Couchsurfing in Iran Page 4

  “Shall we go inside?” she suggests. “It’s getting cold.”

  “Doesn’t bother me; I’m a masochist,” jokes Babak.

  Nevertheless, we move indoors to the lower level restaurant, where you sit without shoes upon raised platforms and paintings of bazaars hang on the walls. Master Kaveh, nicknamed “Rough,” places a cushion behind me and makes room so that I’m comfortable. Over Istak malt beer and kofta meatballs we chat about Tehran’s traffic problems, Kafka, and homemade erotic accessories carved from wood.

  Politics isn’t discussed—well, only once, briefly: “Up to now they have left our online group in peace. It would be very different if we were a discussion forum critical of the state,” says Farshad. “Unusual sexual practices are bad in Iran, but political activism is ten times worse.”

  Finally, we take a little stroll through Goftegoo Park. Shirvin and Amir discuss whips and handcuffs. Farshad tells me about the board game Femdomopoly—femdom for female domination, where the throw of dice decides the type of pain or humiliation the player has to withstand. Yasmin and the writer Shahin separate from the group, chatting and walking hand in hand in the park. Only when I look very carefully do I notice that while doing this, she is digging her very sharp fingernails into the palm of his hand. Both walk past the artificial lake in which a few goldfish swim; here the goldfish are free. And at the park entrance you see the police and their machine guns and army tent, as if there were a border crossing here that needed surveillance, instead of a very ordinary park, where people gather to chat, somewhere in Tehran.

  How to cross roads in Iran

  •Wait at the roadside until the nearside lane is free.

  •Notice in astonishment that suddenly important moments in your life are flashing through your mind.

  •Beginners: seek out a group of locals and follow their movements in their slipstream.

  •Proceed swiftly but without haste; keep you head at a ninety-degree angle to the direction you’re headed.

  •Avoid abrupt movements.

  •When calculating speed and trajectory never expect braking maneuvers.

  •Especially not at pedestrian crossings. Pedestrian crossings are traps!

  •Drivers are quite prepared to swerve to left or right when there is little traffic. It is considered less of an effort to turn the steering wheel slightly than to move your foot from the accelerator to the brake pedal.

  •Evaluate feedback: If you are hooted at two or three times, everything’s okay. Four or more times means there’s room for improvement in tempo and/or body language. If you don’t hear any hooting for thirty seconds, you’re dead.

  KISH

  Population: 20,000

  Province: Hormozgan

  FREEDOM

  THE FLIGHT FOR the vacation island of Kish takes off from Mehrabad International Airport. A modern terminal with sparkling clean halls, neon lights, and billboards advertising luxury apartments. On small tables there are chargers for all types of cell phones. I have never heard of most of the airlines: Mahan Air, Caspian Airlines, Iran Aseman Airlines. Kish Airlines is on my ticket, filled out by hand by the assistant at the travel agency. On the wall there is a poster of Ayatollah Khomeini, with a particularly sinister look and the inscription Have a Nice Trip next to his head. When the ayatollah landed at just this airport thirty-five years ago on an Air France flight, millions of Iranians cheered his return from exile. They had succeeded in booting the hated shah off his Peacock Throne. But many of the revolutionaries became bitterly disappointed in the ensuing years, as the ayatollah proved to be an uncompromising despot who may well have ruled his Islamic Republic without the pomp and excess of his predecessor but with the same brutality.

  I wander through the halls and try to wait for the right moment to take an unobserved snapshot of the poster. It is forbidden to take photos at airports, stations, or any government buildings.

  A passenger with a chador and neatly plucked eyebrows interprets my movements differently. “Are you lost? Do you need help?” she asks.

  “No thanks. I’m just looking around,” I reply.

  “Welcome to Iran,” she continues and introduces herself as Solmaz, thirty-five; she has a master’s degree in philosophy and dreams of writing her thesis in Sweden. She is now flying to Mashhad to pray at the shrine to Imam Reza.

  “Are you traveling alone? Aren’t you a bit lonely?” she asks.

  “Not at all. You never feel alone here as tourist.”

  Fear of the lack of human contact in Iran is like a round-the-world yachtsman being worried about getting a suntan.

  “Yes, we’re good to foreigners,” she says pensively.

  “Are you coming back to Tehran?”

  “Yes, in six or seven weeks.”

  “I can show you the city, inshallah.”

  She compliments me for choosing to visit Kish and recommends a trip in a glass-bottom boat. And the water park. And the dolphinarium. “They have dolphins there that can clean their teeth.” We swap phone numbers and then my flight is called.

  From the plane window Iran’s number one vacation destination looks like a ten-mile-wide ellipse made of white sand and flat as a beach towel. But what the island lacks in natural elevation it makes up for with a whole host of domino-like skyscrapers in the northeast. Kish needs these hotel complexes to cater to the 1.5 million tourists who visit the island annually. What the Dominican Republic is for Americans, Kish is for Persians. They love the island and return here for their vacations time and again. The guidebook states: “There are not many reasons to come here for non-Iranians.” So, the perfect place to begin my transformation to an Iranian. My plane lands on the heat-shimmering asphalt of the desert island’s airport.

  While Tehran’s Mehrabad International Airport epitomizes modern Iran, the airport at Kish is more like a teeny disco between two car rental booths. To the droning sounds of techno music, two B-boys, completely coated in silver paint, go through their pirouette routines considerably more supplely than the summer jobbers in SpongeBob and pink elephant costumes a few feet away, clowning about with kids. They must be sweating terribly in their woolen slippers. To remind the new arrivals that they are in Iran and not in Disneyland, a huge map of the surrounding waters is painted on the wall flanked by grim portraits of ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamenei. Below the map, the slogan Persian Gulf Forever is a special message to visitors from Arabian countries. The name, which has existed for centuries, is disputed, and the southerly neighbors want to rename it the Arabian Gulf. Those who say, “What’s the problem? It’s just a name” don’t know the national pride of the Iranians. For them it would be a slap in the face if they were to lose their only sea. The Caspian Sea in the north doesn’t count, as it’s actually a lake. My host, Masoud, wrote in his text message that he would try to accommodate me, and I should contact him on landing. So, I call his number. A friendly, deep telephone voice says, “What’s up, bro?” in flawless American slang and goes on to say that he will call me back in a few minutes with instructions about where to go.

  Another passenger, after five minutes of small talk, uses my waiting time to invite me to his wedding in northern Iran. Unfortunately, the date clashes with my trip to the battlefields with Yasmin, so with a heavy heart I have to turn down the invitation. And then again. And once more.

  How to taarof—understanding politeness

  Iranians sometimes offer you the most amazing things. Free cab rides, carpets for nothing, gratis goods at the bazaar. Those who don’t recognize these as gestures of politeness are about to put their foot in it—and deep.

  The rule: always politely decline twice. When the offer comes for the third time you can be sure that it really is meant seriously and can be accepted without loss of face to your partner.

  Tricky: even the phrase taarof nemikonam!—no taarof—can be thought of as taarof.

  • • • • • • • • •

  MASOUD SENT ME a text message, including directions, which I was to
show to the cab driver. Unfortunately, my cell phone doesn’t recognize Persian letters, so I go to the nearest bright yellow cab and call Masoud, handing the phone to the cab driver. The cab passes stony, derelict land with rows of palm trees and roundabouts with neatly clipped eucalyptus trees and sculpted sea creatures. The cars are larger and more modern than in Tehran, and there are fewer Saipa and Peugeot, but instead more Hyundai, Toyota and a few Mercedes. The streets and sidewalks are as clean as if they were vacuumed last night, a huge contrast to the barrenness all around.

  The cab driver stops in the newly built district of Arabar, in the western section of the island. The townhouses made from veined and polished blocks of stone give an appearance of money and coldness reminiscent of Dubai. It really is a new district; half of the street is still a construction site.

  “A couple years ago there was nothing here,” says Masoud, a suntanned guy in a gray polo shirt, who appeared at the door after my latest phone call. Angular face, bushy eyebrows, tidy blow-dried hairdo. He is a flight dispatcher for Iran Aseman Airways, working as an English teacher on the side.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  He leads me up to the first floor. Masoud’s sister, Mahbube, a hairdresser, is sitting on an orange polka-dot sofa with her two children, Saler and Saba, thirteen and eleven. Masoud’s wife is also named Mahbube, so I memorize her as Mahbube 2. She brings in black tea and sand-colored cookies. She is an architect and is now studying art and drawing. Both women and the girl wear head coverings the whole time we are in the apartment. They are doing this solely because of me, the presence of a male guest, as all the rest are family.

  “We have a full house today, but somehow we will manage, even with six of us,” says Masoud cheerfully.

  The apartment is about 430 square feet. It consists of only a living room with a separate kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The walls are bare except for one Quran sura inscribed on silver foil.

  A forty-two-inch LG TV, made in South Korea, dominates the room. At the moment it is showing an imam who is singing so out of tune that his listeners in the mosque begin to wail. I present my interpretation of what is going on to Masoud.

  “Nonsense! It’s a very sad story. He is preaching about the death of the martyr Husayn,” says Masoud.

  He then changes the subject. “Do you like Flight Simulator?” He connects a special joystick and two speakers to his laptop.

  “Let’s fly over Germany. What’s a nice short route?”

  “Hamburg to Berlin,” I suggest.

  Shortly afterward we are flying together in an Airbus A330 to Berlin, and I’m getting a crash course in the cockpit. “Ground speed: 250 miles per hour; altitude: 6,000 feet; direction 110,” he announces, pointing to the corresponding dials. “Berlin is simple; they have an instrument landing system. But here not all the airports are equipped with it.” It is not possible to import modern technology because of the sanctions, and spare parts for airplanes are also a problem. “That’s why we have more accidents here than in other countries,” he adds. As evidence he loads the Urmia to Tabriz route in northwest Iran. Majestic mountains, severe turbulence. On landing, without the aid of an instrument landing system, he promptly demolishes the front wheel. “You see! That’s what sanctions do.”

  Kish is an island of shopping centers. We spend the early evening in massive shopping malls made of concrete and steel, named Paradise I, Paradise II, or Kish Trade Center. On offer are many foreign brands: Adidas, Puma, Zara, Samsung, Louis Vuitton, and LG Electronics. Whole rows of stores specialize in knockoff designer clothes. For instance, the brand didas with the “A” missing, and two instead of three stripes. You can also find Calven Kliem underwear, and Tommy Dooyao pants, with a logo very similar to Tommy Hilfiger, as well as pocket calculators from Cetezen and Casho. Customers interested in footwear apparently produced by the American company Columbia have to look even more carefully. While the original logo consists of eight rectangles forming a diamond, the local variant is a swastika.

  “Kish is a tax-free zone; everything is 10 to 40 per cent cheaper here,” says Masoud, pointing at the masses hustling and bustling in the amphitheater-sized inner hall. “As you can see the Iranians love shopping, especially the women.”

  And they love fast food, particularly the women. “If I want to eat traditional Iranian food, I cook it myself,” says Mahbube 2, the pragmatic art student. For the evening meal at Iranwich there is Greek pizza and Pepsi served on white corrugated cardboard, on a wooden board. The restaurant looks like a large McDonald’s and is full to the last seat; we have to wait for a free table. The walls, chairs, and menu are all as red as the ketchup, which comes with every meal (Iranians always eat pizzas with ketchup). There is a cartoon on the TV screen with cute beavers and caterpillars. With immense effort and great persuasiveness I manage to win the debate about who pays for the pizzas. It is already 10 PM, and I am so hungry that I almost order two of the calorie bombs that are dripping in cheese and fat.

  “Do you always eat at this time in the evening?” I ask Masoud.

  “No, not always, Sometimes at eleven o’clock or midnight. A couple months ago I had a Swiss guest who always wanted to eat at six o’clock—crazy guy!”

  Just as I was going to launch into a short lecture about mealtimes recommended by nutritionists, Masoud’s phone rings. He holds a short conversation and then asks: “Do you want to go fishing now?”

  I’m tired from the heat and worn out by the pizza, but I did promise myself to go along with even the not-so-good suggestions of my hosts. “Of course. I’d love to,” I lie.

  “Do you really have to?” asks Mahbube 2, reflecting my real thoughts. I get the feeling that she is not a big fan of his angling hobby. He, however, doesn’t want her to keep him from it. They have been married five years.

  From: Kian Qeshm

  Hey Stephan! I’m kian from qeshm island. I’m really waiting to meet you. At the moment because of holidays I am in Tehran but on Friday I am going to go to my lovely island. See you soon Cheers

  We take a cab home. Masoud prays briefly toward Mecca. Mecca is located opposite the TV. Kolah Ghermezi, red cap, a popular Persian puppet comedy series, is on. It appears to be as harmless as Sesame Street, but because of its implied social criticism it has few followers among the powerful. Mahbube 2 turns up the volume; the characters have penetrating high voices. Nine feet away Masoud prostrates himself and chants his Allahu Akbars.

  I take a quick shower. One of the seldom expressed truths of couchsurfing is that, above all else, it is the activities that take place in the bathroom and all the associated collateral damage that can most easily sour relationships with hosts. Politeness, same wavelength, a particularly apt present—all for nothing when a guest blushingly announces that an emergency call to the plumber is required.

  Nowhere else in a strange apartment lurk as many traps as in the bathroom. Idiosyncratic flushing devices, fittings that drop from walls, and rebellious shower heads/tap levers, just to mention a few of the harmless variations. Last year an Iranian host warned me on my arrival not to touch the warm water switch. There was something wrong with the cable, and within minutes a smoldering fire would result. (A thankfully never-posted online review: Thanks for the accommodation. Sorry again that I torched your apartment complex. The pancakes at breakfast were delicious.)

  The differences in intercultural usage of toilets are also treacherous. In Iran squat toilets are standard, with a hose for cleaning purposes, which is usually on a small hook near the washbasin. Sometimes, next to it, there is a roll of toilet paper, sometimes not. Sometimes there’s a small garbage can nearby, sometimes not. At the entrance there is always a pair of flip-flops available as the floors are mostly wet in quite a number of places. A sociologist should research the behavior of a hundred western European test persons in such a toilet, just to see how many variations they could come up with for using the few available objects.

  In some countries the paper can be fl
ushed away, in others it belongs in the garbage can. Elsewhere, both are wrong, and the routine is to leave as little used toilet paper as possible in places where people might potentially see it. Iran belongs to the last category, which is why the hose usage should be practiced every day until perfected, and less and less additional paper is necessary. Mastery has been reached when public toilets, the highest level of difficulty (dirty, no paper, stink level—ammonia synthesis reactor), can be approached reasonably fearlessly. In most of them there aren’t even paper towels for the washbasins.

  Maybe here I could mention a typical beginner’s mistake. A German friend, on returning from a trip to Iran, remarked that Iranian toilets were ideal places to train thigh muscles. Now, if the Iranians, Chinese, and Indians hadn’t learned, at the latest as three-year-olds, that the best method is to squat as low as possible, then they would all have thighs like weightlifters.

  In Masoud’s bathroom there are two challenges. First, there is only a tiny hook on the wall for towel and clothes. This is fairly common in most Iranian households, and it doesn’t seem usual to hang anything in the bathroom except on the door handle. Second, the floor of the shower is level with the bathroom floor, so I unavoidably flood the bathroom, because the tiles are not sloped enough to channel the water into the toilet’s drainage system.

  Probably it would have been okay to leave the bathroom with a couple inches of water on the ground. But as a guest you always want to do things particularly well. Unfortunately, there is no available equipment for mopping up water. And that is why if someone had opened the door, they would have found the following scene: a clumsy foreigner on all fours, with a towel wrapped around his waist and wearing the right flip-flop, balancing the naked left foot on the narrow doorstep, trying to guide the water toward the drain with the left flip-flop. I think my new BDSM friends from Tehran would have found it all stunningly humiliating.