Population: 734,000
Province: Kerman
ART
TRAVELING TO FAR-FLUNG places is the status symbol of my generation. In the olden days you used to park your sports car in front of the garage to make the neighbors envious. Today you can achieve this with a six-month backpacking tour of India or a trip through New Zealand in a VW motorhome. Among experienced travelers, however, there is a ranking in the destinations thats affects the amount of admiration and attention you receive on reporting your adventures. A solo tour of Iran is, at the moment, pretty high on the list and gets you more credit than, for instance, Albania, Mozambique, or Cuba and roughly the same as North Korea or Tibet. Only war-torn regions and countries with travel warnings—places like Afghanistan, Yemen, Syria, Somalia—can trump the prestige of an account of backpacker haunts in Iran.
But traveling here is relatively tolerable. The roads are well signposted, and buses are usually punctual (with the notable exception of smuggler buses). You can travel from A to B with fewer problems than in many Asian or South American countries. The locals, too, are willing to help as soon as they see someone in a public place standing around or seeming to be a bit lost.
The afternoon journey to Kerman in a savari, a shared taxi that takes a specified route as soon as there are four or five passengers, takes two hours. It is a little more expensive than the bus but much quicker and more comfortable. So much quicker that I arrive an hour before my planned meeting with Hussein, who is still at work. I put down my backpack and settle on a park bench in Tohid Square. In front of me is the entrance to the bazaar of the city with a population of 700,000 and a monument that looks something like an eighty-foot staple made of marble.
From: Iran
Tomorrow come here in yazd. Harat
Finally the penny drops. “Iran” and Mobina belong together; they come from the same place—Harat. So Mobina from the ferry was meant by “my friend in Bander,” not one of the three Nazis. According to the map, Harat is some seventy-five miles from Yazd and not too far off my planned route to Shiraz. Might be worth considering. Not because I feel flattered and I’m getting silly ideas because of a flirty text message, but because I intend to keep my promise to myself about being flexible to other suggestions when traveling. Flattered? Nonsense! But how do I explain this to Laila?
To: Laila Hamburg
Hi Sweetie, everything’s going fine up to now, experienced sooo much:) And we meet up soon, can’t wait! Kisses from Kerman!
I have a stomachache and am feeling dizzy. Not from love but probably from the kashk-e bademjan, a delicious eggplant mush with yogurt that I ate for lunch in Bam. Was there something wrong with it? Accordingly, the soccer chat with three engineering students trying to convince me that Persepolis is awesome and Esteghlal is crap is decidedly lacking in passion, and within minutes I’ve forgotten their rationale. My host, Hussein, calls me and suggests that I take a cab to Azadi Square, and he will pick me up at the corner of Shariati Street.
At the busy junction, waiting for someone I know only from a credit card-sized photo on the Internet turns out to be a difficult task. Every other car halts and wants to give me a lift, all pro or opportunist cab drivers. (In Iran it’s perfectly normal for people to earn a few rials, even without a license, by taking passengers, which is actually very practical, as no one in cities has to wait long for transportation.) Of course, they are all totally confused, as I don’t give any clear hand signals but scrutinize them for similarities to the photo.
Twice I have to ask if the person behind the wheel happens to be called Hussein, and both times they speed off without a backward glance. I’m looking for someone who looks like a cross between a Bedouin and Jesus. The couchsurfing profile photo shows Hussein as a stern-faced, bearded man, with a heavy piece of cloth wrapped around his head and upper body. It is a highly aesthetic picture, worthy of National Geographic but not necessarily inviting. Apart from that, I know that he teaches graphic design at the university, is thirty years old, and dreams of traveling around the world taking pictures.
At long last a white Saipa stops, and the driver, with his jeans, shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses, although not Bedouin-like, does look very much like a designer. At least he’s bearded.
“Stephan, hop in,” says Hussein, while shoving some files and plastic bags to the side of the back seat. A young woman is sitting next to him. “We’re on the way to a party. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure!” I reply.
He explains that he is going to see his friends for the first time in two weeks because they have all only recently returned from the end of Nowruz vacations with their families. Until he collected me he had been at the university, where this term he is lecturing on logos, the history of design, and poster design. I ask him for his thoughts on the Saipa logo on the steering wheel, which looks similar to the inside of a Mercedes star, with a few additional lines.
“It’s really good, the concept of a famous Iranian designer. He discovered the symbol in a mosque in Shiraz,” says Hussein. “Do you feel like going on a tour in the desert tomorrow? A friend of mine could arrange it.”
We drive to Anis, one of Hussein’s artist friends, who lives in a trendy, newly built neighborhood. The apartment consists of a large living room, with a kitchen niche, wooden blinds at every window, and a washroom. Large-format pictures of sad, twisted figures hang on the walls, and earrings and hairpins made of copper wire have been arranged on the kitchen table. There is so much handcrafted art that I have the impression of being at a private viewing and not an evening meal among friends.
“Willkommen in Kerman, wie geht es dir?” inquires a radiant Anis in fluent German, while pouring me a cup of chamomile tea. “I’ve been learning the language for eighteen months. I plan to join my husband in Austria soon and study art there.”
I give Anis a pack of Lübeck marzipan, and she wants to know whether Lübeck is near Lüneberg.
“Yes, not so far away. Why?”
“I’ve got a few pictures hanging there.” On her tablet she shows me some Facebook photos of her exhibition in Lüneberg that opened a few days prior. “I know an artist in Germany who arranged it.” She would have liked to travel there for the opening but couldn’t get a visa.
Despite the chamomile tea, my stomach is still feeling peculiar, and after being welcomed I have to make a dash for the washroom. On my return, Hussein opens a Persian-English translation program on his iPad and points enquiringly to the word “diarrhea.” I nod unhappily. More and more guests arrive: Anis’s husband, Reza; Mina and Taher; Moien, Hamed, and Nazanin, all designers and artists. The women wear wide pants and wide short-sleeved shirts, and they take off their veils as soon as they cross the threshold. Iranian women become prettier on entering a room; Iranian men become less handsome. The former because they take off their veils, the latter because they frequently swap their smart jeans for comfortable track pants or lurid Hawaiian shorts.
Anis makes me a tea with cinnamon, which is supposed to be good for the stomach. Then Hussein passes me a guitar—my online profile includes my love of guitar playing.
Apart from playing a few classical Spanish pieces, I don’t contribute much to the entertainment this evening. I’m still suffering from outbreaks of sweat and stomach cramps. I have to rush to the washroom a second time no less quickly than the first time and spend four times as long there as usual. The same procedure on my return: Hussein with his translator program and serious face, and this time he has “Vomit, throw up” on the screen, and the picture of misery formerly known as Mr. Price nods resignedly. Mina rings her sister, a doctor. “She says if you have a temperature you will need an injection.” Taher feels my forehead and announces that there is no fever. All around me a feast of potato pancakes, yogurt, salads, and homemade cookies is served up; for me there is cinnamon tea, cola, and an apple of which I can only manage half.