Revolutionary Ride

by Lois Pryce

  I had not expected to find any of these reassuring footholds when I arrived in Iran. I am ashamed to say that despite my conscious mind taking an open-minded approach to this journey, my subconscious had prepared for the worst. When I had turned up at the border I had been bracing myself for all the horrors as predicted by the doom-mongers back home. I was steeled for the onslaught of angry Islamists who would shun me (or worse) for being British/western/an infidel/female – take your pick. But instead I had been hit with a tidal wave of warmth and humanity to a degree that I have never experienced anywhere else in the world. Now I wanted to step off the plane when we landed at Heathrow and start whispering to people, ‘We’ve got it all wrong! We’ve been lied to! Come with me, let me show you!’ I wanted to round up all those doom-mongers on the next Iran Air flight to Tehran, and tell them, ‘Ignore the dodgy snacks and the in-flight entertainment, this place will blow your mind, you will never think or feel the same way again!’

  Iran had altered me in some essential way. It had recalibrated my brain, my heart and soul, which is surely the best possible outcome of any adventure. As we ascended into the clouds and Iran slipped away from view, I knew I would come back, again and again. And I remembered Freya Stark’s words on the purpose of travel: ‘To feel, and think, and learn – learn always, surely that is being alive.’

  Epilogue

  Summer 2016

  THE TAXI DRIVER spoke no English but his intentions were clear from his hand gesture. Two fingers. Two minutes. ‘OK!’

  We were making an unscheduled detour on the standard run from Tehran airport into the city centre. I had no idea why we had stopped but he had ducked down a side street and now he was out of the car, disappearing at a light jog down the road. The familiar raucous jostle of south Tehran swarmed all around, the morning air already thick with dust and exhaust fumes in the summer fug. It was going to be a hot one. The driver had vanished from view. I guessed he had an errand to run, some other sideline, a typical Tehrani, on the hustle, running two jobs. I wound down the window, breathing in, tasting the familiar tang, letting the noise rush in from the street. I was in no hurry. Then he came into sight in the wing mirror, bounding back towards the car, youthful, eager, long-legged. He seemed to be carrying something in each hand. His face appeared at the window, smiling. No words, just an ice cream cone thrust into my grip, huge sticky swirls, laden with chocolate sauce and sprinkles, already melting in the morning sun. He jumped into the driver’s seat, and we were off again, slipping back into the throng. It was good to be back in Iran.

  I returned to Iran the following spring after my first trip. All I had to do was dust off the bike; it started right away and I picked up where I had left off, exploring new territory but also returning to favourite haunts and visiting some of the friends I had made the first time. Not many months had passed since then, and the mood on the street was much the same as it had been the previous autumn. Negotiations over the nuclear deal were rumbling on but looking hopeful, and while there were all the usual complaints about the regime, there was still a sense of optimism in the air. I had managed to get a visa without any trouble this time, and I hoped that maybe it was true what they said, that Iran was ‘opening up’ to the world.

  But then, halfway through my trip, I received news from home that things had changed, at least for me. British citizens would no longer be allowed to travel independently in Iran. From now on they could only enter the country as part of an organised tour group or if accompanied by a government-approved guide. I was in a café in Tehran when I received the news and I surveyed my surroundings with fresh eyes, aware that every remaining moment was to be savoured now. I had been very fortunate, one of the last few Brits to have entered Iran unaccompanied, able to roam freely under my own steam. This new ruling seemed to have come out of nowhere, although there were mutterings that it was in response to a comment made by David Cameron at the UN criticising Iran’s human rights record; yet another point scored in our tradition of tit-for-tat diplomacy. I kept my head down for the last few weeks of that journey and sent my bike back home by Iran Air Cargo. The era of independent overland travel in Iran was over for the foreseeable future.

  My guess back then, in April 2014, was that this new rule would soon be reversed. Iran has a history of inventing peculiar restrictions to its visa policies on a whim, and I guessed this would all blow over soon enough. I hoped so – I had big plans for future Iranian adventures. So, in a replay of my first trip, I waited and watched. But nothing budged. The consulates in London and Tehran remained closed and the travel restrictions stayed firmly in place.

  Then, in July 2015, after years of tortuous negotiations, and amid much clamour and celebration, the deal on Iran’s nuclear programme was approved. Twelve years of international sanctions were lifted and the Iranians took to the streets in their thousands to celebrate. In Tehran they cruised up and down Valiasr Street, honking their horns, waving ‘V for victory’ signals out of their windows; there was even dancing in the street. The ‘morality police’ turned a blind eye for a night.

  Back home the Foreign Office changed its travel advice for Iran, swapping ‘no-go’ red for ‘go for it’ green and suddenly you couldn’t move for broadsheet travel features gushing about the ancient treasures of Persia. Iran was suddenly ‘safe’, although the reality was that nothing on the ground had changed at all; to the visitor, Iran was just as safe or unsafe as it had been a week earlier. And upon closer examination, these newspaper articles were nothing but thinly disguised adverts for tour companies, whose bookings were going through the roof because, despite all the ‘opening up’ of Iran, British citizens could not get in without joining one of their authorised excursions. The embassies quietly reopened but the consulates that issue visas remained firmly closed. Everything had changed but nothing had changed.

  I continued to wait and watch. I wondered what Habib was making of all this. Was he still writing imploring notes to strangers? Was he happy how things had turned out? Most of the Iranians, both at home and abroad, appeared pleased; a great new dawn of opportunity awaited their land, they believed. Only a few of the old hardliners protested, comparing the nuclear deal to Khomeini’s famous ‘drinking of the poisoned chalice’ truce that ended the Iran–Iraq War. I thought of the petrol-pumping psychology student I had met on my first journey – ‘Our countries are going to be friends!’ – and of Raha, the glamorous luxury brand management queen with a penchant for Stoli, who had decided to stay and carve her career in her home country. I hoped their dreams and ambitions were coming to fruition.

  So I kept an eye on the situation, and not just on what was happening in Iran but also here at home. There was a shift in mood and I noticed a new response to talk of visiting Iran. Less of ‘What d’you wanna go there for?’ and more, ‘Oh, how fascinating!’ There was a new flurry of broadsheet stories, now focussing on Iran’s underground scenes – the music, the parties, the drugs. The underlying message being, ‘Look, they’re just like us! They want to have fun too!’ But in Iran the fun continued to reap the same reactions as usual – the arrests, jail terms and lashings continued. Executions for drug offences were at their highest level ever.

  Still, the consulates remained closed and the visa restrictions didn’t change or at least, not for Brits. In the wake of the lifting of the sanctions, citizens of every other European nation were now allowed a visa on arrival but the UK remained out in the cold. But in the summer of 2016 I managed to find a way to wangle my way back in. Travelling with my husband Austin this time, we flew into Iman Khomeini Airport, or ‘Tehran International Airport’ as the pilot preferred to call it when he announced our arrival in English. I noticed its official title was used in the Persian announcement that followed.

  We were greeted by a looming Khomeini and Khamenei, of course, frowning over the baggage carousel as if they were looking out for their missing suitcases. But the immigration guards were cheerful and at the bureau de change the teller waxed lyrical about his
long ago university degree in English literature, quoting a few lines of Milton as he counted out our millions. ‘Your English pounds are so much nicer than our money,’ he added.

  I agreed that the rials’ multitude of zeroes made my head spin.

  ‘No, I mean your notes don’t have pictures of an idiot mullah on them!’ he said with a grin, loading me up with the familiar pastel-shaded wads of cash. Half an hour later we were shunting and weaving our way up Valiasr Street, ice cream and chocolate sauce melting all over our hands. I realised I had missed this place, these people.

  Unable to bring our motorcycles into the country, we hired a car for our road trip this time. Surveying our dented, scratched and bird-shit-splattered Hyundai saloon, we suspected we were at the vanguard of Iranian car rental. It came with a Quran in the glove compartment and a hire agreement that began with the line, In The Name of God. As I peeled out into the familiar highway madness, there was a sense of joyous, if slightly hysterical, abandonment about being back on the road in Iran. The two of us with our scrappy motor and no idea what was going to happen next, a Persian version of the Blues Brothers scene – there’s 106 miles to Qom, we’ve got a full tank of benzin, half a pack of pistachios, it’s sunny out, and I’m wearing a hijab. Bezan berim!

  The plan was to hit the road and take the temperature of the nation in its new dawn. I had not fully realised on my first trip just how significant a moment in Iran’s story I had been witnessing back then. The UN talks and the phone conversation between Obama and Rouhani had been a monumental turning point in Iranian history, and now, three years later, on my third visit, I could see how that moment had shaped my experience. The optimism had been tangible.

  But now, sadly, within days of arriving, there was a distinct sense that not all was working out as hoped. People were frustrated. Nothing had changed, they said. ‘Yes, the sanctions have been lifted but that was a year ago, when is it going to make a difference to our lives?’ they wanted to know. On the surface, Tehran seemed to be teeming with business conventions, their bilingual vinyl banners splashed across office blocks and hotels throughout the city, from oil industry conferences to book fairs. In swanky restaurants serious German businessmen were attempting to cut deals with their bored-looking Iranian counterparts on everything from soft drinks to stationery. Further south, in Yazd and Shiraz, the tourist industry was making hay, with groups of awkward hijab-wearing Australians and Europeans being bussed around the place. A handwritten sign outside a budget hotel in Shiraz shouted in a most uptight, un-Iranian style, Persepolis Tour leaving 7.30 a.m. DO NOT COME LATE.

  But the reality for most regular Iranians was the same as it ever was. High unemployment, low wages and no sign of all the promised opportunities any time soon. ‘It will take a while for the world to trust Iran,’ explained one Shirazi businessman over a hotel breakfast. ‘America and Europe are still wary of doing business with us, this is the problem. The banks are allowed to trade now but everyone knows that many of the big companies in Iran are owned by the Revolutionary Guards, or connected with them in some way. If foreign companies are found doing deals with them, they can still get a big fine because it is seen as doing business with sponsors of terror. I mean a really big fine.’ He shook his head. ‘It is not worth the risk for many. But people here thought everything would change overnight. Now they are angry when their lives are the same as before.’

  We caught up with Omid and Tala in Tehran. It was the last time we would see them here, but we would be seeing a lot more of them in the future. They were busy packing their belongings into boxes, getting ready to return to the UK, this time for good. Tala couldn’t have been happier. Her dream of Sorena attending school without a headscarf would come true.

  ‘I’ve had enough of Iran, it’s getting me down now,’ said Omid, flumping down for a moment among a pile of crates and cardboard. ‘And people are getting jealous here, that’s a new thing. If you’re seen to be doing all right, they don’t like it.’

  Omid and Tala were the fortunate ones, with British passports and friends in the UK. I was happy for them and excited to have them closer to home. But for millions of others, the options were not just limited, but non-existent. They were stuck. The older Iranians were more resigned to the situation; they had ridden many a wave in Iran’s tumultuous history. But the younger generation were visibly, vocally frustrated. Ahmad in Shiraz was still desperately pitching his CV to every western IT firm, and Aheng was still plotting her escape to an American university. The more pragmatic still believed change would come but slowly, more connection with the world would eventually bring more opportunities, and most importantly of all, more freedoms – to the internet, the press, their social lives. It would be a gradual affair, there would be no revolution, they said, but it was better this way.

  In one of Tehran’s new fashionable coffee shops, all exposed brick walls and mismatching cutlery, the young guy behind the counter engaged us in conversation. He was the new breed of Tehrani hipster who wouldn’t have looked out of place in Brooklyn or Hoxton; long-haired, artfully unkempt, the opposite of the typical highly groomed Iranian male. Gypsy jazz was playing over the speakers and he was carefully arranging a selection of French cheeses on the counter. I wondered if they were a new, post-sanctions arrival on Tehran’s culinary scene. He said yes, it was easier to import the cheese now, and talked me through the merits of a newly arrived Comté and a particularly pungent Normandy Livarot.

  ‘Is it your first time in Iran?’ he asked. He was erudite and charming and, like all Iranians, eager to engage with visitors to his country.

  I explained it was my third visit, and that Austin had first come here in 1984, as an eighteen-year-old, making his way to India.

  ‘You like it? You like Iran?’

  We both gushed. Oh yes, we love Iran.

  He looked me in the eye but his expression did not reflect my enthusiasm. ‘I hate it.’

  It was like a blow. We were free to come and go. He was not. The words remained unspoken, but that was the nub of it. I had encountered many emotions from Iranians about their country – frustration, anger, despair, disgust – but I had always found the negative to be countered with a profound passion and love for Iran that somehow managed to transcend the travails of everyday life. It was as if they were able to separate their own personal experience under the Islamic Republic from the wider, grander picture of belonging to an ancient, sophisticated civilisation. But not this guy. He just wanted to be French.

  ‘I would like to live in Paris,’ he said.

  Now the cheeses made sense. He would fit in a treat on La Rive Gauche. And it broke my heart that his dream would probably remain unrealised, that instead he was creating his own mini-Paris, with his coffee and Camembert and his forbidden Django Reinhardt, here in a backstreet of Tehran.

  ‘Have you ever been to Paris?’ I asked him, but I already knew the answer. He shook his head.

  ‘You know of Joseph de Maistre?’ he asked.

  It was my turn to shake my head.

  ‘He was a Frenchman, a philosopher.’

  No, I said. I didn’t know him.

  ‘He is the man who said that a country gets the government it deserves.’

  This time I nodded. I knew the saying.

  ‘But he is wrong.’ He looked me in the eye again. ‘We do not deserve ours.’

  Acknowledgements

  MY JOURNEYS IN Iran and this book could not have happened without an enormous amount of help and friendship from so many, both at home and in Iran.

  Firstly, thank you to Austin and Mum, for supporting the plan from the get-go, for being fearless, and for never being naysayers. And to Austin, thank you also for the endless reading, re-reading, talking, brainstorming and your unwavering belief in me.

  To the wonderful trio of Sina, Avid and Ava who were so integral to my journey and have gone on to enhance my life in so many ways. Thank you, my dear friends! I could not have done it without you.

  A huge d
ebt of gratitude is due to the inimitable Antony Wynn, chairman of the Iran Society (www.iransociety.org) who generously offered to read and fact-check the first draft. Thank you for amending my mistakes, correcting my Persian and enlivening my margins no end. Any errors to be found are mine.

  To Zohreh for being the kind of woman who can make anything happen. You are the true embodiment of the great Iranian spirit.

  To Laudan Nooshin for making what I now know to be a very Iranian gesture of assistance to a total stranger. I’m glad you were listening to the radio that day.

  To Lisa Harrison and Eleanor Crow for reading early drafts and for your sound advice, friendship and encouragement.

  To Suzi Searle and Marcus Ackerman for the Tehran connection.

  To Ruth Killick for putting me in touch with Nick Brealey, the man who really got the book off the ground and worked hard to make it happen.

  At Nicholas Brealey Publishing/John Murray Press, big thank you to my editor, Kate Hewson, for her sensible suggestions and snappy asides in the margins. To Ben Slight and Louise Richardson for their unending positivity and enthusiasm for this book, and to Ruby Mitchell for her tireless work in promoting it. It has been a real pleasure to work with you all. Big thanks to the powerhouse that is Melissa, Alison, Michelle and Tess at Nicholas Brealey Publishing in the US. You guys rock.