Journal 1st May, 2002

Left Shiraz yesterday with backpack after buying a ticket from Marvdasht town to Esfahan on the 10:30 night bus "Ser o Safar.” The shared taxi from Shiraz toward the ruins took me straight through to Persepolis after letting the other customers out in Marvdasht.

Paid the Iranian entry price for the ruins after sitting with the ticket man for a bit, gave him an extra book of Hafez poetry I was carrying in gratitude.

Persepolis (meaning ‘Persian City’ in Greek), known by Iranians as Takht-e-Jamshid after a long-standing misconception that these structures represent the capitol of the Iranian King Jamshid from ancient Persian lore, is actually thought now to have been the cerimonial center of the Iranian empire under the Archemenid dynasty in 500 BC (such emperors as Cyrus, Darious, all the Ataxerxes over a territory streching from northern Greece to north India). As the cerimonial center it was possibly used during coronations and once a year regularly for the new year’s celebrations. On these occasions emissaries from all over the empire’s holdings would bring offerings to the ruler and display their alleigance.

Carved in exquisite detail on the ruins are representations of people from all these various regions with their physical distinctions, customary dress, and archetypal products brought as offerings offering a fascinating glimpse into life on the Eurasian continent in that period. Today the site consists of a scattering of enormous columns and doorways carved wih mythological beasts, the clear walls of some buildings and merely the base of others, and several sweeping sets of grand staiways carved profusely with ethnographic and artistic representations of people and animals.

After exploring the ruins for some hours I climbed high to the top of the grassy knoll crowning the holy Tappe-e-Rehmat (hill of mercy) at whose base the ceremonial center of Persepolis was constructed. Read about the life of Darius (called Darab in the Shanahmeh, 1000 AD poet Ferdowsi’s historical poetic chronical of the lives of the Iranian kings). I must say I have an excellent english translation of the Shahnahmeh, one of the most amazing story books ever written.

After spending five hours on the site and its surroundings I set out afoot (with pack) to Naqsh-e-Rostam, the rock cliff monumental tombs of famous Iranian kings of the period (Shahpoor, other Dariuses, other Ataxerxes) called such according to the longstanding mistaken beleif that these enormous elaborately carved cliff faces represent the tomb of the famous Iranian hercules Rostam of mythology (also written of extensively in the Shahnameh). I walked the first 5 K and got a ride the last 3 in a farmer’s jeep.

The doormen at the tombs were so kind and one very lovely fellow named Mohsen showed me around the lot for free, refusing to take any money for entrance fee or tour. The hair on one commemorative bas releif of king Shahpoor was particularly cool: full and wild as he sat on horseback above the cowering Roman Emporer Valerian he had captured in battle and thereafter used as his stable boy.

After seeing the tomb faces (it is not possible to enter inside the tombs) I climbed up a steep defile at the top of which was a 4 meter freeclimb wall with nice hand holds. On top of the mighty rock holding the tombs of Iran’s most illustrious kings I found a massive area of strangely shaped rock altars and steps all bearing the the mark of hte Zoroastrian magi’s rock rock impact marks as they used large, sharp stones separate the deceased’s body into pieces for vulture consumtion. “Thousands of bodies worth of marks” I thought, “obviously the kings are not the only ones offered up here.”

The view from the hill top was splendid: the horizon showing great ships of red rock thrusting up through the haze aloft in a sea of knee-high wheat in dense green rows. Here in the home/heartland of Persian culture: Fars province. I stepped to the cliff’s edge to look down on the tombs and discovered several other building foundations discernable, the whistling schoolboys below waking me from my reverie to the small gesturing figure of the guard Mohsen - it was time for the site to close. I ran down the hill’s backside only stopping breifly to chat with one shepard who gave off the musky fraigrance of his beautiful fat-tailed sheep, his earth -toned sweater mirroring their colors. The sheep got ahead in a tight baaa-ing cluster and he waved his stick at them with a smile of apology to me saying “Shepard, ‘choopan’” and ran off towards the picturesque village amid the wheat I had spied from the mountain top.

I ran back to the guard’s hut to find the staff bus there, my backpack already loaded - a free ride back to Persepolis. Had dinner at the traditional home of one taxi driver I met in the ruin’s parking lot (he was actually an Agro-engineer by training driving the taxi for extra money) and we discussed the environmental situation in Iran and he told me about the various weak national organizations trying desperately to preserve the country’s very rich and at risk national resources in the absence of any federal interest or internaional support. After dinner he took me over to the large monumental hand clutching wheat at the edge of Marvedasht and I caught my night bus there on its way to arrive in Esfahan by morning .