We passed the Armeno-Iranian border on 2nd April. Gabrielle arranged her veil and her tunic. We crossed the bridge that stretches across the river Araxe by foot. This river separates the two countries.

We had the feeling of diving into the unknown: we did not know too much about this country and the little information we had got before our departure was a bit contradictory. We were a bit worried, would they let us come into the country? A man in uniform, with perfect English, welcomed us and took our passports. He gave them back to us a few minutes later giving us a big ‘Welcome to Iran!’.

Here we are in Iran! We walked a few metres when the customs officer called us back…would we like a taxi to go to Jolfa?

The taxi driver quickly showed us that Iran is a dangerous country…for its road driving! We drove at breakneck speed, running alongside the border in the middle of lunar landscapes dotted with multicoloured camping tents. All along the river, families were comfortably installed to picnic, their Peugeot cars parked along the road.

About sixty kilometres later, we arrived in Jolfa. We installed ourselves in a modest ‘mosaferkhaneh’ (literally ‘traveller’s house’). When we went out to town, most of the shops were closed. We asked a well-groomed young man (low waist jeans, tectonic hairdo, afro bracelet) to direct us to an Internet café. It was Friday, the weekend! Moreover, it was the last day of the holiday week that follows No Ruz, the Iranian New Year. Everybody had gone away to spend these few days with their families.  

We bought some fruit and vegetables at the greengrocer’s. When it was time to pay, he refused our money. Amazed, we accepted with pleasure. Finally, the reception appeared to be a lot warmer than we had imagined. Later, when recalling this incident, we would wonder if this was in fact an example of Ta’arof. This Iranian custom consists of a shopkeeper not making people pay, but the customer is meant to insist on paying, at least three times.

We stopped in a park near the market. A big number of families had settled to picnic. Some of them had even put up their tents. We were sharing our bananas between us when a small bald man approached us with a big smile: ‘Follow me!’. He was friendly; we picked up our belongings and followed him. We noticed that all his family were observing the scene from where they were, laughing. There we were, invited for tea.

In broken English, we were introduced to each other. Lawyer, engineer or teacher, they had come to spend their No Ruz holidays in Jolfa. They offered us fruit and pistachios, disappointed they were not able to give us more. These people were a long way from the strict lifestyle clichés about Iran. If it was not for the omnipresent veil for women, we might have had the feeling of meeting other Europeans. However, at the end of the snack and when it was time to say goodbye, women shook Gabrielle’s hand and men shook mine. We had well left Armenia and its big hugging and kissing. 

           Encounters in Jolfa

François
(Translation: Yolene Dabreteau)