Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

The flight service manager announced on the PA, “Under the law of Iran, all female passengers must have their hair covered.” About a dozen fashionably dressed women with makeup went to the bathroom holding plastic garment bags, emerging later dressed in black chadors, the one-piece cloak. They had their hair covered, nail polish removed, and faces clean of makeup. They were transformed to black, nearly indistinguishable masses. I overheard Erikka talk with a European-looking woman sitting next to her about the dress code.

“Don’t worry,” said Erikka to the woman, who had also noticed that several Iranian women had changed their clothes in the bathroom. “Foreign women aren’t expected to wear the chador. Just make sure that you cover all parts of your body except your hands, feet, and face. As for your head, remember the rule, ‘from hairline to neckline.’ I’d also make sure,” added Erikka as she saw that the woman was dressed in a tight skirt, “that your clothes don’t reveal the shape of your body.”

The woman rushed to the bathroom with a fashionable handbag. Moments later she emerged wearing a long dress.

“My friend gave it to me before leaving and suggested I carry it on board. I thought she was teasing me, I thought the cover-all dresses were only for Iranian women.”

“No, she wasn’t joking,” said Erikka. “What you’re wearing is a manteau, a dress many Iranian women use instead of the chador.”

From the aircraft’s window I saw Tehran approaching through the haze, a city of nine million located in the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, with elevations increasing towards the north and sloping lower to the south. Pollution was bad during that afternoon hour of early winter, with yellow-gray clouds of smog.

I thought of the rule I’d discovered. In an underdeveloped country I can’t drink the water, and in a developed country I can’t breathe the air. With that thick smog, can I still drink the water here?

At touchdown, I felt my tension rise again. Erikka, who had slept most of the flight, didn’t leave me with much time to be concerned. “I’m so glad to be back,” she said. “I haven’t been here for twenty-five years!”

I couldn’t say I exactly shared her enthusiasm. But at least the time had come to get things started.

Tehran, February 5, 2006

As we taxied bumpily to the terminal on the worn-out tarmac, I saw through the cabin’s windows the sign mehrabad international airport. The terminal’s building looked small, unfit for a nation of seventy million. Since the capture of the U.S. Embassy staff in 1979 and the sanctions imposed on Iran by many countries, there weren’t many incoming flights to Iran. I saw only a few planes of Iran Air, Gulf Air, and Air France.

I walked with Erikka toward the passport-control booths with my heart pounding hard. Erikka walked toward the booths reserved for women. I thought of my instructions. When you arrive, the passport-control officer might ask you questions concerning the purpose of your visit and the length of your stay. Give him the routine tourist answers. Look him in the eye and don’t avoid his. Give short answers, and don’t smile or act as if you’re hiding something. These guys are very experienced in detecting suspicious behavior and maneuvering tactics employed by people who hope to avoid a thorough inspection.

I looked around. A big mural of Ayatollah Khomeini was displayed on the wall. The immigration officer, in a uniform that seemed as if he’d slept in it for a week, gave a very quick glance at my face and keyed a few strokes into his computer. I waited for him to stamp my passport and ease my accelerated heartbeat, but instead two men in plainclothes entered the booth. He gave them my passport, and they exchanged a few sentences in Farsi. The man holding my passport flipped through the pages and returned it to the officer and nodded. The officer stamped my passport without giving me a second look. I wanted to let out a deep breath, but I waited until I was out of his sight.

That’s it? I thought. Were these all the security checks? I guess the Iranians didn’t expect terrorism. I didn’t have to wonder why.

After Erikka and I met again in the customs hall, spent almost an hour waiting for our luggage, and went through customs and currency control, we were finally outside the terminal building-three hours after landing. When we exited the arrival terminal we were hassled by endless numbers of people offering to change money and sell us stuff. Self-appointed tour guides and unauthorized taxi drivers told us that the last bus had already left the terminal and suggested they drive us to town. We ignored them. A courtesy van sent by the hotel was waiting for us and within less than an hour delivered us to the Azadi Grand Hotel, a five-star hotel.

When I exited the van, I looked up at the tall building. To my estimate it had several hundred rooms. But the empty lobby during the early-evening hour signaled that the hotel wasn’t fully occupied. After a quick check-in we were taken to our rooms. Mine was on the third floor and Erikka’s on the fourth.

“I’ll see you in two hours for dinner,” she said before I got off the elevator.

I opened my room’s window curtains to view the Alborz Mountains, to the north of Tehran, and waited. Erikka tapped on the door of my room two hours later dressed in black pants, with a white manteau over them. She wore a black scarf that covered her hair and neck. The black and white combination was dominolike.

“Has anyone seen you coming here?” I asked. I didn’t need unnecessary attention.

“Don’t worry, I was careful,” she said with a smile, sounding like a high school student escaping through her bedroom window to meet a boyfriend. I joined her in the hall, wary that she not enter my room.

“It’s beautiful out there,” I said, nodding back toward the window as I closed the door behind me.

“The view? I agree. Did you know that the name Tehran means ‘warm slopes’ in Farsi? Maybe they meant these slopes.”

“Where are we going to have dinner?” I asked.

“I’d love to have Persian food,” said Erikka. “How about you?”

“Fine with me.” Usually, I blame jet lag for confusing me after a ten-hour flight. When I go to dinner I feel sexy, and when I go to bed I’m hungry. But not now. I was neither. I was too tense and focused.

We went outside and the doorman hailed a cab. “Please ask him to take us to a good restaurant,” I said.

Erikka spoke with the driver in Farsi. The driver’s face lighted up, and they continued with what sounded to me like a friendly conversation.

“He suggests Sofreh Khaneh Aban, a Persian dining room, on Aban Street,” she translated. “He says they have a live band playing traditional Persian music, although the price may be high.”

“How much is high?” I asked thinking about my per diem, forgetting that there are completely different rules in these situations.

“A meal for two might cost as much as 200,000 rials.”

As I made a quick calculation, I smiled. “It’s about $20. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

Half an hour into the ride, the driver said with a smug expression, “This is where we gave the Americans a lesson,” and pointed the building that housed the U.S. Embassy until 1979. Erikka was translating. “This was the den of spies.” I had no reaction. I glanced at Erikka, who held a deadpan expression and gazed at the people on the street. We played the part of tourists to perfection.

The restaurant was packed with families, some with young children, and the noise was almost unbearable. My eyes were burning immediately. Most men were smoking cigarettes; others were using a hookah, a “narghile” in Farsi, with a water-pipe filter that flavors the smoke with cool water. But only the smoker enjoys it. What he exhales to the neighborhood is churning smog mixed with his CO 2, not recommended.