Stephan Orth: Couchsurfing in Iran: Revealing a Hidden World

The interior of the palace is not only proof of his mania for collecting but also of his narcissism, and there are a couple hundred tiles showing the shah hunting. His tombstone, not far away, is an effigy of the shah with a sensational mustache. A protective screen has been placed above it, which is covered with pigeon droppings. Every day pigeons drop their loads on the shah, and the eyes of the effigy follow the flight paths of every plane. There must be better ways to spend eternity.

The last shah of Persia, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, was crowned at Golestan Palace and guided the affairs of state from 1941 until the revolution in 1979. He was more conciliatory toward the Muslim clergy than his father, lifting, for example, the ban on chadors. But his extravagant lifestyle, his controversial politics, and his cozy relationship to the West brought him many enemies. At some stage the situation became untenable, and the people took to the streets, paving the way for the seizure of power by the mullahs . The shah was forced into exile, and Ayatollah Khomeini returned from exile and received a hero’s welcome.

Those who pause after the sensory overload of halls of mirrors, treasure chambers, and all the accentuation on marble unavoidably come to the conclusion that being a shah couldn’t have been too bad a way to spend your time. I ask Yasmin to rate my chances of this career path. This induces a high-pitched fit of laughter, and then she points to an inner courtyard, where a photographer takes photos in authentic regal regalia. Touristy folklore, but it’s worth the five dollars for two pictures.

I don a green silk frock coat, a blue cloak with embroidered flowers, a round, flat cap with a feather. An assistant quickly glues on my mustache. Several other visitors stop by and greet me with “Welcome to Iran!” Gradually, more and more onlookers gather to follow my photo session. Should I use the window of opportunity to gain a few potential subjects? I nod gracefully toward them, slowly raising my silk-covered arm in a greeting and smiling with dignity. From the tension of my skin the mustache becomes dislodged and with it every imagined aura of majesty. The onlookers, however, are royally amused. My lesson for today: shahs don’t smile.

THE NEXT DAYI take the number one line north. A well-groomed man in a shirt and suit pants with a hairstyle like American football quarterback Tom Brady sits next to me. First he speaks to me in Persian and then English. He only needs five minutes to tell me what’s wrong with his country.

I learn that he is fifty, works as an electrician for a company making machines, and earns US$200 a month. “You can’t live on that; it’s just about enough to cover the rent. There’s no chance of getting married, either.” And then he becomes astonishingly open and intimate. “You know, for us sex is a real problem. Those without money can’t marry, and anyhow nothing goes on before marriage. Everything has got much worse since the financial crisis. Hardly anyone can afford to have a couple kids. And at the same time we can’t get our asses into gear. I’m not the exception there. I sit on the couch after work and watch TV because there’s nothing better to do. Iranians are incredibly friendly, but once you become better acquainted with them you will see the darker sides. Envy, for example, when someone else has more. And the lack of a fighting spirit: people try to come to terms with their lot, to make the best of their circumstances, but not to fight for or against something. Have a nice day. Welcome to Iran!”

I get out at Mofatteh and look for Raam Café at the corner of Mehrdad Street and Aslipur Street. I’m a little bit late, and some twenty young people are sitting in a circle of chairs. The round of introductions has already started.

“My name is Mehedi. I’m twenty-eight and have been a member for three or four days and work as a tourist guide. I don’t like hotels, as they don’t have anything human about them, anything individual. I like traveling simply, without luggage.”

“I’m Atafeh, twenty-four years old, and a member for a couple months. I’d like to meet Iranians who can show me their cities. I love surprises.”

“Neda, twenty-nine. I’ve been registered for four weeks and have used couchsurfing in Germany. You can make many friends by traveling like this.”

“Stephan from Germany. I’ve been couchsurfing for more than ten years and have had roughly 80 guests and 120 hosts. I can’t imagine traveling without couchsurfing.”

The café sports designer wooden shelves full of books. A Chinatown movie poster hangs on the wall; Nescafé is served, and so are nonalcoholic mojitos. The atmosphere is of a Bible class. Or a self-help group. Or a sect. Two dozen people between twenty and forty have come to experience how couchsurfing works. Their guru is called Pedram, a charismatic bald guy with a MacBook and an Adidas T-shirt, who drinks water from a bike bottle when there is a lull in conversation, which is seldom. On an almost-daily basis he organizes some meeting or other. Free tours of the city, photography walks, visits to museums. And every fortnight he organizes a meeting for beginners, today for the tenth time.

“I will talk about the basics, the rules, about surfing and hosting, and about security,” he announces. Pedram doesn’t have to worry about running out of enthusiasts. “A year ago couchsurfing had a few thousand members, and now we have more than 100,000.”

A red-haired girl, her scarf way above her forehead, asks: “If we visit strangers that we only know from the Internet, how can we trust them?”

“A very important question. Trust is of utmost importance,” Pedram replies. “One general rule is to go through the profile very carefully before you arrange to meet. Trust your gut feelings, your instincts—sometimes you will feel that something isn’t quite right. And there are reviews. If you are hosting or surfing, leave a short comment.”

The red-haired girl asks me about my worst experience. I tell her about a visitor from Frankfurt who wanted to talk the whole night about the intricacies of high-end stereo systems, although I had to get up the next morning at eight and had an important exam at the university, and in addition to that he behaved as if he were in a hotel with twenty-four-hour butler service.

“That was your worst experience?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes, and the second worst was the guest who stole my toilet paper.”

So, all within the bounds of reason.

From: Masoud Kish

Hello Stephan, I have the in-laws here, but might kick them out to host you. Just call me when you arrive ok?

LUSH GREEN TREETOPSsway in the wind, a fountain softly splutters, traffic whirs from the main road. A young couple, holding hands, stroll along the freshly tarred path. Tehran’s couples hold hands in public in parks when they feel safe from critical eyes. Teenagers, with hoodies and Justin Bieber hairstyles, display their skateboarding skills on the high curbs. They tumble and pick themselves up without seeming to feel pain, all the while listening to music on their headphones—boom boxes are forbidden. Two older men are torturing themselves on open-air exercise equipment made of colorful metal.

It is a mild spring Sunday in Goftegoo Park, the name meaning something like “chatter,” and that’s just what we are doing. Farshad explains that religious names for children have become less popular in recent years. “People question belief more nowadays; not everyone is called Mohamad or Hussein.” He is pleased with his name, which means “happy.”