By Navid Ganji
I’m screaming down the highway from Isfahan to Shiraz, the July sun scorching the earth into a golden blur, the wind blasting through my cracked window with a gritty mix of dust and ancient secrets. Izadkhast—Fars Province’s hidden gem, a 2,000-year-old beast of a city—looms ahead, daring me to conquer it. This isn’t just a stopover; it’s a time machine, and I’m diving headfirst into its mud-brick soul.
The Drop: Crashing Into History
I screech into Izadkhast, tires kicking up a storm, and the first thing that hits me is the fortress—a massive, crumbling castle perched on a rocky cliff like a warrior king sizing me up. The town’s tiny, a speck of 6,000 souls, but it feels huge, swollen with history. Mud-brick houses cling to the hillside, their walls chipped and weathered, while kids chase each other through alleys, their shouts echoing off stone.
I ditch the car near the dry riverbed, boots slamming dirt, and the air’s alive—dry, sharp, smelling of clay and forgotten fires. This isn’t some polished tourist trap; it’s raw, untamed, a place where the past doesn’t just whisper—it roars. I’m grinning already, ready to wrestle with Izadkhast’s ghosts.
The Castle: World’s First Skyscraper
I head straight for Izadkhast Castle—the world’s first multi-story mud-brick fortress, a Sasanian masterpiece that invented apartment living 2,000 years ago. Built on a jagged rock, it’s a beast—three sides drop into sheer cliffs, the fourth guarded by a deep moat that screams “stay out.” I scramble up a slope, dirt crumbling under my boots, and the view punches me in the chest—a labyrinth of tiny houses stacked five stories high, their roofs doubling as courtyards for the ones above, like Masouleh on steroids.
I duck into a narrow alley, walls so tight I’m brushing mud with both shoulders. The bricks—made of clay and straw—are light, cracked, warm under my fingers. This place was untouchable, a Sasanian stronghold that laughed at invaders. I climb higher, my breath hitching, and find the old fire temple—now a mosque, its four arches still standing proud. The air’s heavy with the scent of ancient rituals, and I’m standing where priests once lit sacred flames. It’s not just a ruin; it’s a pulse, beating through centuries.
The Caravanserai: Echoes of Silk Road Swagger
Across the riverbed, I hit the Safavid-era caravanserai—a 4,000-square-meter beast built by Shah Abbas. Its brick arches loom like a king’s crown, the courtyard wide enough to host a hundred weary travelers. I step inside, my boots echoing on stone, and the kathat catches my eye—white calligraphy on a blue tile, glowing like a secret code.
The walls are scarred but solid, propped up with wooden beams that feel like they’re holding time itself. I imagine merchants, camels, and silk bales piling in here, the air thick with spices and stories. This place was a pitstop for empires, and I’m wandering its halls, a modern-day nomad chasing their ghosts. I flop onto a stone bench, the heat baking my back, and let the silence sink in—broken only by a distant hawk’s cry.
The Sasanian Dam: World’s First Arch Wonder
I hike out to the 1,700-year-old Sasanian dam—the world’s first arch dam, a curved marvel that once tamed the Izadkhast River. It’s half-ruined now, but its stones still scream genius. I stand at the edge of the gorge, the dry riverbed yawning below, and trace the curve with my eyes—built to last, built to flex.
The wind’s fierce, smelling of dust and wild thyme, and I’m picturing Sasanian engineers, their hands caked with mud, bending nature to their will. This isn’t just a dam; it’s a flex—a middle finger to time and floods. I kick a loose rock into the abyss, watching it vanish, and feel small but alive, dwarfed by history’s weight.
The Alleys: Lost in Time’s Maze
I dive back into Izadkhast’s alleys—koocheh baghs, they call them—and it’s like slipping into a dream. The paths are so narrow I’m sidestepping, walls of mud and straw brushing my arms. Every corner’s a story—cracked doors, faded carvings, a stray cat eyeing me like I’m the intruder. I find a tiny mosque, its dome chipped but proud, and duck inside. The air’s cool, smelling of old prayer rugs, and I’m alone with the echo of my own breath.
A kid runs by, tossing me a grin, and I follow him to a courtyard where an old lady’s roasting pistachios. She hands me a handful—warm, salty, perfect—and tells me about the days when this town was a hub, not a ghost. Izadkhast’s got soul, and it’s sinking into me, heavy and sweet.
The Heights: Conquering the Cliff
I climb higher, chasing the best view, and the world cracks open. From the top of the castle, Izadkhast sprawls below—mud houses, green patches, the caravanserai glowing gold in the sun. Beyond, the plains stretch toward Shiraz, 270 kilometers south, and I can see the faint outline of the Zagros Mountains. This is Iran’s gateway, the “Gate of Fars,” where history split tribes into Medes, Persians, and Parthians.
The wind’s a beast up here, tugging at my shirt, smelling of earth and freedom. I sit on a crumbling ledge, my legs dangling, and feel the weight of 2,000 years—Sasanians, Safavids, Qajars, all piling into this one rocky perch. My heart’s racing—this isn’t a visit; it’s a showdown with time itself.
Sunset Show: The Fire of Izadkhast
The sun’s crashing now, setting the cliffs ablaze. The castle glows like molten gold, its mud bricks catching the light, while the caravanserai’s arches turn black against the orange sky. I’m sprawled on a rock by the riverbed, the air cooling fast, a sharp bite cutting through the day’s heat. Crickets start their hum, mixing with the rustle of dry grass.
I wander one last time, the alleys dark now, the town settling into dusk. Izadkhast isn’t just a place—it’s a fight, a stubborn survivor that’s outlasted empires, earthquakes, and neglect. My boots are caked with dust, my shirt’s a mess, but I’m buzzing—this city’s a wild, ancient pulse that’s burned into my skull. As I head for the car, the fortress fading in the rearview, I know I’m carrying its fire with me.
