— Russkiy Mir Foundation — Journal — Articles — Iran's Caspian Coast
Iran's Caspian Coast
On the seventh day of my journey in the footsteps of Afanasy Nikitin, I seemed at one moment to have been transported back to the days of the Tver-based merchant's travel. "26th esfan da 1392" is the date placed on the Iranian visa's stamp in my passport. This is surely just a local calendar – the Solar hijrah developed in the 12th century with participation of great Omar Khayyam. But this reckoning fits the country perfectly: in Iran you often feel as though you landed in a different epoch and space...
The border between Azerbaijan and Iran on the Caspian coast runs through the city of Astara. I walked several last kilometers to the border pass, watching the life of provincial Azerbaijan – a dreary picture. Large and rundown stone houses overgrown with moss look as though they are about to crumble. I met a fibrous babushka driving her wheelbarrow full of Iranian foodstuffs, over the broken asphalt. She courteously let me know that I had to walk another 4 km to the customs checkpoint. Loafing youngsters flocked about a customized Lada car, loudly discussing something. It's difficult to speak with these guys. Those younger than 30 know only Russian expletives and they season their Azerbaijani speech with crude Russian phrases.
Several vans with Iranian numbers drove by and immediately a local middle-aged man with a besom in his hand and an existential crisis in his mind seemed to grow out of the ground. "I go to the border to sweep Iranian trucks," admitted the squalid man. "Why shall I seek earnings in some other place? I want to live in my homeland. It's terrible that our people have gone berserk from havoc – you can expect neither help nor even elementary honesty."
The approach to the customs house are more reminiscent of a marketplace. Strung out along the road to the right and to the left are rows of stalls with people flocking about. Yet the eyes of all are not turned to the stalls, but rather to the corridor leading abroad, which bristles on all sides with thick iron bars. About a hundred people were besieging it eager to force their way into that cage. An Azerbaijani calmly sipping his tea some distance away explained: "Locals go shopping to Iran where they buy cheap and quality foodstuffs – they even bring potatoes from abroad. And today, on the last Saturday in the run-up to Nowruz, people from all over the country go to Iran to buy gifts for the holiday. Wait about three hours, people will disperse and then we'll pass quietly." This was hard to believe, though. Just in case I asked the border guard, if there is a special corridor for foreigners and heard a strict "no" in response. And to my proposal to line everybody up in a human way, the military only shrugged his shoulders.
I had to mix with the crowd rushing towards the corridor. It took me an hour to move 3 meters and I perspired like after a powerlifting exercise. I never thought that only 100 people could set up such a crazy jam. The hardest ordeal was enduring the opening and closing of the cage door. After the next portion of those eager to get to Iran landed in the corridor, two strong border guards pushed off the rest, shut the door, hanged a lock and half an hour later they pressed against the crowd even more resolutely in order to reopen the passage. My situation was most difficult. All others, having no items in their hands, were pushing other people away from them, along with the now opening and now closing iron door. I was holding fast my 20kg backpack, so I was tossed from one side to another as if it were an open-sea storm. Finally I found myself at the very door. And then the woman standing in front of me writhed in hysterics because of stampede, her husband pulled her from amidst the crowd, and I made my way behind the much-desired metal grating. Then two Iranian girls showed up. The powdered fashion-mongers wearing brand new hijabs were pushing their roll-on bags and holding their fiddle-cases on the shoulders. "Now we'll see where they have the VIP passage,” I thought, “for these girls hardly seem likely to put up with the crowd and, as a general rule, it is unacceptable for men to touch an unfamiliar woman in Iran." Nothing of the sort! One more border guard came up and, having interlocked, the three-strong guard crew tried to press people back from the entrance to let the Iranian girls through. The crowd in turn pushed back, pressing both the border guards and the girls against the cage. The Iranian girls were yelping, but at the third go they managed to elbow their way into the corridor and I was lucky enough to slip behind them. The girls turned out to be students of the Baku Academy of Music who were returning home to Tehran to spend their vacation time.
There were even more people at the customs house, but we were let in out of turn as foreigners. We crossed the bridge over the river Astara to the territory of Iran. The students proceeded to their homeland unrestrained while I was jostled through for another two hours in line at the passport checkpoint.
"Dure" means "far"
Behind the gates of Iranian Astara I was immediately surrounded by taxi drivers and money changers. Three men were simultaneously sticking out their calculators in front of my face as they demonstrated the rate of the Iranian Real's exchange for rubles, manats, dollars and euros. Things were humming there. The streets were full of cars, bikes, people, carriages; everywhere around were multistory buildings, rows of stalls, glittering showcases of shops, banks, offices.
Probably everywhere in Asia the border areas are somewhat hazardous. I know from my own experience: should you linger at the border or, God forbid, start traveling along the border, you'll surely come across the local mafia or smugglers. It's good if you escape shooting and detainment. So I hurried to abandon the border city. Shunning all unnecessary talks, I was stepping out towards the southern exit. Yet one curious dealer started inquiring about my destination. "I am heading for Enzeli," I dropped on the way, trying to get rid of the importune Iranian. My reply greatly excited him. "Dure!" he yelled, his eyes wide open. At first it seemed to me that the dealer could speak Russian (this is an insulting word in Russian meaning fool) and was already going to take offence, but then remembered that "dure" in Farsi meant "far". And the impatient fellow was still walking in front of me, yelling "Dure!" and swinging his hands. I did not stop and the man never stopped fussing: he began running over the stalls, looking for his fellow countryman who could speak English and explain to this madman (i.e. me) that one could not walk to Enzeli. There were no volunteers. In order to somehow appease that casual companion, I said to him: "I know that Enzeli is 150 km from here." Having shouted "Dure!" several more times, the dealer finally stopped, shook his head and cried out: "Ya Allah, Ya Allah..." (Oh, my God).
I was not going to walk 150 km, to be sure. I was just setting out for the city's outskirts where I hoped to hire a car bound for Enzeli. I was moving through a crowded street, amazed at the bubbling life. I had happened to visit Iran before and was always surprised at this uncommon world. All women wear hijabs. In accordance with the law of the Islamic Republic, even foreign women must cover their heads, not necessarily with a hijab, but with any head gear. Elderly women can be seen in black and variegated cloaks hanging down to the ground. Girls let their bangs peak out from under their kerchiefs, wear slacks and jeans with a mandatory mantle, coat or some black tunic on top of them. Public busses are always divided in two: the front one for men and the back one for women.
All price stickers, signboards and billboards bear inscriptions only in Farsi, with Latin inscriptions very rarely found. Salespeople push huge wooden wheelbarrows along the roadside, filled with fruit, fish and all kind of dishes. I even noticed the Iranian version of Russian "samovars" towering in their midst. And here is a bicycle heaped with sacks to such an extent that you do not see the person pedaling it. This self-propelled heap of sacks caused smiles on the faces of passers-by, while a policeman trying to clear a passage for this enormous pile was stopping cars. I was not left without any attention either. A European with a big knapsack was noticed by an Azerbaijani taxi driver who twice drove beside me yelling "O'chey!" This is how local Azerbaijani pronounce the word "OK".
Phantoms of the past
I succeeded in halting a small truck with a couple of jovial chaps who said they were heading for the city of Resht via Enzeli and then added something which I could not understand. I had to remember Farsi on the fly as very few people in Iran can speak English.
Beyond Astara the road was surrounded by continuous rice fields, orange and tangerine groves, tea and tobacco plantations. I did not see a single desolate village: everywhere people were working out in the field, driving small tractors. The Caspian region is considered the breadbasket of Iran.
Finally I understood what the lads tried to explain. They were talking about their work: driving over small roadside towns and delivering goods to shops. The boys every time asked a salesman to find someone speaking English to make sure I really needed Enzeli and kept inviting me to visit them in Resht, promising a warm reception and a tour to highland waterfalls and the fortress of Rudhan.
However, it would be naive to hope for a cultural program. Every time they saw a lonely young woman the guys expressed their tempestuous emotions and beeped. The truck's klaxon produced a shrill whistle, similar to the whistle of Disney's dog Goofy. After expressing their noisy approval the drivers would turn to me: "Ziiba?" (She is a beauty, isn't she?). I nodded and tried to think of the way to leave the hilarious company as soon as possible – for such sexual advances towards the fair sex one could easily go into the slammer in Iran.
This Caspian region of Gilan has been famous for its loose morals since the early 20th century. In 1909 people of Gilan became the driving force of the revolution and in June of 1920 they founded the Gilan Soviet Republic. Backed by Soviet Russia, the Persian Red Army tried to attack the neighboring provinces and capture Tehran, but was smashed by the forces of the Iranian government and in November 1921 the republic ceased its existence.
Generally the history of Russian military in Iran is rather versatile. In 1668 Stepan Razin caused problems here with his Cossacks. In 1723, following the Russo-Persian war, this province was part of the Russian Empire for 15 years. Bolsheviks seized Enzeli in 1920 to reclaim the fleet hijacked by the White Guard. During the World War Two the Soviet Army was quartered in Gilan. As a matter of fact, I came across a phantom of that war on the road. I could not believe my eyes, when I saw a real Soviet one-and-a-half-ton truck, going back to the times of WWI! driving unhurriedly past us.
House of prayer
In Enzeli I wanted to visit the house of prayer consecrated to Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker. Already at the end of the 18th century there was a large Russian community in this port. Brothers Lianozovs alone employed 2000 workers at their fishery. In 1913 the first church was opened in Enzeli.
After the revolution of 1917 the church was closed and the place of prayer for Russian outcasts changed its locus several times, huddled in rented premises. In 1949 Russian immigrants could buy out a land plot and build a chapel thereon. In 2001 the rundown building was pulled down and a new house of prayer was raised on its site. Today Enzeli is the largest Caspian port of Iran, the destination of the main bulk of commodity turnover between Russia and Iran. Therefore the majority of our compatriots in this city are Russian sailors coming down ashore during the ships' unloading. I did not know the location of Saint Nicholas Chapel. To my question about the address, Reverend Alexander, the head priest of the Russian church in Tehran, answered that I'd not be able to find this place anyway and gave me the mobile number of the chapel overseer Andrei Mishchenko. I tried to reach Andrei from the mobile phones of my drivers but could not. I asked at least 20 people about the chapel in the streets of Enzeli and then shared my problem in detail with a teacher of English at the school of additional education. The caring woman was phoning around her friends half an hour, but nobody heard anything like that in her home town. Reverend Alexander was in Dubai at the moment and the phone number of Tehran parish's steward could not be reached. What options did I have? I decided to move further to the place where Afanasy Nikitin disembarked to the Persian shore.
Iranian Paris
In The Journey Beyond Three Seas Nikitin mentions the city of Chabokar where he moored, having sailed away from Baku. My friend, writer Anton Savin, who studied several years at Islamic International University in the Iranian city of Qom and knew the country well enough unequivocally determined that Nikitin meant the modern seaside town of Chaboksar, roughly 150 km away from Enzeli. Anton was studying the Iranian map and was not sure that his pronunciation was correct. But he was not mistaken: people of Gilan pronounced the name of this city almost identically with the capital of Chuvashia.
The teacher did not know how to get out of Enzeli by public transport. Like many Iranians, she got used to traveling by taxi. Buses are also available but people prefer official and unofficial taxis for smaller rides. The point is that the taxi fare per person, when there are four passengers in a car, equals the bus fare, i.e. about 5000 reals (slightly more than 4 rubles). Iranians go to their offices, friends and even bakeries by taxi. Sometimes they thumb a ride. Magnanimous driver Akhmed gave a lift to all other passengers and then tackled my case. I was about to bargain, but Akhmed made a wry face: "Mekhmun bash," he said in a solemn manner, meaning "you are my guest and do not have to pay anything." He wanted me to appreciate oriental hospitality. Akhmed quit working and brought me to his home in Resht. The apartment was furnished in a European style. We sat at the table. Akhmed's wife left for her relatives; that's why he bought a kebab wrapped in lavash on the street. Despite the abundance of bread, we ate everything to the last crumb. The mutton was very juicy and an Iranian proverb says that "the bread under the kebab is tastier than the kebab itself." Then Akhmed's older son Davud came home. The young lad, mad on bodybuilding, spoke a little Russian. Several years ago he worked as an engineer in Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan. "People are good and warm-hearted there," said Davud. "But they drink hard every day and do not want to work. They are difficult to handle without strong Russian language; when you yell at them, they start doing business. We also drink some alcohol, but moderately and only after work. Gilan is the most footloose province in Iran and does not resemble the rest of the country. We dub Resht as the 'Iranian Paris': whisky, parties, young lovers are never forced to get married..." Yet the residents of Gilan are a bit afraid to openly defy the national order. Alcohol can only bootlegged from a well-known seller. Parties are held only for "proven people" behind the tightly shut doors. Davud's girl came to visit her boyfriend strictly dressed, but immediately took off her hijab. Iranian women do not cover their heads at home, but when a guest is present, they must cover their heads. I must say that during my entire stay in Iran I never saw women who would not cover their heads in my presence – neither in the street nor in the house.
Traditional Resht
I lodged at a "mekhmun khun" (literally a "guest house"). Unlike a "hotel", the given establishment is always full of people, charges minimal prices and has public rooms where guests can talk for hours. Sometimes, giving their similarities to ancient caravan-serais, such hotels are called "mekhmun serai". The guest house's owner was sitting in the reception room on a carpet, drinking his tea. This was a classical Iranian with a gorgeous gray moustache, as if he came down from ancient engravings. Unhurriedly, like a canticle, he chanted his greeting for me in Farsi and then went on speaking in a lofty style about God, universal friendship and traveling for wisdom, seasoning his speech with quotes of Hafiz and Firdausi.
The next morning the host was still sitting in his reception room, sipping his tea in the same unhurried manner. He invited me to sit down and poured a glass of tea for me. I handed over a sheet of paper to him with the phone number of Andrei Mishchenko, saying that I needed to make an urgent call. The host pressed his both arms to his chest: "It's my greatest happiness and privilege to grant your request, my dear guest!" he smiled like a brewer's horse. He took the sheet, placed it near its mobile phone and went on his tea-drinking ceremony. Another guest came in and spoke with the owner for 10 more minutes. This can hardly be described as a conversation; rather it was a sequence of unhurried phrases like: "I am happy to greet you, my honorable sir!" "Peace be with the host of this house and may Allah bless him!" "Do you feel good in our wonderful city?" "It's a wonderful place and people are very friendly here." "Everything's good?" "Yes, everything is wonderful." "How did you sleep in our hospitable house...?" Only Iranians are capable of speaking so much time in this manner. I could not stand it and interrupted them: "Sorry, did you forget that I need to make an urgent call?" "I remember your request, my dear guest. But everything should take its course. At first we have a talk with this honorable gentleman, have a cup of tea, then I'll lit my cigarette, take my telephone and dial your number," replied the courteous host.
For want of habit one might think that he was jeering, but no, this was a genuine Persian who can be found even in Resht.
In search of the historical marina
A small bus with a banged-up body heading for Chaboksar could be seen on the hilltop at one of Resht's bus terminals. When passengers filled the seats, the bus was push-started. Praise the driver who did not turn of the engine again and we got to Chaboksar bouncing but rather fast.
A large monument to the royal sturgeon with smaller fish adorns a seaside blind alley located literally 200 meters away from the motorway. Gray waves beat against a heap of boulders underfoot. To the left and to the right is a sandy shore strewn with huge roots of trees killed by the sea. Farther off tractors were dragging big fishermen's boats out of the sea. I was sitting on the coast and imagining Nikitin tying up here, how he lived 1.5 years in Chaboksar trying to learn the local language, to earn some traveling money fishing or helping local merchants in the marketplace... Shivers shackling my body prevented me from calmly imagining scenes from the Tver merchant's life in Persia. Dampness, fog and piercing wind had persisted for several days already. The temperature was slightly above 10 degrees Celsius and I wore a warm jersey, a wind breaker and a winter hat. Even in such warm clothing I had to walk all the time in order not to freeze.
I had to move as I wanted to find a place where Afanasy dropped his anchor. The heavy sky merged with the sea and yet I saw quite distinctly that there was no port or ruins of an ancient hideout within sight. I did not find a single English-speaking person in the nearby "hotel". Hotels in Iran exist above all for travel-loving Iranians, especially here on the Caspian coast, which is considered Iran’s resort destination. In my quest of a polyglot I made my way to the bazaar. It took the salespeople half an hour to find a "scholar". A young teacher of English wearing glasses was greatly surprised at my story of Afanasy Nikitin and promised to share this story with his students, but was of little help as far as the search of the traces of that travel was concerned. He affirmed that no museum existed in Chaboksar. He told me the nearest regional ethnographers could be found in Kukh-shah, in the Pahlavi Palace, just 20 km southeast from here.
On the last shah's hilltop
Kukh-shah (i.e. "Shah's Mount") is an ancient balneology resort on the outskirts of Ramsar, surrounded by forests in Alborz foothills. Found here are fruit orchards and parks, a big hotel dating from 1933, the palaces of Iranian nobility and the summer residence of the last shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. Not so long ago it turned out that this locality is the most radioactive site on the planet. Natural radiation here is sometimes 80 times higher than the norm. The main culprit is hot springs running in the bowels of the earth through radioactive mineral deposits. However, this fact did not affect the popularity of the place. Even in a foul weather the hotels are filled with vacationers.
Converted into a museum, the former palace of Pahlavi is buried in orange trees, flowers, palms and cypresses. In front of the main entrance is a fountain with sturgeons. The palace itself is built from striped marble. Everything is striped here: walls, staircases, columns, carving in the windows and lions in a lying posture. The decor of the last Iranian monarch is preserved inside. The sitting room features an unbelievably huge carpet with the finest embroidery of landscapes, people and animals. Hanging on the walls are European paintings; the ceilings are painted in an oriental style with mirror inlays. Exhibited in a detached building is a collection of minerals, including the largest amethyst druses from Russia.
The museum experts were unanimous that there have never been any ports either in Chaboksar or in its vicinity. The local waters are too shallow and the coast is too flat for a marina for big vessels to be laid out. In bygone days merchant ships would drop their anchors several meters from the shore and local residents transported people and their goods aground on their boats. Evidently, the traveler from Tver disembarked to the Persian shore in a similar manner...
After staying 8 months in Iran’s Caspian region, Afanasy Nikitin headed for the "second sea" - the Indian Ocean and the island of Hormuz, the bottleneck at the exit from the Persian Gulf, whence ships bound for India sailed away...
Author: Alexei Makeev