by Scott Fisher
The most difficult thing to get used to that first day was the sheer insignificance of the pedestrian. Perhaps the only thing held in lower regard was the traffic signal. Crossing the street, each and every single time, becomes a game of chicken. Taking the plunge off the curb, you slowly shuffle your way forward, generally in a protective clot with the other lowly walkers, as cars steer around you. Traffic lanes? Ha! Cars just merge and mesh their way into any free space.
Irritating at first, it only took a few streets to realize that what the system lacked in safety it more than made up for in convenience. Rather than waiting for a light to signal ok, you just crossed. Rather than looking for a marked area, you just crossed anywhere you felt the urge. Rather than getting bored with your walk you could enjoy the seemingly endless thrill of nearly getting run over. The only safety feature was the sheer mass of the unmoving traffic – it often felt more like walking through a parking lot than across a street.
Park
After walking and shuffling our way downtown, one of our first stops was a park. A pleasant oasis from the bedlam outside, it also offered a slower-paced look into the Iran you don’t see on the news. The key was to know that it is illegal for unmarried or unrelated men and women to mix in public. Then it became interesting.
Groups of young men walking together would slowly pass groups of young women doing the same. As the groups passed, looks and comments would be swiftly exchanged. Then you and your same-sex friends would keep walking until you nonchalantly cruised back around and did it all over again.
Over time, talking with people around the country, I learned the rest of the details. If you found someone interesting you would attempt to get their cell phone number, either by hastily murmuring it to them, or furtively passing a note. Once that goal was achieved, the relationship would move to the text message, and if further successful, the phone call stage. If all that went well then the prospective couple would get together at an illegal house party, usually when someone’s parents were out of town.
These parties are rumored to be a mullah’s worst nightmare. People drink alcohol, ladies remove their veils, and unrelated men and women actually talk to one another! The horror! The decadence!
Another human side to the park was the men sitting alone on the few benches scattered here and there. I watched as they took phone calls, quickly lowering their voices if anyone passed. After a brief conversation, they would pick up a bag and leave – opium dealers. Sitting astride the world’s main opium smuggling route, from the poppy growing areas of Afghanistan to the rich consumers of Europe, has given Iran a large and growing drug problem. The men I was watching, not five minutes from some of the government’s key buildings, were signs of that problem. It made me wonder what else lurked below the surface.
I didn’t ask Professor much about what I saw, preferring to figure it out for myself and then confirm it with others later. Though relatively free, at least compared to North Korea, Iran still has limits and I didn’t want to put Professor in the untenable position of either having to lie or say something that could get him in trouble.
The things I could talk to Professor about were Persian history, food and culture. Far more than a guide, he became my personal language teacher, cultural ambassador, and history instructor. Three weeks with him was like a semester in grad school.
That first afternoon he walked me to a traditional restaurant situated in the heart of the park. Inside, we removed our shoes before sitting on a carpet- and pillow-covered platform raised above the floor. Thus began my excursion into Persian food – heavy on lamb, cheese, tomatoes, and bread, but, for religious reasons, empty of pork. The ‘dizi’ we had that day required a little work. It comes as a soupy mixture of chickpeas, mutton, tomatoes, and potatoes that first needs to be drained, then mashed into a paste with the pestle provided. Next you apply the paste to some bread, add onions to taste, then roll it up (Professor first described dizi as a “Persian burrito”) and devour. It was great, quickly relieving many of my food concerns about the next three weeks.
After the meal, I got a chance to sit back and have my first Iranian-style tea and water pipe (qalyan). The tobacco in the qalyan is a little different, spiced with an apple or other scent, and gives you a very pleasant after-dinner buzz. Sitting and talking over a pipe and tea became one of the most common and relaxing parts of the whole trip.
On the walk back to the hotel, I decided to confirm a couple of the unique features of traveling in heavily financially sanctioned Iran. We ducked into a foreign currency exchange shop just down from the Foreign Ministry to try and cash traveler’s checks. Sure enough, the foreign currency “specialist” looked at the AmEx traveler’s check like it was from another planet. Next, I asked about getting a cash advance on a credit card. Here the clerk at least understood the concept but, unless my credit card was Iranian, couldn’t help me.
The bite of the sanctions seemed heaviest in the financial sector, where Iran truly is a world unto its own. But they didn’t seem so severe with other products. That first day I saw stores selling HP computers, Microsoft software, and of course, the near ubiquitous Pepsi and Coke. It felt strange to be in a relatively developed country, yet still be unable to use anything but cash. With no embassy, and no access to incoming money transfers, Iran would not be a good place to have an emergency. So far, few things in Iran had reminded me of North Korea – this place had far more freedom and far, far more commerce. When it came to finance and banking though, Iran was almost as completely isolated as the North.
North Tehran
That night for dinner I had my first chance to hop in Professor’s little Peugeot. We were headed for a popular restaurant area in the foothills of northern Tehran’s snow-clad Alborz Mountains. North Tehran is a big deal. It’s by far the swankiest area of the country, home to diplomats, rich business people, and the non-clerical elite of the country. It is also one of Iran’s most liberal areas, the kind of wild place where young women will wear a loose-fitting scarf instead of a full head covering.
Outside the car window, the dreariness and blight of the rest of the city gave way to light and wealth. Designer boutiques, selling clothing women couldn’t even wear outside their homes, lined the streets. The cars switched from French or Korean to German. The number of full-on chadors, (literally, the Persian/Farsi word for ‘tent’) that cover a woman’s whole body, decreased in favor of scarves and small trench coats. Given the cold January temperatures, the women almost looked like they were dressing more for the cold than the mullahs.
After what seemed to be hours of fighting through traffic, we finally arrived at the restaurant and café district. It was set at the foot of Tehran’s most popular ski area. Snow and ice were everywhere and, like in Iraq, played havoc with my preconceptions of the Middle East as perpetually hot.
In front of the cafes were stands selling fresh, and thanks to the weather, frozen, cherries and other fruit. A popular tourist area, people were keen to practice their English, asking where I was from and what I did. Proving to be the complete opposite of the North Korean guides, Professor enjoyed the chance to let me talk to others.
What caught Professor and I off guard was telling one young vendor I taught English in Korea, only to have him suddenly address me in Korean. Like many other young people, he’d gone abroad for several years to work, only for some reason choosing South Korea instead of Dubai or Europe. So, standing on an icy road in north Tehran, I had the odd experience of holding a full conversation in Korean.
At first it was just pleasantries, but then, when we both realized no one around could understand, the conversation became more detailed. At this point, early in the trip, I still didn’t know much about Professor and whether I was going to be barraged with propaganda in the days ahead. So I seized the chance to talk to someone freely, and secretly, about life in Iran. What he said gibed with what I was hearing and sensing already – our economy sucks, we aren’t terrorists, most of the young want to work abroad, and we
don’t hate America.
At first those around just stared and listened to the weird language. But, after a few minutes, it didn’t take a genius to figure out we were probably discussing sensitive topics, so people started to ask what we were saying. At this point I saw Professor start to get antsy, so I switched back to English for some closing pleasantries and handed the young vendor my business card. Everyone around seemed to relax, and Professor and I walked off to dinner.
Later that evening, on the drive back to the hotel, came one of the early highlights of the trip. We drove past the ‘U.S. Den of Espionage’, the former U.S. embassy in Tehran and the center of the 1979-80 hostage crisis. The place is now controlled by the Basij, a group of right-wing, virulently anti-American militants, the kind of people who train Iran’s allies fighting U.S. troops in Iraq.
The large propaganda paintings on the wall surrounding the run-down complex, including one where the Statue of Liberty is depicted with a skull’s head, lets everyone know the feelings of those inside. Professor warned me then, as many of the guidebooks already had, to be very careful in the area and never under any circumstances take a picture. We didn’t even stop the car to get out and look around. It’s, “too dangerous, especially for Americans.”
A place where people hated me, photography was banned, and everyone told me not to go – perfect! I’d be back later, on the day I left, alone save for my camera.
Hitting the Road – West to Hamedan
To try and combat its ungodly traffic, Tehran has instituted some of the strictest rush hour rules of any city in the world. From 6:30 to 9:30 in the morning, and similar hours in the evening, an odd-even number license plate system governs your car’s access to the city’s roads. Meaning, based on the last number of your license plate, you can only drive during the rush hours on odd or even numbered dates. Anyone caught violating the system is heavily fined, or at least hit up for a slightly less hefty bribe by the cop involved.
What all this meant to me, Professor made clear by saying we needed to be on the road by 6am. He wanted an early start both to get out of the city before the restrictions started, and to arrive at our next destination with enough time to explore.
So, shortly before 6 the next morning, groggily commenting that one good thing about the lack of alcohol was the lack of hangovers, we loaded up the car and pulled into the dark, early morning streets. We were headed west to the ancient city (this early in the trip I didn’t realize every city in Iran is an ‘ancient’ city) of Hamedan for our first sightseeing outside of the capital.
Tehran’s early morning streets were relaxed and open, inhabited mainly by bread dealers and deliverymen. While Professor gassed up the car I looked around and noticed the station only gave full service to women. Different. Next, I watched as a bread dealer passed by on his scooter, loaves piled on the back, tied to the front, laying across the handlebars, tucked between his legs on the floorboard, and even stuffed inside his jacket. Except for the man’s head little was visible besides the bread.
We pulled away from the gas station and stopped on red at what turned out to be a relatively common style of traffic light – below the lights hung a digital readout counting down the seconds until they turned green. As we traveled around the country the next few weeks these read outs, using Persian number symbols, proved a great help to my Farsi studies.
Leaving town we drove past the new Imam Khomeini International Airport, sitting empty and forlorn on the outskirts of town. Apparently one of the main contractors for the construction was a Turkish company that the Iranians later found out was partially owned by Jewish interests. So, rather than use the modern new airport, the government has so far stuck with dingy old Mehrabad because they don’t like the idea of using anything “tainted” by Jews.
Initially surprised, as I traveled around the country I got used to people welcoming me to their country, while in the next breath saying something horrible about Israel, Jews, or Judaism. Officially, anyone with even an Israeli stamp in their passport (let alone an Israeli passport) is banned from the country.
After the empty new airport we drove past the gigantic, decidedly not empty, Imam Khomeini Shrine, its huge mosque-style domes visible for miles. It both reminded me of the veneration (and museums) North Korea reserves for Kim Il-sung, and Khomeini’s association with evil and hostage taking.
I asked Professor how most Iranians felt about Khomeini and he pointed out both the size of the memorial shrine and the name of the new international airport. “He’s the founder of our government and most people respect him like Americans do Washington or Lincoln.”
Wow.
After the airport and shrine, we left behind Tehran’s dreariness and pollution for the desert emptiness that makes up most of Iran. Still early in the morning, the brown ground was as yet covered in frost, with the occasional pile of melting snow. Mountains began to appear in the grey distance. Professor and the Peugeot drove silently while I looked out the window and pondered his comparison of Washington and Khomeini.
We were heading 200 miles west to Hamedan, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world and, ironically, given the reason for the delayed opening of the new Khomeini Airport, home to one of the holiest sites in Judaism. The smooth, well-maintained road we were traveling down serves as Tehran’s main link to Iraq and I couldn’t help but wonder about the people sitting in the cars and buses around us. Who was traveling on business, or heading to visit relatives, or bent on touring the same sites I was? Which groups were Shia Muslims on a pilgrimage to Iraq’s Islamic holy sites? Which were traders and smugglers working the border? And which were Iranian or Iranian-trained agents (quite possibly having received some of their technical training from the Basij computer institute in the former U.S. embassy) on missions to further Iranian interests in Iraq? I wondered if any of the people who’d shelled me in Baghdad had ever driven down this same road, or stopped at the same rest parks.
This road was also where I first saw billboards honoring “martyrs” from the 1980s Iran-Iraq war. Giant paintings of bearded young men, surrounded by a halo of flowers and sometimes underlined with an inspirational message, turned out to be a common sight along the highways and streets of Iran. Martyrs from that war carry a special symbolism for the Iranian government – they gave their lives to defend the young revolution from Saddam’s attack. Veterans from the war receive special benefits and wield a power, both in government and popular culture, far greater than their numbers. Questioning the sacrifices of the martyrs, or the decisions of those who sent them to fight, is akin to treason.
As we rolled west I kept looking for a sign telling me how far it was to Baghdad but never saw one. Finally, I asked Professor.
“Baghdad is a political city unimportant to Iranians. What is important to us is the Shia holy city of Karbala.”
So, rather than distances to other places in Iraq, the only signs I saw mentioned Karbala (located about 70 miles southwest of Baghdad). Though nearly 20 years have passed since the end of the war the signs still haven’t been updated to include other cities.
Showing only the closeness of Karbala was initially an effort by the Khomeini government to spur on the army and populace during the war, to get them to put together the powerful final push required to win the holy city for Iran. It never worked, the war stalemated not far from the current border, but the signs, and their subtle message, remain. An American asking why the Iranian military was unable to take the city is quickly told that U.S. and European support for Saddam prevented the Iranians from winning.
Sitting in the car that morning, Professor taught me the Iranian way of drinking tea. Rather than dumping sugar into the tea itself, you place a sugar cube in your mouth and then slowly sip the hot tea. As the tea passes over the cube it dissolves bit by bit and sweetens your drink. The system worked perfectly, far better than having all of the sugar clump at the bottom of the glass. I haven’t dumped sugar in tea since.
Our first stop that d
ay was actually in the mountains just outside Hamedan. We visited a half-frozen waterfall in the mountains above town. The scenic view, plus the chance to have my picture taken standing on ice so thick I could barely stand, in the “hot” Middle East, made for an interesting stop.
It’s also where I got my first chance to talk with some college students. Visiting on a short day trip from nearby Hamedan, they looked very curious about the sole foreign tourist. After staring for a bit, they slowly sidled within earshot to hear what Professor and I were saying. Professor was obviously quite used to this. He’d asked me earlier in the car if I minded talking to people we met along the way and I’d told him that’s why I was here. He smiled and promised to interpret whatever was said.
When the students approached he wasted no time in starting a conversation. Somewhat shy, they smiled and asked where I was from, and reacted with shocked smiles when I said America. Without a hint of anger or dislike they quickly bid me welcome to Iran and asked why I was visiting. I told them I was in Iran to learn about their country and asked them to teach me something.
Their one-word answer brought a chuckle from Professor and gave some insight about what they thought was important, “dokhtar.” The Farsi word for ‘chick’ or ‘girl’ (also ‘daughter’ but I don’t think that’s what they had in mind …). In a society so restrictive of contact between the sexes the first thing they thought to teach me revealed the similarities of young men the world over.
Next I asked if they had any questions for me. Without hesitation they asked something that really caught me off guard.
“Why do Americans, when we chat with them online using Yahoo Messenger, always end the chat, sometimes swearing first, when we say we are from Iran? We’re nice people. We don’t hate Americans. We just want to talk.”