As the party was set in motion, called dawn, the sun, breaking away from the surface of the ocean, floated through the sky like a balloon. Our driver Mansur, having dropped us off at the pier, went to look for parking.
Life was bustling in the port of Bandar Abbas - Iran's main maritime port. Women, sitting under colorful hijabs, sorted fish, while seagulls circled above them. Arabs in long white shirts hurried to the pier, where a long queue had formed for tickets to the steamboat that departed every hour from the mainland to Qeshm Island. Soon our group, led by Mansur, joined the queue. Until that moment, he had been our driver and guide only in a dual capacity. Now, having left the car in the parking lot, he became not only a guide but also an assistant in this Arab-Iranian chaos.
The queue moved slowly, as people kept approaching the ticket office out of turn. But finally, we had the coveted tickets in hand, and now we stood in another queue, this time at the gangway to the boat. Here, it was complete disorder. If it weren't for Mansur's efforts, we would have been stuck there indefinitely.
But now we were on the ship. The sky was cloudless, the water was azure, and the sun was warm. Almost an hour of enjoying this magical flight between two oceans. There were no tourists or Europeans on the ship, mostly local Arabs and Iranians. They were all heading to Qeshm for goods, as the island is a free trade zone. We were going there for impressions. The main object of our attention was Namakdan - a towering dome-shaped mountain made of pure, red-milk-colored rock salt.
I had dreamed of seeing this natural wonder since many years ago when I explored the unique caves in the salt mountain of Khoja Mumin in southern Tajikistan with speleologists. What I saw there not only amazed me but also made me a prisoner of incredible images and phenomena. So upon returning from the expedition, I began searching for everything related to salt caves. That was when I "dug up" information about the Namakdan area in Iran. Now I was close to the encounter.
Everything happened in an instant. Stepping off the gangway, Mansur persuaded an Arab with a small vehicle for a tour of the island. Mansur, finally in charge of the situation, was happy. He wanted to show us everything he knew about the island.
The first object of our attention was a curious site called Harboz, or Noah's Ark - several shallow caves artificially connected to each other, carved into the sheer soft cliffs of marl deposits. A system of stairs was provided for ascending to the caves. From the hewn rooms, which once served as dwellings, enchanting views of the desert landscapes opened up. In one of the passages, there was a bas-relief about 400 years old depicting Noah's Ark. It is said that the bas-relief was created by joyful Iranians after the island was liberated from the Portuguese during Shah Abbas's reign. By the way, the Portuguese presence is reminded here by the grand ruins of a fortress located not far from the main port.
Time flew quickly. I reminded Mansur that our main goal was Namakdan. But Mansur continued to build the program according to his plan.
The next site where we lingered for a significant time was a place called Tang-e Chahu. I must note that Mansur, sensing our special interest in landscape curiosities, brought us here intentionally. The place turned out to be simply stunning.
The road ended at the foot of low mountains, perhaps not even mountains, but an elevated plateau, torn by the elements into a sheer canyon stretching from the northern coast deep into the island. Essentially, these deposits appeared here thanks to the efforts of ancient tides and storms. Time cemented and transformed them into relatively solid rock, but not enough to withstand rain and wind. Through cracks and sloping surfaces, these two elements have eroded, shaped, and polished the rock for many hundreds of years, digging deeper into the island. The result of these efforts is narrow, elegant canyons adorned with statues of unknown gods and animals. Hundreds of stone faces, squinting from the direct rays of the sun, silently observe what is happening.
— This valley of white sculptures, - Mansur tells us, - was inaccessible just a few years ago; now a road has been laid here. This place is called the Valley of Fallen Stars.
— Why "stars"? - I asked.
— I don't know, - Mansur replied, - that's just what they say.
Winding, the enchanting gorge led us further and further. Towers and castles rose from the foot into the milky-colored sky. Images of genies and wizards, witches and demons looked down from the ledges carved from the stone walls.
The unknown irresistibly beckoned. I walked further and further, and each turn offered new pictures. Gradually, the gorge climbed upward, helping to scramble from the lower level to the upper one. Climbing to a height, I froze at what I saw. From where I had just ascended, on the flat surface of the valley, whimsical multi-pointed stars were clearly carved. So that's why it's called the Valley of Fallen Stars, I agreed with the unknown author of the name of the canyons, which from above indeed resembled stars that had fallen from the sky.
Unfortunately, in moments like this, time flies especially quickly. We need to hurry. I was literally running along the path, avoiding craters from the fallen stars. Mansur and everyone else were already in the car. We sped on, now surely towards the cave. But Mansur had prepared another surprise for us: "You must see this wonder of the island, and we will make it to the cave in time."
The wonder turned out to be the mangrove thickets on the northern coast of the island near the village of Tabal. We drove to the boat dock by car. Local Arab residents go to the mangroves for branches of trees that are used for feeding livestock. Boats loaded with this fodder busily scurried across the bay...
Having arranged with one of the sea wolves, we boarded his metal boat. With one movement, we sped away from the shore into the depths of the bay. The water outside was greenish with a pale blue hue. We moved along the shore, thickly covered with mangrove trees. This forest is called harra by the Iranians.
These water forests grew on shady soil formed from sand deposits due to coastal erosion. Mangroves exist thanks to the purified salty seawater. The plant blooms and bears fruit once a year: at the end of July - beginning of August. The harra flowers have a sweet, cool aroma that can be smelled from several meters away from the forest. The almond-shaped fruits are pleasant and sweet to taste.
I almost forgot to mention this.
The thickets of this forest are a national reserve. Here, many flamingos, pelicans, and herons live... Dolphins also swim up to the boat unafraid and circle in a dance.
Finally, we were heading to the cave. According to the map, we still had about fifty kilometers to go. It was the hottest part of the day, and people were sitting at home. How I wished to dive into the Indian Ocean, which was nearby, luring with its blue and the sparkle of golden sand. But no, we were in Iran, and there were two women with us, and they were forbidden beach pleasures. It was not allowed! Allah sees everything and will not forgive weakness to temptations.
Outside the window were red-colored acacia bushes, yellow golden sands, and low maroon mountains with white patterns. Beyond them, through low saddles, the blue of the ocean appeared and disappeared, flowing into the sky at the unreachable distances.
Soon the asphalt road ended, giving way to a narrow washed-out dirt road. And finally, in the foreground, in the rays of the setting sun, dome-shaped mountains rose, as if covered in snow. This is Namakdan - the largest salt dome in the world, which houses many caves. One of them stretches for 6200 meters and is the longest in the world. The area is very interesting and unusual. In particular, the water in the caves has a temperature of about 27 degrees and is highly saturated. Just dipping a hand into this brine causes it to crystallize into the most unexpected shapes.
The Namakdan cave features huge galleries, underground salt rivers, crystals of white and red hues, stalactites, helictites, and other forms that have neither analogs nor names. Try to imagine a crystal mountain, and within it a cave with ringing crystals and streams, chests of jewels and spells.
Almost everything is like in the tale of Aladdin's magic lamp, Ali Baba, and the forty thieves. With the only difference that instead of jewels, there are diamonds made of pure, sparkling salt.
Unfortunately, we have little time, and we head to the nearest cave. The entrance, of enormous size, faces east. The ceiling and walls are carved in red and white layers of salt, sometimes forming amusing patterns and designs. Behind the entrance is a turn, and a stream spreads along the bottom, the water saturated with dissolved salt, and therefore the current is barely noticeable. Soon the dim light of the sun disappears, and the cave plunges into utter darkness. The light from our flashlights barely illuminates the spacious tunnel, the patterned walls, and the high ceiling adorned with helictites, chandeliers, and stone intertwining. It is very warm inside, probably around thirty degrees, and the atmosphere is humid, also saturated with salt.
Another turn, the underground path climbs a mound and descends to a stream overgrown with salt crystals.
A small pause. Mansur is here too. It turns out he has never been in the caves before, and it seems his first encounter with the underground world is desirable.
The first thing we saw when we exited the cave was a star-studded sky and a thin, delicate moon surrounded by reflected glimmers of the salt mountain. The moon was exactly as I had seen it in pictures from Scheherazade's tales.
There was an astonishing silence. I tried to arrange everything I had seen in logical order. Of course, it was a pity that in planning the travel program in Iran, only one day was allocated for Qeshm.
On the last steamboat, we sailed across the Persian Gulf to the mainland. Far ahead, along the entire coast, a glowing strip leading into the sky shone with the lights of Bandar Abbas. From the upper deck, where I settled on the air conditioning cover, I could see half the world: the moon, stars, constellations, the glowing shore of the mainland, and waves racing after the ship that was moving away from them.
Our journey continues. We are racing north. In ancient Yazd, we were to meet the mysterious world of Ahura Mazda - the Zoroastrian cult complex of Pir-e Chak Chak, with the Fire Temple and the Tower of Silence, where, according to ancient Zoroastrian tradition, the bodies of the dead were given to vultures. We saw a cypress tree that, according to local tales, is over a thousand years old. We remembered the overnight stay in an abandoned village of Zoroastrians and the magnificent sunrise over the Dasht-e Kavir desert. Then there were the medieval cities of Khoja-Abad, Kerman, and Mahan, the fantastic landscapes of the desert in the area of Shahdad, golden hills of sand dunes overgrown with sprawling saxaul, time-worn caravanserais on the borders of oases and deserts, and the paradise garden of Shazdeh among the sands, created almost five hundred years ago.
Then came the real desert. Black sand, frozen in waves, and golden yellow remnants of clay gave birth to a fantastic landscape. The Persians call this place Kalyut. No one could explain its meaning in Russian. And I thought, it doesn't matter. Kalyut is Kalyut, whether in Africa or elsewhere. There is something beautiful and harsh about this word at the same time. In short, Kalyut is bazaars, teahouses, mosques, palaces, parks, sunrises, and sunsets...
Everything flew by and came together like in a kaleidoscope, rapidly changing one another. Narrow streets of cities, clay domes of buildings, elegant minaret candles, and cypress trees...
In the bright colors of the sunsets, we admired pomegranate orchards, rising from golden hills with half-ruined fortresses, all under the melodic songs of the muezzins. So much was packed into this swift review of time and events! But I cannot remain silent about one bright moment - the mountain village hidden in the twists of the gorge, embedded in the red cliffs, with the beautiful name Abiyaneh.
On a steep slope, multi-story structures made of clay and stone are built in terraces, with balconies protruding over narrow streets and hanging galleries, tiny gardens, and thick trunks of twisted vineyards, a small mosque in a tiny square. The main street crosses the village like a narrow canyon, with houses and balconies, walkways, and bridges hanging over it. Abiyaneh is another dimension, another world, different from all the previously seen cities and villages of ancient and modern Iran. It is home to one of the oldest Persian tribes.
This place is truly worth visiting. It will surprise you with its colors and delight you with its unique character, intoxicate you with the scent of time that fills its narrow streets and alleys, reminding you of the eternity and transience of life, of the unity of nature and human aspirations. All this is just episodes of our amazing Persian-Iranian marathon. One can long sift through memories of numerous encounters and impressions, but to say that Iran has become a read book is not true.