Mohammad was anxious. There were still problems with our e-tickets from Tehran to Dubai. I was told to look after our suit cases in the foyer of the Esfahan Aseman Hotel while Alan talked to Ms Pari who was still unable to confirm our correct flights. She would pay a personal visit that day to Mahan Air to try to sort out the problems, she told Alan. We were very appreciative of her offer and of Mohammad's assistance.

What Mohammad did not know was of our Carpet Conversation in our hotel room the night before. The conversation went (Alan): "I am not buying the carpet. We have enough carpets. We have nowhere in the house to put it and anyway, we can't carry it with us". These arguments were of course quite valid but they were in the "of the head, not the heart" mode. My argument: "But this is the last time you will ever be in Esfahan and have the opportunity to buy a genuine Persian silk rug. And it is soooooooooo beautiful....".

Of course, we had reversed our usual carpet buying impulses and no wonder Mohammad became confused. In fact Mohammad seemed to have forgotten all about the Carpet Buying episode of the last evening and we set off early in the morning for Jolfa, the Armenian Quarter of Esfahan and the Armenian Vank Cathedral and associated museum which had been closed the day before. We were not going to get out of this visit as I had hoped. I was more worried about someone buying the carpet before we made it the carpet shop. For me it was now in the "Cannot Live Without" category.

We arrived at Jolfa to find a large, noisy protest about the Turkish Government's refusal to acknowledge the Armenian genocide of 1915 where more than two million people were killed, virtually wiping out the entire Armenian population of Turkey. The museum displayed a graphic and horrific series of photographs associated with the genocide. It was truly sobering to observe the exhibition and to read about the dreadful suffering the Armenians have endured throughout their history. Even though the genocide was almost one hundred years ago, it was no wonder the people were still angry. 

Built between 1606 and 1665 the Vank Cathedral was constructed for the Armenian immigrants who were settled in Iran by Shah Abbas I following the Ottoman War of 1603-1605. Today it is the most important holy place for Armenians in Iran. The cathedral is somewhat of a mixture of Islamic and Christian architecture. It comprises a domed sanctuary much like a Persian mosque, but with the addition of a semi-octagonal apse (vaulted recess) and raised chancel (space above the altar) usually seen in western churches.

The outside of the building looked rather drab and probably was one of the reasons we were not overly excited about visiting the cathedral site. But when we ventured inside, the ornately decorated interior with its brilliant tile work and elaborately painted frescoes was quite mind boggling, even though the content was somewhat grotesque. If the museum exhibits were not sickening enough, then the cathedral art works certainly put us well and truly in touch with torture and terror. Diabolical gruesome scenes such as people being disemboweled, body parts being bitten off by savage beasts and people being tortured with head screws was obviously a powerful tool in frightening the living daylights out of believers and it served to re-assure our abhorrence of repressing people through fear. It was a sobering experience and we felt even sorrier for the poor Armenians and their terrible history. 

Mohammad was about to head off to our next destination of Abyaneh when I reminded him about going back to the carpet shop. He was understandably surprised as he thought Alan had decided to give the purchase a miss. On arriving at the shop, we met a Norwegian group who gave us explicit warnings about the carpet sellers. Little did they know they were talking to Alan-the-Compulsive-and-Experienced-Carpet-Buyer. They told us that the carpets were hugely marked up and we should not be at all friendly or accept tea or food during our negotiations. As mentioned, I really hate bargaining and to Alan's frustration, I usually have to walk away to hide my embarrassment. This time there was no escape and the carpet sellers did arrive with tea and rather delicious looking pastries. I tried my utmost to look non-committal and did not partake in the tea and pastries ceremony, even though I was dying to try some. This behaviour I found suited me less than being part of the bargaining and when one of the shop managers came over to ask me what was wrong I felt awful. And of course I then had some tea. Mohammad kindly intervened, explaining that I was not well and concerned about our coming flight to Dubai - which I was.

Alan in the meantime, had done all the hard work and I was delighted when he finally purchased the gorgeous dark pink shimmering carpet that we had fallen in love with the evening before. We now had two problems. How would we pay for it by credit card when cards are not allowed in Iran - and how would we get it home? The payment was not a big problem for us, although it meant using another shop's rather creative accounting system. Getting it home was the big problem. The carpet, although incredibly soft and flexible and could be folded into a very small size, was dense and quite heavy. The carpet sellers were adamant we could carry it but fortunately, Alan managed to negotiate the postage to Australia as part of the purchase price. For our next destination of Pakistan we knew we would be travelling through rough terrain by jeep and that there would be very little room for luggage, let alone our two sizeable paintings and a heavy carpet. And thankfully at this stage we didn't know about the coming boat crossing in northern Pakistan....

More barren desert scenery and another dust storm rose out of a shimmering skyline to greet us on our way to Abyaneh. Visibility was limited and we could only just make out the distant snowy peak of Mt Karkas toward the township of Natanz. A road branched off the main Natanz-Kashan road and followed the Barzrood Valley until we reached the village of Abyaneh.

At first glimpse the surrounding valley looked lonely, dark and forbidding. And it was cold. A slither of afternoon light radiated an unusual pink-red glow on the surrounding mountains and suddenly we saw the village of Abyaneh, a series of pink box-like dwellings clustered oddly on top of each other against a barren rocky outcrop known as Nezatoon.

We had especially requested a visit to Abyaneh. Described by the Lonely Planet Guide as "one of the most fascinating villages in Iran", we were pleased that we were going to spend the night in what sounded like an interesting and somewhat off the beaten track site.

Abyaneh is known to be one of the oldest villages in Iran, although there is much conjecture about exactly how old it is. Archaeological evidence suggests that some parts of the village were inhabited at least 3,000 years ago. Other sources suggest its history may go back as far as 8,000 years. The nearby town of Kashan - once known as Sialk - is known to be at least 6,000 year's old. Excavations undertaken in Kashan reveal that when the town was attacked and looted by the Medes, the inhabitants would flee and settle in other parts of the regions. It has been suggested that Abyaneh may be one of the resulting communities.

Situated at the foot of Mount Karkas at an altitude of 2,220 meters, the cold mountain climate of Abyaneh makes for harsh living, especially in the snowy winter months. To maximise the sunlight and minimise the howling winter gales, the entire village faces due east. The houses comically look like they are huddled together to keep warm. But apparently the tight housing construction was designed to increase security against the frequent marauders during its long and treacherous history.

The most striking feature of Abyaneh is the colour. The houses, mostly made from local mud bricks are a dusky pink, as is the surrounding countryside. Crumbling cube shaped houses, supported by ancient wooden beams rest precariously on top of other dwellings. Wooden lattice work is common on doors and windows, and as a framework for many of the rickety timber supported balconies. The village comprises a spiral structure dating back to the Seljuk, Safavid and Qajar dynasties, with narrow, zigzagging alleys designed to curtail the very fierce winds. There are virtually no cars, most probably because there is no room for them along the tight alley ways and roofed corridors, or Sabats. Entry to many of the houses is by steep stone stairways.

We spent some hours wandering around the village. There was no doubt in our minds that Abyaneh was fascinating - in fact it was quite extraordinary and nothing like what we had seen during our travels through Iran. We had stepped back in time. Local women wore the traditional dress of a below the knee, brightly embroidered black skirt and black tights, covered with a large white shawl decorated with outrageously bright pink flower motives. And all their shawls were surprisingly the same. Men wore more western looking clothing although some wore the old traditional super-wide black trousers or "tanban", the embroidered patterns indicating their level of seniority. The youth wear diamond shaped patterns whereas the older men wear stripes. All women covered their heads with their shawls or head scarfs.

Although traditionally the Abyaneh people were Zoroastrians, today most have converted to Islam. We came across two exquisite small shrines and mausoleums, both thought to date back to the 14th century - the Imamzadeh-ye Yahya with its brilliant conical turquoise roof and the Zeyaratgah Shrine with its tranquil pool and surrounding ancient grape vines trellises. 

Although there were very few visitors, local residents looked like they had seen enough tourists and the atmosphere felt slightly contrived. Abyanehan women and men sat idly in front of door ways staring at us. No-one seemed to have much to do and were not particularly friendly. Alan asked one woman if it would be possible for us to take her photograph. She agreed, if we paid her. It sounded reasonable to us but when Alan paid her, she said it was not not enough and demanded more. So Alan gave her a small amount more. The woman's demands however infuriated some of the local shop owners who said she had no right to demand the money. We smiled. We had a certain sympathy with the woman. After all, we knew what it was like to feel like part of a freak show.

We thoroughly enjoyed our leisurely stroll around the village and our chance meeting with a Korean tourist and his gregarious guide Mahmoud. Our Korean friend spoke excellent English and explained that he was staying in the village in one of the traditional old houses for the week. He was extremely friendly too and we talked for some time about his home country, with which we had developed wonderful personal and business relationships during our working days. 

A native of Abyaneh, Mahmoud was a university student studying in Tehran and working part-time as a freelance travel guide. Tall and slim, and dressed in the traditional tanban topped by a white t-shirt, Mahmoud looked fantastic. He was passionate about his village and happily told us about life in Abyaneh before generously inviting us to his family home. We were delighted and very appreciative of this opportunity to visit the interior of one of the old houses. The houses have small windows, most probably to keep out the cold and the mud brick walled rooms were understandably dark. A fragile stone stairway led us to the top terrace, an extraordinarily high balcony with no railings which had splendid views over the nearby mountains and valley orchards. Talking with a local person was a great chance to further our understanding of history and life style of this quite remarkable village.

Our Hotel Abyaneh was simple but rather lovely. The foyer area was richly decorated with traditional furnishings and in a corner was a raised platform for smoking the qalyan. A friendly young couple smoking their qalyans smiled at us as we arrived. The atmosphere was warm and friendly and the staff was more than helpful. I was delighted to be able to borrow an iron. My only three neck to knees shirts, although being laundered several times, were looking crushed and somewhat worse for wear. The iron however was a bit more than efficient and I managed to cook one of the sleeves of my most expensive designer shirt. To my horror, the entire sleeve disintegrated, as I guess did the AUS $200 I had paid for it back in Sydney. Fortunately, it was our second last day in Iran.

We enjoyed a very pleasant meal at the hotel and lingered for quite some time in the little restaurant wondering what our next adventures would be.