jennf
17-10-2008, 05:18 PM
Does anyone else know anything about these hills or ever been there?
If you travel a hundred miles or so eastwards out of Isfahan, through a landscape of pink-coloured mountains and desert wastes inhabited by strange willowy trees and clumps of yellow grass, you come inexorably to the ancient city of Nain.
Situated on the very edge of the great Kavir desert, Nain was once an important station on the Silk Road. Today, however, the concrete cubes of Modernity have lent it an air of apathy and neglect. Only the magnificent fortress of Nareen Ghaleh, towering over the city like a broken tooth, still speaks proudly of a rich and illustrious past.
But Nain has secrets not disclosed to the casual visitor. On the main road leading to the centre is a low sandy hillside, honey-combed with countless caverns. Black holes stare out at you as you pass. Misshapen doorways like yawning entrances to mine shafts, invite you to descend (if you are willing) into the very bowels of the earth.
These are not the remnants of settlements long since abandoned. These caves are inhabited by a remarkable community of weavers, carrying on a tradition that goes back centuries. The hollow hills of Nain have echoed to the sound of their looms for generations. Now, the intermittent click of a shuttle is all that is heard. For the subterranean workshops are falling silent. An ancient way of life is fast passing away.
Entering one of the caves, I descend a number of steps into the interior. The temperature is at least 15 degrees cooler than outside. There are no lamps. No windows. The entrance is the only source of light, and I have to consider each step I make carefully in order to avoid stumbling.
A few moments later, the darkness peels away to reveal a narrow chamber chiselled out of honey-coloured rock. It is so crude and primitive that I can barely distinguish the walls from the ceiling. In the amber light from the doorway, the contents of the cavern seem to float on air.
On each side of a paved walkway are sunken pits, clean-cut and rectangular, each one holding a hand loom in some state of decay. Ill-placed sacks of wool, together with various wooden implements, lie scattered on the floor. Yellow plastic bags peer out from behind almost every object.
Sitting below me in one of the pits is Abbas, a small, elderly man with a gentle smile. The irregularities of his stubble and the dilapidation of his clothes are evident. He sits at a horizontal hand loom that has hardly changed since Biblical times. I cannot see his legs, which are hidden permanently under the loom machinery. His socks (and vest) are slung unceremoniously over the loom opposite him, and he sits on a small pile of plastic bags.
He is the very last weaver in this cave. The last of a long line. At one time (he tells me) there were twelve of them here. Now nine have died, and two are sick. He too has submitted to the inevitability of his fate. He is fast approaching the end of his strength, he admits. And when he dies, there will be no-one left to carry on.
He smiles, revealing the remnants of some teeth, and invites me to feel the material he is weaving. It is an abaa, a loose sleeveless garment made from camel's wool, worn by Moslem clerics. It is as stiff and rough as a kitchen rug and the same colour as the Qashkai sheep I had seen wandering around outside. You can buy the very same garments in Yazd, he informs me. But there they use powered looms. He sighs, and reaches for a sack of wool beside him.
Once, he continues, everyone in the city lived underground. It was cool down here in summer and warm in winter. This particular cave has been inhabited for thousands of years.
http://img98.imageshack.us/img98/2725/naeenkavir1gb8.jpg (http://imageshack.us)
[URL
http://img262.imageshack.us/img262/7228/naeenkavir2gl4.jpg (http://imageshack.us)
[URL=http://g.imageshack.u
If you travel a hundred miles or so eastwards out of Isfahan, through a landscape of pink-coloured mountains and desert wastes inhabited by strange willowy trees and clumps of yellow grass, you come inexorably to the ancient city of Nain.
Situated on the very edge of the great Kavir desert, Nain was once an important station on the Silk Road. Today, however, the concrete cubes of Modernity have lent it an air of apathy and neglect. Only the magnificent fortress of Nareen Ghaleh, towering over the city like a broken tooth, still speaks proudly of a rich and illustrious past.
But Nain has secrets not disclosed to the casual visitor. On the main road leading to the centre is a low sandy hillside, honey-combed with countless caverns. Black holes stare out at you as you pass. Misshapen doorways like yawning entrances to mine shafts, invite you to descend (if you are willing) into the very bowels of the earth.
These are not the remnants of settlements long since abandoned. These caves are inhabited by a remarkable community of weavers, carrying on a tradition that goes back centuries. The hollow hills of Nain have echoed to the sound of their looms for generations. Now, the intermittent click of a shuttle is all that is heard. For the subterranean workshops are falling silent. An ancient way of life is fast passing away.
Entering one of the caves, I descend a number of steps into the interior. The temperature is at least 15 degrees cooler than outside. There are no lamps. No windows. The entrance is the only source of light, and I have to consider each step I make carefully in order to avoid stumbling.
A few moments later, the darkness peels away to reveal a narrow chamber chiselled out of honey-coloured rock. It is so crude and primitive that I can barely distinguish the walls from the ceiling. In the amber light from the doorway, the contents of the cavern seem to float on air.
On each side of a paved walkway are sunken pits, clean-cut and rectangular, each one holding a hand loom in some state of decay. Ill-placed sacks of wool, together with various wooden implements, lie scattered on the floor. Yellow plastic bags peer out from behind almost every object.
Sitting below me in one of the pits is Abbas, a small, elderly man with a gentle smile. The irregularities of his stubble and the dilapidation of his clothes are evident. He sits at a horizontal hand loom that has hardly changed since Biblical times. I cannot see his legs, which are hidden permanently under the loom machinery. His socks (and vest) are slung unceremoniously over the loom opposite him, and he sits on a small pile of plastic bags.
He is the very last weaver in this cave. The last of a long line. At one time (he tells me) there were twelve of them here. Now nine have died, and two are sick. He too has submitted to the inevitability of his fate. He is fast approaching the end of his strength, he admits. And when he dies, there will be no-one left to carry on.
He smiles, revealing the remnants of some teeth, and invites me to feel the material he is weaving. It is an abaa, a loose sleeveless garment made from camel's wool, worn by Moslem clerics. It is as stiff and rough as a kitchen rug and the same colour as the Qashkai sheep I had seen wandering around outside. You can buy the very same garments in Yazd, he informs me. But there they use powered looms. He sighs, and reaches for a sack of wool beside him.
Once, he continues, everyone in the city lived underground. It was cool down here in summer and warm in winter. This particular cave has been inhabited for thousands of years.
http://img98.imageshack.us/img98/2725/naeenkavir1gb8.jpg (http://imageshack.us)
[URL
http://img262.imageshack.us/img262/7228/naeenkavir2gl4.jpg (http://imageshack.us)
[URL=http://g.imageshack.u