May 22, 2015
As the pilot announces the start of our final descent to Tehran's Imam Khomeini International Airport, I look out the window to discover a landscape dramatically different from that in which the plane took off barely five hours ago. Endless, barren steppes stretch out in every direction. The ground is brown, perhaps a bit orange. Then the plane makes a 45-degree turn and suddenly the massive Alborz mountain range comes into sight, dominated by the peak of the 5,610-meter Mount Damavand. As we dive into Tehran's urban sprawl, I watch attentively the lines, shapes and textures of this massive megalopolis. Suddenly I realize that the jagged silhouette of the northern mountains is no longer visible, as the curtain of smog thickens the view -a familiar sight for a native of Mexico City.
The landing is smooth and brief. I grow increasingly excited -we are finally on Iranian soil- and wish that other passengers would clap so that I could release my excitement. But nobody claps. Instead, as the plane makes it way to a remote gate, I notice some women (mostly Germans) awkwardly adjusting their statutory headscarves. They also have to cover their neck, their legs, their arms. Technically only face and hands may remain visible, as per the islamic hejab principle. All women onboard are well prepared to comply with this dressing code, although lots of women have strands of hair coming off their headscarf.
As I walk out of the plane to board the bus that will take us to the terminal building, I look around ant notice that almost all other planes are Iranian, and that they look old. There are early versions of the Boeing 747, as well as MD 82's and other models that have been out of service in the Western world since the 1990s. This is a result of the sanctions regime -Iranian airlines can't buy aircraft from Western countries, which means that they have to buy second-hand planes from non-Western airlines.
As I walk out of the plane to board the bus that will take us to the terminal building, I look around ant notice that almost all other planes are Iranian, and that they look old. There are early versions of the Boeing 747, as well as MD 82's and other models that have been out of service in the Western world since the 1990s. This is a result of the sanctions regime -Iranian airlines can't buy aircraft from Western countries, which means that they have to buy second-hand planes from non-Western airlines.
 |
| A B747-200 from Iran Air. Production of this aircraft was phased out in 1991. |
After a short bus ride to the austere terminal building, we are greeted by a "Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran" banner and a surprisingly long immigration line. To the sides of the banner are the pictures of the two bearded, turban-wearing elderly men that one sees everywhere in Iran: Ayatollah Khomeini (deceased in 1989) and Ayatollah Chamenei (the current supreme leader of Iran). The former looks angry, the latter neutral or even happy. This personality cult is a fact of life in modern Iran, a reminder that the Ayatollah stands above everything and everyone else, a reaffirmation of the supremacy of the religious leadership over the democratically elected leadership (represented by Hasan Rohani).
The immigration line at Khomeini Airport is by far the most interesting one that I have encountered in my life. I was the only Westerner in the line. The rest of the line seemed to be made up of people from Muslim countries, possibly the majority of them from the Indian subcontinent. Their clothes and colors were simply exotic, fascinating and perplexing. Were they traveling for tourism, or perhaps to visit the holy shrine of Imam Reza in Mashhad, one of the most important Shia pilgrimage sites?
The line was long and moved slowly, it must have taken about an hour to get to the booth. The officer didn't say a word and just stamped my passport. Then I collected my bag. And suddenly I was in Iran! While exchanging Euros for Rial, the clerk tried to short change me about 1/3 of my money -not a cool tactic. Maybe it was just an accident.
I found a taxi booth and was quoted 650.000 Rial for a drive to my destination (my Couchsurfing host's home). A driver took me to another driver, and thereafter to another driver. I showed them all a sheet of paper with my host's address printed in Farsi. Finally one driver asked me to follow him to his cab. In this cab there were already two people waiting for a ride. How strange. Of course I refused to enter the vehicle. The driver wanted me to take his cronies to some place, at my own expense. Oh no. He asked them to leave and I got in. I knew that our relationship was now sour.
His driving was erratic. Not only his. Everyone's. Almost nobody pays attention to lanes, breaking distance, or overtaking rules. Or traffic rules at all. It was scary at moments. Like when drove onto the shoulder of the road to overtake at 130 km/h. All the while driving with one hand (with the other hand he was busy eating sunflower seeds or talking on the phone). And did I forget to mention that he was not wearing the safety belt? No wonder Iran has one of the highest traffic fatality rates in the world. I made a mental note about trying to avoid taxis, or motorized traffic in general, while in Iran. Although observance of traffic rules can be also be quite bad in Mexico, somehow I felt much more vulnerable in Iran in this respect.
As to the city itself: my first impression was not good. Chaotic, choked-full of cars, polluted and devoid of aesthetically-pleasing buildings. And yet at the same time I found the city mesmerizing. Full of life and trade. Full of pragmatic and resourceful citizens accustomed to dealing with discomfort. The drive to my CS host was about one hour of fifteen minutes, a lot of spent in heavy traffic. But I had a lot of fun. This is it, I thought. Iran, Tehran, the land of the Ayatollah.
When we finally arrived, I was much too excited to notice that the driver short changed me fifty-thousand Rial (about 1.5 Euro). Bastard. Somehow I found the right bell on the door and very quickly I was upstairs, getting to know Sara* and Reza* (the names of all my Iranian friends will be changed to avoid getting them in trouble... just to make sure). But that will be the subject of another post.
The immigration line at Khomeini Airport is by far the most interesting one that I have encountered in my life. I was the only Westerner in the line. The rest of the line seemed to be made up of people from Muslim countries, possibly the majority of them from the Indian subcontinent. Their clothes and colors were simply exotic, fascinating and perplexing. Were they traveling for tourism, or perhaps to visit the holy shrine of Imam Reza in Mashhad, one of the most important Shia pilgrimage sites?
The line was long and moved slowly, it must have taken about an hour to get to the booth. The officer didn't say a word and just stamped my passport. Then I collected my bag. And suddenly I was in Iran! While exchanging Euros for Rial, the clerk tried to short change me about 1/3 of my money -not a cool tactic. Maybe it was just an accident.
I found a taxi booth and was quoted 650.000 Rial for a drive to my destination (my Couchsurfing host's home). A driver took me to another driver, and thereafter to another driver. I showed them all a sheet of paper with my host's address printed in Farsi. Finally one driver asked me to follow him to his cab. In this cab there were already two people waiting for a ride. How strange. Of course I refused to enter the vehicle. The driver wanted me to take his cronies to some place, at my own expense. Oh no. He asked them to leave and I got in. I knew that our relationship was now sour.
His driving was erratic. Not only his. Everyone's. Almost nobody pays attention to lanes, breaking distance, or overtaking rules. Or traffic rules at all. It was scary at moments. Like when drove onto the shoulder of the road to overtake at 130 km/h. All the while driving with one hand (with the other hand he was busy eating sunflower seeds or talking on the phone). And did I forget to mention that he was not wearing the safety belt? No wonder Iran has one of the highest traffic fatality rates in the world. I made a mental note about trying to avoid taxis, or motorized traffic in general, while in Iran. Although observance of traffic rules can be also be quite bad in Mexico, somehow I felt much more vulnerable in Iran in this respect.
As to the city itself: my first impression was not good. Chaotic, choked-full of cars, polluted and devoid of aesthetically-pleasing buildings. And yet at the same time I found the city mesmerizing. Full of life and trade. Full of pragmatic and resourceful citizens accustomed to dealing with discomfort. The drive to my CS host was about one hour of fifteen minutes, a lot of spent in heavy traffic. But I had a lot of fun. This is it, I thought. Iran, Tehran, the land of the Ayatollah.
When we finally arrived, I was much too excited to notice that the driver short changed me fifty-thousand Rial (about 1.5 Euro). Bastard. Somehow I found the right bell on the door and very quickly I was upstairs, getting to know Sara* and Reza* (the names of all my Iranian friends will be changed to avoid getting them in trouble... just to make sure). But that will be the subject of another post.
No comments:
Post a Comment