Tehran – Sari

One Day…

One day I will come and bring a message.

I will let light flow through the veins

and cry out with all my strength:

“Hey, baskets, baskets full of sleep!

I have brought an apple —

the red apple of the sun.”

— “And the Message Is on the Way” by Sohrab Sepehri

We woke up before sunrise. I always love the beginnings of journeys at this time of day. We were rushing to catch the Tehran–Sari train. This route was not only interesting but long anticipated — a journey along the historic Trans-Iranian Railway, which passes through both desert and lush forest. How is that even possible? And most importantly, we would finally cross the Veresk Bridge, in the construction of which my husband’s grandfather, Ismail, had participated.

As soon as the train departed from the station, the conductor peeked into our clean and comfortable compartment and politely offered black tea with snacks. There was no coffee, only instant MacCoffee. After ordering it, we settled comfortably by the window so as not to miss anything, and I began doing what I love most — observing.

In Iran, tea is greatly loved. However, people only started drinking it here at the end of the 19th century. Before that, coffee was consumed instead, and there were no teahouses (chaikhane). Men spent their leisure time in ghahvehkhanes (coffeehouses). The love for caffeine was introduced by the Arabs.

Originally, coffeehouses were places where noblemen, poets, artists, and merchants gathered. One of the favorite activities of visitors was reading poetry. The recitation of epics in coffeehouses contributed to the development of a new genre of visual art — artists illustrated the narrated stories on walls or canvases.

In the second half of the 19th century, Naser al-Din Shah, during his journey to the Russian Empire, became acquainted with the samovar. This gave a major boost to the import of black tea from India.

In modern times, you can find a latte on the streets of Iranian cities, but you may need to look for it a bit. Black tea, however, is offered on every corner.

To the rhythm of the wheels, vast barren stone mountains flickered past the window — giant titans, guardians of the Iranian plateau. From this side, the Alborz mountains looked exhausted by the sun and almost lifeless. Almost — because just a few dozen kilometers later, the train was already passing through ripe pomegranate orchards.

“Look how beautiful it is!” my husband said excitedly. It was his favorite fruit — almost heavenly, a symbol of fertility. He was the one who taught me how to properly peel it and extract the seeds. The pomegranate most likely originates from Iran and Afghanistan and was widely used in Zoroastrian rituals and domestic ceremonies. In Persian mythology, Esfandiyar eats a pomegranate and becomes invincible.

A couple of dozen kilometers later, the mountains became noticeably greener. The train was heading into a massive moist cloud trapped between the mountain peaks, trying to reach the driest slopes. That could only mean one thing — the Caspian Sea was already nearby, and we were entering the Three Golden Lines (Se Kat Tala).

They are arranged spirally on the mountainside just a few kilometers south of the Veresk Bridge. The line ascends and descends over a short distance, crossing the same area three times at different elevations. The train confidently descended toward Sari, passing through tunnels. Contractors from the Danish company Kampsax laid relatively light rails, which limited the axle loads the line could bear.

My husband asked us to get ready — it was also his first time crossing the Veresk Bridge.

It happened quickly — as if someone had pressed pause and revealed an incredible view of an old mountain village from above. The scene was striking in its miniature beauty. Then light disappeared again — we entered another tunnel.

Later, everyone gradually calmed down, and each passenger returned to their own thoughts. Not much time was left. Outside the window, green trees were already flickering — a sign that the Caspian Sea was close. With its humid breath, the vast lake gives life to everything around it.

Suddenly, the train began to brake sharply and, a few minutes later, came to a complete stop. Looking out the window, I saw only a piece of meat. For a second, I caught myself thinking this couldn’t be real — perhaps it was just my imagination again. As someone who hasn’t eaten meat for almost ten years, it felt like a disturbing, surreal image.

As it turned out later, the train had indeed run over an entire herd of sheep. Eight of them were turned into meat and would most likely be stewed in pots or grilled on local barbecues that very evening. A young teenage shepherd simply failed to control his flock and was careless while walking near the tracks.

Eight sheep were killed by our Tehran–Sari train.

After recovering from the shock, we continued moving. I thought to myself that this was probably a good sign for my future video and story about the Veresk Bridge. In Iran, I was constantly trying to squeeze sweet lemonade out of lemons.

An hour later, we arrived in the ever-green city of Sari, considered the capital of the old Mazandaran province, where a friend was waiting for us.