Kermanshah Diaries: Wandering the Zagros with a Camera and a Headache

woke up in kermanshah with a hangover that could peel paint off the walls. the kind where your tongue feels like sandpaper and your brain's doing the cha-cha in your skull. outside, the air was thick with that weird pre-rain stillness-humidity at 87% according to my weather app, which is basically nature's way of saying 'congratulations, you're gonna sweat through your shirt today.' i just checked and it's 10.8°c there right now, hope you like that kind of thing.

pulled myself out of bed and stumbled toward the bazaar, camera bouncing against my hip like a disobedient toddler. the freelance photographer in me was screaming to capture something, anything, before the light got weird. but my feet had other plans-they dragged me straight to the nearest chai shop where an old man with hands like twisted oak branches poured me tea that could strip varnish.

someone told me that the bazaar here is 'tourist friendly' which is code for 'they'll charge you triple for anything with a pattern on it.' but honestly? i didn't care. watched a guy hand-carve a samovar for what felt like hours, the sound of metal on metal like a lullaby for my headache.

"You want real Kermanshah? You go to the mountains,"

the chai guy said, spitting into his own cup for emphasis. "Not these tourist traps. Mountains have stories."

couldn't argue with that logic, mostly because arguing would've required energy i didn't have. so i rented a beat-up motorcycle from a guy who looked at my passport like it was a menu in a language he didn't speak. the engine sounded like a dying walrus, but it got me moving toward the Zagros foothills.

if you get bored, sanandaj and kurdistan province are just a short drive away. but honestly, kermanshah's got enough chaos for a lifetime. found myself at Taq-e Bostan before i knew what was happening-these massive rock reliefs carved into a cliff face that made my problems feel about as significant as a mosquito at a nudist colony.

overheard some American tourists complaining about 'lack of signage' while standing right in front of a 1,700-year-old masterpiece. made me want to slap them with a history book. instead i just took photos of them taking photos, creating some kind of meta-nonsense that probably means nothing to anyone but me.

the weather app said pressure was 1014 hPa, which meant absolutely nothing to me but sounded important. what mattered was that the clouds were rolling in like a bad mood, and i needed to find shelter before the sky opened up.

ended up in a tiny restaurant where they served dandeh kebab that made my hangover forget its own name. the owner, a woman with eyes that had seen some shit, sat down across from me without asking. "You're not from here," she stated, not a question.

"Nope. Just a photographer trying not to die of dehydration and bad decisions."

She laughed, a sound like gravel in a tin can. "Then you need more tea. And maybe don't ride that death machine in the rain."

"The mountains here eat tourists who don't respect them,"

she said, pushing another cup of tea at me. "My cousin's friend's brother-in-law disappeared last spring. Just gone."

i didn't know if that was true or just local legend meant to keep idiots like me from getting lost, but i drank the tea anyway. sometimes the best travel advice comes wrapped in hyperbole and served hot.

later, stumbled back toward the city center as the sun was doing that thing where it looks like it's embarrassed to be leaving. found a street artist painting a mural of some Kurdish poet I'd never heard of, his hands moving like they were possessed by something beautiful.

"You want to know what Kermanshah really is?" he asked without looking up, his brush dancing across the wall.

"Sure."

"It's a place that doesn't care what you think of it. It just is."

deep, right? or maybe he was just high. either way, it stuck with me.

the temp max and min were both 10.79°c, which seemed statistically impossible but whatever. my phone was clearly having an existential crisis. what wasn't impossible was the way the city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something. rain, maybe. or just the next chapter of whatever story it was telling itself.

found a cheap hotel that looked like it had been decorated by someone's colorblind grandmother. the sheets probably hadn't been washed since the last shah was in power, but the bed was flat and that was all i needed. fell asleep to the sound of distant thunder and the vague realization that i'd probably made a dozen cultural faux pas that day without even trying.

someone once told me that the best travel photos happen when you're too tired to care. looking at my camera roll now, i think they might've been right. there's something honest about images taken when your brain's running on fumes and your heart's just along for the ride.

next morning, woke up with a slightly less aggressive hangover and a sudden urge to eat everything in sight. the bazaar was already buzzing, vendors setting up shop like they'd never considered doing anything else with their lives. bought some flatbread that was still warm from the oven and burned my fingers because patience is not my strong suit.

tried to find the 'famous' waterfall outside town but got spectacularly lost thanks to a combination of bad directions and my own inability to accept when i'm wrong about things. ended up in some village where they'd never seen a tourist before, which made me feel like a zoo exhibit. the kids followed me around, pointing and laughing, while their grandmothers clucked their tongues and offered me tea like it was a peace treaty.

"You're going the wrong way," one of them said, her accent so thick i could barely understand her. "But since you're here, you should meet my nephew. He's single and has all his teeth."

i didn't know if that was a compliment or an insult, but i smiled and drank the tea. sometimes you just gotta roll with the weirdness.

checked TripAdvisor later and found out i'd missed the waterfall by about twenty kilometers. oh well. found a bakery instead that sold these honey pastries that made my tongue do a happy dance. sometimes the detours are better than the destination anyway.

the humidity was still hanging around like an unwanted guest, but the temp had crept up to something that felt almost pleasant if you didn't move too quickly. walked along the river, watching old men fish with poles that looked older than my country, their movements so practiced they barely seemed like effort.

overheard a couple arguing about whether to visit the Kurdish Cultural Museum or just get drunk at the hotel. the woman won, which was probably for the best. museums are where you learn stuff, and learning stuff is how you don't come home dumber than when you left.

"You can't understand Kermanshah without understanding its pain,"

read a sign in the museum, and i stood there for a while trying to wrap my head around that. some places wear their history like a scar, others like a badge of honor. kermanshah seemed to do both at once.

by my last night, i was running on caffeine and the kind of exhaustion that makes everything seem profound. found a rooftop bar that probably wasn't actually a bar but served something alcoholic enough to count. watched the city lights come on like stars that had fallen and decided to try again.

some guy at the next table started talking to me about politics, which is always a gamble in a foreign country. but he just wanted to know if Americans really were as clueless as the media made us seem. i told him some of us are, but most of us are just trying to figure out our own mess before we judge anyone else's.

"That's fair," he said, clinking his glass against mine. "More than fair."

the next morning, packed my bag with that weird mix of nostalgia and relief you get when leaving somewhere that challenged you. kermanshah had given me photos, stories, and a hangover that lasted three days. pretty good trade, all things considered.

so here's my advice: go to kermanshah. get lost. eat the street food even when you're not sure what it is. talk to strangers even when you're pretty sure they might mug you. because sometimes the best travel memories come from the moments when you're too stupid to be scared.

and if you see a freelance photographer stumbling around with a hangover and a camera, buy him a cup of tea. he's probably having the time of his life, even if he looks like he wants to die.

for more info on traveling to iran, check out Lonely Planet's guide to iran or read about the history of the Zagros mountains. and maybe download a good translation app before you go-hand gestures can only get you so far.

You might also be interested in:

• https://votoris.com/post/recife-wanderings-a-rainy-day-in-the-old-town
• https://votoris.com/post/buenos-aires-a-whirlwind-of-numbers-and-pastel-dreams
• https://votoris.com/post/bangkoks-sticky-situation-noodles-sweat-and-seriously-weird-vibes
• https://votoris.com/post/found-a-beatup-suit-in-the-neon-trash-of-las-vegas
• https://votoris.com/post/best-afterschool-activities-and-youth-sports-in-sanaa-a-coffee-snobs-lowkey-guide