by Lois Pryce
Entering the building was like stepping into the pages of a Tintin book. My first thought, as a fellow two-wheeled globetrotter and souvenir collector, was of all the admin that would have been involved in sending this stuff home – how the hell did one get a shrunken head through customs? The room was bursting with poison-tipped darts, blowpipes, tribal masks, spears, elephants’ feet, animal-skin drums and, courtesy of the Amazonian Jivaro tribe, two tiny shrivelled human heads, blackened with age but clearly possessing the fair hair and European features of some unfortunate swashbuckler. Black-and-white photographs of the brothers in the most extreme and exotic situations covered the walls; a boa constrictor wrapped around Abdullah’s neck, Issa filming African pygmies on his huge 16 mm clockwork Bolex, the two brothers digging their sinking car out of a Saharan sand dune and taking part in ritualistic tribal ceremonies with dervishes and witch doctors. At the other extreme were images of the boys impeccably turned out in suits and ties, meeting foreign dignitaries, grinning excitedly with glamorous princesses and posing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
A door opened and from the small office a museum employee entered with Issa. Although tiny in stature, his beaming smile and energy filled the room. Beyond the white hair and elegant suit, you could still see the eager, curious boy who had dreamed of seeing the world. His assistant explained to him that I was the lady from London who had shown his films in England. He waved his arms in the air, and if we had been somewhere else in the world, I sensed he would have flung them around me in a welcoming embrace.
‘No! Really? It is you! I cannot believe you are here in Tehran!’
I told him I had come to Iran on my bike and he fairly hopped up and down in excitement. As we walked through the museum, talking through his exhibits and memories, we chatted like all motorcycle travellers do, of our experiences on the road, the ups and downs of two-wheeled adventures, of getting cold, wet and lost, of punctures, breakdowns, and the kindness of strangers, and compared places we had both seen, many decades apart. His enthusiasm was infectious and even now, in his eighties, he fizzed with energy, insight and warmth, and a distinctly cheeky sense of humour.
‘We left Iran, August 1954,’ he said, pointing at a photo of him and Abdullah ready for the off, fresh-faced astride their mint-condition bikes, a group of friends and family holding the Quran over their heads. ‘We left with just ninety dollars each! Can you believe this?’
‘How did you survive?’
‘We carried Persian artworks and photographs of Iran and everywhere we went, we made shows about Iran at universities and embassies, everywhere! This way, we met many important people too. Sherpa Tensing, Indira Gandhi, many heads of state. But most of all, for us, we were interested in the tribal people. Because we could see how the world was changing so quickly, that many of these tribes in Africa, the Amazon, even the Eskimos, their lives would not last for very long like this. We wanted to document this, to show the world and to understand.’
By way of illustration he paused at a photograph of Abdullah squatting down in a mud-hut village with a colossal reel-to-reel tape machine, surrounded by a circle of bemused, grass-skirted tribesmen.
‘This is in the Amazon, the Yagua tribe. Sometimes it took many weeks, sometimes months for them to trust us, to allow us to film. In Africa, they thought our camera was a magic box! They did not trust it for a long time.’
‘Do you think being Iranian was helpful in your travels?’
‘Yes, sometimes, because in Africa there were many wars for independence at this time. This was early 1960s so everywhere we go, they do not like the French, or the British.’ He grinned, apologetically. ‘But in those days, Iran was not a bad word, not like now. Even the Arabs looked after us so well in Saudi Arabia. We met the Saudi king, and also the father of Osama Bin Laden.’
‘What was he like?’
Issa gave a dismissive wave. ‘Not an impressive man. Not educated, he had never left his own country. But still he had three private jets!
‘We went to Mecca, of course, this is important pilgrimage for all Muslims, to do this once in our life. But you know to film in Mecca is forbidden? So my brother, Abdullah, he hides the camera under his robes and he says he has stomach surgery and this noise,’ – Issa made a comedy impression of a whirring film camera – ‘he says this is his mechanical stomach!’ He doubled up with laughter at the memory.
‘Lois, you will know this because you have travelled also, but people are very friendly everywhere. Even in America, Abdullah, he was hit by a car and the driver’s son, he came to find us in the hospital and says we must stay with him until he recovered. This, I believe, is the essence of humanity. You understand?’
‘Yes, of course. I have many stories of kindness like that too, from all over the world.’
‘The only problems we have is the Jivaro tribe in Amazon, they became very drunk at a celebration, they make this alcohol from bananas and’ – he mimicked a spitting motion – ‘their own saliva! They wanted to shrink our heads, like this …’ He pointed to the two shrivelled skulls. ‘This one, it is an unlucky German man. We were lucky. We escape in the canoe but, peeow, peeow!’ Issa made ducking motions to accompany his sound effects. ‘They shoot poisoned darts at us. But we got away.’ He tapped his skull. ‘And with our heads still the same size!’
‘No,’ he continued once he had stopped laughing, ‘the only problems with being Iranian, were in South Africa. Because of, you know, the apartheid system there. We have big problems because the white people in South Africa, they do not like Asians, but the black people, they think we are white men! It was very sad, really, to see this terrible system. It was very difficult for us. We were not welcome by any of them. This is not how mankind is meant to live. You know our motto, all different, all relative. I still believe this.’ He nodded quietly for a moment before his usual smile returned.
‘And you know what our name means, yes? Omidvar? Omid is the Persian word for “hope”. Omidvar it means to be ‘hopeful’. I think I could not have been blessed with a better name, no?
‘But this,’ he said, pointing to a photo of bare-breasted tribeswomen, ‘this was really the biggest problem for us after we come home. When Khomeini takes over, no more of this, not suitable for Islamic Republic!’
Issa gave a sardonic laugh and shook his head.
‘I think of this problem in the Amazon, I say to Abdullah, Muslims in Iran will not like to see naked women, so I found some cloth and I give it to the tribeswomen. But they did not understand. They say, why wear this cloth, there is no reason to be ashamed. But they like the cloth so they kept it to decorate their homes instead!’
‘So was it a problem to show this on Iranian television?’ I asked.
‘No, not during the time of the Shah, but after the revolution, suddenly, no more television show. We used to be on the national channel, every Friday evening, it is like your David Attenborough, yes? And we toured the country, showing our films at cinemas all over Iran. Then, bang! Psst! No more.’ He shook his head and then gave me a saucy grin. ‘Just breasts, nothing to be scared of!’ He burst out laughing again.
‘But even now, I make our book just this last year, and look,’ – he opened the page to the offending photo – ‘English edition OK, Spanish edition OK. But Iranian edition, no, this photo not allowed.’
‘Did you ever consider living in another country after your travels, like your brother?’
‘Afterwards, I spent time in India but I always came back to Iran. Abdullah, he married a Chilean woman, this is why he stayed there.’
‘Do you miss him? Do you stay in touch?’
‘Of course, and my son too. He lives in the UK, in Cardiff. He is a doctor there. He says to me, “Dad, why do you live in Iran?” And I say to him, well, I think this is the biggest adventure of all!’
Issa laughed until the elephants tusks shook in their glass case.
After my tour of the museum, I said to Issa that I’d like to buy the English version
of his book and asked if he could dedicate it to my husband, also a great motorcycle traveller and film-maker.
Issa looked astounded. ‘You have a husband?’
I nodded, wondering if I had broken some code or unwittingly overstepped a mark. I was still finding my way around Iranian social protocol and constantly feared making some accidental faux pas.
‘But where is he, where is your husband?’
‘At home, in London.’
He looked perplexed. ‘Your husband is at your home in London, and he, he—’ Issa struggled for the words. ‘He lets you ride your motorcycle to Iran, all alone?’
Cautiously, I answered in the affirmative, still not sure where this was going.
Issa’s face, always expressive, was agog. He banged a fist on the glass cabinet and waved his arms in the air. Then he brought his fist down again and shouted, ‘I think that is great!’
He signed the book with a flourish and looked me in the eye, smiling. ‘Lois-jan,’ he said, using the Persian affectionate term meaning ‘dear’, ‘I can tell you will be successful in your life. Iranian women, they are so oppressed. It is so very sad. Many of them, they come here to see me, and they tell me how they would love to do what I did, to travel the world, to ride a motorcycle, to be free. It makes me very sad but I am happy when I see you, and what you are doing. You are seeing the world on a motorcycle, the real world!’
One of these women had just arrived, bearing a bunch of roses for Issa. She was a regular visitor, by all accounts, who travelled over 300 miles from the city of Yazd to see Issa every time he made his monthly visit to the museum.
‘Oh, I just love him so much,’ she said, touching her heart with typical Iranian passion. ‘He is my great hero and such an amazing man.’
She can’t have been much older than me so wouldn’t have remembered his television shows or been aware of his adventures at the time. But she was a true believer and loyal follower. Issa greeted her like an old friend, making a sweet fuss over the flowers.
His assistant made a few calls and rounded up the official photographer of the museum complex, telling her about my travels and how Issa’s films had been shown at our festival in England. The photographer, a young diligent woman in official uniform, took some time to adjust my headscarf, tucking any stray strands of hair out of sight before positioning Issa and me at a suitably modest distance apart from each other for the pictures. The results looked awkward and stiff, so different from the animated conversation and laughter we had shared over the last hour.
When the time came to say goodbye to Issa I had to quell my natural urge to give him a hug. We had bonded easily and warmly and I had felt an instant connection with him. Here was a man from a different era, continent and culture but, as I was well aware from my time on the road, the camaraderie of motorcycle travellers does not recognise such borders. However in the Islamic Republic there could be no hug, not even a friendly pat on the shoulder; we couldn’t even shake hands. I sensed Issa felt the same but, unable to act upon our human instincts, we just stood facing each other, about three feet apart, and bid each other farewell. With his right hand to his heart he gently bowed his head, wishing me good luck on my travels in Iran and extending an invitation to visit him at his home in Tehran any time. I dearly hoped we would meet again somewhere.
Back at Omid and Tala’s house, it was time to start thinking about moving on. My visa was ticking, Shiraz was still 600 miles away, and I had plenty of detours to make along the way. But it was going to be hard to wrench myself away from my adoptive Iranian family. Despite having made it this far alone, just a week of comfy sofas, home-cooked dinners and convivial companionship had softened me up. The world beyond Omid’s gate seemed daunting again, Iran’s mean streets more intimidating than enticing, and Omid was also starting to worry on my behalf, which only made it worse.
‘Don’t go out alone at night; keep your money hidden. I’ll put some of your cash in a bank account and you can use the debit card, that way you don’t have to worry about being robbed.’
Until then I hadn’t worried about it at all. Now my mind was running wild.
‘You’ll be all right once you get to Shiraz – the people there are the best, everyone loves the Shirazis – but be careful in Isfahan. The Isfahanis can’t be trusted, they’re a dodgy lot. Always on the make. And whatever you do, don’t take photos of any military buildings or nuclear sites, or any government or official buildings. You don’t want to end up in Evin Prison.’
He grinned to suggest this was a joke but we both knew it was entirely possible. All the fears I had successfully vanquished in the previous weeks were now roaring their way back into my consciousness.
‘People are going to find it strange, a foreign woman alone on a motorbike,’ Omid continued. ‘You’ll probably get stopped by the police a lot. They might want to question you, take you to the station, check your papers. Be careful who you talk to and what you say; don’t tell people where you’re going or where you’re staying.’
The pull of the road battled with the fear of the unknown, as ever, but I knew the road would win. It always does. I just needed, as my American friends would have it, to grow a pair. If only I could, I thought, ironically; that’s exactly what you need to get on in the Islamic Republic of Iran.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Omid later that evening. ‘Before you leave, I think you should meet someone, a friend of mine, he could be quite helpful. He’s one of the top guys in the secret police. I’ve arranged to meet up with him tomorrow afternoon.’
Omid obviously sensed my wariness about voluntarily meeting with a head honcho of the Revolutionary Guards.
‘Don’t worry, he’s all right. He wants to get out of the job but they won’t let him. He keeps trying to resign but he’s in too deep. He’s helped me out in the past, and I’ve helped him out with stuff. He’s a useful guy to know. It would be good to have him on your side, he could pull a few strings if necessary, y’know, just in case anything goes wrong, or you get in any trouble.’
Omid was a master of making the system work in his favour. He knew when to speak up and when to keep quiet. He knew who to call if you needed a car, the latest iPhone, a pack of bacon, a pound of opium, or the necessary piece of paperwork for whatever business deal was going down, so it wasn’t a surprise that one of Iran’s top policemen featured on his speed dial list. He understood the importance of keeping friends close, and your enemies closer. Simply, he knew how to survive in Iran.
The following afternoon Omid, Tala, Sorena and I convened at the appointed time. The venue was a traditional tea-house garden where we lounged, half outdoors, half indoors, in little wooden huts among overhanging trees, reclining amongst mounds of cushions, slipping off our shoes and stretching out our legs on soft Persian carpets. The sun was warm, the tea hot and strong, served in tiny glasses with sugar cubes and a bowl of fruit. Omid ordered a qalyān and some melon-flavoured tobacco, passing the pipe between us. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and the afternoon sunlight streamed through the water vapour from the pipe while the sweet smell of the tobacco drifted around us. It was a scene of serenity, peace and good cheer. We drank tea, chatted and laughed, and Sorena coloured in pictures in a drawing book and taught me some Persian words, much to her amusement. Then our visitor arrived.
It wasn’t anything specific, just a subtle shift in the mood. We were introduced and I was greeted with a curt nod. As is usually the case between men and women who are not known to each other, he sat away from me so Omid and he were together, with me, Tala and Sorena at a slight distance in the other corner. Omid made some valiant and cheerful attempts at group conversation, telling his friend about my journey, but I could feel the frosty air permeating our cosy little nest. He made brief acknowledgements of my presence, as little as he could without appearing obviously impolite, but eye contact was avoided after our initial introduction. During the conversation he never addressed me in person, and I noticed that whenever I t
ook a toke on the qalyān, he made a point of looking away.
There was much debate in Iran at the time about women smoking qalyān. Although the tradition goes back centuries, and in small villages you will see elderly ladies smoking, there had been a recent call from government ministers for women to be banned from partaking in the habit. This was not directed at the villagers so much, but was more of an insidious attempt to clamp down on what was seen as licentious behaviour amongst young urbanites. A five-year ban on the practice had been lifted in 2012 and now it was one of the few activities that men and women could enjoy together in public, with the result that many tea houses had become zones of what the state considered to be blatant debauchery – boys and girls mingling together, talking, laughing and sharing a pipe. Only recently, the commander of Iran’s police force, the boss of the man who was currently shooting me disapproving vibes, had criticised the new wave of contemporary tea houses and coffee shops, describing them as immoral and improper, encouraging corrupt behaviour, and demanded they be closed down. The owners of the tea houses and women’s rights campaigners were both arguing fervently against the move, albeit with different motivations.
After a while the conversation slipped into Persian only, with the men talking in serious tones, about what, I could not tell but it was most definitely a closed shop. A few words were spoken to Tala, and shortly after, she quietly suggested, in her most gentle and kindly way, that we should probably head back home. I gathered up my belongings, slipped my shoes back on and realised that ‘we’ meant me and her only. Sorena stayed behind with her dad. I wasn’t sure exactly what had gone down and I sensed that Tala was trying to avoid making me feel uncomfortable, so I didn’t pursue the topic. But from the little she said, it was clear that it was considered inappropriate for the police chief to be seen in my company.
This incident only served to fan the flames of my trepidation about hitting the road alone again. There were so many social mores and subtle aspects of behaviour that seemed so normal to me but that could easily trip me up, and this brush with the authorities had not emboldened me, if anything it had made me more wary. If only everyone was like Issa Omidvar, but I feared it would be a while before the Islamic Republic adopted ‘All different, all relative’ as their official motto. I spent the evening studying my map, planning my route out of Tehran the following day, aware that there was so much more to navigate here than just the tangle of motorways.