In Mashhad I experienced the contrast between the two Irans, the two realities that coexist side by side, particularly strongly. On the one hand, the theocracy, where people mourn their martyr at the golden cage in the imam mausoleum. And on the other, a “hide-and-seek-ocracy,” where people hold secret parties and seek worldly thrills instead of spiritual bliss.
I have visited numerous countries on all continents and nowhere have I experienced a stronger difference between public show and private reality.
And nowhere have I experienced such a pronounced culture of making do—they navigate as expertly around the laws as an Iranian driver through traffic jams.
Satellite dishes are forbidden, but in some neighborhoods you see them attached to every house. Tight women’s clothing and headscarves perched high on the head are against regulations, but in the afternoons in parks of Tehran or Shiraz they are omnipresent. Facebook is forbidden, but every person under forty uses it. And increasingly, older people, too, even Ayatollah Khamenei and President Rouhani. Both are also active on Twitter, which is blocked in Iran.
Outside it is night. Every now and then we pass the lights of towns and villages—Qushan, Shirvan, Gorgan. Patriotic monuments on roundabouts, martyr paintings on concrete walls, portraits of the bearded leaders. Every town is plastered with propaganda from the Islamic Republic. How many people living behind windows secretly long for a different regime? How many are happy with life in the only Shiite nation in the world? And how many are living in fear of their own government?
The bus conductor, a man around fifty, with a mustache and baggy jeans, asks to see my ticket. I pass it to him. He points to my Adidas sunglasses. “How much?” he wants to know. Unasked, he then explains the difficulties of being a Muslim. “No whiskey, no beer, no digi digi.” What he means by the latter he shows me by pushing his right index finger in and out of the ring made from his left index finger and thumb. “Go Thailand, China—digi digi no problem for Muslim.” Again the gesture, then he moves on to the next passenger.
People who think Iran is a country of prudes are wrong. In religious programs on TV they go into great detail about the torment of male abstinence. Men are seen as wild beasts who can hardly control their sexual energies. An extremely comfortable perspective for those with the Y chromosome because then it is up to the women not to provoke them. If they do so, then they have to face the consequences. The obvious question of why such easily corruptible beasts have the last word in all matters is not asked in the Islamic Republic.
At the moment, a video clip from a popular TV talk show is a hit (also among the younger generation, who think of it as a curiosity and pass it around on their cell phones). In the clip Ayatollah Khamenei demands Iranians procreate. “Every couple should have five children, even better eight or fourteen,” says the supreme leader, sitting in front of an image of a mosque. “Start today! Say ‘Ya Ali’ and ‘Ya Zahra’ and get going! “Ya Ali”—“In the name of Ali”—is a phrase that is often used before performing difficult tasks or unpleasant duties. Imagine the U.S. president giving such a pep talk to the nation on the Ellen DeGeneres Show.
The film on the onboard TV is somewhat more innocent. It is about a rich guy who falls in love with a poor thief. The family is against the match, but with a bit of shrewdness and some histrionics she is eventually able to win over everybody and outmaneuver her wealthy but boring rival. “Iranian films always have a happy ending,” an acquaintance from Tehran once told me. “Because the reality is already bad enough.”
ABBAS ABAD
Population: 11,256
Province: Mazandran
FUN
THE MOST BRAZEN character I meet in all my travels in Iran is fifty-three, has a mustache and a khaki vest, and is named Mohamed. His nickname, with which he signs off his e-mails, suits him far better: “Funman.” We meet in front of an ice cream parlor in Abbas Abad, a small town on the Caspian Sea, which consists mostly of a main street and the rows of houses bordering it.
“I love ice cream,” announces Funman. He shouts the words; his vocal chords don’t seem to be designed for quieter tones. “Why are so many people unhappy or stressed? One ice cream is enough to be happy,” he bellows while bearing two full cones from the counter. “And that is the most important thing in life—to have fun!” We have known each other all of a minute, but already there is a motto for the next couple days.
“Tonight I have been invited to a wedding. My son is not here, so will you come instead?” He scrutinizes me from head to foot. After being on the road for more than six weeks I am a suitable candidate for detergent ads—for the “before” pictures. “Have you got anything suitable to wear?” he asks.
Funman has a white Honda 125 motorbike, with tin panniers on which he has written his phone number and e-mail address. A sociable man. He has attached an adventurous construction on top of the speedometer, consisting of tape, twine, a JVC car radio, and a loudspeaker with an eight-inch diameter. “I’ve traveled a lot with this,” shouts Funman. “I used to be a truck driver. In my whole life I haven’t spent more than ninety days at home. Come on, my store isn’t far away, just down the road to the umbrella.” I walk ahead; he drives.
The store is a small snack bar, with plastic tables and maps all over the walls. Funman’s wife, Mahboube, is cooking ash soup that she serves in plastic bowls. “I will introduce you to a couple friends at the wedding. And you will meet many beautiful girls. It starts at nine!” screams Funman.
“No, my dear, at eight,” corrects Mahboube in a soft voice. She is very conservatively dressed and radiates serenity—they couldn’t be more different.
I give them a pack of walnut cookies as a present. My marzipan reserves have long been exhausted.
“I looove cookies, how did you know that? Thanks! I won’t give one of them away!” is the reaction of the patriarch. Carrying on, word for word: “Do you want the Internet? Come on, let’s be Facebook friends! I need music! My wife thinks I’m too loud. Aaaah, cyclists!” He dashes out to the main road, where a couple mountain bikers whoosh past. My host has the composure of a swarm of wasps whose nest was just hit by a rock.
“I love cyclists,” he explains on returning. “I’m registered on Warm Showers, which is a platform only for cyclists looking for accommodation.” All in all he has provided accommodation for three hundred to four hundred visitors in the last 2.5 years. Funman picks up a foot-long toy Porsche that was lying next to a computer on a desk and turns a knob. “Brother Louie” by Modern Talking blares out; the toy car has an embedded MP3 player. Déjà vu: the worst song of the 1980s had already irritated me in Kurdistan and now it’s followed me to the Caspian Sea.
With these sonic waves, Funman, now apparently at peace finally, can devote himself to work and begins tapping away at his computer. Mahboube serves up a delicious soup, and then I rummage around in my backpack for my black shirt. I eventually discover it; it’s still clean and unused.
“Haven’t you got one in a more cheerful color?” asks Funman. He turns out the light in the store, turning up the racing-car stereo unit now playing “Happy Nation” by Ace of Base. He then stands up and dances around in the dark for a few seconds.