to Isfahan
Day 7: Thursday 24 May 2000
En route to Isfahan, we stop at Pasargadae which, despite the guidebook's rather anaemic descriptions, is really rather good.
We arrive first at the tomb of Cyrus the Great, but it is better to come back to that at the end. It is difficult, since the inscriptions are only in Farsi, to gather precisely which set of ruins is which. We stop at one tumble of stones with a tall pillar standing and some interesting bas-relief carving, including a gigantic bull's impressive cojones rubbed smooth by generations of touch (presumably women). This may be the carving referred to by one book as the earliest known surviving Achaemenian carving.
From there, we go to what is plainly an ateshgade, similar to that at Naqsh-e Rostam, though in much worse condition and supported by scaffolding. We climb to the top of a fort, itself on top of a hill, which commands wonderful views over the whole site. Three small reddish gold hawks (black wing tips and pale underneath) circle on the currents. A variety of quite lovely thistles abound. Very still and clear. We descend to Cyrus' tomb which, in its elegant, grand simplicity, is rather moving. According to Parviz, Alexander came here and found an inscription to this effect:
"Traveller, whoever you may be, here lies Cyrus the Great. I was once the ruler of a mighty empire, with lands under my dominion stretching from one end of the earth to the other. Now I have this small plot alone."
Another version has it that Alexander's soldiers had, some years earlier, seen the tomb before it was ransacked and that Alexander was aghast at the destruction wrought. In any event, he appears to have respected, even revered, Cyrus and some say that it was from this point that he became increasingly "Persian". Flowers abound at the site, particularly wild clover, and the smell is glorious. A curious, rather clownishly melancholic bird hops about on Cyrus' tomb, chasing sparrows off its patch. It has something of the woodpecker about it, with russet body and flashing black and white wings, a large, thin but tall ruff on its head and a very long beak. Presumably, some sort of insect-from-clefts-in-rock-eating bird.
Continuing ...on the road to Isfahan, we pass, in the middle of the baking desert, an old man pushing a metal barrow (of the type used in the bazaars) to Qom, flags and banners declaring his intention. God alone knows why, and how long it will take him to get there (since it much be easily 400 kilometres).
After a nondescript lunch in nondescript Abadeh, we push on to Isfahan and the Abbasi Hotel. Modern-looking from the outside, the hotel's best feature for me, absurdly, given all the more widely described splendours, is the old water urn in the lobby, with four goldfish and a glass in it - if you throw a coin in and it and it lands in the glass, you get your heart's desire, return to Isfahan etc etc.
Passing up a rather portentous, even gloomy suite, we settle into a shabby, but pleasant room facing south over the courtyard. Fountains play amid the tress and the dome and minarets of the Madrassa next door overlook the whole.
Washed and refreshed, we go out with Mehdi to the Royal Square - definitely a "f*ck-off moment". Amidst all the talk of mosques and madrassas and bazaars, nobody really describes this square, which is huge, bustling and beautiful, with arcades of shops on all side broken up by the Ali Qapu palace, the big Masjed-e Emam (nee Shah) and the smaller Masjed-e Sheik Lotfallah. We wander around, stunned, with ice creams and then settle in the terrace on the first floor tea house at the bazaar end of the square and watch the sun set. Swifts zoom about and the crowds increase as the lights come on round the square and on the minarets. Two men, probably aged about 30 or so, question us gently. The younger, who resembles Matthew Broderick, asked whether the perception of those in the West changed towards Iran following the election of Khatami. I reply that, in my view, the Iran -v- USA football match probably had more to do with it. He nods sadly, perhaps a little nonplussed.
Dining at the hotel, in the rather magnificent painted, gilded and generally over the top dining room, we dine early. I continue with "Blue at the Mizzen" while Cat devours "Score" by Jilly Cooper.