I asked why they had come back to Iran considering the terrible things that went on politically. Leyla’s mother said that they would only stay for a few more years and that she wanted Leyla to experience some Iranian culture. Leyla was back off to New Zealand next year to go to university and said she would not return to Iran to live. I had to ask what they made of the whole “freedom” and “democracy” enterprise in neighboring Iraq and Afghanistan and if they thought the U.S. would invade Iran next.
Leyla’s mother dismissed it by saying that as long as there were foreigners like Ricardo and me in Iran then it was a sure sign that they’d be safe from invasion. I wondered if she was right. She added, “If it is really about democracy and human rights then why aren’t they going after their friends in Saudi Arabia and Uzbekistan where they boil people alive?” I couldn’t have agreed more.
The four of us were hungry from all the talking and we all went for dinner together at an open-air restaurant. It was decided that Leyla and her mother would order some traditional Iranian food for us, and just after the food arrived, there was a power outage, throwing the whole village into darkness. It was wonderful as there was a clear night sky with a big silvery moon, which, along with the candles hastily supplied by the waiters, provided all the light we needed.
We had garlic soaked in vinegar, succulent meat-skewered kebabs, rice with butter, and for dessert a local specialty of soft, aromatic cinnamon biscuits. Whilst tucking in, I asked how difficult the obligatory dawn-till-dusk fasting was during the holy month of Ramadan, which, luckily for me, was occurring just after my visa expired. (Ramadan celebrates the period in which the Islamic holy book, the Koran, is believed to have been revealed to the prophet Mohammed.)
Leyla’s mother’s answer provided a real insight into Iranians. “Most Iranians are actually not particularly good Muslims, and won’t hesitate to eat heartily behind closed doors. What is important to them is the perception by others that they are fasting.”
I was so surprised and asked, “Really?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Look at the mosques on Fridays; they are nearly all empty.” Since Friday is the holy day for Muslims, this was in stark contrast to how we had perceived Iranians before our visit. Ricardo and I found this fascinating.
When it was time to pay, Ricardo and I tried to pick up the tab but were scolded like little schoolboys by Leyla’s mother who said forcefully, “Sit down. I am older than you! You are our guests.”
We did as we were told.
Before we parted company, Leyla gave us her cell number and told us to call her just as soon as we got to Tehran. We thanked them for the meal and for such a fascinating and enjoyable night and headed back to our room very satisfied.
“That was just brilliant, Jamie! Just brilliant!”
I agreed with Ricardo.
We were back at the room by ten and, after washing some clothes in the sink, were nearly ready for bed. At around ten thirty, just as I was yawning my way into bed, there was a knock on our front door. I went to open it, and standing there was a man carrying a cake. He apologized in broken English for disturbing us and explained that he’d heard there was an Englishman from London in the village, and so just had to come and see me. He asked if I was returning to London tomorrow. On hearing that I wasn’t, he sighed with disappointment. “It is a shame,” he said. “I have a friend in London and I would like you to take this cake to him.”
Doing favors for strangers was clearly a way of life in Iran. Here was a man I’d only just met who wanted me to take a big, icing-topped, cream-filled cake, as hand luggage, to London, then travel across the vast city to deliver it, in person, to a guy I’d never met before. He apologized for the inconvenience, and I apologized that I couldn’t help him. When I closed the door, I realized I’d been talking to him wearing just my boxers, which in Iran was hardly the done thing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The small antiquated television in the corner of the room displayed rather a strange spectacle. Here were loads of Iranians walking up a hill, and that, believe it or not, was the be all and end all of the program. This seemingly innocuous event got top billing and was jazzed up with funky music and dramatic zooming in and out with the camera. It went on for a good fifteen minutes, and for all I know much longer, as we had to leave before it finished.
On our way to pay the owner of our accommodation, we saw Leyla and her mother again, who were staying in another home stay a few doors down. We decided to have breakfast together at a cafe nearby. Over boiled eggs and bread served with real honeycomb and thick cream, I showed them the funny posters I’d bought in Tabriz, which, due to my not being able to find a post office, I was still carrying around. They thought they were hilarious, especially the ones of the wrestler, whom they now told me about.
His name was Gholamreza Takhti, and he was an extremely popular national hero who’d had a rags-to-riches life. He was raised in abject poverty but had succeeded in becoming the first Iranian wrestler to win a medal at an international tournament. He went on to become an Olympic champion, and began to attain a legendary status. He was seen by many Iranians as a sort of larger-than-life champion of good, a person Persians refer to affectionately as a
He was a staunch supporter of the popular democratic Iranian Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh who was ousted by a CIA and MI6 sponsored coup in 1953, which led to the Shah’s twenty-six years of despotic reign. Because of this support for the former Prime Minister and Takhti’s huge popularity, the Shah’s secret police sought to diminish his status and began to watch his every move. Although he was well past his prime, the secret police purportedly arranged for him to compete in the 1964 Olympics and the 1966 World Championships in the hope that if he lost, the Iranian people’s affection for him would wane. He was unsuccessful in these competitions, but the secret police’s plan failed, and his popularity remained as high as ever. He died mysteriously a couple of years later, and although the official cause of death was recorded as suicide, the generally held opinion was that the secret police had assassinated him.
I felt a bit guilty at having found a poster of such a national hero so funny, but they agreed it was a naff picture and laughed at it also. Leyla’s mother warned me that I might have trouble sending the Khomeini poster through the mail, as it might be deemed disrespectful, and so to be careful doing this. When it was time to get the bill, Ricardo and I asked Leyla’s mother politely if we could pay and said it would make us very happy. She agreed.
We were all heading back to Rasht today, so Leyla and her mother asked if we’d like to share a private taxi with them. We parted company when Leyla and her mother got out at the main bus station to catch a coach back to Tehran. Leyla’s mother kindly insisted on paying, not only for the fare from Masuleh but for the taxi to take Ricardo and me on to the local minibus station so we could catch a bus to our next stop, the coastal town of Ramsar.
On the way there, the driver put some thumping Western dance music on, and when he saw that Ricardo and I both approved he cranked it up and beat his fist enthusiastically into the air. We both laughed and then joined him as if at some crazy rave party. It was great fun.
We caught a minibus down the coast to Ramsar, which had been described in our identical guidebooks as one of Iran’s most attractive seaside resorts with some of the best scenery anywhere along the Caspian coast.
It certainly didn’t look it from the place the minibus dropped us, which was a crowded intersection called Imam Khomeini Square, on a busy street called Imam Khomeini Boulevard.
By way of a caveat, our
It has to be said, though, that unrestrained development has started to spoil some of the erstwhile wonderful views. People here are very friendly and like to see foreigners, perhaps because they bring back memories of the boom years before the Islamic Revolution when women strolled around town in bikinis and blackjack was the game of choice in the casinos.
