Nesfe Jahan, pt 65

Somewhere in Tehran. A brother’s apartment, who working in Germany for a couple of months now. Still, rent is paid every month. Iranians really like their country. An ideal place to bring an illicit girlfriend, there’s no security guard at the entrance. Or to host a stray backpacker you found somewhere.Editing pictures of a road trip in the desert with two student friends. A car with bad, modern hip-hop blaring. Reckless driving for entertainment. The jalopy is nicknamed “stinky”, dirtying it is a rite of passage. My driver reassures me I’ll get someone to clean it back home, labor is cheap. But that was then. Now, in this flat, Billy Holiday is playing on my laptop. The desaturated colours of the desert remind me of Southern France. Driving the dusty country roads in an imported, rusty Benz convertible. A beautiful woman in the passenger seat. She has no face, probably she is every woman I ever loved. Her hijab is blowing in the wind.

It’s even scarier when it happens in real life. When I first arrived in Esfehan, I was walking the main boulevard, lined by trees and flower bushes. The pollution in the air, a lack of sleep due to short bus travel, I’m not sure what the causes were. But I suddenly was seeing everything as if it was shot in the eighties, and I had just found the pictures in my parent’s attic. Washed out colours. A sky with a tinge of cyan. Faded with age. I tried blinking, but it wouldn’t go away.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 64

The observant readers amongst you might have noticed I don’t write any names in full anymore, nor do I post a lot of pictures of people close to me. The reason for this is, despite my many discourses defending anonymity on the internet, I kind of made a booboo when I switched my blog to this space.  While this is absolutely no problem for me now, it might become a problem if I want to get a visa for this country again. And, at any moment, it potentially could become a problem for the people I know here. There are many stories I have still have to tell. And it all may seem paranoid, but in an environment like here, it pays to err on the side of caution.

Someone here thought it was a good idea to post publicly a list of a hundred bloggers who were critical of some aspects of this country. With full names. With the intention of making that list shorter.

In any case, fixing my blog is high priority for me once I get back home.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 63

“The world is round” Message from the first Iranian satellite.

“Filternet” Local name for the Internet. By default, Facebook, Myspace, Youtube, Flickr, Skype, Linkedin, Twitter, Livejournal, and about every single login page for a blog is censored here in Iran. As well as any page that contains the word for certain parts of your body. But, as always, it’s a 5 minute fix if you know how. But it’s why I can’t post so easy here, I need internet in someone’s home, which is not so cheap here due to low salaries.

Somehow, the worse the country, the better the jokes.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 62

A quick snapshot from the road. Just arrived back to Esfehan, after road-tripping in another desert with the friend that picked me up in the first desert, and one of his allies. But this is now, and many things have happened before that have not found a home yet in this blog. They have been edited and digitalized, but they are currently residing in Tehran, and I have to go back there anyway to pick up my shiny new visa for the coming weeks. I’m staying in Iran, that much is for sure.

Yes, I’m going back to Tehran, for the third time. A city I hate with a passion. But a city I now love to hate. I keep coming back there, because the majority of my good friends live there. And it’s funny to realize that I didn’t manage to make any new, lasting friendships in Turkey, while here I have a couple after 3 weeks.

But anyway, back to the narrative.

I made it to Esfehan after Tehran. And it was beautiful, but this story will come another time. But I got invited to go to Noshahr, in Mazanderan province by the Caspian. And I doubted for a while to go. I had travelled pretty much in a straight line until then, and developed a loathing for kilometers. Too many uncomfortable, sleepless nights on busses. But I bit the bullet anyway, spending a full day getting there. And it was just what the doctor ordered. I spend 5 days being a son and a brother. Eating, sleeping and drinking tea. Pretty much in that order. Playing cards with my siblings for 5 hours straight. And, it was glorious. So great for once not to worry about what to do for a day. My Iranian mother doting over me. Mazanderan is also nice, heavily forested, strong eating culture. And it was great to spend so much time with people, developing an interesting relationship that will last past this travel. Something I was missing.

And after that, almost any which way you go passes through Tehran anyway, so I decided to simply follow the flow, and stay there to extend my visa, and hook up with some friends. I meet up with my desert friend again, M, and plan a road trip for the next weekend. I meet a lot of new people through S, the girl who invited me to her family. And it’s very nice to meet them, they’re the liberal scene in Tehran. People that would feel like a fish in the water in Berlin. Where I don’t have to watch what I’m saying, and can just feel at ease. I still hate the city, but it has becoming almost a way of life. Like Erzurum. It’s amazing what you can get used to. I barely do any sight seeing, and time flies. Three days later, Tehran has such a bad pollution forecast that the whole city is forced to close down. Time to leave.

So me and M bolt to Esfehan, to meet a friend of his, and we make it off to the desert. Salt lakes again. Sand dunes. And, of course, jeeps with blasting music and groups of people dancing. Just like American minors drive into the desert for drinking, people here go into the desert to do what they feel like. And I’m guessing it’s a lot of them, mostly because we’re not looking for them, and we stumble upon them in the middle of a vast and empty desert. Something must be tipping the odds.

A beautiful oasis, with rich gardens and abundant water in the middle of hundreds of kilometers of desolation. Fresh pomegranate and dates. Driving hundreds of kilometers. Empty desert roads at night, music blasting. One road shines silver as a it’s snaking it’s way south, reflecting the light of the setting sun.

Instead of getting worked up on all this time moving around, I’ve found that I’ve embraced it. I’m having a much better time now than in the beginning, because I have learned to go with the flow. Which can be surprising, considering how different this country can be. But there are enough small wake up calls to remind me that this place is still very different from every other country that I’ve visited before.

Anyway, I’m back to Esfehan/Tehran now. I’ll have my new visa in a couple of days, and I’ll head home in time for Christmas. Until then, I’ll have time for another jaunt Southwards. But it’ll probably be short. I want to spend some more time in Tehran before I go, and advance the friendships I’ve made here. Because after that, I don’t know how long it will be before I see any of these great people again.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 61

Hasankeyf. The time to go would be now.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 60

Malatya, Eastern turkey. Just a stop on my hitch to Erzurum. But I explore a little bit looking for lunch. I ask two old guys in shalvar (baggy Kurdish pants, my new favorite).  They insist on walking half an hour with me, towards the good place. I’m disappointed when I discover it’s kabob again. But it’s smack in the middle of the iron monger’s district. Everywhere there is loud banging, the sounds of mending and welding. Pandemonium (or feast) for eyes, ears and nose. I’m satisfied with my detour, and a little sad when I discover it’s in my guidebook.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 59

Capadoccia. Of course.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 58

My first days in FYROM, I couldn’t understand why the Greeks could be so pissed at them, the name of their country, and their old flag. The country is poor and backwards. they need all the help they can get. And then I saw their old flag, spray-painted on the main train station in Skopje. Wouldn’t you feel slightly uneasy, knowing a part of your country is on another country’s flag?

Nesfe Jahan, pt 57

A two hour ride to Cize, Turkey. A stone’s throw from the Syrian border. The driver interrupts me brusquely when I try some Turkish words. He really doesn’t like Turkish. Instead, he calls his daughter who speaks passable English. When I get her on the line, she is laughing hard. She tells me her mothers says I’m very handsome. Her mother is wearing a hijab in the Cizre style, where the mouthpiece is not black, but an eerie translucent white, showing only silhouettes of the facial features.

Picture taken in the burial museum, Budapest.

Nesfe Jahan, pt 56

Budapest. A pretty (useless) picture.