steaming pile of poop. There was just no comparison between the chimney and the rock face. It was simply too big to get in the viewfinder, and despite trying many different angles, I only managed to capture a mere fraction of its size and, as such, a fraction of its splendor. The local guy left soon after, leaving me to admire the site all by myself.
Whilst sitting, I began to watch a vast flock of birds slowly ebbing and flowing in perfect harmony hundreds of feet above. It was as if they no longer were comprised of individual birds but were instead a single entity. Periodically, their poetic synergy would shatter as the birds scattered wildly in a panicked flurry, but despite my best efforts, I spotted no predators.
By now it was dusk and as the sun began to set, it bathed the gorge below in a soothing orange hue that instilled in me a deep sense of tranquility. I felt so very alive and happy to be me, to be here and to be far away from England.
Just two and a half weeks earlier, I’d been stuck in a job I despised, confined within that office prison. There I’d sat under the artificial glow of strip lighting entering data onto a computer screen. The monotony was mind- numbing. Working there, I’d felt my happiness slipping slowly away from me. There hadn’t even been a plant to look at for solace, no windows to offer temporary respite. I was a trapped animal longing desperately for adventure, for rapture, for nature, and to truly feel alive again.
As I gazed out across the wild, rugged expanse of mountains that stretched to the horizon, it all seemed so very far away now. I was happy beyond belief to be exactly where I was, and my spirit soared.
A soft wind hissed gently across the sand-colored rocks as I headed down, this time along a different path, which was far more gradual and went around the neighborhood I’d previously walked through. Near the bottom, I came across a small outdoor volleyball court where a group of guys ranging from about eighteen to thirty were dividing themselves into two teams. This procedure wasn’t going too smoothly and an animated debate broke out which seemed to be about which team would get the most athletic-looking player and which would be burdened with the one who looked like he’d eaten all the pies.
I perched myself on a wall overlooking the court in order to watch the debate and reminisced on a similar situation in high school, when I’d been lucky enough to be chosen as one of two team captains. This tried and tested method of captains picking players from a line up was always employed to balance the teams out, and to throw in a bit of ritual humiliation for the fat kids.
It wasn’t that I was particularly bad at sports back then, but more that I just couldn’t give a damn about them, especially since, at the time, puberty-fuelled growth had not quite kicked in for me, making games like rugby more than just a little on the uneven side. One day, though, when our much-despised pock-faced rugby teacher, Mr. Brown, was being evaluated by a school inspector, I decided it would be fun to mix things up a bit.
Realizing there was little chance that a pupil of my reputation would be picked as a captain, I piped up with a completely out of character, “Excuse me, sir, can I be a captain please? It’s just I haven’t been one yet and I’d really like the opportunity.” Mr. Brown eyed me suspiciously and looked like he was about to refuse, but with the inspector standing next to him, pencil poised above his clipboard and staring his way through the tops of his glasses, he reluctantly agreed.
My fellow captain, Rory, was first to choose from the line up and picked a brawny athletic type who replied with a confident nod.
No such logic with my selection. I picked, to everybody’s amazement, most of all his own, Darren Hopton. To say that Hopton was underweight was a gross understatement. The kid was positively skeletal, and about as good at the sport of rugby as I am at synchronized swimming, which is to say no good at all. Hopton couldn’t have tackled his grandmother—and she’d been dead for over a decade. But today was his day. It was the first time he’d not been picked last and he seized his moment of glory. Glancing back at the far more athletic players, he puffed out his chest in mock bravado and gave an audible condescending “hah!” their way. Everybody laughed except Mr. Brown.
My most unlikely, and unfortunate, rugby team of misfits ended up getting the drubbing of our lives from the burly cream of the class. But it was well worth it. When we passed the one hundred to zero mark, Mr. Brown, in a fit of frustration, scrapped the game and changed the teams, receiving, I hope, a disapproving scribble on the inspector’s clipboard.
The dispute over teams on the volleyball court was finally resolved and the players, most of them wearing work shirts, shoes, and dress pants, not sporting gear, began a game. Three other guys, who were in fact wearing “casuals,” sat watching from a bench nearby. Also spectating were lots of younger boys, of around seven to ten years old, who all hung out together in a big group.
It was a pretty even match, but when one particularly good point was scored, everyone applauded. I did likewise and received a couple of gracious nods from the players below. Lots of the little kids now tentatively looked my way. They all whispered together and looked as if they were discussing approaching the strange tourist but didn’t quite have the courage in case he wasn’t friendly. After a couple more applauded shots, one of the biggest of the kids threw caution to the wind and began his advance. The others stayed a safe distance back and looked on.
He got within a few feet of me and said cautiously, “Hello.”
“Hello, salaam,” I replied.
That was it—he turned and smiled triumphantly down at his friends, giving them the all clear. They stampeded en masse up to join their friend, and now with an assembled audience he did it again.
“Hello,” he said, as if performing a demonstration.
“Hello, salaam,” I replied again.
They all wanted to give this a try. To everyone’s delight, it worked as well for them as it had done for their friend and the tourist replied “Hello, salaam” in return. Although this was the limit of the conversation, it did nothing to curb their enthusiasm and they tried it repeatedly just to make sure it still worked. Luckily, I was rescued by one of the guys on the bench, who waved me down to join them. I walked over and was immediately offered a glass of tea, or
I took one though, figuring that as they’d offered, it must be okay and what’s more, I fancied a drink. One of them spoke a tiny bit of English, and asked me in a matter-of-fact way for my name, age, occupation, and salary, along with where I was from and whether I was married. On hearing that I wasn’t married yet, he expressed his sadness, as if this was a terrible trauma for a male of nearly thirty to bear. I learned later that these questions, including the seemingly tactless ones of how much I earned and whether I was married, are in fact standard Iranian icebreakers, and I was to hear them again and again wherever I went. I kind of liked this forthright approach that rejected the idea of delicately pussyfooting around a new social encounter and instead cut through the BS and went directly for the required information. Perhaps, I wondered, Iranian guys had a similarly frank approach when chatting up women, and asked directly for waist, chest, and leg measurements, along with a full STD history, and whether or not they were up for it.
During my introductions with the guys on the bench, the bigger of the little lads who’d approached me before came over for a piece of the action with the tourist. He attempted his tried and tested “Hello” line again, but before I could answer he got the Farsi equivalent of “Get lost, shorty” from the proper big boys. He looked a little annoyed; after all, he’d been the one who’d found the tourist first and now the big boys had stolen him. He did as he was told though, and walked off sullenly.
Gesturing to the game, I asked the guy who spoke a little English if he played volleyball. Shaking his head, he replied, “Football and box,” followed by a brief shadowboxing demonstration.
Having done a bit of this myself, I did likewise with a quick flurry of the noble art. They all liked this so he did his again. I again followed suit. We were buddies now, and to show it he produced a flick knife and began meticulously slicing up an apple and banana for us to share. They were delicious. I stayed around trying to communicate with them long after it got dark, and when it was finally time to leave, they insisted on driving me back to my hotel.
Before going inside to bed, I headed up the street for a stroll; I was struck by the clarity of the stars, which blazed in the clear night sky with an intensity I’d not yet seen on this trip, and I stood for several minutes just looking up. They were spectacular and although I was delighted to be here, I couldn’t help but wish I had someone to share this magical sight with.
When I got back to the hotel, the fatigue of the last couple of nights caught up with me and I crashed out
