Iran - Welcome to my country

“Where are you from?” shout out the two young men above the noise of crowds passing by the entrance of Tehran’s grand bazaar. “New Zealand” we reply. There is a brief pause, “Welcome to my country”.

Many months before, we had mentioned in conversation to friends that we were planning a trip to Iran. The reply was typically; really…..you’re mad, if you are kidnapped, we’ll start up a Givealittle page. Aside most negative news about Iran, we had heard great reports about how friendly the people are.

Fast forward, to our second day in the leafy northern suburbs of Tehran, where we meet Fateme a university student studying mathematics. Filled with curiosity about life outside of Iran, she accompanies us on the metro back into the central city during rush hour, chatting the whole way.

We find that most conversations typically start with “where are you from”, moving onto “what is your opinion of the current Iranian political situation”, followed by “you will break my heart if you don’t come and look in my shop”, and finishing off with, ”would you like to drink some tea”?

From Tehran, we travel by train south to Kashan, and after a couple of days there, take a private taxi onto Isfahan. Husain is our driver, unofficial tour guide, and all round friendly companion. At the end of a long day on the road, we navigate the bustling streets of Isfahan searching for the location of our hotel. A car pulls up beside us at the traffic lights. In the front, two girls in black chadors each sport matching bandages on their bridge of their noses. We watch them giggle as they position themselves for the perfect Instagram selfie, and we add two more to our tally of the popularity for nose jobs.

The following day, we head out from our hotel. Standing on a street corner waiting to cross, a car abruptly pulls over next to us. “Have you had lunch?” It is 11am and we have only just finished another large breakfast. Without a chance to answer, a rather insistent woman bounds out from the passenger side, and hands over two polystyrene containers from the back seat. They contain chicken, rice and small bottles of a milky drink. We thank them, and feeling a little perplexed turn around and head back to the hotel. Doogh is a traditional salty yogurt based drink, which after sampling, I feel is most likely an acquired taste for foreigners. Our host Abazad explains that at this time of the year it is normal for gifts of food and drink, as this marks the martyrdom anniversary of the highly revered Imam Reza.

From Isfahan, we head by bus to Toodeshk, to stay at night at the Tak-Taku guesthouse. Our bus driver oblivious to our stop continues to speed on toward Yazd. We yell out from the back, and are promptly off loaded onto the side of the road. Carrying our bags, we approach a nearby petrol station and mention Tak-Taku to a man filling up his car. He points toward another man, “he will take you”. In his beaten-up Peugeot, we are driven right up to the entrance the guesthouse. We offer to pay for his kindness, but he emphatically refuses.

After spending the afternoon exploring the village, we find that we are the only guests staying tonight. We join owner Mohammed and his mother, and sit down on the kitchen floor for a delicious home cooked meal.

The following day it is time to continue by bus onto Yazd. The ticket price seems unusually high, and after arriving, we message Mohammed on WhatsApp. Upon hearing our story, he adamantly insists that he will contact the bus driver, the bus company, our guesthouse in Yazd, and organise a refund.

Husband and wife Ali and Leili, had spent 4 years living in Dunedin while he completed his PhD, before returning home to start the Narjestan guesthouse. We join their organised evening excursion out to the nearby mountain village of Dorbid.

Our first visit is to an elderly couple, who warmly welcome us into their windowless one-room home, of many decades. We sit opposite them on the floor, an open fire flickers away in one corner, as Ali translates stories of their lives. By now, the temperature has plummeted. However, welcomed by the warmth and aroma of traditional freshly baked flat bread, Dizi a thick and hearty stew cooked slowly over an open fire, it is time for dinner. Finishing off with fresh pomegranate, tea, and a generous serving of laughter and good conversation.

Our first morning in Shiraz starts early. We are heading along the quiet city streets toward the famous Nasir-ol-molk, popularly known as the Pink Mosque. We pass by a group of men who have gathered outside a bakery to buy the first fresh bread of the day. An older man walks along beside us. “I hope you like my country,” he says politely, and offers to share some of his bread.

Upon arriving, our reward is watching morning light pierce through stained glass windows onto the walls and carpeted floor of the main prayer hall. “Is it always this busy here”, we ask an official standing by the entrance. “Yes, every day,” he replies. We mention that we live in Auckland, and his eyes open up, “really, I have an aunt there who runs an Iranian restaurant in Henderson”.

The previous week, we met an Australian on his third visit. His opinion was that generally people back home, are sceptical about Iran. “Really, it is a bit of secret, they do not know what they are missing, until they have been”. We agreed with him.