tours - iranian style

 Set between the pockmarked moon face of the morning,
and the encroaching mauve colored toe-claw of the
woman next to me, I sat on this bus, trying to drown
out my mind and at the same time wring it of its
emotions.  Being on a bus is my favorite place in the
whole world.  I can isolate myself for hours, days
sometimes if I’m going far away, without distraction.
There is nothing to worry about, nothing I should be
doing, nothing else I can do, and nothing else I want
to be doing.  The only thing on the agenda is just
sitting, thinking, and watching.  I was full of
juxtapositions and contradictions that morning.  On
one hand I was grateful for my thoughts, as they have
served me rather well within the past few days.  I
have been writing an incredible amount and have been
pouring every last drop of my heart out onto paper and
computer screen.  But at the same time, as my thoughts
kept returning to that boy who broke my heart, I began
to wonder, when one persists in mulling over that one
thing that they want to think about the least, what
exactly does it take to stop thinking?  It was then
that my peaceful and reflective state of mind was
abruptly interrupted by a howl of some sort coming
from the speakers in the ceiling. 
 
 This howl, which was followed by an unceasing and
animated yet pointless string of babble/singing/jokes,
was, as I had just realized, the product of my
seemingly crackhead tour guide.  We were on our way to
Kashan, which is five or six hours south of Tehran,
and in no sense did he have any intention of being
silent for any part of it.  Strangely, everyone one
else seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their obligatory
distraction.  For his part, he was quite comical, and
was extremely fond of singing excessively loudly into
the microphone which, for some reason, they had rigged
to produce an echo like he was announcing a basketball
championship or something.  Very tall and thin, was
his stature, and he had a bald spot on the top of his
head which was ineffectively adorned by a few
strategically placed locks of grey hair combed
horizontally to the other side of his head.  Even
though he was of the older sort, he was the most
energetic and deafening person at five in the morning
that I’ve ever met in my life.  “This will never do,”
I sighed to myself as I sunk into my seat and
attempted to drown him out unsuccessfully with my ipod
– despite its being at full blast.  “Is this volume
even legal so early?” was actually the only thing I
could hear myself think.  I was completely opposed to
the idea of sitting there for five hours while this
old man, with a set of pipes that should really be
reserved only for showers alone, abused the
microphone, not to mention my eardrums, with his
musical stylings like a drunken vagabond so piercingly
before dawn.  If you’ve ever heard Persian music, the
vocals can most be likened to some kind of large water
beast that is howling for life while suffering some
agonizing death.  It is most distracting, and this was
unfortunately some bad imitation of it, if you can try
to imagine the horror. 
 
 But Persians don’t like to be left alone with their
thoughts, I have come to realize.  This notion had
been hinted at by some of my more enlightened family
members but I didn’t realize the seriousness of this
odd psychological bearing until this trip.  They
honestly cannot endure silence!  Furthermore, their
distraction has to be something happy and energetic.
I know of some people who prefer not to listen to sad
songs too often but I’ve never encountered this sort
of uncompromising defense against self reflection
before.  I over-think most of the time.  I think about
things, and then I think about them some more until
they have morphed into something else in my head.  I’m
not saying that this is the best policy either, but I
can’t imagine the suppression of every instinct to
contemplate as a way of life.  It seems an utter waste
of god-given brain and emotion. 
 
 On the other hand, as I said before, it is a defense;
and people, especially women here, need it dearly if
they are going to survive.  I, for one, am already
going insane here.  Islam is no place for a woman,
I’ve decided, even a woman as rebellious and
unconcerned with authority as me.  Of the people that
I have spoken with here, no one likes this new Islamic
conservative regime, and I can feel that sentiment
even when it’s not conveyed directly.  But there is
essentially nothing they can do about it; they are
forced to find some other happiness in their own lives
if they can’t find freedom.  I do feel quite bad for
the people here, if that isn’t too patronizing to
say…they love Iran so much, but for something that it
used to be and not what it is now.  All their pride
and love for their country harkens back to a past that
they will never recover, and now they are left with a
schizophrenic and paranoid government that wields its
power against its own people for some earthly and
corrupt purpose.  What did Iranians ever do to deserve
this punishment dealt against them so irrationally?
They live in an alternate universe where they are the
redheaded stepchild, and their government is the
abusive parent with the bottle of Jack permanently
adjoined to one hand and a belt to the other, with a
string whisky flavored drool dribbling off his chin
and onto his bare beer-belly.  Did they bite the hand
the fed them too quickly?  If I were one of those who
protested for the fall of the Shah, only to receive a
psychological imprisonment in its stead, I probably
wouldn’t want to reflect on my world either.   But
what is done is done, and now the effect of this
Islamic revival can be most perceived by the trail of
psychological problems that has infected the
post-revolution youth here.  I have already written
some about it.  Women, who are reduced to a heap of
clothing in the eyes of men, one indecipherable from
the other, and stripped entirely of any visible
autonomy or distinguishing characteristics, become
walking blow-up dolls for men to do whatever they feel
like whenever they feel like.  Our forced homogeny
creates the possibility to deny that underneath our
sheets, there is in fact a person, just like them,
with a mind of her own that they are traumatizing by
their unchecked harassment and abuse.  The limitations
of what people can do here and how they can obtain joy
is so stifling that I think people actually go a
little crazy and lose sense of reality and what is
right and wrong.  In response, the stronger ones must
shut off entire parts of their brain to cope with what
has become of their world.   If they think about it
too much, I think the combination of this degeneration
and their inability to reverse it could cause a plunge
into a deep and unshakable depression. 
 
 But back to the story at hand, if denial is what you
want to call it, you could say that we were sailing in
a ship of singing and dancing denial all the way to
another time and era, which is what Kashan truly is
when you get down to it.  Still half awake, and unable
to decipher the jokes that had the entire bus roaring
with laughter, I stared out of my window.  Before me,
sprawled out in vast ranges like nothing I’ve ever
seen in any other part of the world, lay the desert
mountains of central Iran.  As stark and brooding as
the landscape is, it is majestic and awe-inspiring,
just the same.  It is desert rock, but not like the
red rocks of Arizona, or the flat rocks of Texas, or
even the cactus peppered plains of southern
California, it rolls and weaves in one fluid surface
up and up till your eyes can faintly see smooth
mountain tops barely visible behind the dust, looming
as large as those at the end of the world.  It is
truly something I never knew could be so beautiful and
yet, so bare at the same time. 
 
 When it seemed that the old man had finally exhausted
his voice, I happily flicked my ipod back on and
prepared for deep relaxation.  I was dismayed to find
that once again, my plans would be thwarted.  However
this time, not by his voice, but by the painful racket
of Persian pop music.  Suddenly, it seemed that this
return of loudness had revived him somehow and he
began to stroll up and down the aisle screaming into
his echo mic for us to clap and snap and dance to the
music.  Relentless against the silence, he was, like
skinny yet virile soldier.  I was still asking myself
whether he was really going to sustain this din for
the entire trip (yes) and if he was actually still
yelling over the music (yes, again) when to my utter
surprise and delight, everyone on the bus started
clapping and snapping along with him.  He soon had
half the bus dancing in the aisle to the combination
of his chants and the blasting music as we speeded
through the brown hillock ranges utterly distracted
and carefree. 
 
 I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Within a few short
hours, these strangers were laughing and dancing and
falling all over each other, as the bus rocked back
and forth, like they were the best of friends.  I
couldn’t ignore the fact that even when backed into a
corner, Iran can reveal its resilience and unbridled
spirit in the smallest of spaces.  I smiled, for it
hit me that I spoke too soon.  Maybe denial isn’t so
bad after all.  I forgot about the silence, my
bleeding heart, and my longing for the states, and I
soon found myself out of my seat clapping, snapping,
and bouncing along with the crowd on this deserted
freeway. 
 To be continued…