The two provinces of Gilan and Mazandaran share many topographic and climatic similarities, and by extension, one might expect that the livelihoods and ways of life of their people would not differ greatly. Yet in crossing from Mazandaran into Gilan, there is a difference perceptible even from inside a car: an insistence in Mazandaran — at least along its main roads — on being new and chic and erasing every trace of the local and the vernacular, set against the relative preservation of the form and character of the roadsides in Gilan and the scattered gestures toward Gilani customs and elements: the reconstruction of a rural house at the center of a square or the edge of a road, the notable number of tile-covered roofs that remain, sculptures of village men and women, and perhaps most evocatively, the distinctive and penetrating aroma of Gilani food — this last in contrast to the smell of chicken kebab and the fast food that pervades the thoroughfares of Mazandaran, where, as in so many other places in Iran, if anything remains of that extraordinary diversity of taste, color, scent, and palate, it has been driven into the privacy of homes, while in public spaces the same few "official" foods are on offer. Why this difference exists and whether, for example, Mazandaran's closer proximity to the capital plays a role, is a subject worthy of contemplation. The land of Gilan is a plain with its head upon the lap of the mountains and its feet in the waters of the sea. Beyond the Sefidrud, which channels the runoff from a vast area of Iran toward Gilan,
Gilan's geographic conditions and heavy rainfall have set numerous small local streams and rivers flowing through it. If we also consider the dispersal of population centers across Gilan, the existence of many bridges there is hardly surprising. These bridges are mostly single-span and narrow, and in terms of scale, they cannot be compared to the great historic bridges such as Pol-e Qaflankuh, Pol-e Dokhtar, Pol-e Kashkan, Pol-e Shadravan, or the bridges of Isfahan. Yet some of them, by virtue of the effect they have had on the life and space of their surroundings, or the stories woven around them, have acquired a weight and standing far greater than their modest size. Bridges over a century old in Gilan, like many of Iran's old bridges, have stone foundations and brick superstructures. But most of these bridges in Gilan are called "kheshti pol" or "kheshte pol." According to the standard and accepted definition found in construction references, a block made of unbaked clay is called khesht. With such a material, one could not build a bridge — not in humid Gilan, and not even in the middle of the desert — whose span exceeds the length of an ordinary person's stride. It seems that the "kheshti" designation of Gilan's bridges is akin to the "Khan" title of Naser al-Din Shah's so-called tiger — which, as evidenced by two surviving photographs, was an ordinary spotted female cat, neither a tiger nor a khan. But just as the title "Khan" in India carries no gender implication and is appended to women's names too, khesht in its colloquial usage means
a brick block, usually square in cut, with no emphasis on its being unbaked.
Kheshti Pol of Langarud — Langarud is not a large city, and its population is about 80,000. From the prosperity, cleanliness, and vitality of the shops, one can guess that it is a well-off and affluent town. But fortunately, despite this prosperity, it has been spared the afflictions that the flow of capital has inflicted upon nearly every other environment and urban fabric in Iran, and its townscape has not been overrun by the ill-formed buildings whose only logic is ignorance and ineptitude. Its Gilani character has been preserved, and its air has not been trapped and stagnated — it still flows, which in this humid climate is a critical factor in the quality of the living environment. Langarud's urban fabric is largely low-rise, and the number of tile-covered roofs is sufficient to leave a tangible imprint on the cityscape. The skyline is beautiful and not far above the ground, and from many vantage points, one can see the mountains west of the city. As is typical of urban fabrics in humid climates (north or south), hardly any streets in this city are dead ends. But something I personally have not seen elsewhere in such numbers is the presence of individual buildings or clusters of two or three buildings standing like islands amid the urban fabric. Most of these islands are mosques or husayniyyas, though shops and houses can be found among them too. The quieter sides of these islands have effectively become pause points where coffeehouses, kebab shops, sandwich stands, or similar establishments have taken root. Langarud's urban fabric extends on both sides of the river, and the city's name apparently derives from the river's condition: the terrain's slope is so slight and the current so gentle that it is difficult to tell which direction the water flows. The word Langarud is seemingly a compound of "langar" (anchor) and "rud" (river) — that is, a place where the river has dropped anchor. In aerial photographs, there is little discernible difference between the two sides of the river, but at ground level, the southern part appears more bustling and dynamic, having absorbed the bazaar and the bulk of commercial activity. It seems that a difference in the mood and atmosphere of the urban fabrics on either side of a city's dividing features (such as a river or highway) is an inevitable phenomenon. The Kheshti Pol of Langarud is the first line of connection between the two sides of the river. It is a two-span bridge built at the city center adjacent to the bazaar, over the Langarud River, with its deck approximately 4 meters above the level of the streets leading to the two riverbanks. The Langarud River is not navigable and is about 20
meters wide at the point where the bridge's stout pier divides it in two. Therefore, raising the bridge deck for the passage of boats is beside the point. But it appears that an effort was made to place the feet of the arches at a level where they would not be exposed to the current and pressure of the water even during floods. Moreover, for greater durability and strength, the rise of the arches is considerable, and consequently the height of the arch crowns and, by extension, the level of the bridge deck is elevated. The height of the deck, whatever its rationale, has lent a distinctive formal and spatial quality to the bridge: the bridge's mass in the low-rise urban fabric has become a distinctive form and a prominent urban landmark. The combination of this feature with the bridge's location at the heart of the bazaar has perhaps made it the most important urban element of Langarud. On the other hand, when crossing the bridge, one can experience a space quite different from the fabric of this lowland city and see the town from a fresh vantage point, especially the expansive view it affords of the same mountain on whose other slope Lahijan is spread. The Kheshti Pol has been restored, and it is a matter of gratitude that despite the bridge deck being nearly 10 meters above the water, no one has thought of "safety-proofing" it — and the fate that befell the Si-o-Se Pol has not befallen this one. The only change is that the profile of the parapet has been given a triangular cross-section with a pointed top, presumably so that it would not provide a comfortable place to sit. The beautiful and the ugly of Langarud — and perhaps of all Gilan — can be seen from this bridge, or rather, smelled: on one side, the stench of the garbage-laden river into which the city's sewage drains every few blocks, and on the other, the delightful and appetizing aroma of two "home-cooking" shops that stock fresh herbs and pickles and also sautee greens and garlic. The latter attests to the refined palate and delicate taste of the Gilani people, while the former is the result of the twin scourges of garbage and sewage that apparently are never meant to be resolved in the northern provinces.
Morghane Pol — Morghane Pol is a small bridge built over a narrow, shallow river somewhere near Kuchesfehan, along a village road. Although it is not large in size, the form of its structure and the characteristics of its site have made it a prominent local landmark. The difference between the water level and the flat surrounding lands (mostly rice paddies) is no more than 2 meters even in dry season, and the riverbanks have a gentle slope. Consequently, the crown of the bridge arch has gained considerable height relative to the road, and the slope of the bridge deck is steep
as well. Morghane Pol resembles an isosceles triangle standing in a vertical plane and set at an angle to the course of the river, with its two equal sides planted in the mud and silt of the riverbank, and its base resting on the calm surface of the water. This river, like all rivers and streams in Gilan, is mixed with sewage and garbage, although the contamination has not yet reached a level that deters the frogs from singing and leaping along its banks. "Morghane" in the Gilani dialect means "egg," and Morghane Pol translates to "Egg Bridge" or "Egg-shaped Bridge." Two explanations exist for the name: one is the local story that the bridge was built through the efforts of an elderly woman from the village who spent the proceeds from selling her eggs on the bridge. The second is not a story but an analysis — I have read that the late Ahmad Hami attributed the bridge's association with eggs to the use of egg whites in the bridge's mortar. Upon seeing the bridge and walking around it a bit, one can dismiss both explanations: the cost of such a bridge bears not the slightest proportion to the income from a village woman's domestic eggs, and a mortar in which lime and egg coexist would set so quickly as to be unusable for any structure. The bridge's association with eggs likely has a formal reason — the very one visible in the photographs: the reflection of the bridge arch in the undisturbed water of the river, combined with the bridge itself,
creates an image not unlike an egg. It is similar to the reason the Taj al-Mulk dome of Isfahan's Jami Mosque is called "Gunbad-e Khagi" (the Egg Dome). That dome, like most domes, is made of brick rather than egg or clay, but its position is such that from the small bazaar behind the mosque, it appears in an oval or egg-like form. The form of Morghane Pol — whether or not it is the origin of its name — is distinctive and different, and with its pointed peak and tall height amid the low-rise village fabric and the treeless rice paddies surrounding it, it has become a prominent and distinctive volume, one that has stirred the minds and imaginations of many: the imaginations of the rice farmers in this secluded corner of the Gilan plain, and the logical, analytical mind of Ahmad Hami alike.
Gishe Damorde Bridge — Gishe Damorde is one of the dozens of ordinary bridges in Gilan, built in a hamlet called Balasbone between Rasht and Kuchesfehan, over a local river. Two or three other bridges span the same water in the vicinity, and Gishe Damorde not only has no obvious distinction from them but is itself half-ruined, and the road that crosses it is virtually abandoned, so thoroughly surrounded by dense grass, plants, and trees that even finding it is no easy task. Yet this heap of collapsed brick has a story from which it takes its name: Gishe Damorde means "the dead bride," and the tale goes that during
Kheshti Pol, bazaar, and urban fabric of Langarud
the bridal procession, the bride falls from the bridge into the water and is carried away, and no trace of her is ever found, whereupon the groom descends into madness. What remains of the Qajar-era Gishe Damorde bridge today is a narrow footpath through dense grass and shrubs that crosses a river whose bed lies five or six meters below the village road along the riverbank. Only at the center of the bridge, at the crown of its arch, can a few of the bridge's bricks be seen. To see the body of the bridge, one must endure the scratches of thorns and dense vegetation, scramble down the side of the bridge, and go all the way to the water's edge. What lies down there is a half-ruined brick arch and broken cutwaters, here and there overgrown with a tree, a bush, a plant, and the trembling reflection of light that filters through the dense trees and strikes the water beneath the arch creates an eerie image of what remains of the bridge. Here, beneath the bridge and beside the water, an almost complete silence prevails: the river lies several meters below its surroundings and is enveloped by dense vegetation, and the river itself moves along quietly and silently. Not even a trace of the sound of tractors and cars passing along the adjacent road reaches down here, but faint, indecipherable sounds drift through the space, filling one with apprehension — could these be the murmurs of the forsaken groom, whose solitude one has intruded upon? If we were to "fact-check" — to use the unpleasant term lately in vogue — the story of the bride swept away by the water and the groom driven to madness, we would arrive at a conclusion that
vetoes the story entirely: first, the appearance of this bridge and this water are simply not the sort to sweep someone away so thoroughly that not even a trace of her white bridal garments could be found. Furthermore, it appears that this tale is not exclusive to this bridge and this area; other places have also been cited as the location of the incident. For example, Shiun Fumani, in his verse narrative Gishe Damorde, gives an address that does not lead to this Jirsarai bridge: "Rasht ki khayi bishi hatu Anzali / Se rayi ye khomama bi matleli / Degardi shi taze besakhteh jadeh / Khoshkeh bejar fanreseh bi, piyadeh / Se char ta dukan dini simkasareh / Gishe Damorde do qadam ushtareh." But seeking rationality in such stories is itself an irrational act. Like those critics who faulted the coffeehouse painter for putting the banner of "Nasr-un Min-Allah wa Fathun Qarib" in the hand of Rostam, in the same way, any attempt to find evidence that the story actually occurred at the place to which it is attributed will yield no worthy result. Such stories, true or false, once engraved upon the hearts of the people, leave their powerful mark on the place to which they are attributed, and if that place is a public space like this bridge, one can no longer separate the space from the story. One of the considerations of conservation is that what has transpired over the years upon a historic building or fabric is part of its identity and nature, and must be taken into account in any restoration plan, with an architectural equivalent sought for it. (It is this same perspective that considers exact replica reconstruction a falsification of history and rejects it.) For this reason, the quality of a restored building or fabric lies in compressing history and placing past and present side by side. The extreme version of this approach is John Ruskin's theory of romantic conservation: that a historic building should be left to its own devices to pass as a completed historical era, and no restoration beyond protection from further collapse is warranted. Though I have never subscribed to romantic conservation, the ruin of Gishe Damorde and its abandonment among the branches and leaves of vegetation bear a strange consonance with the tragedy of the bride swept away and the desolate heart of the groom, and having seen it, I feel no regret that it has not been restored (despite being on the national heritage register). The mythic atmosphere beneath the bridge evokes one of the episodes in Kobayashi's film "Kwaidan," entitled "Hoichi the Earless": a blind minstrel who was a temple servant would take his instrument under his arm at night, slip out of the temple, and go to an ancient ruin, and there, where once the royal audience hall stood, he would sit and sing and play, and in his imagination the ruin was restored, its garden green, its waters flowing. The audience for this midnight concert were the wandering spirits of that extinct dynasty, who came to hear in his music the tragedy of the war that had led to their annihilation. Gishe Damorde, perhaps, is best restored — like that minstrel — by each person in their own imagination.
Kheshti Pol of Loushan — From whichever road one approaches Loushan, whether the new freeway or the old highway, a few kilometers before the city, the massive form of one of the two cement plants of Loushan
appears beyond the rolling hills and above the horizon, like unwanted guiding pylons announcing the presence of a city that, due to the topography of its location, has no wide panoramic view. Loushan sits somewhere along the banks of the Shahrud (one of the two branches of the Sefidrud), and its position is such that the route connecting southern Alborz to Gilan must necessarily pass through it. The Qajar-era Kheshti Pol of Loushan was built during a period of increased contacts with Russia, and at just over one hundred meters in length, it is a large bridge by Gilan standards. The bridge's setting presents a special condition rarely seen among historical bridges: the two riverbanks — and effectively the two ends of the bridge — have a difference in elevation of six to seven meters. The spatial result is no more than a sloping deck, but the bridge's form has acquired a unique shape as a consequence of this elevation difference. In old bridges with more than one span, an effort is always made to give the spans a consistent rhythm: either a uniform span is repeated, or the central span is larger and the smaller ones are symmetrically disposed on either side. The particular condition of the Loushan bridge creates the expectation that either the spans should increase at a steady rate from the lower end to the higher, or the spans should be uniform with the height of the piers beneath the arches progressively increasing. But the builders of the Loushan bridge imposed no such constraint upon themselves, and apparently the only factor determining the placement and size of the spans was the condition of the riverbed. If one regards the bridge as merely a crossing, the rhythm of the spans — or in other words, the side elevation of the bridge — is of no consequence. But if, as with this bridge, it is part of the urban fabric and constitutes an important urban element, then its lateral elevation becomes important and impactful — something that in the Loushan bridge has absolutely no standing. The facade of the Kheshti Pol of Loushan has been made uglier in two stages since its construction: first, when the uncomfortable and perhaps dangerous slope on the lower end of the bridge was tempered by
adding several meters to the bridge's thickness (reportedly designed by a Russian engineer), and second, during a restoration carried out following damage from the earthquake of [13]69 SH, in which cracks in the body were filled by stuffing them with concrete. The history of settlement in Loushan is not short, but its expansion and growth into a city apparently came after the construction of the old cement plant. It has a lackluster bazaar row that follows the alignment of the bridge and extends for about 70 meters continuing from the upper end of the bridge. The present city has a worn appearance, and most of its buildings lack proper facades. Its garbage has covered the beautiful riverbanks, and its waterfall of sewage flows into the Shahrud, bound for the Manjil Dam and the rice paddies of Gilan. Yet the ground beneath the city has the potential to be one of the most beautiful and desirable places to live in all of Iran. Beautiful and varied scenery, clean air, pleasant temperatures, the sound of the river, together with proximity to a freeway, railway, and major industries — a combination that I believe is unique in Iran. But it seems that indifference to the beauty of this environment has a history at least as long as the Kheshti Pol of Loushan itself.
Footnotes: 1- On the southern entrance road to Gilan, namely at Manjil, a relatively large bridge was built over the Sefidrud at the present site of the Manjil Dam, near which the battle between the Jangal forces and the joint Russian-British troops (under General Picharakhov) took place. No trace of this bridge remains. 2- It is said that once upon a time, small barges and cargo boats used to travel the approximate 15-kilometer distance from this bridge to Chamkhaleh and reach the sea. The river water presumably contained less fertilizer and nutrients in those days, and the aquatic plants were not as dense as they are today. 3- The late Ahmad Hami, in addition to engineering, was also an authority on history and archaeology, and with his unparalleled command of Iran's geography and history, he would analyze historical accounts with scientific and technical logic and evidence. His most famous analysis of this kind was his assertion that Alexander the Great's invasion of Iran and the burning of Persepolis were fabrications. He would say: "I have examined the route of Alexander's army and the sites of the battles inch by inch. None of the stories they tell — that the army traversed all that distance in a short time and won several battles — are consistent with the physical evidence, nor with the geography of the route, nor with the possibility of supplying the army with water and provisions." He also rejected the burning of Persepolis with a chemical argument: "The stones of Persepolis are calcium carbonate, or limestone, which decomposes into quickite and carbon dioxide when exposed to heat (the same thing that happens in a lime kiln). Quicklime in turn reacts with water. How is it that the marks of the ancient stone-cutters' chisels are still visible on the stones? The story of Alexander, if not entirely fabricated, has been contaminated with enormous exaggeration, but because it entails the humiliation of Eastern nations, it has pleased the European palate and been passed off as established history." 4- One could also suppose that a community fundraiser was organized for the bridge and the hypothetical lady lit the first lamp from the proceeds of her eggs, and this generosity was preserved generation after generation on the hearts of the locals. But a bridge funded in this manner should logically be modest and economical, which Morghane Pol is decidedly not. Morghane Pol, following the road in whose extension it was built, crosses the river obliquely, whereas if the road had been given a bend, the bridge would have crossed the river perpendicularly, and its volumes and dimensions might have been reduced by 25 to 30 percent. 5- The late Mr. Hami's analysis regarding the use of eggs in the bridge mortar can be challenged by his own method of reasoning: bridges and buildings exposed to moisture and water, such as reservoirs or bathhouses, were built with the water-resistant mortar saruj, a mixture of lime, ash, sand, and clay whose preparation, kneading, and curing was a long and arduous process. By a rough estimate, approximately 80 to 170 cubic meters of mortar were used in Morghane Pol, and if eggs were to be included in that quantity of mortar, even if prepared as sparingly as possible, about one million eggs would be needed — which in an era with no industrial poultry farming would have been no easy feat. By adding a proteinaceous substance such as eggs or milk, a saruj is obtained that is not only water-resistant but also waterproof. However, this mixture was used only in small quantities for tasks such as waterproofing the spout of water cisterns, mending porcelain, or repairing broken jugs. 6- I have deliberately said "cement works" rather than "factory" for where the cement is produced, because it bears little relation to "work" and relies mainly on energy and raw materials. The old kiln has been shut down, but the new one is apparently important and reputable in its class. It seems Loushan's share of the cement has been nothing more than the dust off the hoppers. 7- The old cement works used to package several hundred tons of its cement per year in the lungs of the people, but the new kiln has no visible pollution and the city's sky is clean. If that problem has been solved, garbage and sewage should not be unsolvable either.
Square in front of the Kheshti Pol of Langarud — Bank of the Langarud River — Kheshti Pol of Loushan