On the trip back, we stop at a particularly spectacular sand mountain, with vertical walls that seem to have grown out of the ground and not been formed by centuries of wind and erosion. We can only see a fraction of the natural sand mountains; they stretch ninety miles from north to south. The biggest ones are as high as ten-story buildings. On the horizon of this desert wonderland you can see a snow-capped peak. Below, one of the two or three hottest areas of the world; above, ice cold—an “Adventure Area” that is pretty rich in contrasts.
While taking a stroll in the sand, Richard remarks that one of the disadvantages of couchsurfing is that you never have time for yourself and always have to arrange yourself around the plans of others, which is why they sometimes stay in hotels. “But the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages,” says Sally. She recommends a host in Chabahar, in southeast Iran, if I am ever in the area. He has very few guests, which was why he looked after them so impressively. He even took the Australians to a traditional Baluchestan wedding. “Colorful robes, complete segregation of the sexes, and an exuberant rifle salute,” says Richard.
Back in Shadad we buy some ice cream and Istak apple malt beer, and Nasrin adds some delicious kolompeh (date cookies) that her sister baked. Then back to the police station to deregister. The second contact with the authorities is also very different from expectations. First, they rummage through the trunk of Nasrin’s Peugeot. “They are looking for alcohol and opium,” our nonlicensed guide explains.
But maybe they just wanted to check how much space was free. A policeman asks whether it would be a nuisance to take a few things to the next police station in Sirch. A short while later, five heavily armed young men load up the car with canned vegetables and large cartons of chicken meat. We deliver the goods ten miles down the road to a young policeman whose sluggish movements imply that we have disturbed his siesta. Or is he simply a typical Kermani? “People here are considered to be especially lazy. We blame the lack of oxygen; the city is 5,500 feet above sea level,” says Nasrin. But there could be another explanation: in Iran they joke that so much opium is smoked in Kerman that airline passengers get high just flying above the city.
Nasrin has two more highlights for us—a hill with a sign stating that one of the Supreme Leaders of the whole Islamic World, Ayatollah Khomeini, walked up here and sat on a boulder. Allah, bless the stone. And a store that sells vanilla ice cream with carrot juice, which tastes much better than it sounds.
Back at Hussein’s home I treat myself to an afternoon nap. Afternoon naps are something very Iranian. Normally, I never sleep at this time, and the fact that I’m so tired must have something to do with the low-oxygen air of Kerman.
From: Hussein Kermanv
Hello Stephan, I’ll come home late, a friend had an accident
Hussein gets home at 10:30 PM. He has bought mushrooms and ground meat, and makes a sandwich filling. “I’m so sorry everything took such a long time,” he says. “A friend was run over by a cab in Azadi Square and broke his leg. He had to have an operation, but he’s doing all right now. Would you like a beer?”
Hussein gets a pint bottle of Delster malt beer. He opens it, and there is a loud hiss of escaping gas. His homemade brew is frothy and pretty sweet, but it’s not too bad. “I add yeast and 3.5 ounces of sugar per bottle. I leave it for three days next to the gas oven and then decant it into bottles. Every now and then I let the gas out of the bottles, and after a couple more days I have my beer,” explains the man whose profile photo looks like Jesus and who can turn fizzy drinks to beer. “But I have to be careful; if I’m caught, I get eighty lashes.”
BUREAUCRACY
THE NEXT DAY, on my way to the Management of Foreigners Affairs Office, I ask myself how many lashes I would get for deception on a visa application. If I don’t want to fly back soon, I have to extend my visitor’s permit. In the consulate in Germany they only gave me twenty days. A line has formed in front of the green steel door leading to the office, but one of the employees beckons me to follow him. I have to leave my cell phone and camera at reception and receive a brass token with a three-figure number and a picture of a cell phone on it. A soldier leads me via an inner courtyard to an office, where there are a few mounted seats and a wobbly metal fan as a cooling system. Behind a wooden desk, two employees, a man and a woman, receive visa applications and passports.
The visa form requires my profession and my address in Iran. I fill in “website editor” and “Omid Guesthouse, Esteghlal Lane, Kerman.” If I had written journalist, I could forget about a visa extension, and a private address would have raised suspicions. I feel like I’m taking an exam at school, with the difference that instead of getting bad marks, I would have to leave the country earlier than planned, or even risk getting into trouble with the Iranian justice system, which is well known for not being squeamish in the handling of offenders. Under “reasons for travel” I fill in “tourism.” My guidebook says that one applicant had foolishly written “to visit my Iranian girlfriend”—his visa was declined on moral grounds.
“You have to deposit thirty thousand toman at the Melli Bank and return with the receipt and two passport photos,” says the official. “The bank is just around the corner, Edalat Street.” He waves vaguely left and gives me a handwritten note with the account number 217 115 395 5007.
• Look for pedestrians between twenty-five and forty-five (the younger they are, the greater the probability that they speak English).
• In case no English speakers are available, repeat the sentence: “Salam, Melli Bank kodja ast?” Instead of Melli Bank, you can insert any preferred place or street name.
• The passerby will gesticulate in a particular direction. You can be fairly sure that plus or minus ninety degrees the direction is right.
• After five hundred feet ask someone else; he will probably put you on a slightly different course (possibly a better approximation).
• Always remember that Iranians prefer to give a wrong answer to no answer.
• By the third to fifth helper you should have a fairly good indication of where to go. By the way, cab drivers use exactly the same strategy—they never trust the first source of information.
AT THE BANK I have to collect a number tag and wait for an LED light display to show my number. I give the clerk the note with the handwritten account number, give him thirty thousand toman, and then he passes me the receipt. On the way back I go to the photo store. The examples hanging on the wall, portraits of people resting their chins on the clenched fist of their left hand, leave no doubt about the photographer’s specialty. They all look a little like mediocre crooners. Luckily, I’m allowed to keep my arms down. I return to the visa building with my photos and receipt, hand in my camera and cell phone and then the necessary papers and my passport. “Come back at twelve,” says the official. It’s only just ten.
“Come back at two,” she says at twelve. “My boss is at a meeting, and he needs to sign the document.” This means more time to find out that I’m a journalist by a simple process of googling. The guidebook says that the visa offices sometimes use Google. As a distraction, I wander through the bazaar. Describing a Middle Eastern bazaar in every detail is like carrying cumin to Kerman—there are an incredible number of stores, goods, aromas, and sellers. And in this case a charming teahouse based on the old Hamam teahouses. The smell of hookah smoke, a fountain, ornate columns, and a man playing a santur, a kind of hammered Persian dulcimer. As I enter, he glances at me and begins to play a melody from The Godfather—I assume because it has a European feel to it and not because he is implying that there is something criminal about me.