The House of Opium

On the way to Isfahan, we stopped at Nain, hoping to find a rug similar to the one I left behind. At the town square, Saheed received information about a good prospect. Unfortunately, the pungent smelling shop only sold spools of dyed wool. The owner proudly demonstrated his equipment and claimed his master weaver made brown robes exclusively for Iranian Mullahs. When the old weaver approached and threw a robe over my shoulders, he said I looked like a cleric. The garment weighed at least fifteen pounds and probably captured all the heat of the sun. No wonder these clerics always looked strained. Saheed said the unusual odor in the shop was the smell of opium smoked by the weaver. I wondered if it transfused from fabric to cleric.

Everywhere we drove in this arid land, I saw extensive agricultural fields and neatly manicured irrigation canals. With the notable absence of reservoirs and rivers, I asked where irrigation water came from. Saheed thought it came from qanats and the farmers paid for it. I later discovered that due to the rise of wages and tools, the repair costs went up sharply, so much so, that the farmers were rarely able to pay the expenses. This factor threatened the survival of the qanat system, but farmers hoped the government would somehow preserve their prized qanats.

About halfway through the trip, I got serious about buying additional Persian rugs. Turned out that Isfahan was the right place for a serious buyer. I soon discovered that quality had its price. Most 8’x10’ rugs cost more than $2500. With $400,000, I could have filled a thirty-foot shipping container with all the rugs that I wished for. The patterns, colors and quality of Isfahan carpets were unlike any I ever saw. Saheed said these carpets were like art, “for hanging on the wall, not for laying on a floor.” My plan, however, was to buy carpets to walk on. I was captivated by the powder blue patterns and the fine crisp designs. Mindful of luggage and U.S. import limitations, and a tight budget, I bought just two. What an addition these would make in my home!

At a teahouse under the Khaju Bridge, we celebrated my good fortune. The Hubble-bubble pipes were stoked and smoke swirled in the heavy air. A thousand Iranian artifacts covered the walls and ceiling. From every direction, the chatter of locals punctuated the scene. Although many people looked as we went to our seats, they paid little attention. The refreshing tea and my carpets were secondary to an unforgettable ambience.

Outside, I heard off key singing as we crossed the bridge to the park. It sounded like the crooners were rehearsing chants for prayer. Hamid said the men might make beautiful music someday. They had a long way to go!

Out of range of the off-key singing, we encountered a crowd of pensioners smoking and chatting in the afternoon sun. One of them, while initially confrontational, was more approachable when he learned we were from the U.S. He wanted to discuss Christianity with me, but Saheed told him I was a hippie. With raised brows and a suspicious glance, this weathered old guy sized me up and waved his hand dismissively. He probably regretted this lost opportunity to convert an infidel. At least he didn’t sing!

Notwithstanding the striking architecture of mosques, the Jame Castle, and the bazaar, the Shaking Minarets of Kaladyn got first prize for unforgettable attractions. A crowd quickly gathered as we stood in front of two ancient twenty-five foot high minarets. Suddenly, a man shinnied to the top and, monkeylike, shook back and forth violently. Saheed pointed to the twin structure twenty feet away. As it also began to sway in harmony, everyone applauded as dust flew, bricks crunched and small chunks of debris pelted bystanders. Although Saheed said the shaking was magic, I attributed the harmonic motion to an underground connection between the towers. Would the Imams approve the tomb of Abu Abdollah as a sideshow for U.S. tourists?

Although Iranian girls were not allowed to talk to unrelated men, four students that looked like crows defied the rule and greeted us outside the Abassi Hotel. They heard us talking and couldn't resist an opportunity to practice English and ask questions. One girl claimed that her professor admitted he mispronounced English words. They asked about my wife, children, house, and car. My small photo album drew oohs and aahs. One of them observed that my daughter and son looked Persian. After several questions about the pronunciation of common words, we said goodbye and went to the teahouse in the hotel. As we casually sipped tea and ate cookies, we discussed the day’s adventures. The incense I burned to purify the air cost 500 Rails (only about twenty cents).