My trip began much how it ended, with a half-serious enquiry as to whether I was going to die. “I’m not sure yet” was the less-than-welcome response from the attendant aboard my terribly turbulent Garuda Airlines flight. I was en route to Timor-Leste (located here), having encountered what the Germans might call a ‘luxury problem’ in that I’d seen just about everywhere else in Asia. This was the continent’s newest and poorest nation, the world’s most oil-dependent economy and home to the largest UN peacekeeping mission on Earth. Emerging from decades of bloodshed and occupation with barely any infrastructure intact, war-ravaged Timor attracts just 1,500 tourists per year. Roads are amongst the world’s worst (where they exist) the postal service is rumoured to take one-and-a-half years, the humidity is oppressive, healthcare minimal, poverty rampant and the dinky shot-up capital, Dili, would make even the most modest of British towns look like a megalopolis. It is isolated and inaccessible with just 3 ports of entry (Bali, Singapore and Darwin, Australia), so why would anyone care to visit?

Because travellers will discover in Timor-Leste what everyone else in Southeast Asia is hopelessly searching for… All your dreamy paradise island clichés can be found within – pristine white beaches, crystal clear azure seas, some of the richest and most diverse sea life on the planet and welcoming, unjaded locals to show you the way. Adventurous tourists will find some incredible hiking routes, thick rainforest, untouched lagoons and delicious seafood – and 9 times out of 10, you’ll be the only traveller in town. The country has only one man-made tourist attraction though, and it would be my first stop…

The Cristo-Rei of Dili was a bit of a ‘one finger salute’ courtesy of occupying Indonesia. A ‘gift’ from dictatorial fruitloop Suharto, the giant JC was installed in 1995 and still faces Jakarta, standing 27 metres tall – a metre to represent each Indonesian province, including Timor-Leste. You’d think the locals might have hacked off a metre or at least rotated him towards the city since winning independence ten years ago. However, the statue was blessed by John Paul II and the ex-Portuguese colony remains 94% Christian. I sweated my way to the top one morning and was treated to a stunning panorama of the capital.

Just as I’d taken my obligatory ‘thinker’ shot, an extremely friendly local fellow accosted me to pose for a phone photo. He then happily began gesturing at his open mouth and so I offered him some water. He kept pointing so, in my naivety, I then suggested a polo mint which he also refused. When he started pointing at my crotch, I realised what was really on offer. I politely declined on the basis of: *I’d just had breakfast. *He wasn’t my type. *We were at the foot of a 27-metre Jesus in a devoutly Catholic country. *It would involve a very major lifestyle change on my part.

As much as I’m up for new travel experiences, the area wasn’t exactly renowned as a hot cruising spot and this wasn’t what I’d envisaged when told of the ‘very friendly’ locals. I had to wonder what kind of success rate he’d have to enjoy in order to justify hanging around there all day. I made a hasty exit, reassured that ‘I’d still got it’ and hoping that my new friend would find success some other day.

Whilst I barely met anyone else visiting the country purely for tourism purposes, there was no shortage of foreigners – especially in Dili – which was teeming with UN and NGO workers in gleaming 4x4s. The world’s largest UN deployment includes 1,465 police officers, 894 local staff, 372 international staff, 160 volunteers and 33 military liaison officers. Compared to other hell-holes where their forces are positioned, serving in Timor-Leste under one of the myriad of UN acronyms remains the cushiest and most highly sought after appointment. A false economy of imported goods, international eateries and mid-range hotels have sprung up to support the influx (all destined to suffer if the mission pulls out as planned next February).

Typically, when asked, few UN workers seemed to know why they were there, and no party involved seemed to want them to stick around. Nevertheless, in 2006, they departed too quickly (taking vehicles and equipment with them) and the country descended into internal chaos pitting east against west and the police against the military. The focus today is on capacity building, though unfortunately, many of those lumbered with tasks such as training up entire police departments are no better qualified themselves. Some of the Bangladeshi cops were just lowly officers plucked from the community beat back home and cannot even drive. And so the UN has been forced to learn a few lessons on how to nation build from scratch.

Leaving my less than luxurious accommodation (featuring a lethal eye-level ceiling fan), I hired a motorbike in the hope of tracing the country’s only half-drivable road along the northern coast to Jaco Island. The rainy season had all but cut-off the southern part of the island. Away from Dili’s 4x4s, old Singaporean yellow cabs and packed ‘microlets’, it was quite possible to drive for several miles without seeing another soul. The coastline gave way to thick jungle and then again into beautiful tiered paddy fields. Meanwhile, the road itself would often throw up sudden crater-like potholes or sometimes just disappear completely off a cliff without warning.

The further away from the capital, the more picturesque and green the scenery became, occasionally passing through villages where there would be a stream of welcoming smiles and waving from the local children chanting ‘malae!’ (‘foreigner!’). Folks generally spoke Tetum and sometimes Portuguese, but all were genuinely hospitable and unused to foreigners passing though. Many utterly insisted on having their photograph taken (which I’d agree to if only to stop them photobombing mine).

During the occupation, Indonesian vehicles tearing through villages were nicknamed ‘no problems’, such was the attitude of drivers who hit a child. A German delegation observed in 1985 that “the whole island gives the impression of being under arrest. No-one smiles”. Today, it is very much the opposite – smiling faces are abundant because, it is said, people no longer have to worry about war. This is not to say there isn’t continuing poverty – 75% still rely on subsistence farming and it was clear that most lifestyles have remained unchanged for centuries. Families eat what they grow and hope there’ll be some excess to sell.

Today, animals are the biggest hazard on the rundown roads. Should your vehicle strike a dog, chicken, pig or goat, you’ll have to negotiate with the village chief to pay a fine of US$10, $20, $100 or $200 respectively. Of the various animals I navigated around, chickens were by far the stupidest. Chickens are all suicidal and will go in the opposite direction you expect. Almost as dangerous are the native population of saltwater crocodiles, which are more likely to bother unsuspecting beach-goers or those brave enough to go for a swim.

What looks like a 3-hour drive on the map can take at least double that in reality. Eventually I made it to the second city, Baucau, 122km east of the capital. Again, there was very little to see or do, though I had a lot of time for the old Portuguese Mercado Municipal building. The crumbling, derelict old marketplace sits in the middle of the old town begging for restoration, nature slowly reclaiming it. Some other colonial buildings remain untouched as it is feared that ghosts inhabit them, though there is otherwise not much evidence of the Portuguese presence left. This is partly because they severely neglected their remote outpost, or as current President Ramos-Horta puts it, “East Timor, under the Portuguese, seemed to sit still in history. The clock of development did not tick there”. In 1861, naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace decried that “nobody seems to care the least about the improvement of the country…. There has not been a mile of road made beyond the town.” By 1975, when a bloodless revolution occurred back home, Portugal had built just 19km of roads.

The power vacuum created after they abandoned the colony led to a bloody invasion by Indonesia within days. Suharto insinuated communism might take a hold and so instantly won Western backing – Australia was interested in oil deals, Britain was complicit and the US provided weaponry. President Ford sent a congratulatory pack of golf balls to Jakarta, whilst the Brits stated that Timor was “too backward for Western-style self-determination.” A third of the population was wiped out between then and the turn of the century, as Ramos-Horta continued to represent the country in exile at the UN. Dili’s ‘CHEGA!’ (‘No More, Enough, Stop’) Exhibition draws from thousands of archived witness testimonies to paint an unfortunately typical picture of this time. Comparable to Cambodia under Pol Pot, the years-long brutal oppression involved torture, forced displacement, disappearances, sexual violence, famine and cruelty.

As I hadn’t time to make it to Jaco Island, I headed south towards Viqueque passing some WWII tunnels which the Japanese had forced locals to carve into a mountainside (I wandered in as far as I’d dare). However, the road became too dilapidated for my two-wheeler to handle and so I chased the sun back to the capital, passing though countless small communities where the only solid building was the church…

Back in Dili, I was afforded just enough time to see the infamous Santa Cruz cemetery – the notorious site of the 1991 massacre in which at least 250 peaceful protesters were killed. Unfortunately for the Indonesians, a number of foreigners also fell victim to the state-instigated violence and their presence, as with the 1975 Balibo Five killings, helped raise awareness of the ongoing oppression. Democracy Now’s Amy Goodman was one of the injured journalists reporting (Click here for her account. Note that her voice may be difficult to make out over the ringing of her big brass balls!).

It was only when I almost missed the water taxi to Atauro Island next morning that I realised that my watch had been wrong for 5 days. I’d been living an hour in front of the rest of the country yet, such was the slow pace of life, it hadn’t made any difference. Sometimes I’d wondered why some things were still closed for lunch at 2pm, but thankfully I was the only one on the speedboat that morning so was still able to travel.

Previously a prison island, lush Atauro is surrounded by unspoiled coral reefs and immaculate picture-postcard beaches. Other than a spot of snorkelling, reading and gawping at the night sky, I was sure to do absolutely nothing for two days as I settled into a tent at an eco-resort. One outing I did make was to the small factory of a superb women’s empowerment NGO called Bonecas de Atauro. They manufacture unique cabbage-patch-like dolls, a sought-after gift from Timor-Leste, and the women let me join in and buy a couple for friends.

On my final morning I heard some disturbing news about a murder the night before. A guy had been drinking and had beaten his wife to death. The UN police had descended upon the island to take him away. Apparently, it was desperate times for all of the 8,000-strong population – they were suffering a drought and needed rain that week to prevent a third and final maize crop failure. If that happened, then emergency food would have to be imported. I learnt that, although the land looks fantastically green and the seas bountiful, the area was not especially fertile and the oceans were over-fished.

Just before a final visit to the local market, I met a famous herpetologist and TV star Mark O’Shea who had just arrived with a study group which had already registered dozens of new species on the island. They were now focusing on monitor lizards. I also met a German public radio journalist who I caught the weekly public ferry back to Dili with. I’d heard news of a gang-run cockfight happening the next day so we agreed to meet the following afternoon.

Cockfighting remains a popular, centuries-old traditional spectator sport and community gambling event [full photo story here]. A taxi driver led us to a ‘futumanu’ arena in time for the 2pm start where owners were already letting their birds spar with potential opponents in order to find a fair match. Razor-sharp metal spurs were tied to the back of the chicken’s legs as each of the owners place an all-or-nothing bet with the house (which takes a commission of around a third). Spotting that some foreigners had rocked up, the referee gave us a VIP view in the bank area. His job was very well paid at US$400 per month – and it needs to be, as poor decisions had previously led to entire villages being razed, sparking full-on riots.

As the animals were paired up, the commotion increased with the all-male crowd placing bets between themselves. The cocks stared each other down before jumping forward feet first. Fights were a daily event and can last several hours, sometimes with bets of up to US$1000 changing hands. Some Westerners may decry the animal rights aspect, but the human cost to the men and their families is the real issue. 40% of Timorese live on under US$0.55 per day and the country has the poorest Gross National Income (GNI) by Purchasing Power Parity (PPP) in the world – meaning it is an extremely expensive place for its people to live. Despite this, many insist that gambling can be a fast way for ordinary people to make money.

As for the birds, I’d much prefer the pampered life of a Timorese cockfighting chicken than that of a long-suffering Western battery hen. They are purchased for around US$30 and are lovingly groomed, fed and cherished by their owners until their big day arrives… The spectacle was less graphic than I’d feared and the suffering was minimal, with the loser being BBQ’d up within hours of their gory demise. After causing me numerous scrapes with death on the roads, my sympathy for the Timorese chicken had perhaps been tempered somewhat.

In return for inviting my journalist friend along, he asked whether I’d like to meet the Nobel Prize winning president. Somehow, it didn’t seem a fair exchange but – of course – I accepted and we made our way to an election rally where Ramos-Horta would be announcing his candidacy… Attending any sort of political gathering, let alone in Timor-Leste, would normally ring alarm bells, but then so would getting involved in gang-run gambling events.

I’d ended up standing right next to the man himself purely by pretending to look as if I knew what I was doing, coupled with looking white – both of which I pull of extremely well. My big new camera may have helped disguise me as a journalist too, as I leant over and shook the president’s hand, saying it was a pleasure to meet him. He asked how I was, to which I meekly replied ‘hmmnghnnhmgh’ and emitted a timid chuckle. God knows I need to man up if I’m ever to make that transition to journalism….

To the outside world, Ramos-Horta seems like the perfect human – a writer of children’s books and humble peace and human rights advocate so embarrassed by his large, Chinese-built palace that he opened the grounds for the public and installed free wifi. The office of president is mostly ceremonial and so he wields little power nowadays – however, many Timorese are annoyed in how forgiving he was of the Indonesians, of present day criminals (he pardons hundreds every Christmas) and even of his own attempted assassin, who almost succeeded in killing him back in 2008. It is unclear whether he will win again but this did not stop him donning full-on tribal get-up and plastering the church rallying point with pictures of him meeting Pope Benedict. Clearly, cheap cynicism was a feature of politics the world over.

Also facing the country this election year is the issue of where Timor-Leste’s vast oil and gas riches are disappearing to. Despite outright theft by Australia over the decades, almost US$9billion has been generated in recent years, the biggest increase in income of any country during the same period. In fact, the impoverished nation has no debt whatsoever and is thus free from any IMF interference… Although the government has set up a convoluted investment fund to maximise the country’s mineral wealth, it appears they are living off the interest quicker than it can be generated.

Onlookers may wonder why they’re not doing more to repair infrastructure and build an alternative economy to take over when the oil runs dry in a few years time. But besides from large sums disappearing under endemic corruption, a large slice of the wealth is going towards more immediate concerns such as importing subsidised staples (mostly rice). It may seem short-sighted, but it provides some stability and normality in a country used to living day-by-day on the edge.

One of my final stops was Dili Cathedral, where everyone had turned out in their Sunday best for the morning Portuguese service. I also paid a quick visit to Arte Moris, another great NGO which trains young people in painting, photography, multimedia, sculpture and architecture. Some of their output was understandably quite political.

Along with an annual carnival, art fair, ‘Tour de Timor’ cycle race and marathon, Dili was noticeably trying to foster its new image as ‘City of Peace’, as it continues to look towards a democratic future. I’m not sure I’d recommend the country yet as a destination, if only because of the prohibitive costs involved and lack of any tourist industry. Some may prefer that though, as Timor-Leste is certainly off the beaten track and the reserve of the more adventurous and hardcore travellers – just as I was to learn upon arriving back in Hong Kong…

Within less than 24-hrs, I found myself scrawling the internet in search of why I suddenly felt so severely feverish and weak. As with my bout of malaria 9 years ago, the doctors were pretty dismissive but – within a few days, I found myself in the hospital ER answering questions about my travels in minute detail. Even the words ‘Timor-Leste’, which I had to get translated into Chinese, struck horror into my colleagues and the doctors looking after me. After being admitted to a ward, it was the Department of Health who called me, a week later, to confirm that I’d contracted Dengue Fever. HK doesn’t piss about with outbreaks and so were keen to build a picture of my exact movements around the city since returning. The area around my home, my workplace, the aeroplane I travelled on and a few streets in Mongkok were then treated with insecticide to prevent mosquitoes.

My four days on a male ward felt a lot longer – I must’ve bought the average age down to about 93 and being held captive was my idea of hell. I spent my time lying around in boredom, panic and existential crisis (usually looping in that order), whilst cursing the insect which bit me on Atauro Island and my own cockiness for not wearing repellent. Meanwhile, the Scotsman next to me kept sane by placing bets on who would “snuff it” next. And more often than not, someone on ward C7 would indeed not wake up the next day.

For the second time in as many weeks, I enquired as to my own odds, to which the doctor said, ‘There is no treatment or cure. But some people survive!” Cheers doc… On the day I’d pledged to secretly ‘unplug’ an infuriating neighbour I’d christened ‘Epic Snore Man’, he was spared as I was finally informed that my white blood cells were increasing. I was discharged having ‘gotten away with it’ but was told that I’d be in real trouble were I to contract Dengue for a second time. A lesson learnt the hard way.

And so another patch for the bag and another tropical disease to add to the list (which I’m secretly slightly proud of). I’m still off work this week but have pretty much recovered now. Whilst Timor may have punished me this time round, its people really have been to hell and back at the hands of the Portuguese, Japanese and Indonesians.  Their beautiful country deserves to be on the map and if it can get through this year’s elections and UN pull-out, maybe it can develop as second fiddle to nearby Bali, without making its mistakes.

Happy Chinese New Year of the Dragon…
Tom.

• John Pilger: The Timor Conspiracy. (documentary)
• Al-Jazeera: East Timor’s Independence (documentary)
• Journeyman: Four Days in Dili (documentary)
• Balibo (An Australian movie from 2009, banned in Indonesia, available on bit-torrent)
• John Pilger article – The Coup the World Missed

This travel piece, adapted from my journals, was featured in Hong Kong Time Out Magazine on 26.10.11. More photos here.

As your flight descends into the dark heart of the Evil Axis, rumours of 50c heat, a presumed threat of kidnap and the danger of a terrorist free-for-all weigh heavily upon the mind. However, Iran’s terrifying reputation and wildly inaccurate stereotypes mask what must be one of the friendliest and safest hidden gems in all of Asia. From magnificent mosques to bustling bazaars, the Islamic Republic is home to a sophisticated culture and rich history, all showcased with a famously heartfelt level of hospitality. And as for the intense desert heat – long-suffering Hong Kongers may actually find the lack of humidity strangely tolerable.

The lightly beaten tourist trail begins in the ‘City of Love’, Shiraz. No longer a wine producer, this small city is centred around the elaborate Vakil Bazaar. The colourful marketplace comes to life at night and shoppers exploring the endless maze will find locals offering to pay for things (or even dinner!) as shopkeepers chase them down dark alleys merely to return their change.

Shiraz’s ubiquitous ice-cream parlours and burger joints are popular hangouts for young students, always eager to grill foreigners. Discussions usually begin with “what is your idea of Iran?” – indicative of a nation just as conscious of (and exasperated by) their leader’s antics on the world stage as the rest of us. Visitors may be surprised to learn how openly many will talk politics, and – thanks to illegal satellite TV – the population are remarkably well-informed. And whilst cynical old Asia hands may brace for the inevitable sales pitch during such chats, it rarely materialises – instead, it quickly becomes clear that both sides harbour a few misconceptions. Far from the ‘Death to America’ types seen at choreographed rallies on TV, Persians are a friendly, unjaded and highly curious bunch.

With nightclubs, live gigs and alcohol outlawed, Shirazis have become hardcore picnickers. As the day’s heat subsides, hundreds gather to socialise at the tomb of Hafez, a 14^th-century poet and widely-loved hero. It is said that every Iranian household has a copy of his poetry and the Qu’ran.

Despite this, as one wanders the dusty streets and countless parks, it is surprising how nonchalant most folks seem about religion in Iran.Few of the younger generation are serious about Islam (and due to a temporary ban on birth control, they make up the vast majority of the population). Whilst in Egypt, entire communities hit the floor, sidewalks and even freeways for daily prayer, Shi’a Iranians are rarely spotted publicly bowing to Mecca.

Before moving on from scholarly Shiraz, it is worth sharing a taxi to the ceremonial capital of the Achaemenid Empire, Persepolis. 70km northeast of the city, this impressive World Heritage site dates back to 515 BC. Typically, fellow Iranian tourists will fight one another for the honour of being your free tour guide.

A bumpy bus ride east through a landscape resembling that of a Roadrunner cartoon leads us to the more conservative desert town of Yazd. It is here that men may begin to lament the Sharia ban on shorts and women their compulsory headscarves, but the country shuts down between lunchtime and teatime allowing most to escape the worst of the sweltering sun. For masochists wishing to work up more of a sweat, the city’s traditional Zoorkhaneh gym (‘House of Strength’) is a must-see. This ancient form of folk wrestling is set in a 1-metre deep octagonal pit where Iranian gents competitively exhibit various feats of strength, flexibility and ritual involving wooden clubs. Guests may also try to wow spectators with their muscular vigour, albeit for a fee.

As the capital of the world’s oldest monotheistic religion – Yazd’s Zoroastrian sites are unmissable. The Ateshkadeh Eternal Flame has been burning for centuries and can be seen on the way to the ominous Towers of Silence. Until the 1970s, the bodies of recently deceased Zoroastrians were placed on top of these raised, circular ‘Dakhma’ and exposed to the sun and vultures. The eerie structures are still enough to cause a full-on existential crisis, especially upon sight of some of the remaining human bones. Nowadays, followers are buried in a nearby cemetery with graves lined with wood to prevent contact with the earth.

These sites, along with mesmerising Kharanaq – an ancient desert village – are accessible only by taxi. With fuel heavily subsidised, official and unofficial private cabs are the best way to navigate congested cities. But before thumbing a lift, it may be wise to bear in mind that the highly offensive ‘thumbs up’ gesture is the equivalent of the middle finger in Iran. What with the language barrier, it’s tough not to over-compensate with body language – one may end up with ‘thumbs up Tourettes’, concluding each conversation and thanking kind locals with a big smiley ‘f*ck you! (though, most Persians would understand and forgive such faux-pas).

Further north lies the unforgettable and beautifully grand garden city of Esfahan. Described as ‘Half the World’, the outstanding mosques which line the huge Imam Square – second only to Tiananmen in size – are a veritable Magic Eye image of detail, intricacy and splendour. Their abstract designs, colours, symmetry and Arabic script – devoid of any identifiable pictures – are just as exquisite as the splendid frescos in the Armenian Quarter’s Vank Cathedral.

Some of the centuries-old UNESCO-protected mosques took decades to complete and are mathematically perfect bar some small, deliberate symmetry errors inserted to show the artist’s humbleness before God. Entire days can be spent relaxing near Esfahan’s old arched bridges, surveying the photogenic architecture in different lighting or people-watching from one of the busy shisha cafes. And should one bore of the palaces, minarets and charming boulevards, a quirkier afternoon may be spent at the somewhat outdated Natural History Museum (which is full of unconvincing dinosaur models, jarred foetuses and very poor taxidermy!).

Though securing a visa involves a sizeable donation to furry-faced Armadinajad and a Sisyphusian battle with Iranian bureaucracy, the rewards are well worth your time. Whilst most will be put off by fears of starring in Al-Qaeda’s next ‘foreign infidel beheading special’, it is criminal that so few tourists do their research and take the plunge. Yet for those who do make it, a trip to this ancient, undiscovered land feels like being let in on a closely guarded secret.

On Saturday, October 15th 2011, hundreds of protesters occupied Exchange Square in Central. Since then, dozens of activists have been occupying the space beneath Central’s HSBC building.  Here are a few links to local/international coverage:

• Tom on Reuters (video), on TVB (video) Sina (press), CRI English (radio) and a longer quote on RTHK 3 (radio) after the Exchange Square protest on 15.10.11.

• Also, a report from the South China Morning Post on the HSBC commune, 23.10.11.

 

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A photograph of mine is featured in the New Internationalist (wiki) 2012 diary planner. NI is a non-profit co-op and is a favourite of mine, focusing on world poverty and inequality.

In my ongoing effort to find new and inventive ways to worry the crap out of my poor mother, I finally boarded a flight to Shiraz in Southern Iran on the Arabian take on Easyjet. After numerous payments to an extortionist sponsor in Tehran, an endless Sisyphusian battle with Iranian bureaucracy and a sizeable donation to furry-faced Armadinajad, I’d managed to secure a visa for a two week stint in the dark beating heart of the Evil Axis.

There’s no poetic way of putting it – after just 5 minutes of sitting on the runway, we’d barely gotten through the pre-flight prayer and it was brown trousers time. Minutes from takeoff, a fellow at the back of the plane suddenly started hollering something about God with half a dozen others. Embarrassingly, it was enough to induce a mini-panic attack – my heart raced and the colour must have visibly drained from my face since my fellow passengers (in a four-row radius) began cracking up. Apparently, it’s not uncommon for folks to get some jazz-chanting going when they’re keyed up – especially on flights or at a concert or celebration. Shouting on a plane is alarming anywhere – but especially when done in a Middle Eastern language en route to Iran. I eventually laughed along, but damn Iran – you scary!

After two hours of back-to-back Roadrunner cartoons I disembarked into the 40c heat – certainly no friend of my feeble gingery skin. I’d landed mid-afternoon in what had been dubbed the City of Roses, the City of Love, yet it seemed to be completely abandoned. Everything was closed and everyone thus far had charged me exactly 10x what I was quoted. A celebrated and academic city of sophistication? What a dive!… I made a beeline for my hotel, resigned myself to appearing in Al-Qaeda’s next ‘Foreign Infidel Beheading Special’ and awaited my inevitable kidnapping. If I was lucky, perhaps I could squeeze in a couple of tourist sights between bombings.

Despite the oppressive heat, Sharia law forbids men to don shorts, sleeveless tops and frowns upon jeans. I took this also to mean that I couldn’t wear my usual travel attire: my chickensuit – lest I fall foul (!) of the moral police… And so, dressed to the nines, I emerged after sunset to mingle with some locals amidst the hustle and bustle of the ornate Vakil Bazaar. Suddenly, things became clearer – easygoing Iranians take a 5-hour siesta in the blistering afternoons (and, confusingly, talk about money in a different system to what’s printed on the notes).

As I explored the endless maze of stores (and power-walked through the women’s underwear section I’d predictably chanced upon), I was warmly welcomed by dozens of curious Iranians. Aside from a child with a toy AK, no-one seemed to want to blow me up or even rip me off. Instead, everyone offered to pay for things, buy me dinner or share chai! One trader chased me down a dark side alley… to return my change! So, where were all the ‘death to America’ types?!

Wandering around Shiraz, it was obvious that Persians love shopping and were all hardcore picnicers – they like nothing more than socialising and eating in the park of an evening. They all adore poetry, especially when read aloud, whilst fast-food joints and ice-cream parlours were to be found on every corner. In fairness, with nightclubs, live gigs and alcohol outlawed, and with a smoking ban affecting shisha cafes, there was little else to do – though the locals still had a great time.

In England, we worship celebrities such as Kerry Katona. In scholarly Shiraz, 14^th-century poets are widely-loved heroes – everyone has a copy of Hafez’s verses at home and hundreds gather at his mausoleum every day and evening. When I visited, I watched as local students opened books of his poetry at random to read some personal guidance on life or their future. One girl helped interpret a page I’d chosen and it said I ‘shouldn’t be so trusting’…

Yet I needn’t have been worried, as – by day two – the Islamic Republic was turning out to be probably the friendliest, most hospitable country I’d ever visited. Everywhere I went, curious men fought to elicit my opinions on their homeland (“What is your idea of Iran?!”) whilst shy, inquisitive children ran up and performed hit-and-run recitals of English phrases. And although women sparking conversations with strange men was somewhat against social etiquette, it was so clear sometimes that they were absolutely bursting to say ‘salaam’ – and so, generally, I’d relieve the pressure and say ‘hi’, which either led to giggling or another long line of questioning.

I don’t think I’d ever been stared at by so many beautiful women in my life, at least not whilst awake. However, I reckon it was my exotic ‘novelty factor’ rather than my Adonis-like figure and winning personality. Indeed, I imagine that seeing my orange buffont atop my pasty, lanky frame stroll past would be the equivalent of spotting an Eskimo on Oxford Street – I’d stare too!

For probably the first time in all of my globetrotting, these conversations never led into tiresome sales pitches. Refreshingly, for my cynical old self, offers of tea were actually offers of tea! Not once was I conned into visiting a bloody carpet shop, as per most other Lonely Planet beaten trails. Perhaps blame the lack of visitors, but these un-jaded Iranians had obviously not recognised the surely limitless potential for cheating me out of a few tourist dollars.

Next day, I bussed it to Iran’s premier World Heritage Site, the 2500-year-old ceremonial capital of the Achaemenid Empire – Persepolis. Two students adopted me on the bus and showed me around the breathtaking grandeur and fabulous ruins of the ancient ‘City of the Persians’.

After another morning of being guided around some magnificently intricate and splendid mosques, it was time to move on to the more conservative desert town of Yazd. The humidity rose as our bus speedily headed into a landscape that resembled the roadrunner cartoons I’d been subjected to earlier. (At one point, we stopped at a police check point which seemed to feature a ‘scarecrow cop car’!)

With more women wearing black chadors, it was obvious that this was a more traditional stronghold, though the prevalence of Islamic dress was still lower than expected, and not too dissimilar to my hometown in Britain. Headscarves remained compulsory nationwide, though there always seemed to be a workaround. Wigs and makeup were popular, for instance, allowing women to show some hair. Loopholes existed elsewhere too – gents were tee-total by law but could buy 0.0% faux-beer in order to feel manly. And despite the internet being heavily censored, Iranians love blogging and so many know how to hop over the firewall.

I was up at 5am to join some Eastern Europeans in a hire taxi to mesmerising Kharanaq – an ancient desert village that had been occupied for 4000 years and abandoned in the 1970s. After some breakfast, we saw an ice-house and a castle in nearby Meybod. However, the main attractions around holy Yazd were probably those related to Zoroastrianism – the world’s first monotheistic religion. The Ateshkadeh Eternal Flame had been burning for centuries – fuelled by wood which is replaced several times a day, but most impressive were the ominous Towers of Silence.

Dakhma are circular, raised structures used for the disposal of bodies. Shortly after death, bodies are placed on top and exposed to the sun and birds of prey (similar to Tibetan sky burials [very graphic pictures]). The two eerie towers we visited in the desert were no longer in use as post-revolution Iran frowned upon the dissection of corpses. Also, the community itself decided that the towers were becoming too near to population centres that the system was outdated. Nowadays, Zoroastrians are buried in a nearby cemetery with graves lined with wood to prevent contact with the earth. Hoping to avoid an existential crisis over it all, I returned to the hotel for the usual afternoon siesta.

Later, I linked up with a Dutch guy to meet a local doctor who’d kindly insisted we join her for dinner and a traditional music concert. As she showered us with gifts, food and hospitality, I admitted that such a welcome would never be offered from strangers in Britain. She gave us a crash-course in the complicated world of tarof and other Persian quirks and cultural traditions.

I was reminded that the ‘thumbs up’ gesture is the equivalent of the middle finger in Iran, yet somehow I was unable to stop doing it. Maybe I was overcompensating for my lack of Persian with excessive body language, but – from day one – I seemed to have ‘thumbs up Tourettes’ and couldn’t stop ending conversations with a big ‘fuck you’. It must be quite weird for locals to have a foreigner in your taxi happily hand over the cash, bid you farewell and smilingly offer up a big ‘go-fuck-yourself’ upon exiting. (And hitch-hiking must be an absolute nightmare!)

Surprisingly, quite a few people I chatted with were happy to talk politics. Beyond the stereotypes and endless reports of nuclear ambitions, oppression and Armadinajad’s latest drivel, there lies a largely enlightened and often liberal populace who are equally mortified by their government’s idiocy on the world stage. As the (now somewhat overshadowed) failed 2009 uprising suggested, they’re tiring of the Islamic Revolutionaries who solidified their power after the Iran-Iraq war. State TV and billboards remind citizens every single day of the brutal conflict – it drained the country’s resources and half-a-million lives (including teenagers convinced to walk through mine-fields to become martyrs). However, the TV tributes, flags and martyr photos lining roads in every city will not legitimise the ruling council forever and the resistance often flares up. Though I was probably predestined to meet more open, progressive types, it appears most are nostalgic for the days of democratically elected Mohammad Mosaddegh, who was overthrown by the CIA and Britain/BP in the 1950s [video of US/Iran history].

Although there remains some well-justified suspicion of particularly the British (‘Uncle Napoleonism’), Iranians much more readily align themselves with Western thinking than the culture of neighbouring Arab countries. I could definitely feel a common mindset that was lacking in my home city of Hong Kong. Persians remain proud of their European roots and will deny they are Arab with the same fervour in which my native Black Country folk reject being Brummies – and both are correct to do so.

On my final day is sweltering Yazd, I paid a visit to a tedious plumbing museum but also a traditional Zoorkhaneh gym (‘House of Strength’) – home to an ancient brand of folk wrestling known as Varzesh-e Bastani. Within a 1-metre deep octagonal pit, Iranian gents compete with each other to showcase various feats of strength, flexibility and ritual often involving wooden clubs. I wasn’t lucky enough to catch a show and thankfully my sole challenger during my visit was a small boy who promptly raided my backpack and posed with my sunglasses. Obviously, I’d have to wow the locals with my muscular vigour next time.

My next stop would be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Capital of old Persia and home to some of the world’s most magnificent architecture – Esfahan. To say the mosques lining the huge Imam Square were a veritable Magic Eye image of detail, intricacy and splendour would be an understatement. The abstract designs, colours, symmetry and Arabic script – devoid of any identifiable pictures – give Islamic architecture a timeless quality. Some of the centuries-old mosques took decades to complete and were mathematically perfect bar some small, deliberate symmetry errors inserted to show the artist’s humbleness before God (photos of Esfahan).

I went to a shisha café and pondered how criminal it was that so few tourists visit Iran – though also appreciated being ‘let in’ on the secret. The country was so full of potential and should be teeming with visitors though, with its reputation and exasperating visa process, Armadinajad’s promise of 20 million tourists by 2020 remains as hilarious as his PhD in traffic management.

The following day I saw the exquisite Vank Catheral in the Armenian Quarter and then the Jameh Mosque. The afternoon was contrasted with a visit to the terribly outdated Natural History Museum – which featured jarred foetuses and very poor taxidermy, not to mention a highly unconvincing diplodocus forlornly guarding the entrance.

The mosques I had visited were rarely used for prayer and charged an entrance fee – which leads me to my biggest surprise about Iran. Amazingly, most Iranians seemed relatively nonchalant about Islam – like British people’s attitudes to Christianity, faith appeared to be a personal thing and not always visibly practised. I recalled how life stopped five times a day in Egypt as people dropped out of their cars on the highway to hit the floor in prayer. In Shia Iran, I saw no such mass devotion and the call to prayer loudspeakers barely registered in comparison to other Muslim countries. Most will claim to be Muslim but one fellow I met estimated that only about a fifth of young people pray or go to mosque. He went on to say he was religious “but not Taliban”, (another saddening reminder of how wary Iranians are of stereotyping by outsiders).

The more secular and progressive youth actually make up the majority of the country (since contraception was banned for two decades and the population doubled). Women are also a force to be reckoned with and are not as repressed as we may presume – it is a mixed bag. Unlike some Muslim countries, women may vote, drive, retain financial independence in marriage, hold property and over 60% of current university students are female. However, women still make up only about a fifth of the workforce, their testimony in court is worth half a man’s, whilst revolutionary fruitloop and general all-round war-mongering pervert Khomeini reduced the age of consent for females to 9 years. When paired with Nik?? al-Mut‘ah (Islamic ‘temporary marriage’), this effectively legalised prostitution/rape of young girls.

Although Iran – along with the US – remains a non-signatory of the UN’s ‘Cedaw’ Women’s Bill of Rights, such rights are discussed often and Iranian women remain a feisty, powerful thorn in the ruling body’s side. They regularly push the boundaries in politics, dress and etiquette, even when the government enacts nationwide crackdowns to distract from other internal issues such as petrol prices.

As for other matters on the human rights and civil liberties front – nothing is black-and-white. Although we’re invited to lump ‘axis’ countries together, Iran is certainly not comparable to a dictatorship like Zimbabwe or totalitarian state such as N.Korea, nor even Burma. It is granted that per capita executions top the charts, whilst censorship trumps free speech and stoning against men and women remains a shameful, archaic scar on the Sharia justice system. However, it’s absurd to dismiss an entire country in favour of, say, the US or China, both of whom practice state execution, have shot their own citizens, killed civilians, tortured and fashioned questionable human rights records themselves. Iran just has worse PR and less strategic power. To have ‘us’, we need a ‘them’ – and Iran is flavour of the month.

I finished my trip with two landmarks in the sprawling capital of Tehran. The renamed Azadhi Freedom Tower was obviously laden with irony, though I figured it bore only as much incongruity as the Statue of Liberty or Hu Jintao’s redundant lip service to human rights. I also (maybe foolishly) risked a few photos at the clumsily renamed US Den of Espionage – previously the US Embassy. Today, it is home to a government sponsored militant group and the anti-American murals outside were also paid for by the state. It was the only ant-Western sentiment I ever saw.

And so the most fascinating and extraordinary holiday I can remember finished how it began – with one of the locals scaring the shit out of me. My airport taxi driver jabbed at his knock-off smartphone dictionary and leaned over to randomly present me with an English word: ‘BOMB’. So… Was there a bomb on board? One at the airport? Or was he just pleased to see me? I never found out, and he pointed at it without malice or humour so I just reckoned it to be a mistake… And, suffice to say, the only explosive thing I’d experienced throughout my wonderful fortnight of discovery was my usual bout of traveller’s diarrhoea.

On that inappropriate note, I will leave you with a few more links below and bid you all a splendid summer until my next ‘travel spam’ from a country that is full of contradictions and surprises. Throughout August, I’ll be continuing with my ‘Wild West Road Trip’ in the Land of the Free, the US – so stay tuned and thanks for reading this far!

Best, Tom.

• My own photos in full.
• Amazing pictures of Iran – Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.
• Images of censorship in Iran.
• A glimpse of Iran before the Islamic revolution.
• Streaming PBS documentary on travelling in Iran, and a similar BBC one.
• Bit-torrent links for other documentaries including award-winning Persepolis (info), BBC’s Iran & Britain and acclaimed Prostitution Under the Veil.
• Images from 2009’s Green Revolution – Part 1 and Part 2.

A list of my favourite Android apps, kicking off with the only two paid apps I have installed.

BeyondPod (paid app) – For reliability and functionality, this podcast manager beats all of the free alternatives (including bare-bones and buggy Google Listen). Subscribe to your favourite audio feeds via Google Reader and this app wakes up at a set time, connects to your wifi and downloads the latest podcasts from the last 24-hours. Click for a list of my favourite podcasts.

Swiftkey (paid app) – Swiftkey is fast, smart and learns your typing habits and colloquialisms. This replacement keyboard for the stock Android one makes inputting text a lot less painstaking.

Whatsapp (free for 1 year) – Whatsapp gives you free picture/text messaging worldwide to other users – it’s not without its flaws, but it’s worth downloading as it’s the messaging app most people use. Install this, and you’ll resent ever having paid for SMS.

Dropbox - The standard app for syncing between your phone and desktop computer. You’ll need the desktop application too.

Epistle - Once set up, this fast, lightweight app uses Dropbox to sync text files between your computer and phone. Great for reminders, lists and note taking.

Guardian Lite – Of the many available, this is my preferred app for viewing Guardian articles. This small, superfast app will download the day’s news offline for viewing.

Quickpic - Another small, lightening fast replacement app for browsing your photo/video gallery – a great improvement on the standard stock version.

Runkeeper - The best free Android app for anyone who wants to motivate themselves by keeping tabs on their exercise routine. I use it for hiking – it uses GPS to draw a map of my progress, monitor my speed and uploads the results to Facebook.

TuneIn Radio – This app gives you streaming access to pretty much all-and-any worldwide radio station you can imagine. Stations are grouped by country or genre and can be easily saved for fast access.

CamScanner – Turn any book, presentation board or photo of text into a PDF file. Great for students.

TED Mobile – Easy access to all of the TED library of talks.

Recommended Android Games:

• Words with Friends – a cross-platform Scrabble app.
• PapiWall – a simple but additive platform ball game.
• Drop – a similar game based on timing and precision.
• iRunner – a fast-paced running game.
• Geared – a strategy puzzle game involving cogs.
• Fruit Slice – another simple but addictive swiping game.
• Toss it – throw the paper into the waste bin.
• Unblock Me – another strategic puzzle game.

Recommended Camera apps:

• Photoaf – for 3D panorama shots.
• Retro Camera – vintage/hipster filter.
• FxCamera – another app offering  a range of vintage filters.

Other links of interest:

• Keep up with Android news at TechCrunch, Lifehacker, Phandroid and Gizmodo.
• Root your phone and install a custom ROM – use the Android sub-Reddit and XDA Developers to research your model and the different options.
• When rooted, you can customise your system and install a wider range of apps, as listed here.