Mar 9

Mar 9 The Bus to Yazd

MatadorU - original voice exercise

Excuse me, do you...um, do you...

I turned. The boy was about 15, small clustered hairs erupting from a pimple pocked chin. His school uniform was crumpled from sitting in this furnace-on-wheels. He turned his head. Glanced back at his friends on the back seat. Furrowed his brow. I waited. It came out in a rush.

DoyouloveAhmadinejad?

Well, now that I hadn’t been expecting. The rows of the bus fell into a hush.

The boy looked at me. I looked at my husband - he shrugged. Fu*k! What was I going to say?

I turned the question back to him.

Do you love Ahmadinejad?

I smiled. It felt unnatural in the circumstances.

Oh yes! He is good!

The boy gushed, his floppy hair plastered to his forehead. A thought occured to him, playing across his face. He was sweating profusely now, a consequence of the malfunctioning air conditioning and the strain of finding the right words.

Do you...do you love Iran?

Now that I could answer.

Yes!

I positively beamed at him, and this time the smile was truthful.

I do love Iran! Especially I love (I leaned toward him), Kashk-e Bademjan!

He hooted in delight, then looked back at his friends and frowned. Pulled a crumpled picture from a magazine out of his pocket, pressed it into my hand. I smoothed it out. It was a picture of a government rally. Angry young men swarming over a white car, automatic weapons at the ready. They glared at the photographer. I made a show of studying the picture, and passed it to Tomas, who offered it back to the boy. He refused. Tomas offered again - we were by now used to the Iranian system of tarouf, a small ritual of politeness surrounding the offering and accepting of any exchange. He turned us down, left the picture, and sloped back to the bowels of the bus.

Tomas looked at me - what was all that about? I shrugged back and looked at the picture once more before slipping it into the Lonely Planet to bookmark our destination, the dusty desert city of Yazd. There, sandwiched between the population statistics and the city map it has remained ever since.

Sometimes I still wonder about that exchange. Was it a test, and if so, did I pass?

I do love Iran; loved travelling Iran; loved the fragrance of roses that filled the streets of Shiraz, the illicit embraces of lovers in shadowed alcoves at the tomb of Hafiz, the taste of sugar in the air in Yazd. I smirked at proxy addresses graffitied on city walls in Esfahan and Teheran, grinned at kohl-eyed women smoking in the streets and groups of old men playing cards in parks. I got the joke - a subtle 'up-yours' to the establishment from everyone, everywhere. For that fact alone it is hard not to love the Iranian people.

I travelled Iran as a couchsurfer in April 2011, giving myself over to the tender ministrations of any Iranians that would have me, for almost a month. Some were irreverent, others devout; most though, just like everywhere, occupied a middle ground.

In Iran I smoked waterpipes, drank moonshine and whiskey, played cards, swam in oases, rode camels, danced on a salt lake. I lived in a cave dug out of a mountain, watched desert foxes in a 'million star' Hotel. I ate until bursting at every meal, and then ate more - my knowledge of the country and culture expanding even more exponentially than my waistline. Even now, two years on, when much of my Farsi has deserted me, I can recall with ease the manyfold Persian dishes I devoured. I am without doubt a better traveller for having gone. Hell, I’m probably a better person. Couchsurfing Iran is a humbling experience.

Did I have to wear a headscarf? My friends wanted to know when I returned; and so I replied, in Iran I wore a headscarf yes. As if that one thing alone should define a nation.

Back on the bus to Yazd, I peeled myself from the seat and turned to look at my would-be interrogator, instead catching the eyes of a couple of small girls sitting in the row behind me. Lifting a paper bag, they offered me a handful of small green plums. I refused politely, and they offered undeterred again. I bit into one. It was tart and sour, the pit still soft and jelly-like. Delicious. I told them so, and for the rest of the trip they took turns pressing fruits through the gap between the seats, each arrival heralded by the utterance of a single English word, recognizable between their bursts of breathless chatter.