Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn

by Jamie Maslin

  I eventually managed to convince the brothers to show me some of this fascinating city, and after I showed them the photos of Yazd in my guidebook, they agreed to take me to a Zoroastrian fire temple. We all piled into the Land Rover and headed off. It was another roasting day with a big blue cloudless sky that seemed to stretch for eternity. What I saw of Yazd on the way to the temple I really liked. It had leafy tree-lined streets, beautiful and strange-looking buildings, and was neither an overcrowded chaotic city nor a quiet deserted backwater.

  We arrived at the Ateshkadeh Fire Temple just as Mr. Private Jet and the rest of the British pensioners from the Persepolis tour group were leaving and boarding a private coach outside. I waved a quick hello but didn’t want to enter into a conversation with them so walked on past.

  The temple was a modest-looking building set in a small garden with a little circular pond out the front and a Zoroastrian winged symbol above the main entrance. The attraction of the place was its “eternal” flame, which has reportedly been burning since AD 470 and is situated behind a big glass case. In 1174, the flame was moved to the nearby desert settlement of Ardakan and then onto Yazd in 1474. It is kept going by attentive priests who regularly feed the fire with almond and apricot wood.

  Although I found the temple mildly interesting, I can’t say I was taken aback with amazement at the place. We were confined to a small hallway overlooking the fire and, apart from a few paintings of Zoroaster on the wall and the flame itself, there really wasn’t much else to look at.

  We got back in the Land Rover and drove to a far better Zoroastrian site just outside of the town called the Towers of Silence. Here in the dusty barren desert were two huge circular towers on top of adjacent rocky hills. In days gone by, these had been used by Zoroastrians to place their dead so the vultures could feed upon them. It looked an ancient and delicate site, but that didn’t stop the brothers burning around doing doughnuts in the Land Rover, whilst I got out to look at the towers.

  There was a fantastic view from the top, with mountains and desert in one direction and the city in the other. Also of interest at the site were the remains of several other ancient buildings, including a big well with a domed roof, which was scrawled with Persian graffiti. Next to this were two towers called badgirs. Badgirs, or wind towers, can be seen all over Yazd and are an ancient means of air conditioning designed to redirect the slightest of breezes down into rooms below. The towers consist of a main chimneylike trunk which houses a number of ingenious shafts, special air shelves, and flaps that direct hot air out of the building and air cooled over a pool of water into the building. Although not as effective as modern air conditioning, the badgirs do have a discernable effect and are far healthier than the modern equivalent as they keep fresh air circulating and don’t use electricity.

  I had a good look around the main site and clicked off a load of snaps before going to look at the domed well where the badgirs were situated. Leading into the side of the well’s dome was a little pitch-black tunnel. I moved along inside this almost completely blind as my eyes had yet to acclimatize to the darkness after the brilliant sun outside. I stopped just in time before the tunnel ended abruptly and dropped straight down into the well itself. It gave me a bit of a shock. I flicked some pebbles down to see how deep in went. It wasn’t huge, but it was more than big enough to break a leg or two. I thanked my lucky stars I’d stopped in time. I went back and found the brothers, who were now launching the Land Rover off a natural ramp-like mound of earth. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill the suspension such was the force they were landing with—a fine testament to good old British engineering.

  We drove back to their house, where Ashkan dropped Reza and me off and explained that he had to leave us for a few hours so he could go do some studying. Inside, Reza treated me to more fun and games on the computer, this time in the form of a DVD of female American wrestling. It was terrible and so clearly faked, but Reza loved it and asked me sincerely, “You think real?”

  I think not.

  When his sister came into the room he immediately turned it off and sent her out.

  “For woman, it is not allowed,” he said to me with a smile.

  After a painfully long dose of “wrestling,” we settled down to a late lunch prepared by Reza’s wonderful mother. I was very grateful for her kindly preparing a meal, but my heart sank when I saw what it was—vast industrial quantities of kidney and liver chopped up and mixed with rice. Now I’m not a fussy eater, but I absolutely detest both liver and kidney. And I don’t just mean that I’m not particularly enamored by them, but that I bloody loathe the stuff, nearly to the extent of gagging at the very thought of eating it, let alone actually eating it. But as much as I detest liver and kidney, I wouldn’t dream of turning down a meal so kindly prepared, so I took a deep breath, tried to compose myself, and had my first tentative mouthful. I tried to swallow immediately in an attempt to stop contact with my taste buds, but it was simply impossible to get the stuff down without a good few chews to break it up. Even then, it seemed to wedge in my twitching gullet and travel down at an agonizingly slow speed.

  It was simply disgusting and I felt seriously ill. I did my best to give little fake smiles to Reza’s mother as if to say, “Yum yum, this is good.” It wasn’t easy. In an attempt to help the stuff on its way, I took huge swigs of cola with the kidney and liver and masticated it all into a squishy pulp before swallowing. This made things a little easier going but not much, as believe me, a liver and kidney “cola float” is a far from a refreshing beverage. Coca-Cola may have occasionally flirted with the idea of cherry and vanilla flavors, and even that weird Tab Clear stuff, but I don’t think the powers-that-be at Coke PLC will ever detect a niche gap in the market and consider bringing out “Liver and Kidney Cola,” perhaps with the slogan, “It’s offally good!”

  It took a long while, but I eventually cleared the plate and finished the last mouthful with a sigh of utter relief. I smiled at Reza’s mother as if to say, “Thank you, that was delicious”—big mistake! She grabbed my plate and then, to my abject horror, started piling on an even larger second portion. I have no words to describe how my spirit dropped on seeing this, but I guess winning the lotto and then losing the ticket must be a close feeling.

  It was far harder to get through than the first portion, but eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, I made it to the end. This time, I purposefully left a little on my plate to indicate I was full. After the meal, I felt so bad I had to brush my teeth and lie down for a good hour to recover. Luckily, Reza was having a siesta anyway so no suspicions were aroused.

  In the late afternoon, after Ashkan had returned with the Land Rover, Reza and I ventured out again, this time accompanied by his little seven-year-old next-door neighbor, who wanted to tag along with the big boys. He sat in the back of the Land Rover with a big smile from ear to ear. We stopped at one of the architectural highlights of Yazd, and one of the most distinctive buildings in Iran, the Amir Chakhmaq Complex.

  The Amir Chakhmaq Complex is a three-story structure with two towering minarets, many beautiful sunken alcoves, and sparkling white and blue tiles. It is used as a sort of grandstand to watch theater performances in the square below of the Ta’zieh, or passion play, commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Hossein. It is situated in the heart of Yazd across from a little park containing a pond and a fountain. Reza dropped me outside the complex and told me to meet him in the park opposite in half an hour, after he’d found a place to park.

  I bought a ticket and went inside the towering structure. It didn’t really have any internal rooms, as it was an open-fronted building from which to observe the world below. Not only could you climb up to the structure’s open roof on the third floor, but also to the top of its massive minarets. To scale these, I had to negotiate, in near total darkness, a painfully narrow spiral stone staircase twisting all the way to the top. I stepped out onto a rather rickety-feeling platform at the summit and was bowled over by the breathta
king and unforgettable view. I could see for miles all the way across the ancient city’s mud-brick houses with their distinctive badgir wind towers to a vast sea of rolling sand, which looked as if it was straight out of the film Lawrence of Arabia. The dunes led to the base of a sprawling and rugged sand-colored mountain range many thousands of feet high. This was all bathed in the orange glow of the descending sun, which was just disappearing over the horizon. The evocative sound of the call to prayer rang out from the many mosques of the city, creating a vibrant and tingling atmosphere. Down below in the park, children were playing, people were chatting, and a group of soldiers reclined on the grass using their backpacks as pillows. Everybody looked so very happy, and there was a subtle yet perceptible feeling of contentment in the dry desert air. This seeped into and saturated me to the extent that I felt I could stay perched up here forever. The whole scene was so magical, but it was also so typical of the Iran I had come to love. I stood up here and wondered if, when I got back to England, anyone would believe me that this was the real Iran.

  I spotted Reza and his little friend sitting in the park eating ice cream, so I headed down to see them. I bought myself an ice cream and joined them just as the colored lights of the square were turned on. Here we sat enjoying the atmosphere and just watching the world go by.

  One thing I really wanted to do in Yazd was to go out into the desert and, if possible, to spend a few nights there under the stars. Yazd was going to be my final destination in southern Iran before I started the long journey north again, so I was keen to make it a good one, and was more than willing to splash out on an expensive desert tour. This was something it was wise to pay a little extra for, as the last thing I wanted to do was end up on a budget desert excursion that wasn’t properly prepared. Before leaving the U.K., I had read that the Dasht-e Kavir desert was one of the hottest in the world, and that it had nearly finished off Alexander the Great and his army, so it was not a place to take lightly by cutting corners on cost. Reza said it was possible to book desert tours through the Yazd Internet café and agreed to take me there.

  After sending Ricardo a quick e-mail to find out where he was, I inquired about the tours. The Internet café only did local day excursions, but I wanted to get right out there and into the thick of it, so they directed me to a nearby hotel where there was a guide who organized longer trips. The guide was a friendly young chap who spoke perfect English and explained that he only did overnight tours for groups of four or more, so I would have to find three others who also wanted to go.

  He offered a three-night, four-day excursion deep into the Dasht-e Kavir, which would visit huge white salt flats, rugged mountain ranges, and the obligatory rolling sand dunes. It was just what I was after. I took his card and told him I’d give him a call if I managed to find the necessary volunteers. We didn’t stick around in town any longer, as by now the little lad was beginning to feel tired. On the drive back home, he fell fast asleep in the back of the car. We dropped him off, then popped into Reza’s house to catch up with his brother. Here Reza handed over tourist duty to Ashkan, who immediately whisked me outside again in the Land Rover.

  Ashkan was all dressed up and looking as smooth as hell in a fresh white shirt, polished pointed shoes, and smart black strides. He told me we were going to a park where we could meet beautiful girls. I liked the sound of this. We drove to a place called the “Parsian” Hotel, which was situated in a peaceful and attractive garden on the other side of town. In the garden was an octagonal pond surrounded by many raised carpeted platforms occupied by smartly dressed attractive people in their early twenties. The platforms were either all occupied by girls or all occupied by guys, but none of them were mixed. Despite this gender separation on the platforms, there were a few couples discreetly standing nearby who were chatting together and holding hands. I got the distinct impression this was a popular meeting place for young people to go on “the pull”—Persian style.

  Ashkan stopped at one of the platforms to say a gentlemanly hello to a group of girls he knew and introduced me in the process. The girls were all dressed in colorful hijabs and, with the exception of one of them, were all very attractive, fit, and slim. The exception was a big scowling chunky lass who looked the spitting image of the grumpy matron who Hattie Jacques played in the Carry On films.

  Ashkan and I got a platform about ten feet from theirs. After a couple of minutes, “Hattie” came over and perched herself on the edge of the platform, nearly toppling it in the process. She was forthright and to the point. “Give me gift! You give me gift!” she barked at me.

  “Charming,” I thought.

  Although a bit taken aback by this, I emptied my pockets for something to give her. All I had was my wallet, my “World’s Best Dad” pocket watch, and my passport. She wasn’t getting any of these. I apologized and showed her what I had. She grabbed my passport and said, “Gift!”

  Like hell it was. I grabbed it back from her sausage-like fingers.

  “You are scrooge!” she barked.

  “Cheeky cow,” I thought, but in the interests of diplomacy I asked her politely, “What can I give you?”

  “Give me chocolate. I want chocolate!”

  “I bet you do,” I thought, but this was the last thing she needed!

  When I told her I had none, she repeated again, “You are scrooge!” this time grimacing up her face and five chins in the process. I told her I simply didn’t have any chocolate and then said, with the intention of stumping her, “Okay, you give me gift. Give me chocolate; you give me chocolate!”

  She reached into her handbag and, with a triumphant look, produced two little candies for me and Ashkan. Hattie changed the subject and now asked me which of the girls on the platform I liked—ooh, Matron!

  “Well they’re all very nice, as are you,” I said lying through my teeth about the last bit.

  “But which one do you like?!” she growled.

  “As I say, they’re all nice.”

  “Do you not think they are beautiful?”

  “Oh my goodness, no, I wasn’t saying that for a second; they are all very beautiful,” I ventured.

  “Then which one do you like?!” she near shouted at me.

  I gave in and said, “The one with the yellow hijab.” That was it. Off waddled Hattie to do the Iranian equivalent of, “My mate fancies you.”

  The girls all giggled shyly as Hattie discussed the situation with them. She returned and asked, “Would you like to marry her?”

  “Well, obviously, talk of marriage is slightly premature,” I stated. She stared at me with a look of confusion on her face and then just repeated the question.

  “Would you like to marry her?”

  “Don’t get me wrong—she’s very nice, but I couldn’t possibly contemplate . . .”

  “But you say you like her. You no like her now?” she interrupted.

  “No, no, she’s lovely,” I said.

  “You want to marry her?”

  I was going to try to explain again, but then I thought, “Oh, what the hell?” and just said, “Yes, I would like to marry her.”

  Off she went and returned with my fiancée, who Hattie introduced as Susan. Susan barely spoke a word of English, so Hattie did the talking for her—and by the looks of it, all the eating for her as well. Susan was twenty-two, a physics student, and as Hattie kindly pointed out for me, was also “very beautiful.” The conversation kind of ground to a halt past these basic facts, but my future wife had an idea of how to get the marriage back on track. She left for a little stall serving food nearby and returned a minute later with a romantic little present for me—a juicy, foil-wrapped double cheeseburger.

  I was genuinely touched by Susan’s kindness. It was all so very pure and innocent. I thanked her and told her in Farsi that she was beautiful. She liked this a lot and in English said, “Thank you,” before Hattie ushered her back to the girl’s platform. I finished the burger and bought her one in return. Hattie was green with envy at the si
ght of this and licked her lips whilst salivating wildly—get your own burger, Jacquesy!

  I returned to my platform, and a minute later two of Ashkan’s male friends came to join us. One of them spoke good English and explained to me that only a few years ago, young people wouldn’t have been able to meet in places like this. He said that back then it was “more forbidden” and that the rules were generally more relaxed now.

  Ashkan’s friends stuck around for about an hour talking to us, and after they left Hattie and Susan returned for a chat. Susan asked me through Hattie what my name meant. I said I had no idea of its meaning, which seemed to confuse them and was probably the equivalent of someone in England saying they don’t know how to spell their name, as everybody seemed to know the meaning of theirs in Iran. Susan said that in Persian her name meant “hot” or “fire” and that in Hebrew it meant “beautiful woman.” She asked me what Susan meant in English. I just combined the two and said, “Hot beautiful woman.” They all laughed.

  The girls left before Ashkan and I did, and on the way back, we drove past them in the Land Rover and gave them a polite wave. At Ashkan’s house, I was treated to a lovely meal of succulent lamb with soft buttered rice for the main course and some of the best fruit I’ve ever tasted for the second course. We had grapes the size of golf balls, honey-sweet figs, dates, and cucumber. After dinner, the phone rang and amazingly Ashkan passed it to me saying, “It’s for you.” On the other end of the phone was a girl who said hello but nothing else. I tried to communicate but it was no good, so I handed the phone back to Ashkan. He spoke to the person, then hung up.

  Ashkan explained that it had been my fiancée Susan on the other end and that she and Hattie wanted to meet up with us tomorrow. This was getting out of hand.

  The brothers insisted I slept in the same room as last night and I had it all to myself again. Since the computer was also in there, I was given another fascinating demonstration of it before bed. This time, it was a pirated DVD of Celine Dion, followed by some downloaded Eminem videos. Just like the Tehran lads, both the brothers sang harmoniously with Celine and then did the exaggerated rapper-style hand moves to Eminem. It was a good laugh all round, and just like Pedram and the boys, they saw no contradiction in being equally enthused with both styles of music.