Collapsing bridges

Every time I got stuck in traffic in Tehran (which was every day...), I worried about overpasses collapsing. I counted myself lucky to escape without major highway injury. Then, the bridge in Minneapolis collapses.

Tell me if these spots in Tehran don't make you nervous too...




1. The bridge overlooking the Down with America mural



2. The Modaress-Sadr entry

3. Mirdamad over Jordan.

4. Shariati over Hemmat

Eek!

300 billion rials for Prayer Rooms in the schools

Categories: iran, traffic, taxis, conversations,

Update: If you are here looking for information about the film: 300, I urge you to read our blog anyway. If you are not interested in us, click here for a brief historical overview of the film's story.

Stuck in traffic, listening to the radio as the announcer ticks off a list of city expenditures… “300 billion rials for prayer rooms in public schools,” she says and then moves right on to the next expenditure.

Keivan and the driver laugh.

“That’s what? About $3 million?” Keivan comments.

“About,” the driver says.

“More,” I say. “The dollar just took a plunge.”

They laugh some more.

“What about buying a couple of ambulances?” I indignantly ask. “How about a fire engine?” I realize that my indignation is genuine. “Whoops, I’ve become too Iranian,” I say.

The driver and Keivan laugh at me this time.

But I am not joking. In a country where the call to prayer is its first line of defense against a national disaster, it’s no surprise that very little money is spent on emergency preparedness.

That was so, so evident the other night when I spent five hours in traffic. That’s just a foretaste of what would happen in an earthquake people: untenable traffic combined with no emergency services: recipe for disaster my friends.

And when that happens, no one will be laughing.

Snow Day!

…or how a Snickers bar saved our lives…

“Traffic on Modaress is heavy. Traffic on Sadr is heavy. Traffic on Chamran is heavy. We know people have grown impatient, but don’t worry the Mayor’s office is on the scene.”

Now I know that the mayor’s office consists of three guys in orange jumpsuits spreading salt from the back of a rickety pickup truck and one or two cops who really could not do anything to alleviate the traffic.

What happened? As Keivan says: “One snow brought Tehran to a standstill.”

How did we get caught in it? I’ll tell you how: riding to a party with two of our good friends. We just got stuck. It wasn’t snowing that heavily when we left for the party, but within a few blocks, traffic was stopped. Where it wasn’t stopped, cars were sliding around: organizing themselves is such a way as to make passing them impossible.

All I can say is thank god for the Snickers bars we ate just before taking the onramp to Modaress because it would be five hours before we reached a toilet or food again. (Aside: Note to Snickers: perfect ad campaign for Tehran: How the Snicker’s bar saved us from cannibalism when we were caught in Tehran’s intractable traffic. That Snickers may be the only reason we survived our friend’s bout with low blood sugar… Or it may be the only way they survived mine ;-) )

I am not exaggerating! It took us five hours from the Zafar onramp for Modaress to Fereshte… Those among you, who know Iran, know how close we were. By the time we arrived, there were about six inches of snow piled onto the roof of the car.

Despite it all, we had fun. We had a great time with our friends, survived an onslaught of snowballs, drank a bit of firewater, and, at 2 am, finally ate dinner…

Oh but no pics... who knew we would be stuck in a historical storm? We were traveling with a professional photographer whose small just-for-fun digital camera ran out of juice after one pic and we, of course, forgot ours.

Revolutionary Traffic posted at Mideast Youth

Categories: iran, economy, taxis, conversations

I have another post at Mideast Youth, this one based on the rantings of -- who else? -- a taxi driver.

Preview:

The driver looks over at the Mercedes next to us being driven by a hip young thing bobbing his head to Iranian pop. “The children of the revolution,” he says pointing to the young man. “Look at them. They have not worked a day in their lives. We have so much traffic because the only thing they do all day is drive around. They are without work. I work all day...”

Taxi Talk

Iran taxis

(Visual: Driver, big bear of a man in his late 50s. Close-cropped white hair. Expansive smile.)

Me: “Wow. There is so much traffic today.”
Driver: “It’s all from British intelligence. It’s their way of disrupting our lives.” (jokes)
K: ”It’s a good thing my wife is American.”
Driver: “We wish the CIA was here tying up traffic. Long live the CIA! When are they getting here?”

Perhaps he was secretly referring to the goldmine of information provided by the CIA itself: [CIA Gave Iran Bomb Plans, Book Says]

*****

(Visual: Driver small bear of a man, young: early to mid 20s; close-cropped dark hair, goatee.)

Driver: “Islam is not our religion. We should all be Zoroastrians. That’s really ours. We pray in Arabic! What language do you pray in? I am sure it is not Arabic. Can you imagine the imposition of this religion on our culture?

Actually, I can. That’s the way the world works. But I keep my mouth shut, and he continues:

“How would you feel if your husband took another wife? I’ll tell you that I would never approve of my wife taking another husband! Why should she be happy if I took another wife?”

*****

(Visual: Driver, small, thin, older: maybe early 60s; white knit cap on his head typical of village men, grey wool suit coat)

Driver: “Our country has really fallen apart. We have no freedom, no nothing anymore.”

Me: “I always wonder what people mean when they say ‘freedom’?”

Driver: “We were freer during the time of the Shah. We were going to be more free. At least we could drink and women could wear whatever they wanted. Now we can’t even do that. Now women wear almost nothing because they are forced to wear hijab. Sometimes I think it would be better for women to walk around naked than to wear what they wear now. There is too much pressure. All of our lives are lived under pressure.”

About 1 Iranian Dead Every 25 Minutes

Iranians are out of their minds on the roads. They push rickety old cars way past the legal speed limit. They drive like maniacs on roads that, while in good condition, are not in good enough condition for speeds of 80-100 mph.

I guarantee that if you spend 1-year in Iran, someone you know will be killed in a car accident. It is likely that the person killed will be young, just married or engaged, and full of promise. If you only have one-week to spend in Iran, then ask any Iranian you meet. They will tell you the story of a loved one dying in a car accident. That loved one may be a brother, a lover, or a dear friend.

Visit the graveyards here on a Thursday afternoon, and you are sure to see mothers crying beside the graves of their 20-something sons. These boys did not die in war or in any act of insurgency.

Iranians only half-jokingly blame their driving on the mullahs. Every day you can watch public service announcements geared towards improving the driving habits of Iranians. The PSAs are witty and interesting and tragic. But they are sanctioned by the government, which makes them suspect. "Iranians cannot believe that the law can also protect them," a friend who is a lawyer says.

No. Iranians believe that everything can be solved with a little money. "If Iran can solve its traffic problem," K says, "then any problem can be solved."

Why is this topical now? I'll tell you. It's because a good friend's brother was killed this past week. Just married. Full of promise. And not the first…

The military police

This is something that I have wanted to write about for awhile: the uniforms of the Iranian military police. They wear these outfits that look like they were designed for the Tintin cartoon strip. And the worst part of it is, they know how frigging silly they look. It’s clear that they are embarrassed by their uniforms. The worst part of the uniform is their white boots. In combination with their red hats, they become doubly silly looking. The young men slink in their uniforms. They appear as though they are trying to make themselves smaller. They look like they *know* they have “kick me” signs taped to their backs that they are not allowed to remove.

They are out in force these days assisting the traffic cops with their efforts to improve the driving habits of Iranians. Today, as I strolled to do my shopping our corner was just filled with these guys. There were three of the guys in the silly uniforms looking with envy at their colleagues, the traffic cops, in their sleek black boots, shiny black jackets, and helmets. One of the traffic cops had a microphone on and was urging drivers to follow basic driving etiquette. When a motor biker zoomed through a red light he called, “Hajh Agha, Hajh Agha!” (Mr. Hajh – doesn’t really translate well). The biker paid no attention. Those calls were joined by, “Faster! Move on! Drive on! Stop! Make your turn!” and other helpful hints.

Just to ease your mind… I’ve been told that Iran is getting new uniforms for the military police. (I don’t really think they are the military police, but Iranians tell me they are.)

Smog

Have I just gotten used to it, or is there actually less pollution in Tehran this summer? I mean, I can actually see the mountains and black junk is not coming out my nose (yet). By no stretch of the imagination is the air clean, but it does seem to be better.

One reason might be that the stinky, diesel spewing, public buses are being replaced by new natural gas buses. You get behind one of those buses and you don't smell a thing. It's great.


Oh yeah… and one more thing about my Dad…
Last night before I went to bed, I was thinking about mushball when I remembered the Dear Abby part of the story… so here goes.

There were a few times when there were not enough men for both teams. On those days (which were rare), my father would play for both teams. He would stay in the outfield the whole game, taking just a couple of minutes each inning to bat. I did not understand how he could play for both teams. I remember asking him, "How can you play against yourself?" I don't remember his answer, but I do remember his laugh.

What I did learn is that it is possible to be both competitive and cooperative. And everyone has more fun when the two are combined.

Thanks.

June 18, 2003
K just returned from Teheran’s prison. “It was horrifying. I sat with the judge. I can’t talk about it now,” he told me. “I can’t write about it. You have to,” he said.

His family does not know he went. Late last night, his nephew C said, “I can bring you to the prison to meet the students who are being held there.”

C is well-connected.

It turned out that Intelligence officers were “visiting” the students when K & C arrived so they could not meet them. Instead they observed some court proceedings. “I could not believe it,” K said. “All they did was argue about who was the most corrupt. One judge, who was a prisoner himself, said, “Judges are the most corrupt.” Another said, “We learn from our masters.” Another said, “Investigators are the really corrupt among us.” An investigator answered, “No, it’s the informants who are the most corrupt.”

While K was there listening to a debate about who the most corrupt official was, A and As and Ai and I were at the park. As and Ai were on the swings. A and I sat in the shade talking politics. “Revolution is bad,” A said. “It is always bad. The most violent win. We need to move slowly,” he said. “We don’t want a revolution.”

“Secular government is much better than religious government.”

“We are a religious people,” A responded.

“So are Americans. Religious people need secular governments.”

“That’s right. That’s what we need.”

Before coming to Iran, I read so much about how the women are becoming more fashionable and daring with their dress. That said, I have only seen one truly daring woman. She wore a transparent pink scarf that clearly showed her black hair. Almost everyone else wears black and many women still wear chadors. Many have a kind of habit that makes them look like nuns.

Food

Okay, this is the important part of the blog: food.

For lunch we had chicken with zeresh: a small, red sour berry that I think is called “barberry” in English (although barberry does not give me any more information than zeresh). We also had eggplant stuffed with ground lamb and raisins with the subtle taste of cinnamon. Yum.

The rice was also very lightly spiced with the cinnamon. Cinnamon here has a different flavor than what we are used to in America or Europe: it is deeper and more earthy tasting. It isn’t as light or sweet. I guess you could say that it tastes as though it was grown with cumin (not like it is mixed with cumin).

For dinner we had “calepacheh.” It is a soup of sheep’s head and feet. For the unitiated (me) it is a very unattractive dish. I mean, snouts, toes, brains, tongues: all arrayed on the plate: how could that possibly be attractive? It is a good thing I am a daring eater because it was delicious. We ate it with a flat bread that we bought straight from a fire in the wall of a bakery. That bread was mighty delicious. It was especially fantastic the second it left the fire.

Driving

Like many things in this country, driving is a game of chicken: who will give in first. Although, now that I have written this, I think it is actually more like a game of Tetris. Drivers are constantly aware of all available spaces and drive to fill them. Lanes and lights don’t matter. What matters is whether or not there is a space available that fits your car. This means, of course, that you are free to gently nudge the car beside you to take up any empty space available to it.

We drove all over M’s neighborhood. We bought the calepache, the bread, and a bottle of clear “medecine.”

We also drove to the subway, and took the metro into the center of Tehran to see K’s brother wrestle. For the most part, men and women ride in separate cars. I had to ride in the men’s car because I am a “harigi” (foreigner) and cannot take care of myself.

Not surprisingly, I was not allowed to enter the arena. All that skin might be too much for me, I guess. The referees, however, wanted to let me in. They were so excited that I came from America to see K’s brother wrestle.

He won. But we did not see the match.




June 17, 2003
At Schipol, we bought our tickets to travel to Iran. There we met our friends and their children who were also traveling on that afternoon’s flight. Together, we were 9 people.

Slowly we moved through the airport until we arrived at gate 7d. We were almost the last people to get on the Iran Air Flight. K and his friend went to have a beer right before we got on the plane. I had a rubbery ham and cheese croissant. The boys played on the moving sidewalks.

I walked on to a full plane and looked at the sea of semetic faces. A plane full of men who could get asked off of a flight in America just for having one eyebrow.

BTW, we got real silverware with our food.

The flight was easy and comfortable. I heard a lot of American voices (obviously 2nd gens flying to Iran), some Dutch, and mostly Iranian.

The real fun began when we landed. First there was a beautifully painted sheet that read: “If you are coughing and have a fever we are waiting you at the airport.” All painted in red, yellow, and blue.

It took us awhile to get all of the bags for the 9 of us who were accidentally traveling together. When we did we zipped through customs, then had to get our bags xrayed to leave.

There were so many people waiting for friends and relatives that it was almost impossible to leave the airport. Two police officers were sitting on chairs looking at the crowd. The man in front of me said, “Can’t you help? Get up and ask the crowd to let us through.” We still had to push our way through the crowd, a big part of which was K’s family. I was bombarded by so many greetings, flowers, happy children – I felt really and truly excited and happy to arrive.

There were 14 people waiting for us. The children were so happy and fresh and thrilled to see me and “Amoo” K.

When I saw the crowd waiting outside the airport, I thought “Wow! This is what a crowd of people waiting for relatives looks like! I wonder what the crowds look like by the university?” There were women dressed head to toe in black chadors, and women with fashionable long jackets and matching headscarves. The black chadors were depressing. I cannot say that they were not. The women wearing them weren’t smiling, that’s for sure.

Now we are sitting in a nice stone house. I ate a tomato that tasted like a tomato, unbelievably sweet apricots, a green plum with salt, white cherries, and a crisp cucumber. Life is good. Two children are sitting with me as I type, and we are listening to an Iranian pop band from LA.

I am going to sleep. I can smell the exhaust-filled air of Tehran.