Stephan Orth: Couchsurfing in Iran: Revealing a Hidden World

The rooms are full of odds and ends, the largest room being dominated by a ping-pong table on which there is a laminated hand-drawn map showing nearby Internet cafés, food stores, and subway stations. The atmosphere is more like a backpacker hostel than a private apartment. In a small storeroom I discover a camp bed; otherwise, there are only a few cushions there. Without your own camping mats you have to sleep on the stone floor—a point that Reza makes absolutely clear in his profile.

Soon the host comes down, and we sit on garden chairs and chat about couchsurfing in Iran. “Until six months ago I could let guests stay at my parents’ home,” says Reza, who studied electrotechnology in Tehran and philosophy in Toronto. “My mother made strict rules: they had to leave the house by nine in the morning and not return before nine at night—to sleep. Now I have a whole floor for my guests; my parents live on the top floor.”

I ask him about his job.

“I give private English lessons, but apart from that, I don’t work much.” He has plenty of time to organize meetings. A hell of a lot of meetings. Saturdays: Hafiz evening and poetry soiree; Sundays: Ferdowsi meeting; Mondays: recitals of Saadi Shirazi poems; Tuesdays: Reza cooks a vegetarian lunch using his own recipes and holds free English conversation lessons (“We talk about subjects that aren’t usually raised, such as women’s rights or Labor Day”); Wednesdays: Arabic; Thursdays: hiking and collecting litter in the north of Tehran; Fridays: Omar Khayyam poetry. And sometimes Reza takes foreign guests to a school for Afghani refugees or just plays ping-pong with a couple people.

I ask him whether he ever has problems with the authorities because of his many guests and meetings. “Once I was contacted by a couchsurfer from Israel. We had a lively exchange of posts, and I gave him a review. The staff at the Ministry of Tourism found this suspicious. They asked me what it was all about. Actually, they weren’t against couchsurfing, rather they were trying to find a way to make this kind of tourism acceptable to the police. Our idea was to set up a website where the host could register the guest just like hotels do. Then no one would suspect us of concealing foreign spies.” This hasn’t been implemented yet. He has often been hauled in front of the police but is pretty relaxed about it. “I always explain that I like having foreign guests and that seems to be okay.” His certificate as a tourist guide makes things easier. “In Tehran much worse things happen than couchsurfing. There are private orgies and illegal parties. The police are also considerably more interested in secret political events.” I think of Atefeh in Kerman, whose guide license was revoked because she had foreign guests. There seem to be considerable regional differences as to which breaches of law are punished.

It’s Friday, so in the evening I go with Reza to Laleh Park, to the Omar Khayyam event. Some fifteen people have come; many are students. Among them is the twenty-seven-year-old designer Setareh, who contacted me saying that she was interested in my travels because she also dreams of seeing more of her country. We sit in a kind of amphitheater, with people around playing volleyball or badminton. Doing the rounds, each gives a short account of himself or herself. One is an engineer who now studies sociology. Another is an Islamicist who now works in the theater. There is an artist who gave up studying for his economics degree years ago. An author working on a book about deliverance from the cocoon of religious constraints. An agronomist who recently changed to study Western philosophy. And a programmer who would rather be a singer. Of course, he is immediately asked to give us a song, and with a mellow voice he sings an Omar Khayyam poem:

“Bravo,” says Reza; the rest clap. A crowd of people trying to follow their true passions, instead of fitting the norms. “That happens a lot,” explains Reza. “Social pressure forces young people to pounce on a profession that doesn’t really reflect their interests.”

Setareh is on a slightly different path. She has a bachelor’s degree in graphic design but now studies tourist management because the job prospects are better. After about two hours the introductory round is over, and we stroll a while to the Khayyam statue, to read out some of his poems. The stone likeness of the poet and mathematician is leaning on a thick tome, a bottle of wine at his feet. Sternly, but not without benevolence, he looks down at us. It is truly wonderful to witness the enthusiasm of the students for the 1,900-year-old hedonistic poetry; the language sounds like music. I feel as if I’ve landed in a Persian version of Dead Poets Society.

“The big difference between Khayyam and the Islamic mystics was that the mystics were always thinking of the ‘beyond,’ while the poet was celebrating the ‘here and now,’” says Reza. To put it another way: faced with a decision of whether to have a good wine in this life or seventy-two virgins a little later, Khayyam would always go for the drink.

From: Setareh

Hi, one of my friend is planning a party tomorrow around 5pm. Do you want to come?

To: Setareh

Hi setareh, sounds great, i d love to join you! see you tomorrow!

NEXT MORNING Imeet Setareh near Tehran’s bazaar for a tour of the city. She takes me to Mr. Rezai’s poster business, where she often worked. The diversity of motifs is immense: deer in the forest, alpine chalets, Jesus at the Last Supper, squiggly Quran verses, Khomeini at prayer, 3-D pictures of ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamenei, where, depending on the angle, you can see one or the other’s head.

Setareh shows me a London picture, bright red double-decker buses against a black-and-white background. “I did that one,” she says. Somehow the image seems very familiar. “Okay, I found the image on the Internet. It’s an easy job and well paid.” In Iran there are a multitude of very strict laws covering many aspects of life but not copyright. A couple stores farther on there are software programs costing hundreds of dollars in Europe, and here they virtually give them away. Photoshop for $2 and Microsoft Office for $1.50.

“I have a surprise for you,” says Setareh at lunch in a small restaurant serving gheymeh, a delicious meat and lentil dish.

“What?”

“I’ve organized an interview for you. Donya-e-Eqtesad , one of the biggest dailies in the country, wants to do something on your travels.”

“How did you manage that?”

“One of my profs has a contact there; it was easy. When will suit you?”

“Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Okay, I’ll call them.”

The thought of getting to know such a media concern from the inside appeals to me. Of course, I will have to leave out plenty of details so that the story can be printed. As she telephones I notice that my Persian has improved. I understand a number of words and courtesies. And the word Spiegel .

“Tomorrow afternoon’s fine, at five,” she says after hanging up.