need and get them hopelessly stoned out of their minds on hashish. Nothing wrong with that, but on the downside they would then be sent out to commit murder under the belief that their leader, Hasan Sabah, had the magical power to protect them from harm’s way and that he could whisk them off to paradise.

Interestingly, the word “assassin” is derived from the word for the followers of the sect, the Hashishiyun. Alamut Castle is the only fortress of the Assassins that is easily accessible; the others, about twenty-three of them, require the likes of a guide and donkeys to get to. Alamut had been constructed in AD 860 but was captured in 1090 by the Assassins, who subsequently resided there until 1256 when it was captured by the Mongols, who consigned the Assassins to history.

The cult’s existence was first brought to the attention of Europe by returning Crusaders, but the Assassins were made famous by English writer Dame Freya Stark’s classic twentiethcentury travel book
Valley of the Assassins
. Freya Stark was born in 1893 and after the First World War spent the majority of the rest of her life traveling, in total defiance of convention, alone in parts of the world where few men dared to venture. In Persia, she visited Alamut, Mazandaran, Hamadan, Qom, Esfahan, and Lorestan where she raided ancient graves in the hope of discovering valuable bronze artifacts. She was arrested there and told by the local governor, “No wonder that yours is a powerful nation. Your women do what our men are afraid to attempt.” She died in 1993 aged one hundred.

There wasn’t much left of the castle past the foundations and a few walls, which were in the process of being renovated and rebuilt. But it didn’t matter, as the view was the main attraction and it was awe-inspiring. We took a group photo with Sabine’s camera, which she propped up on a pile of rocks, then set the timer and ran in and joined the picture. We hung out together for a good while just talking and admiring the view until two other travelers turned up on the scene.

They were both guys from the Czech Republic and looked in their early thirties. One of them, Michel, spoke excellent English. He was a fascinating bloke, having visited to date a total of seventy-six countries. I asked him from all his travel experience how this place rated. He described the view with an English soccer analogy. He said it wasn’t quite Premier League like the Himalayas, which were comparable to the likes of the Chelsea or Arsenal clubs, but it was a good solid First Division team with a strong chance at promotion, “Like Derby County or Ipswich.” I laughed.

The five of us then discussed how we were going to get back to town, and the unanimous decision was to hitch a lift to Qazvin. Ricardo seemed skeptical we could get a ride this far (forty-five miles), but having hitched here from England I didn’t doubt for a second that we could do it. Michel was equally confident. In the end, a pickup truck from the village took us to a nearby junction opposite some green fields and a small isolated mosque. Ten minutes later and we were riding along in the back of another truck, this time with loads of tools in the rear making the ride an uncomfortable but welcome one.

We were dropped in another small village and managed to persuade the driver of a beat-up old Land Rover to give us a lift, for a small fee, to the next town. He agreed and cleaned out the back of his vehicle first, which was filled with manure. He did this by spraying it down with a roadside hose. Michel and I grabbed the front seats, away from the smelly mess, and ended up getting the best views as well.

It was my first time in an old style Land Rover. Interestingly, you see a hell of a lot of these ancient Land Rovers in Iran, obviously dating back to before the revolution. In fact, you see an awful lot of three different types of automobile in Iran. The vast majority are old 1960s British Hillman Hunters, or “Paykans” as they are known in Iran. These were manufactured in Iran from 1967 up until as recently as 2005. From 1979 onward, the Paykan, which means “arrow” in Farsi, has been an Iranian model only, after the country purchased sole manufacturing rights. Other common vehicles are blue farming pickup trucks and finally the aforementioned ancient Land Rovers. Apart from these, you don’t really see that many other types of cars. There are a few, of course, with Peugeots now being produced in Iran and increasing in numbers, but it will be a long time before the Paykan gives up the number-one spot. To combat this and add a bit of individuality, you see a lot of Hillman Hunters sporting other more salubrious foreign cars’ badges, in particular the four rings of an Audi’s badge. I don’t suppose they fool many people though, as apart from that they’re all identical.

The manure-smelling Land Rover dropped us by some hay stacks next to a bridge where we all reclined and waited in the now late afternoon sun. We must have been quite a strange sight for the locals out here. Our next ride took us all the way back to Qazvin, in the back of another blue pickup truck. It was a wonderful trip with the low orange sun creating huge curving shadows across the undulating hills, highlighting their natural pink and orange layers of strata.

Michel and I stood up the whole way holding onto the rear of the truck’s roll bar. Our speed was so great that it physically hurt to get hit by a bug or a fly. It was bloody dangerous, but the view and the air rushing all around us justified the risk. Interestingly, as we sped along we could detect going through warm and cool patches of air that would last for maybe five or ten seconds before changing temperature again.

The journey back was great fun all round, except for poor Sabine who got stung by a bee on her bum toward the latter part of the ride, and who had also been sitting in the manure mess!

Tomorrow we were all going our separate ways. I was off to Hamadan, Ricardo was going to Tehran, and Sabine, Michel, and his friend, whose name I never got, were heading to different locations as well. I planned to see Tehran after Hamadan, so Ricardo and I arranged to catch up there and get in contact with Leyla, whom we had met in Masuleh. Before we all parted, Ricardo and I took everyone to the milkshake shop for an addictive “milk banana.”

The special ingredient, I discovered, was not crack but a huge block of vanilla essence added to the mix. It tasted as good as the night before, and we all had two each. As we stood outside in the crowded street finishing off our milkshakes, we were joined by the owner of the shop and an English-speaking friend of his. In no time, we were surrounded by people asking us questions about our countries and wishing us a good stay in Iran. It was a nice end to a great day and a good place to say goodbye to Sabine, Michel, and his nameless friend.

M
y coach pulled into Hamadan bus station at about midday. I consulted my map and started to walk through town toward my hotel. Hamadan was a fairly big place of 400,000 people, and like all the Iranian towns I’d seen, was full of life and interesting new sights, sounds, and aromas. It was strange to be on my own again after spending the last five days with Ricardo. I was kind of pleased to be solo though, as I was convinced I had a much better chance of getting to know locals when alone. And this, primarily, was what I wanted to do.

As I walked along the street, I was stopped and consulted by two guys debating something, who seemed to want the opinion of a foreigner. One held an electric drill, which he was trying to sell to the other guy. The seller pointed at the words, “Made in P.R.C,” and said questioningly, and rather optimistically, “Germany?” I shook my head and said, “China” (People’s Republic of). The potential buyer seemed disappointed, obviously hoping for a fine piece of reliable high-quality German engineering.

After some trouble, I located my hotel, the Hamadan Guest House, which was described in the guidebook as the most popular place and deservedly so. I will describe it in my book as “shit” and deservedly so. It was a complete dump with filthy beds, noisy rooms, and no atmosphere whatsoever. It was, however, central, being just off the main square, named, predictably, Imam Khomeini Square.