Revolutionary Ride

by Lois Pryce

  In the spirit of my ‘say yes to everything’ ethos, I had accepted the introduction, but I admitted to Omid that I was slightly wary. I imagined a grizzled veteran, outwardly and inwardly broken. What common ground would we find? I wondered. This was a military leader who had fought against Saddam Hussein and risen to the highest rank of the Iranian army; how could he be anything but a conservative hardliner? I saw myself through his eyes, the eyes of a battle-hardened, double amputee who had lived through a hell I could not even begin to imagine. Wouldn’t he think me a dilettante, a frivolous westerner, an irritant dropped into his world for a day or two?

  With just a couple of days left in Shiraz, it was time to grasp the nettle and make contact with my army general. We arranged or, to be more accurate, I was instructed, that he would pick me up at the hotel. From there we would go to his apartment, and then out for dinner, where we would be joined by his wife. And, he told me on the phone in gruff, halting English, I would stay with them for the rest of my time in the city. It was not so much an invitation, more a command. As I approached him in the hotel lobby I was struck by the full force of the man. Despite missing both legs, he exuded power. His upper body was stocky and strong, his grey hair cropped short, his eyes dark but behind the penetrating gaze was a kindness and even, I detected, a flash of mischief. It wasn’t until I went to check out that I discovered he had paid my hotel bill in advance. Out in the car park, without telling me, he commandeered a taxi driver and hired him as my personal chauffeur for the rest of my stay. It was made clear that while I was in his charge, as his guest, all my needs would be taken care of. I was in the company of a man who was used to getting things done, to having people fall into line, and who did not need to seek approval or permission. I made my protests but it was no use. This was ta’arof on a military scale. There was only one response to this state of affairs: surrender.

  The general lived with his wife on the ninth floor of a modern block of flats not far from the city centre. His English was limited, enough to hold the most basic conversation but not much more. His wife spoke fluent English, he told me. She worked as a doctor in the main hospital and would meet us this evening for dinner. Like Mr Yazdani, the general was very keen that I relax in an un-Islamic fashion. This meant an almost forceful removal of my headscarf as soon as the front door closed behind us, and being presented with a selection of his wife’s clothes to choose from. Unfortunately, she was a dress size smaller than me so I plumped for the largest offering I could find, a still-too-tight Minnie Mouse T-shirt. Looking in the mirror, I was shocked to see the outline of my body and my loose hair; I had almost forgotten what I looked like. Weeks of being swathed in either motorcycle gear or my manteau and headscarf, as well as sporadic access to full-length mirrors, had resulted in a lack of preoccupation with my looks. As I examined my reflection, I was struck by three thoughts: how much time I spend thinking about my appearance back at home; that the straining Minnie Mouse T-shirt was verging on the obscene; and, as I made an ungainly twirl, that the Iranian force-feeding programme was starting to take its toll.

  The general was a gracious host and I was a polite guest, but his difficulty in moving around coupled with our language limitations made for an awkward settling-in process. Unlike every other Iranian I had met, even those with limited English, he did not appear to have any desire to discuss politics, religion or how Iran was viewed by the rest of the world. He did not talk about the economy, the sanctions, whether life was better or worse under the Shah or the imminent nuclear deal, all standard topics in every social setting I had encountered up until now. And he certainly didn’t mention the Imposed War. Unlike Mr Yazdani’s apartment, there were no grainy eighties photographs of young men going off to fight.

  After half an hour of stilted small talk on the safer subjects of our respective families and the weather in England, I was relieved when it was time to head out for dinner. We were meeting his wife at a Lebanese restaurant in the city centre and the driver that had been commandeered at the hotel was on hand and waiting for us outside. The general said he didn’t like to go out much, without adding further explanation. But I could understand why. He never made any reference to his disability but it was easy to see how venturing into the swarm of Shiraz would be a challenge. Iran’s streets were hazardous, even for an able-bodied person, and I had seen little evidence of ramps or dropped kerbs and even less evidence of disabled people out and about in everyday life.

  Fortunately, his block of flats had a lift, but as we stepped in and began the slow, silent descent the intimacy of the tiny lift only served to amplify the awkwardness of our pairing. To break the silence I practised my Persian numbers, counting down the floors as each number lit up. The general joined in with his limited English. There was a palpable sense of relief. Now we had an activity we could do together!

  ‘Hasht …’

  ‘Eight …’

  ‘Haft …’

  ‘Seven …’

  ‘Shesh.’

  ‘Six.’

  We got through five and four and then, as we reached the third floor, the general stopped counting. He turned his steely gaze on me, our faces just inches away from each other. In his heavily accented English, he made a short, staccato announcement, ‘It’s the final countdown.’

  His eyes stayed on mine. I gave a polite, nervous laugh that I hoped hid my discomfort and silently prayed for this lift journey to be over. For this whole visit to be over. What had I been thinking! Eyes still boring into mine, he spoke again. ‘Was that by Europe?’

  I studied his face – it was still inscrutable but his tone was questioning. It was a genuine enquiry. Could it really be? Pop quiz time at last!

  ‘Yeah, Europe. December 1986, it was number one when I was at school.’

  Our eyes met. We didn’t need to speak. We both knew exactly what to do. Da-da-dah-daah …We were singing in unison, at the top of our voices.

  The lift doors opened on to the lobby. We had arrived on the ground floor. Zero. Sefr. We punched the air simultaneously as we reached the chorus: ‘It’s the final countdown!’

  My singing general ushered me out of the lift, grinning. ‘Bezan berim!’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Let’s go!’

  I decided I liked Shiraz. And at that most brilliant and bizarre moment, I had never been happier to be in Iran. Thank you, Habib, wherever, whoever you are, I thought. I am so glad I took you up on your curious invitation.

  Our cab driver was waiting for us outside. He couldn’t understand why we were laughing and singing all the way to the restaurant.

  19

  Neither East Nor West

  AS I SPENT my final days in Shiraz, reflecting on my journey and the strange course of events that had brought me here, one thing became clear to me – I had to come back to Iran. I needed to delve deeper, discover and understand more. My visa was about to expire and I was frustrated at having to leave. I had clocked up over 3,000 miles, but this country was huge. There was so much more to explore, more people to meet, to talk with, and try to make sense of in this intriguing, confusing and most beguiling of countries. I had taken a tantalising sip and was now being wrenched away.

  I decided to take a fast train back to Tehran with my bike in the goods wagon, and to leave the bike in Tehran over the winter with a plan to return the following spring for another road trip. Omid, my trusty friend and saviour in Tehran, sprang to my assistance in his indomitable can-do way, and magicked up storage for the bike in the back room of a friend’s car showroom. I stowed it away in a corner, and although I am not one for getting sentimental about vehicles, I gave it a fond pat on the saddle. It had been a trusty friend, starting every morning without fail, and not a splutter or groan throughout the entire journey. Nothing had broken or worn out, it still had plenty of miles left in it – and I would be coming back for those miles. It had made me friends, encouraged conversation and allowed me to see parts of Iran that would otherwise have been impossi
ble to reach. It had allowed me to get under the skin of this country in a way that no other form of transport could. But, most of all, it had saved me, possibly even saved my life, enabling me to nip out of the way of a lumbering blacked-out minibus and to escape the crazed lunge of a whacked-out petrol station attendant. It had been the tough, loyal companion I had needed all the way, and for that I was grateful.

  Omid drove us back through Tehran’s wild streets. My flight home was that night; this would be my last view of the city in daylight. I was careful to soak it all up, every texting smoking moped rider, every mammoth Khomeini mural, every horn blast, every near miss, every futile Please Drive On The Lane road sign. The main routes were as slow-moving as ever, so we cut through the backstreets of south Tehran, but quickly came to a halt, our progress stalled by a funeral procession.

  The crowd of mourners was immense – there were more than a hundred of them. They filled the entire street, the men in the front carrying the coffin and the women following behind, all cloaked in black, moving at a solemn pace. We wound down the windows as we waited and the women’s wailing filled the car, echoing off the buildings. Stuck in this slow-moving melee of bodies and vehicles, there was nothing to do but sit it out. I studied the scene. There was something mesmerising yet disturbing about the communal crying and chanting. Some of the men, their faces grave, carried a shrinelike structure on their shoulders in the form of an ornate metal cage decorated with mirrors and illuminated by light bulbs. Others carried posters of the dead man’s portrait. It was a young face; no more than early twenties.

  ‘This is called a hejle,’ said Omid, pointing at the shrine. ‘You used to see a lot of them during the war. It is for when young men die unmarried. Hejle is actually the same word as for a bride’s bedroom. So they make them for young men who never made it into the real “hejle”, if you know what I mean.’ He gave me one of his cheeky grins. I was going to miss Omid.

  The crowd continued their steady procession. We sat and watched in silence. Then the mass of bodies broke apart. Something was happening. A surge of movement, a flash of metal. A terrible sound, a cry that I could not identify. The crowd had parted and I could see one of the men was holding a knife. In his other hand he held a sheep by its neck, one foot on its lifeless body. He had slashed its throat. Right here in the street of a twenty-first-century capital city, in broad daylight. Blood was pouring across the road. I had never seen so much blood. I found myself wondering how one sheep could contain it all. It splashed on to the wheels of parked cars and ran in great rivers down the gutters. The road turned red.

  ‘It is to stop other deaths taking place,’ said Omid, ‘that is why they sacrifice the sheep.’

  He was unperturbed, laughing at my reaction, amused at my shock and my squeamish, British animal-loving ways. I remembered how he had told me of the public execution he had witnessed as a child growing up in this city; the death of a sheep was nothing to him. None of the mourners or the pedestrians or the other car drivers waiting for the procession to pass seemed fazed by this animal sacrifice.

  I was aware of being very far away from home. My entire time in Iran had been like this; great lurches between a sense of intense connection and love for the people and this nation, and moments of deep discomfort and incomprehension. My responses bounced all over the place, mirroring the contradictions of Iran as well as my own nature. I couldn’t work out what I felt from one moment to the next. Both ends of the spectrum were extreme. At one I had never felt so engaged with my fellow humans; the Iranians represented the very best of humanity with their effortless warmth and kindness, their desire and innate ability to connect on a meaningful level and to find humour and fun in all situations. Their lust for life ran through their very core and I had thrived on being amongst it. I admired them, was envious of them even, this ability to simply feel and express oneself without fear or shame. But at the other end of the spectrum, these great gushes of emotion were not just reserved for the good times, and it was this that left me feeling exposed; there was no stiff upper lip or sarcastic humour to hide behind when things got sad, bad or scary. The rough and the smooth had equal billing in the hearts of the Iranians and every emotional response was laid bare. I suspected this was the true essence of being human, but also I feared it would take a while for my uptight British soul to assimilate, if it ever could.

  We eventually edged our way through the backed-up traffic. The wailing receded, subsumed into the usual Tehran traffic noises, and as I watched the black-clad figures and the red-stained street disappear behind us, I wondered if we could ever truly understand each other, and if not, did it matter? Maybe that was where we had been going wrong all this time, always trying to understand, to make sense, to control, to fit Iran into our own frame of reference, instead of simply accepting? And I wondered if this went some way to explaining the enduring British fascination with Iran – this simultaneous sense of connection and disconnection; at once so like us, yet so disturbingly ‘other’.

  This public, daylight outpouring of emotion and the ritualistic slaughter of the sheep had been shocking, alienating even. Lobbed like a grenade into the mass of already heightened emotions surrounding my final day in Iran, it had brought into sharp focus the differences between our worlds. But as we drove away from the scene, I looked back at the weeping women and the sadness etched on the faces of the men and I knew there was much more that connected us than separated us. The details and differences did not seem as important as when I had arrived just a few weeks earlier.

  I flew home with Iran Air, which gave me six and a half hours to truly appreciate the impact of the international sanctions first hand. The scratchy seat fabric, cigarette-burned plastic washbasins and whiff of engine oil throughout the cabin reminded me of late seventies coach travel, which was probably the last time these planes had had a facelift. I tried to convince myself that Iran Air had prioritised the maintenance of engines and safety features over the interior decor but I wasn’t convinced, especially when the seatbelt refused to budge. The in-flight entertainment had certainly been spared an upgrade, consisting of one small television at the front of the plane showing repeat screenings of a gentle propaganda film featuring chador-clad women gazing at waterfalls and flowers with an appropriately tinkly soundtrack. The stewardesses’ outfits were suitably dreary too. Reflecting Iran Air’s status as the national carrier of the Islamic Republic, they were of course modest to the point of unflattering, with not a single glimpse of neck or hair visible beneath the military style cap and hijab. As we took off, I examined my fellow passengers. Nobody was praying and as soon as we were airborne, every female passenger removed her headscarf without ceremony.

  The man next to me was reading a newspaper. From the pictures I could tell it was an article about the nuclear deal. The composite images of Rouhani and Obama were still considered press-worthy weeks later; after all, this was the biggest international story to happen in Iran for decades. The debates continued to rumble on; hardliners resisting, the moderates trying to move it forward. I wondered how it would all pan out. Would the Islamic Republic ‘open up’ as western commentators were predicting, and if so, what did this mean for us watching from the other side of the world? And more crucially, what did it mean for the Iranian people? The lifting of sanctions was the big deal, bringing trade, business opportunities and of course tourism. It would be a long time before Iran became a hen-night destination, but even so, I was ashamed to find myself contemplating that for the traveller, Iran’s charms lay in its isolation. This was not a mindset I liked, or approved of; I didn’t want to be like the smug backpackers in The Beach, trying to keep their special place a secret. I wanted the Iranian people to reap all the benefits from engaging with the world and for the rest of us to wake up to the reality that Iran is not a nation of desert-dwelling terrorists. But I guessed it would be like everywhere else in the world – a tourist trail would appear, attracting the hustlers and the unscrupulous, as it always does. But the real Iran wou
ld always be there, with its warmth, hospitality and humour; you would just have to stray a little further from the trail to find it.

  Snacks and drinks more associated with an eight-year-old’s birthday party – imitation Coca-Cola and the Iranian equivalent of Wotsits – were handed out as I watched Tehran’s messy sprawl appear below me, and as we climbed higher, the deserts and mountains beyond. Cutting across the empty plains to the south, I could see the straight scars of roads that I had been riding just weeks before. From here they looked empty and enticing, a thrilling desert highway, but their reality was still embedded in my bones and nerves, and probably would be forever. But still, I wanted to come back for more. Why?

  I smiled inwardly at the thought that I was becoming another Persophile Brit – an Iran-doost, friend of Iran – joining a long and not always illustrious tradition. Iran has this effect on people, particularly the British. It sucks us in, fascinates and appals, confounds and charms in equal measure. Its subversive contradictory nature appealed to my own; I liked that I could not quite understand it, that it kept me guessing and that each time I thought I was making sense of it, something happened to blow my theories and expectations out of the water. I loved that the Iranians never quite did what you thought they were going to do, or even, what you wanted them to do. The whole damn place reeked of cheeky bad-boy charm, and to this, I was not immune.

  Our stormy relationship must play a part in the British fascination with Iran, linking us forever like a permanently warring couple, a geopolitical version of ‘Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em’. And like all torrid couplings, I had noticed many similarities as well as differences. As two former empires, both with distinct identities and a strong sense of national pride, there is an island mentality in Iran that feels strangely familiar, a perverse pleasure to be found in going it alone, not being bossed around. Neither nation is particularly comfortable with the idea of mucking in with its neighbours – Britain with its scepticism towards Europe and inflated sense of importance in the world; Iran, an island of Shi-ite Muslims surrounded by Sunnis, geographically in the Middle East but definitely not Arabs – always, defiantly, neither East nor West. But there were gentler similarities too; an appreciation of the absurd and a sense of humour that celebrates the subversive and the silly, a love of the outdoors and an illustrious history of mountaineering and climbing, the national penchant for picnics and a profound appreciation of nature. Even the strange formalised politeness of ta’arof reminded me of our own British rituals of insistence and refusal when passing through a doorway or our habit of apologising when bumped into by a stranger. And, of course, our mutual inability to do anything without a cup of tea.