fire. A few minutes later, we were all sitting in another nearby cafe together. We asked the driver, whose name was Farhad, how much it would cost for him to take us to Tabriz, as by now we’d missed the last bus back and it was beginning to get dark. Farhad recommended we didn’t go with him as he worked for an agency of some sort that charged a lot more for longer journeys than normal taxis. He said his price would be fifteen Khomeinis, whereas a normal one would cost between four and five Khomeinis (a Khomeini being the green IR10,000 notes with a picture of said fellow on them). Before we went in search of a cab, Ian tried to give Farhad a gift consisting of a bundle of bank notes which he strenuously declined.
It was now completely dark and both of us were still wet, cold, and looking forward to getting back to our hotels. We found a taxi going our way that had one other passenger, who was about eighteen years old and sat in the front seat. He turned out to be a really nice guy, as demonstrated en route when we stopped briefly so he could pop into a little village store. He returned a minute later and presented Ian and me with a big bag of cheesy-puff- like chips, a couple of cool drinks, and a chocolate bar each. I certainly didn’t take these kind gestures for granted, but they no longer surprised me, for I’d been encountering this sort of thing every day since arriving in Iran.
Ian and I swapped e-mail addresses back in Tabriz and parted company with promises to send each other copies of our photos from our day out together.
I got back to my hotel feeling tired but very satisfied. I tried calling Shahram several times but alas there was no answer. I resigned myself to meeting up with him tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sadly, today would be my last full day in Iran. My visa ran out in a couple of days’ time, and my train for Istanbul in Turkey left Tabriz early tomorrow morning. As such, I planned to do nothing more than meet up with Shahram and Kimya, pick up my camping gear, send a few e-mails, and find a present for my friend Chris, who had said to me before I left England, “Maza, send me something fucked up from Iran!” I intended to oblige.
While I was eating breakfast at the hotel restaurant, something strange happened. Sitting a few tables down were two Iranian-looking guys and a hauntingly attractive woman of indistinguishable origin with blue eyes. The men were talking in English and one had definitely lived in the U.K., such was his accent. The other spoke with an Iranian twang, and the girl remained silent. Apart from the professor I met at the library in Tehran, this was the only time I’d heard someone in Iran speak with an English accent. I eavesdropped for a while, but it was just general chitchat about nothing in particular. Suddenly, the two guys got up from their table and came and approached me.
“I recognize your face,” said the one with the Iranian accent. “You got your visa through IranianVisa.com, didn’t you?” He then added, “I work for them and see all the passport scans.”
Considering Iran was a country of 71 million people, and IranianVisa.com was based in Tehran not Tabriz, this was a massive coincidence. Also, my passport photo was taken when I was nineteen and had much shorter hair and looks nothing like I do now—or at least I hope it doesn’t since I look a complete dork in it. I cautiously confirmed I had got my visa through them, but was on my guard and immediately wondered if they were secret police.
“What is your name?” asked the Iranian.
I told him.
“Yes, Jamie, I remember.”
“Are you enjoying your stay in Iran?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Where have you visited?” I answered his questions as succinctly as possible and couldn’t quite work out if I was being mega paranoid or was justifiably concerned. He rambled off a list of queries, including how long I had left in the country. I lied and said another week.
I’d been warned by Leyla to be very careful when sending e-mails in Iran, but I hadn’t really heeded this warning completely. I made sure to omit Iranian names in my correspondence with friends at home, but had made no secret of the fact I’d be writing a book about my Iranian adventures when I returned. Could the powers-that-be have intercepted these? Were they worried about what I’d write? Or was I just creating another Roger Moore James Bond fantasy in my head? I didn’t know, but tried to think what Bond would do in a similar situation: probably end up shagging the chick, I figured—I could live with that.
I decided to say as little as possible, and after a couple of minutes, they went back to their table. They all spoke together in Farsi now. Half of me was convinced it was all just silly paranoia but the other half of me wasn’t so sure. I knew foreign journalists had been arrested and even killed in Iran. Canadian photojournalist Zahra Kazemi had died in custody from “a stroke” after being arrested taking photos outside Iran’s Evin Prison, although her body showed signs of brutal torture—so these things happened, but whether I was being singled out because of my e- mails, or I was completely losing my mind, I didn’t know. Before I could ponder this anymore, the men returned again.
“Have a nice stay in Iran,” the English one said, offering me his hand to shake. I shook his and then the other guy’s hand.
They began to walk off, but then the Iranian guy turned and faced me. “How long did you say you were staying in Tabriz?”
“A week,” I replied.
“Have a good time,” he said, and with that they were gone. It was all a bit weird, and the chances of me meeting the one person I’d sent a scan of my passport to out of 71 million other Iranians seemed very unlikely indeed, but then again I’d had other strange coincidences occur while traveling before.
I got up to leave and walked past their empty table, then returned to examine it after wondering if they’d been waiting there a long time for me. I looked at the cigarette butts in the ashtray—there were seven. I’d only seen the woman smoking. What did this mean? I didn’t have a fucking clue but it seemed the sort of thing Columbo would look at. I gave up and went outside in search of something “fucked up from Iran.”
Not a minute down the road and I was at the shop which sold the horrendous thalidomide disco-dancing DVD I’d seen on my first visit to Tabriz. It was the perfect gift for Chris and certainly qualified as something “fucked up from Iran.” I felt guilty at the thought of buying one, but then figured it was considered funny in Iran, and therefore said something, although I’m not sure quite what, about the place. I made the purchase and went down to the post office to stick it in the mail.
Sending a DVD through the mail is no straightforward transaction in Iran. I had to hand it over to a guy behind a counter who skimmed through the disk’s scenes on his computer to check if there was anything illicit or banned on it. Even though it was just a minor infringement of my civil liberties, it really got on my nerves. They were nice about it though and in true contradictory Iranian style gave me a nice cup of tea, whilst they searched for subversive material and ascertained whether I was a dangerous enemy of the state. They concluded that it was no “super film” and gave it the all clear. I put it in the mail.
I had a pleasant surprise at my next port of call, which was a money changer in the bazaar. I handed over my wedge of Iranian notes that I’d been unable to spend and discovered to my amazement that my whole trip, all the way from France, had cost in total an amazing $450! I was astonished. I knew I’d had quite a bit of currency left in the bottom of my backpack, but I didn’t expect it to be this much. I wondered if I could have made it all the way to China on $1,400 after all.
In return for my huge wedge of Iranian notes, I received a minuscule sliver of U.S. dollars, which immediately made me feel poor and strangely hard done by. It’s interesting to note that despite the Iranian government’s aversion to all things American, until recently their preferred foreign currency for international trade and exchange was the U.S. dollar. This has now changed, with the Iranian government insisting on non-dollar currencies for its oil and planning to open its own oil exchange where, crucially, oil will be traded in euros instead of U.S. dollars.
Some people believe that in breaking the monopoly previously enjoyed by the dollar for all OPEC oil trades, Iran will significantly devalue the U.S. currency, which is already suffering from a national debt in excess of $11 trillion.
