One thing I really wanted to do in Yazd was to go out into the desert and, if possible, to spend a few nights there under the stars. Yazd was going to be my final destination in southern Iran before I started the long journey north again, so I was keen to make it a good one, and was more than willing to splash out on an expensive desert tour. This was something it was wise to pay a little extra for, as the last thing I wanted to do was end up on a budget desert excursion that wasn’t properly prepared. Before leaving the U.K., I had read that the Dasht-e Kavir desert was one of the hottest in the world, and that it had nearly finished off Alexander the Great and his army, so it was not a place to take lightly by cutting corners on cost. Reza said it was possible to book desert tours through the Yazd Internet cafe and agreed to take me there.
After sending Ricardo a quick e-mail to find out where he was, I inquired about the tours. The Internet cafe only did local day excursions, but I wanted to get right out there and into the thick of it, so they directed me to a nearby hotel where there was a guide who organized longer trips. The guide was a friendly young chap who spoke perfect English and explained that he only did overnight tours for groups of four or more, so I would have to find three others who also wanted to go.
He offered a three-night, four-day excursion deep into the Dasht-e Kavir, which would visit huge white salt flats, rugged mountain ranges, and the obligatory rolling sand dunes. It was just what I was after. I took his card and told him I’d give him a call if I managed to find the necessary volunteers. We didn’t stick around in town any longer, as by now the little lad was beginning to feel tired. On the drive back home, he fell fast asleep in the back of the car. We dropped him off, then popped into Reza’s house to catch up with his brother. Here Reza handed over tourist duty to Ashkan, who immediately whisked me outside again in the Land Rover.
Ashkan was all dressed up and looking as smooth as hell in a fresh white shirt, polished pointed shoes, and smart black strides. He told me we were going to a park where we could meet beautiful girls. I liked the sound of this. We drove to a place called the “Parsian” Hotel, which was situated in a peaceful and attractive garden on the other side of town. In the garden was an octagonal pond surrounded by many raised carpeted platforms occupied by smartly dressed attractive people in their early twenties. The platforms were either all occupied by girls or all occupied by guys, but none of them were mixed. Despite this gender separation on the platforms, there were a few couples discreetly standing nearby who were chatting together and holding hands. I got the distinct impression this was a popular meeting place for young people to go on “the pull”—Persian style.
Ashkan stopped at one of the platforms to say a gentlemanly hello to a group of girls he knew and introduced me in the process. The girls were all dressed in colorful hijabs and, with the exception of one of them, were all very attractive, fit, and slim. The exception was a big scowling chunky lass who looked the spitting image of the grumpy matron who Hattie Jacques played in the Carry On films.
Ashkan and I got a platform about ten feet from theirs. After a couple of minutes, “Hattie” came over and perched herself on the edge of the platform, nearly toppling it in the process. She was forthright and to the point. “Give me gift! You give me gift!” she barked at me.
“Charming,” I thought.
Although a bit taken aback by this, I emptied my pockets for something to give her. All I had was my wallet, my “World’s Best Dad” pocket watch, and my passport. She wasn’t getting any of these. I apologized and showed her what I had. She grabbed my passport and said, “Gift!”
Like hell it was. I grabbed it back from her sausage-like fingers.
“You are scrooge!” she barked.
“Cheeky cow,” I thought, but in the interests of diplomacy I asked her politely, “What can I give you?”
“Give me chocolate. I want chocolate!”
“I bet you do,” I thought, but this was the last thing she needed!
When I told her I had none, she repeated again, “You are scrooge!” this time grimacing up her face and five chins in the process. I told her I simply didn’t have any chocolate and then said, with the intention of stumping her, “Okay, you give me gift. Give me chocolate; you give me chocolate!”
She reached into her handbag and, with a triumphant look, produced two little candies for me and Ashkan. Hattie changed the subject and now asked me which of the girls on the platform I liked—ooh, Matron!
“Well they’re all very nice, as are you,” I said lying through my teeth about the last bit.
“But which one do you like?!” she growled.
“As I say, they’re all nice.”
“Do you not think they are beautiful?”
“Oh my goodness, no, I wasn’t saying that for a second; they are all very beautiful,” I ventured.
“Then which one do you like?!” she near shouted at me.
I gave in and said, “The one with the yellow hijab.” That was it. Off waddled Hattie to do the Iranian equivalent of, “My mate fancies you.”
The girls all giggled shyly as Hattie discussed the situation with them. She returned and asked, “Would you like to marry her?”
“Well, obviously, talk of marriage is slightly premature,” I stated. She stared at me with a look of confusion on her face and then just repeated the question.
“Would you like to marry her?”
“Don’t get me wrong—she’s very nice, but I couldn’t possibly contemplate…”
“But you say you like her. You no like her now?” she interrupted.
“No, no, she’s lovely,” I said.
“You want to marry her?”
I was going to try to explain again, but then I thought, “Oh, what the hell?” and just said, “Yes, I would like to marry her.”
Off she went and returned with my fiancee, who Hattie introduced as Susan. Susan barely spoke a word of English, so Hattie did the talking for her—and by the looks of it, all the eating for her as well. Susan was twenty- two, a physics student, and as Hattie kindly pointed out for me, was also “very beautiful.” The conversation kind of ground to a halt past these basic facts, but my future wife had an idea of how to get the marriage back on track. She left for a little stall serving food nearby and returned a minute later with a romantic little present for me—a juicy, foil-wrapped double cheeseburger.
I was genuinely touched by Susan’s kindness. It was all so very pure and innocent. I thanked her and told her in Farsi that she was beautiful. She liked this a lot and in English said, “Thank you,” before Hattie ushered her back to the girl’s platform. I finished the burger and bought her one in return. Hattie was green with envy at the sight of this and licked her lips whilst salivating wildly—get your own burger, Jacquesy!
I returned to my platform, and a minute later two of Ashkan’s male friends came to join us. One of them spoke good English and explained to me that only a few years ago, young people wouldn’t have been able to meet in places like this. He said that back then it was “more forbidden” and that the rules were generally more relaxed now.
Ashkan’s friends stuck around for about an hour talking to us, and after they left Hattie and Susan returned for a chat. Susan asked me through Hattie what my name meant. I said I had no idea of its meaning, which seemed to confuse them and was probably the equivalent of someone in England saying they don’t know how to spell their name, as everybody seemed to know the meaning of theirs in Iran. Susan said that in Persian her name meant “hot” or “fire” and that in Hebrew it meant “beautiful woman.” She asked me what Susan meant in English. I just combined the two and said, “Hot beautiful woman.” They all laughed.
The girls left before Ashkan and I did, and on the way back, we drove past them in the Land Rover and gave them a polite wave. At Ashkan’s house, I was treated to a lovely meal of succulent lamb with soft buttered rice for the main course and some of the best fruit I’ve ever tasted for the second course. We had grapes the size of golf balls, honey-sweet figs, dates, and cucumber. After dinner, the phone rang and amazingly Ashkan passed it to me saying, “It’s for you.” On the other end of the phone was a girl who said hello but nothing else. I tried to communicate but it was no good, so I handed the phone back to Ashkan. He spoke to the person, then hung up.
Ashkan explained that it had been my fiancee Susan on the other end and that she and Hattie wanted to meet up with us tomorrow. This was getting out of hand.
The brothers insisted I slept in the same room as last night and I had it all to myself again. Since the computer was also in there, I was given another fascinating demonstration of it before bed. This time, it was a pirated DVD of Celine Dion, followed by some downloaded Eminem videos. Just like the Tehran lads, both the
