Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn

by Jamie Maslin

  My sleeping bag was still down there, but the thought of going to retrieve it didn’t exactly appeal right now. It took a while before I plucked up the courage, and when I did so, I was on hyper alert and at running speed in and out. The prospect of the truck’s cab and Ilhan’s snoring seemed strangely appealing now. I climbed back inside the warmth of the cab and resigned myself to a disrupted night. The snoring was still deafening but it was far preferable to a mad dog attack. It was one of the worst night’s “sleep” I’ve ever had.

  In the morning, Ilhan arose with a contented smile looking well-rested and ready to face the day ahead. We arrived at Horasan, which was a small rural place, by midmorning and bade each other farewell, since Ilhan was heading north. I stood out like a sore thumb here and received many strange looks from the locals who clearly weren’t used to seeing European hitchhikers this far east. Some young lads, one of whom spoke a few words of English, came over to where I was standing and tried to persuade me to catch a bus to Iran instead. I hadn’t hitched this far through mad dog and psychopath attack to cheat on the last section and pay for a ride, so I shook my head with a smile.

  Opposite where I waited was a load of livestock being transferred from one truck to another. It wasn’t a nice sight: in the process one poor cow stumbled and fell to the ground, where it was beaten repeatedly with a stick. It just made it harder for the animal to get back up again and was sickening to watch; the blows came in thick and fast, and echoed off its body.

  Half an hour later, I got a lift in a very modern and fast truck. It drove along at speeds Ilhan’s poor vehicle could only have dreamt about, which felt worrying given the huge size of the truck and the small width of the roads. The driver spoke no English, but instead of silence I was treated to some religious chanting coming from the stereo. At one point, the driver put his hand on his heart and mumbled some chanted words reverently to himself. He looked across at me to make sure I was taking it all very seriously. I tried my best to look pensive but was more concerned with his one-handed high-speed prayer driving.

  We parted company in a small rural Turkish village, the name of which I never learnt, next to a bridge over a river that was blocked by several goats and cows ambling along to get to the embankment nearby. They took a good while to clear, and on seeing me and my backpack, their young herder shouted a warm English “hello.” He looked rather pleased with himself when I responded with the same.

  A few minutes later, another modern truck responded to my request for a lift and pulled up some distance from where I stood, creating a huge cloud of dust. I ran over, opened the door, climbed the steps leading up to the cab, and was just about to haul myself inside when the driver stopped me by indicating that I should take off my shoes first. He pointed to his immaculate carpet, then to his feet, and shook his head with a smile. I climbed down the steps again, pulled my shoes off, and got in.

  This proved to be my final lift all the way to Iran and the end of my hitchhiking proper for this trip. I was extremely pleased. It turned out to be a conversation-free ride since the driver spoke as much English as I did Turkish or Farsi, the Iranian language, but we managed to establish early on what each other’s names were. His was Kerim, and he was driving all the way to Tehran, the capital of Iran.

  The landscape we drove through was beautiful, but the music he played at a deafening volume was anything but, with eighties Irish crooner Chris de Burgh blaring from the stereo. This was my first encounter with the peculiar popularity of de Burgh all over Iran, and although not my first choice of auditory stimulation, it did, at the time, make a welcome change from the likes of repetitive religious chanting.

  The last settlement before the Iranian border is the small Turkish town of Dogubayazit, known affectionately to travelers as “doggie biscuit.” Just twenty-two miles from Iran and at an elevation of some 6,000 feet, Dogubayazit commands spectacular views of Turkey’s highest peak, Mount Ararat, which rises majestically from a plain to reach nearly 17,000 feet.

  At one time, Dogubayazit had been a significant trading town thanks to its location near an ancient trading route that ran from northwestern Iran to the shores of the Black Sea. But when the trading route’s importance declined, so did that of the town, and today this predominantly Kurdish settlement provides services for people stopping off between Turkey and Iran, and for those visiting Mount Ararat.

  The snow-capped Mount Ararat dominates the town’s surrounding landscape. It is considered a holy site by the Armenians and is, according to some, the resting place of Noah’s ark. Genesis 8:4 states that the ark came to rest on the “mountains of Ararat.” The counterargument to this handy pinpointing of the ark’s location is that Ararat was the Assyrian way of saying “the empire of Urartu,” which was a whole geographical region, not simply a mountain. Still, many people are adamant that it’s somewhere up the mountain, and numerous expeditions have set off in vain to try to find it.

  We stopped in Dogubayazit at a café for lunch, which included meat of uncertain origin, tomatoes, bread, and olives. We were less than thirty minutes from the border, and it was now that I looked properly at my Lonely Planet guidebook for the very first time. For sure, I’d browsed the pictures before, but I felt planning anything before I arrived in Iran and got a feel for the place was premature. As I began to skim the pages, however, I wished I’d read more before I’d got so close to the border.

  Of particular concern was a section about changing money, and its advice not to do so at Bazargan just inside the Iranian border, which was exactly where I had planned to do it, as it would be my first stop in Iran. Apparently, foreigners received extreme hassle from the crafty money changers there and were often ripped off in the process. I didn’t like the sound of this.

  In the money changer’s favor I now learnt, was the confusion between the rials written on Iranian bank notes and the tomans commonly referred to by the locals. Since one toman equates to ten rials, this quirky local practice is the equivalent of American shopkeepers asking for ten cents when they really require a dollar. To confuse matters further, the shopkeepers at the bazaars will, on occasion, ask for one toman when they actually mean one hundred rials, or even a thousand.

  According to my guidebook, the money changers were perfectly aware of this confusion and did their best to exploit it with foreigners, whilst stirring in random references to the dollar just to muddy the waters further. I didn’t plan to change a penny in Bazargan now. I mimed to Kerim and the other guys at the café, all of whom he seemed to know, that I needed to exchange some money before I arrived in Iran.

  These kindly chaps explained, via a man from the shop next door who spoke a little English, that they would be more than happy to help me out and personally exchange my U.S. dollars, for what they assured me was a better than average rate. I politely declined. After further discussions and negotiations, one of them agreed, for a small fee, to take me to a proper money changer not far away in the center of town. I jumped into his car, leaving Kerim and my backpack behind in the truck, and went through the crowded twisting streets to a small currency exchange shop. I only wanted to exchange enough for the next few days until I managed to locate a proper bank inside Iran. I swapped the Turkish lira equivalent of about sixty dollars, and in return received a huge wad of green Iranian currency graced with the image of the Ayatollah Khomeini. As soon as I returned to the café, we set off for Iran.

  The queue of trucks stretched for a hell of a long distance from the border, which is considered to be one of the most congested bottlenecks in West Asia. The thought of waiting in the truck for hours didn’t appeal, so I thanked Kerim for the ride and headed off on foot toward Iran.

  I approached the border with some trepidation. Thoughts of the gruesome documentary I’d seen before leaving and of the chaos in nearby Iraq filled my mind, and I wondered what sort of reception I, as a Westerner, would get in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Britain had meddled often with the country’s internal affairs, so would the Iranian peop
le be cold or even hostile? I thought back on my encounter with Saddam, which, along with last night’s canine-interrupted sleeping arrangements, I could well have done without. I hoped there wouldn’t be any similar close shaves awaiting me in Iran.

  The initial reception, it turned out, couldn’t have been nicer. I was directed by friendly, smiling officials to one of two border queues situated inside an airport-style customs building. In here, I saw for the first time a picture I would see again and again during my Iranian tour: a portrait of Iran’s late supreme religious leader, Ayatollah Khomeini. Alongside this was a picture of the current religious leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. There was also a sign for a prayer room and one for a human quarantine area. On seeing these pictures and signs, I felt a quiet sense of achievement at having made it this far and having finally reached my elusive destination. The nervousness I’d experienced moments ago evaporated and was replaced with an intense excitement.

  I joined the back of a large line leading to a couple of kiosks where it appeared that passports and visas were being checked and stamped. Just beyond this was a larger area where a group of people were busy arranging their luggage in readiness for joining another queue, at the end of which luggage was being presented for inspection at a customs desk. After less than a minute lined up behind the locals, I was spotted by an official who immediately approached me. My previous apprehension returned when I was then asked for my passport and told simply, “Follow me.” I was paranoid at having been singled out and was half-expecting a thorough interrogation, followed by an invasive full cavity search, topped off with a spell in “human quarantine.”

  Instead the official brought me to the front of the line, handed his colleague my passport, and said happily, even excitedly, “Tourist!” His colleague smiled back, stamping my passport in the process, and said in a similar manner, “Welcome to Iran!”

  I was now led through the crowd of locals rearranging their luggage. This proved difficult as my tent protruded significantly sideways from my backpack, making it impossible to get past without bumping into people. I apologized profusely and tried to maneuver as carefully through the crowds as possible, but the friendly official couldn’t be bothered with any of this cautious nonsense and pushed me from behind shouting “Tourist! Tourist!” in an attempt to clear the crowds.

  A generously proportioned Iranian woman in traditional full black chador stood blocking my way. I hunched my shoulders and turned to squeeze respectfully past her, but just as I was about to negotiate this move, the official gave another helpful shove and I hurtled toward her. It was like the second before being in a car crash where paradoxically everything slows down and yet speeds up all at once. I panicked and instinctively tried to stop the collision by throwing out my hands—which collided with her ample hindquarters. My palms sunk in, giving me a big fat fistful of Iranian ghetto booty, and sending her forward with a surprised and startled jolt.

  She spun around in disgust and reprimanded me, saying goodness knows what in Farsi. She didn’t look too happy and neither was I. It was hardly in keeping with the delicate etiquette surrounding the treatment of women in an Islamic state of which I was well aware.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” I tried to explain as best I could using hand gestures but the official continued pushing and before I knew it we’d cleared the crowd. Now in the main hall, I made a move to join the back of the “customs” line, but the official shook his head and with a smile whisked me to the front of this also. Luckily, this time I went around it rather than through it. The customs guy checking bags was already dealing with someone when we approached, but his colleague pushed me in front of him announcing proudly, “Tourist!”

  Now ignoring the local himself, the customs guy gave me a warm smile and said, “Ah, tourist!” I lifted my bag up for inspection but he just smiled again and waved me through.

  That was it—I’d cleared the border.

  Weren’t customs officials meant to be officious bureaucrats, never happier than when exercising their little bit of power? I’d expected nothing less in Iran; I’d imagined they’d be worse than the ones at home and would make British or American officials seem almost cheery and lenient by comparison, but in fact, the opposite was true. I was completely stunned, and didn’t quite know what to do next.

  In need of a strong caffeine injection, and an opportunity to formulate a plan and get my head together, I headed to a café inside the border control building. Even walking the short distance there, I was approached by several money changers touting for business. Again, I felt pleased to have read up on this before getting here and shook my head at them with a smile as I passed.

  The café was packed, and despite pointing to a cup of coffee, I was given tea. I wasn’t bothered, so long as it had caffeine in it, and was just about to sit down at one of the tables with a few spare seats when I realized I couldn’t, as sitting on one of the seats was a woman. It is considered a big no-no to sit down next to a member of the opposite sex who is not your spouse, a close relative, or a person you’re familiar with, unless specifically asked to do so. This etiquette stuff was going to take some getting used to.

  I found another table completely free of women and plonked myself down. Whilst sipping away at my tea, I dipped into my guidebook to read about the surrounding area of northwestern Iran. One attraction in particular caught my attention. A church by the name of Kelisa-ye Tadi (the Church of St. Thaddeus), described as one of the most famous and remarkable Christian monuments in Iran, was relatively close by, at fourteen miles from the next town of Maku. Its origins dated back as far as AD 371, and although it had only one service a year, held on the feast of St. Thaddeus when pilgrims traveled from all over Iran to attend, it was open daily for tourists. The guidebook recommended chartering a taxi to get there, which, including the return journey, would apparently cost a very reasonable IR25,000—about three dollars. Not bad for nearly thirty miles. Cabs are cheap in Iran as gasoline only costs an amazing thirty-seven cents a gallon (at the time of writing).

  I decided the church would be the first place I’d visit tomorrow, but for now I wanted to get a bus into Maku, the nearest town from the border and once there book into a hotel. I headed outside and got my first glimpse of Iran. It was rugged, blue skied, fresh aired, and very sunny. As the majority of pictures I’d seen of Iran in newspapers and magazines at home were, almost without exception, in black and white and of a depressing nature, I almost felt surprised that the sun was still shining on this side of the border. Naïve, I know. The place was awash with color, and everyone seemed chilled out and had big happy smiles. I started to realize that things in Iran might be very different from the image I had of the place in my mind, and from the one portrayed in the Western media.

  I proceeded to turn down several animated money changers, and, after soaking up the mountain scenery for a minute, I started my Iran journey proper.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tourist at the Border

  A statesmanlike picture of the late Ayatollah Khomeini greeted me in the slightly musty but welcoming lobby of the Hotel Alvand in Maku. Manning the reception desk was an attentive, grandfather-like figure who, in between sipping away at a little glass of tea and chomping on pistachio nuts, negotiated a price for a room. We settled on IR30,000, which, at about three dollars and fifty cents, seemed reasonable enough to me. In addition to handing over the money, I was also required to do likewise with my passport. This I did, assuming that it would be handed back after the appropriate reference number had been jotted down, but off it was taken and locked in a safe.

  “Hello, hello, what’s all this about?” I thought, and requested it back.

  The friendly manager shook his head, and with the help of an English speaker in the lobby explained that whenever you book into a hotel in Iran, by law, you’ve got to hand over your passport. I wasn’t overly keen on this little procedure, but what could I do?

  The room was very basic, but after last night’s less than salubrious
accommodation, it was complete luxury for me. The view from my window was a breathtaking one of the huge rocky mountain gorge in which Maku was situated. A section of it contained a massive overhang of rock, which, if it ever fell down would wipe out a good bit of the town. This bit of the gorge looked well worth a visit.

  Lurking suspiciously in the corner of my room were the most unhygienic pair of plastic sandals the world has ever seen. The sandals were a dingy white, imprinted with a nasty black sludge, presumably the result of countless applications of filthy feet and deposits of sweat and dead skin. God knows how many verrucas and fungus infections currently called them home, but one thing was for sure: my feet weren’t going anywhere near them. Even looking at them made me feel queasy, so holding them at arm’s length, I placed them in the cupboard and set off for the communal shower down the hall with my ten toes out for all to see.

  The amount of soap and shampoo I smothered my body with was obscene. I used an industrial quantity of toothpaste, had a shave, and after putting on some clean clothes, which could no longer consist of shorts since exposing your legs in public in Iran is a big no-no even for a man, I felt like a different person and was ready to go exploring.

  The air outside seemed to crackle with an electric charge such was my overwhelming excitement and anticipation to finally be here, in Iran! Maku was thriving with traffic and people, and consisted of one long main road lined with all manner of different shops, which were squeezed between the precipitous sides of the aforementioned mountain gorge. The gorge was spectacular and completely dominated the whole area for miles around.