by Jamie Maslin
The backlash to all this led in 1979 to the Islamic Revolution and massive anti-Americanism. This in turn led to the Iranian hostage crisis, where fifty-two U.S. embassy staff were held captive by students who stormed the embassy compound that had been used to orchestrate much of the 1953 coup. The students declared that they had unmasked a “nest of spies” that had been manipulating Iran for decades. The hostage crisis, along with the new regime’s open hard-line hostility toward America, contributed greatly to the spread of Islamic militancy and Iran’s pariah status in the West.
Although oil had been the coup’s real motivating factor, the “textbook” Western justification for the CIA’s action was that Mossadegh had to be removed to prevent a communist takeover of Iran since he was something of a communist sympathizer. Mossadegh was actually a rich feudal-minded Persian who had not only kept the ban on the Iranian Communist Party in place but had brutally crushed one of their demonstrations. He had also successfully campaigned against the lingering Soviet occupation of northern Iran after the Second World War, and had been instrumental in parliament’s rejection of proposals to form a joint Soviet and Iranian oil company. In 1951, Time magazine described Mossadegh as “the Iranian George Washington” and named him “Man of the Year.”
A classified CIA document obtained by the New York Times that details the secret history of the coup had the following to say about the day hundreds lost their lives, the CIA successfully destroyed democracy in Iran, and in its place was installed a barbaric police state: “It was a day that should never have ended, for it carried with it such a sense of excitement, of satisfaction and of jubilation that it is doubtful whether any other can come up to it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Milan, Paris, London, Tehran: Party Time!
It is unlikely that Tehran will ever be added to Milan, Paris, London, and New York as a fashion capital of the world.
I got my first encounter with Iranian party wear when getting ready to go to tonight’s illegal “knees up.” I had been planning to go in fairly casual clothing, until, that is, Pedram, who was wearing a full suit with frilly shirt and tie, saw my outfit. He looked at me as if I was in dire need of a fashion transplant and politely suggested that I borrow some of his clothing. This proved impossible since he was shorter than me, so he quickly called Ali, who was suitably proportioned, and arranged for him to have an outfit waiting for me at his house.
On arrival there, I was presented with skintight black trousers that flared at the ankles, a frilly patterned blue shirt, and worst of all, a pair of very cheesy leather shoes with big long pointed ends. Not just slightly pointed, I stress, but reaching out past the functional part of the shoe by at least a third of the total length. Anywhere else in the world I’d look like a complete knob, but for Iran I was styling it!
I was all excited and slightly nervous at the thought of going to an illegal party that could get busted, and I wondered what the hell it was going to be like. We parked and rang the bell. The door was opened by the first hijab-free girl I had seen in Iran—this was promising. What I saw next wasn’t what I expected, and by the look on Pedram’s face, it wasn’t what he expected either.
Sitting on chairs placed neatly against the walls of the apartment were similarly dressed, subdued-looking guests delicately selecting and eating pieces of fruit from plates on their laps. It was about as wild and exciting as a vicar’s parish tea party for members of the local choral society—and that’s at a push. Pedram and I were handed a plate of fruit, a glass of lemonade, and were shown to our specified seats, which had our names written on them on little labels—rock and roll!
I found it all quite funny, but poor Pedram looked mortified and like me had obviously been expecting something a bit more on the lively side. Even the party girl’s family was here, including, by the looks of it, Gramps. The only hint of illicit behavior was that none of the girls wore their hijabs and a couple of them were dressed rather on the risky side, at least for Iran. Two had low cut tops, and one even sported a tattoo of a tiger on her ample left breast.
Very nice.
The party began proper when a guy with similar pointed shoes to mine put some Iranian pop music on the stereo. Everybody got up in unison and danced to this in the center of the room in the most bizarre manner I’ve ever seen. It looked like the sort of dancing fake Kazakhstani reporter Borat would do, and many of the guests had mustaches that he’d have been proud of as well. When the track was over, everybody sat down and politely applauded. This was repeated several times.
When everybody had indulged in several slices of melon and glasses of lemonade and was feeling really crazy, they all got up and did a joint conga-type dance around the room. This went on for ages, and it’s got to be said, it was bloody boring and the initial novelty and amusement wore off pretty quick. Pedram and I sat these dances out, and just when I was thinking how much I wanted a drink, my prayers were answered and Pedram whispered that one of the guys had some whisky in the kitchen and asked if I’d like some.
Damn right I did.
We both took our leave from the “dance floor” and went into the kitchen. We were joined by the whisky owner, who was more than happy to share his stash. He poured us a couple of stiff shots from a can. It was lucky we got a few drinks down as when we returned to the wild debauchery of the sitting room, Pedram and I were cajoled into getting up and shaking our asses on the dance floor, whilst everybody else watched.
Apart from Pedram, there was only one other person at the “party” who spoke English, but Pedram was determined to get me to speak a bit of Farsi. He persuaded me to go up to the girl with the tattoo and her friend, and say in Farsi, “Shoma khoshgelly ,” which I learnt afterward means, “You are beautiful.”
To tell two strangers at a party back home that they’re beautiful would of course be considered lame to say the least, but here in Iran it was the height of sophistication. They loved it and both insisted on a dance with me—together! And who was I to disappoint such lovely ladies? I was expecting a rather conservative boogie but was pleasantly surprised to find myself sandwiched between them in a delightfully pleasing bump and grind. Everybody else formed a circle around us clapping. It was alas the only highlight in an otherwise very subdued and boring party, which seemed to go on and on forever. The irony is that this inoffensive gathering was still illegal, and on the way back to Pedram’s place, he asked me not to mention it to his parents.
The next day was my last with Pedram and the boys, so it was decided we’d all go outside of the city to Fasham for a barbecue. We all went Dutch and each chipped in for the necessary foods, which included a load of diced chicken, tomatoes, olives, naan bread, colas, and much more. On the way there, both cars drove in a manner I was now getting used to, which was far too fast and bloody dangerous.
On our way there, Pedram told me that slightly farther along the road was a ski resort called Shemshak, where he skied regularly during the winter. Although most people outside of Iran are unaware of it, Iran has twenty ski resorts decked out with modern infrastructure, some of which rival the best the West has to offer, and all of which cost a fraction of the price you’d pay to ski in Europe or the U.S. If you doubt this, then check out the excellent YouTube short film “Skiing in Iran” about an English-speaking Malaysian family who visited the slopes.
It took us maybe an hour of speeding until we got well out of the city and reached a little dirt track next to a dried up stony riverbed. We arrived in the early afternoon, parked up, and got out on foot, carrying all the gear with us. We hiked along the riverbed, which was surrounded by lush green trees and would have been a stunning area except for all the piles of trash. It looked as if the culprits had come out here especially to have a meal in a natural environment but couldn’t be bothered to try to keep it that way afterward.
We found a nice little grassy section on the banks of the river, shaded by several small trees. Here we stopped and rolled out a large carpet to sit on. Being a keen campe
r and survival enthusiast, I located the perfect place for our cooking fire, which was nearby, and, crucially, on a mound of bare earth. This not only makes it easier to clean up afterward but, more importantly, prevents the fire from spreading or setting the ground alight, which can sometimes flare up weeks later. Everybody rejected my location, and I was encouraged just to sit back, relax, and have a drink, whilst Ali, the firemaster, did the hard work. I thought “what the hell” and let them get on with it.
They selected a place in the riverbed and surrounded it with river rocks to place the skewers on top of and cook the meat. I tried explaining that they didn’t want to use river rocks, as they can explode when heated because of the moisture in them, but my warning fell on deaf ears. They laid out the fire in the most haphazard way imaginable and failed repeatedly to get it going, even with loads of paper and cigarette lighters. I decided not to get involved, but this was easier said than done, as on a couple of occasions I’ve taught classes on survival skills, which have included how to light a fire by friction and, believe it or not, how to get a fire going from a can of Coke and a bar of chocolate.
“Say what?” I hear you cry from your comfy armchair. For those of you now scratching your head, I’ll elaborate. You take a cold can of Coke and carefully pour its contents into a glass containing ice and a thick slice of lemon. Be extra careful not to lose any cola from bubbles fizzing up past the rim of the glass. Now, take a long, well-earned drink. Mmmm. That was refreshing wasn’t it?
Okay now for the fire bit. On the bottom of a Coke can, or indeed the bottom of any drink can, is a small concaved area of exposed aluminum with a slightly rough matte finish. What you need to do is turn this rough area into a polished reflector so as to harness and magnify the sun’s rays onto whatever surface you wish to light (best not to try this on a four-foot-thick log, so I suggest a small highly combustible material like char cloth).
This is where the chocolate comes in. Since it is slightly abrasive, you can use the chocolate as a polish to buff up the rough concaved surface to the point where it has a mirror finish and you can see your face in it, which if you’ve bought this book is no doubt a highly attractive face—and even more so if you recommend it to a friend or give it five stars on Amazon.com. It’s important to note here that you should never eat the chocolate after you’ve used it, for it will contain tiny fragments of aluminum from the can, which can make you very ill.
This polishing will probably take the best part of thirty minutes to complete. All you need now is some sunshine, and you’ll be as happy as a dog with two dicks.
When you can get a fire going this way or from rubbing two sticks together, it makes using a lighter or matches child’s play—not that you’d want to give a child a lighter or matches to play with, but I digress.
After watching the Tehran lads try unsuccessfully to light their fire for the best part of ten minutes, I could stand no more and forcibly took control of the situation. I should have started from scratch and relaid the whole fire, but I didn’t want to get filthy taking off all the charcoal they’d already placed on top. Instead, I stuffed loads of the paper into all the available spaces and built a small teepee of pencil thickness twigs around it. It got going first time.
Everybody congratulated me as if I’d performed some incredible feat, and I was now assigned the task of manning the fire and getting it good and hot. Whilst I took charge of this, Pedram told me he was going off to buy some alcohol nearby. I wondered where on earth he could get it out here in the countryside, as surely it was the sort of thing you needed contacts to acquire. I didn’t ask questions though, and fifteen minutes later, when the barbecue was in full swing, he returned with a couple of bottles of vodka. We all sat around and got stuck into succulent chicken and tomato kebabs served in soft folded naan bread. It was wonderful food, and although I couldn’t communicate much with the guys, it was still great to be sharing their company and this meal together.
When we finished the first round of kebabs, Pedram poured out a round of huge shots of vodka into little plastic cups, which he then mixed with cherry juice. Three of the guys abstained, and after smelling it, I could well understand why. Its aroma was totally overpowering and sent an involuntary shiver up my spine. I wondered what the quality of the stuff was like, but didn’t have long to ponder this, as on the count of three, we knocked it back.
As soon as I swallowed, I was grabbing my throat and gasping for breath. I’d never tasted anything so strong. It was horrendously powerful and as harsh as hell on the gullet. I wasn’t the only one making wincing expressions, and Behzad in particular looked in a bad way. I turned to Pedram and asked in a croaking voice where on earth he’d got the vodka. He answered simply that he had bought it at a shop.
This was weird. I asked how it could possibly be the case, as surely vodka was highly illegal. “No,” he said, and continued, struggling a bit with the translation, “you can buy for medical purpose to put on . . . how you say, cuts.”
Fuck me! I was drinking a first aid kit! My eyes nearly popped out when I now looked at the bottle for the first time and saw that it was not vodka, but said on the label in big capital letters ETHANOL. It was a staggering 96 percent alcohol. I was speechless and couldn’t believe I’d just drunk surgical spirit. I explained to Pedram that only an alcoholic living on the street would consider drinking such stuff back home. He thought this was very funny, as did the other guys whom he translated for, and explained that it was a normal beverage in Tehran.
I was roped into having a further three shots, and by the time I’d finished these, I was feeling suitably drunk. After loads more food to soak the booze up, Ali and I staggered back to his nearby car for a much-needed lie down. The rest of the lads remained behind crashing out on the carpet. They all returned just as it was getting dark, carrying the carpet, the mats, the skewers, and a few other bits and pieces but none of the plastic bottles, plastic trays, cups, or anything else disposable we’d used.
I might have been drunk, but the day I leave a load of trash knowingly out in nature is the day I die. I’m of the opinion that you should not only leave an area as you find it but try to leave it better, so this went completely against my principles. I asked Pedram where all the trash was and he said not to worry as they’d left it in “the place where you leave rubbish.”
“Like hell you have,” I thought, and told them I’d go and fetch it. They all tried to persuade me not to bother. I was determined to get it, but also wanted them to help me out, after all it was all our stuff so we should all go and get it. I tried to explain this but I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I decided to try a different approach and lied by saying, “It is a sin for a Christian to leave trash. It is a very bad sin for me to do this.” Surprisingly, or perhaps not, they all respected this and agreed to help me out now. We went back to the “place where you leave rubbish,” which turned out to be in the middle of the dried up riverbed. Interestingly all of the rubbish was bagged up, so they’d gone to the effort of doing this, but for some reason hadn’t brought it back to the car.
Not only did we clear our stuff up, but Ali even picked up a couple of bottles from nearby that weren’t ours. We dumped it all in the trunk of the car, and I felt much better. Before we left, it was decided there was time to finish off the ethanol with a further two rounds, this time served with lemonade. From now on, things all got a bit hazy, and I have no idea how Pedram or Ali managed to drive after so much raw booze. But drive they did, or at least they sped and raced each other like a couple of maniacs with a death wish. They zigzagged in and out of traffic on the darkened motorway and seemed to get more and more fired up as the music pumped away at a deafening volume. This time it was dance music, including t.A.T.u.’s “All the Things She Said” in Russian—class!
In my intoxicated state, I simply didn’t care about the driving and was singing away in the back to the music like a total idiot. Things got really crazy when at high speed both cars pulled up alongside each other on the cro
wded highway so we could all give high fives to the other car’s occupants. It was total madness, and had I been sober it would have been a completely different story but after several surgical spirit spritzers, I was loving it.
When we sped past an army barracks, everyone, including myself, yelled drunken abuse at it out of the window. And the lads had good reason to do so as they’d all soon become much better acquainted with the army when they finished their studies and started compulsory military service. The irony is that if Iran is ever invaded then Pedram, Ali, Behzad, and my other friends will all be called up to defend their country, and if they die they’ll be written off in the West as expendable “legitimate military targets,” not civilian deaths. With the way Iran is constantly demonized in the media, I fear this may become the case. For just like the American and British lies over Iraq’s supposed weapons of mass destruction, much the same is now happening to Iran over its alleged “nuclear ambitions,” despite the fact that inspectors from the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) have found zero evidence that Iran is trying to obtain a nuclear weapon.
Under the terms of the nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), Iran has every right to enrich uranium for peaceful civilian purposes, and according to the IAEA, there is no evidence whatsoever that Iran has ever deviated from this. The organization’s head, Dr. ElBaradei, has reiterated this fact repeatedly and stated that his inspectors have for the most part been allowed to “go anywhere and see anything.” Pakistan, India, and Israel all developed their nuclear arsenals clandestinely and refuse to sign the NPT, but since their governments are buddies with the U.S. and Britain, no one makes much of a fuss. Such double standards are not lost on the Iranian people.
What the U.S. and Israel craftily demand of Iran is to somehow prove it is not in any way violating nuclear agreements, which is of course impossible. And since you can’t prove a negative, the IAEA inspectors are obviously incapable of giving a 100 percent assurance that somehow, somewhere in Iran there isn’t the faintest possibility that a nuclear weapons program exists. But this is no more evidence for one existing than to say that because I can’t categorically prove Bertrand Russell’s famous ironic suggestion that there is a celestial teapot orbiting the earth to be false, then, in fact, there must be one up there doing just that.