rama arya's travel blog :: iran :: soltaniyeh, zanjan

Iran

mongolian sultans and exotic bazaars
20 October 2007

The adventure begins. I'm off to north west Iran. There is something terribly exciting about traveling the road less traveled, visiting sights away from the beaten path, meeting people that are not part of the global cloned collectivity. There is somehow always a heartwarming uniqueness in isolated individuality.

Western Iran is largely underdeveloped with a mixed history. Whilst it has enjoyed the spin offs of being part of the famed silk road, it has also suffered the most in the Iran-Iraq war.

Soltaniyeh, a Mongol town built in the 14th Century, is my first stop. The mausoleum of the Mongol Sultan Khodabandeh, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, has the world's second highest dome at 48 meters high and 25 meters in diameter. It is gigantic to say the least though it does not appear so at first. But as I climbed the stairs and drifted around the balconies, the immensity of it starts sinking in. Made completely of brick, it is devoid of any beams and still stands surprisingly intact in an earthquake zone of 7.0 Richter scale. It was originally built to house the remains of Imam Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammed. However, the plan was abandoned when its sponsor, the Mongol Sultan, converted to Sunni Islam and decided to inter himself in it instead. Lunch was chicken kebabs. Two words suffice here. Blissfully delicious.

The Mausoleum of the Mongol Sultan Olijeitu Khodabandeh at Soltaniyeh.

And it is on to Zanjan. The centuries old bazaar, the heart of the town, is a fascinating maze of vaulted labyrinthine lanes selling gold, party dresses, hejabs, plasticware, hardware, toys, shoes, carpets, antiques, spices, dry fruits, fresh veggies. The list is endless.

As I wandered around, the lanes opened up every now and then into jeweled mosques behind simple wooden doors where the faithful went to pray and the clergy philosophized. Wise, kindly clergy with prayer beads seated in little alcoves looked up as I entered the men's mosque. "Where from?" "Hindustan." A big ear to ear smile spread over their faces. "Holiday here?" "Yes." "Happy in Iran?" "Very much!" I made myself comfortable, seating myself on the floor by their side. Word spread around the mosque of the Hindustani woman, and I was showered with huge smiles and salams from the men within. "Can I take your photo?" I asked the elderly white turbaned clergy by my side. A bigger smile met my request. He straightened his robes and posed for me, putting his best profile forward. "Ok?" We both broke into laughter. A sixty year old Shiite priest and a globe trotting ambitious happy single woman. Who says similarities are needed to share laughter. Differences can be just as binding.

It had started drizzling by the time I emerged from the bazaar to go back to my hotel room with its red carpet, red bed spread, red lamps and red walls. The nondescript town had transformed itself in a space of few hours into a verse of beauty with its shimmering roads, painted skies and glowing mosques. I took off my hiking boots, wrapped a chador and went inside the women's mosque. God really has no nationality or language. And when he calls, it is nice to listen.

Dinner is kebabs again. In a 400 year old caravanserai restaurant tonight. And I plan to stick to the kebab agenda for the next 15 days:) Trust me. It is worth it.

The bazaar has long been the heart of Zanjan, with its shops brimming with gold...