Iran > A whirlwind on the square

The Friday Mosque of Esfahan is the largest and oldest in the city. The mosque is well worth an extensive visit. I follow the guide, Irah, inside. At the scale model, Irah explains that the mosque actually consists of seven interconnected mosques. The oldest dates back to the 12th century, the youngest to the 16th century. Especially the dome of the old mosque is remarkable. First, four walls were built, then eight arches around them, followed by sixteen smaller arches, and finally the round dome. As I cross the central courtyard, I realize how vast the mosque really is. Through a small door, I enter the prayer hall. Just enough light filters through the ceiling to allow for prayer.

Iran - The Friday Mosque is the oldest and largest mosque in Esfahan

When Irah switches off the light, I get a good sense of how it must have been in the past. From the mosque, we drive to the old hammam outside the city center. The bathhouse is no longer in use. Irah explains the former purpose of the different rooms. I explore both the men’s and women’s bathing areas. In the outskirts of Esfahan, I visit the “shaking minarets,” a more touristy attraction. When someone shakes one of the minarets, both start to sway. This spectacle is demonstrated every hour. When I arrive, I’m surprised by the relatively small size of the mosque and minarets; I had expected very tall towers. On the square, about two hundred people—mainly Iranians—are waiting. Exactly at noon, a man climbs into the right minaret. As he begins to shake, I see the tower sway, and a bell in the other minaret starts ringing. Amusing. The last stop with Irah is the Tower of Silence. On this mountain, the Zoroastrians once laid out their dead, to be consumed by vultures. This practice is now forbidden. We only view the hill from a nearby park. It’s Friday, and many Iranians have the day off. Families are picnicking on the grass. As I walk by, I’m offered tea and a dolma (a kind of date). The family also wants to take a photo with me. I quickly say goodbye and take the bus back to the city center, getting off at the Zayandeh River. I stroll across the Si-o-Se Bridge, under whose arches a teahouse is located. I order tea and gaze across the river. A student asks where I come from. “From Holland,” she translates to her friends. On the bridge, a young teacher approaches me—he wants to practice his English. Unfortunately, his phone rings, and apparently, that is more important.

Iran - An invitation to a picnic in the park

He keeps walking near me, talking on the phone. When he finally finishes, we chat briefly. The park is lively, filled with families picnicking in the shade and couples sitting by the water. It’s a cheerful atmosphere, enjoyable to be part of. In the late afternoon, I return to central Iman Square. As the sun sets, more and more people gather on the lawns. Families are dining, children are playing by the fountain, and horse-drawn carriages shuttle local tourists. When the lights around the square are switched on, it creates a picturesque scene. I wait for the right evening light to photograph the Jameh Mosque. Suddenly, I hear shouting from the far side of the square. Something is happening. The sound grows louder, and the wind suddenly picks up. Before I know it, rugs and trash are flying through the air. A billboard topples next to me. A small whirlwind sweeps across the square. As quickly as it appeared, it vanishes again. Life resumes as if nothing happened. A man gestures to me that I can safely sit back down on the wall.