“No, we are over an hour away from the border. But it’s a lucrative business. You can earn 300,000 toman per person per night.” That is about seventy-five dollars. In Hajij there is little work, which is why he is hoping for more tourists.
“A few people have found jobs on the construction site of the Daryan dam project.”
“Which project is that?”
“They are damming up the Sirwan River. In two or three years the water will rise in the valley. The lower rows of houses will have to go. In earlier days there were two hundred houses here, and soon it will only be half that amount.”
“Why do they need the dam?”
“To improve irrigation of the fields, and a power plant is in the planning. On top of that, less water will flow to Iraq. But the construction project has one big disadvantage.”
“Which is?”
“A couple years ago Hajij was famous for being a completely nonsmoking village. Even TV teams came here to make reports about us, but after the construction workers arrived, almost everyone started smoking.”
The muezzin of Hajij calls to prayer at a quarter past eight. He warps the sound a bit, and a slight echo reverberates from the semicircular village.
“Ten times better than Modern Talking,” I say to Farsad.
From: Mona Hamedan
Why don’t you answer?
To: Mona Hamedan
I’m 34 and I’m coming alone. Is that ok for you?
From: Mona Hamedan
yeah it’s ok, are you married or single?
The next day we reach the last point of our shared travels, one hundred miles farther on, in the town of Marivan. Yasmin will take the night bus from here to Tehran, and I had planned to travel on to Isfahan until Mona from Hamedan contacted me after hearing that I was in Iran from a couchsurfing forum.
She sent me her cell phone number and on the spur of the moment invited me to visit Hamedan. Her profile shows a Middle Eastern beauty in a low-cut black dress and quite a lot of lipstick. I immediately see through the attempt of manipulating male viewers with such imagery, and it leaves me completely cold. But I do intend to stick to my plan of letting the natives influence my choice of route.
To: Mona Hamedan
I’m single, what about you?
From: Mona Hamedan
Ok no problem im 22 & i’m single too:) can you send your pic for me now? I wanna see you.
The sections of my brain responsible for emotions are happy with the dialogue. The somewhat smaller sector, where “logic” and “keeping a cool head” reside, not so. An attractive woman who doesn’t mess around—there has to be some catch. In a movie when a spy smells a trap, he doesn’t let his counterpart know it. I feel pretty reckless on sending the requested photo because I’m behaving as if I think everything is beyond suspicion.
• Dooset daram: I love you.
• Zanam mishi?: Will you marry me?
• Jigareto bokhoram: I want to eat your liver (an expression of great affection).
• Khoshgele: beautiful woman
THE PRINCE
OUR HOST IN Marivan, Ehsan, wears a polo shirt and designer jeans, and turns out to be a passionate winemaker and a Persian prince.
“Have you been to Shiraz? The castle in the middle? My great-, great-, great-, great-, great-, great-, great-, great-grandfather Karim Khan Zand lived there. He is a descendent of the Iranian ruler of the late eighteenth century.”
“Stephan wants to be the Shah of Persia,” says Yasmin. I had almost forgotten our bit of fun in the Golestan Palace in Tehran.
“Then I will have to kill you,” says Ehsan. “How about two droplets of poison in the ear, like in Hamlet?”
The prince has style; you have to give him that.
“I would like to try some of your wine first,” I say fawningly.
“I’ll get it later,” he says. “You can count yourself lucky; it’s the best wine in western Iran. We make 160 gallons a year. But I have to teach you one rule.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“When I say, ‘What time is it?’ the right answer is: ‘Wine o’clock.’ Can you remember that?”
“Sure. Can I take a shower?”
“You can save your energy. Islamic traditions state that it’s customary to wash the body directly after death.”
“Oh.”
“Nonsense! Of course you can shower.”
He drives to the city and returns two hours later with a four-pint plastic container filled with a dark red liquid. “What time is it?” he asks.
“Seven thir… er… wine o’clock!” I answer, and he flashes a satisfied grin. I don’t know the other wines of western Iran (there are rumors of a wine-making facility near Urmia, producing beverages just for the diplomatic service in Tehran), but this is pretty damn good. Dry, fruity, a slight hint of blackberries. The aftertaste, however, is a bit furry, and my gums feel numb.
“The first sip always gives me a bit of a jolt,” says Ehsan and refills our glasses. “Now each of us could get eighty lashes as punishment.”
“What does the winemaker get?”
“Four years in prison per gallon. That would be 640 years for me.”
“Even for princes.”
“Even for princes. Did you know that it’s very easy to mix poison into a bitter drink, like wine?”
“No, I hadn’t really thought about it.”
He looks rather theatrically at his wristwatch. “You have about two hours—that’ll give you time to think about it.”
“Hey, the thing about my shah ambitions was a joke. You can have the job.”
“Too late.”
From: Mona
I saw our piC now i remember you from your profile stephan, you look awesome and cute:-)
Dying with a love note from a mysterious beauty in my hand would be a bit too Shakespearean, so I decide to survive the drink. Or did Ehsan sprinkle the antidote into the next glass of wine, or the one after that? We chat for many hours, and the prince proves to be a highly intelligent conversationalist with a devastating sense of humor, aristocratic self-confidence, and impressive expertise in illegal indulgences. (“The best hash comes from Karaj, near Tehran, and it’s four times as strong as what Europeans call hash.”)
It is one of the many days of my trip that I wish I weren’t always on the move, traveling from one host to the next but instead staying a little longer, getting more than just a fleeting insight into the lives of others. There is never enough time for the beginning of a real friendship, but that’s the kismet of backpacking nomads. On the plus side, a whole range of new short-term friendships are waiting in the future, the online illusion of an almost endless availability of human contacts.
As a leaving present, Ehsan fills a water bottle with the forbidden grape juice. “For the road,” he says.
To: Mona Hamedan
Merci! Now its your turn to send me a picture
From: Mona Hamedan
I don’t have piC on my phone you can go to cs & see my profile piC
To Mona: Hamedan
That pic is beautiful see you soon!
From: Mona Hamedan
Thanks dear, but i have some acne on my skin, & i don’t remove my eyebrow now because my cousin passed away & i should stay til the 40th day of her dead after that i go to beauty salon & remove my eyebrow;)