Book "Unforgettable Iran". Chapter 8. Bandar Abbas
Bus-stop to Bandar Abbas
To get to Bandar Abbas from Shiraz, I had to overcome 650 km, so I tried to get on the road as early as possible. But it was not possible to leave quickly, so I went to a gas station, where I turned to a random driver for help. He agreed to give me a ride to his village and invited me home for dinner, and also asked me to visit his pomegranate garden (bagh e an ar), which he inherited from his father.
When I arrived at the village, I saw that photographs of his father were hung on the pillars and gates of houses against the backdrop of the Mausoleum of Imam Reza in Mashhad. Unfortunately, he passed away a few days ago, and his memory is honored in the village in this way. We went into the garden and talked a little about life, the Iranian filled my backpack to the brim with grenades, which made it so heavy that it was difficult to lift it, and I had to distribute fruit to other drivers along the way.
He also plucked a handful of thick green-skinned nuts from a tree for me. To get such a nut, you had to first clean it, and then break the stone. When I looked at the pictures later, I guessed it was almonds.
My interlocutor began to literally persuade me to go to his house for dinner, and since I had little time, I politely refused, but he continued to insist. I realized that my appearance had some special, perhaps ritual, meaning for him. I remembered the saying: "The guest is the messenger of Allah", and I accepted the invitation. In the house I met his wife, brother and mother, the women were dressed in traditional Muslim clothes.
A traditional dinner was prepared for me with chicken, rice and flatbread, and as a sign of respect, a fried crust of pasta was put on a plate (when vermicelli is boiled, it is not stirred, and this causes a burnt crust to form at the bottom of the pan, it is considered the most tasty morsel). Lunch ended in half an hour, the Iranian said that he would take me to the track, but on the way we stopped at another house, where I met my brother and his wife, they showed me the house and treated me with sweets. And only an hour later, with a heavy backpack filled with pomegranates and almonds, I again found myself on the road to Bandar Abbas.
By the time it began to get dark, I still had about a third of the distance to go. At six o'clock the sun went down, and after fifteen minutes nothing could be seen. My last driver drove me in absolute darkness through some mountains and passes, he was silent and gloomy.
I was driving in complete ignorance of where I was, watching in the headlights only steep descents and ascents. To my timid phrase “take me as far as possible” (ta jayi ke vasat t mamkene), the driver replied that he had already traveled too much to take me to the nearest village, from where I would have to get on my own. From his point of view, things were very bad for me, since there was no chance to leave from there. On the contrary, I was not upset, because it was not yet evening, that is, it was only seven in the evening. I was dropped off near the store, where, having gathered in a circle, men stood and talked enthusiastically about something. I approached them and explained that I was going to Bandar Abbas.
- Inja terminal nist, utubu s nist (there is no terminal here, no bus), - one of them answered.
They explained to me that although the road I was driving was the only one in Bandar Abbas, the settlement was so small that the buses simply did not stop here. Because of me, the men were noticeably nervous, as they felt embarrassed that they did not know how to help. Looking at them, I myself began to worry, although I clearly kept the thought in my head: “If there are people, then there will be an overnight stay, in a hotel or at someone’s house, and my situation is not at all hopeless. ” But the Iranians were very excited.
One of them offered to get into his car to take me to the next city. The six of us climbed into the cabin, the driver and two passengers in front, three behind. I was very thirsty, I took out an empty plastic bottle from my backpack and asked: “A b dari? (Do you have water? ). To which he received a response that roughly meant the following:
- What water, we are not up to it now!
We are thinking how to take you to Bender!
But no sooner had the Iranian finished his speech than a regular bus rushed past us on the road at great speed. “This would be my bus if it stopped, ” I thought. My friends thought the same.
- Utubu s, utubu s, Bandar, Bandar! (bus, Bandar Abbas) - they shouted.
There was a commotion in the car, the passengers began to urge the driver to start the car and set off in pursuit by the bus as quickly as possible, which, apparently, was driving very fast, since we caught up with it only after a few kilometers.
At great speed, we drove into the oncoming lane and caught up with the bus, the Iranian leaned out of the car window and began to gesture to the bus driver to stop. The driver did not understand the gestures and then he began to shout to him “tourist, Bandar! ”, the bus began to slow down and slowly pull over to the side of the road.
We stopped behind him at the edge of the road, jumped out of the car and ran to the bus, whose driver continued to slow down for some time. But when he saw us running towards him, for some reason he suddenly changed his mind and turned on the gas right at the moment when we ran to the front door.
- Fuck him! - it seems that my out of breath friend said obscenely, seeing how the bus picks up speed and leaves again, - Go ahead, follow him!
We rammed into the car again and chased the departing bus. When we again caught up with him, my friend first showed the driver a gesture of misunderstanding - he twisted his finger around his temple, and then again began to shout: “Tourist, Bandar! ". The bus stopped and we hurried to the front door. A short conversation took place with the driver, the words “tourist, Belarus, Bandar” constantly sounded in the phrases.
The driver objected with the words: “full, full” (full, no seats), but my benefactors insisted, arguing that I am a tourist, I cannot be left here alone, and I need help. Under our onslaught, the bus driver gave up, I quickly jumped into the passenger compartment and disappeared into the back of it.
There really were no empty seats, so I sat on the steps at the second door in the center of the bus. There was a tap with cold water next to me, and I began to drink greedily, the guy next to me noticed this and offered me his juice. Other Iranians, noticing that I was a foreigner, began to offer me their rations of cookies. After about ten minutes, we became friends, I gave them my player with music to listen to, and they began to give way to me one by one, explaining that they themselves would sit on the steps instead of me. An hour later there was a stop in a major city, and most of the passengers left the bus.
I sat down in an armchair, took out a white scarf given to me in Isfahan in a black check, like the Arabs, from my backpack, folded it and put it under my head, with this scarf I caused serious confusion among my new friends.
- Hey buddy, do you support the government? one of the passengers asked me in English.
- No, I'm just a tourist. And this scarf was given to me, - I answered.
The bus driver who was passing by joined the conversation:
- So you're not from Bassij?
“Yes, no, not at all, it’s just a gift, ” I repeated once more.
- You know, "Bassij" are very bad people. A scarf like yours is worn by our religious leader Khamenei and members of the Bassij organization who enforce the laws of the revolution, but in reality they often provoke people and arrest them. By law, they are not subordinate to the police, but directly to Khamenei, and they did a lot of bad things.
I reassured my friends and tried to immediately give them this scarf.
They refused such a gift, but visibly cheered up. The driver asked where I planned to stay in Bender, I replied that they would meet me.
- If there is nowhere to spend the night or if you need help, contact me, - he suggested.
I relaxed and lay down to rest, a fabulously flooded bus was taking me to Bandar al-Abba s. But soon I woke up from the fact that I was very thirsty, my forehead was covered with perspiration, and the windows around were fogged up. “The air conditioner is broken, or what? - I thought, - Still, this is a strange bus, usually it's cold in the cabin, but here it's hot and even stuffy. You can't hurt people like that! ". I tried to fall asleep again, but it didn’t work out for me, beads of sweat trickled down my face. The water in the bus ran out, exhausted by thirst and heat, I fell into a restless slumber. The driver woke me up.
- Bandar (Bender Abbas), - he told me.
Opening my eyes, I looked at my clothes, they were all soaked with sweat, my head was not thinking well.
I remember that the sensor on the bus showed in English: September 7, time - half past one at night, temperature overboard + 32C. The doors of the bus opened, and I quickly went down the stairs, dreaming of getting off the bus as soon as possible. And so I took the first step outside to enjoy the fresh air...It's hard to convey what I felt at that moment. I wanted to scream and ask to get back on the bus. I felt that I, along with my clothes, were dipped into hot water, sweat poured down my face and neck, chest, stomach and back, streams of water flowed down my legs. I peered into the haze and literally did not know what to do. Salvation came in the form of a brand new Iran Khodro car with air conditioning and a cheerful boy named Ilya d.
Bender r Abba s
Ilya d brought me home, where we were met by his brother Daniel and parents. Seeing my frightened expression, they immediately understood what impression their city had made on me.
Indeed, Bender r Abba s, more often he is simply called Bender (Farsi Bandar), I remember the unbearable humid heat. After a few minutes of being in the shade, I began to sweat, and for the first time in my life, I experienced for myself what it means when the whole body sweats at the same time: face, stomach and back, legs and arms, at such moments I want to teleport away from this city . But oddly enough, clothes dried on the balcony for half an hour do not smell like sweat. It seems to me that this is due to the fact that water condenses on the body due to high humidity and temperature differences, and the body itself does not sweat so much.
Due to the heat, our rhythm of life has shifted greatly towards evening. Most often, we woke up around two in the afternoon, and then, like sleepy flies, went to the shower and breakfast in the kitchen. Youth life in this city life began at six o'clock in the evening.
Then we went to a cafe where we smoked a hookah (several times a day, every day, so we even had to refuse it), ate pizza and falafel in pita bread.
Reference. Falafel is an Arabic dish that is deep-fried balls of chopped chickpeas seasoned with spices. In the cities of the Persian Gulf and many Arab countries, it is served as fast food - in a tortilla stuffed with vegetables.
Bender is a small town, so everyone knows each other well and out of habit go to the same establishments they like. Therefore, every evening we met immediately with all our friends in the same cafe, the signature dish of the evening was ice cream (bastani) and hookah. There I met a girl, Farzaneh, whom I later visited in Shiraz.
Sometimes we got together at home, told each other jokes, funny stories, played the game "Guess the Word (Crocodile)" - when you need to show the word with gestures so that the audience guesses it. I guessed “Belarus”, but asked the presenter not to point at me, and the participants had to guess it for a long time. In order to dispel the stereotype that a man cannot cook, I baked apple charlotte for the guests.
In the cities of the Persian Gulf, you will see women wearing a beak-shaped mask called a burqa. Incendiary bandari music is also widespread here, at the sounds of which my Iranian friends, including the driver, began to dance in the car so that it swayed from side to side.
Bandari music. Sandy - Mashalla: also mashalla (arab.
“God so willed”, “God willed it”) is an Arabic ritual prayer exclamation, often used as a sign of amazement, joy, praise and gratitude to God, usually pronounced immediately after receiving good news. In Russian culture, it roughly corresponds to the phrase “Thank God! ” or praise like “Well done! »
Sea market of Bandar Abbas
The most interesting thing for me was to get to the market, where the fishermen brought their catch from the sea. Ilyad accompanied me with great reluctance to the fish market, the smell there was not much better than in the meat pavilion, and because of the heat and humidity, I had to constantly control myself so as not to get sick. Here they sold tuna for $16 for a fish weighing about 8 kg, or fish fillet for $4/kg. At a nearby stall, you could buy shrimp of various sizes from medium to huge for $4-6. For an additional fee of $2/kg they were cleaned from the shell.
I wanted to buy a fillet of tuna, but Ilyad dissuaded me because my father had already bought groceries for the evening. As it turned out, they ate fish very rarely, so I didn’t manage to try it. In the end, I bought canned tuna for $3 (there are cheaper and more expensive, the price depends on the quality of the tuna). I was forced to boil canned food for several minutes, explaining that one jar in a million could contain a bacterium that could kill a person.
Mysterious word.
At Ilyad's house, I went on Skype and wrote a message to my friend Vladimir, who lived in Norway and studied at the university. Since Iranians studied with him, he even promised to talk to me in Farsi.
Salam, I wrote.
- Salam, - answered Vladimir.
- Chetori? Khoo b i? (How are you? I'm fine? )
This expression means "how are you? well? ” and is an analogue of the American phrase “how do you do” (how are you).
This is often asked at a meeting, but since no one cares about the answer, you just need to say: “Mersi. Khuba m” (thank you, good).
“Kos kesha m, ” my friend suddenly answered.
This phrase was apparently suggested to him by an Iranian. I knew that "am" is short for the verb "hastam" (to be), when spoken in the sense of "I am. " But I didn’t know what “kos kesh” was, so I asked Ilya yes to translate. But instead of a normal reaction and an adequate translation, he burst into laughter and literally rolled away under the table. How little it takes to make an Iranian laugh - “kos kesham” and that’s it, it’s already funny. When Ilyad finished his hysterical laughter, he said with a serious look that the word is bad and should not be used, so he will not tell me its translation. However, I decided not to be upset that I could not replenish my vocabulary. “If the word is bad, ” I thought, “then I will definitely hear it again, and then I will certainly write it down and learn it. ”
Do not mix vodka with pizza, vodka should be drunk with vodka.
Despite the unbearable heat, life in the city continued. A day later, I was still going to the gym, where I met many guys who spoke good English. One day one of them came up to me and said:
- A guest from Russia came to us, my friends are having a party in his honor, you are also our guest, and we invite you. It won’t be boring, just don’t drink a lot, otherwise my friends are trained in this matter.
- Of course, I'll go! Don't worry about me, I don't drink, I replied.
As I have already noticed, the Iranians do not know how to drink at all. When sober, they sometimes dance and sing so much that it's scary to think what will happen to them if they drink. The guest from Russia turned out to be my namesake, a young guy Alex. So we formed two teams: Iran with two trained guys and Russia with one trained and one non-drinker.
We can say that at that time the Iranians drank us too much. However, first things first.
Late in the evening we came to visit and brought pizza with us (I already talked about this dish, Italians cry). The owner of the house happily met us and showed us a bottle of vodka with a capacity of 1 liter. On it was written: "Nemiroff, made in England. " There were four of us, and one did not drink, which means that there should have been enough for three. But I was wrong, in fact, one bottle was not enough. The reason for this was a huge number of toasts: “For you! For Guests! For your parents! For world peace! After that, we began to hug, the Iranian said to us:
- You are my brothers, stay at my house, live as long as you want.
And we answered him:
- No, you are our brother, come to Russia, you will live with us.
Then we said a lot of compliments to each other, confirming that we are all brothers: Muslims, Christians, Belarusians, Russians, Iranians.
Alex made a beautiful toast: “For us to be able to travel and meet true friends in our travels! »
- Salomati! (We will! ) - said the Iranian and, having drunk to the bottom, started talking about girls.
I told about the fact that I travel alone and I don't have a girlfriend.
– Couldn’t your friend Omid have introduced you to a girl? - asked the Iranian.
Omid, who is next to us, shrugged his shoulders in confusion.
- Yes, it's not your fault, - my new brother continued addressing me, - it's not your fault. Who is to blame? But he is to blame, - and pointed at Omid, - I'll tell you how to solve your problem. You just need another "cos cash" and this one doesn't do the job. He turned to Omid and addressed him:
- You are not doing your job, you are a bad "kos cash".
I again heard the word that Ilyad had previously called bad.
It turned out that “kos kesham” is translated as “I am a pimp”, and since it is officially believed that there is no love for money in Iran, the word is recognized as bad. By this time, the first bottle had been drunk, and we were waiting for the arrival of another person. As expected, the new guest brought another bottle of Nemiroff. Alex was breathing heavily and got up to take a walk, but since we had been sitting on the floor all this time, his legs would not obey him, and he, leaning against the wall, slowly went outside, leaving the door open, the room was enveloped in heat. We went to call him to the air-conditioned house. When we went out into the street, we were very surprised to see that Alex had climbed onto a high fence enclosing the house, and now he was sitting on it, his legs dangling towards the roadway. As he said later, he could not see the street well, so he decided to climb up, from where there was a beautiful view of palm trees and cars passing along the road.
- Hey Alex, what are you doing there?
Let's get down! – interrupted his contemplation Iranian.
- I will not drink with you anymore, you drink more than Russians. I'm going to sleep, - Alex answered, climbed down the fence and went into the room.
I was told that the next day he felt well, but for balance he still continued to hold on to the wall. Probably strong vodka caught.
Note. Drinking alcohol in Iran is a criminal offense (upon re-arrest up to and including the death penalty). All names in the story are fictitious. The author was an outside observer and did not violate the law.
How I changed money and extended my visa. Iranian bureaucracy.
I went to the National Bank (Bank e Mally) to exchange the last $100, not knowing that the market rate differed from the official one by almost 25%. In the bank, for $100, one could get 1.000, 000 rials, and in the market, 1.240, 000 rials.
There was a long queue of people at the currency exchange window, because here they paid bills, received and changed money. Each time, in order to make some kind of transaction, the bank employee took a pile of filled papers from the client, moved away from the window and, as you could see through the glass, went to his desk. It was not just a table, but a full-fledged office, it housed: pens, staplers, folders, several stacks of filled papers, various seals, as well as huge bundles of Iranian money: red here, blue there, green here. At the table, an employee slowly laid out papers, put several seals, filled out forms, signed, took out or reported money in the right bundle, and then, with measured steps, slowly returned to the window. I calmly waited for my turn, although looking at all his manipulations, it was clear that it would take at least half an hour until my turn came up.
Within five minutes, I was at the Tejarat Bank, resigned to the thought that I would see a long line again.
“Sir, if you want to exchange money, you need to go to the second floor, follow me, I will show you the way, ” an employee at the entrance addressed me in English.
In the bank premises, we went through the door past the window with a queue, so I found myself on the service area among the tables with piles of papers and seals, stacks of multi-colored money and running clerks. I was taken to some table where a bank employee was sitting, I showed him $100.
“There will be no surrender, ” he replied.
Now I already agreed to exchange the entire amount, if only to do it as soon as possible. The worker took the money from me, and several forms from the table, and, cheerfully waving a hundred-dollar bill, went to the second floor. First, we went into the general office, where we had to put two seals.
It looked like this: he approached his colleague, who was busy writing something important, apologized for distracting and asked to put a stamp. A colleague took the paper and, having carefully read the document, put a seal, then we went to another table and asked the new clerk to put a seal, who, having familiarized himself with the contents of the paper, assured it with his seal. Having collected two seals and signatures, we returned to the first floor, where my employee put a third seal and told me to go to the window to receive money. It only took me an hour to exchange money at the bank. I thought, “I wonder how long it will take me tomorrow to renew my Iranian visa? »
The immigration center was closed on the occasion of some holiday, and since the visa expired in two days, we drove to the police station, which we had a hard time finding after a fair amount of driving around the city.
After passing through the checkpoint, we got lost and began to ask for directions, as a result, we were brought to the office by Afghans who had moved to live in Iran and often came here on visa issues. The necessary chief was absent, and we remained to wait for him in the corridor. The Afghans looked at me with curiosity, and I looked at them. When I got to know each other, I learned that they had come from Kandahar and were working in Bandar Abbas, while my brother and parents stayed in Afghanistan. I opened a phrase book and found the translation of the word "dangerous" in Farsi - Khatarna k.
- Kandahar khatarna k eh? Taliban? (It's dangerous in Kandahar, Taliban), I asked.
“Na, Kandahar khatarna k nist (no, it’s not dangerous in Kandahar), ” the Afghan replied and added something like: “There is no Taliban in the city - it’s dangerous outside the city, but my brother lives there, and I can give his phone number . If you want to come, call him. " He left me the phone and we shook hands.
The boss returned from lunch and explained what documents to bring to extend the visa and in which bank to pay the state fee, and also gave two bilingual questionnaires (Farsi and English). I quickly filled out my part in English myself, but the officer was too lazy to fill in Farsi, so he told Ilyad to fill out the forms himself. I remember that Ilyad could not translate the word "economist", the question about the profession in the questionnaire. I noticed that if you ask a young man in Belarus about his education, he will answer "economist" or "lawyer", but if you ask an Iranian, he will answer "architect" or "engineer".
To pay the state duty, it was necessary to go to a certain bank, which was located in another part of the city. The Lonely Planit guidebook says: "Go to the bank, say 'visa', pay the money, and everything else will be done for you. " This is probably how it will be if a lone foreigner comes to the bank, but everything turned out differently for me.
Seeing an Iranian next to me, a bank employee gave him three forms and told him to fill them out on his own. Therefore, Ilyad had to fill out forms for me and for a bank employee, entering details, addresses, last names, etc. , all in triplicate - for a bank client, an employee and his boss. Having paid, we went to look for an office where we could make a photocopy of all pages of the passport. When everything was done, we returned to the police station. The officer asked me where I was staying, I replied that I had arrived recently and read the address of an inexpensive hotel from LP.
- And who is this? he asked, pointing to Ilyad.
- This is my translator, - I explained and asked to extend the visa for 30 days, the maximum possible period.
The officer handed us a stitched folder with my profiles and photographs, and told us to go to the second building opposite.
An employee was also sitting there, he opened the folder, read the questionnaire, and, having assured the documents with his seal, ordered us to go to the third building to the most important boss. He had to wait, but in general everything went smoothly, he put a big seal and returned us to the first building. We gave the folder to the officer whom we visited at the very beginning, he nodded and asked to come in two hours. In order not to suffer in the heat, we stayed to wait in the corridor.
By lunchtime we went for documents.
- Motarjem (translator) - the officer called my friend.
Ilyad went into the office, and they discussed something.
“He asks to give him ten thousand, ” Ilyad translated, pointing to the boss.
- Ten thousand tomans? I asked and thought to myself, wow, ten dollars for what he was supposed to do for free.
- No, rials, he said so, - answered Ilyad.
So, for the acceleration it was necessary to pay only one dollar.
I gladly handed over the money to the officer, and he gave me a passport with a visa extended for thirty days. So simple and easy, after spending only a day, I exchanged money and extended my visa.
Author: Kozlovsky Alexander.
Book: "Unforgettable Iran". 159 days hitchhiking.
