Editor’s note: Rick McKay, Joe Masonick, and Jack Karolewski have been annual travel companions for more than 50 years to a variety of sites with many goals. This week’s adventure is the eighth in the series.
The seventh part is at thevoice.us/iran-two-surprises
By Rick McKay
The extended Middle East tour in 1977 continued in Iran on the way to Afghanistan with the assistance of Capricorn Tours in London. Mashhad, in the far northeast of Iran, where we arrived in the late afternoon, the sun fast descending in the west, we rushed to see the Holy Mosque of Imam Reza, with its golden domes and minarets. It is an important place of religious pilgrimage for Muslim Shiites.
We entered by one of many open gates to witness the mass of faithful within, some sitting in small groups, others standing and mingling with one another. I soon sensed that numerous eyes were turning in our direction. When Joe lifted his camera to take a picture of the gold dome-shaped structure that held the Holy Koran, a young man rose and approached us. Stopping in front of me, he drew his finger across his throat. Needless to say, I got the attention of the other two and we quickly departed to the safety of the perimeter, sensing their eyes following us as we withdrew.
Were these things indicators of what was to happen in Iran less than two years later? I’m not sure, but I recall that in Tehran, while we were visiting a little shop, Jack noticed a picture of the Shah hanging on the wall. He cheerfully brought attention to it and, I’m sure, expected a friendly smile or an enthusiastic reaction from the shopkeeper in pointing out the nation’s leader. However, the little man remained ominously unresponsive, turning his back to the wall and walking away. In retrospect, had we been more astute, this may have been an indicator that perhaps all was not well in the eyes of the common people of Iran. The next day we safely passed into Afghanistan.
In 1977, Afghanistan was still a sovereign nation. Two years later the Soviets would invade and occupy these lands. After they were driven out, the Taliban would take over and impose the terror of Shariah (or strict Muslim) Law on its helpless citizens. But in 1977 none of this had come to pass. It was a simpler time in this out-of-the-way place.
We crossed the border and descended into the ancient city of Herat. It was similar to being transported to Biblical times. On the following day we wandered the dusty streets lined with mud-brick shops. A man sat creating chains link by link, bending and pounding each one into shape with a small hammer and anvil.
We passed a carpenter shop where a young boy ran out to greet us with candy, his sparkling eyes looking up at us, a broad smile on his face. From within, a bearded man bade us to enter. He invited us to sit upon the woodchip-covered floor. The bearded man, another worker, and the boy joined us. For the next five minutes or so we enjoyed tea and treats, smiling, nodding, gesturing our gratitude for their hospitality, the rhythmic planing of a rough-hewn timber singing in the background.
At a bakery shop open to the street, we were invited in to witness a presumably age-old bread-making craft, a young boy at the rear forming balls of dough on to a tray, three young adults flattening the dough into circular crusts each about the size of a large pizza pie, a fifth laying one crust at a time over a damp padded glove, then reaching in and slapping it on to the side of an open bee-hive-shaped oven fired from below where it would adhere until cooked, the sixth man reaching in with tongs to pull it out when properly browned.
At a blacksmith shop three men forged a lump of hot metal into the blade of an adze, one man holding the glowing orange bar in place with tongs on top of a heavy anvil, two other men hammering it alternately, heavy sledges striking the metal with tremendous impact, imparting one loud clink after another, the bar flattening little by little.
A young boy, carrying his little sister in his arms, posed for my camera. I met a man on the street and asked if I might photograph him. Just as I was about to click the camera, he spontaneously and unexpectedly assumed the most incredible grin. Boys played in the streets, digging shallow ditches in the dirt and filling them with water, on which they floated small sticks along the banks.
A few blocks off the main streets we encountered a school. The doors were wide open, so we entered. No one was there. We strolled around, visiting a few classrooms. We stopped in one. It was primitive at best: A small desk and chair for the teacher just inside the doorway, a blackboard on the wall above the teacher’s desk, three long tables lining one wall, with benches behind on which students could sit, two along the opposite wall. A small window let in natural light. I took a piece of chalk which lay on the teacher’s desk and wrote a message on the blackboard, telling the students how important it was for them to get a good education, and how impressed we were with everyone we had met in their fair city.
I have traveled to more than 50 countries, but I have never encountered people who were so kind and welcoming than those we met in Herat, Afghanistan.
Some years prior, the Soviets, trying to curry favor with the Afghanis, built a paved road from Herat, southeast to Kandahar, then from Kandahar northeast to the capital city of Kabul. In Kabul, a group of us rented bikes and cycled through the streets of the city, behind the ancient fortress, and along the rough roads of the old section.
We crossed from Afghanistan into Pakistan through the historic Kyber Pass. In 1977 it was still patrolled by the Kyber Rifles whose job it was to deter bandits from falling upon travelers and relieving them of their valuables, sometimes at the expense of the travelers’ lives.
Continued at thevoice.us/india-egypt-next