#17: Being a guest in Iran
My first experience of Iranian hospitality
Two weeks back, I got a Whatsapp message from the first person that hosted me in Iran. This is the story of that experience.
My first few days in Iran were spent in Hormuz island on the Mediterranean coast. I was with two other cyclists, Alice from Hong Kong, and Bang from South Korea. We spent a lovely time together camping on the beach and cycling around this unique island. We got back to Bandar Abbas, the main port town in the South of Iran together, and then they left to go cycle in Kurdistan.
I set off, for some reason feeling apprehensive about cycling on my own. I cycled along the highway, the noise drowning out most thoughts of a peaceful ride. There was no real view to speak of, just loud trucks and cars. And then, in the afternoon, it started raining.
I took shelter in a bus stop for a while, but the rain didn’t let up. I wore my rain stuff and decided to ask where I could camp when I saw someone. At the next bus stop, a group of young men were huddled around a makeshift fire. “Camp?”, I asked them, pointing at the small road that branched off the highway. “Masjid”, one of them nodded.
I cycled for about ten minutes and reached what looked like a village. All the buildings were brown except for a colourful mosque. Prayers were in progress, so I waited. Soon, people started streaming out. I picked one guy at random and asked with a lot of hand waving if I could stay in the mosque for the night. He nodded and guided me to a room near the entrance. I wanted to ask if it was okay if I cooked inside, but try as I might, the message didn’t get across. Guess hand signals only went so far.
A shy man came up to us, talked with the guide for a bit, and motioned for me to follow him. He told me his name was Abdul, and led me to his house. Once we entered his home, he started talking excitedly in Farsi. The only thing I understood (and in my wet state, cared about) was that I could sleep at his house for the night, and for this I was extremely grateful.
I showed Abdul — to his absolute amazement — Google Translate. I learned that he had two kids, and was divorced. The latter fact, for some reason, surprised me. He took me to meet his mother and sister who were cooking in an adjacent room. His kids and their friends came over to play with me curiously, but got bored quickly because I didn’t know their language.
He called his cousin (who spoke a little English) over and with the two of them, I went to the local black market half an hour’s drive away. It was still raining heavily. The market was full of goods brought in from Dubai. From what I understood, it was quite a lucrative business to take the ferry to Dubai, come back with TVs and phones and what not, and sell them for an inflated price here.
We came back home, and talked some more over a dinner of some weird tasting rice with Google Translate helping. All the usual questions were asked and answered: was I married? Why not? Why was I traveling alone? What did I do? How much money did I make? If Abdul came to India, could I find him a job?
I slept in a nice mattress laid out on the floor for me. The next morning, Abdul served me Lavash (Iranian flatbread) and gravy for breakfast. When we stepped out of the house, I saw that the mud road that I had cycled on yesterday was now a river. Kids were playing gleefully, splashing water on each other. “This is amazing”, I told Abdul and his friend. “Yes, a lot of fun for the kids, but we have to go see how our farms are doing”.
Abdul kept messaging me on Whatsapp after I left. “How are you?”, “I love you my friend”, were common themes, accompanied by a crazy amount of emojis. I couldn’t help laughing at his constant onslaught of roses and hearts. I always answered with “I am fine! How are you?”, accompanied by what I thought was a respectable amount of smiles.
The number of messages was crazy. I felt like I was disappointing him by not replying to his messages fully, but I didn’t know what to say. I really wish I understood Farsi.
Fast forward to Shiraz a week or two later. I was staying in a hostel because I had injured my calf (probably from overuse) and was taking time off the bike and limping around town. With the usual intimacy that permeates hostel life, I told people this story and showed them the messages. They were all laughing, except for a girl from Lebanon.
“You know, maybe he liked you”, she told me. “This is rude, what you’re doing, making fun of him behind his back. I was bullied like this in high school.” She told me that it wasn’t till she got to Berlin that she found a community that accepted her.
Oh shit, I thought. “Oh shit”, I said. “That thought never even crossed my mind.”
I apologized to Abdul in my mind, and without any prompting from him, sent him a “How are you?” message.
Hearts flew back in reply.
Our exchange of “Hello”s and “How are you”s continued sporadically for the nex two years.
The message that prompted this post came last week. “Send me an apple phone”, Abdul wrote.
This time, I didn’t reply.
Sorry, and thank you, Abdul!
Very interesting read
Lovely post! Surprising though that he took such a long time to ask for the phone😀