Iran

THE wind snatched my headscarf and carried it away. Aghast, I raced after it, grabbed it and tied it back on with my bumbling hands as quickly as I could. I looked around anxiously. No-one in the smoggy streets seemed to have noticed. Heaving a sigh of relief, I dodged my way through the unrelenting traffic to meet my friend Reza.

It was my first day in Tehran, the capital of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Reza, whom I had met in Kyrgyzstan, had been kind enough to invite me to visit and had arranged for me to stay with his friends and colleagues around the country during my one-month trip. I was a little apprehensive about going to Iran because I had applied for my visa when the Revolutionary Guard had "kidnapped" British sailors – how would I be received as a lone female Westerner? I need not have worried.

As Reza had to work, his mother and sister adopted me and took me on a tour of Tehran. The decadent palaces of the shahs were now museums to a foregone age that had ended with the 1979 revolution. Each was filled with incredible masterpieces, lush lawns and neat gardens with Persian fables depicted in vivid tiles. In the Golestan Palace there was a young girls' school trip. Clutching Barbie schoolbags they gazed attentively at whatever their teacher instructed them to and skipped hand in hand around the gardens, just like any other children. Except they were wearing white hijabs to cover their hair. Islamic law states that, after the age of nine, girls should cover up when outside of their home. Older, conservative women wear the black chador, holding it closed with teeth or hands (the chador, meaning "tent" in Farsi, is just a big piece of cloth), but the Iranian reality is that women have bright headscarves barely on their heads, hair carelessly flowing out, loud make-up, tight jackets, increasingly risqué hemlines and stilettos that would make Naomi Campbell gasp.

I headed 400 kilometres south to Esfahan, where Reza had arranged for me to stay with Faridae, who was 25 and an accountant. Iran's bus system is incredibly cheap (petrol is subsidised by the government), efficient and comfortable. Men and women are segregated and snacks and drinks are included in the ticket price, which is most welcome for the massive distances covered. A former capital, it was known as "half the world" in Persian times because of its cultural and architectural diversity and wonder, including its stunning bridges. In the centre lies Imam Square, formerly Shah Square, which has a palace and two stunning mosques, the most beautiful being the Lotfallah. Originally for the shah's harem to worship in, the cream tiles of its domed roof change colour to reflect the mood of the sun throughout the day, contrasting beautifully with the rich greens and blues inside. Still a place for contemplation, a young woman was sitting down on the mosque floor vigorously typing into her laptop, oblivious to the slow, shuffling gait of tourists.

The Armenian quarter, New Jolfa, was founded in 1606 when the shah kidnapped the entire population of Jolfa, famed for their artistic skills, near the Armenian border and relocated them to Esfahan. The area is a series of twisting lanes with distinctly Christian architecture, in particular the striking Vank cathedral bearing grisly images of saints being tortured, and containing one of the world's smallest bibles, weighing just 0.7 grams.

To round off the day's sightseeing, Faridae and I went to an old teahouse that was straight out of 1001 Arabian Nights overlooking Imam Square. The smoke from hookah pipes twirled and vaporised into the twinkling night as she told of the frustrations she felt living in Iran, particularly of her lack of freedom to travel: the permission of a father, brother or husband is needed before a woman can go anywhere. All of the women I spoke to felt this way, and there is an increasingly powerful movement among both men and women to allow equal rights.
Friday is the Muslim day of rest, and when almost the entire population of Iran goes for a picnic. Faridae had to work, but her friend Atifeh, keen to practise her English, invited me to join her and her family in the park. The park was packed with groups dining on enormous banquets of roasts, breads, rice, salads and ice-creams whilst supping tea from large urns they had taken from their kitchens. I was amazed at the sheer quantity of food that was consumed and how on earth it fitted into the car. Sitting in the shade to get protection from the fierce sun, Atifeh's family began to talk about their strong dislike of their government, the current political situation and fears about an American attack. I felt great pangs of sadness and guilt when they asked me what I thought was going to happen, a question I would be asked many times. Potentially my government could drop bombs on these moderate people who had shown me nothing but incredible warmth, respect and kindness, wishing nothing in return.

My next stop was east in the oasis city of Yazd, where I was to stay with Leila, a secretary for a tile manufacturing company, who was fiercely independent and drove faster than Schumacher. Yazd is the heart of Zoroastrianism, the first religion to embrace the dualist concept of good and evil and a single god, Ahura Mazda. Zoroastrian symbols permeate the city: two huge "towers of silence" sit brooding on the outskirts of town, and an eternal flame blazes within a fire temple in the town centre. Worshippers believed a dead body to be unclean, and to bury it in the earth would pollute it, so the body would be placed atop a tower under the watch of a priest, who would observe which eye the waiting vultures plucked first. If it was the right eye, the soul would fare well; if the left then certain doom.

Going still further south to Kerman – famed for pistachios – Bijan, a computer analyst, and his wife Marian and their daughter were kind enough to put me up for a few days. Like everyone in Iran, they constantly fed me huge plates of food, cakes and sweets. From breakfast till the late 10pm Iranian dinners I could feel my body crying out for mercy from the gastronomic onslaught. Their English was quite rudimentary, but Bijan's cousin Mohammad was fluent and more than happy to take time off from work to show me around. He was the manager of an insurance company, but had been the BBC's translator after the 2003 Bam earthquake when 26,000 were killed. Bam was renowned for its enormous citadel, the biggest mud-brick structure in the world, which had collapsed in the disaster. Mohammad hadn't been there since, and was shocked at how it had changed. He recalled that when he was young it would take four hours to walk around. It now took four minutes. The site is being rebuilt with the help of UNESCO but will never achieve its past glory.

Shiraz, brimming with rose-filled gardens whose scents permeate the air, is the birthplace of the famous grape, and of Iran's most famous poets Hafez and Sade – the Shakespeares of their time. Indeed it is said that Hafez is more revered and read than the Koran, and people are to be found in every park engrossed in his works. A young family, one of whom spoke English, allowed me to be their guest. Ali was a musician with the Shiraz symphony orchestra and Firozeh was a new mother to 10-month-old Dorsa and had studied English at university. Dorsa and I were at the same Farsi level, much to the mirth of everyone else. We would both point at things, delighted that we knew what they were called, grinning widely at the praise this received.
The main tourist draw in Shiraz is the ancient ruined city of Persepolis, which dates from 500 BC and was ransacked by Alexander the Great. The grand stairway leading up to the huge Gate of Nations has shallow steps so that dignitaries could glide up with their robes flowing majestically behind them. The immense marble walls of the complex are adorned with reliefs of subject countries bringing gifts to the Persian king, legendary battles and elaborate mythical beasts. The former grand halls and temples, full of cuneiform (one of the oldest alphabets in the world) tablets, are protected by huge statues of bulls and griffins that are still awe-inspiring. Even at this tourist site, locals, a little shyly, would stop you to ask if you needed any help, to welcome you to Iran or to invite you to dinner at their house.

Every week Ali and Firozeh had a dinner party with their friends, most of them also in the Shiraz symphony. The guests brought their instruments rather than an illegal bottle of wine, and the evening was spent singing and dancing to Iranian songs. It ended in great laughter as they tried to remember the words to the only English song they knew: "Hotel California". I couldn't remember the words either.

I took off my headscarf as I left Iran and entered Armenia, the first country to declare itself Christian. A dour Russian with bleached hair and a skirt up to her oxters glared at me while her colleague scowlingly gave me a visa. I had not even left the border town and I was feeling nostalgic about saying farewell to such a fascinating place. My Iranian companions were not. They were already in shorts and T-shirts and filling their bellies with vodka.