by Stephen Orth
The ribbons of houses in Shiraz loom beige-colored in the sunlight. “All hail, Shiraz, hail! oh site without peer! May God be the Watchman before thy gate, That the feet of Misfortune enter not here!”1 hoped Hafiz, who very probably wrote those lines while on a mountain tour.
“I know a German word,” says Saeed suddenly.
“Really? Which one?”
“Spach.”
“Spach? What’s that, then?”
“No idea. Doesn’t it exist?
“No.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes all that is needed is a small trigger for what had been serious conversations to descend into utter silliness. Laila and I spend the next half an hour making nonsense sentences with our new favorite word. The definition remains a mystery.
“I’m feeling a bit spach today.”
“You’re looking spach, darling.”
“Let’s speed up. We have to reach the spach, and it’s pretty late.”
Instead of a cross on the summit, there is a hundred-foot-high tower, with a steel stairway and a dome that looks like a giant white soccer ball. It is the core of a weather station that is still at the construction stage. Saeed, with his cheerful disposition, befriends a goatherd and the security guard who is there to ensure that no one is spying or taking photos. “If I didn’t have to go to lectures tomorrow, I’d spend a couple days up here, riding donkeys and tending the goats,” says Saeed with a glint in his eyes.
“That’d be spach,” I add.
From: Yasmin Tehran
Hello dear, can you be in Ahvaz on Monday? I found a host there for us. See you soon!
“Have you been to Ahvaz?” I ask Saeed on the way back.
“No.”
“It’s not supposed to be too exciting. Ugly, hot, poor air quality.”
“Did you read that in Lonely Planet?”
“Yes, it said, ‘vast, featureless industrial city.’”
“There are no bad places if the reason you are traveling is to meet people,” says Saeed.
How to meet people in Iran
•Choose a lively spot.
•Open up your guidebook.
•Look recognizably lost.
•Wait until someone talks to you (usually takes a maximum of sixty seconds).
THE RED PERSIAN CARPET
ON MY TRAVELS I was always asking myself how I could repay the Iranians for all the incredible hospitality. On a purely material level I gave them some marzipan (or for devout Muslims some nonalcoholic shirini from the candy store), invitations to pay at restaurants (which were sometimes so vehemently rejected that I had no chance), or a couple of cab rides. But all of these seem a bit too meager compared to the experiences that the locals shared with me. They sacrificed time and money, and they even risked problems with the authorities to make my stay as pleasant as possible.
The principle of hospitality is as old as humankind, and in most religions it is considered a virtue. In daily life in Western industrial countries, however, it plays an increasingly minor role. Maybe because religion is losing its importance or because people have become cooler in their social interactions, but probably just because there are fewer opportunities. Mary and Joseph just don’t appear at the door asking for a mattress for the night. Also, there is so much infrastructure available for travelers that they no longer need private accommodation.
On the Internet, often criticized as a promoter of social decline, of all places, the ancient idea is celebrating a renaissance. Fourteen million couchsurfers, hundreds of thousands of members of Hospitality Club, BeWelcome, GlobalFreeloaders, and Warm Showers, open their doors to strangers. Some use the portals just as guests, others as hosts. What do the latter get out of it? Often new friendships, exciting stories from travelers, gratitude. But is “What do they get out of it?” even the right question?
In Iran there is another reason for rolling out the red Persian carpet. The people here are hungry for news from other countries, want to know what life is like there. And for some a guest is still an event, a spectacle, because direct contact with people of the same age from Europe, America, or Australia for today’s thirty-year-olds is not something that can be taken for granted. “You all look a little bit like people from Hollywood films,” an Iranian teenager told me.
In many conversations I felt that I inspired people with my experiences from free countries. Some of them felt motivated to fight for a better future, not to be so apathetic or resigned when dealing with things that they disagree with. If you have comparisons, you can develop aspirations. I’m curious about the effect that growing tourism will have on Iran as ever-increasing numbers of people come here and talk of freedom.
I also felt how much good it does to each individual to hear that Iranians are wonderful. Persians are very proud of their country but also know that their country receives bad press throughout the world. Every visitor who shows that he understands the difference between people and governments does something for the self-confidence of a much-reviled population.
This is also the reason that I have an explicit answer to the question of whether you should visit a country where you are at odds with the political leadership. There are no bad places if the reason you are traveling is to meet people.
BUSHEHR
Population: 171,000
Province: Bushehr
NUCLEAR POWER
THE FISHING PORT of Bandar Gaah could be idyllic, a favorite of tourists; it’s all there. Two swimming beaches on the Persian Gulf, a couple hundred gleaming white houses, a horse ranch, an old-fashioned pier with creaky wooden boats.
“Those two are mine,” says Ahmad, pointing to two sixty-five-foot-long dhows with blue cabins and an Iranian flag fluttering in the east wind. A crew of eight to ten, with two skippers. If the weather is good, they will set off tomorrow for a week. “They usually land about four or five tons of fish, even sharks and tunas,” adds the forty-year-old businessman, a muscular guy with a precise part in his hair and a colorful shirt.
Nearby motors rattle. Dark-skinned sailors are redocking two boats. Screws rotate in the water, with black smoke gushing from the funnels. An older man tries to give me a small silver fish that he just caught in the harbor with a nylon line. Reluctantly, he realizes that I really don’t have any use at the moment for the creature thrashing about in its death throes on the asphalt.
Ahmad steers his Peugeot from the pier back to the village. Past the “Ashura Square,” where, during the month of mourning, Muharram, devout Muslims flagellate in public. Past an enclosed playground with brightly colored plastic swings and slides, far and wide not a child in sight. Past some typically Iranian murals on concrete walls of mountains, valleys, and small sailing boats.
“Privyet,” shouts a motorbiker.
“He thought you were Russian, like most of the foreigners here,” explains Ahmad. “Come, I’ll show you something.” He stops by a green corrugated iron fence separating the beach. Looking through a hole, we can see men and women in bathing suits. In Western bathing suits, that is, shorts and bikinis. “This is the only beach in Iran where men and women can swim together without the women wearing veils,” says Ahmad. However, there is a catch—no admittance for Iranians; Russians only. A small concession to foreign workers. The expertise of Russian engineers is so important that they try to make things pleasant for them here.
But pleasant maybe isn’t the right word. There’s an awful lot of driftwood and empty plastic bottles lying around. On the other side of the road, directly behind us, there is an anti-aircraft battery and another one three hundred feet away. The Russian beach at Bandar Gaah is probably the securest beach in the world.
On their way to work, the soldiers can peer through the hole, as there are no signs of repairs. “Nothing ever gets repaired here. The government has been planning to completely resettle Bandar Gaah for years, for security reasons,” says Ahmad.
He does a U-turn before heading back to the village’s second beach, which is no le
ss unusual and begins directly next to the moorings of the fishing boats. The sand is full of plastic garbage, but two children are still swimming. Their parents sit on a blanket, spreading out a small picnic. Relaxed, a perfectly normal Friday at the seaside; there is tea from the thermos and tomato sandwiches.
The reason that this scene, despite its normality, is engraved in my memory has nothing to do with the garbage but what I catch sight of beyond the beach—a gigantic white concrete dome, next to it a minaret-high red-and-white striped chimney with ladders and a square concrete structure. In addition: blocks of houses, looking like a military barracks, and two cranes. Signposts name the facility BNPP, an abbreviation of Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant. The premises is protected by a considerably higher and more solid fence than the Russian beach, naturally without holes but with quite a few watch-towers, guarded by soldiers with machine guns. A thousand megawatt capacity, four cooling pumps, and 163 fuel rods. It is one of the most famous nuclear power plants in the world because it was the very first one in Iran, a milestone in the national nuclear program. Ahmad has to pass the reactor every day when he goes shopping in Bushehr, 7.5 miles away.
“Originally, Siemens was responsible for the construction. In the 1970s there were thousands of Germans living here,” he recounts. “But after the Islamic Revolution in 1979, the work was stopped because the political situation was too insecure, and the funding was tricky. The Russians finally finished construction three years ago. I would have preferred a German power plant—then we wouldn’t be so afraid of accidents.” The government apparently doesn’t share these fears. “Five years ago it was decided that all settlements within a three-mile radius of the plant should be relocated, but nothing has happened yet,” says Ahmad.
The plans for the construction of another reactor have just been signed, which may speed up this process. Bandar Gaah will die; it is just a matter of time. And then? “I’ve bought a plot of land in Bushehr. I know where I can go,” says Ahmad, but he still finds it sad. He was born in Bandar Gaah, and his parents, in whose garage he now parks the Peugeot, live directly opposite his own one-room apartment.
In the courtyard there are tomatoes and aloe vera plants. Ahmad’s nephew has written Cristiano Ronaldo 7 on the wall. Inside light blue brocade drapes on golden rods hide the windows. The wall is decorated with framed photos of horses, and on the bookshelf there are cups from dressage competitions. Ahmad was for many years a member of the Nuclear Plant Horse Club.
The washroom and showers are outside, and they can only be reached via the courtyard. “I wish I could offer you better accommodation,” Ahmad says with typical Iranian modesty, which you have to quickly counter with praise for the quarters. This is not difficult, as many a holiday home landlord on the Mediterranean would give his right arm for such a courtyard, and the room is nothing to grumble about, either. It’s just the location that concerns me. It is less than 1,500 feet to the next watchtower. I, too, would have felt considerably better had Siemens built the beige-colored monstrosity.
• • • • • • • • •
“PLEASE PLAY SOMETHING,” says Ahmad, suddenly producing a guitar from next to the sofa.
I strum around a bit, some classical and some flamenco. Ahmad and Laila applaud.
“And now sing something, please.”
“I’m not a good singer.”
“Doesn’t matter, do it anyway.” Luckily, Laila has a much better voice. As a duo we wouldn’t exactly win on American Idol, but we could put on a pretty good performance late nights at a campfire. “Wonderwall” by Oasis, “Good Riddance” by Green Day, “Someone Like You” by Adele. The Iranians love Adele; she could sell 5 million tickets in Tehran if performances by women singers weren’t forbidden. Ahmad asks if he could film us on his cell phone. “Please do, but don’t show it to all your friends,” says Laila.
“Okay,” says Ahmad. “You’re a great couple.”
Not for very much longer, I think to myself. Separation after our ten-day “marriage” is imminent. Bushehr is our last site as a couple since afterward Laila is heading back to Tehran. “I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now,” we sing together, and “I hope you had the time of your life,” and “I wish nothing but the best for you,” and we look at each other and grin because it’s all so unintentionally romantic.
We then pass on the guitar to Ahmad. He is a fantastic singer—five times better than us—a strong but also fragile tenor. He performs “Manoto,” which means “Me and You,” a sad love song with a flamenco-like accompaniment. “No, I’m a bad singer,” he says as we express our enthusiasm. “My parents never wanted me to play music. They are very religious and conservative. When I was young I used to pray five times a day. I was always in the mosque.”
“And nowadays? Not anymore?”
“No, when I was twenty I read a book about an Egyptian physician called Sinuhe and understood that religion only exists in people’s minds. Look at Afghanistan or the Iraq War—can there be a God when such things happen? Islam creates terrorism, and the Iranian government is destroying our country.”
“What do you believe in?”
“I believe in human rights, in love, honesty. I hate Islam, but that is a secret. If I go around saying that then…” He draws his index finger across his throat. The death sentence awaits all who renounce the national religion in Shiite Iran.
“I think half of all Iranians are not strictly religious, but the government is so strong that they have to conceal it. And the young people are frightened of fighting for their rights because they know how brutal the mullahs are, how many people they have killed for opposing their views.”
The conversation has turned. A few moments before, we were having a pleasant musical afternoon, and now we are talking about death, fear, and religion, with Ahmad saying one forbidden sentence after the other.
I have often experienced such shifts in mood in Iran. Moments of lightness are more fragile and more precious than elsewhere. A downpour can at any moment drench cheerful small talk at a garden party, even if there were no signs of clouds before.
In the evening Ahmad says his goodbyes. He plans to stay with his parents and leave us his apartment. He doesn’t want to disturb our honeymoon in Bushehr.
At night a relay of red lights illuminate the dome and chimney of the power plant. On. Off. On. Off. I feel like I hear a constant humming coming from that direction, but it might be just my imagination. “I’ve never seen you so radiant,” says Laila. Well, I guess there had to be at least one nuclear power joke. We sit on the couch, drinking tap water. She then draws a spot on my forearm with a pen. “My dad always does it to my mum, just to annoy her. I think it’s really cute.”
“I think Ahmad thought we were pretty cute, too.”
“It’s my best marriage so far, but it’s also my first.” Then she grabs the guitar and starts playing “Nobody’s Wife.”
Laila gets Ahmad’s bed, and I get the mattress on the carpet. We turn out the light. My bus leaves at six in the morning. “It’d be gloriously forbidden to have sex in Iran when not married, wouldn’t it?” says one of us.
“Yes, forbidden,” is the answer, but she stresses the word in such a way as to make clear she doesn’t intend to replace it with “exciting” or “an excellent idea.” In a romantic Hollywood comedy this would be the moment when something unexpected happens. In Iran, too. Someone knocks at the door—pretty hard. Not our door but outside near the garage. Always four or five knocks and then silence. We don’t dare move. Tourists staying the night so near to a nuclear power plant are automatically thought of as spies, if noticed. And the knocking continues. Laila sits up in bed and slowly puts on her veil as quietly as possible. Our door isn’t locked; we have no key. Is it possible that our host has lured us into a trap? Ahmad seems nice enough, but we’ve only known him a few hours. Paranoia is a mean power that can destroy trust in seconds. We hear steps in the courtyard. A male voice shouts something. More steps. More
shouts. But nobody enters. The footsteps fade, and a metal door opens and closes. Then it is so silent that I can hear my own breath.
AHVAZ
Population: 1.1 million
Province: Khuzestan
LOST IN TRANSPORTATION IV
THE BUS CALLS itself VIP and has red upholstered reclining seats and legroom comparable to a first-class seat on an airplane. The onboard menu consists of orange waffles called khootka wafer and date cookies that answer to the name of kutlu. And a paper cup with an Angry Birds motif and a 10 per cent fruit nectar whose contents include the interesting words pineapple constantrate. It comes in a laminated foil pouch with a couple ISO certificates printed on it and a halal stamp but with no instructions about how to open it. A sharpened straw was glued to the outside, which proves unable to pierce the foil. The contents don’t seem to be intended for consumption.
After a divorce, a temporary phase of disorientation is nothing unusual. I’m alone again, the wedding ring stowed away deep inside my backpack. After a six-hour journey, the bus spits me out at a roundabout on the outskirts of Ahvaz. Roundabouts are perfectly suited for making you feel lonely. Every driver behind every steering wheel seems to have an objective; I am the only one who has none. I stand here, with my thirty-three-pound backpack, on the fringe of a city. I have no street plan, and I only know that it’s hot, it’s ugly, and there’s no worse place to breathe. In the World Health Organization’s list of the world’s most-polluted cities, Ahvaz has the first place. In comparison, Beijing, New Delhi, or Tehran are oases of fresh air. Nowhere in Iran is the average life expectancy so low. The city is famous for the orange clouds of smog from heavy industry that cloak the houses in the evenings. To put it another way: people who don’t smoke only have themselves to blame, as health-wise there is hardly any difference.