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The hotel lobby was as opulent as it was expansive. Based on the ancient Persian civilisation of Persepolis, The Darioush Hotel, Kish Island's finest, featured high walls full of authentic looking carvings and bas-reliefs while its entrances were guarded by stone statues. It was a pity it wasn't my place of stay; unfortunately, I was on Kish Island for only a day trip. My hotel was back in Dubai, where I flying back to later that night.
I took in the lobby. Businessmen, lounging on chairs large enough to be thrones, tapped importantly away on laptops. Headscarved women stood behind concierge desks while a young boy polished an elaborate marble column. Rahim, my guide for the day, and I walked through it all, and then exited at the far end, where we found ourselves in a garden of sorts. The pathway, flanked by winged beasts made of stone, together with a mammoth statue of Darius the Great, for whom the hotel was named, lay in front of us. “How much is it to stay here?” I asked Rahim as we ambled along a series of waterfalls and stone columns. If I ignored the construction work going on in the distance,
which even the multitude of palm trees could not hide, I could’ve been in a Biblical version of paradise.
“For one room, I think it is $150. Very expensive.”
Paris International Restaurant Rahim asked whether I was ready for lunch. I nodded and told him I was. The establishment Rahim chose was called the Paris International Restaurant. It had a plastic mock-up of the Eiffel Tower outside. It was next door to Chi Chiz, an falafel-kebab café. There were no McDonald’s or Pizza Hut on the island, but Rahim told there was a KFC on the island: Kish Fried Chicken.
Waiting inside the Paris International Hotel was Rahim’s brother, Mehdi. He was in his mid-twenties, slightly overweight, but in possession of the same friendly features as his elder sibling. He stood up and shook my head heartily. “Welcome to Kish, my friend,” he beamed. “I hope you are enjoying our hospitality.”
The three of us sat down at a diner-type table. A couple of other men sat across from us while a couple of waiters hovered at the front. Mehdi told me he worked at the same office as his brother and added that he
was a good boss. “He is sometimes lazy though. He makes us do all the work while he reads the newspaper.”
The waiter came over and said something to Rahim. Rahim said something back and then nodded. The waiter was actually the owner, Rahim told me. He was a thin man in his early sixties with a greasy apron and permanent grin. “He wants to shake your hand,” Rahim told me. “He doesn’t get many Western visitors in his restaurant and wants to thank you for choosing his restaurant.” I stood up and shook the man’s proffered hand. He babbled at me in Farsi and I simply smiled and shrugged. Finally he departed so we could choose our food.
The Paris International Restaurant specialised in Pizzas. It also sold cans of non-alcoholic beer which both Rahim and Medhi ordered. I asked for a diet coke, which came in a wine glass. When the pizzas came all of us tucked in with gusto. After a few slices, I asked the bothers whether they planned on staying on Kish Island for the foreseeable future.
While Mehdi considered this, Rahim answered. “I have thought about moving to Australia. We have
a cousin who works in Melbourne.” Mehdi nodded, grabbing another slice of pizza. “He is a computer programmer and he earns a lot of money – more than we could ever earn in Iran. But here’s the thing: he tells us that he works all hours, even weekends. He says he hardly sees his wife and son. So when I hear this, I think that maybe Kish is better for us. We have enough money to enjoy ourselves and our work does not kill us. That is worth something, I think.”
Mehdi nodded. “I am happy here. We have a good life. I do not want to move.”
Friendly owner The owner came over again and spoke to the brothers, glancing at me and my pizza while he did so. I guessed he was asking whether I thought it was okay. It was, and I gave him a thumbs-up to tell him so. He man beamed and shook my hand again. He was the friendliest cafe owner I’d met in all my travels.
I noticed a collection of about thirty flags on the restaurant counter. I scanned them, looking for the Union Jack, but couldn’t see
it. I pointed this out to Rahim, who looked, and then addressed the old man. The man looked too and looked apologetic. He then spoke to Rahim for a short while.
“He says that the British flag is in the back, in a drawer with an American one. He told me that he used to have them both on display but the police made him remove them. They said the flags belonged to enemy countries. Soon, he thinks he will be able to show them again. But he tells me he will put them out for you today, if you wish. He says you are a friend of Iran and if you want to see the flag, then he will go and get it.”
I told him not to go to such lengths. I wasn’t bothered about the lack of a British flag; I’d just been wondering why he hadn’t got one. Now I knew.
Ayatollah Rahim was intrigued by the way I said Ayatollah. We were sitting in another hotel, the Shayan International, having a coffee. Ten minutes previously, we had dropped Mehdi off at their shared apartment. Instead of going back to
work, Mehdi had decided to have an afternoon siesta. No wonder they didn’t want to move to Australia: they had the life of Riley on Kish. Before saying goodbye, he had insisted we swap telephone numbers, because we were now brothers.
“Say it again,” he asked, smiling.
I picked up the 100,000 rial (about $3) note again. On the front was an image of the long bearded man himself: the Ayatollah Khomeini, the old revolutionary leader who founded the Islamic Republic of Iran in 1979. I said his name, much to the continued amusement of Rahim.
“What’s so good about me saying it?” I asked, taking a sip of my hellishly hot coffee.
“You sound funny saying it. I don’t know why.”
The friendliest bank in the world Back on the road, the realisation hit me that I was now completely at ease about being in Iran. Everyone was friendly, just like I’d read they would be. The perceived danger was none existent. Iran was one of the safest placed I’d visited. We were passing through another main street of the town. Headscarved young women wandered along, keeping to the shade offered by the
palm trees. Young men chatted in cafes. We passed a giant sculpture of a black and white penguin, which was next to a massive metal pineapple. Further on, we drove by a massive building shaped like an ocean liner. Rahim told me it was going to be a restaurant.
We pulled over by the side of the road near a bank. I’d asked if I could change some of my Emirati dirhams into Iranian rials so I could have a memento of my visit, and now it appeared it was going to happen. When we stepped inside, Rahim seemed to know everyone, shaking hands with almost every man inside. A tall man approached and shook hands with Rahim. He was the manager. I shook hands too and was then ushered into a back office where I was invited to sit down. A minute later, an underling brought a tray of tea. I took a cup and wondered what was going on.
“Iran welcomes you, sir,” he said. “And I personally hope you are enjoying your time on Kish Island.”
I nodded, which brought a fresh round of handshakes.
“Well, since you are a friend of Iran,
we will provide you with some rials at a generous exchange rate.” I passed over a hundred dirham note and the manager shouted for another minion and explained what I wanted. He nodded and set to work. Five minutes later, he returned with a wad of rials. Rahim took one and pointed to the man on the front. It was the Ayatollah again.
“Say his name.”
I did, wondering what it was about my pronunciation that was causing so much amusement. The manager’s eyes widened and then he laughed too. “You have heard of this man?”
“Of course. I thought everyone had heard of him.”
“Amazing. Truly Amazing!”
On the way out, I stopped to shake hands with another set of bank workers, ranging from clerks to tea boys. All of them wanted to shake hands with the man from England. Iran was the friendliest country in the world: of that I had no doubt.
But it was now time to see the last two remaining sights of Kish before I headed back to Dubai.
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Keep Smiling
Mike Fossey
Rahim, Mehdi and...
Saoib? Did I miss something? P.S. Among many other things, I was a proofreader in a previous life!