Kashan Bazaar
Linda and I were entering the famous bazaar of Kashan with a most welcome escort of a student and a professor. It was about 9:00 AM and the shops had just opened for the day. (Kashan is a lovely university town about 90 miles wouth of Qom). We had driven from the north edge of the city where Kashan University is located. As we rode in the taxi, a nondescript Paykan that looked like a throw back to a 1955 Rambler, we watched the countryside change from barren and flat desert to tree lined boulevards with residential homes. Between homes were empty lots barren of any vegetation, a reminder that this city was the work of human efforts to make the desert bloom over several millennium. Again the residences changed to tree lined streets with two foot deep gutters filled with water running down each side. The water flowed swiftly from the west as the city sloped down from the mountains maybe 20 kilometers to the west. The further west we traveled the clearer the water became. Behind the gutters were trees of eucalyptus and cedar. Traffic increased with each intersection, each round-about or in Farsi maydan as our cab driver maneuvered around the chaotic traffic. Our taxi driver stopped before an unassuming set of shops and our guides told us we were at the bazaar. We looked more closely in the growing heat of the desert day. The shade of the archway we saw looked enticing but what caught our eye was a row of shops on either side of the archway that extended back until we could see only a vague glint of glass, cooper and bright plastic objects. We had arrived at the long anticipated Bazaar of Kashan.
If the name Kashan sounds familiar you are correct for this is an old center for the rug making along the silk route. Home made carpets that cost the price of a luxury automobile or a comfortable home are made here. Kashan also claims to be the home from which the magi wandered west to find the Christ child in Bethlehem.
As we stood outside the taxi getting our bearings, we were almost run over by a large flat cart being pushed by a worker. A truck was parked on the side of the street, full of carpets rolled in plastic. We followed the cart as it entered the archway and maneuvered its way through the ever increasing number of shoppers, shop keepers and workers. The bazaars are the center of almost every community in Iran. The bazaars of Iran anticipated the malls of America by many centuries for they are enclosed and can be multiple stories high. They are as ancient as the silk route made famous by Marco Polo. They existed from ancient times and are the central core of each city. Through the bazaars in Iran, almost 70% of the trade of the country is controlled. They are a community all of their own.
Our purpose for going to the bazaar was the usual: we were hunting modest gifts to take home for our family and we wanted to explore the famous rug industry of Kashan. We were not disappointed. We got much more.
The prof and I took the lead for we talked more than looked. Linda was with an outstanding student and native of the city. Our new friend and I were so much on the same wavelength after a day together that we laughed at the same time at what we saw. One stall was computer goods, the next stall was the entrance to a fine men’s clothing store, the next stall was a butcher shop where the butcher was cutting up a side of lamb, and then a pastic good shop spilling out on into the aisle-- the same plastic goods that you see at Dollar Genral or at the Saturday flea market in the US.
What struck us was the striking difference between the booths. Some of the produce would have been familiar to a Jewish exile in the time of Jeremiah. Some of the goods could have been in a mall in a wealthy suburb of Orange County California. The new with the old, the simple with the complex. Each walkway had side aisles where you might find workers dying wool in big vats and laying them across lines held up by wooden beams. The next aisle might have perfumer makers, gold merchnts, herbal pharmacies.
Just after the butcher shop we began to follow our noses toward freshly ground cinnamon. We found two large grinding stones. Each started with a flat grinding stone of some ten feet in circumference laying its side. A much smaller stone on its side circled around a post and an arm came out beyond the large grinding wheel. It did not take much imagination to picture a mule hitched to the stone. Now the arm was attached to a Briggs and Straton engine on a cart. The cart went in a circle and a large paddle was handled by the attendant who avoided the circling cart to push large chunks of spices and herbs under the grinders. What an aroma!
Each grinding machine was in its own arched room. The ceiling was made of dirt and straw like much of the older homes in the desert. It had an arched ceiling and was cool and comfortable. The arched roof had a hole in it so that air could enter and be cooled like a cave yet keep out any moisture in the infrequent rains of the desert.
The merchant who operated this amazing invention was very pleased to show off his equipment. Our merchant took us through his whole operation and we could smell the freshest cinnamon that makes the cans we buy at the supermarket seem anemic in comparison. Our host did not speak but made signs with hands and noises of excitement for he knew we were guests in his country. The prof turned politely toward us and told us the man was deaf. Of course we purchased two spices, cinnamon and one we had to ask about which was cardamom. They make our apartment smell divine.
Our next excursion was to a much larger avenue off the main artery. We saw a large pool and a domed ceiling with light shining in. It was an old caravansei—where merchants from afar and their animals were once given shelter. On every side we saw empty shops that once housed businesses. Two were still in use and updated for modern working conditions. Outside were stacks and stacks of carpet, much of it hand made of the finest materials. The famous Persian rugs! In a well lit corner a young man had a scraper that looked like the large head of hatchet. He also had a rag that he had made wet. With these two items he was cleaning carpet. How? He took the hatchet head and scraped the carpet. Off came lots of lint. I would have torn up the carpet but he knew the right pressure to put on the head. The next booth held a single carpet laid out flat and it covered the whole room. A man with a comb like tool was slowly pulling one thread at a time back into place on this carpet as he repaired it. How many days to repair this carpet I do not know but that it was worth the effort as its beauty and intricate design was immediately apparent.
On down the row a elderly woman wearing her black chador was buying wool from the wool merchant. (Watching the wool being dyed is a story in itself.) There was no pretense of who was in charge of this purchase. She tested several wool strands first with a yank and then with her teeth. She held it up and pulled it apart holding each end and judging its quality. If there was a guild for women making rugs she was a leading member. Chador or no chador, skill and experience trumped everything else.
My final entry tells of the “used” shops, thought this does the shops down one alley an injustice for their goods were of every quality and age. We saw scales 300 years old and huge gates of wood with small human sizes doors within them. We saw little shops on a side court yard with spiraling upper floors of special odds and ends with treasures of unbelievable interest…items collected over the centuries and hand made in places everywhere in the middle east.
The amazing thing is that everyone to whom we spoke knew we were guests in their country and asked us if we had been to the bazaar in Esfahan! Then they talked at length about the bazaar in Tehran. Each with a different tone of voice. The Tehran bazaar was noted for its size but the one in Esfahan, well it was indescribable, they said. When we asked about an item of special merit they told us we might find it in Esfahan. What an adventure this will be.
P.S. Eat your heart out shoppers. The exchange rate is about 925 to 1 and antique items that are modest in price are around 4 to 6 dollars! But let me warn you, our friends knew how to bargain. We would have paid more for our few items purchased. They keep us from showing too much interest in an item until the sale was made and we were out of the shop! We looked at hand made rugs that were about 5’ by 4’ and sold for $225. Our friends put their heads together and said lets see if we can do better. The next place was willing to sell us two for about $115 a piece! Too bad we did not have the money in hand and they do not take credit cards!
If the name Kashan sounds familiar you are correct for this is an old center for the rug making along the silk route. Home made carpets that cost the price of a luxury automobile or a comfortable home are made here. Kashan also claims to be the home from which the magi wandered west to find the Christ child in Bethlehem.
As we stood outside the taxi getting our bearings, we were almost run over by a large flat cart being pushed by a worker. A truck was parked on the side of the street, full of carpets rolled in plastic. We followed the cart as it entered the archway and maneuvered its way through the ever increasing number of shoppers, shop keepers and workers. The bazaars are the center of almost every community in Iran. The bazaars of Iran anticipated the malls of America by many centuries for they are enclosed and can be multiple stories high. They are as ancient as the silk route made famous by Marco Polo. They existed from ancient times and are the central core of each city. Through the bazaars in Iran, almost 70% of the trade of the country is controlled. They are a community all of their own.
Our purpose for going to the bazaar was the usual: we were hunting modest gifts to take home for our family and we wanted to explore the famous rug industry of Kashan. We were not disappointed. We got much more.
The prof and I took the lead for we talked more than looked. Linda was with an outstanding student and native of the city. Our new friend and I were so much on the same wavelength after a day together that we laughed at the same time at what we saw. One stall was computer goods, the next stall was the entrance to a fine men’s clothing store, the next stall was a butcher shop where the butcher was cutting up a side of lamb, and then a pastic good shop spilling out on into the aisle-- the same plastic goods that you see at Dollar Genral or at the Saturday flea market in the US.
What struck us was the striking difference between the booths. Some of the produce would have been familiar to a Jewish exile in the time of Jeremiah. Some of the goods could have been in a mall in a wealthy suburb of Orange County California. The new with the old, the simple with the complex. Each walkway had side aisles where you might find workers dying wool in big vats and laying them across lines held up by wooden beams. The next aisle might have perfumer makers, gold merchnts, herbal pharmacies.
Just after the butcher shop we began to follow our noses toward freshly ground cinnamon. We found two large grinding stones. Each started with a flat grinding stone of some ten feet in circumference laying its side. A much smaller stone on its side circled around a post and an arm came out beyond the large grinding wheel. It did not take much imagination to picture a mule hitched to the stone. Now the arm was attached to a Briggs and Straton engine on a cart. The cart went in a circle and a large paddle was handled by the attendant who avoided the circling cart to push large chunks of spices and herbs under the grinders. What an aroma!
Each grinding machine was in its own arched room. The ceiling was made of dirt and straw like much of the older homes in the desert. It had an arched ceiling and was cool and comfortable. The arched roof had a hole in it so that air could enter and be cooled like a cave yet keep out any moisture in the infrequent rains of the desert.
The merchant who operated this amazing invention was very pleased to show off his equipment. Our merchant took us through his whole operation and we could smell the freshest cinnamon that makes the cans we buy at the supermarket seem anemic in comparison. Our host did not speak but made signs with hands and noises of excitement for he knew we were guests in his country. The prof turned politely toward us and told us the man was deaf. Of course we purchased two spices, cinnamon and one we had to ask about which was cardamom. They make our apartment smell divine.
Our next excursion was to a much larger avenue off the main artery. We saw a large pool and a domed ceiling with light shining in. It was an old caravansei—where merchants from afar and their animals were once given shelter. On every side we saw empty shops that once housed businesses. Two were still in use and updated for modern working conditions. Outside were stacks and stacks of carpet, much of it hand made of the finest materials. The famous Persian rugs! In a well lit corner a young man had a scraper that looked like the large head of hatchet. He also had a rag that he had made wet. With these two items he was cleaning carpet. How? He took the hatchet head and scraped the carpet. Off came lots of lint. I would have torn up the carpet but he knew the right pressure to put on the head. The next booth held a single carpet laid out flat and it covered the whole room. A man with a comb like tool was slowly pulling one thread at a time back into place on this carpet as he repaired it. How many days to repair this carpet I do not know but that it was worth the effort as its beauty and intricate design was immediately apparent.
On down the row a elderly woman wearing her black chador was buying wool from the wool merchant. (Watching the wool being dyed is a story in itself.) There was no pretense of who was in charge of this purchase. She tested several wool strands first with a yank and then with her teeth. She held it up and pulled it apart holding each end and judging its quality. If there was a guild for women making rugs she was a leading member. Chador or no chador, skill and experience trumped everything else.
My final entry tells of the “used” shops, thought this does the shops down one alley an injustice for their goods were of every quality and age. We saw scales 300 years old and huge gates of wood with small human sizes doors within them. We saw little shops on a side court yard with spiraling upper floors of special odds and ends with treasures of unbelievable interest…items collected over the centuries and hand made in places everywhere in the middle east.
The amazing thing is that everyone to whom we spoke knew we were guests in their country and asked us if we had been to the bazaar in Esfahan! Then they talked at length about the bazaar in Tehran. Each with a different tone of voice. The Tehran bazaar was noted for its size but the one in Esfahan, well it was indescribable, they said. When we asked about an item of special merit they told us we might find it in Esfahan. What an adventure this will be.
P.S. Eat your heart out shoppers. The exchange rate is about 925 to 1 and antique items that are modest in price are around 4 to 6 dollars! But let me warn you, our friends knew how to bargain. We would have paid more for our few items purchased. They keep us from showing too much interest in an item until the sale was made and we were out of the shop! We looked at hand made rugs that were about 5’ by 4’ and sold for $225. Our friends put their heads together and said lets see if we can do better. The next place was willing to sell us two for about $115 a piece! Too bad we did not have the money in hand and they do not take credit cards!
posted by Quakers in Qom at 2:45 AM
1 Comments:
Hi. My neighbor in Salem, Virginia gave me your blog address. I love reading your blog and wanted to say, there is a restaurant in Kashan run by a British lady and her husband. It's name is Delpazir. You must visit it next time you go. Everyone in Kashan knows the restaurant. I went there with my Dad about a month ago and enjoyed the food. My e-mail is slbadii@aol.com Sincerely, Sherry Frantz P.S. My Aunt Uschi is very very sick in Isfahan. She is originally from Germany and has lived in Isfahan for 35 years. Please say a prayer for her.
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