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Published: November 8th 2009
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For a day and a half I was by the Persian Gulf, in the south of Iran. Here there was a marked liberal air, in relation to the rest of Iran, of course. Clothing was more colourful, women's ankles were often to be spotted (for those who were looking) and that obscure fanciful practice known as swimming was undertaken in full public view. I arrived in Bandar Abbas at 8.30am, and already it was very hot - such a contrast to cooling early autumnal Esfahan. The first sight to shake me from my night-bus hangover was the startling face-coverings worn by some women in the Gulf region as part of the burqa. I was too sleepy to take a picture of this, so concentrate on the description: Bright red and stiff, made of I don't know what, covering the face and sicking out like a long vertical bird's beak. It seemed to belong more to Venice during carnival time, rather than the Islamic republic. I understand it is more to do with ancient Portugese customs, and is sometimes worn as fashion.
I decided to head straight for the little port along the coast famous for its wooden boats, Bandar Lengeh,
where I would be catching my ferry for Dubai the next morning, rather than hang around Bandar Abbas. "Not nice," was how my travel agent described the much larger Bandar, although catching a glimpse of the lesser spoted red burqa was worth the trip alone. I was told to be at the ferry terminal at 7am, for a 10am departure, so I had at least to get there that day.
The bus station where I arrived was a few kilometres east of the town centre, and the one where I needed to depart from was a few kms to the west. It is the same in every town and city in Iran; bus station locations designed by people used to siting airports. I caught a taxi across town, thinking the taxi-mafia had had a say in positioning the bus stations, and then shared a taxi the three hour journey west to Lengeh. The taxi cost only slightly more than the bus, and was quicker - not that I was in a rush. The journey was mostly along the coast, and the blue-green sea shimmered under a washed-out sky. The temperature in the cab was not too hot - every
enclosed space along the coast seemed to have some sort of airconditiong - but the body odour from my driver and fellow passengers was on the cusp of unbearable. I'm sure I gave as good as I received, however, having spent the night on a bus. "Mr Nick," was again the fun thing to shout out randomly, not by me you understand. The driver and passengers were all young and had almost no English.
The taxi dropped us one-and-a-half kms out of the small town's centre - why, I don't know. I decided to hike into town, despite the heat, and paused several times by the sea to soak in the markedly different atmosphere. The sea water seemed clean, with its small regular waves breaking onto a sandy beach which was liberally covered in litter, frayed rope and big dead fish (the stray cats were missing out here, but probably couldn't cope with the heat). I walked past small boat yards, with their brightly-coloured wooden craft. I walked along some deserted streets, past closed cafes. Not only was it the end of the tourist season, but it was also Friday, and the middle of the long siesta - so I virtually had the town to myself. I found the cheaper of Lengeh's two hotels, Hotel Amir, easily and took the 'simple room'. The manager was insistent that I have the luxury of a TV showing only programs in Persian, and a fridge for an extra $3, but I declined and roughed it.
Having lived on bread, biscuits and water for the past 19 hours I decided on a decent meal in the restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel. I was hungry and had plenty of Iranian rials left and was running out of time to use them, and they can be tricky to change back to other currencies, so no expense was to be spared over lunch. I ordered chicken, rice and salad and Pepsi - although I would have killed for a glass of forbidden wine! The ordering was via my poor Farsi, the combined waiters' poor English and more of those universal gestures. It was good food, and I thought it would be a decent-sized bill. However the manager refused to let me pay, saying, "Tourist", shaking me by the hand and slapping me on the back. I had heard that taxi drivers will often say, "It's nothing" when you ask how much the journey cost, but that was only a customary politeness, and the driver would be certain to tell you the price if you asked again. Here, though, the manager and my waiter would not be drawn on a price no matter how hard I pushed them. Fine, I thought, I will come back in the evening and have an even bigger meal and leave a big tip; I would find a way to use my soon-to-expire currency.
After lunch I took the novel I was reading to the beach. I was alone at first, but people began to arrive, beginning with an old man with three younger men. They had a shovel, and commenced to dig quite a big hole in the sand. I soon found out why - the old man was ritually inserted into the hole and buried up to his chest, I only hope to keep him cool, and not to keep him from running away. The younger ones then ran straight into the sea and frolicked as only joyous young Iranian men can do. I swam too, but all the while keeping an eye out for the police. I reasoned that as wearing shorts was forbidden in the rest of Iran, taking my shirt off could be a risky business. More swimmers arrived, all young men, creating an atmosphere more like Sitges than the Middle East. By 4pm families including women had joined the beachside party, although only the men swam, and a rock band started to warm up on an improvised stage at the rear of the sandy strip.
I walked back to the hotel, pausing to pick a gum leaf from one of the many trees in a beach-side park, and inhale its oily fumes. It reminded me of my final destination. The hotel manager told me I could not have a towel, which seemed an odd policy, but he did offer me some tea. I had a snooze in my airconditioned room, and wandered out to find that the town's only coffeenet was closed. I bought some fruit for my breakfast - there seemed to be nothing but fruit shops open by then. That left me with nothing to do for the evening except eat at restaurant Amir again.
I had the kabab, with rice, salad and vegetables, and Pepsi. Then guess what! Once again I was refused permission to pay. This time I made a guess at the price, added some more, and a tip, and put the money before the manager on his doorside desk, refusing his refusal. No - he was insistent. This continued for some time until he won. To have taken it any further would have been rude in anyone's culture, so I let him treat me to a second very fine meal.
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anonymous
non-member comment
Eyeing up ladies' ankles? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. ;-)