From a Persian Tea House: Travels in Old Iran

230 Pages·2007·13.754 MB·English

by  Michael Carroll

Drawn to the exoticism and mystery of names on a map of Iran -
lsfahan, Shiraz, Meshed, Kerman, Khorassan - Michael Carroll
embarked on a journey that took him through the heart of the
country, from the Taurus mountains to the Gulf of Oman. He
travelled during a relatively calm, but nonetheless pivotal period
in Iran's recent history - in the years following the CIA-led coup
of 1953. Carroll spent much time in the bustling tea houses
of lsfahan, where he observed the richness of Iranian life in
microcosm and visited a Tehran that would be unrecognisable
today - a sleepy town pushing towards modernity with its shiny
1950s American cars and social elites exploring the lifestyles of
a newly discovered West. From the Zagros Mountains to the
Caspian shore and Persepolis to the holy city of Qom, he explored
countless mosques, tombs and palaces, went in pursuit of an
elusive dervish, bargained for Silk Road jade and forged strong
and lasting friendships with his Iranian travelling companions.
Carroll's beautifully written narrative is adorned with colourful
episodes from Iran's long and momentous history and enriched
with anecdotes from his travels. A forgotten gem of travel writing,
From a Persian Tea House is a literary period piece and a luminous
portrait of a country that has since changed beyond all recognition.
Michael Carroll was born in England in 1935. He was educated
at Harrow and Cambridge but spent much of his early life in India.
He is also the author of Gates of the Wind, the story of his time
spent on the Greek island of Skopelos.
'Carroll is a born traveller. He is hungry for strangeness. He is tough
without being coarse; amused and unpretentious. Above all he can
write.' The Observer
'The romance of the book is the traditional romance of a perceptive
young man, happy to soak himself in the life of a foreign country
and evoke it with rich, descriptive writing.' The New Statesman
'He has a natural gift for writing and especially for translating the
observations of a quick eye into a telling phrase.'
Times Literary Supplement
'Describes all he saw and experienced in the most entrancing detail
and with great good humour. A lovely, gracious book.'
Press and Journal
'A travel writer of rare charm and perception. His travels reveal
observation combined with sympathy, persistence with humour.'
Western Mail
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FROM A
PERSIAN
TEA HOUSE
Travels in Old Iran
Michael Carrol I
ITPPJ
TAURIS PARKE
PAPERBACKS
Published in 2007 by Tauris Parke Paperbacks
an imprint of I.B.Tauris and Co Ltd
6 Salem Road, London W2 4BU
175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010
www.ibtauris.com
First published in 1960 by John Murray
Copyright© 1960, Michael Carroll
Cover image© Mark Daffey/Lonely Planet Images
The right of Michael Carroll to be identified as the author of this work has
been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patent Act 1988.
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any
part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission
of the publisher.
ISBN: 978 1 84511 500 5
A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in India by Replika Press Pvt. Ltd
Contents
1 TEA-HOUSE IN ISFAHAN I
2 NOMADS AND RUINS 34
3 DESERTS
4 THE ART OF BARGAINING:
CARPETS AND BAZAARS IOI
s TEHRAN AND THE CASPIAN 125
6 DIVERSION TO THE GULF OF OMAN 145
7 RETURN TO ISFAHAN 170
8 EPILOGUE: TEA-LEAVES 202
V
fllustra.tions
From photographs by author, except where otherwise acknowledged
*
Sketch Map by John Woodcock
Courtyard of the Madraseh in Isfahan
Autumn Migration: Tribe on the move near Kermanshah
Kurds: A ploughman; and woman and child*
Naksh-i-Rustam; Shapur I receiving the homage of the
captured Roman Emperor Valerian
Tomb of Xerxes
Persepolis: Bas-relief
Persepolis: the Great King holds court
Tribute-bearers from all the Empire
An independent camel in the mountains south of Yezd
Hand-loom in a Baluch village
The bus we rescued near Guk*
Down the rapids on the way to Charbahar
We shall leave to-morrow, Insha'allah
Young and old in Baluchistan*
A street in Kermant
Across the Elburzt
A Mullah at Isfahan
*
From photographs by David Gaunt
t From photographs by Martin Berthoud
vii
For
DAVID GAUNT
I
Tea,..house in Iifa han
It was the time I loved best in the tea-house, the chill early morn
ing when the sunlight streamed like thin smoke between the
pillars, filling the vast room mysteriously; when the air was sharp
with the tang of a wood fire, and the few customers sat alone and
withdrawn to themselves, and the only sound was the click of
glasses and the rhythmic sweep of the boy's brush on the floor.
There were not many in the tea-house at this hour, breakfasting
off sweet strong tea and flaps ofu nleavened bread; not more than
a dozen, mostly solitary figures hunched cross-legged and shiver
ing upon the threadbare carpets, warming their hands over the
little charcoal braziers that the attendant had brought to each one.
I leaned back against the wooden pillar and changed the position
of my legs. There were no chairs or tables, but low trestles spread
with carpets set up in lines down the whole length of the room.
Two rows of dark worm-eaten oak pillars, still pockmarked with
tr.aces of green paint, propped up the roof, a crosswork of beams
blackened with age and smoke, with cobwebs sagging from their
comers.
The attendant stood with his back to the sun, balancing a brass
tray on his arm. Motionless in the sea of pale light that broke
around his body, he seemed for a moment transfigured, some
fallen spirit suddenly redeemed. The collarless shirt that hung
loose over his stained rolled-up trousers, curling slippers broken
at the heel, became the gilded vestments of an archangel; the thin
unshaven head, vacant-eyed, became the haloed face of ineffable
I
Tea-house in Isfahan
wisdom, the tea-tray flashing on his arm the insignia of heaven,
God's gift to mankind. Reverently I handed him my glass: 'More
tea, please.'
A boy kneeling below me bent across the pool and rinsed his
hands. Water bubbled from the snub, bronze fountain-snout and
slid into the blue-tiled basin. When the sun leaves the pool, I
decided, I shall get up and go; until then ...
It was evening in late summer, not long after my arrival in
Isfahan, when I drew aside the curtain of blue beads hanging across
the doorway and stepped into the tea-house for the first time. The
benches on each side of the passage were full. I walked uncertainly
on into the central room, looking for a place to sit. The place was
full of smoke and people. I stood by the pool, accustoming myself
to the dim light and the clamour ofv oices, evading the attendants
who jostled me as they hurried by, circling round the water. A
few naked electric bulbs were stuck on the sides of the pillars, oil
lamps hung from the ceiling rafters; their light, hardly penetrating
into the farthest comers, between the shadows of the pillars, made
the room look larger, the smoke andmedleyof voices rising from
the men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the carpeted benches
only made the scene more confusing. I turned, about to go, when
someone touched my coat and spoke to me in Persian. I looked
round at a little man with a smiling face, a brown skull-cap cocked
at a jaunty angle on his head. He was clearing a space for me,
pushing aside the others on the trestle who made way willingly
enough, and waved an authoritative hand to a human tea-trolley
that was passing by. In a moment I was sitting awkwardly on the
edge of the carpet, a glass and saucer of strong brown tea in my
hands.
A boy was dropping lumps of sugar into the glass. When it was
half full and the tea overflowed, he glanced at me in surprise and
moved on. I hadn't told him to stop. My host laughed and offered
me a cigarette. As I turned to accept the match a figure brushed
2