Sultán Savalán


Nos encontramos a las 8 p.m. en Teherán, en la siempre bulliciosa estación de Âzadi; de noche llegamos a Qazvin. La ciudad acaba de desperezarse del letargo del Ramadán, palpita activamente. Es como si estuviéramos en Roma, taxis, zigzag de motos cargadas con tres personas a la búsqueda de un restaurante. Nos sentamos en un puesto popular de pollo frito, elegancia al más alto nivel, con ambiente de fast-food americano y camareros en atuendo francés. En el suelo una pecera con lánguidas tortugas cabeceando. Al contrario que sus pariente chinas, aquí están seguras, la carne de tortuga no es halal.


A las tres de la noche en el peaje de la carretera de of Qazvin, esperando a los otros que salieron  de Isfahán por la tarde. Un enorme gentío. El ayuno del Ramadán acaba mañana. Llegan cuatro días de vacaciones, todo Irán se prepara para ir a algún sitio. Extendemos una alfombra sobre el asfalto, ponemos agua a hervir para el té en un hornillo de gas, sacamos unos pasteles.


Me despierto al amanecer en el bus, un cortado vertiginoso a la derecha, el cañón del río Qezel Ozan en el momento en que corta las montañas doradas de los nómadas Afshari. Los bordes de algunas colinas se curvan suavemente y brillan con la primera luz, capas geológicas coloreadas quedan al descubierto en las áridas laderas tajadas sobre el río. Un ajedrez de tierra cultivable, austeros campos de hierba, con las marcas, como postes, de unos pocos árboles aislados. En la distancia, una majestuosa cima con el sombrero nevado, el Savalán, el tercer pico más alto de Irán.

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Al caer el sol llegamos al campo base, a tres mil ochocientos metros sobre el mar, a los pies del Savalán. Plantamos las tiendas. Durante la primera noche tenemos que acostumbrarnos a la altitud, al delgado aire. Unas flores de aroma fuerte crecen en los resquicios de los rudos peñascos de la ladera volcánica. Lavanda de montaña, salvia, anémonas. A lo lejos, allá al fondo, el pueblo de Alvâresi, donde dejamos el bus. Finas corrientes glaciares bajan hacia el valle. A nuestros pies, por todo alrededor de estas llanuras lunares, las yurtas y rebaños de los nómadas Shahsaván.

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Cuando el sol se esconde, el aire se vuelve frío y cortante, unas nubes se desprenden de las montañas, se apelmazan, envuelven el valle.

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A las cuatro de la mañana, una línea de pequeños puntos de luz entreteje la oscuridad de la ladera de la montaña que sube al cráter del Savalán. Preparamos té, desmontamos las tiendas y nos ponemos en camino tanteando la ruta entre las rocas. Las laderas que nos rodean van poco a poco tomando forma, los lejanos picos, como islas solitarias emergen de la gruesa capa de nubes que cubre el valle.

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No estamos solos. Una muchedumbre de pequeños ojos nos escruta. Los persas comen a menudo, entre ellos estar delgado no es elegante. Muchas migas caen al camino y encuentran enseguida quien dé cuenta de ellas. La escalada da de comer a cientos de pájaros y roedores, más temerosos de sus rivales que de nosotros, por lo que nos siguen de cerca.




A cuatro mil setecientos metros, justo antes de la cumbre, una ducha de nieve nos sorprende. La nieve y la lluvia helada se cuelan por la más mínima rendija, tengo que guardar la cámara. Si Hassán no me hubiera pedido que lo fotografiara bajo la nevada, no habría ningún documento de todo esto.


Mientras tanto hemos alcanzado el lago del cráter del Sultán Savalán, a 4811 metros sobre el nivel del mar, la tormenta cesa. No tenemos tiempo de subir los riscos circundantes y tomar fotos del lago desde ahí arriba porque antes de que anochezca hay que cubrir de vuelta los mil metros de desnivel. En la orilla brindamos, mashallah guru, larga vida al grupo, gritamos, preparamos un té con el agua glacial del lago.

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El camino de vuelta no es en absoluto fácil, las rocas son resbaladizas con la nieve. Hemos avanzado quizá unos doscientos metros cuando oímos un terrible golpe al otro lado de la ladera. Una avalancha de rocas. Paramos, intentamos poner en común lo que cada uno ha visto del valle desde allí arriba. Esperamos que ni escaladores ni pastores nómadas estuvieran en este momento por aquel lado.

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Sultan Savalan


We meet at 8 p.m. in Tehran, at the always crowded Âzadi terminal, at night we arrive at Qazvin. The city has just recovered from the daytime lethargy of Ramadan, it pulsates lively, as if we were in Rome, taxis glide, multi-person motorbikes zigzag in search of restaurants. We sit in a popular fried chicken place, elegance on the top, with American fast-food ambience and waiters in French uniforms, on the ground floor a goldfish pool with languid turtles nodding. In contrast to their relatives in China, they are safe, turtle meat is not halal.


At three in the night at the highway toll gate of Qazvin, waiting for the others who left Isfahan in the afternoon. A huge crowd, the Ramadan fast ends tomorrow, a four-day holiday is coming, the whole of Iran is setting out for somewhere. We lay a carpet on the asphalt of the hard shoulder, boiling tea with a gas burner, eating cakes.


I wake up at dawn in the bus, a dizzying depth to the right, the canyon of Qezel Ozan river, as it cuts through the golden-colored mountains of the Afshari nomads. Softly curving hill ridges shine in the light of the rising sun, colorful geological layers are revealed on the barren hillsides in the wake of the river’s scalpel. Chessboards of arable land, spare fields of grass, with the signt posts of a few lone trees. In the distance, a majestic snow-capped mountain ridge, the Savalan, Iran’s third highest peak.

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At sunset we reach the base camp, at three thousand eight hundred meters above sea level, at the foot of Savalan. We set up the tents, during the first night we must get used to the altitude, the thin air. Strong-smelling flowers bloom in the protection of the bizarre boulders of the volcanic mountain side, mountain lavender, sage, anemone. In the distance, somewhere deep, the village of Alvâresi, where we parked the bus. Narrow glacial streams run down to the valley. Below us, all around on the lunar plains, the yurts and flocks of the Shahsavan nomads.

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After sunset, the air becomes cold and heavy, clouds leak in between the mountains, they coalesce, envelop the valley.

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At four in the morning, a winding line of tiny points of light is weaving on the dark mountain side, up towards the crater of Savalan. We make tea, break down the tents, and set out on the path, groping our way among the rocks. The hillsides around us slowly unfold from the darkness, the distant peaks as lonely islands rise out of the thick clouds covering the valley.

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We are not alone. Lots of little eyes follow our way. The Persians nibble an amazing amount, and they nevertheless remain slim, which is not fair. Many crumbs fall on the path, and it quickly find new owners. The climbing route gives food to hundreds of birds and rodents, who are more afraid of their rivals than of us, so they follow closely behind.




At four thousand seven hundred meters, just before the peak, a snow shower strikes us. The snow and icy rain penetrate into the smallest gap, so I need to pack away the camera. Had Hassan not asked me to take a photo of him in the snowfall, I would have no document of it at all.


By the time we reach the crater lake of the peak Savalan Sultan at 4811 meters above sea level, the storm stops. We have no time to climb the hillside and take photos of the lake from there, because by dusk we have to cover the one-thousand-meter of altitude difference in reverse. We celebrate on the shore, mashallah guru, long live the team, we shout, we brew tea from the water of the glacier lake.

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The road back is in no way easier, the rocks are slick with snow. We are perhaps two hundred meters lower, when a frightening crash is heard from the other side of the ridge. An avalanche of rocks. We stop, we try to put together what we observed before, from above in the valley. We hope neither climbers, nor nomadic shepherds were now on that side.

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Pink postcards 24


Sender: Károly Timó, 1st March Regiment
Address of the sender: Martini Battalion Bányay Company
Field Post 350

FIELD POSTCARD

Address: To the honored Miss Antonia Zajác
3rd district, Kis-Korona Street 52.
Budapest





Previous letters (gray dots):

Galicia, 14 July 1915
Galicia, 12 July 1915
Galicia, 6 July 1915
Galicia, 25 June 1915
Galicia, 10 June 1915
Debrecen, 5 June 1915
Budapest, 1 June 1915
Budapest, 1 March 1915
Budapest, 10 February 1915
Kecskemét, 30 January 1915
Dukla Pass, 11 January 1915
Felsőhunkóc, 4 January 1915
Sztropkó, 31 December 1914
Budapest, 23 December 1914
Budapest, 21 December 1914
Budapest, 11 December 1914
Budapest, 2 December 1914
Budapest, 28 November 1914
Budapest, 27 November 1914
Budapest, 18 November 1914
Budapest, 27 October 1914
Debrecen, 25 September 1914
Szerencs, 28 August 1914
My dear sonon 25 July

I received with great pleasure the news that you went on holiday to Siófok. Don’t be sad that I cannot be with you this time. Next year we will make up for it at Horányi and in other places. I also consider my pastime as a holiday, although it is a bit strange. But it can be tolerated.

Here we have a very nice weather, which reminds me of last summer, those unforgettable days.

I hope you would send a few nice postcards from there, to make more pleasant my boring days. Otherwise I feel good, which I also wish to you from my heart. I cannot write you any more news.

Kisses and embraces from your loving
Károly

if you write then
write me as much as possible



[This year they will spend their holiday separately.

It is a bit strange, but next year it will be different.

According to the plans.]

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Holiday in Siófok, at lake Balaton, Hungary, in 1917. Photos by László Péchy from Fortepan. You would not think that there is a major war a few centimeters away on the map.


Next postcard: 2 August 1915

Sorud


To the one-eyed small beggar, who on the Tehran subway sang Rumi poems from terminus to terminus, and from the banknote of a thousand tomans – about forty eurocents – returned five hundred, because it is worth this much. And did not allow me to photograph him.

Para el mendigo tuerto que, de parada en parada, cantaba poemas de Rumi en el metro de Teherán, y que de un billete de mil tomans –unos cuarenta céntimos de euro– me devolvió quinientos, porque esto es lo justo. Y no me permitió que lo fotografiara.



Sorud, beggar’s fiddle from Kerman, in Tehran’s Museum of Music, with Mahmud Tabrizizâde playing on it
Sorud, violín de mendigo de Kerman, en el Museo de la Música de Teherán, con Mahmud Tabrizizâde haciéndolo sonar

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