Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn (32 page)

The basic plan had been to first fly a fleet of helicopters to a secret landing strip and refueling point in the Iranian Dasht-e Kavir desert north of Yazd. Here the choppers would refuel and transport the American Special Forces to a mountain hideaway near Tehran. Operatives on the ground would then meet and infiltrate with them into Tehran by truck. Once there, they would storm the embassy, kill all the students, release all the hostages, and escape in the helicopters, which would land in a nearby soccer stadium.

It didn’t quite work out like that. On the way there, two of the choppers got lost in sandstorms and a mechanical failure took out a third. The secret landing strip in the Dasht-e Kavir desert wasn’t particularly secret; a bus full of forty-five Iranian civilians drove past the Americans. The civilians were detained and the suggestion to murder them in cold blood was forwarded by Marcinko who describes the incident in the aforementioned book.

Further insight into the mentality of this charming man is gained in the same book when he states, “War was great!” What a lowlife.

After the civilians arrived in the bus, an Iranian oil tanker rolled up and joined the party. This, perhaps a little unwisely, was blown up, sending flames hundreds of feet into the clear desert sky. The mission was aborted soon after, but things went from bad to worse when a collision between aircraft occurred during the withdrawal. The resulting fireball destroyed most of the helicopters and refueling craft parked on the ground. Eight aircraft were lost and the same number of American soldiers killed. Many more were horribly injured. Several of the dead were left behind.

The spectacular failure of the mission, along with the fact that the hostages had still not been released, eventually cost president Jimmy Carter the upcoming U.S. election against Ronald Reagan. Within minutes of Reagan being sworn into office the American hostages were released from the embassy.

The embassy was a sobering place.

After staring at the “Den” for a while, I headed across the road to a little café where I ordered a cool drink, which the friendly café owner offered to me for free. Considering I was in a massive city and there were loads of customers behind me, I assumed it wasn’t a serious offer but a
ta’arof
one. I refused three times but the guy was adamant, so I sat down and enjoyed my free drink. Iran is the only place I’ve visited where complete strangers will give you something for free simply for being a foreigner.

I thanked the owner and headed for the subway not far off down the street, which would then take me to the train station. The subway was clean, modern, spacious, and generally far nicer than London’s grimy, decrepit Tube system. It was also far cheaper and a ticket cost me the equivalent of about ten cents. I now learnt that the strict separation of the genders observed on buses and the like is completely abandoned on the Tehran metro, where it is every man and woman for themselves. The metro was so delightfully air conditioned that I could have stayed there far longer than my journey’s time—not something a sane person would willingly do in London’s chokingly hot nonair-conned Tube in summer.

One group of people who actually make a habit of spending long periods of time on London’s Tube are, amazingly, members of Mensa (according to my father). Although the Mensans are supposedly those with a super-high IQ, like my old man, what the jolly Mensans do is periodically take over a subway car on the Circle Line, where they then hold a proper party complete with music, food, booze, paper hats, and party games, as they travel endlessly around London. In circles. All night. How very intellectual.

When I stepped out of the Tehran metro, it was like walking into an oven. By the time I got to the station, I was hot, tired, and ready to crash out just as soon as my train came in. The lack of sleep from the night before and today’s wanderings had caught up with me. I was pleasantly surprised when the train arrived, as it was much nicer and more spacious than the one I’d caught from Yazd, having cabins that slept four, not six. I said a quick polite “Salaam” to my fellow passengers, then without further ado pulled down one of the cabin’s upper bunk beds and passed out.

I
awoke before dawn the next morning when a guard popped his head inside the cabin and announced that we would soon be approaching Tabriz. I started to get myself organized, as did another one of the guys in the cabin. One of the guys popped out into the corridor and returned a minute later with a couple of teas. We drank these together in silence. I spoke more Farsi than he did English, and since all I could really say in Farsi past “hello,” “thank you,” “how much?” and “damn it” was “you are beautiful,” I decided it was best to remain mute—after all, he was no looker.

I stepped off the train into a surprisingly chilly and damp morning. After booking into a hotel, I headed off to the tourist office to make some inquiries. On the way there, it struck me that the roads of Tabriz no longer seemed quite so chaotic and dangerous as when I’d first been here. Certainly they weren’t as bad as Tehran, but I was also becoming much more adept at crossing the road Iranian-style and now felt confident enough to casually step out in front of the traffic and just let the cars work their way around me. I near-skipped across the heaving main road in front of the tourist office without a second thought.

Inside the office were two Polish guys and a big gingerhaired Canadian guy waiting to talk to fountain of tourist knowledge Mr. Nasser Khan. I got talking to my fellow travelers and told the Poles of my desire to visit Babak Castle. They had already been there and highly recommended it, describing the castle as one of the highlights of their eight-week stay in Iran. They sang its praises so much that the Canadian guy sitting next to them decided to cancel his planned trip to another location and come along with me to the castle instead. He introduced himself as Ian, and we both hit it off immediately. Ian was a big friendly confident guy who brought to mind a lumberjack, such was his towering powerful stature, beard, and head of flaming red hair.

The Poles gave Ian and me the details on how to get to the castle, which they explained could be reached by two separate hiking routes. One of these was easy and over rolling hills, the other hard and through dense forest. They highly recommended the hard route on the way up due to its wondrous views and the easy path on the way down. The trip, they said, would take all day, and it was necessary to catch an early morning bus that left at 6 AM for a village near the castle. From the village, we would have to catch a cab to the start of the forest hiking path. Mr. Nasser Khan invited me to join him and the Poles for a tour of one of the nicer areas of Tabriz this evening. I accepted and arranged a time and place to meet them. Like me, Ian was keen for lunch and fancied some traditional Iranian
abgusht
, so Nasser offered to take us both to a suitable café. On the way there, I asked him what a suitable present to buy Shahram and Kimya would be, both of whom I hoped to meet up with later. He recommended a huge box of nut-laden confectionery on sale in the bazaar.

Over a delicious
abgusht
, Ian and I discussed tomorrow’s trip to the castle. His hotel was within walking distance of mine, so we arranged to meet outside my place at the unappealing time of 5:15 AM, then to get a taxi to the bus station and catch the 6 AM coach.

I bade Ian good day and set off for Shahram’s workplace, stopping off briefly en route to buy the recommended confectionary. He was shocked to see me and exclaimed, as best he could in English, that he’d been very concerned for me and had planned to wait a week longer, then telephone the police to launch a search. This was all very sweet of him, although a tad melodramatic. He calmed down when I gave him his present, which he seemed delighted with. We sat down, and I told him of my travels and plans to visit the castle tomorrow. He said to phone him tomorrow evening when I got back from the castle so I could collect my camping gear and we could go out for a meal together. Shahram had a ton of work to do, so I left him to get on with it and spent the rest of the afternoon pottering around doing nothing in particular except browsing around the bazaar.

In the evening, I met up with Nasser and the two Polish guys who were waiting for me outside the tourist office. We caught a taxi down to a salubrious part of Tabriz where all the women looked far more Western than their counterparts in the center of town. Here, instead of wearing layers of black clothing, they wore layers of makeup and colorful “skimpy” hijabs. Our first stop was an ice cream parlor where I tucked into a “sunshine sundae,” consisting of loads of Jell-O but precious little ice cream. Whilst eating, Nasser saw two women he knew and said to them in Farsi what I thought was, “You are beautiful.” He said it quickly, but I was sure I recognized the phrase, so after the girls had left I asked him if this had been the case. Nasser confirmed it was and explained that it was quite a normal compliment to pay a girl in Iran, and that it was not as cheesy as it would be in Europe.

He was impressed with my pronunciation of the phrase and the other tidbits of Farsi the Tehran boys had taught me. Nasser explained that around the corner was an English school and that he had arranged for us to attend for a little while to say a few words to the classes. As I had to be up first thing in the morning, I considered declining. I didn’t want to seem rude, though, so I reluctantly tagged along and hoped it would be quick.

It was a small school that ran evening classes on the first and second floor of an office block. Nasser led me and the two Polish guys into the reception, where we were greeted by five staff members. The Poles were introduced first and got a warm welcome from the staff, but when I was introduced as Mr. Maslin from England, it was as if all their birthdays and Shiite religious festivals had come at once. The Polish guys were whisked off to the staff room, but I was far too valuable an asset for this, and was taken instead upstairs to talk directly to the students.

“Come in,” said the teacher in English as the staff member who’d taken me upstairs knocked on the door. As we entered the room, the whole class, who were all girls between about sixteen to eighteen, rose to their feet respectfully. This was extremely cool and a world away from when I was last at school.

“This is Mr. Maslin, English expert from England!” announced the staff member. I liked that very much indeed. The staff member left, and I was asked by the teacher to introduce myself to the class. I did so and was then asked to take a seat whilst the girls asked me questions. First up was a tricky one: “Which is better, Iran or England?”

I answered diplomatically. “That’s a difficult question to answer. It’s a bit like me asking you which is better, an apple or an orange. They are both good but different.”

She looked at me confused. “But an orange is better.”

“Ah, yes, well, er, to you an orange is better, but to many the apple is the superior fruit.”

All the class, including the teacher, looked confused at this. “No, but orange is better!” she repeated again.

My analogy wasn’t working, so I quit discussing fruit salad and said, “Iran and England are as good as each other.”

“But which is better?” asked another one of the girls.

Good God, it was like being back with Hattie trying to find out if I wanted to marry Susan.

“Iran has better weather,” I said, “but England has better, er . . . soccer.” This they all agreed on, and for the next few minutes, I was asked if I knew David Beckham and the like. The questions got easier after this, and I decided from now on to answer them in as straightforward a manner as possible. They included, amongst many others, “What Iranian food have you tried?” “Did you have culture shock when you come to Iran?” “What do people think of Iran in England?” and “What do you think of the hijab?”

The last two were interesting and I answered honestly, saying that a lot of people in Britain thought Iran was dangerous. I told them that I had even been warned not to go to Iran because I might get shot. The class roared with laughter as if this was the most absurd thing they’d ever heard. After order was reestablished, the teacher confirmed for the class that this was in fact the case and that many people in America and Britain thought Iranians were all terrorists. They seemed genuinely upset at this.

The hijab question was revealing when instead of answering what I thought of it, I asked them what they thought of it. One girl pointed to a small television camera up in the corner of the room and said, “It is not safe.” And it wasn’t; big brother was watching.

The teacher answered for them, saying, “For girls it is better to wear hijab, I think more safe for them.”

We ended on a much lighter note, with me talking about my experiences in the country and the places I’d visited outside of Iran. One of the girls asked jokingly, “Are you Marco Polo?” Everybody laughed at this. There was a knock on the door and the same staff member who’d brought me into the class now came to take me on to another one. The class all protested and asked if I could stay. My ego swelled. They were overruled and I was taken next door, this time to a class of slightly older girls. They all stood for me again and once more I was introduced as, “Mr. Maslin, English Expert from England.”