Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn (9 page)

Shahram was generous to a fault and had already bought me a notepad in the bazaar and was now approaching the till with a book. I suspected it was for me, and my suspicions were confirmed when he turned and presented it to me with a smile. It was a photography booklet of quality prints, including one of the mysterious castle. I thanked him many times over and wondered if all Iranians were this incredibly generous and hospitable to foreigners.

Not long after the sun set, I was introduced to Shahram’s wife, whom we met up with at her office. Her name was Kimya, and as Shahram introduced me to her, I made the mistake of instinctively thrusting out my hand for her to shake before realizing it wasn’t deemed appropriate. Once it was out, though, I couldn’t retract it, so it just sort of hung there in the air for a second, whilst she pondered what to do. In desperation, she looked across to Shahram for guidance. He nodded that it was okay, and we shook. I hoped I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Kimya spoke much better English than Shahram, and it was good to talk to her without having to repeat myself several times as I’d been doing with Shahram. She went through all the standard Iranian icebreaker questions and seemed genuinely sorry and surprised to learn I wasn’t married yet, as had Shahram when he had first asked me. “I hope you get married soon,” was all she said before changing the subject tactfully, as if trying to save me the embarrassment of being single. Minutes later we left for another attraction.

We all piled into the back of a shared taxi, and on the way to our next stop, Kimya queried me repeatedly on what I knew of Islam. We talked religion together for a while and how Christianity, Islam, and Judaism are in fact very similar. Having read a bit about this, I managed to knock out a couple of quotes from the Koran to impress Kimya. I started with Surah 29, where Mohammed instructs his followers, “Do not dispute with the people of the book,” (i.e., Jews and Christians), “ . . . but tell them we believe in the Revelation which has come down to us and in that which came down to you; our Allah and your Allah is one.” Kimya and Shahram were both very pleased and seemed impressed that I knew something of their religion.

Kimya then told me that when Mohammed entered Mecca in triumph, he ordered the destruction of all idols and images, but when he came across a picture of the Virgin Mary and infant Jesus, he covered it reverently with both hands and said that all other idols were to be destroyed, but the image of the Virgin and Child was to be looked upon as sacrosanct. We then talked about Jesus being a prophet to Muslims and that Mohammed had referred to Jesus as the “breath of God.”

When we finally got to our destination, I tried to pay for the ride but gave up when Shahram seemed offended that I should try to do such an underhanded and despicable thing.

“You are our guest!” he said forcefully as he handed the money to the driver.

“Fair enough,” I thought.

We had arrived at a magical place called King’s Lake, which Kimya explained was now officially called People’s Lake so as to have no reference to the ousted king of Iran, the Shah. It was a fair-sized lake with many multicolored illuminated fountains and a large restaurant built in the middle, which was accessible via a walkway. This, Shahram explained, had once been a disco when such things were allowed in Iran before the Islamic Revolution. Many people splashed around in little paddleboats, and everybody we passed seemed happy. Surrounding the lake was a park containing some fairground attractions, including a Ferris wheel lit up with twinkling colored lights.

We strolled leisurely along the outside path of the lake where other people were also walking, relaxing, eating candy floss, roller-skating, and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. The limited visions I’d had of Iran before visiting had been of slightly worrisome street scenes where I’d have to keep my wits about me at all times, lest I be lynched by a mob of anti-Western fundamentalists. The farce of that misconceived image made me laugh now.

We ambled along in the balmy nighttime summer air to the walkway that led out to the restaurant. Here, I was treated to a yogurt and cucumber, then the finest Iranian style kebabs and rice with a big dollop of butter. We washed this down with cool beaded bottles of Sprite served with straws. It was strange to be in such an ambient restaurant without being able to order from a wine list and instead to be drinking through a straw. Over dinner, we talked about all manner of things, including our hobbies. They were both amazed to learn I skydived and got me to talk about this for a good fifteen minutes. They kept shaking their heads in astonishment. I promised to e-mail them a photo of me doing this, which both seemed genuinely excited about receiving.

When it was time to pay, I didn’t really know what to do, but I decided to offer and did so three times. In the end, it was no good and I was overruled by the pair of them, but I felt better for trying.

Walking back through the park, we chatted about Iranian cinema, and I told them I had seen the Oscar-nominated Iranian film
Children of Heaven
(which, dear reader, if you haven’t yet seen I’d highly recommend, as it is a delightful and touching piece of cinema). Kimya was most impressed by this and recommended another film for me by the same director, called
Color of Paradise
.

All in all, it was a splendid afternoon and evening, and when we got back to my hotel, they offered to put me up at their place the next night. I did the refuse three times routine then agreed on the fourth. Things were working out extremely well.

A
t the bottom of Shahram’s apartment block was an area to leave your shoes before entering the block proper. We added ours to the pile of existing footwear, which belonged to everybody else who had a place here, and went on up in our socks to Shahram’s third-floor apartment. Kimya was waiting for us, and although still wearing a hijab, she had lost the black chador she’d worn the night before and was now dressed in far more Western clothing.

I didn’t make the mistake of trying to shake her hand this time but instead put my hand on my heart and gave a little bow. They had a nice but basic place with loads of furniture that was colored or painted gold. I got my first home-cooked Iranian meal, which was called
Ghorme Sabzi
and consisted of sautéed herbs mixed with black-eyed beans, dried limes, onions, and succulent lamb, all served with the softest melt-in-the-mouth rice, and a crusty sort of rice fritter. This was accompanied by an interesting Iranian drink of watery milk and dried mint called
doogh
. Shahram was the epitome of hospitality and kept piling the food on my plate, giving me far more than I could have possibly finished.

“What do you think of Arabs?” Shahram queried from out of nowhere.

“I don’t really know any,” I replied neutrally.

“They are just interested in money, don’t you think?”

I remained neutral on this one and explained that actually a lot of people in the West mistakenly assume that Iranians are Arabs.

The color drained from his face in shock. This was not what he wanted to hear and was probably the equivalent of telling a Frenchman he’s English or vice versa.

“Really?” asked his wife in disbelief. “Why would they think that?”

I did my best to explain that a lot of people, through ignorance, lump all of the Middle East together and don’t have a particularly good sense of geography.

“What do people in England think of Iran?” she asked next. I could have lied and been diplomatic about this one but thought honesty was the best policy and explained that a lot of people, again, through ignorance, thought of Iran in George W. Bush’s terms as a member of the Axis of Evil, full of dangerous terrorists, and that a lot of Western media portrayed the country in this way. I said some people were too shortsighted to differentiate between the people of Iran and its leaders, and told them that I had been warned on several occasions not to visit Iran, and even been told I’d probably get shot here. Both found this very funny at first but then expressed their sadness.

“Yes, I have heard in newspaper, they say we are terrorist,” Shahram said thoughtfully. Things lightened up when Kimya asked what type of music I liked. She hadn’t heard of any of my favorites and probably assumed Britain was years behind Iran on the international music scene. I asked what they liked.

“Michael Jackson, Pet Shop Boys, Chris de Burgh, David Hasselhoff, Ace of Base, and of course Modern Tacking.”

“Modern who?”

“Modern Tacking!” she exclaimed.

“Tacking?”

“Yes, Modern Tacking, you must know!” It took a while before I realized she was saying “talking” but this was no help either. When I told them I’d never heard of a “Modern Talking” they honestly thought I was joking.

“But Modern Talking are the biggest rock group in the world,” Kimya explained.

“Are they Iranian?” I asked.

“No, of course not, they are German!”

“Oh I see,” I said and explained that German music wasn’t particularly popular in Britain or the rest of the English-speaking world—thank God!

“But they sing in English!” she countered, incredulous that I hadn’t heard of them. Shahram got up and returned to the table with a book. On the front cover were two cheesy-looking middle-aged jerks in full leather jackets and pants.

“It is English to Persian translation of the most beautiful songs of Modern Tacking,” he explained.

Kimya chipped in with, “Yes, it is very beautiful words, like poetry, like our great poet Hafez.”

I took a look at the book while Shahram slipped on a cassette tape. The lyrics were inspired, like Wordsworth, Keats, or Byron, but set to an eighties electro-pop disco beat. The words dripped with emotion and grace.

I couldn’t believe they hadn’t cracked the U.K. or U.S. market!

We left their apartment with Modern Talking ringing in our ears and set off on our second evening of sightseeing. Our first stop was the Tabriz museum on Imam Khomeini Ave. Immediately on walking in, I was drawn to a massive hunk of black volcanic glass called obsidian, which was on display just inside the entrance. Next to it were some arrowheads made of the same material. Having done a couple of flint knapping courses, I knew a bit about this and had the pleasure of sounding all scientific and knowledgeable for once.

“Obsidian,” I stated for Shahram and Kimya in my best professor-like voice, “produces the sharpest edge known to man, which is some five hundred times sharper than the very sharpest steel scalpel.”

In fact, surgeons have even made blades from it, as it will slice through human flesh far easier than a metal scalpel. It is so sharp that on a cellular level a blade made of obsidian is capable of slicing between cells as opposed to tearing them apart as a steel scalpel does. And the sharper the cut, the less the scarring, and the faster an incision will heal. I finished up by telling them that under high magnification the edge of a steel scalpel blade appears serrated, whereas an obsidian blade still looks smooth.

I felt all clever and learned as I recalled all this, and both looked suitably impressed. It was, however, the last exhibit I knew remotely anything about, so I read the English labels on all the rest. The museum had some interesting artifacts from regional excavations, including, amongst many other things, silverware from the Sassanid period (AD 224-637), drinking vessels from the Achaemenid period (550-330 BC), a vast collection of ancient coins, some beautiful bronzes from Iran’s Lorestan province, and Shahram’s clear favorite, a big collection of nasty-looking swords and daggers.

Also of interest were two skeletons called “the lovers” that had been excavated side by side. But the real highlight for me was an exhibition of the best sculptures I’ve ever seen in my life. They were made out of some sort of metallic material by a local, contemporary sculptor named Ahad Hosseini and were exceptionally striking. Most showed human figures in tormented states of one kind or another and were rather depressing, but all were hard-hitting.

The names of the sculptures included
Anxiety
,
Racial Discrimination
,
Chains of Misery
,
Population Growth
,
Hunger
,
Five Masters of Death
,
The Miserables
,
Autumn of Life
, and the worst and best of all,
Political Prisoners
, which depicted a group of men in a cage. One was partially beheaded, another was attached to a skewer hanging from the ceiling, while another was cramped into the fetal position inside a safe-like box with spikes protruding from inside, and yet another was screaming in sheer terror. It was scary as hell to think that these things actually happen. It was the antithesis of all the arty-farty impressionistic crap you see made by untalented modern art posers.