My trip to Iran by invitation of the Iranian Rainwater Catchment Systems
Association
— Another incredible opportunity
to share ideas, traditions, and innovations across borders within similar
climates
by Brad Lancaster © 2014
Los Angeles, California
The February 2014 trip began with
a bike ride. (My
preference is to ride my bike to the airport, or walk to the bus or train
station, to get some last-minute exercise, at the same time reducing a fraction
of the large carbon skidmark of fossil-fuel-based travel.) I then spent my
seven-hour layover well in the diversity of Los Angeles. After landing I headed
straight for Wi Spa, a Korean bathhouse open 24/7 in downtown L.A. I was
exhausted from working too hard, and I needed to relax prior to 20+ hours of
additional travel. The hot and cold waters, steam room, and scrubbing were
wonderful for this, but the best was the huge co-ed floor filled with Korean
families hanging out, laughing, relaxing, conversing, reading comic books, and
eating. The Korean restaurant there was amazing, and I ate together with
everyone else. All of us were wearing the same spa shorts and shirts, hair wet
from perspiration or bathing. It was a uniform of sorts for one big family. Before
and after eating I covered myself in either salt or clay balls—both located in
separate hot rooms where people can sleep, meditate, or watch Korean soap
operas while digesting their food. I was reborn.
I stepped out of the spa into the
surrounding Latin American district. Spanish signs and conversation were everywhere.
I got a taxi—the driver was from Bangladesh. Wonderful conversation followed
comparing and contrasting cultures and place. (Note: Green taxis are available
in LA at http://www.mygreentaxi.com/.)
I flew to Iran via Istanbul on
Turkish airlines, which I find far superior to any American airline—more
comfortable, more caring, and better food and movies (including lots of great international
films, though I also watched Superman, from which I took a message of hope and
striving for a higher purpose).
Mashhad, Iran
I arrived in Mashhad, Iran, at
2:15 am. Women in the plane now wore head scarves, whereas before I fell asleep
on the plane they had not. I was met by Salman Tabatabai, a very
independent-minded and intelligent young man who would be one of my main guides
and hosts. As we drove from the airport, he started educating me immediately on
life in Iran—for which I was grateful.
Iran is a water-traffic country.
By that I mean that traffic lanes are meaningless. Vehicles stop, start,
swerve, and flow like rapids in ways that seem to be without order, but the
more time you spend in the flow, the more you learn to swim.
Connection to the sun and community direction
Once at my hotel I fell right to
sleep. I awoke with the sun and the accompanying call to prayer—one of three
prayers per day, rather than five as I’ve experienced elsewhere in the Middle
East. Iranians are predominantly Shi’a Muslims, and their daily prayers are
directly tied to the sun. Prayer is at sunrise, solar noon, and sunset.
Sundials/gnomons at mosques pinpoint the exact time for the midday prayer to
begin. I loved this!
The Iranian connection to the sun
struck me as stronger than ours—although still not perfect. In addition to this
connection being manifested in the traditions of prayer, the majority of
buildings in Mashhad are oriented along more or less east-west streets. The
buildings are separated by courtyards to allow more light into the
windows—direct southern, winter-heat-giving light as well as indirect northern light.
(Though a more exact east-west
orientation of streets and buildings; equator-facing window overhangs sized to
let in winter heat and light, while shading out summer sun; and more complete
solar rights planning and zoning would further enhance performance—see the new second edition my book for how to best incorporate
these and other passive solar strategies).
I was impressed that maintaining
some winter sun access for most buildings appears to have been intentional in
the layout of Mashhad’s streets and buildings, but was later shocked to
discover what had been demolished to create this pattern. Upon returning home
and doing some post-trip research, I came upon a website where
you can scroll down to see some photos of Mashhad around the Shrine before much
of the old city was torn down in the 1960s and later rebuilt. I don’t
understand this demolishing of history, and we’ve done it in my hometown, also
in the 1960s when Tucson tore down the majority of Barrio Viejo and its
wonderful earthen buildings (read more on this in Kydia R. Otero’s book “La
Calle: Spatial Conflict and Urban Renewal in a Southwest City”).
On the wall of every hotel room in
Mashhad (and on every map) is a sign indicating the cardinal directions and the
direction of Kaaba, toward which Muslims must face when praying. I imagined all
praying Muslims facing toward the same point multiple times daily, and felt it
to be a very powerful uniting action and image.
Fig. 1. Compass and
direction of prayer on map of Mashhad
So when I asked Salman how aware
the average Iranian is of cardinal directions and the path of the sun, it was
no wonder that he responded the awareness is high. But, as seems to be the case
almost everywhere, I feel the abundance of oil has dulled the utilization of
this awareness. Ever-humming and -polluting gas and electric heaters and coolers
are typically turned on before a silent curtain, window, or awning is opened or
drawn closed.
Fig. 2. Streets are on
an east-west axis, and buildings are separated by courtyards to allow more
light into the windows—direct southern, winter-heat-giving light as well as
indirect northern light.
Notes on conditions in Iran
My first day in country, I met
with a number of professors to learn more about Iran and Mashhad. Interestingly,
despite the political tension between our two countries, the vast majority of
them had done their graduate studies in the U.S.
The following bits of information
came from notes I took on my trip:
• There are 3 million residents in
Mashhad, but up to 22 million visitors a year—most of whom are on a pilgimage
to visit the exquisite shrine of Iman Reza.
• Groundwater is being extracted
at a rate exceeding natural recharge by about 10 billion cubic meters per year
in Iran.
• The traditional means of
accessing groundwater is with qanats —near-level
hand-dug tunnels often many kilometers long, which bring water from a (typically
hand-dug) well at the base of a mountain out to the more fertile valley below.
Gravity alone moves this water—no pumps. Thus extraction is automatically kept
in check. When water levels in the well drop, so does flow, and thus also use
of water from the qanat. Overextraction of groundwater does not occur via
qanats.
• There are over 62,000 qanats in
Iran, but since mechanical pumps have been introduced, 20,000 or 40,000 (my
notes are not clear on which of these two numbers is correct) of these qanats
have gone dry. This is due to new wells that have been dug and fitted with mechanical
pumps near the source-well for the qanats. The mechanical pumps never stop or
slow their pumping, and they lower the level of the groundwater to such an
extent that the groundwater drops below the level of the qanat’s tunnel,
thereby ceasing its flow.
• Wells average 100 meters deep,
but some are as much as 300 meters deep. Groundwater levels are dropping 1
meter or more per year. Salinity levels of the water are increasing.
• There are almost as many illegal
wells as legal wells. Monitoring and metering of wells is only just beginning.
• 10 meters of subsidence has
occurred in areas around Mashhad due to the overconsumption of groundwater.
• Lakes such as Urmia are drying
up (half of lake has dried up in last decade). Rivers such as Zayandeh Rood are
going dry. Airborne dust is becoming more of an issue in terms of air quality.
• Wet years are more damaging than
dry years since people are more accustomed to drought than flooding, thus when
big storms come flooding and erosion can be severe.
• 12 billion cubic meters of water
is imported into Iran each year—much of which is pumped uphill, consuming more
power and water (6 billion cubic meters of water a year is used in thermoelectric
power plants). At the same time an equal amount is lost to runoff and
evaporation.
• 36% of all energy in Iran is
used to pump water in Iran—primarily for agriculture. 60% of that energy
consumption is to extract groundwater.
• 1 million hectares of land—10%
of the cultivated land in Iran—are watered with pressurized irrigation.
• High-water-use crops could be
switched out in favor of lower-water-use crops. Flood irrigation could be
switched to drip irrigation.
• 73% of water withdrawls are for
agriculture. 20% for urban use and industry.
• 20% of water in Mashhad is used
for green spaces. 20–30% of this is drinking water emitted directly into the
soil for irrigation of landscapes. The rest of the water for green spaces is
from wells.
• The water-consumption footprint
of the average Iranian is 350 liters/person/day (similar to the American
average). The world average is 250 liters/person/day.
• 21 billion m3 of
virtual water is imported into Iran each year.
and other sources to compare and contrast info.)
The water challenges in Iran are
not unique. Most are similar to those found in drylands (and even some wetter
lands) around the world.
The water-harvesting conference—seeking solutions
The conference was well attended.
It was wonderful to see such interest in water harvesting, and a resurgence in
the valuing of using low-cost, higher-quality on-site waters as opposed to
always looking to import costly distant waters that need extensive treatment.
As with all places I’ve visited, Iran has a rich water-harvesting tradition
that people began to abandon and forget as soon as cheap fossil-fuel energy
became available. This has led to incredible wastes, inefficiencies, and—ultimately—growing
water shortages as people ignore and squander what they already have for free
(rain). It turns out that the amount of rain falling on Mashhad in an average
year comes close to equaling all its citizens’ current consumption of municipal
water (much of which comes from the Dootsi Dam project from which the water
needs to be pumped uphill to Mashhad). See the Water section at http://www.harvestingrainwater.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/One-Page-Place-Assessment-Mashhad-Iran-2.xlsx.pdf). This
conference is part of a growing movement bringing the harvest of on-site waters
back to life.
The conference began with a
beautiful reading/singing of verses of the Koran relating to the rain. Poems
were read between each speaker. Poems were a common theme. People recited
poetry everywhere I went. It’s a wonderful way to generate a creative field and
a more open mind.
Dr. Tanuja Ariyananda from Sri
Lanka, past president of the International Rain Water Catchment Systems Association
(IRCSA), gave the first keynote about rainwater harvesting around the world. I
gave the second later in the day. In between were many presentations by Iranian
researchers looking at traditional water-harvesting systems and potential new
innovations, but I had a hard time following the content as they were in
Persian.
I focused my presentation on
similarities between the situation in the U.S. and Iran, striving for living
regenerative systems, and the greater potential of harvesting on-site water by
integrating those harvests with other on-site resources such as the sun, shade,
wind, and community—I think it went well. I ended by saying I’d love to
collaborate with others to get my book translated and published into Persian. A
number of folks stepped up with offers to translate, but I’m still looking for
an Iranian publisher of the book. We’ll see what happens.
Cultural faux pas
After a night or two my hosts
later moved me to a 5-star hotel, though I had been fine with the more modest
previous hotel. I was led to an opulent room on the 15th floor, and
asked by facial expression if all was satisfactory. I could only respond in
English that all was great and by giving the staff a “thumbs up” sign—a
horrible mistake. I later learned that in Iran the “thumbs up” sign is like
giving someone “the finger.” I felt horrible about this, and made a point not
to repeat this mistake. However, I fixated on it so much I often had small
jolts of panic as I imagined my thumbs trying to rise anytime things were going
great—which was most of the time.
Hopefully the hotel staff likes to
use Facebook, which uses the thumbs up sign as a good thing. Facebook is banned
in Iran and blocked by the government. Nonetheless it is widely used. Free
filter-breaking software is easily available along with the most current software—often
becoming available on the black market before its official release. Such
software also enables Iranians to bypass international blocks—due to
sanctions—on websites such as Google Earth.
Situated the 15th floor
of the hotel, my room had an incredible view of the city and surrounding
mountains. The city is massive, and its consumptive roar is constant. As it
grows, ever more water, power, food, land, etc is consumed. Planes fly in all
day long every day. I awoke that night as I often do in large cities with a
feeling approaching panic. How long can such consumption go on? How can we
shift the direction of our lives from ever more consumption to enabling ever
more life? I wrestled with these questions until dawn. Then I heard the crow of
a single rooster rise from the constant hum of the city below. This rooster
gave me hope. He was out there amidst a sea of pavement. He was likely not
alone. Seeds were likely germinating in the cracks.
Mashhad
After the conference, Salman
toured me around Mashhad. My favorite outing was our walk to and throughout the
Shrine/Tomb Complex of Imam Reza. This is
a major economic/spiritual/cultural engine as it is a pilgrimage site
attracting nearly 20 million visitors a year. The site is exquisite, massive,
and growing. Buildings at its periphery are being torn down to make room for
growth, while the outermost buildings are still under construction. Upon
entering, you leave the frantic rush of the city and traffic behind—even though
the shrine is in the middle of the city). Inside this refuge there is a feeling
of calm along with the constant flow of the cycle of life. Full-time crews
continually lay out, then roll up prayer rugs for the three daily prayers.
Though people are praying and reading continuously. The architecture is
incredible with beautiful tile mosaics, domes, engraved gold, passive-cooling
features, and ceilings of complex, mind-altering mosaics of tens of thousands
of mirrors.
All aspects of the shrine are
regularly being cleaned by volunteers. Other volunteers in long coats keep
order. Many of these volunteers are PhDs, doctors, lawyers, and such who devote
at least one day a week to the shrine. When an elderly man said I should not
enter the shrine as I was not a Muslim, the caretakers in the coats welcomed me
in. It was explained to me that Imam Reza was known for his extreme generosity
and tolerance and thus the shrine is open to all people.
The cycle of life is very present
in the shrine for there is an endless flow of funeral processions bringing the
dead through the shrine complex before burial. And I learned that the burial
custom contains no toxic formaldehyde-injections
into the bodies or lead-lined caskets (as is disturbingly often the case in the U.S.), but just the body wrapped in cloth with an airspace above to
speed decomposition back into the Earth.
As we were about to leave a
different long-coated volunteer approached us and said I should not be in the
shrine as I was a foreigner. A discussion ensued, and then we left as we were
already planning to do so. It struck me that there is likely a continuous push
and pull of different thinking among the volunteers of the shrine as there is
in our greater society. Like a seesaw, tolerance and openness goes up and down.
For myself, I found being
initially welcomed into the shrine further opened my interest in Islam and grew
my desire to learn more. Openness invites openness.
Next was a museum with a
fascinating array of old navigation and astronomical tools.
The day was later capped with an
evening visit with Salman and his family to the higher-elevation village of
Shandiz and some amazing regional ice cream full of ever-changing flavors
placed atop crunchy, spaghetti-like starch noodles. As with Mashhad, all
streets were tree-lined, but here the trees were massive, canopying over the
entire street with street runoff passively irrigating the trees.
Fig. 3.
Stormwater ditch irrigating street trees in village of Shandiz
Fig. 4. Persian
ice cream with Salman, Elham, and Amena
Trip to traditional water-harvesting systems in rural Khorasan Razavi
30% of Iran is suitable for
dryfarming—irrigating solely with the rain. Autumn rainfall is the key
indicator of potential success. Autumn 2013 was dry, and the drought continued
through winter. Crops, such as wheat, are planted after the rain. Thus I saw
very little growing as the rains had not come. 1 in 5 years there is typically
a severe drought. This is a severe drought year. Only 18 mm (just over 2/3
inch) of rain had fallen from the beginning of the year up to my visit on February
21.
Bandsars
Bandsars could be seen everywhere—spreading
across 140 km2—as we
drove along the highway from Mashhad toward Sabzevar. “Bandsar” roughly means a
repeating pattern of small earthen dams. A bandsar
and is an ancient system for
harvesting rainfall and runoff to flood irrigate fields in flatter lands. It is
brilliantly simple. Earthen berms, somewhat like those of a very large
boomerang berm, or the Indian chouka system described in the Introduction of Rainwater Harvesting for Drylands and Beyond, Volume 2, hold
runoff within a field. Runoff from a catchment, runoff from a small ephemeral
waterway, or runoff from both is directed into the bandsar. Once the bandsar
field is full of water, the harvested water either backs up to the inlet point
so no more water enters the field (like the street-side curb cut basins
described in chapter 8 of Rainwater Harvesting forDrylands and Beyond, Volume 2), or the field will overflow at a point on
the other side of the field (nearly level with the inlet), the overflow being
directed into another bandsar. The elevation of the inlet in relation to the
height of the berms and the field itself are closely monitored and adjusted to
ensure enough water is harvested, but not too much so fields are not
waterlogged.
Fig. 5. Dr. Javad Tabatabaee Yazdi standing on berm of a bandsar.
People to left are standing in the water drainage/arroyo/wadi. Dr. Javad
Tabatabaee Yazdi is looking at people just below a bandsar field that was able
to grow a crop last year.
Fig. 6. Looking
downstream from the previous image. Water (when flowing) is directed from the
wadi into the field to the left. Water backs up behind berm where people are,
and infiltrates soil.
Salman (blue shirt and
dark coat) is standing on a berm that directs water flow from wadi into a
second bandsar downstream from the one in the foreground. People behind the
berm are standing in the inlet for the second bandsar.
Fig. 7. Left-most
person is standing atop the berm of an upstream bandsar. Moving to the right
you see people standing in the inlet channel that will direct water into the
bandsar field I (and the camera) are standing in. Then you see the inlet’s
berm, and below (and to the right of that) the inlet for another bandsar field
that is below the one I’m standing in. Then further to the right you see that
inlet’s berm and to the right of that the wadi/arroyo (water will flow with the
slope from the background to the foreground).
Fig. 8. Looking
downstream from the previous image, you see the man and woman standing in the
inlet to the field where I had been standing in the previous image. The left-most
folks are standing in the inlet channel that will direct water to the next
bandsar field downstream.
Fig. 9. The circular
berm signifies the now-filled-in vent shaft of an abandoned qanat. Qanats often
cross beneath bandsar fields. The bandsar fields harvest rainfall and runoff,
while the qanats are subsurface tunnels that deliver water from wells at the
base of the mountains via gravity to orchards, vineyards, and villages.
Fig. 10. Tour buddies/water-harvesting
aficionados
As these systems act as backwater
or eddy systems of collecting, settling, and infiltrating water—as opposed to
flow-through systems—they are less prone to erosion. Villagers position
themselves in their fields during storms and runoff water flow, and are quick
to fix any problems should they arise. Rodent burrows in the earthen berms can lead
to blowouts if not watched. Earth and brush or weeds are used to plug holes or
redirect flows. Incoming sediment is spread out on the fields or used to
reinforce the bandsars’ berms. This inflow of sediment is also an inflow of
fertility, so no additional fertilizer is needed. Only on-site materials are
used. Nothing is imported. Nothing needs to be bought for the system to work.
On average there will be 4–5
rainfall events per year with enough rain running off to be harvested. Crops
are planted after a runoff event, not before.
Soil moisture from harvested cool-season
runoff typically lingers in bandsar fields for 2 months. Wheat, barley, and
melons are dryfarmed in these fields. In this dry area, runoff-irrigated
bandsars typically do not support fruit or nut trees unless there is some
supplemental water (such as greywater) available for irrigation in the long
summer dry season.
During the growing season farmers
will live in earthen structures within the field to scare off wildlife
attempting to eat the crops. Livestock freely roam the fields in the off-season
as the fields are then considered common grazing land. During the growing
season scarecrows are constructed to alert shepherds to keep their livestock
away.
Fig. 11. Earthen
structure where the farmers stay during the growing season.
On the satellite image of Google
Earth or Google Maps, search for Soqeyh, Khorasan Razavi, Iran. Just outside
the village are some of the bandsars I visited. If you look at the 2013 images,
the bandsar fields will be fallow and brown as there was no significant winter
rain, while you’ll see some smaller green fields irrigated with pumped
groundwater.
Fig. 12. Soqeyh
village in lower left. Bandsar fields above the village and on the other side
of the highway to right of village. Credit: Google Earth
Dr. Javad Tabatabaee Yazdi, my
primary host, guide, and director of the water-harvesting conference, informed
me that such groundwater-irrigated fields suffer from increasing salinity,
rising electricity costs, the need to pay back the loans that funded the
digging of their wells, and reduction in efficiency as groundwater levels drop.
Fields often become too salty to grow traditional grains, thus many are
switching to growing more-salt-tolerant pistachios. Nonetheless groundwater-irrigated
fields are increasing, while bandsar agriculture is falling out of favor due to
the current low cost of electricity (for water pumps) subsidized by the
government. Yet bandsar agriculture does not lead to the salinization of the
soil, depletion of groundwater, or reliance on fossil fuels, fertilizer, or
loans.
Qanats
These ancient water tunnels have
been ideally suited to provide the lifeblood of year-round water to numerous
dryland farms and villages for generations. They are subsurface canals, thus
they do not lose water to evaporation as would be the case with an open-surface
canal. Gravity moves the water for free, so there are no pumps or power needs. We
visited a couple of qanats, one being over 1,600 years old. Near the base of a
mountain 7 km away, a 220-meter deep well had been dug down to the water table.
Then a near-level tunnel was dug from the base of the well to the village 7 km
away in the plain below the mountain. (The total length of the qanat is 15 km,
but much of this additional distance is in need of maintenance and clearing of
debris.) Vertical vent shafts have been dug out along the entire length of the
qanat to provide air for those building and maintaining the qanat as well as an
exit from which dug-out material and debris could and can be removed by buckets
drawn up via a rope/cable, tripod, and pulley.
Fig. 13. Wonderful breakfast before touring qanats
There are 1,500 qanats in the area
around Sabzevar, but only 800 are still in use since the water output of the
others is now too little (often due to adjacent wells with mechanical pumps
that are over-extracting the groundwater). The first qanat we visited outletted
into a village that distributed the qanat water via canals to numerous walled
homes, orchards, and vineyards.
I drank the qanat water where it
first entered the village. It was delicious and needed no filtration. This was
at the home of 81-year-old Sheikholeslam. He spent 40 years of his life
bringing the qanat back to life, and he continuously spouts poems in praise of
the qanat.
Fig. 14. Sheikholeslam
drinking water from his qanat
Fig. 15.
Winter-dormant, qanat-irrigated vineyard and orchard
Fig. 16. Looking into
the vent shaft of a qanat delivering water from a hand-dug well at the base of
the mountain in the distance (7 km away)
Fig. 17. Looking into
the vent shaft of qanat (looking in opposite direction of the previous image).
Each mound in a straight line in the distance was created digging out another
vent shaft for the qanat.
Fig. 18. Qanat vent
shaft
Fig. 19. Open canal
distributing qanat water through the village, past the adobe mosque and
community center (with solar water heaters on roof)
Fig. 20. Open canal
distributing qanat water through the village
The qanat needs regular
maintenance, though in poorer rural communities Sheikholeslam says paying for
such maintenance can be a challenge, and not too many of the younger generation
are learning qanat skills. Though once his qanat was maintained/cleaned, the
flow increased from 40 to 220 liters per second. Makani, the man now doing most
of the maintenance of the qanat, says there are 50 teams in the region that can
keep the qanats maintained if there is the money to pay them. Working time for
a qanat crew is 4 to 5 hours. More time below ground is too much. The crew
leader is paid a daily rate of $20 U.S. per day, while the other workers get
$12–$14 U.S. per day. Or if paid per meter dug, the cost can be $5–$15 per
meter depending on difficulty of the work.
Depending on soil type, a qanat
can be hand-dug at a rate of 0.5–1 meter per day in bad soil or up to 5 meters
per day in good soil. Clay soils are bad as they can often collapse. A soil mix
of sand and clay is more stable. Less-stable soils require reinforcing rings to
be installed. Traditionally these were made of fired clay, but concrete rings
are becoming more common as they can be manufactured on site, and made larger
than the fired-clay rings.
Fig. 21. Tractor that
controls the cable lowering and lifting people and materials into and out of
the qanat vent shaft
Fig. 22. Makani
preparing to enter the qanat over 100 feet below
Fig. 23. Makani being
lowered into the qanat
Fig. 24. Makani is so
far down the qanat vent shaft that neither he nor the light from his headlamp
can be seen
Fig. 25. Me getting
stuck in one of the concrete rings used to stabilize the qanat tunnel in
unstable clay soils
Fig. 26. Removing bags
of wet soil dug and lifted out of the qanat
Fig. 27. Makani as he
is hoisted back out of the qanat vent shaft
Fig. 28. Makani—Keeper
of the Qanat, its knowledge, and culture—in foreground. Power lines in the
background and the pumps they power may someday be the end of qanats if these
treasures and their groundwater is not protected.
Cisterns used to be in every
mosque and every home. These cisterns could hold qanat water and/or rainwater,
but 50 years ago this practice started to be forgotten as pressurized water
lines from mechanical wells started to be installed.
Yakhchals
A yakhchal is a
Persian refrigerator or ice hole. We saw many of them from the highway, looking
like earthen mounds or melting domes. To create a yakchal, first a pit is dug.
The resulting soil is used to make unfired earthen (adobe) bricks. The bricks
are then used to construct an incredible dome structure around the pit. Beside
the dome, earthen brick walls are built on an east-west axis to cast the
maximum amount of winter shadow on shallow ponds north of the walls. Qanat
water is diverted into the ponds in the winter months (on average there are 60
freezing days per year in the area). The water freezes, and is then collected
and placed in the dome, layering straw atop each batch.
Fig. 29. Two abandoned
yakhchals seen from the highway
Fig. 30. The two
abandoned yakhchals closer view
Fig. 31. Eroding
earthen exterior of the abandoned yakhchal
Fig. 32. Adobe wall in
the foreground runs on an east-west axis to cast a winter shadow over the now-abandoned
pond to the left (north) of the wall. After the water froze the ice was
collected and put into the yakhchal.
Fig. 33. Interior
(bottom) of abandoned yakhchal
Fig. 34. Interior
(middle) of abandoned yakhchal
Once full—or once freezing season
was over—the domes were closed up, only a small vent remaining open at the top
of the dome. Two to three months later, people would start to access the ice
for use in the hot months. Thus Bastani-e
Za'farāni (Persian ice cream, also called Bastani-e Akbar-Mashti or Gol-o
Bolbol ice) could be enjoyed in summer, made with the ice harvested the previous
winter. The ice typically lasted through the end of summer.
But all the yakhchals we saw were
in serious disrepair. They stopped being used 40–50 years ago when electricity
arrived and electric refrigerators became the norm. As elsewhere across the
world, self-reliance is transforming into import-reliance.
Abanbars
An abanbar is a
traditional Iranian drinking-water cistern often containing harvested rainwater
or qanat water. We did not have the opportunity to enter one, but we did have
the opportunity to look into the entrance stairway of one in the city of
Sabzevar. More on abandars can be found here.
Fig. 35. Stormwater
ditch that has been paved and no longer enables the water to infiltrate the
soil and irrigate the street trees for free
Last day
On my last day in Iran, I gave
presentations to Mashhad’s Greenspace and Public Parks Office and the local
water authority. Discussions followed. It all reminded me of initial meetings
with Tucson, Arizona, park- and water-department officials 10 years ago when
the water-harvesting movement here was just getting underway, and I was still
writing my books. People seemed interested, but also pessimistic and
uncomfortable with the challenge to do things in new ways (which are really
just modern versions of old water-harvesting traditions). I figure that 10
years ago in Tucson, and then again during this trip to Mashhad, I was planting
and watering thought seeds in people’s headwaters. It takes time, but some of
those seeds have germinated and grown and others will do likewise in the
future—especially if others also share their water-harvesting/life-enhancing
experiences and examples. The greater the number of (and the greater the
diversity and exposure to) seeds, the greater the success of germination and
growth. Water-harvesting practices that were illegal in Tucson 10 years ago are
now legal, promoted, and incentivized with rebates, and the term “rainwater
harvesting” is no longer novel, but widely understood. Nonetheless, we are by
no means finished—we’ve only just begun to awake to what we need to do.
Fig. 36. Photo op
after meeting with staff from the Greenspace and Public Parks Office
Fig. 37. Presenting to
staff of the Mashhad Water Authority
The day was then capped with a
visit to tomb of Ferdowsi, author of the Shahnameh, the Persian epic responsible
for a resurgence of Persian culture after 1010 CE. We also saw massive
ancient earthen walls built to repel Mongol attacks from the ancient city of Toos,
and discussions around Persian stories of horrendous atrocities followed by heroic
acts of forgiveness by those wronged—enabling less-violent, more-life-affirming
futures.
Fig. 38. 1401 Citadel
of historical city of Tabaran in Toos
The evening was wonderful, spent
in the home of Salman, wife Elham, their ever-laughing daughter Amena, and
Elham’s brother (a budding actor). We enjoyed great conversation and a
delicious home-made dinner. Then I was off to catch a 3 a.m. flight to
Istanbul.
In closing, I want to thank the
people of Iran for being such incredibly kind and welcoming hosts. It was such
an honor to be able to meet, converse, and collaborate face to face.
Istanbul, Turkey
As soon as my plane landed in
Istanbul I made my way for the visa counter and then took a cab to the old city
in order to make the most of my 7-hour layover. I was dropped off at dawn upon
the door to the Cemberlitas Hamami, a bath house built in 1584. I walked across
the street for tea and pastries where I could watch the seagulls flying about
ancient domes, mosques, and the Cemerlitas column built in AD 330 to record the
dedication of Constantinople (Istanbul) as capital of the Roman Empire. As I
finished my breakfast the café owner then gifted me with some Turkish Delight
candy.
Fig. 39. Domes of the Cemberlitas Hamami
Fig. 40. Cemberlitas
column from AD 330, mosque, and light rail
My hunger sated, I entered the
calm sanctuary of the hamam. I was greeted by a gracious elderly man in formal
attire and given a tiny room with a tiny bed overlooking the central entrance
dome. The room was to change in and later take a rest—perfect! I then made my
way into the womb-like main dome of the bath. As I entered via a massive wooden
door, the heat and humidity hit me as I looked upon a huge marble platform
surrounded by graceful columns framing bath stations.
Lying upon the heated marble, I
was then scrubbed and washed. Sunlight entered sun-, moon-, and star-shaped
punctures in the dome roof. The heat permeated me, and I cooled off with
buckets of cold water. I thought of how important it is for us to have
fluctuations between hot and cold, just as it is for our planet. Such a
differential gives us a reset, refreshment, and movement as it gives our planet
currents, winds, seasons, and weather.
I made my way to my tiny room/sanctuary
to rest and ponder. Memories arose of earlier trips to the ancient bathhouse in
Nablus, Palestine; Byzantine era cisterns; and subsurface irrigation ollas—all
dryland strategies beneath the protection of the earth’s surface.
I thought about how key it is to
engage and to experience. The opportunity to walk the path of water in the
bandsars so enriched my understanding—as has conversing across cultures. I
thought about Craig Child’s writing (I just finished, and recommend, his latest
book “Apocalyptic Planet”). He weaves stories around his own direct
experiences. Reading about these direct experiences puts you there with him.
The story is lifted from telling, to sharing, and even begins to enter
engagement when you feel you are in his shoes experiencing what he is
experiencing. I’m especially drawn to this because it motivates me to get out
and engage.
My time in Istanbul was running
out. I got a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, jotted down some
thoughts, then quickly walked by the incredibly beautiful Blue Mosque, the
Hippodrome, and into the Topkapi Palace (the best part of which for me was the
sundial). Then it was back to the street, get some roasted chestnuts, and grab
a taxi (in Istanbul cars stick to their lanes, but my taxi driver skillfully
sped over 90 miles per hour) to the airport to fly to Texas to reunite with old friend Farmer Dave during
another layover in Houston, Texas.
Fig. 41. Pomegranate
juice in lobby of the hamam.
Fig. 42. Blue Mosque,
Istanbul, Turkey
Fig. 43. Sundial
Fig. 44. Sundial
Fig. 45. Sundial
plaque
Houston, like Mashhad, is
experiencing drought, which is made worse by contemporary building practices
and infrastructure that drains the rain. This makes dry years drier, while
worsening downstream flooding in wet years.
The potential to make things better
by harvesting the rain and enabling more life is everywhere.
