Free Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn by Jamie Maslin Page A

another one—this time the silver pocket watch. Once again, my refusal was not allowed, despite my attempting it on more than three occasions.
    It had a beautiful flowery pattern on one side, and on the other was the inscription, “World’s Best Dad.” He obviously couldn’t read English as well as he spoke it, and said proudly, “English words.” I was touched.
    Poetry is big in Iran. Iranians take their poets very seriously, and poetry is without doubt the most important form of literature there. This is because poets often promoted Islam and the Persian language during periods of occupation. Not only do they have mausoleums named after them, but streets and squares as well—although probably not as many as Khomeini does.
    Our next stop was to visit one such place called the Poet’s Mausoleum, situated to the west of the bazaar in a quaint little park, which had been built after the death of a very popular local poet, Shahriah. The mausoleum was an odd-shaped monument consisting of several large hollow arched sections, which in totality formed a towering modern artistic structure that you could walk through. Situated around it were the statues of famous Iranian poets to whom it was a memorial.
    One of Iran’s favorite poets, Ferdosi, started an epic poem in the tenth century called Shahnama or “the Book of Kings,” which he began at age forty and finished thirty years later. It was, as you might expect, a touch on the long side and contained no less than 50,000 couplets. This he presented to the Turkish king, who was less than impressed, as it contained no reference at all to the Turks. He rejected it and poor old Ferdosi died a penniless fellow. He is venerated now, though, and seen as the savior of Farsi, writing in this language when Persian culture was rapidly being Arabized. His writings record many details of Persian history, which, without him, might have been lost forever. Other famous and influential Iranian poets include Hafez, Sa’di, and Omar Khayyam.
    Beneath the mausoleum was an underground exhibition hall displaying local photography. The photos were all of regional attractions, and one in particular caught my attention. It was an old stony castle situated on top of a rugged and very steep mountaintop, surrounded on all sides by forested hills. Its name was Babak Castle, and strangely it merited no mention in my guidebook. Shahram seemed to know it well but found it difficult to translate for me where it was or if it was possible to visit. I decided to make some further inquiries later with the tourist guide who’d offered me Nescafé.
    Shahram was generous to a fault and had already bought me a notepad in the bazaar and was now approaching the till with a book. I suspected it was for me, and my suspicions were confirmed when he turned and presented it to me with a smile. It was a photography booklet of quality prints, including one of the mysterious castle. I thanked him many times over and wondered if all Iranians were this incredibly generous and hospitable to foreigners.
    Not long after the sun set, I was introduced to Shahram’s wife, whom we met up with at her office. Her name was Kimya, and as Shahram introduced me to her, I made the mistake of instinctively thrusting out my hand for her to shake before realizing it wasn’t deemed appropriate. Once it was out, though, I couldn’t retract it, so it just sort of hung there in the air for a second, whilst she pondered what to do. In desperation, she looked across to Shahram for guidance. He nodded that it was okay, and we shook. I hoped I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
    Kimya spoke much better English than Shahram, and it was good to talk to her without having to repeat myself several times as I’d been doing with Shahram. She went through all the standard Iranian icebreaker questions and seemed genuinely sorry and surprised to learn I wasn’t married yet, as had Shahram when he had first asked me. “I hope you get married