Sadly, today would be my last full day in Iran. My visa ran out in a couple of days’ time, and my train for Istanbul in Turkey left Tabriz early tomorrow morning. As such, I planned to do nothing more than meet up with Shahram and Kimya, pick up my camping gear, send a few e-mails, and find a present for my friend Chris, who had said to me before I left England, “Maza, send me something fucked up from Iran!” I intended to oblige.
While I was eating breakfast at the hotel restaurant, something strange happened. Sitting a few tables down were two Iranian-looking guys and a hauntingly attractive woman of indistinguishable origin with blue eyes. The men were talking in English and one had definitely lived in the U.K., such was his accent. The other spoke with an Iranian twang, and the girl remained silent. Apart from the professor I met at the library in Tehran, this was the only time I’d heard someone in Iran speak with an English accent. I eavesdropped for a while, but it was just general chitchat about nothing in particular. Suddenly, the two guys got up from their table and came and approached me.
“I recognize your face,” said the one with the Iranian accent. “You got your visa through IranianVisa.com, didn’t you?” He then added, “I work for them and see all the passport scans.”
Considering Iran was a country of 71 million people, and IranianVisa.com was based in Tehran not Tabriz, this was a massive coincidence. Also, my passport photo was taken when I was nineteen and had much shorter hair and looks nothing like I do now—or at least I hope it doesn’t since I look a complete dork in it. I cautiously confirmed I had got my visa through them, but was on my guard and immediately wondered if they were secret police.
“What is your name?” asked the Iranian.
I told him.
“Yes, Jamie, I remember.”
“Are you enjoying your stay in Iran?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Where have you visited?” I answered his questions as succinctly as possible and couldn’t quite work out if I was being mega paranoid or was justifiably concerned. He rambled off a list of queries, including how long I had left in the country. I lied and said another week.
I’d been warned by Leyla to be very careful when sending e-mails in Iran, but I hadn’t really heeded this warning completely. I made sure to omit Iranian names in my correspondence with friends at home, but had made no secret of the fact I’d be writing a book about my Iranian adventures when I returned. Could the powers-that-be have intercepted these? Were they worried about what I’d write? Or was I just creating another Roger Moore James Bond fantasy in my head? I didn’t know, but tried to think what Bond would do in a similar situation: probably end up shagging the chick, I figured—I could live with that.
I decided to say as little as possible, and after a couple of minutes, they went back to their table. They all spoke together in Farsi now. Half of me was convinced it was all just silly paranoia but the other half of me wasn’t so sure. I knew foreign journalists had been arrested and even killed in Iran. Canadian photojournalist Zahra Kazemi had died in custody from “a stroke” after being arrested taking photos outside Iran’s Evin Prison, although her body showed signs of brutal torture—so these things happened, but whether I was being singled out because of my e-mails, or I was completely losing my mind, I didn’t know. Before I could ponder this anymore, the men returned again.
“Have a nice stay in Iran,” the English one said, offering me his hand to shake. I shook his and then the other guy’s hand.
They began to walk off, but then the Iranian guy turned and faced me. “How long did you say you were staying in Tabriz?”
“A week,” I replied.
“Have a good time,” he said, and with that they were gone. It was all a bit weird, and the chances of me meeting the one person I’d sent a scan of my passport to out of 71 million other Iranians seemed very unlikely indeed, but then again I’d had other strange coincidences occur while traveling before.
I got up to leave and walked past their empty table, then returned to examine it after wondering if they’d been waiting there a long time for me. I looked at the cigarette butts in the ashtray—there were seven. I’d only seen the woman smoking. What did this mean? I didn’t have a fucking clue but it seemed the sort of thing Columbo would look at. I gave up and went outside in search of something “fucked up from Iran.”
Not a minute down the road and I was at the shop which sold the horrendous thalidomide disco-dancing DVD I’d seen on my first visit to Tabriz. It was the perfect gift for Chris and certainly qualified as something “fucked up from Iran.” I felt guilty at the thought of buying one, but then figured it was considered funny in Iran, and therefore said something, although I’m not sure quite what, about the place. I made the purchase and went down to the post office to stick it in the mail.
Sending a DVD through the mail is no straightforward transaction in Iran. I had to hand it over to a guy behind a counter who skimmed through the disk’s scenes on his computer to check if there was anything illicit or banned on it. Even though it was just a minor infringement of my civil liberties, it really got on my nerves. They were nice about it though and in true contradictory Iranian style gave me a nice cup of tea, whilst they searched for subversive material and ascertained whether I was a dangerous enemy of the state. They concluded that it was no “super film” and gave it the all clear. I put it in the mail.
I had a pleasant surprise at my next port of call, which was a money changer in the bazaar. I handed over my wedge of Iranian notes that I’d been unable to spend and discovered to my amazement that my whole trip, all the way from France, had cost in total an amazing $450! I was astonished. I knew I’d had quite a bit of currency left in the bottom of my backpack, but I didn’t expect it to be this much. I wondered if I could have made it all the way to China on $1,400 after all.
In return for my huge wedge of Iranian notes, I received a minuscule sliver of U.S. dollars, which immediately made me feel poor and strangely hard done by. It’s interesting to note that despite the Iranian government’s aversion to all things American, until recently their preferred foreign currency for international trade and exchange was the U.S. dollar. This has now changed, with the Iranian government insisting on non-dollar currencies for its oil and planning to open its own oil exchange where, crucially, oil will be traded in euros instead of U.S. dollars.
Some people believe that in breaking the monopoly previously enjoyed by the dollar for all OPEC oil trades, Iran will significantly devalue the U.S. currency, which is already suffering from a national debt in excess of $11 trillion.
The theory goes that if the dollar is to remain the world’s favored reserve currency then it is crucial that oil is solely traded in it. That way, the euro would be unlikely to become a major reserve currency, as there’s not much point in central banks stockpiling euros if they have to change them into dollars every time they purchase oil. By offering the euro as an alternative, as did Saddam Hussein just before he was ousted, Iran could potentially lead the world’s central banks to drop the dollar as their reserve currency and switch instead to the stronger euro. The resulting sale of dollars would send the U.S. currency into freefall and cause complete havoc.
Whether or not Iran’s proposed non-dollar oil exchange can lead to the above scenario is disputed. However, what is far less disputed is that the U.S. economy would go through a period of vast upheaval were the dollar to ever lose its de facto reserve status. Some analysts claim it would be catastrophic and eventually force the U.S. to dramatically change its tax, debt, trade, energy, and ultimately, military policies-no longer, they say, would the U.S. be able to spend 42 cents in every tax dollar on the military.
After my visit to the money changers, I walked over to pick up my camping gear from Shahram. I arrived and found to my dismay that the company he worked for was closed and all locked up. Whoops.
The only telephone number I had for him was his work phone, so this was serious. My train left tomorrow morning, and my visa ran out the day after that. If I couldn’t get hold of him today then it looked like I’d be saying bye-bye to all my precious camping equipment. Not only was it all of enormous sentimental value but was worth well over a thousand dollars.
The office on the floor above was open, so I stuck my head in and inquired after Shahram by saying his name and pointing downstairs. One of the staff pointed out to me what I already knew, namely that the door was locked and that he wasn’t in. I gestured that I needed to call him. Luckily, he looked like he knew what I was after and went back to discuss this with a colleague. His colleague picked up the phone and called Shahram’s cell for me. Ten minutes later, Shahram and Kimya were outside with all my camping gear.
We went for a wonderful abgusht lunch together in a smart little restaurant around the corner run by a very animated man wearing big chunky sunglasses. Over lunch, Shahram tried to discuss some sort of investment in Iran’s stock market with me. I think he wanted me to invest some money in the market as a whole, as opposed to stock of an individual company. He said it was extremely safe and that the Iranian stock market was “the number one stock market in the whole world.” His proof? “It has officially been declared the best by the Iranian government.”
I told him I’d think about it.
Outside the restaurant, we bade each other farewell and promised to stay in touch. Before I left, Kimya said to me, “I hope you can come back and visit again someday with either your wife or sister.” I told her I’d like to.
The rest of the day I spent packing, getting some of my diary notes written up, and generally taking it easy.
I had an early start on my final morning in Iran as my train left just before dawn. I’d asked the hotel’s reception staff the night before to order a cab for me. I waited and waited in the lobby, watching the clock. The car was very late. After twenty minutes of nervously biting my fingernails, I gave up and went out into the chilly near-deserted predawn streets in search of another one. It was still dark and there was next to no life about. After ten minutes of panicked searching, I spotted one and flagged it down, waving my arms about like a madman. I didn’t know the Farsi for “train station,” so I did silly little choo-choo train impressions with the appropriate hand moves and noises. The driver turned around and looked at me like I was a fool.
“Do you want to go to the train station?” he asked in perfect English. I told him yes and that I was seriously late. He put his foot down and burned off at racecar speed. And thank goodness he did, because I arrived only a couple of minutes before my train left. If I’d missed it, I would have been in serious trouble; my visa lapsed the following day, and I definitely didn’t want to be in Iran illegally.
I shared a spacious cabin with just one other guy who spoke no English whatsoever but was a warm and friendly chap who shared his bag of candy with me. I spent the next few hours gazing out of the window at wonderful mountain gorges and the huge sprawling surface of Lake Orumiyeh, which the train skirted past. Northwest Iran has some mind-blowing scenery.
Before long, we crossed the Iranian border and were into Turkey. It was party time. The girls suddenly took their hijabs off and changed into revealing Western outfits. The guy from my cabin who’d shared his candy with me rolled up and smoked a spliff. He puffed away while I checked for guards in the corridor. Afterward, he crashed out listening to his Walkman. Even through the headphones, I could tell it was none other than our Irish friend. Could I ever get away from the guy?
I was both sad and excited to be at the end of my Iran adventure and the end of my journey. Everywhere I traveled, I encountered the friendliest people I’d ever come across and constantly had to remind myself that I was in Iran—part of the so-called Axis of Evil. Although I obviously make no apology for the abysmal Iranian government and its terrible human rights abuses, the Iranian people were just incredible.
On the long journey back to Istanbul, I met a group of Iranian girls in their late twenties in the train’s restaurant car who belonged to the minority Baha’i religion. Being part of this religion would have meant death or imprisonment in Iran until recently, and its followers are still prevented from employment opportunities or attending university. The girls had managed to obtain visas through the UN and were leaving Iran for Istanbul, then heading to Canada for a better life. This would be their last time in Iran for many years, and possibly their last time ever. I said how happy they must be to be off to Canada, but the eldest one shook her head.
“No. There is no place like home.”
I could well understand. It wasn’t my home, but I was certainly made to feel welcome. It was, however, time for me to take my leave as well. After all, you can only take so much Chris de Burgh.