I spun around and looked out of the rear window to see if he was okay. He staggered to his feet apparently unhurt and picked up his bike. He was very lucky—after all, it could have been a tray of cream cakes.
The rest of the journey to Masuleh was absolutely nothing like my imagined picture of the Iranian countryside. The landscape was lush and green with rice paddies, tea plantations, banana trees, and pretty thatched roof houses by the roadside, with dense forested mountains in the background. It was a hot and humid morning, and the surroundings looked more like Vietnam or Cambodia than the Middle East.
Everybody else in the cab except Ricardo and I disembarked before Masuleh, so we arrived there by ourselves. If the journey here had looked like Southeast Asia then Masuleh looked more like a slice of Italy or Switzerland. Set in a valley surrounded by forested mountains with ribbons of silvery water meandering down their slopes, the village was a stunning place.
The historic houses of the village were the real attraction, though, as they clung to the mountainside so steeply that to get to the top of the town you had to walk on the roofs of the houses themselves. It was breathtaking. Ricardo and I approached the only proper hotel and were greeted by the friendly manager, who on hearing I was English insisted on phoning a friend for me to talk to.
I expected an English speaker in another part of the village or a different part of Iran on the other end of the phone, but instead got a rather tired sounding Iranian man in Twickenham, West London! I couldn’t believe it. After a few minutes of labored English, he asked if when I came back to London we could become friends.
“Yes,” I said. “Best friends.”
The poor chap had been woken up at five in the morning just to speak to me, and he did so happily and without irritation. Ricardo turned to me and said simply, “Iran is crazy!” I couldn’t agree with him more. The hotel manager spoke little English, so negotiating a price was next to impossible. In fact, he didn’t seem particularly interested in whether we stayed or not and seemed content just to sit with us at a table outside, whilst speaking at us in Farsi and munching on sesame seed biscuits.
Whilst talking to Ricardo, I mentioned a town on the coast called Ramsar. On hearing this, the hotel guy butted in and corrected my pronunciation, saying slowly, “Ramsar,” which to me and Ricardo sounded identical to what I’d just said. I tried again with another “Ramsar” but got, “No, no, no” in return and a slow “Ramsar!” It still hadn’t changed discernibly to my ear, so I gave it another go this time with a bit more “RRR—” but it elicited the same response from him.
Several more variations were attempted until the hotel manager had a brain wave. Off he went to the reception desk where he fetched a pen and paper. He returned outside and put his master plan into action. In completely illegible cursive Persian script, which meant less than nothing to me, he wrote down what I assume was the word “Ramsar.” It was as if he was spelling out the syllables on the assumption that I could read Persian. He now said “Ramsar” again. I tried once more for the hell of it, and low and behold on this occasion I got it right. He was convinced it was due to his writing, so set about scribbling down a host of other Iranian place names for me. He read a few of them out, pointing to the script at the same time, and then handed me the paper smiling as if I’d have no problem from now on.
As we were sitting with him, another man approached who spoke a little English and offered us a place in his “home stay.” We bade my Farsi teacher goodbye and left to check it out. It was a steep walk back and forth on the roofs of the houses to the very top of the village. The higher we went, the more spectacular the view became.
It was a charming little place, which wasn’t really a “home stay” at all but a small studio. It had a little kitchen area, a clean tiled bathroom with a “squat” toilet and a small living room that doubled as the bedroom. Instead of beds, there were two big traditional floppy mattresses. It even had a small old television.
Ricardo and I were both delighted with the place and took it on the spot. After jumping in the shower, separately of course, we struck off for a mountain walk.
There were no properly established walking tracks in Masuleh so we just picked a mountain and headed on up. It was hard going and the lack of sleep from the night on the bus took its toll, but it was well worth the effort. The sun pounded away, so we took advantage of one of the many silvery mountain streams cascading down the slopes and sat and cooled off. As I plonked my tired feet in the delightfully cool and soothing water, Ricardo pointed out that technically, we were breaking the law, as our trouser legs were rolled up to just below the knee, showing what would be considered an obscene amount of flesh. Ricardo pretended to be shocked and called me a whore.
When we returned to the village, the serenity we’d experienced there in the morning had long disappeared. Loads of Iranian tourists had since turned up and were snapping away with cameras, picnicking, checking out the sites, trying to control their children, buying postcards, and doing all of the other normal touristy things. We were the only Westerners though, and attracted plenty of inquisitive good-natured stares.
For a spot of food, we went to a cafe whose terrace was located on the roofs of a number of houses below. We sat beneath a shady canopy made up of old Persian carpets, and both ordered Iranian Zam Zam colas and that other Iranian favorite—the kebab, this time of the chicken variety. These were served still dripping blood and had to be returned for a while longer in the flames.
After some more pottering around, we were approached by a pretty young Iranian girl who spoke perfect English in what I thought was an Australian accent. She was in fact an Iranian New Zealander. Her name was Leyla and she was here with her mother who also spoke English but not with a New Zealand accent. After a brief chat, they invited us to join them for
Leyla was nineteen years old and had grown up in New Zealand, where her family had moved not long after the Islamic Revolution. They had all moved back to Iran in the last couple of years and now lived in Tehran. It was great to talk to them, as not only did they have a foot in both Western and Iranian culture but could explain it to us—thanks to their flawless English. I bombarded them both with questions.
We discussed everything from human rights abuses to wild student parties in Tehran and much, much more. I was intrigued to learn of the students in Tehran, who sounded very Western in comparison to other parts of the country. Leyla said that there were even illegal raves and illegal parties where the drink flowed, drugs were taken, and sex was plentiful. This sounded like my kind of place and certainly worthy of further investigation when I got there. She also said there was an unusually high gay population in Iran, which was a byproduct of the forced gender segregation and the fact that it was illegal to have a boyfriend or girlfriend. I wondered if all the guys I’d seen holding hands in Tabriz had in fact been gay after all. “Of course they are!” she said. Her mother disagreed with her on this point and said that it was just a sign of friendship.
Either way, I found this all completely fascinating. I particularly liked the sound of the young people in Tehran and really hoped to experience a bit of their lifestyle. Kindly, Leyla offered to take Ricardo and me to an Iranian rock or rap concert when we made it to the capital. We accepted immediately. They were, Leyla warned us, terrible, and the musicians dressed up like the American gangster variety with baggy clothing and big chunky chains—it would probably be so bad we’d think it was great. I hoped so.
She also mentioned how Western music was officially banned in Iran because the songs were deemed to contain lyrics that were sexual, spoke of teenage rebellion, or were just plain meaningless and therefore inappropriate. However, the cassettes and CDs were freely available on the black market and everybody had them.
Leyla now enlightened me on the popularity of Chris de Burgh. He, amazingly, is the only foreign artist whose music isn’t blocked under the official embargo. The reason, and I just love this, is that de Burgh’s lyrics are considered educational by the Iranian government, particularly as one of his songs features the words, “There is only one God,” which is the essence of Islamic belief whether Sunni or Shiite. I loved the irony. After all, if anyone’s music should be banned then undoubtedly his cheesy crooning should be the first to go.
Where Leyla was a great insight into current young people’s lives, her mother, having been in her twenties at the time of the revolution, was a great insight into how Iran had changed. Among other things, Ricardo and I discussed with her what she thought the future would hold for Iran and what level of support the government currently had. She said their support was, in general, very low and that most people hated them, but that the people were too afraid to do anything about it.
She told me a harrowing tale of a young girl of just sixteen who’d been arrested recently for having a boyfriend. In court, she’d been denied a lawyer and was forced to defend herself. She was sentenced to death by the judge, not for the alleged crime, but for answering him back. She was publicly hanged. It was very hard to get my head around just how nice all the people I had met here were, compared to just what a bunch of bastards their government was.
