"What is your occupation?"
The plane touched down around 3:15am. All the female passengers promptly veiled.
The woman at Passport Control is the perfect visage of the Islamic Republic, covered in black from head to toe with only space for her face and hands, not a single strand of hair showing. Austere, inscrutable, though as I approach her expression vaguely suggests "how did this American get in?" I hand her my passport which includes the elusive Iranian visa.
She sounds out my name. "What is your occupation?"
At every instance that I've explained that I make documentaries helping organizations fight hunger and poverty in America, the officials seem to take great delight in the fact that there is hunger and poverty in America. She writes some things down and gives me back my passport.
H. and his charming wife A. meet me outside and they can easily discern my nervous excitement. The Tehrani streets are deserted in the dead of night as we make our way to my intended hotel, only to find it closed. We spend the next two hours trying to find some accomodation. Along the way, we drive down the main thoroughfare past the US Den of Espionage. A quarter century ago, this building housed the American Embassy. The walls are now covered with anti-American murals, including the famous image of the Statue of Liberty whose face has been replaced with a skull.
At length, we finally find a hotel that has a vacancy and will accept the foreign traveller so late in the night. I haven't gotten through the door before A. has launched into negotiation with the owner, trying to convince him to let me stay for free this first night. He's bemused by her quite apparent skill, though he knows where he will draw the line. As H. interprets for me, the owner has made it clear that "he's an American, he can pay." I bid H & A adieu with plans for dinner the following evening.
In my room, I'm fixed on the television - 11 channels, 7 of which are test patterns, two are prayer programs and 2 broadcast the same talk show concerning the Islamic remembrance of Ashura, which has just started tonight and lasts 10 days. One of its hallmarks are groups of men parading the streets whipping themselves with chains until they bleed. I fall asleep.
I'm awake and am off to exchange money and find the internet cafe where I'm writing this. In order to accomplish these tasks, I successfully navigate the Tehrani deathsport known as crossing the street.
Like so many non-Western countries, the currency denominations are limited, so that $100 turns into over 900,000 rials, all in 10000 rial notes - a huge brick of cash. The internet cafe is right next door. In the adjoining room a group of boys is busily gaming. One of them blows another away and with great gusto announces "MASH'ALLAH" (God has willed it).
I finish writing this and am back on the street.
The woman at Passport Control is the perfect visage of the Islamic Republic, covered in black from head to toe with only space for her face and hands, not a single strand of hair showing. Austere, inscrutable, though as I approach her expression vaguely suggests "how did this American get in?" I hand her my passport which includes the elusive Iranian visa.
She sounds out my name. "What is your occupation?"
At every instance that I've explained that I make documentaries helping organizations fight hunger and poverty in America, the officials seem to take great delight in the fact that there is hunger and poverty in America. She writes some things down and gives me back my passport.
H. and his charming wife A. meet me outside and they can easily discern my nervous excitement. The Tehrani streets are deserted in the dead of night as we make our way to my intended hotel, only to find it closed. We spend the next two hours trying to find some accomodation. Along the way, we drive down the main thoroughfare past the US Den of Espionage. A quarter century ago, this building housed the American Embassy. The walls are now covered with anti-American murals, including the famous image of the Statue of Liberty whose face has been replaced with a skull.
At length, we finally find a hotel that has a vacancy and will accept the foreign traveller so late in the night. I haven't gotten through the door before A. has launched into negotiation with the owner, trying to convince him to let me stay for free this first night. He's bemused by her quite apparent skill, though he knows where he will draw the line. As H. interprets for me, the owner has made it clear that "he's an American, he can pay." I bid H & A adieu with plans for dinner the following evening.
In my room, I'm fixed on the television - 11 channels, 7 of which are test patterns, two are prayer programs and 2 broadcast the same talk show concerning the Islamic remembrance of Ashura, which has just started tonight and lasts 10 days. One of its hallmarks are groups of men parading the streets whipping themselves with chains until they bleed. I fall asleep.
I'm awake and am off to exchange money and find the internet cafe where I'm writing this. In order to accomplish these tasks, I successfully navigate the Tehrani deathsport known as crossing the street.
Like so many non-Western countries, the currency denominations are limited, so that $100 turns into over 900,000 rials, all in 10000 rial notes - a huge brick of cash. The internet cafe is right next door. In the adjoining room a group of boys is busily gaming. One of them blows another away and with great gusto announces "MASH'ALLAH" (God has willed it).
I finish writing this and am back on the street.
posted by s. at 1:26 AM
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