Oh so many kilometers have been driven since my last dispatch from Mashhad. I’m in Samarkand, Uzbekistan now, having left Iran, entered Turkmenistan, crossed Turkmenistan, left Turkmenistan, entered Uzbekistan and crossed most of Uzbekistan, too.
Following: a scene from Mashhad, Iran, in which we visit the Imam Reza shrine, mausoleum to the 8th Shiite Imam, who died a martyr 1300 years ago. To get into the inner sanctum of this immense marble and mosaic mausoleum, we had to wear chadors. No worries. They are available for loan at the security checkpoint before entering the shrine. Mine is a simple white and blue print piece of cloth., which is neither long enough nor wide enough to full envelope me. I don’t feel it does justice to the need to cover my entire body and head. On the other hand, since it’s been officially issued by a Muslim, who am I to say?
We head for the curtained women’s entry point, which is seething with properly chador’d women in black, all pushing toward the two security guards at the front. I push with the best of them and make it to the front, where the first thing pointed out to me is that my feet are bare. I look all around me and sure enough, all the women are wearing stockings or socks. I look chagrined, mime apologies, point toward the exit while clutching my scrap of cloth under my chin to at least keep my hair covered. The guard asks me if I’m Muslim. What to do? I don’t think this is the place to say that I’m Jewish. I lie, weaving my head in a circle to connote a middling response of maybe yes, maybe no. I’m through, into a vast marble courtyard teaming with men, women and children come to pay their respects. Everyone streams toward what must be the mausoleum, which is huge and tiled in greens, blues, whites and golds. We join the throng, remove our sandals at the carpeted entry and are pressed toward a large open door.
I take a deep breath so as not to panic with claustrophobia at the intense pressure of bodies all around me. Shuffling forward at the pace of the crowd, I am carried along as if by a black current of warm bodies. Nearing the doors I feel a silky fabric under my toes. Looking down I spy with horror that I’ve stepped on the chador of the woman in front of me. It’s hard to move my feet anywhere but where they are, as I have ladies on all sides. But the woman ahead continues to drift inch by inch away from me and I fear provoking an international incident, in which not only do I improperly disrobe one of the faithful, but am revealed to be a lying, barefoot infidel myself. Thankfully I recall a dance move from the 60s and I manage to shimmy my feet to the side. Twist and shout……!!
Shortly I am at the entry above Imam Reza’s tomb, at the edge of a marble ramp leading into a multi-chambered hall filled with praying, weeping women. If I go down into that stew I may never make it back up the same day, so I observe the passions from above, the chador’d heads reflected on a background a million mirrored facets lining the surrounding domes and columns. After a few minutes, I swivel around to go back out, thereby screwing myself in tighter in the crowd. Now a hand is pressed against my back, pushing me forward, shoving and shoving. I’m only 25 feet from the entrance back into the general courtyard, but it’s all black in front of me and I’m only going to get there at the pace of the women around me, whose eyes are puffy and red, from crying and whose expression ranges from bereft to ecstatic. My relief in finally seeing my sandals is due to more than simply knowing they haven’t been walked off in.
Next day, we took a short morning stroll through the rural village of Kang, before heading to our duties with the border officials of Iran and Turkmenistan. What a delight that was, a magical step backwards in time as we walked up steep and winding stone steps, higher and higher into this village built of sticks and mud. The stairs wove from shade to sun, as we stooped under stick walkways connecting houses on each side of the stairs. So steep was the walk up that each neighbor used the roof of the neighbor below as the drying floor for their fruit harvest.
Reaching a level waypoint, we were observed by a village family, who invited our little group was invited in for tea. We sat on the floor of their main room, which held a broad bed/bench and a small color TV. Joining us were husband and wife, husband’s granny who was “in her seventies” and the couples two small boys, who looked ages 2 and 4, but turned out to be 4 and 7 years old. Their drying “floor” was covered with peeled purple plums, whose gold flesh was abuzz with bees. Soon a small bowl of fresh plums was brought in for us, sweet and cool. Then a tin tray with glasses of tea followed, along with multiple bowls of lump sugar. The lovely old grandmother sat with us, in a pink dress, a black silk scarf wrapped rakishly around her white headscarf. She leans on a gnarled walking stick, observing, sucking tea through a sugar cube held in her perfect white dentures.
We chat with the family through our guide/interpreter Amir, whom we dragged along on this particular venture into the highlands which was definitely not on any formal agenda. Please stay for lunch, we are urged. But it’s time to leave for the 2-hour drive to the border.
Please read past Great Game Dispatches for stories of our border crossings, the extraordinary Ashgebad, an incredible horse experience and a small bit about Brunhilde’s ardor.
-Dina
