Animal life is almost nil, though today I saw four roebuck crossing the road. Insect life consists to date of houseflies (very few) and black beetles as in Ireland.
This is a very lovely town; I notice that the towns of Persia tend to be much more attractive than the cities, especially now when the gardens are so beautiful with their smooth lawns, pale green cascades of weeping willow and brilliant beds of carnations, roses, pansies and geraniums. The main streets are always wide and the sun-soaked mud walls look golden under the violet blue of the Persian sky. Almost all the traffic consists of pony-phaeton taxis and innumerable laden donkeys and bicycles. The inevitable jube (a channel of water flowing between footpath and road) runs everywhere but on the whole the streets are quite clean and I’ve come to the conclusion that Persian water is safe if you make it clear you want to drink it, not wash with it. Anyway I’ve been drinking it uninhibitedly with no ill effects.
We arrived here at 3.15 p.m. and I was immediately captured by a twenty-year-old boy who secured me as his guest for the night against terrific competition from his class-mates; the local students have to pay fifty reals for a thirty minutes’ English lesson, so an English-speaking guest for the night is considered precious. Three days ago Khayyám’s new tomb was opened to the public by the Shah (pity I missed that) and a bevy of youths, laden with dictionaries, grammars and simplified versions of Jane Eyre , took me there this afternoon, all bombarding me en route with their particular problems of pronunciation, sentence construction and spelling. The keenness of Persian youths to learn English is positively fanatical but their opportunities remain very limited as few competent teachers are available outside Teheran.
The new tomb represents modern architecture at its grotesque worst; I almost wept to see it over the body of such a man as Omar Khayyám. I also saw the old tomb which is very simple, dignified and appropriate. Why tens of thousands of reals had to be spent on this new contraptionwhen the country is swarming with undernourished children I do not know.
The family with whom I’m staying consists of the mother (aged thirty-five), three sons aged twenty, eighteen and twelve, and four girls aged sixteen, fourteen, nine and six. The father works as a draper’s assistant in Teheran and the household is obviously very poor. This being Friday (the Muslim Sunday) twelve relatives were rounded up to come and meet me at supper time, but even though the men were close relatives the mother and daughters, including the six-year-old, veiled themselves the moment the visitors appeared. Islam is so rigid around here that no man, except father, husband and sons, is allowed to glimpse a woman’s face; no wonder the boys can’t take their eyes off my poor mug – at least it’s a change from mother and sisters!
I ate with the women and was relieved to get lentils instead of rice. We also had a savoury omelette and salad – which I declined, having seen it washed in the jube and been warned by everyone to avoid jube -washed salad at all costs. There were no chairs or tables or beds in the house and no cutlery – you use the flat pieces of bread to dig your share out of the communal dish. Mast with sugar was served as dessert and I found the whole meal very appetising.
Everyone is most concerned about my arm, which certainly looks alarming, though it feels better tonight.
After the meal grandmother and mother took turns smoking the hookah, while one girl played on a timbrel and the rest danced – the traditional Friday evening pastime. I’ve got to appreciate Arabic music to the point where I have my favourite tunes and I could watch Persian dancing for hours; it’s marvellously graceful, particularly in the use of arms and hands. The six-year-old gave a magnificent performance and a two-year-old already had the general idea!
SANG BAST, 6
This is a very lovely town; I notice that the towns of Persia tend to be much more attractive than the cities, especially now when the gardens are so beautiful with their smooth lawns, pale green cascades of weeping willow and brilliant beds of carnations, roses, pansies and geraniums. The main streets are always wide and the sun-soaked mud walls look golden under the violet blue of the Persian sky. Almost all the traffic consists of pony-phaeton taxis and innumerable laden donkeys and bicycles. The inevitable jube (a channel of water flowing between footpath and road) runs everywhere but on the whole the streets are quite clean and I’ve come to the conclusion that Persian water is safe if you make it clear you want to drink it, not wash with it. Anyway I’ve been drinking it uninhibitedly with no ill effects.
We arrived here at 3.15 p.m. and I was immediately captured by a twenty-year-old boy who secured me as his guest for the night against terrific competition from his class-mates; the local students have to pay fifty reals for a thirty minutes’ English lesson, so an English-speaking guest for the night is considered precious. Three days ago Khayyám’s new tomb was opened to the public by the Shah (pity I missed that) and a bevy of youths, laden with dictionaries, grammars and simplified versions of Jane Eyre , took me there this afternoon, all bombarding me en route with their particular problems of pronunciation, sentence construction and spelling. The keenness of Persian youths to learn English is positively fanatical but their opportunities remain very limited as few competent teachers are available outside Teheran.
The new tomb represents modern architecture at its grotesque worst; I almost wept to see it over the body of such a man as Omar Khayyám. I also saw the old tomb which is very simple, dignified and appropriate. Why tens of thousands of reals had to be spent on this new contraptionwhen the country is swarming with undernourished children I do not know.
The family with whom I’m staying consists of the mother (aged thirty-five), three sons aged twenty, eighteen and twelve, and four girls aged sixteen, fourteen, nine and six. The father works as a draper’s assistant in Teheran and the household is obviously very poor. This being Friday (the Muslim Sunday) twelve relatives were rounded up to come and meet me at supper time, but even though the men were close relatives the mother and daughters, including the six-year-old, veiled themselves the moment the visitors appeared. Islam is so rigid around here that no man, except father, husband and sons, is allowed to glimpse a woman’s face; no wonder the boys can’t take their eyes off my poor mug – at least it’s a change from mother and sisters!
I ate with the women and was relieved to get lentils instead of rice. We also had a savoury omelette and salad – which I declined, having seen it washed in the jube and been warned by everyone to avoid jube -washed salad at all costs. There were no chairs or tables or beds in the house and no cutlery – you use the flat pieces of bread to dig your share out of the communal dish. Mast with sugar was served as dessert and I found the whole meal very appetising.
Everyone is most concerned about my arm, which certainly looks alarming, though it feels better tonight.
After the meal grandmother and mother took turns smoking the hookah, while one girl played on a timbrel and the rest danced – the traditional Friday evening pastime. I’ve got to appreciate Arabic music to the point where I have my favourite tunes and I could watch Persian dancing for hours; it’s marvellously graceful, particularly in the use of arms and hands. The six-year-old gave a magnificent performance and a two-year-old already had the general idea!
SANG BAST, 6
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