I still regret not asking the shrimp mafia for a second explosive hit of mutant crustaceans. Subtly dusted with spices and flash fried in a cabin beside a lagoon in Baluchistan - they remain the culinary zenith of my travels in southernmost Iran.
As the sun slipped through the last golden strip of clouds, I sat down to absorb the beauty and deathly silence across the spectacular valley. Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, the haunting sound of the call to prayer echoed around the canyon from a village somewhere far on the horizon.
Islands have their own mentality. The freshness of salt fused air, beauty of the sunsets and hypnotic rhythm of lapping waves can’t fail to create calmness.
‘For him,’ Amin explains ‘the time is fixed – winter and summer’. In Iranian Baluchistan people do things their own way. The desert has its own rules. Rules determined by tradition and nature – rather than politicians.
I’m still amused by the paradox of a black cloaked grandmother stuffing that ultimate symbol of the ‘Great Satan’ - a burger - into the hood of her chador. It’s not all bad though – fresh potatoes produce the fattest chips in autumn along with bubbling vats of hot caramalised beetroots while fresh juice stalls offer some zing to cleanse the yang of the grease.
The Lonely Chopstick 