Frustrations and Friendliness in Persia

There was no way around it. I was never going to find an Irish bar in Iran. In fact, I was never going to find an Iranian bar in Iran. With alcohol strictly off the menu, I was having serious doubts about the capacity for 'having fun' in Iran.

I had arrived in Tabriz, the first major city after the Turkish border, in mid-afternoon, an hour and a half ahead of Turkey. The border crossing had been uneventful - as a foreigner, I was whisked ahead of the hundreds of locals, and through to the other side in under 30 minutes. Rip-offs were attempted, but I'm glad to say I'm now fairly hardened against these guys. After having my minibus journey to the town of Maku paid for (my first experience of that famous Iranian hospitality), I took the four hour journey to Tabriz, and quickly settled into my hotel.

My plan was to spend about a week in the North-West of country, visiting a few mountain places slightly off the beaten track, before heading down to Iran's 'Golden Triangle' of Esfahan, Yazd and Shiraz. There's not a whole lot to do or see in Tabriz, but it's well worth staying for a visit to Kandovan, a little village of fairy-chimney houses, in the same fashion as those of Goreme back in Cappadocia. Here, the houses are more densely clustered together, accessible by steep, winding paths, and of course, there are no hotels, tour groups, etc. I spent a couple of hours wandering through the houses, and drinking tea on the far side of the river. It was quite a pleasant first full day in Iran.

But what would I do for fun? That night, I was sucked into Iran's social scene - I headed to the trendy 'Valiasr' district in east Tabriz, and was immediately befriended by some lads of my own age. Our night on the town? Sitting in a cafe eating ice-cream, stealing glances at girls ankles (whoaaa!), before heading to a tea house for a long smoke of a qalyan. It was in the tea house that something which I had heard about, but not really believed, happened.

"What country you from?"

"Ireland."

"Ireland?............Ireland?............ah, Bobby Sands!"

I knew the answer to give straight away.

"No food!"

Then I tried to change the subject. When travelling, I try to stay away from stuff like this - apart from not knowing a great deal about the man, I try not to capitalise on my 'Irishness' to win friends. For example, if someone is treating me bad because they think I'm English or American, and then change their attitude when they learn the truth, I try to avoid them.

That night, I got my first glimpse into the feelings of Iran's urban youth about the situation in the country. Dictatorship was the most commonly used word, always followed by 'shusshh'. As if I would. The night ended with the customary swapping of e-mail addresses which will never be used. The next morning, I was going to Rasht, to use the town as a base for visitng the mountain village of Masuleh. Only this time I had company - two Germans, considerably older than me, but hopelessy, eh, hopeless in dealing with Iranian taxi drivers. In order to reach Rasht, we had to change at Ardabil, which required a taxi ride from where we were dropped off to the actual bus station.

"It takes 50 minutes," our evil driver told us.

"No it doesn't, on the map it's about 4km away", I answered.

My German companions were amazed that I had answered back. One of them had already reached into his back pocket to pay the 30,000 Rials the guy was demanding. We arrived at the bus station in under ten minutes, and the guy was still demanding 30,000. I knew to pay no more than 5,000, and kicked up a huge fuss in front of the whole bus station, engaging with English-speaking locals about how Iran's taxi drivers were giving all Iranians a bad name. Eventually, we agreed on 5,000, but this wasn't to be the end.

We arrived in Rasht 2 hours late, got our hotel, and went for dinner. Now it would be unfair on my new friends, Stefan and Roman, to say they were stereotypically German (not to mention unfair on the Germans). In my experience, Germans do not deserve their reputation for coldness and being boring. And after all, these guys had come to Iran! However, at the dinner table, we were immediately befriended (as happens everywhere in Iran), by about 6 youths, all keen to practise their English. No problem, within five minutes I had another 6 gathered around me, telling them all about GAA and Croke Park, while Stefan and Roman looked on in bemusement. Then came the moment I suppose every person who's hanging out with Germans dreads.

"So, what is your idea about Hitler?" asked one of our party.

If the Germans had been quiet and awkward before, you should have seen them curl up like a hedge-hog now.

Our new friend continued. "I think Hitler was a great man, he did great things for the German people, and he protected Iran against the British and Americans. You know I've read the first two pages of 'My Struggle'?"

My mind was racing - change subject, change subject, change subject.......

"Eh, so who's heard of Bobby Sands?"

"Ah yes, Bobby Sands, Bobby Sands!"

And that was that. On the way back to the hotel that night, I learned my German pals were Jahovah's Witnesses. I was gob-smacked, then very happy. I'd never met a Jahovah's Witness before (I don't think), and unlike what I'd heard, these guys didn't try and convert me, or any Iranians (although with the death penalty being the punishment for conversion from Islam, I can't imagine that's why they came here). That night at the hotel, we made more friends, and I arranged with one guy, Massoud, to go up to Masuleh the next day on his motor-bike, stay the night, and then go for a long drive around the mountains the next day.

That night though, it pissed rain - Rasht is beside the Caspian, and get heavy rainfall all year round. The next day, it was still lashing, so we called off our expedition, and I decided to come back to Masuleh in a few weeks. Massoud did, however, give me a hour-long ride around Rasht to see the sights - my first experience in the thick of Iranian traffic. I said farwell to my Germans buddies, who were off to Esfahan, and made for the city of Qazvin, intending to use it as a base to visit, and hopefully camp beside, the legendary "Castle of the Assassins". No such luck - after a night in Qazvin, I woke up too late the next day to catch the one and only minibus up to the sight, so I said "F@*K it", and hopped on the next bus to Tehran.

Iranians are the most curious, naturally friendly people you'll ever meet. My bus journey to Tehran was the perfect example. The guy next to me, who spoke no English, learned my nationality straight away. He then spent the next half hour struggling, desperately wanting, to say something to me - sometimes he'd turn to me, open his mouth, but then think better of it, and turn back. After about a half hour, he pulled open his briefcase, and took out a little book. From glances I was able to see that this 'English Phrase Book' would be no use to him. It was for business, and full of terms like 'Progress Report', 'Accountability', and 'Stamina'. After 15 minutes of flicking through, he was defeated, and so, did what every Iranian would do. He started waffling away to me in Farsi anyway. There's only so many times I can shrug my shoulders, and say "Me no Farsi", before I get tired. There was only one thing for it.

"Eh, you know Bobby Sands?"

"Ah, yes, Bobby Sands, Bobby Sands!"

On arrival in Tehran, I was approached, then assaulted by at least 15 taxi drivers, who ignored everone else getting off the bus. I was the sucker, the rich westerner who would pay whatever they want. Now I must say, I did meet one or two straight, honest taxi guys in Tehran, but for the most part, they're all absolute scum. After asking for 100,000 Rials to take me to my hotel, I finally had one guy down to 20,000, still a rip, but I didn't care at this stage. He took me to his car, and locked my ruck-sack in the boot, and then disappeared. It was clear what was happening. In Iran, you can hire a taxi privately (which I thought I had just done), or share with four other and split the cost five ways. When he returned ten minutes later with four other Iranians, I said "Nah Dar Baste? (No closed door?", and told him I'd give him 4,000. Incredibly, he had the cheek to get pissed off with me, even though I knew the other passengers were only paying about 2,000. I went to open the boot to get my bag, and he blocked me, and held out his hand for the money. I spat at his feet, grabbed a smallish rock off the ground, and threatened to smash his window, at which point he immediately opened the boot and gave me my bag.

Now anyone reading this at home knows that it's not like me to lose it like that - but the heat, tiredness, and the god damn principle of it overcame me. I told them all to fuck off, and decided to walk. One guy didn't give up on me, and grabbed my arm back, at which point I was ready to flip. But I was saved, as they say, by an Afghan girl, who presumably told them all where to go (they disappeared), and took me to the Metro. After paying for everything, of course, she gave me her uncles address in Kabul should I go that way.

Tehran is huge, ugly, noisy, and so polluted you can scrape the dirt off your skin after a day out. There's not a single building that looks good. I was here to pick up my Indian visa, and then get out. On my first day, having visited Bobby Sands Street, I met Amir, a 37-year old printer salesman (I think), who had learned English in 60 days, so he said. He was good company, and took me up to the former US embassy, noe called 'The US Den of Espinage'. We arranged to meet the next day to see more.

The next morning, I went to the Indian embassy to apply, only to be told I needed a letter of recommendation from the Irsh embassy. So I got a motorbike taxi all the way up, only to realise I'd forgotten my passport anyway. I decided to leave it till the next day, and met Amir. We went uptown to visit the Shah's old palace, now on display as an example of what a luxiourious, anti-Islamic lifestyle he led. It wasn't much to look at - certainly not as elaborate as I imagine the White House to be. Amir told me the Shah was not a dictator, and our taxi driver confirmed this. I wasn't sure about this, and though maybe 25 years of Islamic rule had softened the Shah's memory in their eyes. In any case, Amir hated the current regime, the 'real dictatorship', and said he, and at least 50% of Iranians, would fully support an American occupation. Again, I wasn't sure, and was getting used to Amirs exaggeration of things - "I played guitar solo of 'November Rain' over 3,000 times" - but he was great to talk to and listen to, and I couldn't help but be moved when he proclaimed "all I want now in my life is to play the blues, ride my chopper, and have a girlfriend." Hearing this from a 37-year old man made it sink in. We agreed, though, that Iran's youth are just a little too comfortable. The regime has granted enough freedoms to make them feel like they have something to lose if they rebel.

I spent a good bit of time (and money) in Tehran, taking motor-cycle taxis across town. The traffic in Tehran is as bad as it gets. This isn't like going to Rome or Paris, and coming saying "Oh god, the traffic was terrible". This is some serious shit, where if you're not on your guard, you can easily get flattened. The motor-cycle taxis are the only way to get anywhere fast, and are great fun. A couple of times I got them across town and back, for want of something better to do.

The next day, I went to the Irish embassy and got my letter. Over at the Indian embassy, however, I learned it would take five days to process. That was it, I couldn't take much more of Tehran (for the moment), so I walked out, and booked my bus ticket to Shiraz, where I am now.

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