by Scott Fisher
To him, the whole train thing was already odd, even before the bird flu problem. “I’ve been a guide for 15 years and you’re the first tourist I’ve had that wants to take the train out like that.”
Heading through Kerman that morning on the relatively short drive to the eastern cities of Mahan and Bam, I was surprised to see the streets full of trucks with men selling live sheep. They were literally everywhere; each street corner had several trucks, each with its own little flock of sheep. Symbols had been hand painted on the animals’ sides to mark the owner, like a cattle brand. Apparently the live sheep were advertisements designed to entice customers and show the freshness of the newly hewn hunks of meat and sheepskin inside. Or you could just assemble your own flock, for food or shepherding, from those bleating about the streets.
As we drove around looking for the way out of town, one of the odder sights in days loomed on the horizon. Visible to one side of the road, behind a row of trucks and sheep, was a giant Ferris wheel sitting amidst an empty amusement park. The canvas sack slide, the merry-go-round, the booths for games; everything you’d expect to see at a county fair was visible in the park. After days of little but brown and grey, the garish colors of the carnival were almost painful. Sitting empty and forlorn at just after nine on a cold January morning, and later that evening when we drove back by, I assumed the park would come back alive with the arrival of spring.
The drive to Mahan was short, taking less than an hour. The first place we went, big surprise, was another garden. It was certainly a nice garden, and looked good after the endless brown of the day before, but on a windy winter morning there really wasn’t much to recommend. Perhaps, during the summer when it’s a thousand degrees outside, visiting a cool, shaded garden would be pleasant. But when it’s so cold you can see your breath it becomes a place to hurry through before getting back into the car.
The large garden did have a pleasant, sunny spot set aside for tea, plus we were running ahead of schedule, so we decided to sit a bit and enjoy the trees and snowcapped mountains. As we waited for the tea I heard people at the next table speaking English. Surprised, I turned to look and saw a couple of Iranian men sitting with a foreign woman. Seeing my curiosity, one of the guys called out and invited us over, in surprisingly good English.
The young woman turned out to be Greek and here sightseeing with her Iranian fiancé, the older of the two guys she was sitting with. The younger was her future brother-in-law, recently graduated from high school and along on the trip, apparently, mainly to drive and fetch stuff. While I was still processing the whole marry-into-Iranian-culture thing, and the fact that Professor and I were technically breaking the law by sitting and talking to this woman, they asked where I was from. Even the Greek woman’s eyes went wide when I said America.
Almost in unison she and her future husband asked how it was possible for an American to get an Iranian travel visa, much less be sitting here in the middle of nowhere on a private tour. Professor filled them in on some of the details before the woman suddenly asked if I’d had any problems with the authorities.
Surprised at the question, I realized that, other than the delay and fuss at the airport, everything had gone pretty smoothly. When I asked her the same question the reason for her interest became apparent. A few days ago, after first arriving from Greece (where she and her fiancé both worked and had met), they’d checked into a hotel in Tehran, of course into separate rooms. Used to spending time together from their life in Greece, the lady had gone to the man’s room to hang out. A short while later, and only partway through a heated session of “hanging out,” someone had suddenly started yelling and pounding on the door. As she told the story you could sense the worry and fear in the woman’s voice, “I thought I was going to be arrested!”
Her fiancée had then quickly and calmly told her to get dressed and walk out the door and straight back to her room, neither making eye contact with nor saying a word to whomever was in the hall. He opened the door and started yelling, while she hurried back to her room. He kept their attention by angrily telling the clerks that the lady was his fiancé, they were in the country to meet his family and get married, and just where did the hotel get off spying on its guests like that?
Fortunately, it was hotel clerks at the door, not the religious police, so they were let off with a warning. After the clerks left, the man went to his fiancé’s room and, through the door, told her everything was fine, not to worry, and that he’d see her in the morning at breakfast.
The story had happened only a couple of days before and you could tell they were both excited by the run-in, and still getting used to the limits placed on them by Iran. They sat close and cuddled, something probably fine here at a tourist place, but their story gave added insight into the stresses of dating in Iran.
After sitting and comparing experiences for an hour, we all had to move on. I’d see them again later in the day at another site, but wouldn’t talk to any other foreigners until several days later in well-touristed Esfahan.
Our next stop was the tomb of a famous Sufi poet. Famous, that is, to Iranians. I’d never heard of the man. As luck would have it, we walked up to the facility only to see a TV crew interviewing people about this ‘world-famous’ poet. They saw me and it evidently occurred to them that it might be interesting to get a foreigner’s perspective. The next thing I knew they were asking Professor if it would be ok to do an interview and if he could interpret. I told Professor it was fine with me, but he needed to fill me in real quick on who this poet was. I used to make my living doing Korean radio and TV, so that part didn’t bother me – I just needed enough info to rustle up a respectable comment.
Professor quickly gave me a little background while the camera and lighting guys got set up. I knew a little about Sufism from research before the trip, but still needed some specifics on the gentleman buried inside. Professor told me not to worry, they wouldn’t be able to understand what I was saying so he would just fill in any holes or correct any mistakes. Though he did warn me not to say anything, “controversial.” I could tell he was also thinking, “and no dumb comparisons with North Korea,” but left that part out.
A few minutes later everything was set. The camera came on, the mike went live and the interviewer started. A few seconds later Professor translated the question and I started my babbling about Sufism and the poet inside the tomb. The whole thing lasted only a few minutes and I focused my comments on how the popularity of the tomb and poet showed the true openness and friendliness of the Persian people. Sufism predates Islam and the remaining popularity of its ideas, including that of prophets and poets like the man buried inside, show that no matter who controls the Iranian government (alarmed look from Professor!) the Persian people themselves are still open to multiple ideas and concepts.
The answer walked a fine line between insulting the government and saying something respectful about the people. Professor kept giving me ‘easy now … don’t go too far’ looks as I spoke, but I tried to keep the criticisms subtle, assuming he’d smooth over the rough edges during his translation.
I watched the reactions of the crew (often a far better measure of your performance than the controlled expressions of an interviewer) as he translated and saw a few sly smiles. Apparently, the translation got across both of the meanings I was trying to convey, while not being too critical of the government.
The interviewer thanked me and wished me a good stay in Iran. Once off the air he thanked me again, in English, for my time and an interesting interview. I’m not sure if my interview ever made it on the air, or if it got edited into something strange, but I enjoyed taking my shot. With that, we parted ways and finally entered the tomb complex.
We hadn’t been inside two minutes before we came to the attention of a bunch of young men sightseeing from nearby Kerman. They nervously approached and asked, in pretty good English, if I minded answering a few questions. When I readily agreed, they started by asking where I was from. They were
surprised when I said the U.S., but quickly smiled and bid me welcome to Iran. They asked if I knew anything about the Sufi poet inside and I admitted I didn’t; saying only a couple things that Professor had hurriedly taught me just before the interview.
We continued talking, and I even got an invitation to come teach English at a school in Kerman, before Professor stepped in and said we had to get going. They thanked us for our time and went on their way while we finally started our tour.
Inside the main room of the tomb were some inspirational sayings, plus a coffin-sized glass box with slots in the side to make donations. Amidst all of the Iranian money, I was surprised to see a couple of U.S. dollars, so I dug up one of my own and slid it in, to weird expressions from several passersby.
As we got ready to leave, an old caretaker suddenly appeared and said something to Professor. Before I knew it we’d been led behind a locked door and into the private prayer room of the old poet. You could even see the weathered area on the floor where he had knelt to pray. After that we were led through a small opening, up a ladder, and onto the roof of the complex. The views were fantastic – you could see forever in the clear, dry air. Snowcapped peaks were visible to the south, just behind the garden we’d visited earlier. The outskirts of far off Kerman lay to the north, and even the distant mountains we’d passed through the day before were visible in the western distance.
I wandered around taking pictures and exploring the roof before finally climbing back down and giving the old man the best Farsi ‘thank you’ I could muster. That was the second time an old man had steered me right on this trip and I wanted to thank them properly, something that would hopefully help out the next Western-looking foreigner who came through.
Before leaving we ducked into the gift shop to buy some of the unique music playing throughout the tomb complex. As we browsed through the offerings something truly amazing happened – a woman approached and started talking to me! During my time in Iran this would be both the first and last time I spoke with a Persian woman in public. She started by asking, politely and somewhat nervously, if I minded talking to her. I was more than happy to and told her so, starting a conversation right there in the shop. She asked where I was from and what I thought about her country, I asked what she did and where she learned her English. She turned out to be a tour guide herself and was therefore used to foreigners and speaking English.
But while she may have been used to speaking to foreign men, the other people in the shop were not. The stares grew incredibly intense, everyone wondering why a single Iranian woman was speaking alone to a foreign man. It didn’t seem to faze her though, “I’m from Shiraz. People are a lot more open there, like your San Francisco.”
Her questions revealed her concern with outside opinion of Iran and its people. She asked a couple of times if Americans could tell the difference between the Iranian government and people. She told me about emailing an American friend to ask her address so she could send a gift and her friend responding, “Why? So you can send me a bomb?”
She knew her friend was joking, but the idea that she and her country were associated with such things really bothered her. She asked if Americans knew the difference between Arabs and Persians, if we knew Iran had been fighting the Taliban and Al Qaeda for years, or if we knew that there had been no Iranian terrorists on the 9/11 planes.
After finally getting everything off her chest, she took a deep breath and relaxed, then noticed the intensity of the staring. Thanking me for my time, she left as quickly as she had appeared. Professor was waiting in the wings during our conversation; not wanting to interrupt what he knew was a unique experience. As she walked away he came up and clapped me on the back.
“You got to talk to an Iranian woman! How do you feel?” Then, jokingly, “Why didn’t you introduce her to me?”
Bam
Unfortunately, I got to the eastern city of Bam too late. Just over two years before my trip the ancient part of the town was damaged in an earthquake, so severely that Professor hadn’t even wanted to visit. On the drive over he explained why.
In the immediate aftermath of a quake that killed 30,000 and left a similar number homeless (out of a total population of 110,000-120,000), rescue teams and equipment were sent from countries around the world, including a team from the United States. There were so many teams sent from foreign countries that a serious need arose for interpreters to help them communicate with the locals. The Iranian tour guide association sent volunteers to help, including Professor. As he told me about the scenes of devastation and loss he’d witnessed, his voice trembled and he smoked nonstop.
Near the outskirts of the city we saw what was left of an old refugee camp, now mostly dust-blown and empty. A bit further on we came to the actual quake zone. Destruction and damage were everywhere, but Professor focused on what had been fixed since his visit in the quake’s aftermath. He pointed to freshly reconstructed buildings, repaired roads, and told me stories of the relief effort.
As we got close to the ancient section of Bam, so much had been destroyed and rebuilt that Professor actually had to stop and ask for directions – though he’d visited dozens of times, plus helped with the relief effort, the partially rebuilt city had become nearly unrecognizable. When we finally approached, Professor grew silent. The massive outer walls of the old complex still stood, but signs of destruction were everywhere. The largest mud brick city in the world, with buildings going back over 1000 years, had been reduced to a pile of rubble.
“Over there is where one of the local guides I used to talk to died. And over there is where I used to sit and wait for my clients while talking to the other guides. Some of them died there too.” Walking through the area was like meeting ghosts for Professor. I felt bad. Why had we come?
Past the outer walls and inside the complex, you could see how impressive it had once been. Even mostly destroyed it was still more impressive than anything I’d seen since Persepolis and Chogha. I walked the same stones as Marco Polo, going under some of the same arches and along the same walls. Some buildings, as well as parts of the famous citadel, were still standing. Others had been rebuilt. It was bad, but still worth visiting.
“You can see over there, that’s where an ice cream seller used to work. He was really nice. I always tried to stop and talk with him. … I guess he’s dead now.”
We walked around a bit, though ropes and signs limited where we could go. Parts were still unstable, other areas were set aside for reconstruction. As we walked back out Professor took one last look.
“That was hard, but I’m glad I came. It’s good to see some repairs. I just wish it would be faster, or that it had never happened …” Sigh.
As we walked up to the car, two young kids approached. Both were dirty, their clothes old and torn. I could see the pained expression on Professor’s face. They talked to him briefly, and then stuck out their hands to me. Professor explained that one kid’s parents had died in the quake so he was staying at the home of his cousin, the other little boy. We talked for a bit, through Professor, about their lives. After the quake, tourists had virtually disappeared and even now, two years later, few had returned. This double devastation of the earthquake and the loss of the tourist trade was hurting the recovery and turning some people, including the two kids in front of us, into beggars – the only time I saw any in Iran.
We both gave them a little cash, while Professor told them to study hard. The encounter seemed to change his mind about coming back. “These people need money. If the tourists don’t come then there’ll be no way for them to make a living, or find money to rebuild.”
Heading back to the main road, we had to stop and ask for directions again. Spotting a group of guys standing on a corner we drove up to ask for help. I realized why they were standing there as the car rolled to a stop and they literally sprang towards us, struggling for position in front of the window. They were day laborers and had mistaken me for an aid worker out to do some hiring.
Th
e looks of desperation, the hunger and the need for work that were so clearly written on every man’s face remain vivid in my mind. These people were still suffering terribly two years after the quake. I felt horrible for raising their hopes.
Professor quickly surmised the situation and told them we were only looking for directions. Some walked away, but others stayed to help. They had Professor repeat their instructions to make sure we understood and wouldn’t get lost, then politely wished us a safe journey. I felt thankful and guilty in equal measure.
The drive west back to Kerman started in silence, with each of us admiring the sun setting over the snowcapped mountains, empty desert all around. We should have been looking out for an attack. The emptiness of the surroundings, plus the proximity to the border with Afghanistan, makes this a favorite spot for Taliban and related terrorists to sneak in and attack Iranians. A few months after my January visit, in May, 12 travelers were found shot, their bodies dumped into a ditch alongside this road. News reports said Iranian security later tracked down and killed the 10 Afghani militants responsible.
The checkpoints were serious in this part of the country – no more simply getting waved through. Soldiers stopped us several times, with none of the perfunctory checks from previous places. An armed Iranian soldier would carefully examine our paperwork and confirm everything was in order. To either side sat empty trucks and cars, their occupants ordered inside for further questioning, or detained for smuggling.
The paperwork we submitted included my nationality, and even here, on one of the world’s busiest opium smuggling routes and with armed terrorists haunting the nearby mountains, the soldier would stop, surprised, then give me a smile and welcome me to Iran. No doubt, the friendly welcome was also partially due to a letter of authorization from the Iranian government, signed by the same internal security organization that controls most of the checkpoints. The letter explained our route and reasons for being in the area, and half requested, half ordered the soldiers manning the checkpoints to grant us passage without hassle or delay. Signed by their headquarters, it seemed to carry the force of heaven above for the poor, low-ranking guys stuck on checkpoint duty in the middle of the desert.