Fortune Poetry - Shiraz, Iran

It’s the heady scent of romance that has lured me to Shiraz, a city some seventy kilometres southwest of Persepolis, and the resting place of the great poet Hafez. He’s Iran’s Shakespeare, and a local boy who lived here in the 14th century.

 

The carnal pleasures of wine, women and love feature in his oeuvre. Hafez’s poetry has even given rise to a popular form of fortune-telling: you ask a question, open a page of his verse at random, and receive guidance through his words.

 

Naturally, I’m keen to have a go. I visit his tomb in the Musalla Gardens at sunset, when it seems all of Shiraz is here, milling about among the cypress trees and roses. In the open-air pavilion that houses it, I join the young women who sit clutching books of Hafez’s poetry. One sees me peering over her shoulder and kindly hands me her volume.

 

As custom dictates I take a moment to formulate a silent appeal – a rather sheepish one revolving around the latest love object – shut my eyes and choose a page. My new friend recites the poem on it to me in Farsi, softly and with great feeling. ‘What does it mean?’ I ask, eagerly. ‘It’s love, it's good,’ she replies sweetly, with a feminine empathy that – more than any pronouncement Hafez might make on my affaire de coeur – stays with me for days after my visit.

 

Outside the gates of the Musalla Gardens, a hawker offers a twist on the theme: a small box filled with coloured, folded slips of paper on which are inscribed lines from Hafez’s poetry, together with a Farsi interpretation. For 5000 rials (around 30p), he tells me, a parakeet will choose one of the coloured papers for me, on which will be inscribed my fortune.  I can’t resist, but I, like the women flanking Hafez’s tomb, prefer the old-fashioned method of divination.

 

Later, sauntering down Zand Avenue, lined with sweet shops, cinemas (showing Bollywood flicks), booksellers, and the Citadel, former home of leader 18th century leader Karim Khan and in recent times used as a prison,  I pass gaggles of young men and women – in Iran 70 percent of the population is under 30 – the latter striding past, chic in their headscarves and knee-length figure-hugging tunics.

 

They’ve a feisty, assured air about them, these women in spite of the restrictions on dress and social behaviour they endure – a legacy of the Islamic revolution in 1979. And they are eager to reach out to the few foreigners in their midst : ‘Much is illegal in the Islamic Republic,’  one tells me with a defiant shrug.  ‘Parties, alcohol, holding hands, satellite TV, but we don’t care, we still do these things.’  The men, on the other hand sport a vaguely melancholic look about them. Conscious that I am a female in their midst, they keep their distance. Still hospitality is hardwired into the Persian psyche. ‘Welcome,’ they say, softly, as we pause at traffic lights.

 

In the colourful, covered Vakil Bazaar, in Shiraz’s old Eastern quarter, I wander past the fabrics and colourful Qashqai tribal rugs in the traditional red weave, till I reach a sweet stall. Iranians have a weakness for confectionary, a trait I happily share.

 

I get talking to Soraya, an Iranian based in California who’s here visiting family, and guided by her, plump for Gaz, a pistachio nougat, and Sohan, a brittle caramel candy. ‘I emigrated to the US after the revolution and this is the first time I’ve been back in 17 years,’ she says, shoving boxes of candy into her oversized designer handbag.

 

Her exile must have been a bittersweet one, I think, as I sit on a balcony in the Sharzeh Traditional Restaurant, and peer down at the musicians. They are playing rousing folk tunes to the delight of the diners, who sway and clap their hands. If dancing wasn’t banned by the clerical authorities, they’d be up on their feet.

 

The buffet here is heavy on kebabs, rice, flatbread, yoghurt dishes and salads,  but in the more intimate Seray-e Mehr Teahouse (hidden in another corner of the labyrinthine bazaar) you can try an Iranian speciality: Dizi, a frivolous-sounding name for a rich stew of lamb, chickpeas and flatbread cooked and served in a stone jar.

 

Later, I don a chador for a visit to The Regent’s Mosque, famous for its marble pulpit, or minbar. Here, amid the stone columns carved with spiral designs, I struggle with my chador, a floral blue and white affair which has no fastenings. A Shirazi housewife comes to my rescue, shows me how to wrap it under my chin and hold it tight. I thank her and feel like a billowing ghost.

 

Back on the streets, I’m struck by the heavily made-up faces of the women. The natural look holds no truck among urban sophisticates here: when your face is the only attribute you can respectfully reveal to the world, you want to look your best. Beauty salons – though none are visible –  do a roaring trade, I’m told, and I decide I want to experience a makeover, Iranian style.

 

But where to go? I enlist the help of the male clerk at my hotel, the Shiraz Eram. He puts in a call to his sister, who suggests Soormeh. Helpfully, he scribbles down the address in Farsi. ‘Give this to the taxi driver,’ he says.

 

Thirty minutes later, I’ve entered a parallel universe. I’m the salon’s only client, and the seven beauticians are wearing far less than I. Their drainpipe jeans, skimpy tank-tops and bare heads come as a shock after the sea of black outside. Surreally, 22-year-old make-up artist Mina is sporting a bridal veil and a face painted as white as a geisha’s.

 

‘In private, we are free to dress and express ourselves as we like – there are no restrictions,’ she says, as she smothers the dazed hijab-wearing tourist in yet more foundation and blusher. A tightly controlled society the Islamic Republic may be, but joyless, downtrodden, and short on lyricism it most emphatically isn’t.

 

Jini Reddy with photograph courtesy of Dave Watts.

Jini Reddy travelled with Wild Frontiers www.wildfrontiers.co.uk on a 16 day Land of the Peacock Throne tour. Tel +44 (0) 207 736 3968.

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