Axis of evil? Not for tourists. Even a woman travelling alone can have a holiday in Iran - but it helps if you have a thick skin beneath your hijab. Sinead O'Shea reports
Crossing the road in Tehran is hellish: six lanes of cars, lorries and motorbikes roaring past. If you show resolve, it is said here, the traffic will yield. For Tehranians it doesn't merit a second thought. I couldn't master it. More than once I had to be escorted across by amused children. They couldn't understand my fear. "You own the road," they say. "You decide when the traffic stops, not the other way around."
In Ireland, of course, it is the other way round. This reverse logic became a feature of my 10-day trip - a visit that coincided with the run-up to the summer's presidential election. Iran, for example, has a young, fairly liberal population, up to 70 per cent of which is under 30. But the election resulted in a run-off between two conservative candidates, which the stauncher won.
My interest in Iran began when I specialised in Iranian cinema during my master's degree in film production and continued during my work in news and current affairs. I was aware that Iran was a good deal more complicated than its inclusion in President Bush's "axis of evil" suggested, and I was eager to experience its culture. The election was due to be held in late June, and it was clear that a more conservative candidate would emerge. It seemed a good time to visit the country, to see what kind of place it was before any more profound changes took place.
The position of women in Iranian society has its contradictions. Women have fewer legal and social rights than men and must remain covered in chadors (tent-like black dresses) or hijabs (outfits of trousers, dresses and scarves). Yet women are in the majority in universities. Shirin Ebadi, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2003, is one of the country's top lawyers, and two of the world's foremost female artists have emerged in the film-makers Samira Makhmalbaf and Shirin Neshat.
As I travelled through Tehran, Yazd, Esfahan and Shiraz, I met numerous women eager to express their fears and regrets - as well as some uncomfortable realities. In Yazd, for example, a gorgeous mud-brick town in the desert, I met a group of girls who were about to go on a school exchange to the north of the country. We swapped magazines and information about the celebrities in them. Although they admired my glossy western magazine, they were scathing about the number of photographs of scantily dressed women. "It's just for money and titillation," they said. These were articulate, well-educated young women. My argument, that this was a part of being a free society, felt hollow.
Even the most liberal, informed Iranians are strongly opposed to western influence. They do not want to lose their connections to family and community, their traditions and culture.
Later I met a group of fabulous but frustrated teenage girls from Tehran. Aged between 16 and 18, they had lived in Dubai for several years, an experience that had made them even more critical. I met them in Gandhi Shopping Centre, in northern Tehran, a trendy place with coffee shops and chic boutiques. There they outlined their adventures in dieting and chasing boys. They smoked furiously and wore lurid make-up. Their mobile phones rang constantly, and they spoke Americanised English.
I asked if the hijab encouraged people to look more into each other's eyes. One of the girls dispelled the notion. "You must be like this . . . ," she said, outlining with her hands a slim body with large breasts. I asked if she wanted to go to the West. "It's worse there!" she squealed.
They told me that most Iranian boys were sexually frustrated and always causing trouble. Only a few were suitable as boyfriends, she said, adding that if you got one of them you should hang on to him. The girls also complained that people often shouted and threw things at them for wearing make-up. They were lovely girls and insisted on paying my bill. Before I left they gave me their phone numbers, in case I wanted, or needed, to contact them.
Persian culture is indeed precious, with treasures such as Imam Square in Esfahan, which was said to host polo matches when it was first built, in the 1600s. Two beautifully ornate mosques, the Imam and the Sheikh Lotfollah, stand at the entrance to a three-mile-long indoor and outdoor bazaar, all twinkling lights, candles, carpet makers and craftsmen. The square fills up in the evening, when groups sit around on patches of carpet, having picnics and playing backgammon.
Shiraz, further south, is most famous for its literary culture; it is the birthplace of Hafez, Iran's Shakespeare. Most homes are said to have a copy of his works, and many people I met were eager to quote one of his sonnets. Hafez's beautifully carved tomb sits in a grove of orange trees. Music plays all day, and in the evening people gather in the gardens to pay their respects.
Shiraz is the main departure point for Persepolis, the magnificent ruins of an ancient city destroyed by Alexander in 330 BC. The tombs of Darius I and II, Artaxerxes I and Xerxes I are nearby. At Persepolis, a site that has been compared to the Pyramids and Angkor Wat, one of the great advantages of visiting Iran is revealed - the absence of tourists. I met just four other westerners during my entire visit.
But there's a downside to this absence. Being a woman alone can be an intimidating experience. Groups of men shouted, whistled and stepped in my path as I walked the streets. At first I wasn't afraid, as there is a taboo on any physical contact with the opposite sex - it's forbidden even to shake hands - and the penalties for breaking the taboo are severe. I presumed I would be safe.
This was not to be. In Esfahan, early in my stay, I was leaving a shop when the shopkeeper reached forward and groped me. I was horrified and called the police. They arrested him, but the incident attracted a crowd of about 200. They seemed at a loss as to why I was travelling on my own. A sympathetic woman said travelling alone didn't merit a groping, but she was concerned that the shopkeeper might be ill-treated, or worse, and urged me to try to get him released.
At the police station I was assured that the shopkeeper wouldn't be harmed but would have to stand trial. I couldn't tell if I was being told the truth. The scene was nightmarish: we were all clustered in a tiny room, and the shopkeeper was crying and being hit by the guards. His behaviour had been very upsetting - even while resisting arrest he had been shouting in my direction and seemingly blaming me for what had happened. But he didn't deserve this.
I found myself pleading with the guards to release him, but they insisted he would remain in custody. After more than an hour of wrangling I offered to write a statement saying that I was willing to have him released. I also wrote a confession for him containing a pledge that he wouldn't again molest a woman. We both signed the statement. He bowed his head and said he was sorry.
Everyone assured me it had been an aberration. "It's just Esfahan," said one. "They're very religious there." From the beginning I had worn a conservative black hijab, but the whistling, shouting and staring had continued. I felt more and more angry with the men and their behaviour.
Ironically, it was a man who helped change my outlook. On the way to Persepolis, Ali, my tour guide, listening patiently as I ranted about the behaviour of young men. His response was surprising. He said many of these young men were simply admirers and what I was interpreting as intrusive behaviour was their way of showing that admiration. Many of these boys, he said, were unemployed, so would never have wives. If I just smiled at them, he said, they would stop.
I was stunned. Rather like the crazy traffic, this tactic required a confidence I didn't possess. It also seemed more than a little patronising. But I was getting to the point where I was taking taxis rather than walking.So the next day I was determined to try a new approach. As I walked along a path, a motorbike carrying two men slowed down beside me. I smiled and kept walking. Seconds later I heard footsteps behind me. I stiffened and wondered what calamity I had brought upon myself. One of the men from the motorbike jogged up alongside. He handed me a scrap of card with numbers in Farsi written on it, said "I love you", then turned and jumped on the motorbike. They cheered as it sped away. It's hard to know if you could call the exchange a triumph, but this new approach made my life a whole lot easier. Ali has been right, but he still said he was very glad he didn't have daughters to worry about.
KLM and Air France fly to Tehran from London Heathrow; return fares start at £370 (€535)