Winding Thoughts on Winding Roads

Desert
The desert is a good place to come away to think, to reflect on your own self and all that is happening in life—even when you are driving through. The absences of scenery and the long distances put you into that space to work through what’s on your mind, to let it float freely up. That certainly has guided all I’ve written here, as disorganized and freely flowing as it is.

We have traveled from the big city to the small towns. The buildings are constructed of yellow brick and blue tile. Bright colors everywhere decorate everything, which stands in stark contrast to the muted clothing worn by the older generation and more conservative members of the population.

The mountains around here are clear-cut examples of tectonic activity—jutting up abruptly from the ground; earthquakes have claimed many of the historic sites as well as places of the living. We will not travel to Bam, where they are still recovering slowly.

One other earthquake casualty has been the grand citadel inside Shiraz, which has now a leaning tower which tore away from the rest. However, they have been able to restore it by creating a sort of brick patch to mend the gaps, and it’s not in any danger of falling for the time being. It would be quite a loss if another quake hits.

I haven’t said much about the buses here, which are delightful to watch. The bus system and routes recently became privatized, and each company has a different color—all easeter-egg shades of pink, green ,yellow, orange, and blue. It is true that they are gender-segregated, with bars halfway back separating men from women. However, the number of seats available seems equal. I would love to be able to ride one and visit in the company of all the women, which as a young woman is the company that I always find more fun in travels like these.

As we travel past the fields it appears that one harvest has been completed and the winter planting is about to begin. Rice, corn, barley, and wheat are common crops, although the irrigation systems are needed given the arid climate. There are also groves full of citrus, persimmon, figs and quince—as well as trees growing in people’s front yards, and the row of citrus along the boulevards in downtown Shiraz. Some of these are bitter orange, which have the same use as lemon or lime in cooking. I made the mistake of trying to eat one plain.

Out on the road again, the major truck routes, there are lots of factories, junkyards, mechanic garages, tire shops, and truck stops. The desert is often put to use for ‘industrial zones,’ particularly quarrying and those other trades you don’t want too near to your neighborhood. I remember the north end of Mason City, Iowa and its trouble with limestone dust on the houses, and realize the value of this civil planning. There is quite a bit of limestone though being quarried; some of the fault lines and earthquake-created mountains are becoming tomorrow’s dream homes, sidewalks, and businesses.

When we stop to eat, I notice a lot of bottled Pepsi and 7-up. It’s possible that these are franchises and not really run by parent companies, such as I believe Coca-cola is. This is only found in cans. I’d hoped local versions of soda were available, but by this point in history I think globalization has won out. However, there is a good ‘Islamic beer,’ non-alcoholic, produced locally, which I like far better than any soda. It’s called Delster and comes in lemon, plum, peach and wheat; and it doesn’t have nearly the acid taste or carbonation of soda. It’s common to most restaurants and no other brand seems quite as popular.

Along the highway, there are long walls which are covered in painted advertisements for local businesses. These are done in the beautiful Persian calligraphy, and lend a sign like “Hank’s plumbing, 555-5555” a greater level of formality and dignity.

The businesses and market here are organized into clusters by what you’re looking for: a block of hardware shops, then electrical, then playground equipment( these are the most fun to pass by) and plumbing, women’s clothes, men’s clothes, children’s clothes, toys. This I believe is done to serve as a kind of trade guild and to ensure some fair pricing, but is also less convenient if you have a varied list—you might have to spend a lot of time in a car getting from one market to another. In Tehran, our hotel was clearly in the hardware market.

In the villages and farms we’ve seen shaggy goats seeking shade under the willow trees. We also saw farmers harvesting brilliant salad greens from the seemingly-impossible desert earth, and loading them into pickup trucks. There continue to be dozens of chicken farms and long row-houses to contain them, out in the desert. They are domed buildings with large fans, quite similar to the ones used in Iowa but made of clay and mud brick instead of corrugated tin. I imagine they’re out here because of the smell, and also because it is a product that can survive out here all year.

Now the sun is setting out here, and rose pinks and periwinkles are on cast across the mountains by its rays. I see dust blowing across the mountaintops under that setting sun, and its shadow looks like arms stretching out from a radiant head. Meanwhile the mists are rising up from the ground. I wonder where it comes from. Inside the bus, too dark to read any more—we are busily becoming scholars of Ferdowsi, Saadi, and Hafez—a sample of Iranian cinema is being played on the video system. After about twenty minutes of previews, mostly comedies that need no translation, the main feature is a serious critique of society and how people treat one another. Based on a true story, it follows a teenage girl whose father is paranoid that she is seeing boyfriends and beats her repeatedly. In the meantime, a rival at school is sending fake love letters to her home in order to fuel the father’s rage against the daughter. He nearly kills her one night, and she runs away, then returns to sue him for his unjustified behavior. In the end, he reforms. The moral of the story is that it doesn’t necessarily take a government to oppress people; people are quite good at oppressing each other using any means available, whether a series of laws or mere power relationships over others.

And it seems a fitting story and a moral to remember out here, in an oppressive desert climate, where people still manage to survive; where a little bus of travelers try to do their part in hopes of stopping a war; in hopes we might all survive. It's a long road to justice, and a longer one to understanding, longer than this desert road; that road unfolds when we return home.