Welcome to Iran

“Welcome to Iran!” the man in the white and black Adidas tracksuit waves and grins at us from the front row of the van. We are about 5 minutes into our dolmuş ride from Dogubeyazit and still about 30 km from the Iranian border, but Feri cannot contain his enthusiasm. This former member of the Iranian national jujitsu team, now teaches the sport to eager turkish apprentices, but goes home whenever possible to visit his wife and son. Feri’s attitude mirrors most of the Iranians we met while in the country, proud, friendly, ecstatic that you are visiting and above all kind. 

I watch the lady in front of me like a hawk, her forest green veil is around her neck, but as soon as we approach the Gürbulak border, up it goes and so does mine. 

I have to admit we were a bit apprehensive at the border, what would the controls be like, would it be difficult? We strategize over which date we were fictionally married in case they ask and as they take Nico to a separate room I twiddle my fingers slightly nervously while waiting with a Japanese girl who has the courage to travel here alone. Nico came back with blue tinged finger tips and the accompanying officer was smiling wide saying “Enjoy Iran” and “miminahmed” – see you again. Mamnoon (thank you) and we are off. 

Buzzing with excitement of having made it across, we see Feri again who has decided to take us under his wing – he bargains for us, we change from one shared taxi to another and soon we are on our way to Tabriz. 

Our first night in Iran would also be our first experience with Couchsurfing. Moji, was to be our host and between him and Feri we were in expert good hands. Feri came with us to the bus station and bought us juice and cupcakes while we waited for Moji to pick us up. Where else on earth does this happen? A bus station which seemed chaotic and intimidating after the über-organized Turkish stations, quickly became welcoming and easy. Farsi script instead of the latin alphabet we had in Turkey meant we could not even read the destination signs on buses. Despite our temporary illiteracy, we would learn that more people speak english here compared to Eastern Turkey. 

Tabriz may not be the most exciting city in Iran, but with our chilled out host Moji to help us discover its best spots it quickly grew on us. Tabriz is known for having one of the world’s biggest covered bazaars. Beans of every colour, vibrant rose petals, amber saffron, everything necessary for making the best loved Iranian dishes. As we navigate the narrow and dim alleys of the ancient marketplace, a man with a shovel and smoke-emitting charcoal goes around blessings stalls and two things stand out, the local love of hats for men and LED lights. You can get any sign made in LED colours and the street was lit up with the squiggles and lines of Farsi.

The animal section of the bazaar does not only sell the mandatory hanging lamb cadaver, frozen chicken legs and beef, it is also home to the biggest child attraction. The little juju. Huge baskets of neon chicks await greedy little hands as each child picks out the chick they want. Not a sight for the animal rights activist, the little chicks are dyed and usually have a short lifespan of several weeks. Most Iranians you come across would have had one in their childhood and juju has also become an affectionate term for GFBFs (girlfriends and boyfriends, I swear this is the lingo).

Upon learning about our food project, Moji takes it on himself to bring us on a discovery of local specialities. Hidden away in the bazaar streets is one of the best places in town to have Dizi. Dizi is a humble dish and much loved by Iranians. A dish that does not require the same laborious preparation of many other Persian classics, the dizi is more like comfort food, with equal amounts of fat. A painfully hot metal jug filled with ab gusht (literally meat water) lamb chunks and oil is served alongside an empty bowl into which you break up pieces of sengak (dimpled crepe-like bread). 

There is an art to eating dizi – 

Step 1. Pour broth and oil over bread, soak and eat. 

Step 2. Take remnants from jug, tomatoes, chickpeas, potatoes, meat and mash it up with the mini pestle you have been given

Step 3. Eat with more sengak 

Delicious. Moji shows us how people like to pile it up on the pestle and make the mush resemble a scoop of ice cream. 

No afternoon in Tabriz is complete without çay and we go off in search of one nearby. Sometimes you find the best spots in the most bizarre places. In a small mall from the 80s specialising in stationery, we discover an underground çay place worthy of a magazine shoot in the basement. Old khaki telephones, mad chandeliers and martyr paintings, we have our first Iranian qalyan (water pipe). Technically forbidden for women to smoke, we will go on to see many people around the country smoking it at any time of the day, including a handful women. Iranian çay is often accompanied by chunks of white rhand (sugar), instead of mixing it into the tea, you barely dip a corner in then place it in your mouth while you sip politely and let it dissolve. Addictive but probably not good news for your teeth! 

That night we are joined by Moji’s friends for a nocturnal street food adventure in the area of El Golü lake – the favourite spot for young people to hang out and dour dour (check each other out and flirt). They give us an introduction to the country’s history and recent past and we slowly begin to understand some of the complex politics at play. It is inspiring to see how the new generation deals with the barriers they are faced with and the creativity that is employed in daily life. Most people are critical of the government, but proud of their country and of being Iranian. They also let us in on the most important question to have an answer to – “Are you Red or Blue?” Only two football teams matter in Iran; Red for Persepolis and Blue for Esterlon, in Tabriz though, you better say Tractor, the local heroes. 

Our gastro tour starts with baghali, also nicknamed “nose boogers” by teenagers, in reality they are boiled fava beans served with vinegar and chilli, providing plenty of excuses to lick your fingers as you pop them out of their thick translucent shell.

Next up traditional Tabriz pizza – yeralma yumurta in Turkish Azeri dialect meaning potato and egg. Huge stainless steel trays are steaming with potatoes and eggs in their shell, waiting to be crushed onto lavash bread and brushed with chunks of butter. Wrapped up and served fresh, ask for double butter and sprinkle on extra salt and chilli. This is downed with bottled fizzy dourgh. Similar to turkish ayran, this savoury yoghurt drink is mandatory at most Iranian meals, though different varieties include adding herbs or an artificial fizz which I still cannot get used to.

You cannot have Iranian street food without trying ash. Ash is to Iran as congee is to China. A thick porridge-like soup, it is often made from pearl barley or rice, though every city has its own special recipe. Here we try the ash reshte (ash with noodles) rich with chickpeas, dill and yoghurt. By now we are close to exploding and when Muhammed suggests ice cream as well to finish us off, the consensus is pretty much naaaaah (no). 

All this eating had to be balanced with some form of exercise, so the next day we set off for a day trip to Jolfa near the Azerbaijan border, Moji leading the way as we hike up the hill to the surprisingly well maintained Armenian church from 1AD – Saint Stepanos. The church has sat calmly for centuries overlooking the dramatic valley where Azerbaijan and Iran are separated by the treacherous Aras river and a mountain range that spikes straight up, soaring so high that it forms a naturally impenetrable frontier. 

Nearby there is a little çay garden where a group of Kurdish men are dancing (Kurds form about 10% of Iran’s population) waving around a mezare (headscarf), watched by two ladies in colourful hijabs smoking a qalyan. The fact that they are smoking a qalyan out in public makes me think they are rather rebellious, what I did not know was that these two english teachers, Samira and Maryam are massive, I mean ‘maaaaassive’, Celine Dion fans. They offer to drive us back to Jolfa and we all pile into their little Kia, the handbrake groaning from our collective weight and we speed off down towards the river. Not in my wildest dreams did I think on one of my first days in Iran I would be zipping past the Aras Canyon with “My Heart Will Go On” blasting at maximum volume and all of us singing along even louder. I think I almost cried of laughter.

This is what travel memories are made of, people who touch your heart, hilarious moments and of course, Celine Dion.  

From the moment we arrived in Iran we have been babysat, handed over from one person to another like little care packages, making sure we don’t get scratched or lost. 

We were welcomed by every person we met and what a welcome it was. 

*Disclaimer – all “Finglish” (Farsi-English) words from our Iran posts are my own spelling and may not be completely correct as it is based on my own interpretation of sounds.