Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn (31 page)

Verity wasn’t having any of this and announced forcefully that she would bloody well climb the hard tower, thank you very much! The guide tried to stop her. “No, it is too difficult for woman; you will not manage.”

That was it. “Hold my water bottle, Jamie,” she demanded, thrusting it into my hands. She marched off toward the men’s tower at a right old speed. I shouted out after her sarcastically.

“Come back, Verity! You won’t manage it; it’s too difficult for a woman. Stick to the easy one!”

She turned around laughing and gave me the middle finger. Verity was first to the top and stepped into the circular tower with a triumphant look on her face.

The guide stayed at the bottom listening to music in his car, which blared out across the landscape, making sure that the Towers of Silence were anything but. At the tower’s summit, we were treated to a fiery orange sunset, which seemed to set the sky ablaze. As the sun slipped past the horizon, we headed down, and a few minutes later we were in the center of Yazd and bidding each other goodbye.

Back at my Iranian friends’ house, I was treated to a wonderful dinner of succulent lamb, mixed vegetables, mountains of buttered rice, and delicious fresh naan bread. When the meal was over, Reza gestured me into the computer room and locked the door. “Super film,” he said with a cheeky grin, putting a DVD into the computer—it was Persian porn time again.

In all honesty, I wasn’t particularly interested and wrote up my diary notes, whilst Reza watched intently. Whereas a young student in Britain watching porn would probably make crude comments along the lines of, “Go on, give it to her good and proper!” Reza made analytical observations like, “This is, how you say, effective. I try with girlfriend,” and, “This be interesting. She is very wide open, yes?”

After about fifteen minutes, he got bored with it and swapped the disk for something even more offensive—Chris de effing Burgh live in concert! The Irish warbler was beginning to seriously get on my nerves.

I
n Yazd’s historic old city is the splendid Jameh Mosque, where a rather bizarre but delightful ritual can be witnessed on Friday mornings. The tradition is for an unmarried woman to climb up to the top of one of the mosque’s towering minarets wearing a weird sort of padlocked hijab, and then to toss the key to this down into the courtyard below. The aim is then for a man, any man, to pick it up, at which point the woman will make her way down and let the lucky fellow unlock her. The next bit I really like—they then go off and have cakes and candy together and possibly get married. I visited the mosque but alas it wasn’t Friday, so I missed out on getting any free cakes or candy.

Despite my wanting to spend some time with the brothers today, their studies got in the way again, so I met up with Verity instead and after visiting the Jameh Mosque together, we set off for the bazaar in search of a suitable present that I could buy Reza and Ashkan’s mother as a thank-you for her hospitality.

I had some hard bargaining on my hands after setting my heart on a big decorative plate with an attractive peacock design. I must have been losing my touch, because I couldn’t get the trader to drop his price one iota. Whilst attempting to cut the deal, I noticed an identical dish in the stall opposite, so headed there after negotiations broke down. The crafty salesman from the first stall yelled something to his buddy opposite, and as a result, he wouldn’t drop his price either. About four stalls down, it happened again, this time with both of them yelling something to the third stall owner, and presumably it wasn’t to give me a good deal. I’d made the mistake of really setting my heart on the thing, and in the end I coughed up the full amount.

We took it easy for the rest of the day, strolling around visiting teahouses and other bazaar stalls and enjoying each other’s company. When Reza and Ashkan were due back from college, Verity and I swapped e-mail addresses and wished each other well. After a fond farewell, I headed to the brothers’ house to present their mother with the plate. She was over the moon with it and laid on a special meal for my last evening with them of burgers, gherkins, soft bread, grapes, and watery, salted cucumber. It was absolutely delicious.

My train left around two in the morning, but as was typical of Iranian hospitality, Reza insisted that I would not be getting a taxi to the station, and he would be taking me instead. Like the night before, I stayed up with him and Ashkan drinking Nescafé and chatting away as best we could. I got to ask them both about their political views, which were almost identical to Pedram’s and the lads’ from Tehran. Bush, bin Laden, and prime minister Tony B-Liar came in for significant criticism and were lumped together and described as terrorists. I told them I agreed.

I left for the train station with Reza and arrived there at about one forty-five. Rather bizarrely, there was a group of four people enthusiastically playing badminton at this hour in a small court opposite. God knows where they got the energy. Reza and I took a seat in the station a few places down from a Western-looking female traveler. Reza turned to me, and in a voice definitely loud enough for the poor woman to hear asked, “Is she attractive? Is she good or is she bad?”

I cringed, but what could I say other than, “She is good.” I hoped she didn’t speak English.

The train was late and when it finally pulled up, I was looking forward to getting some much-needed sleep. Reza and I parted with hugs and promises to keep in touch. I climbed on board just before the train pulled off. Inside, it wasn’t quite the first class Roger Moore affair I’d rather unrealistically been hoping for, but was instead a bit on the rickety side with cramped cabins sleeping six apiece. As I walked down the corridor, I was amazed to find people still awake. In one cabin, an inconsiderate individual was reading a newspaper with all the lights on, whilst the rest of the cabin tried to sleep. I checked the number on the door and was relieved to find it wasn’t where I’d be spending the night. Even worse was a couple of cabins down, where some idiot was listening to music—not with headphones as you might imagine but on a stereo with speakers for all to hear. Lucky this wasn’t where I’d be sleeping either; if it had been then the man’s sound system would have become better acquainted with an open window. I located my cabin, which thankfully was at the end of the carriage and far away from this one-man disco.

On quietly opening the door, I discovered five people asleep, with the only available bed being a top bunk. It was just the spot I would have chosen had I been the first one in there, and I quickly scaled the small ladder. After storing my luggage in an already packed luggage bin, I lay back with a big smile on my face. I really liked the novelty of being in a bunk bed on a train rocking gently back and forth whilst traveling through a vast desert. It seemed very civilized and was far superior to an uncomfortable night bus where you sat upright.

The only downside was a small, lit orange lightbulb that had no switch to turn it off. It shone directly on my face. I decided to cover it up and saw the perfect thing for the job. Crammed in the luggage section was one of the train company’s empty zip-up plastic cases used to hold the pillows, sheets, etc., which were supplied for the bunk beds. I managed to wedge half of this in the luggage compartment above the light, so that the other half flopped down and neatly enclosed the bulb. It worked perfectly. The cabin was now in near darkness, and moments later I was asleep.

I awoke to the dawn’s soft pink light lazily filtering through the cabin’s curtains. I didn’t want to miss out on some potentially awesome scenery, so I roused myself and went to investigate in the corridor. Out the window lay mile upon mile of wavy sandy desert accentuated by the light of the low morning sun, which transformed great swathes of sand into carpets of sparkling tiny jewels. Despite its beauty, to fully appreciate the view, I first needed a warm caffeinated beverage to stir me to life again.

I found a guard at the end of the carriage who was sipping a cup of tea and sitting next to a big warming urn—this seemed promising. I made a polite request for
chay
but the guard shook his head. I didn’t know if it was his private supply or if he just didn’t want to sell me a cup. I asked again and gestured as if inquiring which way I needed to go to get one. He shook his head again then tried to zip up the same type of case I’d used to cover the lightbulb in my cabin the night before. He struggled with the zip, so I helped out and held the bag together while he did it up. He owed me one now, so again I said, “
chay
” and gestured to the urn. He nodded this time and poured me a cup. I thanked him and went back to my magical desert.

We arrived by midmorning in Tehran, where I would have most of the day to kill before my connecting train to Tabriz this evening. I considered calling Leyla or Pedram but decided against it in the interests of some much-needed time alone. One place I wanted to see in Tehran, which I’d not seen on my first trip here, was the former U.S. embassy, now renamed and known officially as the U.S. Den of Espionage.

Outside the train station was total and utter chaos. I took my life in my hands and negotiated a crossing to the other side of the main road where there was a nice little park. I sat down and looked at my guidebook’s map of Tehran and the location of the Den of Espionage.

As I was many miles away yet, I flagged down a shared taxi, which already contained a passenger and was heading in roughly the right direction. I rode shotgun and consulted my map as we swerved through the traffic. I disembarked at what I thought was the correct spot but was unsure since the layout of the street was slightly different to how it was depicted on my guidebook’s map. To confirm it was the right place, I stood purposefully with a perplexed expression on my face, in the hope that someone would come to my assistance. Now I could do this in London and probably not receive any help for a week or two, but in Iran it was a different story altogether. With impeccable timing, no more than twenty seconds later, a smartly dressed man in his sixties, who spoke perfect English, stopped and with a warm smile asked predictably, “Can I help you?” He confirmed for me that I was in the right place and wished me a pleasant stay in Iran.

It was a bit of a walk to the famed U.S. Den of Espionage, which was a huge sprawling complex currently occupied by the Iranian military. It was surrounded by high walls, some of which were decorated with the murals mentioned in my guidebook. One depicted the Statue of Liberty with a skull for a face, and another had written on it, WHEN THE U.S. PRAISES US, WE SHOULD MOURN. But apart from these, I wasn’t particularly impressed and had seen far more colorful and artistic propaganda murals elsewhere in the city. My guidebook referred to a mural depicting the shooting down of Iranian civilian aircraft Flight 655 by the American naval vessel USS
Vincennes
and the resulting death of its 290 civilian passengers, including sixty-six children. I had a good look for it but couldn’t find the mural, which had presumably been painted over.

The attack on the Iranian jetliner occurred in 1988 toward the end of the Iran-Iraq War, and caused huge international outrage. The United States had claimed that the aircraft was outside the commercial jet flight corridor, flying at only 7,000 feet, and on a descent toward the navy vessel. A month later, however, U.S. authorities admitted that the airbus had been within a recognized commercial flight path and that the Iranian jet was flying at 12,000 feet and not descending. In a sensitive move which no doubt went far toward appeasing the Iranian victims’ families, all the crew of the USS
Vincennes
were commended and awarded combat action ribbons. The air-warfare coordinator, Lieutenant Commander Lustig, was awarded the Commendation Medal for, incredibly, “heroic achievement,” and the vessel’s Captain was bestowed the prestigious Legion of Merit medal.

Vice President George H. W. Bush famously stated a month after the event, “I will never apologize for the United States of America, ever. I don’t care what it has done. I don’t care what the facts are.”

But, of course, there is far more bad blood between Iran and America than this incident alone, and a lot of it can be traced back to the building I stood in front of now. It was from a bunker beneath the U.S. embassy that CIA agents orchestrated the 1953 coup that ousted popular democratic Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh and installed the Shah as dictator. It was also largely from the U.S. embassy that the next quarter of a century’s support and influence over the Shah was orchestrated. In 1976, Amnesty International noted that Iran, under the U.S. backed and installed Shah, had the “highest rate of death penalties in the world, no valid system of civilian courts and a history of torture which is beyond belief. No country in the world has a worse record in human rights than Iran.”

When the Shah was eventually toppled, the U.S. embassy was stormed by students who feared a repeat of the 1953 coup by the Americans. The students held fifty-two of the embassy’s diplomatic staff captive, setting off the Iranian hostage crisis, which lasted 444 days.

Roughly six months into the crisis, America’s elite Special Forces launched a rescue operation to free the hostages, but things didn’t go according to plan. Former U.S. Special Forces soldier Richard Marcinko, who was tasked with forming a diversionary mission (ultimately rejected) that was set to coincide with the actual rescue operation, states in his autobiography,
Rogue Warrior
, that the rescue, “fucked up beyond all repair. . . . [W]e’d just failed in an operation that had been almost half a year in the planning and billions in the funding. . . . [F]rom the top down, it had been one humongous goatfuck. One big waste.”