by Scott Fisher
I wasn’t even bothered when the ‘undercover’ security guy, who’d been trailing us since the security check, came over and sat on the next rug. He tried so hard to be the only one in the room not obviously watching the foreigner that he was more comical than threatening.
After watching people come and go for a while, and almost nodding off ourselves, we had to get going – we still had to deal with hours of hellish Tehran traffic before getting to the hotel. We stood and walked back toward the entrance, our undercover security guard in tow. Nearing the security check, we could see the reactions, mostly honest looks of grief and pain, as people entered and first saw the actual tomb. Though I found the tomb surprisingly comfortable and laid-back, two impressions I never would have guessed at, I still found the sadness hard to comprehend. Like the North Koreans with their founder Kim Il-sung, I wonder what the evaluation of the Iranian leader will be once his people are allowed a wider knowledge of outside information and a deeper understanding of the man in question.
Once outside and nearing the car, our guard veered off, for some reason pretending to walk in a direction that contained nothing. I wanted to stand and wait until he doubled back, just to see the shock on his face when he saw me still standing there, but Professor told me to stop bothering the poor security guard so we could get to the hotel.
The tomb turned out to be one of the most powerful memories of the trip. I can still feel myself relaxing on the carpets to the gentle droning of the heaters – an experience hard to reconcile with history and my opinion of the man inside the tomb.
Tehran
Driving back into Tehran’s awful pollution made my throat burn and eyes itch. It hadn’t seemed this bad before, but after a couple of weeks of fresh country air Tehran literally hurt. The traffic didn’t help either; it took less time to go from Qom to Tehran than it did to go from one part of the city to another.
Returning to the same hotel I’d stayed at upon arrival was a good way to close the circle, but it felt strange. I’d covered so much of the country, plus learned so much of the history and language from Professor, that it felt more like returning from a year of grad school than a 20-day trip. The ladies at check-in remembered me and were stunned at the difference in knowledge of language and customs. They even upgraded me to a nicer room.
Once back there was little time for reflection – I had to repack for the train. Until now I hadn’t thought much about the ride out, which in and of itself promised to be a hell of a trip. What I was most looking forward to about the train was the chance to be on my own. I’d enjoyed my time with Professor, and now consider him a friend, and a teacher in the finest sense of the word, but I was still looking forward to being without a minder.
The next day was devoted to sightseeing in the former palaces of the Shahs, a trip back up to the mountains north of town for a farewell lunch, and some last minute shopping. From past train rides I knew exchanging food was the best way to make friends so wanted to have plenty on hand. I’d even kept most of the famous candy I’d bought back in Yazd for precisely that reason.
The best part of the day was Professor’s brother-in-law. A Tehrani taxi driver for decades, he brought new opinions and a fresh viewpoint, not to mention a few shortcuts through the hideous traffic. He even showed his tough taxi-driver side that afternoon when we parked near the mountains for lunch and were told to pay for parking. He knew he didn’t have to and told the man so. The man darkly mentioned something about not being able to be sure our taxi would be totally safe while we were gone. The brother-in-law stared him down, mentioning the names of the nearest cafes and how unfortunate it’d be if the local taxi drivers took a dislike to them and carried their passengers to other restaurants further into the mountains. The man soon gave up, showing there’s nothing like having a local taxi driver on your team in a strange city.
We headed up the icy trail until we settled on one of the few restaurants that looked open early on a Wednesday afternoon. Inside, all of the workers were busy watching a Clint Eastwood movie on an illegal satellite dish – making me forever associate our farewell meal with A Fistful of Dollars.
After the meal, it was back to Tehran for a quick stop at the home where Khomeini spent the final years of his life. Suddenly walking into a place I remembered from countless news broadcasts set my spine tingling. You can almost feel the modern history made here, while just outside a small shop sells ‘banned’ Western DVDs and music.
That night I wrote my final email from inside Iran. I’d enjoyed the trip, much more than my time in North Korea (not to mention Iraq), but I was still looking forward to moving on. I just had one more thing to do in Tehran before I left.
U.S. Den of Espionage
The next morning I woke up early. The train didn’t leave until the evening but I wanted to get some pictures of the former U.S. embassy before I left. The problem was that the grounds are now controlled by the Basiji, a hard-line militia group that doesn’t exactly care for Americans, or for anyone taking pictures of their anti-American wall paintings. Every guidebook I’d read warned against taking pictures. Professor told me not to go, saying I was nuts for even wanting to walk near the place.
But I wanted pictures for this book, plus nearly everyone I’d met so far had been welcoming and friendly. So, I decided to push my luck. Fortunately, the hotel was only a couple of blocks from the embassy grounds, making for a quick walk. A holiday, the streets were quiet and empty for a change. Walking over to the giant compound I noticed few people out – which meant I stuck out more than usual.
As I neared the compound, I saw a couple of young draftee soldiers on patrol outside. I decided to take a direct approach. Everyone had been friendly so far, so why not? I walked up and said hello. They were surprised but answered in a friendly-enough way. I asked if it would be ok to take some pictures of the former embassy and, to my surprise, they said sure. I couldn’t believe it! Were all the books and guides wrong? Was it really this easy?
I thanked the soldiers and quickly hustled over to the entrance gates where the old embassy seal, hacked and torched but still faintly visible, hung from the brick. I kept the camera in my coat pocket just in case. Just as I got to the front gate, I switched it on, pulled it out, and snapped a quick picture. Not a second later I heard a siren behind me. I lined up and took another picture, pretending not to hear it. The siren screeched again, this time with yelling. I turned around and a couple of cops in a squad car. They were across the street and definitely talking to me. As soon as I turned around they motioned me over. I hopped off the curb, jaywalked across the empty street and went around to the passenger side of the police car. The door swung open. An older cop said hello in English and held out his hand to shake mine. Surprised, and somewhat relieved, I did the same.
The younger cop doing the driving was, unfortunately, much more excited. No handshakes or hellos from him – all he offered was an angry, “No pictures!”
I said sure, and apologized. He kept yelling.
The older cop seemed calm so I decided to press my luck a little further. I told the younger guy I’d asked some soldiers and they’d said it was ok.
As expected, my questioning of his authority ticked him off even more. He literally pounded his fist on the dashboard, yelling “Police! Police! No pictures!” Which I took to mean, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the freaking little draftee soldiers. I’m the law, and I say no pictures!”
Feeling the outer boundaries of my luck fast approaching, I told him that made pretty good sense to me, and again apologized and said I wouldn’t take any more pictures. The older, calmer one then suggested putting the camera away, while Hothead yelled that any more pictures meant I’d be getting in the car and going to meet some more police.
My chances of getting out of Iran without getting arrested teetered on the brink. One wrong word and I wasn’t leaving today. Memories of the angry run-in with the colonel just before leaving Baghdad flashed through my mind. Smiling, I slipped the ca
mera back into my pocket and again said no pictures. Offending device out of sight, they both relaxed and we said goodbye.
I watched them drive off, heartbeat slowly returning to normal.
Fortunately, I’d prepared for this eventuality. I crossed back over the street to the embassy, with the camera still in my pocket, as they disappeared around a corner. Just past the seal where’d I’d taken the offending pictures lay my main targets – a series of billboard-sized, anti-American propaganda paintings on the outer walls of the compound. I reached into another pocket, this one holding my cell phone with video-recording capability. Utterly useless in Iran, I’d brought it all the way from home for just this reason.
Before leaving the hotel that morning, I’d memorized the order I had to hit the buttons to activate video recording. I clicked through the keys now, phone still concealed in my pocket, as I slowly walked over to line up a shot of the paintings. Video recording activated, or so I hoped, I suddenly pulled out the phone and pretended to answer a call.
Next, I pretended to have a conversation as I walked along the wall, too quickly at first, but slower as I calmed down. Getting caught again meant, in the best case, getting arrested and missing my train home. I didn’t want to think about the worst case. Talking like an idiot into the phone, I tried to keep the tiny lens focused on the paintings. Once I got past that section of the wall, I jammed the phone back into my pocket and got the hell out of there.
Back in my hotel room, heart pounding, I carefully opened the phone. What if I’d hit the wrong buttons? What if I’d aimed the lens wrong? I took a deep breath and hit play.
Slow, relieved sigh.
Spielberg it isn’t – the clip is cock-eyed from having to hold the phone like I was talking, but most of the paintings are visible, including the key one with the Statue of Liberty’s head re-done as a skull. Relieved, I tucked the phone back into my pocket and finished packing for the train. All I had to do now was smuggle the thing out of Iran.
Hell Train
Everything started out fine. Professor and his taxi-driving brother-in-law met me at the hotel for our short drive to Tehran’s train station. Standing inside the station, I was sad to say goodbye – Professor had become a friend during our intense three weeks together and I was going to miss him. After making sure my seat assignment and baggage were in order, and still somewhat surprised I was leaving by train instead of plane, he held out his hand and we said goodbye. Then, quickly and without another word, he disappeared out the door and I was alone.
The train was barely half full, with only one other person in my 4-bunk compartment. My roommate for the next four days was to be an Afghani who spoke no Persian and whose only English was ‘ok’. Since that was more Afghani than I speak we went with his English and a lot of miming. He was going to Istanbul to work and seemed spellbound by my maps of Iran and Turkey. Other than that he turned out to be a very quiet guy – perfect for a long train ride. For the first few hours everything was easy and relaxing.
Then the evening turned into night, and with it came the heat. It was bitterly cold outside, as the train drove through the mountains of northwest Iran, but the conductor decided to set the heating on thermonuclear. Perhaps in honor of their nuke program.
By 1:00 a.m., I was lying in a pool of my own sweat; barely able to breathe it was so hot. Simply to cool off I got up to go to the freezing cold, unheated bathroom. Of course, the toilet was a squatter (i.e. a hole in the floor), and on a rapidly moving train everyone’s aim was not what it should have been. Still I stood there in the stench, soaked in my own sweat and standing in a film of water, piss and shit, for 10 minutes, until I finally cooled down.
Once the smell overcame the pleasant coolness, I fled back into the car. On the way back to my compartment, I looked around and found an empty room. I quickly ducked inside and tested the window – there was a small slit at the top that actually opened. So, at 1:30 in the morning, I packed everything up and snuck into the new compartment. The first thing I did was pile clothing over the accursed heater, then opened the window and tried to sleep.
The night was an endless series of half-hour stretches of sleep – first woken by the cold from the window, then by the heat after the window was closed. Alternately freezing and sweating, I tossed and turned my way through the early morning.
The fight for sleep lasted until 6:00 a.m., when we arrived at the first immigration stop. Worried about possibly missing a document, I prepared a welcome for the inspector. When he came into my compartment I offered him some of the fancy candy I’d bought in Yazd. He was surprised, and seemingly touched. A quick glance at the room, then my passport (Oh, American?!? Welcome!) and then he was gone. Customs problem one, solved.
The next stop wasn’t for a couple of hours, so I shut the door and got ready to try sleeping again, only NOW IT WAS MUSIC TIME!! The conductor, may his black heart and evil spirit rest long in hell, decided to crank up some utterly god-awful music at the LOUDEST POSSIBLE VOLUME; fortunately, with the treble on high and the speakers crackling from the current! Yes! Within minutes I was hiding back in the toilet, praying for a crash.
The music in the hallways was so loud it penetrated every inch of the accursed train – meaning nowhere to escape. I went back to my compartment, hid my head under clothes and pillows, jammed earplugs into my ears, but still couldn’t escape the blood-curdling screams of the treble. Hours later, my mind dull from the overwhelming heat and the hours spent staring longingly at the passing mountain cliffs, dreaming of jumping off of one, the train finally pulled into the next stop – Iranian Immigration.
I was nervous here, not being able to find an exit document I was supposed to have been given at the airport on arrival. Plus, I was still worried about the phone call and changed-itinerary problem I’d heard about a few days ago on the road to Qom.
Fortunately, everything went fine – the out-processing was smooth and efficient, only taking a few minutes. I’d met a couple of Danish guys on the train and we went into the immigration building together. One of the officials noticed us, looking lost and towering four inches over everyone else, and quickly led us to the right room. The Danes went first and had no problems. Then it was my turn. I gave the immigration guys my passport.
Odd looks all around ... “American?!?!”
“Yes, hello.” Both the ‘yes’ and ‘hello’ were in Farsi, then I followed with another phrase I’d memorized for these situations, “I really like Iran.”
That did it. Smiles all around. “Thanks for coming to our country!” Kerchunk went the stamps in my passport.
Done and processed no problem!
We went back and sat in the lounge while we waited for everyone else – the train had been emptied and locked for immigration processing. It took a couple of hours to process all the passengers, plus a few people from the isolated mountain community boarding for the quickest trip into town, which just happened to be across the Turkish border.
Once Immigration was finished, the conductors reopened a door onto the train and officials began slowly reconfirming everyone had the right stamps in their passport before allowing us back onboard. We waited until most of the others had boarded to avoid the scrum outside the re-boarding car. Finally, things died down a bit and we took our turn. The Danes were first. An official looked at their passports.
“No! You don’t have the right stamps! Go back!” He pointed toward another office we hadn’t known to visit.
Hustling over to the office we found it closed. Everyone else was now onboard the train. Lovely.
We went back to the train. Thoughts of being stranded at an Iranian border outpost began springing to mind, though that would have at least meant escaping the train’s music. Back at the train, the official controlling re-entry looked at us, wondering why we were back so quickly. We said the office was closed. He hopped down from his post on the train and walked over to order it reopened.
The guys who were heading to lunch and got called back to proce
ss us were REALLY happy about it. The Afghani guy from my original compartment had encountered a similar problem, so he joined the two Danes and I. He went first, handing his passport to the official in this new office. No problems, a couple of minutes later he was done and cleared to go. Then the official picked up my passport.
Disbelieving stare. Then tentatively, “Country?”
“America.”
“America?!?!” Long sigh.
My, “I really like Iran” phrase here only evoked a stony silence. He put down my passport and moved on to the Danes. Again, like the Afghani, they were processed without a problem.
Then it was back to me. After taking a long, somewhat discouraging look at the passport he hesitatingly started entering things into his computer. The train actually whistled outside. Curiosity overcame the Danes and they stayed to see what would happen. After a couple of minutes pecking at the computer, he pulled out a document and started asking me questions in Farsi. I answered with a dumb look. He spoke louder. I looked dumber.
Then I caught a word. He was asking where I’d been in Iran. No problem there, I said a few of the places. Next came detailed questions about my job, arrival flight, current destination, and where I’d gotten my visa. Fortunately, one of the other officials spoke a bit of English and helped whenever my rudimentary Farsi failed.
The question about where I got my visa proved the toughest. I said Korea, but they kept asking another question about Korea that I couldn’t figure out. Finally, the one who spoke some English said, “Two Korea!” then motioned up, and down.
“Ah! South Korea,” I said, motioning down.
Smiles all around. The official finished recording everything on his form, stamped my passport and I was finally free to go.