Iranian Rappers and Persian Porn

modern artistic structure that you could walk through. Situated around it were the statues of famous Iranian poets to whom it was a memorial.

One of Iran’s favorite poets, Ferdosi, started an epic poem in the tenth century called Shahnama or “the Book of Kings,” which he began at age forty and finished thirty years later. It was, as you might expect, a touch on the long side and contained no less than 50,000 couplets. This he presented to the Turkish king, who was less than impressed, as it contained no reference at all to the Turks. He rejected it and poor old Ferdosi died a penniless fellow. He is venerated now, though, and seen as the savior of Farsi, writing in this language when Persian culture was rapidly being Arabized. His writings record many details of Persian history, which, without him, might have been lost forever. Other famous and influential Iranian poets include Hafez, Sa’di, and Omar Khayyam.

Beneath the mausoleum was an underground exhibition hall displaying local photography. The photos were all of regional attractions, and one in particular caught my attention. It was an old stony castle situated on top of a rugged and very steep mountaintop, surrounded on all sides by forested hills. Its name was Babak Castle, and strangely it merited no mention in my guidebook. Shahram seemed to know it well but found it difficult to translate for me where it was or if it was possible to visit. I decided to make some further inquiries later with the tourist guide who’d offered me Nescafe.

Shahram was generous to a fault and had already bought me a notepad in the bazaar and was now approaching the till with a book. I suspected it was for me, and my suspicions were confirmed when he turned and presented it to me with a smile. It was a photography booklet of quality prints, including one of the mysterious castle. I thanked him many times over and wondered if all Iranians were this incredibly generous and hospitable to foreigners.

Not long after the sun set, I was introduced to Shahram’s wife, whom we met up with at her office. Her name was Kimya, and as Shahram introduced me to her, I made the mistake of instinctively thrusting out my hand for her to shake before realizing it wasn’t deemed appropriate. Once it was out, though, I couldn’t retract it, so it just sort of hung there in the air for a second, whilst she pondered what to do. In desperation, she looked across to Shahram for guidance. He nodded that it was okay, and we shook. I hoped I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Kimya spoke much better English than Shahram, and it was good to talk to her without having to repeat myself several times as I’d been doing with Shahram. She went through all the standard Iranian icebreaker questions and seemed genuinely sorry and surprised to learn I wasn’t married yet, as had Shahram when he had first asked me. “I hope you get married soon,” was all she said before changing the subject tactfully, as if trying to save me the embarrassment of being single. Minutes later we left for another attraction.

We all piled into the back of a shared taxi, and on the way to our next stop, Kimya queried me repeatedly on what I knew of Islam. We talked religion together for a while and how Christianity, Islam, and Judaism are in fact very similar. Having read a bit about this, I managed to knock out a couple of quotes from the Koran to impress Kimya. I started with Surah 29, where Mohammed instructs his followers, “Do not dispute with the people of the book,” (i.e., Jews and Christians), “… but tell them we believe in the Revelation which has come down to us and in that which came down to you; our Allah and your Allah is one.” Kimya and Shahram were both very pleased and seemed impressed that I knew something of their religion.

Kimya then told me that when Mohammed entered Mecca in triumph, he ordered the destruction of all idols and images, but when he came across a picture of the Virgin Mary and infant Jesus, he covered it reverently with both hands and said that all other idols were to be destroyed, but the image of the Virgin and Child was to be looked upon as sacrosanct. We then talked about Jesus being a prophet to Muslims and that Mohammed had referred to Jesus as the “breath of God.”

When we finally got to our destination, I tried to pay for the ride but gave up when Shahram seemed offended that I should try to do such an underhanded and despicable thing.

“You are our guest!” he said forcefully as he handed the money to the driver.

“Fair enough,” I thought.

We had arrived at a magical place called King’s Lake, which Kimya explained was now officially called People’s Lake so as to have no reference to the ousted king of Iran, the Shah. It was a fair-sized lake with many multicolored illuminated fountains and a large restaurant built in the middle, which was accessible via a walkway. This, Shahram explained, had once been a disco when such things were allowed in Iran before the Islamic Revolution. Many people splashed around in little paddleboats, and everybody we passed seemed happy. Surrounding the lake was a park containing some fairground attractions, including a Ferris wheel lit up with twinkling colored lights.

We strolled leisurely along the outside path of the lake where other people were also walking, relaxing, eating candy floss, roller-skating, and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. The limited visions I’d had of Iran before visiting had been of slightly worrisome street scenes where I’d have to keep my wits about me at all times, lest I be lynched by a mob of anti-Western fundamentalists. The farce of that misconceived image made me laugh now.

We ambled along in the balmy nighttime summer air to the walkway that led out to the restaurant. Here, I was treated to a yogurt and cucumber, then the finest Iranian style kebabs and rice with a big dollop of butter. We washed this down with cool beaded bottles of Sprite served with straws. It was strange to be in such an ambient restaurant without being able to order from a wine list and instead to be drinking through a straw. Over dinner, we talked about all manner of things, including our hobbies. They were both amazed to learn I skydived and got me to talk about this for a good fifteen minutes. They kept shaking their heads in astonishment. I promised to e-mail them a photo of me doing this, which both seemed genuinely excited about receiving.

When it was time to pay, I didn’t really know what to do, but I decided to offer and did so three times. In the end, it was no good and I was overruled by the pair of them, but I felt better for trying.

Walking back through the park, we chatted about Iranian cinema, and I told them I had seen the Oscar- nominated Iranian film Children of Heaven (which, dear reader, if you haven’t yet seen I’d highly recommend, as it is a delightful and touching piece of cinema). Kimya was most impressed by this and recommended another film for me by the same director, called Color of Paradise.

All in all, it was a splendid afternoon and evening, and when we got back to my hotel, they offered to put me up at their place the next night. I did the refuse three times routine then agreed on the fourth. Things were working out extremely well.

CHAPTER FIVE German Pop Songs and Chains of Misery

At the bottom of Shahram’s apartment block was an area to leave your shoes before entering the block proper. We added ours to the pile of existing footwear, which belonged to everybody else who had a place here, and went on up in our socks to Shahram’s third-floor apartment. Kimya was waiting for us, and although still wearing a hijab, she had lost the black chador she’d worn the night before and was now dressed in far more Western clothing.

I didn’t make the mistake of trying to shake her hand this time but instead put my hand on my heart and gave a little bow. They had a nice but basic place with loads of furniture that was colored or painted gold. I got my first home-cooked Iranian meal, which was called Ghorme Sabzi and consisted of sauteed herbs mixed with black-eyed beans, dried limes, onions, and succulent lamb, all served with the softest melt-in- the-mouth rice, and a crusty sort of rice fritter. This was accompanied by an interesting Iranian drink of watery milk and dried mint called doogh. Shahram was the epitome of hospitality and kept piling the food on my plate, giving me far more than I could have possibly finished.

“What do you think of Arabs?” Shahram queried from out of nowhere.

“I don’t really know any,” I replied neutrally.

“They are just interested in money, don’t you think?”

I remained neutral on this one and explained that actually a lot of people in the West mistakenly assume that Iranians are Arabs.

The color drained from his face in shock. This was not what he wanted to hear and was probably the