Employing a crablike maneuver on all fours, I traverse the ditch. I'm parallel with the checkpoint when one of the agents steps out to smoke a cigarette. He walks to the side of the building that faces me and gazes at the night sky. I can't take a chance of him seeing me, so I lie perfectly still.
Shit, he's starting to walk toward the ditch. He's lost in thought, tugging on the cigarette, probably wondering what he'll have for breakfast when he gets off his shift. However, I'm close enough that he could possibly spot me if I move.
Then one of his associates calls for him. The guard acknowledges the summons, takes one last drag on the cigarette, and then tosses the butt toward me. It lands a foot away from my face and it's still burning. Luckily he doesn't bother to look where the butt fell--he's forgotten all about it as he walks back to the building.
I take the opportunity to pick up the butt and rub it out in the dirt.
Once again I apply the crab walk to move farther east. Now I have two checkpoints to watch. At this time in the early morning there is very little traffic. I'm fortunate that there were one or two cars going through to mask my transit thus far. Now, though, there's nothing. The road is deadly quiet. The Iraqi border guards retreat into their checkpoint building, but there's a lone Iranian outside of his. He's standing there, looking west, as if a parade of cars is on the way and he's preparing himself to inspect them. What's he doing?
The guy calls out to the Iraqi checkpoint. He waits a few seconds, then calls again. Someone's name. In a moment the cigarette-smoking Iraqi I saw earlier comes out of his building. He shouts back to the Iranian. I don't understand what the Iranian says, it's in Farsi, a language I can't speak. I have an easier time readingFarsi than speaking it, because written Farsi is very similar to Arabic. The Iraqi nods and the two men walk toward each other. Shit, what's going on? They meet halfway between the two checkpoints, and I realize I have nothing to worry about. The Iraqi pulls out his cigarette pack and offers one to the Iranian. They share a joke, I think, for they talk and laugh, and after five minutes they separate and stroll back to their respective positions.
All clear. I literally crawl into Iran.
I continue to walk in the darkness, remaining off the highway. The sky is beginning to turn deep orange and red. The sun will be up within minutes. I have to find a place to stay put through the day, and I think I see a good possibility about a mile ahead, where the highway crosses a bridge.
Ten minutes later I'm at the bridge just as the sun peeks over the hills directly in front of me. The bridge spreads across a ravine that appears to be a good two hundred feet deep. This is very hilly country--these foothills eventually become the volcanic Sabalan and Talesh mountain ranges.
Bridges are among my most frequented hotels. The accommodations are not always of the four- or five-star variety, but they usually offer me what I need the most--privacy.
I make my way down the hill to the edge of the highway, then inch down the steep slope next to the bridge. I grab the steel supports and climb up and around to the inside. It's an easy ascent to the underside of the highway, where a hollow section--a ledge--runs the complete length of the bridge. It's about four feet wide, with headspace of a couple of feet. It's perfect for me to lie in, as long as I don't roll over in my sleep and fall off. It's never happened before.
Before retiring for the day, I send a text message to Lambert via my OPSAT, telling him I'm in Iran and on my way to Tabriz. I then eat a very satisfying pack of rations. It's not a gourmet meal by any means, but it reduces the hunger pangs and lulls me into the disposition to get some shut-eye.
And that's where I sleep most of the daylight hours--underneath a bridge, the highway into Iran directly over my prone body.
MYOPSAT wakes me at nine o'clock that night, after the sun has set. The constant rumbling of vehicles passing over the bridge hasn't kept me awake--on the contrary, there's something akin to white noise about it. I slept like a log.
I carefully slip out from my crawl space under the bridge, grasp the support, and climb down to the ground. I move away from the road and into the brush, where my presence will go unnoticed. I sit behind a tree and check my OPSAT. Lambert has left a message--
CONTACT REZA HAMADAN IN TABRIZ BAZAAR "TABRIZ CARPET COMPANY" HE IS ON CIA PAYROLL AND EXPECTS YOU
Okay. Now the trick is finding a ride to Tabriz. Hitch-hiking isn't an option, so I start the long walk to the next town, which is Mahabad--about thirty miles away. I estimate I can make it in seven or eight hours. The drawback is the up-and-down terrain, which contributes to the wear and tear on my legs and feet. I silently thank Katia Loenstern for all the leg exercises she had us do in Krav Maga class. It's tough going and I have to stop and rest several times, which makes me realize it's going to take a lot longer than I initially thought. What the hell, I've had to rough it many times in my career, though, and this is a relatively tame sojourn compared to some.
Along the way I pass through a couple of seemingly deserted whistle-stop villages. While Iran is a very modern country, the rural parts still contain vestiges of the past. You'll see shepherds dressed in the same type of clothing that was worn hundreds of years ago. Not everyone drives cars. If I happen to get hurt or ill, I'm on my own. There aren't going to be any emergency clinics on the road. This thought flits through my mind when I hear wolves howling in the deep woods to my left.
It's nearly morning when I finally reach Mahabad. Not a large town, but bigger than a village, it's a rural community that is just beginning to rouse from slumber. I hear the musical intonations of Islamic morning prayers drifting through the air--something I have to admit I find very soothing. Besides the dominant Persian population of Iran, the region where I'm headed is full of Kurds and Azerbaijanis. Persians are direct descendents of the Aryans that first inhabited the land about four thousand years ago, and they make up over half the total population in the country. Nearly everyone in Iran is a Shiite Muslim, the Islamic branch that dictates the cultural, religious, and political direction of the country. Sunni Muslims make up a small ten percent or so. It's interesting to note that in the rest of the world, almost all Muslims are of the Sunni variety--but in Iran, and most of Iraq, the majority is Shiite.
I wander into town, now dressed in casual clothing with my uniform underneath. It's not as hot here in the mountain region, so I'm fairly comfortable. Most Persians are light-skinned and can pass for a Westerner if they have to. I blend right in, even with my darker complexion. I probably look as if I've just come off the bus from Tehran. No one looks twice at me. As long as I don't have to talk I'll be fine.
Most of the men are wearing the traditional jeballa, a full-length robe, and many wear turbans. In the bigger cities you'll see men wear Western clothing--suits, casual trousers, and shirts. The women, however, are almost always covered in the hejab, the modest dress. This is usually represented by the chador, a tentlike cloak that is draped loosely over the head, legs, and arms. Nothing that suggests the shape of the body can be worn. All bits of skin except for the hands, feet, and face above the neckline and below the hairline must be covered. In the cities women can get away with wearing a full-length skirt or even trousers worn beneath a long dark coat known as a roupush. The hair is covered by a simple headscarf. Here, though, everything's more traditional, more old-fashioned.