by Stephen Orth
“I love ice cream,” announces Funman. He shouts the words; his vocal chords don’t seem to be designed for quieter tones. “Why are so many people unhappy or stressed? One ice cream is enough to be happy,” he bellows while bearing two full cones from the counter. “And that is the most important thing in life—to have fun!” We have known each other all of a minute, but already there is a motto for the next couple days.
“Tonight I have been invited to a wedding. My son is not here, so will you come instead?” He scrutinizes me from head to foot. After being on the road for more than six weeks I am a suitable candidate for detergent ads—for the “before” pictures. “Have you got anything suitable to wear?” he asks.
Funman has a white Honda 125 motorbike, with tin panniers on which he has written his phone number and e-mail address. A sociable man. He has attached an adventurous construction on top of the speedometer, consisting of tape, twine, a JVC car radio, and a loudspeaker with an eight-inch diameter. “I’ve traveled a lot with this,” shouts Funman. “I used to be a truck driver. In my whole life I haven’t spent more than ninety days at home. Come on, my store isn’t far away, just down the road to the umbrella.” I walk ahead; he drives.
The store is a small snack bar, with plastic tables and maps all over the walls. Funman’s wife, Mahboube, is cooking ash soup that she serves in plastic bowls. “I will introduce you to a couple friends at the wedding. And you will meet many beautiful girls. It starts at nine!” screams Funman.
“No, my dear, at eight,” corrects Mahboube in a soft voice. She is very conservatively dressed and radiates serenity—they couldn’t be more different.
I give them a pack of walnut cookies as a present. My marzipan reserves have long been exhausted.
“I looove cookies, how did you know that? Thanks! I won’t give one of them away!” is the reaction of the patriarch. Carrying on, word for word: “Do you want the Internet? Come on, let’s be Facebook friends! I need music! My wife thinks I’m too loud. Aaaah, cyclists!” He dashes out to the main road, where a couple mountain bikers whoosh past. My host has the composure of a swarm of wasps whose nest was just hit by a rock.
“I love cyclists,” he explains on returning. “I’m registered on Warm Showers, which is a platform only for cyclists looking for accommodation.” All in all he has provided accommodation for three hundred to four hundred visitors in the last 2.5 years. Funman picks up a foot-long toy Porsche that was lying next to a computer on a desk and turns a knob. “Brother Louie” by Modern Talking blares out; the toy car has an embedded MP3 player. Déjà vu: the worst song of the 1980s had already irritated me in Kurdistan and now it’s followed me to the Caspian Sea.
With these sonic waves, Funman, now apparently at peace finally, can devote himself to work and begins tapping away at his computer. Mahboube serves up a delicious soup, and then I rummage around in my backpack for my black shirt. I eventually discover it; it’s still clean and unused.
“Haven’t you got one in a more cheerful color?” asks Funman. He turns out the light in the store, turning up the racing-car stereo unit now playing “Happy Nation” by Ace of Base. He then stands up and dances around in the dark for a few seconds.
• • • • • • • • •
THE WEDDING RECEPTION at the Vazik Hotel is in full swing, with a couple hundred guests in suits and evening dresses—and one visitor in jeans and a black shirt. In the car park there is a shiny white Hyundai with a floral decoration on its hood. A kind of pavilion leads to a dining area and to an octagonal room with a dance floor. Most of the women aren’t wearing veils but risqué short skirts and high heels beyond the four-inch mark. Naturally, it’s against the rules, but the happy couple would have taken precautions. A handsome bundle of bank notes deposited at the local police station will ensure that no one mistakenly patrols the Vazik this evening.
A group of men sitting at a wooden table on the other side of the car park also benefit from this. Funman takes me there and introduces me to some of his friends. A young man with a neat haircut and a particularly fine suit pours out raisin schnapps, which is only drinkable once Delster lemon-flavored nonalcoholic beer is added.
Group photos are taken. Only the young man with the bottle doesn’t want his picture taken. “He’s in the navy,” explains Funman. He is afraid because a photo of him at a booze-up posted on Facebook or Instagram could get him into trouble. Another man approaches me with glassy eyes and kisses me three times on the cheeks.
“I always wanted to kiss a German,” he slurs and raises his arm in a Hitler salute with so much swing that he almost loses balance. “But I’m not gay!”
A friend pushes him aside. “Don’t worry about him, he’s crazy.”
The drinks are strong enough to knock out a horse and of a dubious quality, and I’m glad to hit the dance floor after three schnapps. “Let’s see how the younger generation reacts to you,” says Funman.
At first they don’t react at all. But I’m quite content simply to observe the happenings from a chair draped in silk. The newlyweds dance a waltz alone. The groom is about three heads taller than the bride. She appears to be a bit tense and sweats profusely in her multilayered wedding dress. The DJ, who is standing directly behind me, has bodybuilder biceps and is continuously shouting something into the microphone. The stereo system is turned up louder than in most German clubs, and Funman stands directly in front of the speaker. “I looove loud music,” he screams. “Come on, get on the dance floor!”
I obey, if only to move away from the speaker. Persians are excellent dancers—with abandon they swirl over the parquet floor, gleaming faces everywhere, a wonderful party. Most have more grace in their little fingers than I have in my whole body. Stylistically, the greatest difference is in the arm movements. Iranians seldom have their elbows below their shoulders, whereas Europeans tend to keep their arms nearer their bodies. In direct comparison it looks like a chicken attempting to fly. “You don’t dance particularly well,” says Funman, as I sit back down after five songs.
Still, the evening brings one historic moment of joy: a girl named Setareh mistakes me for Funman’s son and only later realizes that I am a foreigner. She thought I was Iranian! Mission accomplished; I’ve made it! I step forward in front of the whole gathering, appeal for silence with a casual wave at the DJ, wait a couple seconds for the suspense to rise and then, grabbing the mike, announce Kennedy-like, “Ich bin ein Iraner.” No, of course I don’t do that, it was just a fantasy induced by raisin schnapps. But it would have been great fun.
ORWELL
MY ACCOMMODATION IS a villa with a large garden for me alone. Twenty years ago it must have been beautiful; now it just has a certain charm.
“Are you afraid of the dark?” asks Funman on opening the iron gate to the jungle of a garden. The front door opens directly to the kitchen, and we are hit by an appalling stench. Funman swears. “That was the Australians. They were the last ones here. Why don’t they just think a bit before leaving the remains of their kebabs? That’s one of the reasons that my wife doesn’t like couchsurfing.” The living room and bedroom smell a bit better—the first of builder’s rubble and the second of damp bedspreads. Nothing has been cleaned or tidied here for months. As usual there is no bed, so I make myself comfortable on the carpet. A few dogs bark outside. “Here is the stereo unit. You can hook it up to your cell phone,” says Funman before disappearing into the dark.
Floorboards creak in the night, outside an animal rustles about, and I think I hear the sound of footsteps. The biggest shock, however, comes in the morning, with the sound of a rattling motorbike to the accompaniment of music blasting through the garden. The machine falls silent, and now the Latino pop tearjerker can be recognized: “Could I Have This Kiss Forever” by Enrique Iglesias.
“Stephan! Are you awake?” screams a hoarse but familiar voice. Unnecessary question, as that entrance would have woken the dead. “I want to show you a few things here in town. You’ll definitely like them
!”
A short time later a drowsy tourist and a hyperactive fun man enter the library of Abbas Abad. To the left a staircase leads to the reading room for women; men have to use the right-hand one. A woman in a black chador sits in the middle of the room, behind her are rows and rows of books, and Ayatollah Khamenei can be seen on a poster reading the Quran.
“Go and ask her something. Let’s see how she reacts,” insists Funman, the amateur sociologist.
So I go up to her and ask her something: “Do you have any books in English?”
She appears uneasy, looks at Funman, and speaks to him in Persian. He indicates that she should address me directly. “Yes,” she says and then, “Come.” She leads me to a shelf and then dashes back to reception. In addition to a couple dictionaries and software manuals, there is one single novel: George Orwell’s Animal Farm. According to the stamp, the book has only been borrowed twice, which is a pity, as it is a fantastic read. The story describes an animal revolt on a farm, resulting in the new regime proving to be worse than the previous one. Oh Allah, save me from the darkness of ignorance is written on a poster on the wall.
“Where are you from?” asks the librarian. Suddenly, she feels a bit more confident about chatting. Her English is good, but she seems to have had more practice at reading than talking. Her name is Fatimeh, and her husband writes poetry. She has a master’s in biology and originally comes from Tehran. But to her the north is much more beautiful—better air and greener.
In the meantime, Funman has made friends with a cleric in a turban and a long kaftan. In the computer corner he is showing him photos from his couchsurfing profile. For instance, the photo of him enjoying an Efes beer in Turkey.
The cleric winces slightly, and then quickly regains his composure. “He’s a relaxed man. He knows that people drink alcohol; he just doesn’t do it himself,” explains Funman. “Good guy. There are good people everywhere, even a few with turbans. He was a preacher at the Friday mosque for years. Go on, ask him something!”
This little outing with Funman isn’t proving to be particularly relaxing. “Err… how important is religion in your everyday life?” I manage to ask hesitantly. I can’t think of anything cleverer to say without getting too political.
“I pray no more than other people,” says the good cleric, adding that he regrets not being able to speak English. “The Quran schools have only recently begun to offer English classes.” He then says goodbye, as he has to go to the mosque.
“Berim,” says Funman, too—let’s go. I also say “berim” to practice my Persian, and he laughs.
“Not like that. You have to roll the ‘r.’”
“I can’t”
“It’s simple: rrrrr!”
“I can’t do it. We don’t have that kind of ‘r’ in German, at least not where I come from.”
“Nonsense, everyone can do it.”
“Okay, say ‘Eichhörnchen.’”
“Eickhern-Ken!”
“No, Eichhörnchen. It’s easy.”
“Ai-Kern-Shen!”
“Totally wrong. Let’s go. Berim!”
“Ei-Shern-Ken!”
We both laugh, and then go for an ice cream.
“Did you notice how shy the girl in the library was?” asks Funman while playing with his scoop of chocolate ice cream. “It’s pathetic! We teach the young to be afraid. We don’t think them capable of anything, we pamper them, never allow them to jump in the deep end.”
“Actually, she could speak quite good English.”
“If you live within a system of fear, it rubs off on you. It is not only the government that keeps this system alive but also the parents who restrain their children out of fear.”
“Why don’t you go away?”
“I love my country. If the government were to give us just a little more freedom, not as many people would leave. Today it is hot, so I would love to go out in my shorts. I’m not allowed. We have beautiful beaches on the Caspian Sea, but to go swimming I have to travel to Turkey. Because I can’t talk to people here without fearing the consequences.”
“You don’t seem to be the kind of person who is easily intimidated.”
“Most cops are younger than me. When they stop me on the street because of the loud music on my motorbike, I explain to them that they don’t call the shots. I’ve never had serious problems with them.”
Shyness is not in the nature of Iranians, though, as I realize the next morning in the 22 Bahman Primary School in the neighboring town of Salam Shahr. 22 Bahman is a date and stands for February 11, the anniversary of the revolution. Funman asked me whether I could give a short talk about the ecological aspects of my travels during a presentation about the handling of garbage. I selected a few photos and thought about a few clever phrases and am awaiting my turn from the first row in a large hall.
The national anthem blasts out of an Aiwa cassette player, and everyone stands up with their right hands on their hearts. The principal speaks, a teacher speaks, and a couple kids also speak and play some music on three keyboards. Finally, prizes are given to the winners of a painting competition, and there are cookies and grape juice from Tetra Paks. Funman wanders through the hall taking photos.
There doesn’t seem to be time for my lecture, and it is spontaneously canceled. As compensation I’m allowed to participate in a lesson with the third class. The route from the hall to the classroom proves to be a real challenge because small boys in blue-black uniforms and skater sneakers continuously stop me and ask for my autograph, as if I were a pop star. I sign dozens of notepads and scraps of paper and answer questions about my country of origin, marital status, and soccer. An opportunity to clarify that Messi is better than Ronaldo, and that Borussia Dortmund is better than Bayern Munich.
In the classroom everyone individually introduces themselves in English. “Hello, my name is Farshad.” “Hello, my name is Ahmad.” “Hello, my name is Alireza.”
It’s oppressively hot in the classroom with no air conditioning. I feel a little like an exotic species, as I sit in front of the class telling of my travels so far, with Funman and their teacher translating into Persian. I only understand the place names. Kish, Kerman, Yazd, Shiraz, Isfahan, Mashhad. Finally, the teacher asks me if I have anything else that I would like to share with the kids.
“Learn English,” I say, thinking of the Animal Farm book in the library. “And get to know your country, travel around. It’s a wonderful country.”
Through a jostling horde of schoolboys, I walk with Funman across the playground to the road, past two soccer goals and a wall brightly painted with a map of Iran. The noise is so deafening that even the two teachers running by fail to control it. After how many reprimands do children lose this wildness? Please preserve a bit of it; don’t ever become apathetic—that is what I should have told them.
To: PeaceGulf Tehran
Hi Reza, how are you? I contacted you some weeks ago on cs. would it be possible that I stay at your place for 2 nights from thursday? would be great!
From: PeaceGulf Tehran
Sure Stephan you can stay with me
To: PeaceGulf Tehran
Wow, that was a quick reply:) thanks so much, see you soon!
From: PeaceGulf Tehran
:)
LIFE’S CARAVAN
IRANIANS LOVE THE northern area of their country because it is greener here than elsewhere, because there are swimming beaches, because of the rain and the mountains. If you travel west along the Caspian Sea, there is similar scenery for hundreds of miles: to the right, the sea, to the left forests, and towering above them, the peaks of mountains, some impressive and others not so. Kiwi plantations and rice paddies resembling those on the high plains of Vietnam. And the gray, landlocked sea, bordering on five different countries. If the world weren’t curved, you could stand on any beach and have a panoramic view of Azerbaijan, Russia, Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan. Apart from that, there isn’t much to arouse the interest of Western visitors. We know si
milar landscapes from home and are more spellbound by deserts and architectural masterpieces.
I travel along the coast to Astara, near to the border with Azerbaijan, by bus, and then inland to Ardabil, where an MD-80 plane, vintage 1989, transports me back to Tehran. The Elburz Mountains loom ahead, and all the gray cardboard-carton houses of Tehran, the cars in the daily traffic jams, and the Milad Tower. To the east I can make out Mount Damavand, the highest mountain in Iran, a nineteen-thousand-foot snowcapped pyramid clearly contrasted against the blue sky.
Its image hangs between dozens of other tourist posters and maps and handwritten poems in Reza’s basement. Reza, forty, online name “PeaceGulf,” is maybe the most experienced couchsurfing member in Iran. In five years he has collected 1,058 friends and 798 reviews. His reputation precedes him: a number of my hosts have already mentioned that he has been arrested twenty times, that he has argued with members of the government about couchsurfing, that he was the first in the country to offer accommodation, that he has room for fifty guests, and that he is clever and interesting, but nevertheless that staying overnight is not exactly a luxurious experience.
Reza greets me briefly at the door, a well-built man with large glasses, little hair, and white rubber sandals. “I’m in the middle of teaching. Just go downstairs and get to know the others!” A narrow staircase leads to the basement: someone is playing the accordion and singing in French. There are six guests here: one from Malaysia and five from France. The latter are traveling around the world in an old trailer and showing short film clips, with a screen and projector that they have with them. They call their project Nomadic Cinema. They’ve been to Poland, Serbia, and Turkey, and they plan on driving to Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan. They are not yet sure, however, whether they will be able to put on a performance in Iran. “Here we have to be very careful that a topic isn’t too erotic,” says Sophie, one of the cineasts.