Stephen Orth - Couchsurfing in Iran - Revealing a Hidden World

Another traffic sign announces: Welcome to Gandom Beryan, the hottest area of the world . The words hottest area and world have been erased, so presumably there is somewhere else that is even hotter.

“Over 158 degrees Fahrenheit has been measured here. We say that you can fry an egg on the ground,” says Nasrin.

We soon reach the Shur salt river, the site of the bad memories of the breakdown two years ago. It is some fifteen feet wide and at no point deeper than a few inches. Salt forms in clumps, looking like slushy snow on the banks. A little farther away, in the sand crusty white plates have formed, and tourists have left footprints or messages in Persian, and a truck driver has left a huge tire. The thermometer in the car registers nearly 98 degrees Fahrenheit. Luckily, it’s windy today.

On the trip back, we stop at a particularly spectacular sand mountain, with vertical walls that seem to have grown out of the ground and not been formed by centuries of wind and erosion. We can only see a fraction of the natural sand mountains; they stretch ninety miles from north to south. The biggest ones are as high as ten-story buildings. On the horizon of this desert wonderland you can see a snow-capped peak. Below, one of the two or three hottest areas of the world; above, ice cold—an “Adventure Area” that is pretty rich in contrasts.

While taking a stroll in the sand, Richard remarks that one of the disadvantages of couchsurfing is that you never have time for yourself and always have to arrange yourself around the plans of others, which is why they sometimes stay in hotels. “But the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages,” says Sally. She recommends a host in Chabahar, in southeast Iran, if I am ever in the area. He has very few guests, which was why he looked after them so impressively. He even took the Australians to a traditional Baluchestan wedding. “Colorful robes, complete segregation of the sexes, and an exuberant rifle salute,” says Richard.

Back in Shadad we buy some ice cream and Istak apple malt beer, and Nasrin adds some delicious kolompeh (date cookies) that her sister baked. Then back to the police station to deregister. The second contact with the authorities is also very different from expectations. First, they rummage through the trunk of Nasrin’s Peugeot. “They are looking for alcohol and opium,” our nonlicensed guide explains.

But maybe they just wanted to check how much space was free. A policeman asks whether it would be a nuisance to take a few things to the next police station in Sirch. A short while later, five heavily armed young men load up the car with canned vegetables and large cartons of chicken meat. We deliver the goods ten miles down the road to a young policeman whose sluggish movements imply that we have disturbed his siesta. Or is he simply a typical Kermani? “People here are considered to be especially lazy. We blame the lack of oxygen; the city is 5,500 feet above sea level,” says Nasrin. But there could be another explanation: in Iran they joke that so much opium is smoked in Kerman that airline passengers get high just flying above the city.

Nasrin has two more highlights for us—a hill with a sign stating that one of the Supreme Leaders of the whole Islamic World , Ayatollah Khomeini, walked up here and sat on a boulder. Allah, bless the stone . And a store that sells vanilla ice cream with carrot juice, which tastes much better than it sounds.

Back at Hussein’s home I treat myself to an afternoon nap. Afternoon naps are something very Iranian. Normally, I never sleep at this time, and the fact that I’m so tired must have something to do with the low-oxygen air of Kerman.

From: Hussein Kermanv

Hello Stephan, I’ll come home late, a friend had an accident

Hussein gets home at 10:30 PM. He has bought mushrooms and ground meat, and makes a sandwich filling. “I’m so sorry everything took such a long time,” he says. “A friend was run over by a cab in Azadi Square and broke his leg. He had to have an operation, but he’s doing all right now. Would you like a beer?”

Hussein gets a pint bottle of Delster malt beer. He opens it, and there is a loud hiss of escaping gas. His homemade brew is frothy and pretty sweet, but it’s not too bad. “I add yeast and 3.5 ounces of sugar per bottle. I leave it for three days next to the gas oven and then decant it into bottles. Every now and then I let the gas out of the bottles, and after a couple more days I have my beer,” explains the man whose profile photo looks like Jesus and who can turn fizzy drinks to beer. “But I have to be careful; if I’m caught, I get eighty lashes.”

THE NEXT DAY, on my way to the Management of Foreigners Affairs Office, I ask myself how many lashes I would get for deception on a visa application. If I don’t want to fly back soon, I have to extend my visitor’s permit. In the consulate in Germany they only gave me twenty days. A line has formed in front of the green steel door leading to the office, but one of the employees beckons me to follow him. I have to leave my cell phone and camera at reception and receive a brass token with a three-figure number and a picture of a cell phone on it. A soldier leads me via an inner courtyard to an office, where there are a few mounted seats and a wobbly metal fan as a cooling system. Behind a wooden desk, two employees, a man and a woman, receive visa applications and passports.

The visa form requires my profession and my address in Iran. I fill in “website editor” and “Omid Guesthouse, Esteghlal Lane, Kerman.” If I had written journalist , I could forget about a visa extension, and a private address would have raised suspicions. I feel like I’m taking an exam at school, with the difference that instead of getting bad marks, I would have to leave the country earlier than planned, or even risk getting into trouble with the Iranian justice system, which is well known for not being squeamish in the handling of offenders. Under “reasons for travel” I fill in “tourism.” My guidebook says that one applicant had foolishly written “to visit my Iranian girlfriend”—his visa was declined on moral grounds.

“You have to deposit thirty thousand toman at the Melli Bank and return with the receipt and two passport photos,” says the official. “The bank is just around the corner, Edalat Street.” He waves vaguely left and gives me a handwritten note with the account number 217 115 395 5007.

• Look for pedestrians between twenty-five and forty-five (the younger they are, the greater the probability that they speak English).

• In case no English speakers are available, repeat the sentence: “Salam, Melli Bank kodja ast?” Instead of Melli Bank, you can insert any preferred place or street name.

• The passerby will gesticulate in a particular direction. You can be fairly sure that plus or minus ninety degrees the direction is right.

• After five hundred feet ask someone else; he will probably put you on a slightly different course (possibly a better approximation).

• Always remember that Iranians prefer to give a wrong answer to no answer.

• By the third to fifth helper you should have a fairly good indication of where to go. By the way, cab drivers use exactly the same strategy—they never trust the first source of information.