After a brief stop back home in England visiting my wonderful family and beautiful friends I flew back through Azerbaijan to the capital of Iran, Tehran and into the arms of my much missed man.
After a long hug (but no kisses, the police might be watching!) we got a taxi into town, the trip giving me my first taste of the ludicrously last minute tactics of Tehrani drivers. Djalma, snuggled in the back with me instead of his usual place up front, noticed my white knuckles and told me to relax – he hadn't seen one accident since arriving – a few near misses of course but no fatalities. Right. Reassuring. We arrived at one of the HUGE bus stations and got on a bus to Chalus, on the coast.
On the bus ride my cheeks sore from so much beaming at being together with Djalma again, finally started to relax and we talked about everything he had done since I left him in Baku (he carried on through the South of Azerbaijan and through the NW of Iran in Astara and Tabriz) I'm not writing about his exploits (some peer pressure from whoever reads this would be much appreciated in getting him to write something!).
We arrived late in the evening with no time for sightseeing – we left that for the following morning, leaving just enough time to walk to the Caspian Sea, dip our toes in the cool water and walk back to get a bus back to Tehran. I was careful not to show too much leg at the beach – we were right next to a military base – or to let my headscarf slip off in the sea breeze and even though I was dying to take off my thin black coat which was like a sauna in the sun, I kept that on too. A good pretend-to-be-Muslim girl, that's me.
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| From Chalus, Iran |
Back in Tehran we got some dinner, met up with our host for the night, Reza, his Iranian girlfriend? And her friend who was also couch-surfing with him, between the two girls I got some good tips on how to keep the headscarf up without too much effort – none of them worked but it was good fun to talk to some girls, I've no idea what the Iranian's name was but she did make me laugh – not what you'd call a strict Muslim at all – she has less of a clue on how to keep her headscarf up than the Canadian and just didn't get why women had to wear them – it was good (after just two days in Iran) to talk to someone who shared my views – after all the women in Tehran are very liberal in their interpretation of hejab, which translates as modest dress, usually including a long loose top and nearly always a headscarf (which is meant to cover ALL your hair).
In an effort not to offend I think I was dressed more conservatively than many of the young women in the Capital, the hair at the front was all party with blonde streaks, curls, massive quiffs as well as sleek fringes all being bigged up while everything else was covered-ish by a pretty scarf usually transparent. As for the loose long top, yeah right, skinny jeans and skin-tight tops. And the no make-up rule? Two words for the government RED LIPSTICK! There was some garish in your face drag queen make-up as well as some stunningly beautiful women who didn't over do it, Reza's friend took great pride in insisting that there wasn't anywhere else in the world like it – all the girls look like models... um okay – there is make-up elsewhere and women do use it but it did have a special meaning there that doesn't occur in more liberal societies.
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| From Tehran, Iran |
The next day we were up bright and early to go to our respective embassies for letters of introduction to take to the Indian Embassy to apply for our visas, what an utter palaver. What Djalma laughingly assured me would be finished by mid-morning, took us all day. With a lot of waiting in the wrong queue and being ignored by a tiny rude Indian granddaddy, we eventually got our applications in and were told to call back in a week to check on the progress. That sorted we headed back to shower, pack and leave for a night bus to Esfahan.
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