The omens concerning my trip to Mashhad were proving to be unusual before I even left Tehran airport. Having battled my way through the usual palaver of refusing to have my films x-rayed, I was stopped at a hand luggage search where I had my Swiss Army Knife confiscated. Doggedly I pursued it from customs officer to customs officer. One kept me waiting for fifteen minutes as he read a manual with his feet up on a table. In desperation I considered getting out the magic photo of Paul & Kim to see if it would pull any strings. Gut feelings told me that they would command little influence around here. Persistence was finally rewarded, a chit was issued and I was happily reunited with my knife in Mashhad.

More worrying than this portent was the fact that the power of the lucky talisman photo seemed to be diminishing. Brandishing it proudly as I entered the misspelled ‘Khatereh Geust House’ I was told that no room was available for me and that I should take my custom elsewhere. Deflated I stood on the street and thought about resorting to the guidebook. Immediately I was pounced upon by a local youth and escorted on a fairly joyless tour of three hotels that I couldn’t, or didn’t want to afford. Finally we struck a compromise on the Tous Hotel. It was a little out of my range, but pushing my relative poverty any further was going to make me lose face. Besides, I was becoming accustomed to luxury and the Tous had it in spades. A four room suite complete with full kitchen, dining area, bathroom, a bedroom that slept three, not to mention colour TV and telephone, all for under £7 a night. Back packing had never been so comfortable!

In search of further Western decadence ‘Laleh’ style I took a taxi to the Hotel Homa on the outskirts of town. I was disappointed by its faceless ‘Holiday Inn’ interior there was nothing eye catching except for a rather fetching 3D polystyrene poster in the lounge. Depicting glorious Iranian tanks slaughtering assorted Iraqi infidels this installation looked as if it had leapt out of the darker side of Jeff Koons’s imagination. The medium of poster paints complete with liberal splashings of luminous glitter was somewhat kitsch for the somber subject matter. For instance I never knew that the Iraqis used fluorescent green tanks, rather an unfortunate choice of colour scheme for desert warfare. No wonder the casualties were so high. After such an arresting visual feast my rather salty lamb kebab, which I ate alone in the deserted restaurant, was drab by comparison.

Alone with my thoughts I returned to the hotel and climbed the three stories to my suite. Passing every other room I was amazed at how loud the residents had their televisions playing. Each landing was reverberating to the sound of muffled explosions, gunfire and cries of distress. Lights flashed under the gap at the bottom of each door. It was as if every pilgrim family staying here was conducting their own personal war in the privacy of their living quarters. Lying awake in bed the distant echoes of mortar attacks and both friendly and unfriendly fire continued well into the early hours, lulling me into a shallow and blissless sleep.

* * *

The shrine and surroundings of Emam Reza dominates Mashhad in much the same way that the sultans palace dominates Disney’s ‘Aladdin’. Being the focal point of all roads it has a mystical omniscience that pervades every street and alley. This is the most holy place of pilgrimage in Iran and over the entire Middle East it is second only to Mecca. Mashhad also feels deeply conservative. There is a large Komite (religious police) presence to ensure reserved respectful behaviour and formal appearance at all times. I tried my hardest with a mustard button down shirt and new levi jeans, but it just wasn’t working. In ‘trendy’ Tehran I was an obvious outsider, in Mashhad it was clearly apparent that I had just beamed down from another planet.

Iranian etiquette still applied. Everyone was super friendly, nobody shunned me. I just did not blend in. Crowds of kids followed me from location to location. Strangers stared with bug eyed disbelief. The amount of attention I attracted on the first morning by just walking the streets made me extremely uneasy. Searching for the Iran Air office and spending a frustrating hour trying, in vain, to book further flights at this provincial outlet exhausted me. Catching up on last night’s sleep was all I could think about after this failure.

Alireza was my first welcome encounter of the day. He stopped me and asked if I wished to join him for a cup of tea. So relieved was I to talk with somebody who didn’t think I was a Vulcan that I nearly bit his hand off at the offer. Adjourning to his office, we ended up in some dingy little rooms three flights up from street level. Alireza proudly introduced me as ‘Englestan Tony’ to his colleagues, sat me with them at a boardroom table then promptly disappeared for ten minutes to sort out some tea. Around me the meeting continued, only to be punctuated by silence every few minutes when all present turned in my direction, smiled politely, then resumed their negotiations in earnest.

When Alireza finally reappeared with the tea I drank it quickly so that I could make a sharp exit. Reluctant to see me leave he offered me a lift to the city hospital where, for reasons unknown, he had to deliver a large wad of cash. In his beaten up motor with severely cracked windscreen we got better acquainted. His business involved the wholesale of heavy duty builder’s plaster to industrial contractors, while his passion was learning English on satellite TV. Alireza professed to have a love for MTV. Looking at his receding hairline, unshaven face and severely bobbled argyle jumper I felt he would make an odd entry into ‘The Partygoer’s Guide To Iran.’ Somehow I couldn’t imagine Alireza even tapping his foot in time to music, let alone cranked up and screaming out “Release the Pressure” on the dancefloor. Uncharitable small thoughts were running through my mind when he pulled up outside my hotel and asked if I would like to meet him after work at 5pm. Without any more pressing engagement on the horizon I said I would look forward to it.

Following a quick cat nap my second outing of the day proved to be one that snowballed with events. Firstly I was accosted by a rather effete youth who wished to buy me a coke. I accepted the offer so he proceeded to rummage through my bag hoping to retrieve shiny trinkets from the West. Ray Ban sunglasses were the prize that transfixed him. He strutted around the café and demanded that I take his photo. Seconds later he asked if he could have them, then he pleaded, then he showered me with kisses. All the time a larger and larger crowd was gathering. Bailing me out, a man came over, and in excellent English asked if I was in need of any assistance. His name was Mehdi and five minutes later I was sitting in his spacious apartment with his wife and children sipping tea, much to the annoyance of the petulant poseur. Mehdi was a softly spoken, highly educated man. He had gigantic hands, a round bearded face and basset hound eyes that gave him a permanently vulnerable expression. A gentle giant, his presence was at once comforting and disarming.

Unusually for an Iranian he was widely travelled. Having served in the navy in the late Seventies Mehdi had visited the States, India, England, North Africa and every port in the Middle East. His thirst for travel had continued since the revolution, although he had been unable to satiate it. That fact alone made him detest the government.
“Eight years of war has crippled our country. As any kind of a major power we are finished. Washed up.”
Continuing with his gloomy oration I tried to be a positive foil saying that things were changing. My very presence signified a shift in his government’s policy towards the rest of the world, I argued. An optimistic view that had a distinctly hollow ring. After all, I was the traveller and Mehdi was, for the foreseeable future, a prisoner within his own country.
“In twenty years time” I said, “maybe you visit me in England when Iran’s a very rich country and I am held captive by a dry, Christian extremist state.”
Mehdi laughed. “Anything is possible, Enshallah.”

Mehdi’s wife served us tea. Nerves had made her pinch her white chador between her teeth forming a small triangle. Political correctness told me that I should make a stand for emancipation, get up and offer to share the workload. In reality I sat on my backside, side-stepped the guilt and enjoyed the five star service. As Mehdi and I talked she hovered over us catering to our every need. Refilling our glasses, plying us with fruit & salted cucumbers and opening the patio doors so that we could languish in the soft breeze of the late afternoon. Autumnal leaves rustled on the trees directly outside.

So relaxed did I feel in Mehdi’s home that I could have stayed on indefinitely if it was not for the nagging feeling of the impending appointment with Alireza. Immersed in conversation I kept putting off and putting off my departure. Eventually we agreed to reconvene at the same time the following day. Getting up to leave I was presented with an enormous box of delicious biscuits, a variety of which I had been guzzling in an unseemly fashion whilst sitting on the carpet. My initial refusal at such a kind gesture was strongly rebuffed so I found myself back on the streets munching my way back to the hotel.

Half way home my camp young friend rejoined me. Holding my hand loosely I was strongly aware of his louche demeanour. Incessantly he babbled away to me in Farsi, often with his mouth full of my biscuits. Every once in a while he said something that I could vaguely understand. At one point he chanted “Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson!” five or six times accompanied by Wacko style yelps. I think he was about to launch into an Iranian rendition of ‘Billy Jean’ when I was rescued from his company for the second time within three hours.

Hossain didn’t speak good English, he spoke perfect English. I found out later that he was also fluent in two nomadic dialects, Turkish and proficient in Spanish, French, Italian, German and Arabic. He was also not of the ‘Where are you from? Where are you going? What do you do? Why do you come to Iran?’ school. Hossain had his finger right on the pulse.
“Now is the perfect time to visit our country. It is virgin for you, no other tourists. You can see it as it really is. Welcome my friend.”
No sooner had he said this than he followed it up with the astounding, “Please come to my house tonight and enjoy some real Persian hospitality. You must have dinner with my wife and family. It would be an honour to have you as our guest.”
Where else in the world would this happen?
The answer was probably - nowhere. Taking into account all my travelling Iran was proving to be the friendliest and most up front country that I had encountered. I was gagging to accept Hossain’s offer yet I knew I had to meet Alireza. Already I was fifteen minutes late. Compromising my time I said that maybe I would be able to pop round later. Hossain says that he sincerely hoped so.
“In the meanwhile I will show you my shop, where I will be till 7pm. Then you can find me at home.”
I was led into a three storey carpet bazaar where a small glass-fronted unit was pointed out. Little did I know, but within the next 24 hours I was about to become something of a bona fide Persian carpet buff.

Well, Alireza never turned up, or perhaps he gave up on me for being twenty minutes late. Either way we never got to rendezvous so at 6.50pm I was back in the carpet bazaar tracking down Hossain. Before I was half way across the communal ground floor forecourt he saw me and shouted out,
“Tony, how glad I am that you have come. I was just about to go home and wait for your call.”
Inside his shop I was immediately introduced to Abbas, Hossain’s carpet mentor and business partner. Abbas was instantly likeable. A tall thin man in his mid forties, his face subtly lined from years of kindness and contentment. Together they reminded me of Roger Moore and Tony Curtis in ‘The Persuaders’. Stylish, sophisticated, affable and of a bygone era that never really existed. Hossain was Curtis - smaller, rounder, an incessant talker, while Abbas resembled Moore’s refined gent. Both were impeccably turned out in obviously expensive clothes. I was seated between them and an iced fizzy orange ‘Zam Zam’ was brought for my refreshment.

Then it was that my whirlwind tuition in Persian carpets started. Both Hossain and Abbas were more than passionate about their living.
“It is art Tony, Art. The purest form. My wife says that I care more for my carpets than I do for my family. When I see a beautiful piece it moves me and I try to imagine ‘what was the nomad thinking as they made this pattern’. I can see lives recorded, a whole culture embroidered in the carpet. Forget all the other carpets that you see in this bazaar, and nearly all Iran for that matter. Ours are the real thing. Not your modern mass reproductions.”

Anywhere else in the world I would have seen a soft sell and anticipated a harder one on its back. Here, though, I just felt that two friendly individuals were keen to share with me their obsession. And I bought in. Big time.

Immediately I could tell that they were not lying about the authenticity of their products. They were so obviously real, many of them antique treasures that belonged in museums. Abbas backed this up.
“Nothing gives us greater pleasure than if we see one of our pieces in a book, or if it ends up on display. Every artefact I am attached to. It is like a child, and when I have to sell it I am sad. But such beautiful things can only be ours for a very brief period of time and then we must be parted.”
Hossain keenly added to the poetry of Abbas’s statement.
“These are the last remnants of a dying culture Tony, soon they will be all gone. To find such pieces gets harder and harder for they are no longer made. For us it is important to preserve what is left so that those who are coming after us can appreciate it also.
I argued that maybe it was wrong to take from the nomad tribes, deprive them of their past and spirit. Abbas agreed, though justified himself by claiming to be in the preservation rather than the exploitation business.
“I travel for two days to get to a nomad tribe, let’s say they have one genuine piece that I am interested in. I will then barter with an elder for its acquisition. No longer do we rip the nomads off, on the contrary, it is most important they get an excellent price. I then explain that there are many people in the world who will receive much joy from the carpet or kilim like the one they are in possession of. You see the nomad will use the carpet for 50 - 70 years until it is stained, totally threadbare and finally defunct. Then they will throw it away. In the old days they would have simply made a new one to replace it, but now they are happy with synthetic modern replicas. So the art is dying. It is vital that we preserve what we can, while we can.”

As the discussion progressed a further factor made it clear that I was not being given the hard sell. Abbas and Hossain were both extremely wealthy traders. They owned a shop in Istanbul and exported to Tokyo, Milan, Hamburg and, of course, London.
“We supply a carpet specialist on the New Kings Road, you know, just past the ‘Worlds End Pub’.”
I could have stayed all night. Plunged into darkness, the bazaar had closed down without my noticing. Hossain brought us all back to the present.
“Tomorrow we have all day for carpets. Tonight we show you Mashhad and then you have dinner with my family.”

Outside in the perfect warm night I was surprised to find myself stepping into a brand new Range Rover. These guys had class. Hossain was casual.
“We need this car for the rough terrain that we have to go through when we trade with the nomads. Normally I use the Merc when I’m in town. Please, my friend, get in the front where the view is good. And do not worry, Abbas drives like a European.”
He did too. Slowly, smoothly and calmly in the ensuing mayhem. Not once did his hand touch the horn. It was then that I realised that this man was a doppelganger for my ex-college tutor, Oliver Hawkins. Coolness personified.

And so we drove through the night for two hours. Watching the crowded streets, neon hotels, deserted parks and markets pass outside my window I realised that I was happy. The sort of happy that can only come with travelling, when one is totally in the present. Enjoying a perfect state of equilibrium rather than anticipating the next destination or reminiscing about the past. Nowhere in the world would I rather be than in this jeep with these people.
We talked of films, books, travel, theology, politics, morality, and soon Mashhad became a distant glow as we pushed out into the deep blue desert night. Hossain explained,
“There is this market out here that is the best place in the world to buy melons. And there are two things in life that I am crazy about. Carpets and melons.”

Sure enough, a twinkle in the distance soon became a poorly lit, humble market containing apples, grapes and thousands upon thousands of melons. Into this hic town selling nothing but fruit we descended on a quest to find the perfect melon. Hossain fondled them, tossed them in the air and caught them, tapped them, he even listened to them. Eventually, after manhandling hundreds and hundreds of them, he emerged victorious with three thoroughbreds. To the untrained eye they looked like any other melons. Hossain assured me otherwise.
“These three, my friend, are perfect.”

We drove back to Mashhad with our plunder. Continuing our idle chatter they asked if I had children.
“One lovely son,” came my reply.
Hossain then waxed lyrical about his two. I asked Abbas if he had kids.
“None,” he replied.
“In Iran that is unusual,” I said carefully.
“Yes, it is sad.”
Hossain’s unrestrained tittering gave the game away.
“How many really,” I pushed.
Abbas turned to me with a giant smile that split his face in two.
“Seven,” he said, then convulsed with laughter. I was convinced that he was the happiest man on the planet.

It was well after 9pm by the time Abbas dropped us off at Hossain’s house and apologised for not joining us on account of having a prior engagement with his wife and sister in law. Hossain tried in vain to convince him otherwise.
“You spurn my hospitality,” he jested.
Abbas remained resolute.
“We will catch up tomorrow,” he said in compensation.

Hossain’s house was, as you might expect, wall to wall carpets. And up the walls too! Only the ceilings remained unadorned. Naturally, for a man of such wealth and taste, Hossain had all the gizmos of the late twentieth century to assist his enviable lifestyle. In addition, his wife was both charming, attractive and not of the cowering variety.
“Let us in,” Hossain demanded over the intercom.
“Not until you say please,” came her reply.
Aside from my two main hosts there were the textbook cute children, a smart sister-in-law who was a teacher and the obligatory stooped granny. To give this senior citizen her due I have to say she was the first gran I have encountered who was actually capable of cracking a smile.
Formalities dictated I be given a brief tour of the apartment.
“The most important room in any house is the guest room. When building in Iran the first room that is completed, even before the Kitchen and bathroom, is always the guest room. The more guests one has the happier one is! Nothing can give a Persian more pleasure than giving pleasure. You must stay if you want, for as long as you like.”
I was humbled. Sadly it was not an offer I could take up that night. I explained that I had to return to the hotel to take out my contact lenses, if nothing else.

Following black tea with sugar cubes, food was rapidly moved up the agenda. For starters we had a platter piled high with delicious fresh figs from Hossain’s own garden and a grand portion of melon. The entree was humble but spectacular. Sitting on the floor in traditional style we all ate with our fingers and small forks. I had to sit on my left hand to stop me from committing any heinous faux-pas. There was a delicately spiced noodle soup accompanied by fresh unleavened bread. One ate this with equally fresh herbs from the garden dipped into yoghurt - a taste sensation! An aubergine dip with a subtle smoky flavour was a family favourite. Marks & Spencers would kill for the recipe. Crusty egg rice with lamb, an Iranian speciality, was plentiful and tender and formed a perfect double act with a fluffy tortilla omelette that would make any Spaniard foodie weep with envy.

I ate until I was full. Then I loosened my belt and crammed in more. Hossain, the perfect host, kept piling my plate with seconds, thirds & fourths. As the dutiful guest I kept consuming and consuming, clearing my plate, admiring its pattern, only to have it obscured once more by another dollop of gourmet fare. And so the clash of cultures continued until my legs, thighs, back and cheeks bulged with over consumption. It was all I could do to get up and waddle over to the sofa to shovel in another small mountain of melon and wash it down with a further gallon of tea.

In the aftermath of such gluttony I was quizzed about my wife and child. Unwilling to corrupt the evening with my complex domestic situation I found myself evading the truth. I spun a tale of matrimonial bliss, then changed the subject as quickly as possible. But the deceit ate away inside me. Misleading my hosts, abusing Barbara, lying to make myself liked. Crimes that I was guilty of for the sake of avoiding a difficult cultural confrontation. A spiritual emptiness now contrasted with my physically over-extended condition.

Hossain saved the day by starting, once again, to talk about carpets. I was offered four or five prize examples to inspect. They were awe-inspiring and my fascination was genuine rather than feigned. He explained that the more irregularities there were in a carpet, the more valuable it was.
“This is what gives the carpet character, mistakes. Just as mistakes give us character. See how on this example the patterns do not coincide. This is real. I feel that I know the maker.”
And so I came to see carpets as delicate expressions of human frailty. An education that would continue the following day. Getting up to leave shortly past midnight I knew I had to make a move before tiredness overcame me. The whole family was still picking apart a particularly attractive, ancient specimen of kilim that needed to be cleaned the following day.
“We are all the same” Hossain exclaimed, touching his forehead to imply madness. “Sometimes the whole family will work on a piece until gone 2am we all get so engrossed.”

I said my gracious fond farewells then Hossain walked me through the deserted streets back to my hotel. The sounds of televised ritual slaughter were still emanating from one die-hard suite on the second floor. Inside my room I lay in darkness and looked at the ceiling. Feeling too bloated to sleep I simply replayed the events of the day and smiled to myself. Alireza, Mehdi, Hossain, Abbas, the car ride, the banquet, the melons.

Hossain was right. There was absolutely no doubt about it. They were the best fucking melons that I’d tasted in my entire life.

* * *

Hossain escorted me to the entrance of the Haram-e-Mothhar-e Emam Reza and my jaw almost hit the floor. It was staggeringly beautiful, an explosion of riches. Stripped down to the bare essentials, I had been well briefed for my visit - no camera, no backpack, no written literature. Conservative shirt buttoned to the chin and black jeans conformed to the strict dress code. Security had frisked me down and then, as I was contemplating the wonders of the first courtyard, Hossain whisked me into the little museum dedicated to this vast complex. It seemed there had been a recent change in policy as far as visiting infidels were concerned. The holy shrine had always been out of bounds, additionally it now seemed that all four courtyards had restricted access for non Muslims. Hossain was evasive about the ruling. Reluctantly he suggested that I should try turning up at midnight if I wanted to look around. Letting the subject drop I decided to pursue entrance for myself. I did not want to know too much. Later on ignorance would be my strongest ally and best defence in case of emergency.

The museum was a hotchpotch of precious items donated by pilgrims: magnificent specimens of carpets that sent Hossain into raptures, prize objects like the original intricate 16th century bas relief mausoleum doors in pure gold, and an eccentric selection of eclectic items. These small oddities formed the majority of the collection and ranged from religious paraphernalia & weapons through to ceramics, stamps, coins & bank notes. Listening to Hossain’s infinite wisdom concerning all things rug-like took nearly an hour, leaving me little time to have more than a shallow glance in some of the smaller rooms. It was an educational and agreeable way to pass the morning, but my heart was set on getting into the complex as a whole.

Hossain did not take me back through the sacred precincts, instead I was directed to his own personal shrine to nomadic handicrafts. Here, along with Abbas, I looked at every carpet in the shop. Hundreds of the beauties. Big ones, small ones, ones that were earmarked for Germany, the States, Japan. Limited knowledge had me guessing their value at thousands of pounds, yet here they were on sale for a few hundred dollars. Safe in the knowledge that even this paltry sum was out of my range made the temptation to spend even more enjoyable. Hossain and Abbas were all for roping me into the carpet business, turning me into a trading partner.
“Check out the prices when you get home and you will see that this could be a very good investment for you. Give us a call and we could work together.”

I know, I can hear you - ‘A fool and his money are easily parted’.
Yet somehow this felt different from any other tourist ‘scam’ I have ever encountered. Hossain and Abbas were completely plausible. This time I could trust without the aid of expert advice. Not even out of the first week away from home and the emergency fund was to prove to be prematurely expendable.

We looked at kilims, table cloths, bags, small artefacts that had taken over a year to make. Some were woven out of camel hair, with the season’s change marked by a tonal shift in the colour of the weave. I started to recognise a very few symbols and characters, ones that expressed empathy with the environment. Bartering did not seem appropriate. In the end I simply decided how much I wanted to spend, a relatively humble amount for objects of such intense human toil, and then I got Abbas and Hossain to give me a price for each treasure.
“My friend” they said “we give you the very best deal, better than any overseas professional trader, we want you to remember our fairness.”

Two hours later, an hour after the bazaar had officially closed for lunch, I emerged the proud owner of a camel hair cloth with spectacular primitive calligraphy emblazoned across it, and a magnificently woven saddle bag of dazzling geometric patterns. I was lighter to the tune of $120.

Was I conned? If you want my opinion, it is of little or no importance. I will show any doubter my booty and try to infect them with my enthusiasm for it. I care not if it is worth £20 or £2000, for me it will always transport me back to an inspiring two days spent in Mashhad. For that reason alone it is one of the best $120 that I have ever spent.

Lunch was waiting for us back at Hossain’s house. Still full from the excesses of the previous night, it was a miracle that I was able to do justice to three breaded lamb cutlets, a pile of fried noodles with herbs and another mountain of melon. The aftermath of this mini feast was spent in contented silence. Sitting on the couch I drifted off into a shallow snooze. I was at peace, and in that state of serenity I prepared for parting company. On waking up I quietly slipped away. Not knowing how to express my gratitude I shook everybody’s hand, embraced Hossain, then returned to the street.

* * *

One of the few downsides in Iran thus far had been the distinct lack of photographic opportunities. Women don’t like having their photos taken, men won’t stop posing (even when the lens cap is on), everybody sits in the shade, the bazaars are indoors, the most interesting buildings are religious and therefore a banned subject matter, and so the list goes on.

Trying to rectify this I set out in the perfect golden light of late afternoon and came up with zero. Instead I attracted some unwelcome attention in the form of a rather shrivelled old man with extremely powerful ‘Joe 90’ spectacles. He looked as if someone had just shrink wrapped him at the supermarket fresh food counter. Speaking excellent English he talked about Margaret Thatcher then proceeded to tell me how ill he was and about his dire need for expensive medication. Taking the hint after a lengthy silence I delved into my pocket and came up with 10,000 Rials. He took it without thanks, going on to inform me that he was in need of $100 and could I please hand it over. Explaining that such a gift was out of the question, I sympathised saying that I was very sorry about his condition. For the next half an hour he doggedly followed my every step haranguing me, endlessly repeating his demand over and over again.
“For you it is nothing - GIVE TO ME NOW.”
Every time I got a camera out he would stand in front of the lens and continue his diatribe. Sympathy soon turned to irritation on my part. Sarcasm and aggression swiftly followed. After the hundredth time of hearing what a mean individual I was my patience snapped.
“Listen Bud,” I said icily, “ I’m going to cross that road. If you follow me it will be $250 worth of medication. Do I make myself clear?”
“Give me $50 and I stay away” was his parting offer as I strode through the traffic.
He almost had a deal.

I was hoping that Mehdi was not going to come good with another bout of Persian hospitality and feed me for a second time within four hours. Luckily my prayers were answered. Owing to his wife feeling a little ‘under the weather’ he decided we would walk to the Homa instead where he would buy me coffee. Through the rich area of town with its smart shops we strolled, browsing at all the imported goods. Mehdi whiled away the time by telling me the story of ‘The Loverman’, a friend of his who worked at the Homa.

“Fifteen years ago he go to work in America and fall in love with beautiful woman. Together they were happy living in the same house for one year.”
I could tell from the narrator’s melancholic introduction and imploring hang dog expression that this was unlikely to be a ‘and they all lived happily ever after’ tale. Setting the scene perfectly his soft, low, musical voice continued in broken English,
“They plan to marry so my friend return to Iran to tell his family, who are delighted. Only while he was here the Shah fell and the revolution started in earnest. My friend, he cannot leave the country. Such terrible sadness for him. Every week she write to him from America, and he write to her. Very passionate. For fifteen years they write to each other. Never can they meet. Now, for the first time, three months ago, my friend gets permission to go to the USA. He is delighted, but what can he do about his wife of five years and his two children? He is begging her to let him go. But I say to him, ‘You are mad, you cannot go back to the past.’ He will not listen, he is still crazy for girl. Tony, it is a terrible thing to live in a country that you cannot leave, especially if you are in love with somebody who is somewhere else. You are so lucky to be free in England, to be in a place where these things cannot happen to you.”

Publicly I said to Mehdi that, yes, I could not possibly conceive what it would be like to have to exist in such a way. Inside I felt the resurgence of a dull familiar ache of private longing that emanated from my heart and infected every fibre of my body.

Throughout the night we ploughed similar furrows of tainted happiness. That does not imply that I found Mehdi’s company depressing. Far from it, in many ways he was a man after my own heart. A man of romantic ideas reluctantly grounded by realism. Empathy was the most common emotion I felt as I listened to his philosophical reminisces.
“Tony, if I ever become a wealthy man I tell my wife that I buy her and my sons a giant house, set them up with much money. Then I pack up a small bag and set out alone to see the world. This, I tell her, is my dream. She does not understand it.”

Returning to his house for the final hour we relaxed on the living room floor. A black and white TV was broadcasting the usual voluble pyrotechnics and mayhem transfixing the two boys. Talking about politics it struck me how open Iranian people were. Freedom of speech is certainly exercised in private, if not in public. Not once have I felt that people are guarded about contentious issues. Unlike Burma or China, where one has to win an individual’s confidence before they drop their guard, here true feelings are divulged immediately. Big Brother was certainly watching in a general sense, but he didn’t appear to be taking detailed notes. That fact alone must offer some hope of a brighter future to the vast percentage of the population who harbour dissident sentiments. Preparing myself for my final assignment in Mashhad I went through a grooming session in my bathroom. Entrance to the sacred shrine of Emam Reza required a combination of the right frame of mind and refined physical appearance. Paul & Kim had managed to get as far as the tomb, but with Kim in a chador they could easily pass as a Muslim couple. I looked as Muslim as Mickey Mouse. Leaving all my cameras and books behind I set off towards the spectacularly illuminated mosque sometime after 11pm. The only worldly possession to accompany me was a rosary that Hossain had given me to lend an air of authenticity.

Security didn’t blink at my arrival. I was frisked and motioned to enter. Passing the museum entrance I walked freely into the complex. Circling the first courtyard tears welled up in my eyes. This, surely, was one of the wonders of the world. In the warmth of night the whole environment hummed with an electrifying spiritual aura. Passing the beads through my fingers I adopted a look of devout humility. Keeping my eyes fixed on the buildings towering above me I tried to arouse as little suspicion as possible. I was in and every second was precious.

In each of the vast floodlit courtyards, of which there were four, pilgrims seemed relaxed and contented. I tried to take in the vast amount of different buildings. Two mosques, twelve lofty eivans, six theological colleges, several libraries, two museums, two guest houses, a post office and the domed gold roof of the tomb itself radiating incalculable wealth. Seeing was not believing. Every inch of this Islamic Disneyland was covered in the most exquisitely intricate tile work. Twenty hues of blue, gold and white vied with each other. Giant statements in classical calligraphy and intricate patterns comprising of millions and millions of tessellated and glazed ceramic pieces adorned the miles of walls. Dwarfed by the enormity of it all I passed under the huge vaulted arches which led from courtyard to courtyard, amazed to find that each hidden complex was more spectacular than the one preceding it. Standing outside the grand mosque of Gohar Shad, with its fifty meter high blue faience dome and gold portal, I couldn’t stop gawking like the ignorant infidel that I was. Remaining transfixed for a full ten minutes I listened to the comforting sound of a mullah chanting from the Qoran.

The ebb and flow of pilgrim families inevitably led me to the shrine of Emam Reza. Harbouring no intention of going inside, knowing that such an intrusion was tantamount to blasphemy, I was amazed to find that the tomb itself was flanked by a series of glass doors. By simply standing outside I could watch the frenzied displays of religious fervour taking place within. Separate entrances segregated the men from the women. Swarming around the base of the eight foot tall golden tomb the male pilgrims were scrambling over each other in an effort to touch the sacred shrine. Their pious wails of ecstasy were clearly audible in the stillness of the night. Touching the walls of the tomb would often send a devotee into spasms of animation. Recoiling, their bodies would go into convulsions as if an electric current was being passed through them. Parents were holding children aloft allowing their outstretched arms to nearly grapple with the apex of the shrine. Individuals at the rear of the throng were beating their chests, some were crying, overcome with emotion. Stunned with disbelief to be witnessing this secret and intense ritual I forgot how conspicuous I was. Spiritual voyeurism overcame the common sense that told me to move on. Disturbing my vigil, a young man in his early twenties tapped me on the shoulder and beckoned me to follow him. Complying obediently I found myself at the shoe repository removing my boots and entering the mosque.
“No Muslim, no Muslim” I informed my guide.
Unconcerned he continued to lead me through a glittering mirrored interior. Touching his chest with his right hand he uttered his one word of English,
“Policeman”.

Aside from the other buildings I listed earlier I negated to mention that there was also a fully functioning police station on site. Much to my consternation, this was where I suddenly found myself. Officials rigorously questioned me in Farsi. Following the protocol suggested by ‘Lonely Planet’ author David St Vincent, an old hand at Iranian detention, I remained silent. I took ‘the fifth’. Obligingly, I handed over my passport but after that I just repeated “Engelestan” over and over again in the hope that they would find an interpreter.

It was a three way ‘good cop’, ‘bad cop’, ‘indifferent cop’ scenario. One smiled at me and offered me tea, one made notes and phone calls whilst looking me over in a casual non-plussed fashion and one scowled menacingly as he shot off a series of rapid fire questions that were beyond my comprehension. Over-weight and perspiring heavily, the bad cop was pretty much a dead ringer for the sadistic prison warder in ‘Midnight Express’. Continually he dabbed his forehead with a grubby handkerchief. Mark Thomas’s parting witticism concerning the Alan Parker movie haunted me. With its humour temporarily redundant it resurfaced as a grimly prophetic statement.

Superficially I remained jaunty and cool. I had done nothing ‘wrong’, only pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable further than was advisable. Reasoning like this kept my spirits up for the initial period of detention. Paranoia started to creep in once the first hour had elapsed without any developments. By the time the second evolved into the third I could hardly keep a lid on the conspiracy theories swirling around inside my head.
What if they searched my hotel room, discovered my journal and thought I was a spy? Jibes about the Ayatollah and decadent references to hanging out with acid dealers in Tehran scrolled vividly through my imagination. I and several others could find ourselves in serious trouble.

Believe me, at two in the morning when you are alone and under arrest by the Komite your mind plays curious and unpleasant tricks on you. Phone calls were being traded outside my small cell. Perhaps my bent visa, acquired for £100 from a shady tour operator in Knightsbridge, was piquing the interest of the bad cop as he was waving my passport about and sounding off in his gruffest voice.

Sitting on a wooden bench, my head resting on the white brick wall that imprisoned me, I was trawling my imagination trying to remember the number of the British Embassy in Tehran in case things got out of control. Although I was asked to rest I could never imagine being able to sleep soundly again, besides the morning call to prayer was loud enough to wake the dead as it floated in through my barred window. Good cop regularly kept me company and patted my knee at intervals reassuring me with a warm smile. Gurgling noises sounded their presence from the depths of my stomach as my bowels churned over and over. If nothing else I had found a cure for the constipation plaguing me. Between toilet breaks cold sweats ran down my back and collected in pools that spread in the form of random dark patches, appearing like islands on the cotton ocean of my shirt. At 7am I informed bad cop that I had a flight to Shiraz at midday – if I was to avoid getting stranded I needed to leave and collect my belongings soon. This information was met with fierce scowls and I sensed it was potentially unwise to go for this double or quits option, but I had no choice.

One final debate between my captors resulted in the indifferent cop, a man in his late twenties, coming over, taking me by the arm and escorting me down the stairs from whence I came. No effort was made to explain what was happening. I didn’t know if I was being transferred or released. Outside the courtyards were still a hive of nocturnal activity. I was led past a shallow pool of water where pilgrims were performing ritual ablutions, past another mosque with towering blue minarets in a courtyard I had failed to locate earlier, past the museum where I had been carefree less than twenty hours ago. Eventually I found myself back at the main entrance where I expected to find a van and further police waiting for me. Without warning my captor removed my passport from his shirt pocket. Returning it to me he reached out and held my clammy right hand between his warm palms. Fixing me with a firm expression I noticed a sparkle in his eyes.
“Iran, England, very good friends” he announced as if he was passing the death sentence. With these words I felt his arms enfold me in a full embrace and I knew I was free.
Before he had even fully turned his back I had scuttled up a dark, unlit alleyway in front of me and was blindly running for my life in the vague direction of my hotel.