JAN/FEB 2009

The Pleasant Reality of Iran

by Karin-Marijke Vis

While I struggle to put on the mandatory headscarf, Coen positions the Land Cruiser in front of the entrance gate to Iran. What will the country be like? Will it be as the newspapers report? Or worse? Burning flags, secret police, Islamic extremists, Khomeini worshippers, anti-Western minds, heavily veiled women and flagellating men—all these images go through our minds. Is this really Iran or is there something else…?

When the gate opens, firm fingers direct our car to one side. The fingers belong to a mafia look-alike, wearing overly large shades and a likewise flat hat, sleeves touching his thumbs and pants dragging through the dust. No words are spoken as he takes our passports and motions Coen to follow him into a big grey building. We needn’t have worried. Coen comes back an hour later, elated by his first contacts with Iranians: “This man pulled a lot of strings to get all the necessary stamps, bypassing the long lines at different counters and the car doesn’t need to undergo a thorough check.”

“Welcome to Iran!” shouts the man as he waves us into his country.

Chaotic traffic is the first thing we notice in Tabriz. We wonder why people have indicators and rearview mirrors on their cars, since apparently they refuse to use them and driving is just a matter of survival of the fittest. Having a big car like ours certainly helps. Pedestrians cross the road in a Russian roulette kind of way and zebra crossings seem to hold only creative values. When hunting for spare parts for the Cruiser, we meet Medhi and an invitation to dinner follows. Having arrived in Iran during the Ramadan, which means no eating, drinking or smoking during daylight for forty days, we wait for the sun to set and then break the fast with a ritual where deliciously soft dates are shared before dinner starts. Medhi apologizes for the simple meal (“no woman in the house,” he explains) but we love to taste the Iranian dishes and practice our first words in Farsi.

Outside Tabriz, the surroundings change from mountains to undulating hills. The road weaves its way on good tarmac through a beautiful valley where we spot a nice place to camp in complete solitude along a sparkling river. When three trucks appear, we’re surprised that with so much empty space around us, the drivers prepare their lunch, skinning and cleaning a rabbit, in the river right in front of us. They don’t seem to be disturbed by seeing a woman without a scarf and come over for a chat. Coen explains to them that I’m sick and soon one of the men brings aspirins and motions Coen to follow him to the car. The old man takes a long needle from the gas burner and on it is a piece of dark brown, almost burned “something.” “It’s good for pain in the stomach,” he explains. It’s clear that he wants to be helpful. We suspect the “something” to be opium and having no experience with this whatsoever, we leave it for what it is. They insist on sharing their meal with us, which tastes excellent and does me good.

After Merivan, the world becomes desolate. In front of us lie the barren, brown colored Zagros Mountains, which form the border with Iraq. After the pass, we find ourselves amid mountains with snow-covered peaks and tiny hamlets built on steep slopes, where a terrible, unpaved, potholed road brings our speed down to ten kilometres per hour. Flat-roofed, stone houses have green or blue painted windowpanes, and the small patches of vegetable gardens lie fallow because it’s winter. Traditionally dressed villagers with turbans and woolen vests with raised, tapered points at the shoulders, stop whatever they are doing to raise their hands in a friendly greeting when we pass by. The sun starts to set and finding us so close to the Iraqi border at night isn’t a pleasant idea. After darkness has fallen and yet another man had told us, “Just continue straight ahead,” we reach a junction without any signposts and no longer anybody around to ask for directions. Since we haven’t got a clue which road to take, we position the car out of sight behind an abandoned warehouse to spend the night...

 

 

 

 

 

Photos by Coen Wubbels