Happy Year of the Ox

The Year of the Ox is about ploughing the fields, working hard, being financially absolutely prudent and obsessively abstemious, but not losing sight of the fact that The Year of Shagging Like Rabbits is merely 730 sleeps away.

So this is my art contribution this year. The occasion was celebrated with an Iranian themed lunch at my place with Ali our Iranian guest of honour who tirelessly interpreted the fortunes we got given at Hafez's tomb on "Solar" New Yeard Day; Armando - my robot inventor housemate ; Jake - another smoke-perfecting-beer-studying robot inventor; and three of my favourite down-under girls - Shanti, Wendy and Pip. Recipes on my food blog.

Just Updated

Just updated and more to come soon:

Two Millionaires in Tehran
Not without My Ticket
A Political Culture Shock

Istanbul Days 2-3
Overland train trip from Turkey to Iran

Life in London @ 45 weeks

I walked home in the snow from the station. Blinking again. Feeling like I can’t speak about what I’ve seen and where I’ve been, because I’ll just be misunderstood. January is a miserable time to come back to London. But darkness is a solace for once.

Before Christmas, and for much of the year I was just in a rush to do everything, to be in the middle everything and to be everything for everyone – it just never stopped and life was a blur. Its fine as long as its all done in a blanket of intoxication and as long as I didn’t wake up. Spending this time away has knocked me to the other side of the spectrum where I just feel completely removed from the everyday world I exist. And even now plunging back into this whirlpool of irrefutable English expediency with an irremovable Taiwanese work ethic I still managed to exist in the little zone of ‘me-and-what?’ introspective investigations. And in my defense its not narcissism because its no where near as passionate or as equally repulsive.

So for this and for other unfathomable reasons, for the first time in a long time I couldn’t help but feel lonely. At times it cuts me hard and at others I find it strangely liberating. And solitude is a strange place – in the hollowness the echoes seem to resonate a more penetrating and fulfilling sound. It is strangely where I grow the most, without the distractions of this busy, restless, relentless metropolis.

So… 2009. Another page, another line. Is any of this actually necessary?

Maybe I should shoot a movie.

Another Last Sunset

Back in Istanbul and the wet, cold weather. We took off our headscraves, had a beer, admired adventurous secular outrageous comtemporary art at the Istanbul Modern, strolled in the glitter of the neon lights, and watched another sunset turn into grey mist. Pounding the pavement with the backpack that had grown twice in size as it had in its every journey, heading home, learned, but hungry for more.

Iranian Spaceships

Tehran - The Last Supper of Dramas

Tehran - a full circle

We arrived back in Tehran via a very cheap plane ticket from Shiraz. Our taxi driver was a feisty woman in a pink headscarf, who chugged us along the traffic chaos, negotiating bends and sur-charge paying points back to the dingy IK square area where we managed to get another cheap room for the evening before the 2am departure back to Istanbul.



While we spent three days here only a week and a half ago, it felt almost like a lifetime away. The contrast of the big bustling city seemed a little overwhelming, but offering the comforts like readily available every day commodities, a touch of glam, diversity of people, and most of all, a little bit of anonynimity.

We headed into town to check out a few art exhibitions that we saw being advertised. Walking up Ferdosi Street, there were several protests outside the Egyptian and German Embassies regarding the Gaza bombings. They were small gatherings, but by now we knew to keep our heads extremely low around these situations.

Punch Out At High Noon

We stopped by the basement-floor teahouse we visited last time. The Maitre de there gave us free tea on Christmas eve, so we thought we should pay them back by splurging on our last meal there - and admittedly, their menu did looked like it came out of a royal palace kitchen. This fantasy was short-lived, however.

Just before the food arrived there was a huge glass-smashing noise, followed by an episode of violent screaming shouting match between a man and a woman. This all happened on the other side of the restaurant to us, so while we could hear everything, we couldn't see much. The whole restaurant stopped to observe this 'irregularity', all alerted by the whole kerfuffle. Then the physical fight eventually spilt into our side of the room, with a young man being pulled back from fighting by three other men. One of the waiters who tried to intervene and was shoved back to our side of the restaurant, with a few spots of blood apparent on the back of his white uniform. Just as it looked like it was finishing our plates of steaming food arrives, with the maitre de smiling at us ushering us to eat. We were not in the mood for eating, if not already feeling nauseous.

We sat there with our shoes on and bags over our shoulders pretty much ready to leave. As we expected, the screaming started again, so we got up to leave. Shanti tried to shove money into the maitre de's hands but he wouldn't take it, furiously waving his palms in the air. He got two of his boys to shelter us as we walked past the angry scene. Just inside the front entrance, we took a quick look back - a woman was screaming her head off while a man was lying in a pool of blood. It sounded like she was the one that broke a plate onto his head... there were more blood splatters all over the marble staircase as we walked out the door, fleeing this intense and unexpected scene.

By the Breadth of the Hair on our Chinny Chin Chin

After having a puff of consolation smoke and strolling an Ashura themed poster exhibition, we felt a lot more relaxed for food. As it was our last evening in Iran, and with the pressure of having to witness the trauma of this afternoon, I had managed to spend all but about 150,000 of my 3.7million rials. The hotel offered to call a taxi for us at 2am to go to the IK International Airport, which was about 50 minutes out of town, which would cost us around 200,000 rials. I had put away my half of the money, and blew the rest on bits of food and drinks. Unfortunately, Shanti was badly taken advantage of by a dodgy hostess at the restaurant we dined at that evening, and through muddily written Arabic numbers and a blatantly over calculated bill, she was ripped off on her last meal by about 40,000 rials, which meant that together we only had 160,000 left for the taxi ride.

Through an internet forum, I had found out that the going rate of the taxi ride was between 140,000 – 180,000 rials if one was flagged down on the street, so we decided to cancel the hotel-ordered taxi and brave it in the dark at 2am and try our luck. Armed with flashcards with ‘14,000’ ‘15,000’ and ‘16,000’ (Tomans - which is the other unit of money that's ''10% larger'' than Rials) written in both Arabic and Roman numerals on it, we set off into the square.

It was pitch black and freezing. The square that was once bustling with cars and crowds is now completely abandoned with not a person or a car in sight. Shit. We really thought there would be at least a taxi rank. Just as we were about to cry and heading back to the hotel almost in tears, a big empty bus pulls up next to us. The driver tried to converse with us with no avail so I showed him the flashcard I prepared with 'International Airport' written on it in Farsi. "AHHHH HAAAA!" He said, and gestured us to hop on. He took us across town to what must be the ONLY taxi rank in the whole of Tehran. At the taxi rank three taxi drivers sat in one car, and were apparently watching some sort of dodgy DVD. They quickly switched it off and two of them went back into their own cars. The bus driver spoke to one of them who gestured us to get in. We gave him the flashcard that said "14,000", and surprisingly he accepted immediately.

In the middle of the night Tehran is deadly silent. No congestion to taunt our anxious desire to just get to the airport, no traffic lights stop us just as we thought we'd got to the line, no need to check that we are heading the right way - the highway was empty, clear, signposted and we flew.

And that is how we managed to get to the airport, after being ripped off our dinner, but still had 2,000 rials spare to spend on tea in the waiting lounge.

As the call to prayer ripped through the dawning air, our adventures in Iran ended after only a few drops of tears.

Persepolis I

A walk in the rain through the remains of this ancient civilisation, a world we barely know, and could not begin to imagine or replicate. The grandeur, the pomp, the ceremoniousness - but the details of their lives and their wisdom and their habits would most definitely have carved the foundation of what we have today, inherited, built upon, perfected, prospered on, passed down, learned of. Don't every one ask the questions: Where do I come from? Where would I go?

http://www.iranchamber.com/history/persepolis/persepolis1.php
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persepolis

Persepolis II

Surrounded by mountains, at the foothills the city burned.

The king cowered at the edge of the cliff, eyes watering from smoke and from shame. Everyone had deserted him. Gone to the arms of the God of Death, or to the tents of the enemy, who offered simply the gratification of being on the right side of victory, the sweet smell of women and wine, and the chance to survive at least one more day. What he once would have offered them. Now they danced on his forefather’s graves like ravens on the carcass of an old ox.

My father’s father’s fathers built these walls, raised these pillars, and flied these flags. They entrusted me in honouring our people’s might and power, and I would have of my sons and their sons and the sons after them. He thought to himself. For generations people came offering gifts to this city for peace and harmony. Oh you should see those processions of gold, fruit, wine, and camels. And now - overnight, in my hands, it would all turn into ash. Why me? Why me of all people? Why this king of all kings?

Her hand reached out to his shoulder. He shuddered only to realise this familiar touch. Gone were the elaborate gold and jewels that once adorned her head and face, the elaborate satin that draped her body and the deep dark kohl that had lined her eyes. But the smell of the eucalyptus oil that once, twice, three times and more mesmerised him remained encircled around her olive skin, an aura, a halo, more brighter than the fire that raged beneath them.

She was the only one that would never desert him. She would be the only one that would enter the doors of the underworld with him. In his kingdom, in his heaven, her toes would have been kissed by every pilgrim and her image would be replicated in every household and her story would be retold to every child. But now he had no kingdom and he had no heaven. He had her, only her, and the dagger she held in her trembling hands.

Farewell, my concubine, he whispered. Then with the flash of a blade, he fell into her arms.

Bazaaring in Iran

Shiraz - City of Wine and Poets

Drink until the turbans are all unbound, Drink until the house like the world turns around.

-- Hafez, Sufi poet (14th Century)

Shiraz is known as the most romantic place in Iran – the home to Iran’s generations of great poets such as Hafez and Saadi, the generous aesthetic offer of beautiful and graceful buildings, green bejeweled gardens, and legends of nightingales. And most of all, the birthplace of that lovely drop of ruby wine, and hence the out pour of excitement with the thought of a damn good party.

No such good luck for us.

While leafy enough compared to the other places we've traveled through, Shiraz in the winter is still relatively dry, and the wine has run dry as well. Alcohol is illegal in Iran and given that we are not ‘well connected’ enough, the only consolation I have, since I am almost cracking, is wheat flavoured fizzy drink. What’s more, the solemn mood that Shiraz is in in the week leading up to Ashura is making things a little serious.

Its New Years Day and I was determined to find a new, brighter headscarf to lighten the mood and to bring in some good luck. We wondered through the busy and elaborate and architecturally well-known bazaar, with little tiny lanes leading to various courtyards and open air tea houses that let in different rays of light, which in turn gives the market a movie like effect.

Despite my new smokey-pink purchase being Made in China rather than locally produced, I was quite happy to bounce through the carpet stores, the halva carts, sweet stores, nut shops and the shop with hundreds of genie lanterns without feeling pressured into filling my shopping bag with some more stuff.













We arrived in Hafez's Shrine at midday, and toured his garden and admired the pavilion which housed his marble tomb with a bit of awe and a bit of relaxed chilled feeling. Its a quiet working day, but despite this the shrine is still well visited by a large number of locals that look like they are university students. Mostly hanging out with their own sexes, they would gather in small groups, either admiring the tomb, or in a small circle reading out Hafez's poems to each other. There are two gorgeous boys dressed like Iranian versions of Che Gruvera outside a small enclosed garden minding the gate and waiting for some more of their group to join them, forming what I imagine is a bit of a Dead Poet's Society.











The great poet is of course one of the most quoted and recited poet in Iran, and considered a folk hero. He is a bit of a Casanova or Li Bai of his time, writing elaborately, unashamedly, ardently and freely about love, wine and other catastrophes.










Outside the shrine, a man with a budgie stood outside. We've been told about this little famous bird by our friend Ali in London, and we've been looking forward to meeting this little bird for a long time now. Its owner is a smiley stocky man who makes a huge living out of our little friend, who obviously adores him back by climbing all over him and 'grooming' him by pecking bits of his dandruff and stray hair on his beard. Together they charge 5000 rials (about 40 pence) for the budgie to beak-pick out a fortune out of a paper box. What a fantastic New Years Day present!!Above: Tiles on the pavement; The beautiful airy pillars in the Vakil Mosque

Middle: 'Obentos' of chicken rice being prepared for the procession in the lead up to Ashura; boys at the 'Top Corn' eatery where corn is being mixed in a 'cocktail' kind of fashion










Bottom: Rustic half abandoned houses in Shiraz