Stephen Orth - Couchsurfing in Iran - Revealing a Hidden World

Another passenger, after five minutes of small talk, uses my waiting time to invite me to his wedding in northern Iran. Unfortunately, the date clashes with my trip to the battlefields with Yasmin, so with a heavy heart I have to turn down the invitation. And then again. And once more.

Iranians sometimes offer you the most amazing things. Free cab rides, carpets for nothing, gratis goods at the bazaar. Those who don’t recognize these as gestures of politeness are about to put their foot in it—and deep.

The rule: always politely decline twice. When the offer comes for the third time you can be sure that it really is meant seriously and can be accepted without loss of face to your partner.

Tricky: even the phrase taarof nemikonam! —no taarof— can be thought of as taarof.

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MASOUD SENT MEa text message, including directions, which I was to show to the cab driver. Unfortunately, my cell phone doesn’t recognize Persian letters, so I go to the nearest bright yellow cab and call Masoud, handing the phone to the cab driver. The cab passes stony, derelict land with rows of palm trees and roundabouts with neatly clipped eucalyptus trees and sculpted sea creatures. The cars are larger and more modern than in Tehran, and there are fewer Saipa and Peugeot, but instead more Hyundai, Toyota and a few Mercedes. The streets and sidewalks are as clean as if they were vacuumed last night, a huge contrast to the barrenness all around.

The cab driver stops in the newly built district of Arabar, in the western section of the island. The townhouses made from veined and polished blocks of stone give an appearance of money and coldness reminiscent of Dubai. It really is a new district; half of the street is still a construction site.

“A couple years ago there was nothing here,” says Masoud, a suntanned guy in a gray polo shirt, who appeared at the door after my latest phone call. Angular face, bushy eyebrows, tidy blow-dried hairdo. He is a flight dispatcher for Iran Aseman Airways, working as an English teacher on the side.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

He leads me up to the first floor. Masoud’s sister, Mahbube, a hairdresser, is sitting on an orange polka-dot sofa with her two children, Saler and Saba, thirteen and eleven. Masoud’s wife is also named Mahbube, so I memorize her as Mahbube 2. She brings in black tea and sand-colored cookies. She is an architect and is now studying art and drawing. Both women and the girl wear head coverings the whole time we are in the apartment. They are doing this solely because of me, the presence of a male guest, as all the rest are family.

“We have a full house today, but somehow we will manage, even with six of us,” says Masoud cheerfully.

The apartment is about 430 square feet. It consists of only a living room with a separate kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The walls are bare except for one Quran sura inscribed on silver foil.

A forty-two-inch LG TV, made in South Korea, dominates the room. At the moment it is showing an imam who is singing so out of tune that his listeners in the mosque begin to wail. I present my interpretation of what is going on to Masoud.

“Nonsense! It’s a very sad story. He is preaching about the death of the martyr Husayn,” says Masoud.

He then changes the subject. “Do you like Flight Simulator ?” He connects a special joystick and two speakers to his laptop.

“Let’s fly over Germany. What’s a nice short route?”

“Hamburg to Berlin,” I suggest.

Shortly afterward we are flying together in an Airbus A330 to Berlin, and I’m getting a crash course in the cockpit. “Ground speed: 250 miles per hour; altitude: 6,000 feet; direction 110,” he announces, pointing to the corresponding dials. “Berlin is simple; they have an instrument landing system. But here not all the airports are equipped with it.” It is not possible to import modern technology because of the sanctions, and spare parts for airplanes are also a problem. “That’s why we have more accidents here than in other countries,” he adds. As evidence he loads the Urmia to Tabriz route in northwest Iran. Majestic mountains, severe turbulence. On landing, without the aid of an instrument landing system, he promptly demolishes the front wheel. “You see! That’s what sanctions do.”

Kish is an island of shopping centers. We spend the early evening in massive shopping malls made of concrete and steel, named Paradise I, Paradise II, or Kish Trade Center. On offer are many foreign brands: Adidas, Puma, Zara, Samsung, Louis Vuitton, and LG Electronics. Whole rows of stores specialize in knockoff designer clothes. For instance, the brand didas with the “A” missing, and two instead of three stripes. You can also find Calven Kliem underwear, and Tommy Dooyao pants, with a logo very similar to Tommy Hilfiger, as well as pocket calculators from Cetezen and Casho. Customers interested in footwear apparently produced by the American company Columbia have to look even more carefully. While the original logo consists of eight rectangles forming a diamond, the local variant is a swastika.

“Kish is a tax-free zone; everything is 10 to 40 per cent cheaper here,” says Masoud, pointing at the masses hustling and bustling in the amphitheater-sized inner hall. “As you can see the Iranians love shopping, especially the women.”

And they love fast food, particularly the women. “If I want to eat traditional Iranian food, I cook it myself,” says Mahbube 2, the pragmatic art student. For the evening meal at Iranwich there is Greek pizza and Pepsi served on white corrugated cardboard, on a wooden board. The restaurant looks like a large McDonald’s and is full to the last seat; we have to wait for a free table. The walls, chairs, and menu are all as red as the ketchup, which comes with every meal (Iranians always eat pizzas with ketchup). There is a cartoon on the TV screen with cute beavers and caterpillars. With immense effort and great persuasiveness I manage to win the debate about who pays for the pizzas. It is already 10 PM, and I am so hungry that I almost order two of the calorie bombs that are dripping in cheese and fat.

“Do you always eat at this time in the evening?” I ask Masoud.

“No, not always, Sometimes at eleven o’clock or midnight. A couple months ago I had a Swiss guest who always wanted to eat at six o’clock—crazy guy!”

Just as I was going to launch into a short lecture about mealtimes recommended by nutritionists, Masoud’s phone rings. He holds a short conversation and then asks: “Do you want to go fishing now?”

I’m tired from the heat and worn out by the pizza, but I did promise myself to go along with even the not-so-good suggestions of my hosts. “Of course. I’d love to,” I lie.

“Do you really have to?” asks Mahbube 2, reflecting my real thoughts. I get the feeling that she is not a big fan of his angling hobby. He, however, doesn’t want her to keep him from it. They have been married five years.

From: Kian Qeshm

Hey Stephan! I’m kian from qeshm island. I’m really waiting to meet you. At the moment because of holidays I am in Tehran but on Friday I am going to go to my lovely island. See you soon Cheers

We take a cab home. Masoud prays briefly toward Mecca. Mecca is located opposite the TV. Kolah Ghermezi , red cap, a popular Persian puppet comedy series, is on. It appears to be as harmless as Sesame Street , but because of its implied social criticism it has few followers among the powerful. Mahbube 2 turns up the volume; the characters have penetrating high voices. Nine feet away Masoud prostrates himself and chants his Allahu Akbars.