Hungry and tired, we drove around a neon green maidan archway as we arrived in Yazd. After Javad (our driver) stopped every 2 minutes to ask directions, we found a small bazaar alley that led to a dark gas lamp maze-like corridor and eventually twisted our way into the grand tent-roofed courtyard of the Malek-o-Tojjar, a former private mansion turned hotel. We loved it and proceeded to eat all our meals in Yazd right there: Khaleh Nahid, Mom, Madh, myself, and Javad sitting on the same traditional carpet-lined platform in one corner of the courtyard. The warm bread and classic Persian khoreshes (gourmet stews) with a local Yazd twist were delicious. Ducking to avoid hitting our heads in the tiny spiraling stairwells and having equally small rooms with old wooden shutters opening onto that grand courtyard only added to the charm. Thus it was easy to forgive the place the next morning when it took us 15 minutes to figure out that "hot" meant "cold" and the shower head broke and to top it off the toilet wouldn't flush. It was so Asia: Western bathrooms - overrated. 
The next day, while Mom and Khaleh Nahid hung out in town, Madh and I decided to explore the desert. With Javad at the wheel and our trusty Lonely Planet in hand, we headed off. After 30 minutes on a desert highway, we told Javad to turn left where a rickety old sign pointed to our destination, Chak Chak. On a bumpy dirt road we went, and we went, deep into a world of heat, sand, shrubs, red-brown mountains, and nothing else (save a couple sheep and an abandoned hut) for mile after mile after mile. Almost an hour into this, just as Javad was about to panic, we turned a hill corner and saw a non-descript branching blue-white building perched on a steep mountain. "There's no way this is it," I thought. We almost drove past it when a couple guys from Dad's hometown of Hamedan miraculously showed up in a burly SUV, told us that this was indeed Chak Chak, and gave us a lift up the steep slope. From there I looked and noticed that farther up a single giant tree seemed to leap from the mountain. We got out and walked uphill past the basic modern building to an old temple with a 1500 year-old brass door containing beautiful classic reliefs of Persian Empire-era officers. An old man slowly walked up and opened the door. We removed our shoes and walked into this cave-like structure. Coming from 95 degree heat, our bare feet immediately luxuriated in the amazingly cool wet floor. We could hear and occasionally feel drops of water all around, and through a large opening in one wall we saw that the water was dripping right out of the mountain, feeding the grand old tree whose trunk grew into and through the temple to face the desert outside, a solitary tower of rich green.
We were standing in the heart of Chak Chak, the holiest place in the world for followers of Zoroastrianism, an ancient Iranian religion that along with Judaism is one of the original monotheistic religions. For four days every June Zoroastrians from around the world (now mostly from India, especially Bombay) make a pilgrimage to stay in that spartan blue-white "hotel" and worship at the temple on the mountain that drips. It is no small irony that Iran's original religion has now been relegated to such an isolated, albeit stunning, corner of the country.
The talkative Hamedani guy asked the gatekeeper what a tableau on the temple wall read. After ignoring him twice the ornery old man, sitting expressionless under the tableau, said “[It’s right there, read it yourself!]” As we walked out the Hamedani guy asked me "[Is it true that in the U.S. people shoot each other randomly]?" Thus began a one-hour conversation about life and politics in the U.S. and Iran that soon involved all of the dozen workers there that day, including a young woman on a platform above us kneeling with a tray of tea in one hand and learned refutations boldly delivered with a gavel-like index finger in the other hand. By the end of it, everyone was trying to convince me and Madhavi that the Shah (deposed in the ’79 revolution) was a wise leader and that Iran is now screwed. To hear such things in Tehran was not a surprise, but hearing them with such unanimity among a bunch of guys in the middle of the desert was quite revealing. This also began or continued, I don’t remember which, a comical theme that would recur several times during our trip in Iran whereby I found myself almost having to defend the Islamic regime’s position on some issues: the Shah was not a good ruler, George Bush is not a hero, etc. We headed off with the Hamedani guys to Kharanaq, a lovely old mud brick desert village inhabited for 4000 years until it was abandoned ~ 20 years ago. A sweet old man showed us around this city of dirt and straw where he was raised and lived for most his life. He took us through a maze of little alleys by ancient bathhouses, bakehouses (tiny rooms with a hole in the ground), and guesthouses. With Madhavi wisely watching from below, I climbed up a tall shaking minaret (made of mud brick, of course).
I was barely thin enough to squeeze up the tightly twisting steep inner stairwell. On top I hardly rocked back and forth before the whole minaret responded in kind, producing the kind of genuine giggling fear you felt as a kid looking down from the Empire State Building. The 3-foot diameter at the top of the minaret and the lack of any protective railing only added to the effect. That night back in Yazd we went with Mom to a traditional exercise performance at a “zudkhuneh”. Iran has historically excelled in the strong man sports of wrestling and weightlifting, and the zudkhuneh has long been the communal gym where the strong men train. As the audience of European tourists, local Iranians, and we sat on the ground in a circular room, a dozen or so guys gathered in a matted pit in the center. On a stage by the pit two men played percussion and one of them passionately sang poems of love, brotherhood, culture, nationalism, and Shi’ism, inspiring the men to lift huge weights and later to spin like whirling dervishes. The singer was fantastic and we had a good time.
The next day we went on a walk through Old Yazd. Yazd is a gem of a city, due mostly to its delightfully ancient mud-straw buildings (the city claims to have the second oldest collection of structures in the world) and its people, who are as kind as any we’ve met anywhere in the world. On our walk we saw the usual beautiful colourfully tiled mosques but also some things unique to Yazd. Among these were the qanats, deep underground water channels found throughout Iran and built over the centuries and even now by engineers from Yazd. There were also the badgirs, ancient windtowers that use ingeniously designed vents and flaps to somehow deliver cool breezes into fortunate homes; Madhavi and I visited a home with a 33 meter tall badgir and experienced winds that probably reached 25 miles per hour – indoors! We randomly discovered a charming teahouse and then a breadhouse where the four workers couldn’t stop joking and laughing as they served up amazing hot naan with bits of tarragon that eventually brought us back for more. Mom bonded with a jolly fabric merchant who pleaded for us to have lunch with him and his wife at his house – we had to decline. We spent most of the afternoon wandering through bazaars and alleys and relaxing at Malek-o-Tojjar for more gheimeh, kashk-e-bademjun, and doogh. After Madh and I had climbed up the famed Amir Chakhmaq complex for sunset views of the city, we took off for Abadeh.
Yazd and its surrounding desert wonders were unforgettable. I must say that part of what made it so fun was travelling with Mom and Khaleh Nahid, who are an unmatched comedy duo. It was like hanging out with Bette Midler (Mom) and Joan Rivers (K Nahid) at the same time – you don’t talk, you just listen and laugh. They are also very loving and always made our enjoyment their top priority, even when doing so was a bit painful. Thanks guys!
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