Mother of All Road Trips (XIII):  A Caliph’s Descendants

Having long sauntered through the city bazaars of South Asia – the alleyways of open kitchens, of cobblers and mountains of turmeric, of sari merchants and blacksmiths – we regarded the outskirts of Mashhad as something like tomorrow-land.  At evening, haloes of neon illuminated service stations, stores sat in geometric order teeming with western goods as stylish families strolled together in the gloaming.  It was as though the frontier no-man’s-land (see previous post) had served as a wormhole to some other corner of the galaxy.  That these realities – both Mashhad and Herat – could lie along Asia Highway #1 only hours apart, or sit proximate along the self-same Silk Route hardly seemed possible. 

But whatever its modern face, Mashhad was ornate with tradition of its own.  Here was the tomb of Harun al-Rashid, caliph and lover of tales, horse races and falconry, who presided over the Golden Age of Islam, and under whose auspices was assembled One Thousand and One Nights. It is said of the caliph that he would walk the streets at night anxious for the wellbeing of the faithful. From the far reaches of Shia Islam they come today – 20 million pilgrims a year – massed in the world’s largest mosque to honor the brilliance of that past.  Set midst this radiant tradition is the gem-like tale of Scheherazade, daughter of a vizier, who, to save her own life, told gripping stories to the sultan but always withholding charged endings until the following day.  In time, the outpouring of story worked its Persian magic: love overcame menace, grief and bitterness.

Feeling the pressure of time, we nosed the VW westward, Mashhad retreating  in the rearview mirror.  Some hours later we paused for a rest stop along a magnificent stretch of  highway.  Feeling refreshed, we set out again, but now on the watch for a service station.  I was at the wheel when I noticed that my wallet containing documents and currency was missing at just about the same moment when our caravan coughed and came to a stop having run out of fuel.  A desperate search ensued for the missing wallet – confirming that it had been left, possibly at our last rest stop.  But there would be no means of retrieving it without fuel.  So, I trudged up the road on foot to a small town, returning with a container of ‘benzine’ (gasoline) with which Iran is generously endowed.  

We prepared to retrace our steps in search of the wallet when a westbound bus stopped beside us.  Out jumped two policemen and the full complement of passengers.  We had no language in common, but they conveyed to us that they had found an item along the roadside and wondered if we might have unwittingly left it.  Within a short time, I was able to describe the wallet and its contents, confirming it was mine.  The policemen told the passengers of the happy ending, and that the bus should delay no longer.  I was disbelieving and ecstatic: such was the miracle that only a traveler far from home could fully understand.  

The policemen who remained with us, asked me to sign a paper affirming I had taken possession of the wallet.  Then a truck rumbled into view, and one of the officers ran to flag it down.  The handyman pulled back a canvas cover and, removing some freight, dug out a watermelon which he handed down to the policeman before resuming the journey.  The officer then directed us to sit in a circle on the roadside grass while he commenced to carve up the melon.  He passed around giant red slices that dripped their bounty and sweetness – an anointing, if you will – all over us as we grinned in pleasure and, for want of words, clapped our grimy hands like summer children at a waterpark.  Then refusing all reward, the two policemen flagged down the next vehicle, politely bid us godspeed, clambered aboard, and disappeared.  How the choreography  – the wallet, the passing vehicles, the watermelon – of this moment was orchestrated remains a mystery.

Of course, we never met the old caliph who had long before done his people proud and endowed them with unforgettable stories.  But I am certain we met his direct descendants that day who fully deserve his surname, ‘Rashid’, meaning ‘upright’.  Not only did they prove to be righteous offspring of the fabled ruler, but they left us a story which, while it will never figure in One Thousand and One Nights, deserves inclusion there in my humble estimation.  And, best of all, it is punctuated by a roadside sacrament of angelic order.