Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn

by Jamie Maslin

  Another half an hour on and we came to the very steep rocky mountainous section. It was one hell of a place to build a fortress and would have been bloody difficult to attack as the hike up there was no stroll in the park. Sadly, we still couldn’t see the castle clearly, such was the mist blanketing the summit. The Polish guys who’d recommended this route had described similar weather conditions and had said that, suddenly, out of the blue, the clouds had completely parted for them, revealing the castle in all its glory above. Ian and I waited for a while hoping to get the same awesome view from below but the clouds remained steadfast.

  The Poles had also told us that it was possible to get a drink at the top, which seemed a bit unlikely given the castle’s inaccessible location up an isolated mountain in the middle of a forest. Jokingly, in stupid overexaggerated upper-class English accents, we shouted up toward the cloud-tipped peak, “I say, would someone be kind enough to put the kettle on up there!” and other inane although quite amusing nonsense. It echoed around the valley for miles.

  “I hope there’s no one who understands English at the top,” said Ian.

  A little farther up, we came across another path that joined onto ours, coming from the direction of the one I’d first favored. It was almost certainly the same trail and had led up to the castle after all. Being a bit of an outdoor enthusiast, I felt relieved to know I hadn’t got my navigation completely wrong.

  From out of nowhere, the strange sound of a large group of males singing harmoniously emanated from the castle’s still unseen, cloud-covered peak. Suddenly, a boulder came crashing down the side of the mountain, accompanied by several shouts. We yelled up to let the choir above know we were down here. A couple of minutes later, a group of about twenty Iranian kids of around fourteen years old came down the mountainside, along with an adult who looked like their school teacher. They were having a great time and looked like they were on a school outing.

  They went crazy when they saw us and all came over and shook our hands enthusiastically. They were a great bunch and hyper-energized. Ian told one of them he was from Canada and they went berserk.

  “Canada! Canada! Canada!” they chanted together at the top of their voices, which echoed repeatedly all around the valley.

  “Iran! Iran! Iran!” Ian yelled back.

  “Canada, Iran! Canada, Iran! Canada, Iran!” everybody, including me, started to yell for no other reason than it was bloody good fun and we were all enjoying it. By this stage, they’d all assumed I was Canadian too and were giving me little pats on the back whilst enthusiastically shouting, “Canada! Canada! Canada!” again and again. I responded with “Iran! Iran! Iran!” It was insane and pointless but a great laugh.

  After the chanting, a number of them produced cameras and we all lined up for some group photos. Every time we were about to part and go our separate ways, a couple of the group would run back to shake our hands again or to have one more snap taken with us. This happened about ten times before they finally headed down and disappeared into the mist below. Although out of sight, they were far from out of earshot, and for the next few minutes, the surreal sound of “Canada, Iran!” echoed all around the mist-shrouded mountains of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province.

  Eventually, we got close enough to the castle to see it through the clouds. It had taken a good couple of hours but was well worth the effort. The castle was perched right at the top of a near-vertical rock face accessible only via a steep twisting path that led to the summit. We climbed this and were delighted to find the place completely deserted.

  Although what remained of the castle was a ruin, many of the walls and structures were intact, several parts of which were roofed. Others were in the process of being rebuilt, but I kind of liked using my imagination to try to picture it back in its heyday.

  We had a good look around the site, then sat with our feet dangling over the edge of a section of walling with a massive drop below. We waited here, hoping upon hope that the curtain of cloud would draw, even if just for a second, so we could glimpse the glorious vista we both knew was all around us but could not see.

  Although Ian and I had the place to ourselves, it would have been a different story had we been here in late June. At that time, the castle and the surrounding area would have been packed with several tens of thousands of people coming to commemorate the birthday of Babak Khorramdin. Babak Khorramdin was a ninth-century Zoroastrian Iranian nationalist who fought fiercely against the imposition of Islam and the Arab invasion of his country. He was based at the castle, and it was later named after him.

  The celebration of Babak Khorramdin’s birthday is a rather disorganized event and follows no particular official program, with Iranians turning up and congregating in small groups for discussions, poetry readings, lectures, musical performances, dancing, and to campout overnight at the castle. The Iranian authorities have been none too happy about the gatherings in previous years, in large part because of what Babak Khorramdin symbolized as a popular nationalist who promoted an Iranian religion and fought against Islam. Some mullahs have criticized the participants in the birthday celebrations, saying that it is unethical to commemorate someone who killed Muslims. According to some reports, there have been multiple arrests at past ceremonies by the security forces.

  Ian and I stayed at the top of the castle exploring around for a good long time, still hoping that the clouds would clear, before making the decision to head back. Whilst looking for the easy path down, we came across the “café” mentioned by the Polish guys where you could get a drink. It consisted of a couple of big urns, a gas burner, a box of tea bags, and a couple of kettles. It was all kept under a tarp and was deserted today. We considered getting the gas burner on the go and leaving some money for a chay, but decided against it when we couldn’t locate any cups.

  We found a path on the opposite side of the castle to the one we’d come up and assumed it was the easier route that led down toward the town. It could have led anywhere though, such was our disorientation from the terrible visibility, which was now down to about thirty feet. We started along the trail, but after a while it petered out, leading us to question if it had been the right path after all. In hindsight, we should have turned back to establish this for sure, but since this part of the walk was downhill and wasn’t through the forest, we decided to continue. It was the wrong decision to make, especially since we could see next to nothing in the fog, and we paid for this dearly by walking for hours on end. It ended up taking us far longer to get down on the “easy path” than the “hard path” had taken us to get up to the castle. The heavens opened and it started to rain, soaking both of us. To add insult to injury, my water bottle that I’d thought had survived its fall intact, was actually leaking and had left a big round wet patch in a rather embarrassing place on my trousers next to where I’d reattached it to my belt.

  In the mist, much of the visible landscape looked like an English moor, so much so that I could easily imagine a local country pub emerging from the fog, where I could get roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and a real ale served in front of a cozy fireplace. Being familiar with the delights of English pubs, Ian found the idea extremely appealing, especially since we were now tired, wet, cold, and hungry.

  Eventually, we found our way back to the place where the taxi had dropped us this morning. Wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as we arrived, the clouds started to clear. Located nearby was a little café, so we dropped in for a well-earned hot drink. A few minutes later, we were joined by the “Canada, Iran” boys, who were staying at a campsite around the corner and were as enthusiastic as ever. Whilst Ian and I nursed a couple of hot coffees, the boys learnt to smoke cigarettes—none of them inhaled. After a while, Ian popped outside and called a taxi from a phone box down the road, which turned up a few minutes later. When we tried to pay for our drinks, the café owner refused payment. We thanked him and headed back to town.

  After being dropped off in Kaleybar, we bumped into our first cab driver who’d g
iven us a lift up to the trail this morning. He and Ian started to chat together again and, despite the language difficulties, got on like a house on fire. A few minutes later, we were all sitting in another nearby café together. We asked the driver, whose name was Farhad, how much it would cost for him to take us to Tabriz, as by now we’d missed the last bus back and it was beginning to get dark. Farhad recommended we didn’t go with him as he worked for an agency of some sort that charged a lot more for longer journeys than normal taxis. He said his price would be fifteen Khomeinis, whereas a normal one would cost between four and five Khomeinis (a Khomeini being the green IR10,000 notes with a picture of said fellow on them). Before we went in search of a cab, Ian tried to give Farhad a gift consisting of a bundle of bank notes which he strenuously declined.

  It was now completely dark and both of us were still wet, cold, and looking forward to getting back to our hotels. We found a taxi going our way that had one other passenger, who was about eighteen years old and sat in the front seat. He turned out to be a really nice guy, as demonstrated en route when we stopped briefly so he could pop into a little village store. He returned a minute later and presented Ian and me with a big bag of cheesy-puff-like chips, a couple of cool drinks, and a chocolate bar each. I certainly didn’t take these kind gestures for granted, but they no longer surprised me, for I’d been encountering this sort of thing every day since arriving in Iran.

  Ian and I swapped e-mail addresses back in Tabriz and parted company with promises to send each other copies of our photos from our day out together.

  I got back to my hotel feeling tired but very satisfied. I tried calling Shahram several times but alas there was no answer. I resigned myself to meeting up with him tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Strange Encounter

  Sadly, today would be my last full day in Iran. My visa ran out in a couple of days’ time, and my train for Istanbul in Turkey left Tabriz early tomorrow morning. As such, I planned to do nothing more than meet up with Shahram and Kimya, pick up my camping gear, send a few e-mails, and find a present for my friend Chris, who had said to me before I left England, “Maza, send me something fucked up from Iran!” I intended to oblige.

  While I was eating breakfast at the hotel restaurant, something strange happened. Sitting a few tables down were two Iranian-looking guys and a hauntingly attractive woman of indistinguishable origin with blue eyes. The men were talking in English and one had definitely lived in the U.K., such was his accent. The other spoke with an Iranian twang, and the girl remained silent. Apart from the professor I met at the library in Tehran, this was the only time I’d heard someone in Iran speak with an English accent. I eavesdropped for a while, but it was just general chitchat about nothing in particular. Suddenly, the two guys got up from their table and came and approached me.

  “I recognize your face,” said the one with the Iranian accent. “You got your visa through IranianVisa.com, didn’t you?” He then added, “I work for them and see all the passport scans.”

  Considering Iran was a country of 71 million people, and IranianVisa.com was based in Tehran not Tabriz, this was a massive coincidence. Also, my passport photo was taken when I was nineteen and had much shorter hair and looks nothing like I do now—or at least I hope it doesn’t since I look a complete dork in it. I cautiously confirmed I had got my visa through them, but was on my guard and immediately wondered if they were secret police.

  “What is your name?” asked the Iranian.

  I told him.

  “Yes, Jamie, I remember.”

  “Are you enjoying your stay in Iran?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Where have you visited?” I answered his questions as succinctly as possible and couldn’t quite work out if I was being mega paranoid or was justifiably concerned. He rambled off a list of queries, including how long I had left in the country. I lied and said another week.

  I’d been warned by Leyla to be very careful when sending e-mails in Iran, but I hadn’t really heeded this warning completely. I made sure to omit Iranian names in my correspondence with friends at home, but had made no secret of the fact I’d be writing a book about my Iranian adventures when I returned. Could the powers-that-be have intercepted these? Were they worried about what I’d write? Or was I just creating another Roger Moore James Bond fantasy in my head? I didn’t know, but tried to think what Bond would do in a similar situation: probably end up shagging the chick, I figured—I could live with that.

  I decided to say as little as possible, and after a couple of minutes, they went back to their table. They all spoke together in Farsi now. Half of me was convinced it was all just silly paranoia but the other half of me wasn’t so sure. I knew foreign journalists had been arrested and even killed in Iran. Canadian photojournalist Zahra Kazemi had died in custody from “a stroke” after being arrested taking photos outside Iran’s Evin Prison, although her body showed signs of brutal torture—so these things happened, but whether I was being singled out because of my e-mails, or I was completely losing my mind, I didn’t know. Before I could ponder this anymore, the men returned again.

  “Have a nice stay in Iran,” the English one said, offering me his hand to shake. I shook his and then the other guy’s hand.

  They began to walk off, but then the Iranian guy turned and faced me. “How long did you say you were staying in Tabriz?”

  “A week,” I replied.

  “Have a good time,” he said, and with that they were gone. It was all a bit weird, and the chances of me meeting the one person I’d sent a scan of my passport to out of 71 million other Iranians seemed very unlikely indeed, but then again I’d had other strange coincidences occur while traveling before.

  I got up to leave and walked past their empty table, then returned to examine it after wondering if they’d been waiting there a long time for me. I looked at the cigarette butts in the ashtray—there were seven. I’d only seen the woman smoking. What did this mean? I didn’t have a fucking clue but it seemed the sort of thing Columbo would look at. I gave up and went outside in search of something “fucked up from Iran.”

  Not a minute down the road and I was at the shop which sold the horrendous thalidomide disco-dancing DVD I’d seen on my first visit to Tabriz. It was the perfect gift for Chris and certainly qualified as something “fucked up from Iran.” I felt guilty at the thought of buying one, but then figured it was considered funny in Iran, and therefore said something, although I’m not sure quite what, about the place. I made the purchase and went down to the post office to stick it in the mail.

  Sending a DVD through the mail is no straightforward transaction in Iran. I had to hand it over to a guy behind a counter who skimmed through the disk’s scenes on his computer to check if there was anything illicit or banned on it. Even though it was just a minor infringement of my civil liberties, it really got on my nerves. They were nice about it though and in true contradictory Iranian style gave me a nice cup of tea, whilst they searched for subversive material and ascertained whether I was a dangerous enemy of the state. They concluded that it was no “super film” and gave it the all clear. I put it in the mail.

  I had a pleasant surprise at my next port of call, which was a money changer in the bazaar. I handed over my wedge of Iranian notes that I’d been unable to spend and discovered to my amazement that my whole trip, all the way from France, had cost in total an amazing $450! I was astonished. I knew I’d had quite a bit of currency left in the bottom of my backpack, but I didn’t expect it to be this much. I wondered if I could have made it all the way to China on $1,400 after all.

  In return for my huge wedge of Iranian notes, I received a minuscule sliver of U.S. dollars, which immediately made me feel poor and strangely hard done by. It’s interesting to note that despite the Iranian government’s aversion to all things American, until recently their preferred foreign currency for international trade and exchange was the U.S. dollar. This has now changed, with the Iranian government i
nsisting on non-dollar currencies for its oil and planning to open its own oil exchange where, crucially, oil will be traded in euros instead of U.S. dollars.

  Some people believe that in breaking the monopoly previously enjoyed by the dollar for all OPEC oil trades, Iran will significantly devalue the U.S. currency, which is already suffering from a national debt in excess of $11 trillion.

  The theory goes that if the dollar is to remain the world’s favored reserve currency then it is crucial that oil is solely traded in it. That way, the euro would be unlikely to become a major reserve currency, as there’s not much point in central banks stockpiling euros if they have to change them into dollars every time they purchase oil. By offering the euro as an alternative, as did Saddam Hussein just before he was ousted, Iran could potentially lead the world’s central banks to drop the dollar as their reserve currency and switch instead to the stronger euro. The resulting sale of dollars would send the U.S. currency into freefall and cause complete havoc.

  Whether or not Iran’s proposed non-dollar oil exchange can lead to the above scenario is disputed. However, what is far less disputed is that the U.S. economy would go through a period of vast upheaval were the dollar to ever lose its de facto reserve status. Some analysts claim it would be catastrophic and eventually force the U.S. to dramatically change its tax, debt, trade, energy, and ultimately, military policies-no longer, they say, would the U.S. be able to spend 42 cents in every tax dollar on the military.