by Stephen Orth
Saeed is twenty, a graphic design student, and “pretty hot,” as Laila put it on seeing his profile photo—black wispy hair, bushy eyebrows, knockout smile. After reading one of my posts in a couchsurfing forum, he contacted me to ask me whether I wanted to stay with him during my trip to Shiraz.
According to what I read of his profile, Saeed likes kick-boxing, BMX bikes, and juggling, and apart from that he is an absolute couchsurfing junkie. In the last three months he has had forty-five guests, has organized meetings, and is always traveling around his country with a tent and a backpack.
Saeed has another guest. Christian, lounging on the carpet, is in his mid-twenties. He has a designer beard, is from Colombia, and manages to simultaneously look incredibly tired and incredibly happy. Travel drunk and high from the road. He quit his job as a business consultant four months ago and now jets around the world. Kenya, Tanzania, Ethiopia, Djibouti, Egypt, Turkey. Iran was the only country on his route that his mother told him to contact her every two days to say that he was still alive.
“There is a parallel: Colombia also has a bad reputation, and everyone immediately thinks of cocaine, drug barons, and criminals. But the country has so much to offer. High mountains, dream beaches, fantastic nature, and lively cities. But a lot of people are scared to go there,” says Christian.
“I’ve had some guests here who have kept their destination secret from their parents,” says Saeed. “People think there’s a terrorist hiding in every corner, and that our favorite leisure activity is burning American and Israeli flags. It’s nonsense.” He makes some black tea in his samovar. A narrow kitchenette separates the two rooms of the tubular apartment. On the shelf there are mussel shells from the Persian Gulf, a Rubik’s Cube, juggling balls, and a considerable collection of foreign coins: cents, lira, rupees, pesos. The front door has been screened with aluminum foil, the apartment has one window to the back that has been masked by cardboard, and a door to the inner courtyard is hidden behind a dark red drape.
“The police here are pretty unpleasant, though” says Christian. “I was sitting on a bench with an Iranian friend in Tehran when two officials came up to us and took some photos. They didn’t say a word; they probably just wanted to intimidate us.”
“Every day I expect to find the police at my door because of all my guests,” says Saeed. “I’m prepared for it. But until then I will have as many guests as I want—five to ten a month.”
He is not afraid when traveling inside Iran, even in the danger zones in the borderlands to Pakistan and Afghanistan. “Actually, I would like to be kidnapped; it would certainly be interesting,” he says.
“I wouldn’t agree with that about Colombia,” Christian maintains.
“I suppose that in Iran even the kidnappers are pretty tolerable hosts,” I suggest.
“You would probably have better chances than me to find that out,” adds Saeed. Do I sense a bit of envy in his voice? “Iranians are not so interesting. These criminals know that our government won’t cough up. Europeans are much more lucrative.”
Shiraz is one of the few cities in the world that you can recognize blindfolded because it smells of oranges. Not only in the gardens and parks, but even on roads with heavy traffic; it seems as if someone has tried to neutralize the exhaust fumes with a citrus spray. Even Iran’s national poet, Hafiz, found the place pleasant to the nose:
Shiraz, and the stream of Ruknabad,
and that fragrant breeze—Disparage it not,
for it is the beauty-spot of the seven regions!1
It smells of oranges, for example, near the fortress in the center, which was built in the eighteenth century during the reign of Karim Khan Zand. He made Shiraz his capital and went down in history as a comparatively peace-loving, just, and even modest Persian king.
Laila and I are waiting for Hamed on some grass between beds of flowers in front of a leaning round tower and some massive fortress walls.
This morning at ten o’clock I posted a message on the Shiraz couchsurfing forum: Hello, we are 2 incredibly nice Germans, and we would be incredibly happy to wander through the city today with someone local. I added my cell phone number, which wasn’t particularly clever, at least in view of the resulting problems of organizing the meetings offered.
From: Unknown Number
hi.i would be happy to hang out with u, any time you say.
Negar CS Shiraz
From: Unknown Number
Hey Stephan. This is Soroush from Shiraz. I’ve just came back from a 6 months hitchhiking trip around Iran and Iraq. I’ll be more than happy to meet you and hear about your stories. I impressed by your profile by the way.
From: Unknown Number
hey stephan, i can meet u around 6 pm. Reza
From: Unknown Number
Hello Stephan & Laila Hope u enjoyd Shiraz so far This is Amin frm CS. would be nice if u join me & my guests to get to go fr something fun this aftrnoon:-)
What is the opposite of shitstorm? Lovestorm? Four text messages in only two hours. Slowly, I get the feeling that a secretary might be useful for organizing our schedule. On top of the messages there were two phone calls. One of them I didn’t understand a single word, and I wasn’t even sure which language the man at the other end of the line was speaking. And one from Hamed, with whom we arranged to meet at noon in front of the fortress. Once again there is the usual blind date problem. We haven’t the faintest idea what our new friend looks like or even how old he is, but we are continuously approached. “Welcome to Iran. Where do you come from? Are you enjoying your trip?”
But also: “I’m a registered tourist guide. Ooooh, Germany! I have friends in Frankfurt and Berlin. What would you like to see?” Friendliness with ulterior motives. In many other destinations it is so commonplace that you automatically quicken your pace as soon as you hear, “Hey, Mister.” I wonder whether tourist money will one day corrupt the natural Iranian warmth, leading to the melodramatic “my friend” affectation of a sunglasses vendor on a sandy beach. Every year more visitors arrive with more wallets, exchanging money for the magic of the country, and all of them will take a bit of this magic home, so that in the end less and less magic will remain.
Recently, this has happened in Myanmar as tourism skyrocketed, thanks to political stability. Now, possibly, it is Iran’s turn, also because countries like Syria, Libya, or Iraq, countries that were similarly attractive to people interested in the Middle East, are no longer options because of terror and war. Since 2013 the number of people visiting Iran has reached new records every year, and today there are not enough hotel beds for the tourists.
Hamed has no trouble recognizing us. The only other foreigners in front of the fortress is a group of Taiwanese tourists. Hamed is thirty-one, with brown leather shoes and an expensive shirt. The tourist in me is overjoyed about his enormous expertise on buildings and plant life in Shiraz. The husband in me registers the brown bedroom eyes and the hand that time and again casually brushes against Laila’s back while the son of a bitch explains the significance of symmetrical structures in Persian architecture or makes remarks like: “Sadly, at the bazaar nowadays there’s far too much ‘Made in China.’ You have to know where to find the good stuff.”
So he shows us a stall selling ornately carved backgammon boards, and then two gardens are on the program. In the first one, on the grounds of Qavam House, it smells even more orangey than in the rest of the city. One look in the mirrored porch reminds me of the necessity of shaving. The skin on Hamed’s face by comparison could be used in a Gillette ad. I console myself with the beautiful women on the upper level, the ones painted on the wall and framed by ornamental flowers. They wear robes, their shoulders bare, and have luxurious locks of hair and white lower arms. No Islamic dress, no headscarves—I catch myself, for a fraction of a second, feeling slightly outraged.
POETRY
FROM THE ORANGE garden we take a cab to Bagh-e Eram. Eram translates to heaven or paradise, but Cypress Gardens would be jus
t as fitting. Tuscany would be proud of such specimens. The paved paths between artificial ponds and streams serve as catwalks for youngsters, with their Justin Bieber hairstyles and perfectly groomed beards (the boys) or their expensive scarves, perched way back on their heads, and bare ankles (the girls). And tons of makeup. “What shall I bring her? A beautiful face needs nor jewels nor mole nor the tiring-maid’s art,”1 wrote Hafiz, the most famous of all Shirazis, in the fourteenth century. The statement is still valid today.
Flute music lilts from loudspeakers, nightingales sing in the trees, and date palms sway in the evening breeze. Sometimes Iran lays it on a bit thick, and so it is in this “Paradise Park.” At the entrance there is a man with two budgie-sized yellow birds who pick out colored cards with Hafiz sayings from a small plastic tub. It is a much-loved way of reading your horoscope. There is a wonderful tradition in Iran whereby many people use Hafiz tomes rather like fortune cookies; they randomly open the book and select a saying. I give the man twenty thousand rial, and the beak of destiny selects a purple note. Hamed translates:
Ask to what goal the wandering dervish hies,
They knew not his desire who counselled thee: Question his rags no more!2
Beneath it there is an explanation of the verse: It is better to stick to your path than always trying something new and deviating from the right way. Only those who adhere to the words of the wise one will succeed. For me and my travels I manage to put a different slant on his wisdom: As I’m not a clever dervish and don’t know the way, I will continue to deviate from the path and knock at any Iranian door that pleases me. He’s a good man, that Hafiz.
The mausoleum of the poet is in a walled compound in the north of the city. Hafiz, whom Goethe considered his twin brother, rests in a pavilion with eight pillars beneath a white marble slab. Today there are many elementary school classes here. Kids in lovely school uniforms lay their hands on the gravestone and recite verses. Laila and I are not the only newlyweds. Hafiz is a kind of patron of lovers, which is why many Iranians make a pilgrimage to Shiraz shortly after marrying. Our conversation is presumably untypical of the usual whisperings of couples.
The dress regulations are getting on Laila’s nerves. “I’ve been wearing the same stuff for five days now, always this red scarf and this dumb, wide frumpy robe.”
“Before we were married you made more of an effort with your outfits.”
“You, too! Need I mention gray hiking pants—every day!”
“Do you love me anyway?”
“No.”
A women is holding a small book and reading out quatrains. The language is like music, and even if you don’t understand the words, it doesn’t detract from the flowing beauty of the sound. Admiration of Hafiz unifies religious and less devout people; they simply interpret his words differently. When Hafiz enthuses about wine and drunkenness, for one it is a metaphor for the intoxicating experience of God, and for the other a homage to forbidden pleasures. The poet was a prominent scholar of the Quran and a man of the world at the same time, so probably both interpretations are not totally wrong. At schools, however, there’s not much Hafiz on the curriculum. “There’s a lot about alcohol and changing the world for his own pleasures,” says Hamed.
I have a translation of some of his works with me and leaf through it.
The ancient world shall turn to youth again,
And other wines from out Spring’s chalice flow;
Wine-red, the judas-tree shall set before
The pure white jessamine a brimming cup,
And wind flowers lift their scarlet chalice up
For the star-pale narcissus to adore.”3
I find a few lines that I have to read out to Laila:
Arise, oh Cup-bearer, rise!
And bring to the lips that are thirsting the bowl they praise,
For it seemed that love was an easy thing,
But my feet have fallen on difficult ways.4
Laila laughs.
How to make small talk for beginners
Irani: Hello, mister!
Answer: Salam! (Smile.)
Irani: Unintelligible sentence containing the word Farsi.
Answer: Man farsi balad nistam. (Apologetically hunch shoulders, palms pointing up.)
Irani: Unintelligible sentence not containing the word Farsi.
Answer: Aleman! (Point at yourself.)
Irani: Aleman! Germany! Very Good! Welcome to Iran!
Answer: Merci! (Smile.)
• • • • • • • • •
IT WOULD BE beyond my scope to give a detailed account of all the talks and encounters in the city of poetry, yet so many of these keyhole insights into the lives of young Iranians are worth mentioning.
There is the literature student, Golbarg, who wants to write her thesis on gender issues and feminism but doubts whether her themes will be accepted. “There are lecturers who support me, but as soon as there is any attempt even to mention homosexuality, you can forget it. Absolutely impossible in Iran,” she says.
Or Soroush, a good friend of Saeed, a traveler seeking adventure, who contacted me per text messages. He has just returned from a hitchhiking trip to Karbala in Iraq, the holiest city for Shia Muslims. “Everyone there has fifteen mattresses. I was invited to stay everywhere, a new host every night,” he says. He doesn’t seem to be too bothered by what others consider dangerous destinations. His next trip will take him close to the Pakistani border. “I would rather live every day to the fullest than a hundred years of boredom,” he continues. And then, almost in passing, he pinpoints the central problem of my own travels, but also maybe something that makes it interesting. “The best thing about hitchhiking is that you really learn about the people of a particular country. The rich and poor, conservative and modern. With couchsurfing, on the other hand, you are only dealing with one group, who is educated and speaks English, is very modern and enthusiastic about the Internet.”
There is Negar, who also texted me. She is a biologist, likes Jane Austen, and plays the piano, but she would rather be a singer. But nothing will come of that, as her father, afraid of whispering in the family, has forbidden her from performing with her choir. In Iran women are not allowed to sing solo in public, and even in a group it is frowned upon by conservatives. She complains that in Iran education is encouraged but not excellence. Those who are clever often have worse chances in top positions and are intentionally marginalized. “By making it clear that it’s not worth standing out, the government fosters a climate of lethargy, and lethargy is well suited to the maintenance of power.”
Then there is the white-haired man who asks us whether we were enjoying our tour and where we came from, then spouts a few lines from Goethe’s Faust5 in German: “Ahh! Deutsch! Augenblick, verweile doch, du bist so schön! Blut ist ein besonderer Saft. Auf Wiedersehen!” And he walks around the next corner, leaving behind two very puzzled travelers.
More poetry comes from Ebrahim, a gaunt electrical engineering student who knows a few lines from Paul Celan’s “Death Fugue.”6 Again two perplexed travelers, this time especially because of his radiant pride during the recital. Ebrahim doesn’t realize that it is all about the Holocaust.
Or Thomas and Mahmut, two physicists from Munich, whose main objective in traveling seems to be related to smoking vast amounts of hashish. They proudly recount how they were arrested near Mosul in Iraq for taking photos of a military base. A couple joints later they send an unusual text message to Laila: It might sound odd, but today we both fell in love with you. We never experienced anything like that before.
Her reply is just the same as any good wife—silence.
HIKING
WE TELL SAEED of our failed attempt at hitchhiking. On a clammy Friday morning he gives us a free lesson. “It’s important to explain exactly what you are doing. Don’t say that you have no money, but simply say that you always travel like this.”
We are standing on a dusty road out of Shiraz. Saeed stops one car after the ot
her by sticking out his arm horizontally. “When someone flashes the headlights while braking it means they’re a cab,” he explains. “Sometimes I can still convince them to take me for nothing.” After about ten stops with drivers all wanting money, we are finally lucky. We are allowed to get in and drive three miles to the start of our hiking tour of Derak, a nine-thousand-foot mountain just outside the city.
We trudge past hardy shrubs and fragile outcrops and signs showing 6,600 ft, then 7,400 ft, and 7,900 ft. Saeed, with a spring in the heels of his worn-out mountain boots, surges ahead, and we wheeze along behind him. It must be eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit, and there’s almost no shade on the path ahead. Saeed gives us a rundown on his athletic history. As a child he was interested in gymnastics, moved on to boxing, then kickboxing. “But above all else I love hiking in the mountains because it’s not about winning and losing,” says the twenty-year-old.
Once he sets his mind to something he takes it seriously. At the moment it is couchsurfing. “If I don’t have a guest in three days, I feel lonely.”
His big dream is finally to make a few return visits and to travel around the world. To Holland, Germany, and France. To India, Australia, and New Zealand. “But I get my passport only after completing two years’ military service, and even then it’s still difficult to get visas to most countries.” The next problem is money. “Working as a graphic designer I can’t put much aside. I’ll have to try to find work while traveling.”
He used to have a lucrative job selling VPN Internet access for a dollar per month—passwords enabling uncensored use of the Internet: Facebook, CNN, Twitter, the New York Times, YouPorn, everything. He rapidly had a couple hundred customers, but then AT&T, the U.S. Internet service provider, blocked the service to Iran, and Saeed couldn’t continue.
On top of a small outcrop just below the peak, Saeed spreads his arms and leans back against the now-fierce wind. He tips back his head, closes his eyes, and keeps the pose for a good minute. “Nowhere do I feel as free as in nature,” he says.