Persian Odyssey: Part XI – Zoroastrianism

Thus Spake Zarathustra - Richard Strauss

gas blowoff in Khuzestan 

The city of Ahwaz is in the center of Iran's oil rich province of Khuzestan. As I headed southeast towards Shiraz I entered the region of the oil fields. Seeing the gas flares that blow off from the wells got me to thinking about fire and energy. [By the way, much of the drama that we are witnessing in the Middle East today is, I believe, associated with the planet's hunger for energy. In my own mind, I think of the ongoing conflicts as the “Energy Wars of the 21^st Century”. Whether to attempt to gain control of and/or exploit oil resources--as in Iraq and potentially Iran--or build a pipeline across Afghanistan, the conflicts of the area are directly related to the critical need for the fossil fuel--the "black gold"--that drives our modern energy-dependent lifestyle.]

What I really want to do here, though, is segue into the element of fire. In the desert you are constantly conscious of our great ball of fire—the sun. The top banana in our Solar System (yes, Fundies, it doesn't revolve around us) is not necessarily a friendly source of warmth in the desert, it can be a direct threat of heat stroke if everything isn't up to snuff as my bike sprocket wasn't. So fire was my constant companion on this trip, and the gas flares triggered my awareness of it. With fire on my mind, what should I come across just at this time but the ruins of a Zoroastrian fire temple.

Zarathustra holding the sphere

dome of a fire temple in Esfahan, Iran

You may remember my reference, in an earlier post, to the cuneiform inscriptions at Ganj Nameh in Hamadan praising the Zoroastrian deity Ahura Mazda. Zoroastrianism was the religion of Achaemenid Persia. It was founded by a man named Zarathustra most likely sometime around the 11^th Century BC.  Fundamentally, he taught that life was a struggle between truth and falsehood. Man should overcome falsehood and find truth through Zarathustra's teachings. Fire and water were used in fire temples for purification rituals during ceremonies. The inner sanctum of the fire temple, accessible only to priests, was a square chamber with four pillars in the corners supporting a domed roof that protected the sacred fire.

my very own fire temple

interior looking in and out

I rode up to the base of the hill upon which the remains of an ancient fire temple stood and climbed to the top. Some care had been taken to preserve what remained of what must have been the inner sanctum—the place of the sacred fire—with a wattle and daub roof--or, more likely but less romantically, corrugated tin. I could almost imagine echoes of the old rituals. But, nothing in the present, no people nor village nor town anywhere in sight, just the silence and emptiness of the surrounding desert.

Climbed back down, checked the tension on the chain. The damaged sprocket didn't look any worse, no broken gear teeth. Put a little more tension on the chain, applied more lubricant (no more signs of my recent close encounter of the unfriendly kind) and continued on southeast towards Shiraz and Persepolis.

PS: Zoroastrianism is still practiced in Iran by a small element of the otherwise mostly Shiite Moslem population. Their main fire temple is in the city of Yazd. There is also a fairly large community of Parsis who practice Zoroastrianism in Mumbai, India.

the modern fire temple in Yazd, Iran
[Photos of Zarathustra, Esfahan and Yazd fire temples courtesy of Wikipedia.]

To be continued...

50% … 50% … and 50%

suburban council houses

"tower block" type council house

A British friend of mine forwarded an article to me recently recording complaints by tenants of “UK Council Houses”. Not being a Brit myself I had no idea what “Council Houses” means. A quick Wikipedia search indicates that it is a term used primarily in the UK and the Republic of Ireland for public or social housing. They were “built and operated by local councils” to provide spacious, well-built homes for reasonable rent primarily for working class people. The article goes on to say that the experiment hasn't lived up to hopes and expectations—great or otherwise—and, like many “projects” in the US have led to urban blight in some cases. Apparently things need “fixing” from time to time and tenants submit written complaints to their local “council”. 

 The whole point of this post is that some of these complaints are funny in the fractured English that they are written in. One wonders if some of them are deliberate double entendres. At any rate, following is a modest sampling of the more printable ones:

Extracts from letters written by council tenants:

1. It's the dogs mess that I find hard to swallow.
 
4. Next dors 18 year old son is continually banging his balls against the fence.

5. I wish to report that tiles are missing from the outside toilet roof. I think it was bad wind the other day that blew them off.

6.. My lavatory seat is cracked, where do I stand?

8. Will you please send someone to mend the garden path. My wife tripped and fell on it yesterday and now she is pregnant.

9. I request permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen...

10. 50% of the walls are damp, 50% have crumbling plaster, and 50% are just plain filthy.

11. The next door neighbour has got this huge tool that vibrates the whole house and I just can't take it anymore.

12. The toilet is blocked and we cannot bathe the children until it is cleared.

14. Our lavatory seat is broken in half and now is in three pieces.

16. The man next door has a large erection in the back garden, which is unsightly and dangerous.

18. I am a single woman living in a downstairs flat and would you please do something about the noise made by the man on top of me every night.

19. Please send a man with the right tool to finish the job and satisfy my wife..

I'm shocked, shocked....

Sex and another city

Another tempest in a teapot—oh no!--carousing in Cartagena.

Gee, I didn't know there were strip joints and whore houses in Cartagena. Even so, the altar boys who make up the President's entourage should be in church lighting candles rather than drinking themselves stupefied and bedding prostitutes, no? Oh, so sorry, didn't know they were working girls.

NOT This
Bacchus, Greek god of wine...
and other things

The disingenuousness and hypocrisy of the media accounts of this latest episode of “misconduct” by our “finest” exemplars of boy scout ethics and morals is nothing if not laughable. Of course no bedsheet will be left unturned, sniffed, pooper scooped, put under a microscope in getting to the bottom (pun intended) of this outrage to the moral fiber of our virtuous boys-will-be-boys on the government payroll—or were they romping incognito?

THIS

Maybe these international summits should be held in the Vatican (they could make a few extra Euros renting out the Sistine Chapel with the stern eye of God discouraging any hanky panky) where there is less temptation by the devil, and any women in sight are wearing black habits and white whiffles.

Not a bottle of Red Eye or a stiffie in sight.

Manly virtue guaranteed

Persian Odyssey: Part X – no direction to go but up

I was in no mood to take any crap from anyone and my thoughts shifted to the reassuring knife in my back pocket as I fingered it.

Ah yes, about the knife. I mentioned a while back that I did carry one for protection and skinning small animals (kidding)--just in case. I had come close to, if not using it, at least suggesting that it was there--once before. During a misunderstanding in a desert village I moved my hand deliberately toward my back pocket while looking significantly into the eyes of a guy who was being, shall we say, a little pushy. But that's another story. Let's get back to the present potential unpleasantness.

I was still somewhat shaken from being forced off the road and the adrenalin was still pumping when three or four guys, as I said, got out of their car and started walking towards me. Still, three or four to one, with or without a weapon, isn't terrific odds and I didn't know what they had. The fight or flight option was open to me. I decided on the latter and, still helmeted and straddling the bike, I kick started it and let it idle while these gentlemen approached. The sprocket was still not replaced and in a seriously damaged condition, but they didn't know that.

They were not friendly, but not overtly menacing either. They spoke no English and I understood very little of what they were saying, but the tone was not suggestive of a friendly “Hey, nice bike. And what are you doing in these parts?” wayside chat. More like a “Who the f... are you and what the hell are you doing here in my country?” tone. I said something to the effect of “None of your damned business and screw you Jack!” in plain English, kicked the bike into 1^st and split in a cloud of dust and gravel. Perhaps I'm over dramatizing a little about the flying gravel, but I kept an eye in the rear view mirror for several miles to be sure I wasn't being followed. I wasn't. Exhalation of enormous relief.

A little later, in Ahwaz, I was unable to find a bike shop that had the right sprocket for my Yamaha. Nevertheless, I had reached the point of no return in my journey. It was about the same distance back to Esfahan no matter which way I went. Figured I might as well go on to Shiraz and Persepolis as planned. Hell, things couldn't get any worse. I would have to lighten the load on the bike (dump a lot of unnecessary shite) and keep the chain tight and well lubricated—and pray.

Ah, sorry, no photos this post; you don't have the presence of mind to take photographs of near-death experiences or less-than-convivial encounters with strangers.

To be continued....

Harem Intrigues

A friend of mine forwarded an article in The Economist to me recently. The article (Land of the wasted talent   Japanese firms face a demographic catastrophe. The solution is to treat women better) was a familiar one concerning the lowly place of women in the business world in “sexist” Japan. There is a ring of truth in much of the article about how women tend to be used for office decoration and tea serving and routine clerical work. How few women executives there are compared with western countries. How women are paid less than male colleagues. How they are more easily sexually harassed than in western firms. How they tend to feel pressure to quit from men (especially bosses) after they reach a certain age or quit because they find the work boring, dead end and/or unsatisfying. All these reasons have an element of truth, but there is a glaring omission in the reasons why women leave the working world earlier than their counterparts in western and more enlightened societies. Listen up! I got this straight from the horse's mouth—my road buddy, a Japanese woman. Clearly an authority on the subject. I responded to the friend who sent me the article thus:

print by Utamaro 1790s

print by Tsukyoka Yoshitoshi 1888

Yeah, women are probably being wasted here, but you might be surprised at some of the reasons why. A lot of the pressure to leave comes from other women. By law, companies can't fire full time workers of either sex. They have to find more creative ways to get rid of people who can't cut the mustard and they don't want. A college degree doesn't mean much here. Women, unless they have push and drive, or are in certain occupations like nursing and teaching or the “mizu shobai” (entertainment business), tend to wind up as office decorations while they are still young and attractive. After that they are pressured to leave, often by other women. The happy way to leave is through what is called "kotobuki taisha"--leaving to get married. Another is called getting rid of an "otsubone sama" through backbiting and gossip by the other women in the office. The term is a holdover from olden times where an unmarried older woman is pressured out because she has been around too long and tends to become a too powerful schemer and, likely as not, a tyrant. The term relates to the Shogun's harem. A tsubone was a wet nurse who took care of the sexually active courtesans' children by the Shogun. Since they didn't require the admiring eye of the Shogun, as long as they could nurse they hung around and became quite powerful in the household and usually quite dictatorial. The pressure to leave in the modern world takes the form of loudly whispered comments among the younger women to the effect of: “Is that old bag still around?”

The moral of the story is that there are lots of ways, subtle and not so subtle, to discriminate and marginalize.   

mj

Why not legalize Marijuana?

video - Don't Legalize Weed

Amsterdam coffeehouse

By any other name: weed, pot, grass, dope, ganja, shit, it is a prohibited substance. Not everywhere. It is legal in some places, like coffeehouses in Amsterdam and decriminalized in others or given a nod and a wink like in Prague. Still the debate over legalizing it in the US of A seems to go on and on and on....like so many other debates there. Pointless really, since neither side of the argument is ever likely to be accepted by the other and the offensive or desirable behavior is going to continue anyway one way or the other.

I came across a couple of takes on the issue of legalizing mj, one serious and one comical. Personally I would take the laissez faire position of decriminalizing personal use and possession for many of the reasons expressed in these two linked articles, one of which is a video.  

Persian Odyssey: Part IX – a little push and shove

As I dropped down in elevation I was reaching the inevitable emotional low point in any journey. The civil war was snapping at my heels and I was riding a semi-crippled bike in a landscape that was both bleak and getting hotter with the decrease in elevation. A situation not exactly designed to create a carefree holiday mood. In these less than high spirits I pulled into Dezful in search of a sprocket and found a bike shop, but try getting a part for a Maserati at the local Chevy dealership. Sorry! Hey, nice bike, but we don't see many of those around here. Checked the slack on the chain and added more lubricant and limped on to Susa; my entire awareness focused on the drive train.

Susa, as an archeological site, was pretty unimpressive. Unlike the splendor I later saw at Persepolis, Susa didn't look much different than its surrounding desert environment—except maybe to an archeologist.  

the archeological site of Susa

There are some relief carvings taken from excavations at Susa in museums that show there really was something there once upon a time. They are similar to those you can see at Persepolis.

winged sphinx and archers from Darius's palace at Susa

Leaving Susa I thought I might have better luck finding a sprocket in Ahwaz, the center of the country's oil fields. Oil region + gasoline-powered vehicle = cutting edge shops with up to the minute spare parts, right? So, I'm bumping along on a two-lane highway when up ahead of me I see two big trucks coming directly at me, one in my lane trying to pass the other. Either they didn't see me or they didn't give a damn, but it was a choice of a head on collision or swerve onto the loose dirt and gravel shoulder, which I did without thinking, fishtailing from side to side and struggling to prevent a nasty, possibly fatal spill. When I finally managed to stop with the bike still upright under me I just sat there shaking and trembling from helmet to boots for some time until I calmed down enough to keep going. I soon pulled into a roadside rest area to refresh and pull myself together when a car pulled up and some menacing looking guys got out and headed in my direction.

To be continued...

[All photos in this post courtesy of Wikipedia. My own have been lost.]

Off Beat Poets Society

One of our musician friends in Prague

14th Century sculpture of Karluv Most

Karluv Most

You meet all kinds of interesting people when and where you least expect it sometimes. Or maybe you just gravitate to the kind of places where you are likely to bump into them because they're your kind of people. It's not that they are necessarily interested in the same specific things as you, but rather the attitude and passion they share about what motivates them.

babies

these are NOT parking meters

Prague turned out to be a magnet for many such people who had been drawn there because there is something in the air about Prague that seems to bring out the hidden poet in you. There is the sheer beauty of the old central core of the city, there is the dedication to the arts and preserving, expanding and transmitting the city's classical heritage not only in music but in its art and architecture. It is also a place of innovation and experimentation with both old and new forms of expression from the opera and concert houses to jazz clubs and cafes developing more up to the minute techno and fusion works. You can see sculpture from the 14^th Century and modern art works on display in public parks, museums and city squares.

popular with
tourist cameras--
I wonder why..

from the post Communist era

This bit of nostalgia is not another paean to Prague, but a hats off to people, some of the cool people I met, poets all of whatever stripe you care to imagine, in Prague. They were poets of music, beer, technology, translation, teaching, philosophy, politics, bears, writing, painting, photography, travel, mushrooms that can save the world and simply being in that wonderful town. It was an honor and a privilege to be in their company in bars, cafes, restaurants, parties and homes—not to mention a hell of a lot of fun and great incoherent conversations into the wee small hours. It was a love affair, romantic, and like a romance, all too brief.

Persian Odyssey: Part VIII – a dirt bike isn't made for heavy loads

After a brief hiatus I have decided to continue with the reconstruction of my yearlong 1978 residence in Iran and my motorcycle odyssey through the ancient Persian archeological sites. 1978 was the year of the Islamic Revolution in Iran and it's reverberations are still being felt today in the ongoing tug-o-war between Iran and the West, especially with Israel. How this will develop is anybody's guess, but I hope that this bickering will eventually be resolved without resorting to armed conflict, which would solve nothing and only pour gasoline on a Middle East already in flames.

To bring the series up to date, after being caught up in the violence of the revolution in Kermanshah and faced with a choice to continue on my trip or turn back I decided that I would probably have only this one chance to see the ancient sites and decided to go on.

Taqwasan

After a brief stop at Taqwasan I made a cursory examination of the bike. Everything seemed to be in order and I headed south for the long descent into the Mesopotamian Valley and the site of Susa, the winter capital of the Achaemenid kings. Kermanshah and Hamadan the summer capital are at high elevations in the Zagros Mountains and cool in summer. However, I stupidly neglected to closely inspect the drive train, the chain and the sprockets, that turn the rear wheel. 

A dirt bike is a little like a temperamental sports car. It's made to be fast, agile and responsive, not, like a Harley touring bike, to carry heavy loads. A cursory look at the picture of my seriously burdened Enduro makes my error in overloading it glaringly obvious. In retrospect it looks ridiculous. I mean, really, camel bags on a dirt bike!

imagine the thickness of the teeth 

(here normal) like the edge of a sharp knife

Anyway, it's a no brainer to keep the correct tension and lubricant on the chain to prevent friction damage to the sprocket. So far I had neglected to check the slack on the chain because I didn't take into consideration the extra weight I was carrying. Some kilometers out of Kermanshah and I began to sense a rattling that shouldn't have been there. I pulled over as soon as I could and inspected the bike. I noticed that the chain was drooping. When I manipulated it, it was too loose. No problem, just tighten it and be on my way, eh? Nay. I got a tight feeling in the gut when I looked at the sprocket. Teeth that should be about 3/16 inch thick, had been worn down to a knife edge sharp enough to cut a finger. Irreparable, the sprocket should have been replaced immediately, but where to find a bike shop in the middle of nowhere? The best I could do for the moment was tighten and lubricate the chain and reduce speed—and hope to find a bike shop with the right sprocket. I continued descending the Zagros range and headed for the town of Dezful, not far from the site of Susa, hoping to find one. 

To be continued...

Not yet 100% landed

my mascot - care to name him/her?

After umpteen hours and three sleeping pills and a decent night's sleep in my own bed I find myself sitting at my old computer desk in my son's old room, now my den, with my little mascot watching over me, wondering as usual after more than 12 hours (give or take) at 35,000 feet, the usual awful survival food, a movie (Meryl Streep was in top form as Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady), the first pill and a couple hours' sleep, more crappy food, a 6+ hour layover at Incheon with a free shower, another pill and three hours' sleep on a bench and two planes, where the hell I am. [Did you manage not to get lost in that sentence?] 

The surroundings are familiar yet somehow not. In a previous post I introduced the concept of a rubber band that connects the body with whatever it is that we perceive the world around us—spirit, soul, vacuum cleaner. Vacuum cleaner? Road buddy's in cleaning-up-the-house mode apparently having no problem keeping body and soul together. Maybe instead of a rubber band she is held together with some less elastic, firmer stuff, female feet on the ground, less male head in the clouds. Aha, that's it, feet on the ground versus head in the clouds, or, at 35,000 feet above the clouds, where the sun always shines. While I'm wondering where my head is at, she's vacuuming the floors. Practicality. TGFI--in someone else.

Airbus A-380 at Incheon

At Incheon airport (Seoul, South Korea) yesterday I saw the big new A-380 from Airbus—leaving the Boeing 747-400 behind as the biggest flying contraption in the world. The whole body of the aircraft is double deck, whereas only the forward part of the 747 is. It never ceases to amaze me how these big babies ever get off the ground—but, by god, they do. More later, gotta reconnect the battery on the car and see if it will start—places to go, things to do, people to meet—spirit still somewhere over the steppes of Russia or not. 

The rubber band slowly contracts. I should be my complete self in a day or two. Right now I'm just running on autopilot—Prague a fond memory, going around like a phantom in this not quite familiar place I call home. But at least we got the plants back from the nursery (albeit with several brown tinged leaves on the coffee tree) and the house is beginning to look more familiar.

looking a little more like home with the plants back

A martini should help.....

Nope, just makes me sleepy.

By the way, the car started right up.