by Scott Fisher
I was so surprised they had access to instant messaging I never even got around to answering their question. Instead I quickly asked how popular messaging is in Iran (very), who used it (mostly young people, especially college students), and where they accessed it (home, and ‘Coffee Nets’, as the Iranians call Internet cafes).
As they finished answering my Internet questions a group of college women walked by on their way up the mountain. All eyes followed, and I suddenly realized Professor and I might be interrupting a prearranged ‘date’ at the nearby, nearly empty, waterfall. We quickly said goodbye, watching the guys amble off after the women. Hopefully, the morals police and Basij militia were far enough away for the college kids to risk talking to each other. Standing there and watching the two nervous groups made me feel like I was at a middle school dance, everyone too shy to approach or talk. Of course, here the talking was illegal and could possibly result in a whipping.
On the way back down the mountain we stopped off for some more tea and another puff on a qalyan. At first I hadn’t been interested, given that the tea shop was outside and the temperature was well below freezing, but Professor and the waiter quickly showed me the traditional Persian way of fighting off the cold. You first sit down with your legs under a low table. The table is covered with a (Persian) carpet that drapes over your lap. Hidden under the table is a small electric or charcoal heater. The cold soon proves no match for the warm tea and toasty air warming your legs. Relaxing that afternoon in the crisp winter air, slowly sipping tea while enjoying the wide-open vistas of the surrounding mountains made the ‘evil’ part of the axis of evil sound distant and silly.
Then the college kids reappeared, coming back down the trail. As they came into view of the teashop, they reluctantly split into separate male and female groups, reminding me of the nature of the place I was visiting.
Hamedan and My First Iranian Internet Cafe
After the waterfall, Hamedan turned out to be a let down. A well laid out, pleasant little city; it didn’t have much to offer other than an archeological site on the edge of town. The site was so thick with pottery shards and other fragments they crunched under your boots as you walked. In younger societies a single 2000-year-old fragment would be treasured and investigated. Here they were common enough to literally be piled at your feet.
After a quick tour through the modern city, itself redesigned and built less than 30 years ago, we checked into where we’d be staying that night – the Aryan Hotel. I’d read in my research before the trip that the word ‘Iran’ actually comes from the word ‘Aryan’. Professor and several other people I spoke with during the trip confirmed this.
As I got to know more about the country and its people I came to realize that the Iranians take this Aryan heritage quite seriously – they enjoy being mistaken for an Arab about as much as a good ole boy Texan would enjoy being thought of as a Mexican. Though they partly share the Islamic religion of the Arabs (most Arabs are Sunni and most Persians are Shia), the Persians see themselves as an entirely different race. A feeling so strong the name of the country, as well as the hotel I was checking into, reflect that heritage.
The hotel experience came to be fairly standard as we traveled around the country. When we drove up Professor would honk the horn, or run in and grab someone from the staff, to open the gate into the courtyard. Every hotel we went to, even in crowded cities, had a little courtyard to park and protect the car. I’m not sure if the danger was car theft or, and I found this very odd in a country where gas is so cheap, people stealing fuel. Every car in the country has a locking gas cap – people could be seen carefully locking and unlocking them every time we went to a gas station. Professor was always very cautious about this and in part I wondered if it reflected an updated desert heritage – getting caught in the middle of nowhere without gas (modernized from water for you and your camel), would be unpleasant, if not deadly.
Once the car was safely parked in the courtyard it was time to check in. This was normally when I was required to turn over my passport; not getting it back until I checked out. It’s never advisable to be without your passport, but, short of sleeping in the car every night, there was no choice. That first day in Hamedan this was just an annoyance, but towards the end of the trip I found out just how carefully domestic security uses passports to track people around Iran.
It’s not just Americans, or foreigners, who are required to submit identification. Iranians have to hand over their government-issued ID card. For them it is in some ways even more strict – anyone getting a room with someone of the opposite sex has to prove they are from the same family (your ID carries this information). If not, they would be refused a room and subject to arrest.
Coffee Net
That evening at dinner I practiced some useful Farsi phrases with Professor (‘How much?”, and the numbers that would be in the answer). Earlier in the day, I’d noticed a ‘Coffee Net’ (Internet café) a few doors down from the hotel and was anxious to get online and let everyone outside know I was still alive and as yet, un-arrested.
Walking out of the hotel alone suddenly brought an unexpected feeling of freedom. While nowhere near as restrictive as North Korea or Iraq, the reason the guide was there was because Americans are not allowed to travel in Iran without a minder, so even this small chance to be on my own felt good. Plus, with the darkness and my growing beard, I could almost pass for a local.
Or so I thought. The second I walked into the café all eyes were on me. People knew right away I wasn’t Iranian, most figuring I was some flavor of European. I slowly and self-consciously walked up to the counter and, mixing Farsi and English (the word ‘Internet’ is basically the same the world over), got a computer and sat down to log on. I was startled to hear the screech and pings of a dial-up modem, especially in an Internet café, but that’s the best Iran has. Broadband is still limited to a few government offices and large national companies (i.e. in the oil industry). I sat and listened to the retro phone sounds while glancing at those around me.
The small café was set on the corner of two busy streets, with plenty of traffic honking and jostling outside. The customers were mainly young males, and here in Iran heavy smoking apparently forms part of the Internet experience. Surprisingly, “couple chairs,” where men and women could sit together and enjoy a secret rendezvous, were hidden in corners and out-of-the-way parts of the café. Curious, I nonchalantly tried to crane my neck to see what sites they were browsing, but the ‘couple seat’ locations were too well chosen for peeping. Avoiding observation appeared to be a necessary and well-practiced skill for Iranian youth.
Once logged on, I got word out that the final leg of the axis of evil tour was underway. Though I probably could have flown home and hand-delivered letters faster than it took for the pokey dial-up connection to send. In an attempt to catch up on the news I found this to be the first of many places in Iran where CNN.com was blocked and inaccessible. Though, somewhat oddly, FoxNews.com got through no problem. I pondered the irony of that while waiting for my emails to finish sending.
After an hour of emailing and scanning the international news, where I read that yes, Western music was still banned in Iran (this as I sat listening to a CD of it over the café’s sound system), I logged off and walked up to the counter. As I approached the young clerk the Farsi phrases Professor had taught me earlier rapidly flitted through my mind. When I asked how much, the guy answered without hesitation in German. My surprised look caused him to quickly switch to English.
All eyes were on us.
“Where are you from?”
“America. Sorry, my German is a little rusty.”
“Sorry, I thought you were a German at first. I’m surprised to see an American here. Welcome.”
A murmur had gone through the place when I said my nationality. “Thanks. It’s kind of surprising to be here. You have a nice town.”
The ‘nice town’ comment surprised him more than when I said I was American. “What? I
t’s just a small town. I want to work abroad, maybe in Dubai. Everybody in Iran does. What are you doing here?”
“Traveling, trying to learn more about your country. Anything I should know?”
Now, noticing the stares, he grew quiet. “Just welcome to our country. Have a nice trip.”
“Thanks. Good luck getting a job overseas.”
Then I paid the lone buck it cost and walked outside. The wind had picked up and the air had grown cold. Walking around a bit, hunched against the chill, my foreign appearance brought surprised looks and sharp breath intakes when I passed beneath a streetlamp and suddenly stood out.
Walking back into the hotel lobby alone, I was rewarded with a strange look from the night clerk before I hurried up to my room. Alone on a dark, bitterly cold January evening far from home would have been a perfect time to get homesick. All I felt though was excitement. Making this trip was turning out to be a good decision.
West to Kerman Shah
The morning dawned cool and foggy as we headed to our final stop in Hamedan. It was a place I had not expected to see in the Islamic Republic – a Jewish holy site. A small Jewish community still exists in Iran. The part here in Hamedan cares for one of the holiest Jewish pilgrimage sites outside of Israel, the Tomb of Mordecai and Esther (yes, the one after whom a book of the Bible’s Old Testament is named).
The old gentleman running the place, who quite possibly has the worst teeth of anyone on the planet, met us at the gate and escorted us inside the tomb. Disappointed I couldn’t speak French, he slowly led the way, describing the tomb’s various features in halting but recognizable English. First, we had to take off our shoes before entering the tomb’s hobbit-sized door. The inside was eerie and silent, the cold from the stone floors quickly seeping through my socks. The caretaker continued his explanation while I edged over onto the carpet.
You could tell from the aged furnishings and atmosphere of emptiness and abandonment that the tomb was barely getting by. The local Jewish community had steadily dwindled over the years as families left for Israel or the West, or simply died out. I suddenly felt sorry for the old man, rambling around the empty tomb all day, his only highlight the early morning prayers attended by the few remaining faithful.
After the outer prayer area he led us into the inner chamber where the remains of Esther and Mordecai are kept inside coffins draped with an elegantly embroidered cloth. The tiny room was dominated by the two coffins, leaving barely enough room for the three of us. The ancient stone of the tomb, the ornately carved coffins, the stylized wall writings, everything spoke of the depth of history in Iran and the Middle East. It was a feeling of timelessness that was to grow in the coming days.
As we left the tomb I made an extra donation and wished the old man luck. It couldn’t be easy holding on to your religion and culture in such a place.
Back in the car, sipping tea and heading west toward Iraq, it felt good to be back on the road. I couldn’t shake my thoughts of the old caretaker though – what will be left of the tomb and community that supports it in another decade? Two thousand years of history have faded to almost nothing. Will it survive?
Crossing Paths with Alexander
The drive to the city of Kerman Shah took us over one of the highest mountain passes in Iran; one Professor worried would be shut due to snow. Our timing was fortuitous though, as all we experienced was a scenic drive through the nearly empty mountains of western Iran. The pass was also my first chance to cross paths with Alexander the Great. His armies went through the same pass on their way to conquer Persia – a point that makes him far less popular in Iranian, than Greek or Western history.
For the next several days, we would repeatedly cross paths with Alexander and his armies, sharing many of the same mountain passes and even walking in some of the same buildings. Visiting these touchstones of Western history imparts a powerful sense of Persia’s age.
After the pass, we made our way to Bisotun, another archeological site. Whereas Hamedan literally had civilizations piled on top of each other, the mountains of Bisotun have theirs in a row, all next to one another. We first came upon a small 100 AD statue of a bearded Hercules carved by Alexander’s passing army, next were a couple of giant 5th century BC inscriptions honoring the Persian king Darius. Further down was a Paleolithic-era cave dwelling; though the main feature I noticed inside were smashed cans of alcohol from a recent clandestine drinking session. A few thousand years ago cave dwellers went in to find shelter and hide from enemies. Now people use the same cave to hide out and sneak drinks.
As we wandered through the site, we could see an Iranian military base in the distance. This pass has led into the heart of the Persian Empire since the beginnings of recorded history – the current soldiers are pulling a duty directly descended from those who fought and died fighting Alexander, or the Arab armies that brought Islam, or any other force that invaded (or decides to invade) from the west.
Walking back to the car, we came upon a small group of older men sitting beside the pond that provides the area’s fresh water. I was anxious to try talking to some old timers, and from their stares they seemed curious to talk to a foreigner, so I walked over and greeted them in Farsi. My minimal language skills soon got me in trouble – they thought I actually spoke the language beyond ‘hello’. Professor quickly came to my rescue.
They turned out to be Kurdish men from a nearby village taking a holiday break. Their wives and daughters squatted a few yards away preparing lunch. When Professor told them my nationality, I got the shocked looks I was coming to expect. Then one of the men, the one who seemed most interested in talking, asked Professor to carefully translate something. I wrote it in my journal:
“Even though I am a poor man, I invite you to stay with me one week, … even one month. We are poor people, but even we are smart enough to know that the people and their government are different. The American people are good, but Bush [and your government] is bad.”
It was the first overtly political comment I’d heard on the trip, but dovetailed well with the general reactions of surprise and welcome I was getting whenever I said my nationality. The Iranians, many of whom are without much love for their own government, make an effort to distinguish between politicians and people. This would not be the last time someone invited me to their home, to a meal, or gave me a discount, all the while saying how welcome I was to Iran, but how much they disliked Bush and/or my government.
The guides in North Korea had made similar comments about differentiating between the American people and our government, but I never really felt it was anything more than a well-rehearsed line. Our younger guide there seemed so brainwashed I felt that at a word from the Dear Leader he would’ve stabbed us without a second thought. I spent much longer in Iran, and met far more people, yet never really got the same feeling of latent animosity that always seemed just below the surface in North Korea.
Professor always got nervous when things turned political, so he steered the conversation back to my visit to their country. When asked what I should know they seemed at a loss, only telling me to enjoy my stay and that they were a friendly people.
Once back in the Peugeot, Professor confirmed that they had indeed been friendly, though their Farsi was somewhat spotty. The Kurds have their own language(s) and, especially among the old, their knowledge of Persian can be limited. This wouldn’t be the only time in Iran that we would encounter similar language limitations. I heard more than once, from Professor and others, that Iran is similar to America in that it is an immigrant country with numerous minority groups – the main difference being America’s greater success at bringing at least the children of immigrants into the English-speaking majority.
Arrival in Kerman Shah
After leaving the Kurds we drove past what must have been the fourth or fifth crowded cemetery I’d seen that day. I asked Professor and he explained that it was a memorial day for Iranian soldiers, that the families I was seeing were paying their respe
cts to the ‘martyrs’ who’d fallen during the Iran-Iraq war, plus others who’d died in Iran’s more recent battles with opium smugglers and the Taliban.
Small cemetery with mourners and national flags.
As was first pointed out to me here, and then several times by others subsequently, the first foreign country the Taliban and their Al Qaeda allies attacked was not the U.S., it was Iran. Religious schisms and sheer proximity made the Iranians an early and ongoing Taliban target, even after the U.S. arrival in Afghanistan post 9/11. I’d hear more of this in a week when we headed east, closer to Afghanistan.
For now though, we closed out the day by finishing our drive to the industrial city of Kerman Shah. We’d be spending the night here before heading south along the Iran-Iraq border. After doing the courtyard and check-in drill I went for another solo walk to find a ‘Coffee Net’.
Unfortunately, gritty Kerman Shah wasn’t the high tech hotbed that Hamedan had apparently been. The one coffee shop I found was actually just a coffee shop. The workers were beyond surprised to suddenly have a foreigner walk in and ask for an Internet connection. After a couple of sentences that exhausted my Farsi we switched to English.
“Where are you from?”
“America.”
Eyes went wide in surprise, like an alien had just walked in off the street. “Good! Welcome!”
And that pretty much exhausted their English. I bought a coffee and bid them good luck with their empty shop. Three loud “goodbyes” rang in my ears as I walked back into the night.
Kerman Shah was when I first realized that for some of these little towns I’d have better luck finding whiskey and a lap dance than an Internet connection. I wandered back down the street and bought some extra food for the next day’s ride. So far both drives had been short, only a couple of hundred miles and a few hours. Tomorrow promised to be much longer though, and I was worried how many restaurants we’d find in the desert along the way.