As my eyes wept, my nose ran and my ears started to ring, I realised that perhaps I should not have let myself be goaded by Arshad into eating the green chilli.
It was, however, possibly the best Indian meal I've ever had (and it thankfully did not degenerate into a murderous argument over the bill...). Luckily, I'd tasted everything before I seared the tastebuds off my tongue.
The restaurant was Kababs and Kurries at the ITC Grand Central in Mumbai. Despite the rather cavalier attitude to spelling, the food was excellent and not a chicken tikka marsala or other Euro-Indian dish in sight. The prawn kebab was subtle in flavour and made out of prawns the size of a baby's fist. The chicken was barbecued perfectly and went well with the yoghurt and the lamb was something else. Specifically, it was goat. It seems "lamb" is Indian for "goat meat".
Now, the fish (in kokunut kurry) was a little bland, but that may have been because I had most of it after trying the green chilli. (Fortunately, one bite was not enough to liquify my entire digestive system, but there were a few moments the next day when I felt like I'd been given a prostate exam by a doctor who confused the KY with Tiger Balm.)
* * *
Mumbai is a city of contrasts. Largely, it's the contrast between poverty and squallor, but you can also see that some people earn a rupee or two. The hotel, for example, was easily 5-star, I saw million dollar display homes, and I thnk I saw a car without dents. But the rest is raw. Like sewage. Particularly the sewage.
The grand old buildings look as worn as you could expect after 60 years of no maintenance, new buildings look old, and buildings under construction look like they may be under deconstruction. The lucky ones live in these. The not so lucky live in shanty towns on the footpaths, adn the really poor bastards live under tarpaulins on the side of the road. Suddenly I understoof why they flock to places like Dubai to work hard and live 8-12 to a room for scant pay: it's probably absolute luxury to them. It really makes you appreciate what you've got.
Children play on the streets in Mumbai, then grow up to play on the streets some more, only in a car. Traffic here is nuts. Not only is it one of the few places where you can still share the road with a bullock pulling a cart, but the bullock is actually the best driver around. I think Indian drivers have some kind of echo-location as they don't use their eyes at all, relying instead on constant honking. Once again, Dubai doesn't seem so bad.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Iran 01
For a country where half the population is under 30, the flight to Iran certainly had a high proportion of old people. But no matter, myself and Sarah were on our way to one third of George Bush’s “axis of evil”. After an hour’s delay, while the Iran Air ground crew siphoned jet fuel from another plane, we got the announcement to board.
Once all the women had fixed their head scarves in place and we’d boarded the plane, I heard the first safety announcement that didn’t waste time with life jackets, then an hour later we hit Esfahan airport, where the Duty Free specialises in kitchen appliances from Wherethefuckistan, and where a guy collects your baggage tags in a make-work scheme the Emiratis would be proud of. Then it was into the car to speed along the highway running through a pretty desolate and grey landscape that reminded me a bit of footage from the Yugoslav war.
But eventually that gave way to a beautiful streetscape of trees, shaded paths, parks, and wonderfully decorated mosques. Our eyes hadn’t even had a chance to stop boggling before we were delivered to the Abassi Hotel, built around an old caravanserai, that is an opulent, old world sort of place with a large central courtyard that is filled with al fresco dining by night, and where the staff wear the kind of livery that convinces you to give the bellhop a large tip. And thus Sarah found out the value of the currency when she tried to tip the porter IR2,000, or AU$0.20. For some reason the central bank allowed the currency to collect quite a few zeroes over the years and as a result I was soon a millionaire. AED500 gets you IR1.25m, and buying souvenirs feels more like negotiating the price on a house in Double Bay.
* * *
Apart from the mosques, Esfahan reminds me of Mendoza in Argentina. Maybe it’s the tree lined boulevards, the perfect summer climate, or roads so chaotic you’re never actually sure which side of the road people are supposed to drive on. Or maybe it’s the vague sensation that you’ve been transported back to the seventies, when men and women competed as equals in Biggest Hair competitions. There are so many John Travolta (circa Saturday Night Fever) look-alikes, it’s a wonder his portrait doesn’t hang beside Khomeini’s!
Speaking of hair, the distribution of eyebrows in this country is quite uneven, particularly among the women. Some ladies have two, some just have one, but most seem to have none at all so they draw them on, giving themselves a permanent look of surprise. Maybe there’s a Conservation of Hair law going on here, whereby hair can neither be created nor destroyed, just redistributed among the population, with any surpluses ending up in the moustaches of waiters. (Which reminds me, Super Mario isn’t an Italian labourer, he’s the head waiter at the Abassi Hotel.)
Our first place to visit was Naqsh-e Jahan, renamed to Imam Square, the second largest square in the world after Tiananmen in Beijing. This is ringed by a bazaar (well, souvenir shops) and has stunning Imam Mosque at the south end, the formerly private Sheihk Lotfollah Mosque to the east, Ali Qapu Palace on the west, and the entrance to Bazar-e Bozorg, an everyday bazaar to the north.
Once all the women had fixed their head scarves in place and we’d boarded the plane, I heard the first safety announcement that didn’t waste time with life jackets, then an hour later we hit Esfahan airport, where the Duty Free specialises in kitchen appliances from Wherethefuckistan, and where a guy collects your baggage tags in a make-work scheme the Emiratis would be proud of. Then it was into the car to speed along the highway running through a pretty desolate and grey landscape that reminded me a bit of footage from the Yugoslav war.
But eventually that gave way to a beautiful streetscape of trees, shaded paths, parks, and wonderfully decorated mosques. Our eyes hadn’t even had a chance to stop boggling before we were delivered to the Abassi Hotel, built around an old caravanserai, that is an opulent, old world sort of place with a large central courtyard that is filled with al fresco dining by night, and where the staff wear the kind of livery that convinces you to give the bellhop a large tip. And thus Sarah found out the value of the currency when she tried to tip the porter IR2,000, or AU$0.20. For some reason the central bank allowed the currency to collect quite a few zeroes over the years and as a result I was soon a millionaire. AED500 gets you IR1.25m, and buying souvenirs feels more like negotiating the price on a house in Double Bay.* * *
Apart from the mosques, Esfahan reminds me of Mendoza in Argentina. Maybe it’s the tree lined boulevards, the perfect summer climate, or roads so chaotic you’re never actually sure which side of the road people are supposed to drive on. Or maybe it’s the vague sensation that you’ve been transported back to the seventies, when men and women competed as equals in Biggest Hair competitions. There are so many John Travolta (circa Saturday Night Fever) look-alikes, it’s a wonder his portrait doesn’t hang beside Khomeini’s!
Speaking of hair, the distribution of eyebrows in this country is quite uneven, particularly among the women. Some ladies have two, some just have one, but most seem to have none at all so they draw them on, giving themselves a permanent look of surprise. Maybe there’s a Conservation of Hair law going on here, whereby hair can neither be created nor destroyed, just redistributed among the population, with any surpluses ending up in the moustaches of waiters. (Which reminds me, Super Mario isn’t an Italian labourer, he’s the head waiter at the Abassi Hotel.)
Our first place to visit was Naqsh-e Jahan, renamed to Imam Square, the second largest square in the world after Tiananmen in Beijing. This is ringed by a bazaar (well, souvenir shops) and has stunning Imam Mosque at the south end, the formerly private Sheihk Lotfollah Mosque to the east, Ali Qapu Palace on the west, and the entrance to Bazar-e Bozorg, an everyday bazaar to the north.
This place is a must. The intricate tile work in the mosques astounds. I can’t do it justice in words, and barely in picture, but I’ve tried. Check out the following links for more (you may need to have a facebook account):
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=14316&l=26c2b&id=784253645
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=14312&l=c308b&id=784253645
The square, like much of the rest of Esfahan, is also full of people desperate to either get a photo of the strange creatures in colourful attire, or to practice their English. The photos are often attempted surreptitiously by people pretending to take a photo of a lamppost as you happen to walk by, but sometimes they just come out and ask to pose with you. The English practice might be in preparation for a trip overseas (which needs an exit visa!) or a future influx of tourists, but they’re not at all shy in trying. It can be a pretty laboured affair, but they’re so eager and welcoming it’s a pleasure to chat. Plus it quite often ends up with an invitation to share tea in their carpet shop which just happens to be just around the corner, so you can find yourself looking at dozens of carpets and having a generally relaxing time.
Just up the road from Naqsh-e Jahan is Jameh Mosque, the construction of which spans around 800 years, and the history of which includes the odd bit of destruction at the hands of the Iraqis in the 1980-1988 war. This is great for history buffs, but for shear beauty, my money’s on Imam Mosque.
I won’t go into all the details about the sites and sights we saw, but I will say this: if you ever feel you’re a little too good at navigating, just can’t seem to get lost and always find what you want straight away, then it’s time to follow a Lonely Planet map. These are possible the worst maps I have ever used, with non-existent streets, non-existent roundabouts and distance scales which are plain wrong. I thought the street map for Penang was bad a few years ago. The Esfahan map had us walk past our destination and waste so much time we only got to Vank Cathedral just after the one o’clock shut down and therefore ran out of time to see the famous shaking minarets. Bastards.
* * *
Our next stop was Shiraz. This isn’t as lively as Esfahan, and frankly the only reason I wanted to go was to see Persepolis, the ancient capital that Alexander the Great accidentally burned to the ground after a drunken orgy in 300BC.
Persepolis is stunning. You should go. It is around 2,500 years old and some of the reliefs and carvings are immaculate. Most of it has the odd corner or leg or something knocked off, and carved graffiti shows that mindless dickheads have been around for some time (who really cares if the British consul and his wife went there in the 1800s?) but overall it is just amazing. Again, you should go.
Amir, a colleague from Dubai, came over to Shiraz to show us around, which I believe is a pretty typical display of Iranian hospitality. We also went to some other nearby ruins and tombs. They were cool. But I’ve got a history degree. Still, you should go.
* * *
After a day wandering around Shiraz (and eating the best ice cream and faloudeh on the planet), it was time to go home. I just have to report on the scene at Shiraz airport. Checking in was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I thought the French were bad a queuing. There was one check-in guy, and about 100 people crowded around him trying to push their tickets in his face. I soon realised standing calmly behind the guy in front wouldn’t get me home, so I called on my tiny bit of French heritage (about 1/32nd) and worked my way through the throng of people and pushed my ticket in the check-in guy’s face. Another hour’s delay waiting for the plane to show up (are their watches all set back or something?) and we were airborne again, heading back to life in Dubai.
Axis of evil? Some things make you think so. The US currently wants to list the Revolutionary Guard (which is essentially a modern day Praetorian Guard) as a terrorist organisation but that’s probably a little silly, as it would be like Iran listing the CIA as such, but they must have their reasons. And the current Iranian administration has crackdowns on “bad hijab” (dress code violations). And of course the Ayatollah Khomeini looks down on the country from countless portraits. These all show a beady eyed, shifty looking, real son of a bitch evil bastard. Seriously, every picture, including paintings, are from the same official portrait, and the guy is out and out scary. Stalin had a bad rep, but he always looked like a kind old uncle. Khomeini probably had his moments, but he looks like the kind of bloke who tortured kittens in his spare time as a kid. Now perhaps I’m being naïve, but the people on the street aren’t like that. Everyone I spoke to wants things to change. They want to display their elaborate hairstyles and go on dates. They are kind and welcoming and have a stronger sense of hospitality than any group of people I’ve ever met. Plus the scenery and cities (sample size: two) are beautiful and vibrant (but maybe I’ve been in Dubai too long!) All up, my verdict is a big thumbs up for Iran. I’ll be back.
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