by Scott Fisher
Their way around the sanctions involved the local bazaari having a trusted contact in Dubai, the Arab world’s hotspot of commerce and banking. The Esfahani merchant first calls Dubai to get the current rate for traveler’s checks, then takes a 10% cut for himself. If you agree to the rate, he basically fronts you the money until he can get the checks reimbursed, outside the sanctions, down in Dubai. This is why you have to turn over not only the signed check, but also the original receipt – the same paper banks always tell you to keep separate in case of theft.
The moneychangers apparently require this extra step because they’ve gotten burned already by people cashing their checks just before hopping a quick flight out of the country. Once outside of Iran the goal of these people is to report their checks stolen, rather than cashed, and get them reissued before the bazaari can get reimbursed – thus leaving the bazaari holding only worthless paper.
Though an interesting way to evade the sanctions (and/or screw over the bazaari), I declined the opportunity to donate 10% of my check to the local moneychanger. Instead I thanked him for explaining the system and got out of there before he realized I was wasting his time.
Lunch was back at nearby Imam Square, in a restaurant high enough to offer great views over the bazaar and into the city. Reclining on the floor, eating everything in sight while enjoying the scenery, made for one of the better meals of the trip. Each stop offered a chance to try various local specialties and I found the local dish in Esfahan, beryani, to be the best in the country. Finely ground lamb spiced with onions and turmeric wrapped in fresh bread … it makes me hungry just writing about it.
After lunch it was time to bid goodbye to Local. He’d been a good person to talk to, especially once he realized I was there to sightsee, not finish a PhD on the finer points of Islamic architecture. Plus, as a fellow English teacher, he was able to fill me in on what it was like to teach the international language in a country so cut off from the outside world – apparently the lessons are heavy on the classics, light on actual communication skills. I appreciated the added insight into the depth of Iran’s separation from the mainstream.
Something to Read
Professor and I slowly walked back to the hotel, enjoying our last day in the relative warmth of Esfahan before heading north. Later that evening, news reports said that the Turkish bird flu problem had largely receded. Which meant my long train ride was still a go, so I went out in search of some extra books for the four-day ride. A giant international hotel and a small shopping area just down the street were reputed to have a few books in English, mainly some of the classics Local had described teaching.
I found the hotel without a problem, but its little bookstore was even sparser than the one in our hotel. Next, I crossed the street in the evening darkness to look around the stylish shopping arcade there. Unfortunately, the few English books they had were on how to learn the language, not anything to read while relaxing in front of a train window.
Not giving up hope, I rounded a corner into the last little section of the arcade. That’s when I saw it; hastily handwritten in English on a piece of notepaper stuck to a pillar:
“Ahmadinejad is a terrorist!”
Ahmadinejad is the president of Iran. It took my brain a few seconds to register what I was seeing. Then the audacity of it hit me – whomever had posted that sign either had cojones the size of watermelons, or a strong and immediate death wish.
I slowly looked around. Plenty of people were walking nearby, but no one was watching me, nor did anyone else appear to have noticed what was surely an illegal sign. I wanted a picture so bad I nearly exploded. But just as I flung open my bag to grab my camera I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone was headed toward the little alcove where I was standing. A quick glance showed it to be a man with a beard – the national sign of a conservative.
Realizing the sign was in English, the thought flashed through my mind that the sign might be some kind of weird set-up, hoping to ensnare a wandering tourist from the huge hotel across the street. Even if it weren’t, any American around when that sign was discovered wouldn’t have been in for a pleasant experience. Since I was the only obvious foreigner, I immediately aborted the picture plan and strode away, passing within inches of the approaching man as I searched his face for any hint of trouble. Nothing. Within seconds I was up the steps and hustling down the crowded sidewalk.
The rest of the night I stayed in.
Beautiful Red Brick Abyaneh
Today was to be nuke day – our short drive north from Esfahan to Kashan was going to take us right by Natanz, the home of the Iranian nuclear program. While many news reports from Iran cite Esfahan as the home, the actual nuke facilities are about 60 miles away, near the small city of Natanz.
We drove quickly north, seemingly the only people on the smooth new expressway, minus a couple of checkpoints. Leaving Esfahan we stopped for directions and found that checkpoints had become such a fixed part of the landscape they were even used for navigating, “drive down this road for a while until you come to the police checkpoint [not the other ones], then turn right.”
Driving by, Natanz is just another exit on the highway, with the city visible in the distance. The nuclear site is not something mentioned by the local road signs. Professor saw me scanning the area, but told me not to bother.
Just past Natanz to the northwest is an isolated little village nestled in the mountains called Abyaneh. We wanted to visit, but finding the right highway exit proved a problem – Professor was used to traveling with large tour groups on buses that included drivers. This was the first time in several years he’d driven himself, so he was occasionally unsure of which way to go when we got into off-the-beaten-path areas.
As I studied the map, I realized we’d zoomed past our exit and were rapidly approaching Kashan, the day’s final destination. For a moment we debated just giving up and heading on, especially given all the snow we could see in the mountains that might close the roads.
The debate was short-lived however, and we were soon looking for an exit to use to turn around. Of course, we found none in the vast stretch of emptiness. That is, until we popped over a little rise and went flying past it.
Professor quickly slowed and pulled over to take a look. We could turn around, but we’d have to back up along the shoulder.
Just then, not 30 seconds after we’d come to a stop, came the sound of a motorcycle pulling up next to us, then a sudden tapping on Professor’s window. Two soldiers, an AK-47 swung over the shoulder of the passenger, had appeared out of nowhere. We were still within 15-20 miles of the nuke facilities and security was trigger-finger tight.
Professor, somewhat startled (he hadn’t even heard the bike pull up), slowly rolled down his window. He spoke very calmly, pointed to the map and immediately started asking for directions – would it be ok for us to turn off the road here to head back to the Abyaneh exit? This distracted the soldiers from their own questions, and had the added benefit of confirming our directions and getting us permission to reverse course. With a warning to never stop in this area again the soldiers sped off, though the passenger kept looking over his shoulder to make sure we actually did what we said we would. Impressive security – quick to react, but not heavy-handed.
Once headed in the right direction, it wasn’t long before we found our exit and were soon driving down a narrow, twisting road into the snow-covered mountains. Here, near the nuclear facilities, there were even more military bases and watchtowers than along the Iraqi border. We even drove past a couple of antiquated-looking anti-aircraft installations. Any U.S. or Israeli air strike on the nuke facilities would fly over this spot, and those facilities were there to try and stop it.
Once into the mountains, the military bases faded away and the scenery went from bland to stunning. One minute we were driving through brown nothingness, the next minute through trees, snow and mountain streams. It felt like driving into a postcard.
We climbed slowly i
nto the mountains. Professor was especially careful as we rounded the turns, having come upon the occasional village local caught unawares by a car actually using the road. I stared out the window. After the brown desert the glaring colors of the white snow, deep red clay, and shining green pines were almost painful. The decision to turn around and find Abyaneh was looking to be a good one, easily worth almost getting arrested by the suspicious soldiers.
After a little over an hour, we finally pulled into Abyaneh. The soil and clay in the nearby mountains gave the town a unique reddish hue, one that contrasted with the white snow and remaining green of the trees, much like a Christmas picture.
The first stop was lunch at a hotel on the outskirts of town. The large building was so utterly and completely desolate it took us a while just to find an unlocked door to get inside. The sudden arrival of customers in the dead of winter apparently caught two of the owners, a man and his mother, so off guard they were still asleep. Though it was well after noon, they both stumbled into the restaurant like they’d just woken up. Obviously excited to have company, they were soon all smiles and super friendly, quickly whipping up whatever we wanted from the huge menu.
While the mom cooked, the son came over to talk. The family had come out from Tehran a few years earlier to start the hotel and the slow-paced mountain life seemed to be driving him a little stir crazy. Well-educated, he spoke enough English so Professor didn’t even have to interpret. He was especially excited to hear I was American, immediately launching into quotes from half a dozen Hollywood movies. His favorite, oddly, was the Mel Gibson movie The Patriot, from which he could quote at length and had apparently used to keep his English in shape. He wanted to know all about guns in U.S. culture, and of course what Americans thought of Iranians. When I asked about his own government, I couldn’t believe some of the things he said … for his sake left out of this account. Suffice it to say though, there’s a welcoming place for English-speakers in Abyaneh.
After lunch we took pictures with him and his mom, then he took us on a guided tour of the hotel, proudly pointing out the winter renovations they were doing to get ready for the next summer’s tourists.
Getting in the car to leave, I heard a sudden shout from behind. Turning, I saw a group of construction workers across the street all yelling and waving friendly hellos. After these two warm welcomes, Professor and I drove a few hundred yards into the town proper. We parked the car, then started down the narrow pathway that led into the heart of the 1000-year-old village.
The old pathway, at best, was barely wide enough for two people. But now, partially buried under snow and ice, it was certainly not at its best. The first people we came upon were a group of pre-school kids all bundled up and having a snowball fight, or more precisely, a ‘see how much snow you can kick onto another person’ fight. Professor and I joined in for a bit, until the kids started to win, then headed further into town.
The narrow pathway winding between red brick homes covered in clean white snow, plus the friendly people, quickly made this little town one of the best stops of the trip. After passing the kids, we next came upon an old woman who urged us to visit her home for some dried apples. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, even berating Professor for trying to refuse a request from an old woman. He quickly apologized and we headed down a tiny offshoot path to her little courtyard. She offered us dried apples and warm tea, a mixture absolutely perfect in the crisp mountain air.
Apparently the tourist trade had already cut a wide swath through the town – after feeding us she broke out an old handmade necklace and urged me to buy it. She was such a nice old lady, and the silver necklace with a snuff holder as the main piece looked so unique, that I went ahead and bought it. It cost all of four bucks.
As we got up to leave, I asked to take a picture with her, but she refused, saying without her husband’s permission it wouldn’t be right to take a picture with a man. But a picture of her standing alone in her courtyard, laundry flapping in the cold wind, was fine so we did that instead. Then she gave us the whole bag of dried apples, again refusing to take no for an answer and getting a little piqued at Professor for trying to refuse. It was actually funny watching his demeanor go so quickly from in-charge tour guide to scolded schoolboy.
We walked back up to the main path and continued exploring further into the village. Within a couple of minutes we met another old woman, who again hurried us inside her house, seemingly somewhat irritated that the other old lady had seen us first. It turned out this woman’s specialty was sewing and quilting. I ended up buying a couple of fancy handmade scarves to give as gifts, again for only a few bucks.
A common sight on traditional buildings throughout the country were separate door knockers for men and women. Using the one for your gender (guess which knocker belongs to which sex) helped identify who was at the door so it could be answered by the appropriate sex - helping to prevent the 'immoral' mixing of unrelated men and women.
After exploring a bit further, we finally turned back to the car to make sure we started in time to get off the twisting, ice-covered mountain road before sunset. On the way back we ran into the two old women talking to each other, no doubt discussing the two of us. As we passed they wished us a safe journey, then it was past the kids and into the car. After the beautiful ride back out of the mountains, the evening return of the brown desert and industrial-looking military bases was depressing, like returning to a cold home after a long, blissful holiday.
After that it was another two hours of driving to Kashan. Neither a large nor heavily touristed city, our hotel showed it. Marco Polo himself could have stayed in my room – the mattress, which felt like sleeping at the bottom of a giant ‘U’, would certainly have been the same. The room was freezing and when I checked the heating system I found out why – the unit was still set on air-condition. Given it was January; I was obviously the first person to stay in the room for months. And this was in the nice part of the hotel – the other wing looked about to collapse.
Kashan Breakfast
The next morning at breakfast things took an odd turn. When Professor and I walked into the restaurant we saw three Asian people sitting at one of the tables. A few days before, in Esfahan, Professor had enjoyed it when I shocked a couple of Korean women by speaking to them in their language. Now with another group of Asians so close he was hoping for a similar show.
The problem was that none of them said a word. The two women and the young guy just sat and ate in dead silence, which to me ruled out them being Chinese, but still didn’t tell us their nationality. After nearly 10 minutes, Professor started to joke that they must be part of some weird, non-speaking religious cult. Then, finally, one of the women said something. And sure enough, it was in Korean. A smile of anticipation spread across Professor’s face.
“Excuse me, are you guys Korean?” I asked in Korean.
Heads spun at suddenly hearing their own language. Eyes searched the room, looking right through me, trying to find the Korean guy who’d just spoken.
“You guys are Korean, right?”
Dropped spoon.
“Uhhh, yes, where … how … do you know Korean?”
“I’ve lived in Seoul for a few years. How about you – what are you guys doing in Iran?”
And with that we proceeded into the details of our travels in Iran and where I’d learned my Korean. Professor enjoyed the initial reaction, then went back to eating as the conversation progressed. Towards the end of our talk, one of the young women asked where I taught in Seoul and if I had a business card. I answered that I taught at a small, private women’s university that only some people had heard of, “Sungshin Women’s University.”
One of the women turned ghost-white. “I … I go to Sungshin.”
Now it was my turn to drop something. Our school is not big, nor especially famous, and even a lot of Koreans don’t know it. To run into one of our students halfway around the world, in a beaten-up old hotel in Kashan, Iran nonetheless, wa
s way beyond the, “it’s a small world,” stuff. We just kind of stared at each other, until I dug out a business card, partly to prove we weren’t all just having the same crazy illusion.
Road to Qom
Episode two, in what was to become a day of oddities, came about an hour later on the road north to the religious city of Qom. Professor got a call on his cell, a common occurrence, but this time his voice took on a worried note. After he got off the phone, I asked what was up.
“The agency forgot to submit a change in your itinerary to the police. That was the hotel calling to get some more information about us, our destination, and my license plate number.”
Less than an hour after we left the hotel the police had realized we were off schedule and tracked us down.
“Will this be a problem?”
“No, it happens all the time. The agency and customer make changes to the itinerary, but the agency forgets to submit the updated info to the police. The police notice when we stay at a hotel or in a town not on our list.”
Apparently, the authorities check up, on Americans at least, every day we are in the country. It’s not the same level of control as North Korea, but they still tracked us down at a different hotel and city by 10am of the morning we turned up ‘missing’. I’d felt suspicious about a few of the people we’d met during the trip, and a couple of times those suspicions had been confirmed when others indicated security was about, but the Big Brother call from nowhere still felt kind of creepy.
Fortunately, Professor called the travel agency and they straightened everything out with some faxes. I was worried a record of the incident might cause a hassle at the border, but heard nothing of it the rest of the trip.