I’m an odd supporter of the home team, going so far as to carrying a photographed keyring of our star player. Yet, how I’m scorned at for this, regardless of how far my tongue is wedged in my cheek. I get a similar responses when pushed to vocalise my thoughts; it’s not that I’m fashionably backing the outsider, but more that, at times I hold a view that the games can have as much relevance as an actual football tournament.

“This is a terrible translation”, both my friends simultaneously remarked as I strained to keep up with the pace; the only errors I noticed being the additional, “Mr. President”, and other courteous terms padding the translated questions for the home team. I was enthralled; lost between needing clarification from my friends and not wanting to interrupt. This match was perversely important however; a long running tournament seems to be reaching its final stages, with a great many heated fans hungry for a slip-up; an excuse to vent anger and transcend the event; offering their own interpretation of a red card, regardless of a referee’s decision.

For me, these vigilantes who seemingly shroud themselves in their own comfortable understanding of events, have at best, historical amnesia and certainly a gross immunity to self-awareness. This became prevalent with the media circus surrounding a recent visit by our president to the, “Lion’s Den”, which could be marked as the away-game to the previous week’s interview.

“The Evil Has Landed”, we read in the morning papers as the cogs of the corporate media shifted a gear. Various tactics had been considered by the home team; or even stolen, with 11/9 victims once again not left to rest in peace. Predictably, the media performed its tacit role of ‘amplifier’ well, with the volume turned down for this and also for the main reason of the visit: the fact that our president was a guest to the United Nations. Where the volume was increased however, was with our president also being a guest at Columbia University. Here he was made equally as welcome, being introduced as a, “petty dictator”. Such flattery! And I’m serious.

Such flattery that can only exist with tiring ignorance of our system, and this man’s role; this democratically elected man I should add. He is arguably less influential than his international equivalents – simply a face, some stock-words and a nice beard, but one should be careful not to over-estimate him. One should know that he does not preside over the military, unlike the much loved former shah who was not democratically elected, did preside over the military and was not shy in using it against his own people (with a blind eye from the west). So one should be aware that no amount of witty uppercase-play (“AhMADinejad”) can invite the situation whereby he will hover his finger over a phantom red-button.

The madness could be attributed to the provocative words on the holocaust; clumsy at best, but broaching this taboo in its current way of, “let’s allow more research”, invites an interesting response. These little pokes at western hypocrisy seem to be chipping away at the roots of a regional issue and – depending on who does your indoctrination – it resonates in great volume, yet in different ways. I might be so bold at this point and suggest that the surrounding rhetoric is awkwardly refreshing; so rare to hear a representative at such a level to stand up against the status quo and even represent his people. Today, for example, is an international day of recognition for the plight of the Palestinians, with a national televised demonstration running through most cities – yes, it reminds me of when in Britain we had national days of recognition for the struggle against the Apartheid. Remember? I put it to you, this guy is not mad; he is a mirror, one that is highly susceptible to smearing.

I heard that the airport flooded with admirers upon the return of our man, with crowds no doubt thankful for his safe return. I couldn’t help but also feel thankful for this, as it was with each day that I gritted my teeth and begged that he not slip-up. But how silly of me; this has been proven to not be necessary; the age-old “wiped-off the map” – dusty rhetoric for the Islamic Republic – had recently gotten a fresh mistranslation and amplified by the corporate cohorts.

But when these words are not being hideously mistranslated, they are not all that outrageous; in fact, much the opposite in my mind and no doubt the minds of a great many others in the region. I should add, I’m under no illusion that these words are said with as much sincerity as, “bringing democracy to the middle east”, but they resonate with the same effect to a different audience. Yet, it is exactly that which we in-turn fear, the cyclical repetition of, “bringing democracy to the middle east”, as this for us is like being wiped-off the map.

The tournament is racing to its final stages, and with this, my greatest fear is of the resulting hooligans; for you [my readers] are the one who allows the transcending of the game. Be cautious, your anger or fear might be measured by your ignorance. So I feel we should be vigilant, so as not be seduced for want of our vigilante behavior, for it does us no credit and we far from benefit. I might then end by provocatively suggesting that, if you want democracy, respect it, and respect ours.

Originally posted at ddmmyyyy.org

Shared taxis are now too much of a feature in my daily life yet I still amuse myself when thinking of the tacit rules, the variables and the knack one needs to utilise this national nightmare of a transport system. I thought I’d take it upon myself to add another entry for a possible guide thingy, I’ve done money and now here is one on taxis.

GETTING SEEN
Being anywhere near a road invites the sound of a car horn as taxi drivers anticipate customers, the more lost you look and the less you move the more the horn will sound. This will continue with car after car until you get in or get away. A single toot will announce the taxis’ presence followed by a toot-toot – “where you going?”. Then there’s the ‘approach’ as the driver aims for your legs to pull to the side. This can take a few forms – eye contact is made as both parties lean in, the driver won’t commit to a stop unless you are going on his route yet the distance and noise leaves a small period where one’s lips pucker for a location name. “Straight ahead”, I yelp, shuffling my feet back, yet I’ll often get the Iranian ‘tut’ – a slow lift of the head – “where the fuck else is he going”, is normally what I mumble to myself as the I gear up for another approach. Occasionally hand gestures can aid the approach but one must know the layout and assume the driver does too. A circular stirring index finger gets you to the next roundabout, four fingers gets you the next cross roads and three gets you the next intersection and I imagine two or one get you run over. Mostly I give the point and wag – ‘straight ahead’ – but this more often than not needs a stated location.

GETTING IN
Once the driver gives you a lowered head – “yes” – you must then prepare for a little seating rearrangement, this can take two forms. Firstly there is the location rearrangement whereby by passengers will get out, thus putting you deeper to the left – assuming you get the back three seats – this of course means they will alight sooner. This is a 50/50 may-or-may-not happen scenario whereby other variables will effect the decision: mostly ease-of-arrival-shuffle or predicted ease-of-departure-shuffle, mostly to traffic. The front seat is also subject to seating rearrangement whereby passengers will naturally free the space in the rear when possible – yet not always. The second rearrangement come with the positioning of females – a minority passenger but respected one. If possible women sit beside women and if not, by a door or in front, basically they don’t sit in the middle-back, unless there is another female beside or the knight is defending a bishop and the king might slip into check. Ok, basically, if the piece is black do what you can to not touch it.

GETTING SCREWED
At this point if you don’t know your route then you’ve made a mistake – know your route and it’s corresponding price, or, ask in advance! You will be safe in numbers or on short runs but if you are alone and not certain then don’t be surprised if you get into an argument as you pay upon arrival. It should be noted that you are hugely advantaged in an argument if you have smaller denominations of money and also profess to only have on you the money that you think is fair for the journey. As a rule, keep smaller denominations, it does everyone a favor – I once had amounted four unopened packets of chewing gum in my pocket (bought quicker than I can chew) to get change in anticipation of taxi troubles. Now I think about it there was a series of experiments regarding this Iran taxi payment dilemma. OK, ultimately you can walk off without paying but if you’ve given a large denominator and are sitting waiting for change then your loosing and if you’ve exited the car to wait for it – you’ve lost.

GETTING OUT
A series of computations will be needed for alighting. One must simultaneously judge the speed of the moving taxi, foresee the traffic and times one things by another, divide something else, do a square route thing and then calmly say, “may your hands not be tired”, to which you will get, “are you getting out?”, from the driver. If you get the computations correct you will stop just where you wanted, which would normally involve cutting up a few cars before a possible reverse seat rearrangement. Excuse mes and thank yous are said and then as you walk away, wait for it – toot, toot toot.

I have gradually become numb to these oddities yet occasionally a fresh pair of eyes arrive to remind me of this daily chaos. “There was a hole in the path – just path and then a great big hole, no warning…”, they tell me as I am brought to tears of laughter. I laugh because I’ve said the same and because the person I told laughed at me for finding it strange. There is more, they too have pages of anecdotes as a whole spectrum of absurdity folds me over in laughter. I laugh at them, at myself, at the Iranian people, what is this place Tehran, a clash of 15,000,000 ideas simultaneously manifesting themselves in some attempt of a capital.

I recently wrote of my lack of enthusiasm for returning back here but I fear I failed to qualify my analogy. I believe I wasn’t naive in coming to live here in Iran, having visited the place a couple of times before I was aware that the culture can be abrasive and that it would likely toughen me, bringing calluses to my soft English manner. I embraced this as character building, but hard skinned is not how I would describe myself. I’ve learned to rival cuntish behavior with cuntish behavior but I might more correctly describe this as being sore skinned: I am sensitive to the trampling and clamor to not be kicked down. I’m gradually learning to be a city arsehole and now leave the house armed and trigger happy.

There are two things new to me here, city life and Tehran city life. I have lived for 3-years a piece in probably England’s smallest cities, other than that I’m of the small town, and a dainty one at that. London could have made me that city arsehole or cunt if you please, but Tehran’s 15,000,000… I look to nature for analogies, ant hills? Far too organised and clearly all inhabitants are of the same species – they do walk all over one another though.

I might single out just one daily moment, one I’ve not numbed to and have still yet to learn how to snap at. It happened once again today just minutes before I began writing. I was being served in my local corner shop, actually in verbal intercourse when some cunt walks in shouting, “razor blades, give me three razor blades!”. I don’t think he’d even entered the door when his demand was placed but he’d managed to barge in front of me as the shop keeper respected the law of the jungle, serving him first. I didn’t respond like the other times today, yesterday, everyday as I was not sure which person’s throat I should take those razor blades to.

It’s tiring – holes and arsholes, all 15,000,000 of us. I’m not part of the solution and gradually becoming part of the problem, this might not be character building but rather character destroying. And what was it I was saying about holding my breath?

It felt wrong that two men sat plucking from history the development of nations to justify those broadcasted words. We aired our supposed views, one girl was steaming and the other not even listening, “I’m not staying another minute!”, shrilled one as the other tapped messages on their mobile. I joined my male friend in forgiving the bad mouthed child, “they are adjusting, in a difficult position, it takes time”, and I kinda believed it too.

“Iran is fresh to the industrial world, fresh to these concepts that have matured over a slow period among ‘western’ nations”, I respond, “the Shah’s time was a blip, a faceade of the west, I’m not sure it suited the Iranian people and culture, not en-mass, such unequal development can crack the society and did”. “Foisting these ways upon a nation without the background, the infrastructure or the understanding might cause more problems than solve”, I suggested, ignoring counter arguments arriving with my every word. I went with it, consistently seeing this perspective out, “without these things we might be leaping into subservience (again?), facing west, behaving western yet never being western – by that I mean being in control of our destiny”. Our development must be aboriginal, my counterpart pointed out, for we are not insignificant and this is our problem.

“Western seduction is easily succumbed to, frequently so and why not?”, I pointed out, referring to chronic brain drain of which our female friend wanted to contribute, “thus development is distressingly slowed”. My counterpart reminded us that relative to the region things are not all that bad, I agreed, I champion Iran, would choose it over many other neighboring places – the other oligarchs – subservient or not – don’t appear half as indigenous. But I threw it out there, “Iran is stalling”, I suggested, “waiting for the inevitable new world order, where it will comfortably face east and allow itself (and be allowed!) a suitable renaissance”, and I kinda believe it too.

“Daveed, I want to buy a house in Cypress, maybe we’ll go live there”, my uncle perks up, something on the TV must have prompted him, “can I get a VISA?”, he gets there, “do you think they’ll give us a VISA? Can you find out?”. This is the latest idea, Cypress, the latest country and his latest expectation of me. I look up inquisitively when he gets to these questions, maybe I look like I’m thinking about it, I hope so. If he could tune into my mind he might hear this between the distortion – “what dear uncle gives you the impression that I – dressed in my jim-jams, sipping tea while trying to block out Turkish soaps – have the foggiest about immigration and VISAs”. I probably give a ‘hmmm’ at this point, then I sip, “never dear uncle have I ever personally* applied for a VISA or immigration, I’ve never even seen the form(s) and never made an inquiry about such things”. These things are not aired, partly through politeness and partly because he and all the others that come with their questions don’t want to hear the second reason why: that I mostly never need these things while traveling.

Maybe I’m tetchy due to help I gave in what became an unsuccessful application for a visitation VISA to Great Britain and the ongoing help in the – as yet – four year process of immigration to America, both of which seem to appear more like a sick joke. I’ll begin with the America gig, I’m still unsure with this one whether it’s legit – the papers and stamps seem official enough, provisionally it’s a green light, it’s just the, “your application is being processed, do not make any plans…” bit that baffles me, maybe it’s just the way the Americans put it, everything seems like a scam. “Can you call them”, my uncle asks, “can you check online”, he repeats. They’ve given him a handy user name and password, “your application is being processed”, do not make any plans…”, it says when I login with nearly a word-for-word copy of the letter, but it looks neat and makes my uncle feel that things are moving along. Just to confirm, I called, guided my way through the labyrinth of options, tapped in enormous strings of digits and finally got it, “your application number is ‘x’, we are now dealing with ‘y’, do not make any plans…”. I did some maths, “at the current rate dear uncle you’ll hear news in five years, so – don’t make any plans”.

The Brit gig was simply obscene and insulting as well as very expensive, remember, this is just for a two week holiday. I was drafted in for translation – not that my uncle can’t read English – more that, even by lawyer’s standards the paperwork contained an extra special weave of verbosity. My uncle had failed the initial application, having stumbled on the interrogation process, the poor feller mislocated a small town among other things, how silly of him to say north-west, it was clearly south-east. But the British aren’t too harsh, they give you the option to appeal, and at only twice the price of the initial process, roughly two month’s average wage. But it was failure again, this time my uncle couldn’t prove that all the land and property he owed around Iran had any value, deeds don’t mean dollars, oh how they wriggled out of that one. The re-appeal was available but the game could have gone on with the embassy raising the bar, inventing more English and taking further money. Unless the family were to leave a deposit, like my uncle himself, the embassy expected it would end up being an asylum case at the other end.

A colleague was rejected a visitation VISA for Canada the other day and another for America. In the Canadian case I was told that six people were successful in just over a hundred applications for that day, this is good business and psychological torture. I hear chants of freedom coming Eastwards, but they seem self-serving – as my father once enlightened me, the jail is imposed by those who chant the loudest.

*I have had two VISAs, one work related for America, but it was all taken care of for me and another for Lebanon, which was never used and also arranged for me, yet not entirely necessary due to me having a British passport, it was simply a time issue.

Our rendezvous arrangements proved as backward as our lunch arrangements as we missed our new friend in the main city of Tabriz and had to guide him to an early stage of our trek. His arrival couldn’t have come sooner, he became the key needed to unlock to mystery of the local behavior. As he arrived our soup arrived, one single large bowl of it – at the beginning we wanted soup, then they didn’t have any, then they didn’t have anything – now we had soup, no eggs and everything we’d initially ordered, including the previous customer’s food that still hadn’t been cleared.

It should be noted that the Turks are to the Iranians what the Irish are to the English and as we settled up and headed off the many Iranian jokes about the Turks started to gain credibility.

In theory our newly found friend was to be guided by us Iranian folk as he upturned the stones of Iranian culture, yet things went much the other way round. The regional language is Turk, of which 30% of Iran speak (including my family), not the Farsi that we city kids speak. Of course, our new friend can’t speak Farsi but his mother tongue is Turkish, which is maybe over 90% the same as Turk, forgiving the kooky accent. Thankfully however we all spoke English and for a rare occasion I was the good all-rounder, knowing a shameful amount of each. Between us we made a triangle of entertainment for the locals, discussing in Farsi, conveying in English and presenting in Turk – only to then do it in reverse. We were like some comedy outfit, one deaf and one blind, getting results in a slap-stick style.

“Don’t be tired”, “don’t be tired!”, and then another group of trekkers passed, “don’t be tired”, I politely state again. This aroused outbursts of laughter from our new friend with each kooky Turk tone that came from me. I was sincere, it’s what we do when hiking, maybe it was the fact that I had no idea what was being said back at me. During this hefty hike we all became acquainted as we guessed our way through the cool cloud covered mountain. Our new friend is blessed with warmth and honesty that allows for his charismatic and sometimes over-familiarity to escape evasion. Most of the trek he would be in some way attached to us, or even passers by – he was as comfortable with English as he was with his hands when talking.

Our trek was to take us to a place called Babak Fort, a historical location known for a time the locals fended off the Arabs. The site was hidden by winding paths, steep climbs and also low cloud during our assent – thankfully the cool moist air took the strain out of the climb, gathering in our hair like dew on a spiders web. We deceptively arrived on several occasions of which I’m sure was the intentional design, yet upon our eventually arrival there was little to see. I mean, literally there was little to see, 5-metres ahead was what was available to our eyes and that which could be seen was restoration work.

Groups of trekkers joined us in this short lived relief, snacks and drinks were had as at least three mobiles squealed out traditional songs. A group of odd haircuts and clothes played the worst of it, between their chats and sing-alongs they cleared the plastic remains from previous visitors. “Is that Mostafazedeh…?”, asked our musical buff in Farsi, “Talk Turk!”, replied the haircut in Turk before they reached a chorus in unison. In response to this hostility our new Turkish friend’s hands came out the pocket again and connections were made – it appeared that we’d stumbled upon the Azari separatist. There was a long trade of words between the Turk and Turkish neighbours, a lot of touchy feely yet understanding seemed to be met. “What was that all about?”, I asked as the deaf man to the blind. “I’ll tell you later”, he responded as I led us back down the mountain.

Photographs from this visit can be found at my photo journal

There have been a few such requests of late by random folk from around the world fancying a more alternative, alternative holiday or arriving on some business. They find me through my photo journal or they find me through friends. Advice is occasionally sought or mostly provided. “Rule number one, do not let anyone touch your money”, I wrote to our Canadian tourists, “rule number two, DO NOT LET ANYONE TOUCH YOUR MONEY!”. And so began a list of things to note when traveling Iran.

With this wave of interest I’ve pondered writing a series of introductions to aspects of Iranian life, both helpful to a tourist and informative to person curious about Iran. In various forms I’ve been writing these to those faceless people who email yet I wanted to avoid the repetition. Having been stung a few times regarding money I felt that such a prospect would be best undertook with this subject.

And so begins what may or may not turn out to be a series I might call, Doing Iran.

MONEY FOR IRAN

The Iranian currency is known as Tomans and Rials whereby one gets 10 Rials for each Toman. Mostly the currency is dealt in notes although coins are used as well as Bankers’ (Travelers’) Cheques. Cards facilities are generally not available.

Notes come in the new 5000 form, recently new 2000 form and mostly 1000 form. There are also 500, 200, 100 and 50 Toman notes with coins decreasing down to 1 Toman. Bankers (Travelers’) Cheques can come in 20,000, 50,000, 100,000 and 500,000 Tomans

MONEY FOR CHANGING

Exchange rate
Last year I got 1600 Tomans for my pound this year I get just over 1800 Tomans. People often say that 1000 Tomans gets you a US dollar, which currently is about right, yet I feel this is a temporary matter as the the US dollar is not (yet!) devaluing like the Toman. Regardless, due to the nature of money one should expect in Iran that prices (all these stated here) will increase, as is often the case, following the new year (March 21st). Don’t be surprised if this increase nears 10% per year.

MONEY FOR KEEPING

Volume
No doubt due to inflation the currency is in relatively small denominators, thus one needs to carry measurable amounts of notes even for day-to-day items. The breadth of price in day-to-day purchases also doesn’t help so one must be prepared for many eventualities.

Card facilities
Cards are coming into effect for taking money from the wall, but this is not a facility for international travelers. I never seen a swipe-card machine and can only guess that large hotels have such. What with the near non-existence of bank card facilities one must plan a trip expecting to carry hundreds of notes.

Maybe important
Although I hear of less incidents than in London it is wise to distribute your money around your pockets and bags. I’ve heard of many moments where motorbike riders travel in twos and bag-snatch. Also, try not to let unknown people handle your money, I’ve had times where people tried varying techniques to pocket what is mine.

MONEY FOR TRANSPORT

Cars
You can fill a 2.0 litre car (75 litres capacity – does around 700 kilometers town driving) for 3000 Tomans. Although petrol prices and means to consumption are changing so expect this prices to both rise are rise sharply in large quantity purchases.

Extras
3rd party Insurance is compulsory starting from 200,000 a year and applies to the car and not the driver. There is no road tax (although toll roads connect some cities starting from around 100 Tomans). MOT is compulsory costing around 7000 Tomans per year. All these extras are rarely adhered to and not enforced.

Taxis
Taxis generally are shared and can connect you to most places while jumping between. In Tehran it may cost you 100 Tomans for a short one hundred metre journey and taking you as far as half a mile depending on the route. Relatively long routes can cost around 500 Tomans. Journeys outside of Tehran may be as much as half the price. Tipping is not appropriate for these drivers but no doubt welcomed.

Private Taxis
Journeys in Tehran can start from 1000 Tomans and getting from the north to central at night can be as much as 6000 Tomans. This price will get you the car thus the price can be split between fellow travelers. There has been the recent introduction of yellow metered taxis which are more competitive yet not as easy to come by.

Bus
Inner city buses cost 20 Tomans for any journey around Tehran city. Intercity buses can be equally as reasonable where you can travel from Tehran to Mashad, around a ten hour journey at around 4000 Tomans.

Metro
On the relatively few metro lines one can expect to do the full distance of north-central Tehran to the end of the Karaj (Tehran’s neighboring city to the west) in around an hour and a half for 150 Tomans. A general price can be paid for a single journey on either of the two main city lines for 75 Tomans.

Trains
Trains connect most cities and are also very reasonably priced. I took an over night train to Yazd, which took around 8 hours and had sleeping facilities as well as a buffet with hot food, this costed around 8000 Tomans.

MONEY FOR FOOD

Provisionals
Flat regular bread (lavash) can be bought from the bakers for around 25 Tomans a piece, a pint of milk costs from around 100 Tomans, rice is starts from 1000 Tomans a kilo, eggs start from 70 Tomans each, apples start from around 500 Tomans a kilo.

Snacks
Iran is fast becoming consumed with corner stores selling basics as well as many types of plastic wrapped junk. A packet of crisps for two is around 300 Tomans, chocolates start from around 50 Tomans, a plastic bottle of Coke is generally 250 Tomans. Freshly made sandwiches (usually filled with processed meat and salad) start from around 700 Tomans

Restaurants
One of the more traditional dishes, Chelo Kebab, consisting of rice, a barbecued tomato and minced muton (sometimes bread and yoghurt) can start from around 2000 Tomans. Fast food joints are fast becoming popular where a pizza starts from around 2000 Tomans, burgers 2000 Tomans, Chips 500 Tomans. Fancy restaurants can have main courses starting from around 7,000 Tomans.

MONEY FOR SHOPPING

Electronic goods
Electronic goods are pretty much exactly the same price you’d expect to pay in any other country thus the nationals expect to have to work more for these goods as their wages do not reflecting those other (industrialised) countries.

Clothing
Genuine labeled clothing is hard to come by but a few stores are available in the country. A large number of stores sell fake clothing swearing on their families lives that they are the real deal. Diesel and Levi’s jeans are popular and prices can start around 30,000 Tomans, yet these are often rather convincing copies made in Turkey. Women’s fashionable manteaus (required Islamic dress) can start around 15,000 Tomans and often get to around 60,000 Tomans.

MONEY FOR LEISURE

Museums/Galleries
Galleries are often free, Tehran’s Contemporary Arts museum is 300 Tomans and historic sites can cost around 200 – 500 Tomans.

Sports facilities
Swimming sessions can cost from around 3000 Tomans and including saunas can get up to 6000 Tomans or more.

MONEY FOR WORKING

Employment
Skilled laborers get paid around 400,000 per month, taxi drivers can make around 400,000 Tomans a month, general teachers start from around 350,000, Doctors start from around 500,000 for junior positions. I think I heard once that the national average is around 200,000 Tomans per month – I’ll confirm later.

NB
I welcome any corrections, additions or helpful links, yet would like to stress that inflation may make most of these values redundant shortly. Thus note the date of posting.

The previous day I’d stumbled upon this Islamic carnival quite unknowingly, in passing I donned a dumb grin, “Oooo, TV cameras, Oooo big bus, Oooo, lots of officially dressed people”. I slowed down, deducing what type of guest was in town: there was just enough people for it to be the president, too many for a foreign notary and certainly too many for a news article. The bus was curtained, so I guessed that they were famous, but why so many empty cars parked around I pondered. I loitered, but it was too calm, I assumed I’d missed the precession and left in disappointment.

That night I’d popped out with my father, traveling by car we couldn’t help but go through Tehran’s notorious Jordan Boulevard – notorious among other things for being a road not unlike a catwalk. As we inched forward I noticed the traffic had slowed for different reasons to usual. One-by-one police officers glared in at the drivers subsequently ushering the women drivers to the side whereby further police and a blacked-out van awaited.

If a headscarf falls in a far away forest and nobody is there to see it, will they make a sound? I thought while I sat watching the the police decipher the morally correct with no great ease.

“My friend was cautioned”, said one girl at work the next day, “yes mine too”, said another. We all shared our stories and although this annual tactic is expected we all agreed that the level was way beyond what has been seen for the last few years at least.

A fellow blogger amusingly writes, ‘“The news is reporting that 93% of the population approves of the crackdown on hejab,” our cab driver told us. “If that is true, there is no need to enforce hejab,” I responded.’.

This self-serving statistic, true or not, is mentioned almost like things would be different if it was the other way round, but we live in the Islamic Republic and it’s that time of year for us to be reminded.

Plastic bottles, bags, cartons and wrappers seemed to keep an even distance from one another, sometimes self-consciously collecting themselves in a larger plastic-bags, maybe still deciding what next to do. “Damn, really lots of it”, I regrettably agreed. Every improvised picnic since mass-production was still being enjoyed – less so higher up and more so near the roads – only good memories seemed to have been taken away.

“I was on Iran’s Kish Island when first visiting, beautiful it was, white sand, clear water”, I reminisced, “where the grass met the sand the Iranians had spontaneously created land fills”. It was one of a catalog of moments I’ve witnessed. “There’s a strange sense of commons with the Iranians”, I continued, “inside the house they obsess about tidiness and cleanliness, yet when they leave the door the very same parents instruct their children to discard any packaging wherever they may be”. Often it’s the open guttering (known as joobs) that brings the melted snow from the north to south of Tehran that bare the brunt, edging Tehran ever closer to a heart attack.

“To be fair I guess it’s difficult to distinguish where the bins are when so much of Tehran is in some state of repair”, I joked referring to the pipes sticking out from the paths, pot-holes, open building sites and paving-slabs nearly all present — yet mostly broken if so. “But it’s interesting what this says about Iran and the Iranians”, I speculated, “I’m sure the city blames the people and the people blame the city, like when friends complain while sat in traffic about how long their journey increasingly takes”. But there can be no excuse for not taking one’s rubbish away with them I thought.

“But you know, the people are rubbish, I mean they seem only aware of their own existence or enjoyment – and maybe that of their immediate family”, I sighed confused at how coming from the ‘West’ I can say this. “Again, it’s like the cars are their movable houses”, I continued, loosely referring back to my comment about the inside and outside of the Iranian houses, “they are subject only to the laws of physics. I mean, if the car can physically go there, then is goes there – blocking the roads, going the wrong way and traffic lights goes unnoticed, it’s the same with the rubbish”

Each time I get an international call, beginning with a silent pause and then a, “is that… of… doing?”, my paranoia is refreshed. There’s been a few of late and it still puzzles me why I’m selected among all the possibilities. I’m flattered, it’s exciting yet I can’t help but think there’ll be troubling repercussions.

“Well, I think they genuinely must have been in Iranian waters as I’m sure it’s too much of a politically tense time to make such errors or begin a blackmail campaign”, I speculated during the pre-interview. “I mean, this will be politicised and not work to the Iranians’ advantage”, I regrettably added, certain that it would be the other way around.

“So you think they’ll be released soon?”, I was asked in surprise as I suggested it would blow over quite quickly. “I think there was a similar incident not too recently where the captives were released swiftly”, I added, trying to remember if this was the case or not.

Coincidentally I was awaiting the company of a foreign journalist friend of mine who I was sure would enlighten me of an similar such events. “No, there was the capture of two journalists, French and German, they were fishing off an island traveling from Qatar”, he informed me, “Their maps stated they were not in Iranian water”, he went on noting that there had been a dispute. “They were detained for 15-months and released at a politically advantageous moment”. He then informed me of the UN Security Council meeting to be held later that day where further sanctions against Iran were likely to be passed – was this another politically advantageous time?

I then proceeded in my speculation and countered his thinking that this was an Iranian tactic. “I’m sure many such intrusions of air or water space has been tolerated by the government here, not willing to contribute to the West’s media circus.”, I went on, referring to Seymor Hersh‘s articles of US drone flights in Iranian air space. “Maybe claims by both sides about being in certain waters are correct in themselves, I mean, the navigation facilities on the British boat may have been tampered”, I pondered, curious that this might have been extra-military activity. “Drop a word or two in the right ear and you’ll see the Iranians taking the bate… and what great timing”, I cynically added.

“Is it Seepa or Sepa?”, came a voice on the phone interrupting the radio show as I awaited my turn. “I’m sorry, was that for me?”, I responded. “Yes, Seepa or Sepa?”, he repeated. They must have made a mistake, I had no idea what they were asking, “the bank”, he then added – “Oh, Sepah”, I informed him.

Just after we led into the story and they still mispronounced the bank name the presenter introduced me, using me my given name. “So, how do you feel about these new sanctions?”, she asked. I sat in my pants, freshly awoken and only too aware that I was live. I’d written notes and was minimally researched but I wasn’t at any point told that I would answer on this subject. A few more questions followed and although I filled the time with words and didn’t “um” and “er” too much my response was poor. I’d mostly attempted to present the hypocrisy of the events, but was rather distracted by not wanted to discuss the matter at all.

“So what is your take on these 15-navy officers arrested?”, she finally asked. “Well, it’s a rather interesting coincidence, somewhat of an ‘October Surprise’ I might say”. And just as I was warming up to allude to a parallel with the Iran Contra scandal, she interjected, paused a for a brief moment and that was me done.