I meet yet another couchsurfing host hitchiking from Rasht to Chalus. On the way I get out in Ramsar, follow the hint of Babak and decide to have a closer look at the back-country. The air amazes me. It's November, but it feels truly subtropical. The forest is just that. I was aware that Iran is not only made up of desert and that it actually has forests; I was not aware that dense jungle covers parts of it. I hike to a small village in the mountains behind Ramsar. There I ask at a house how the road continues, if I can continue to the jungle or if it leads somewhere else. The family father explains that the road leads to exactly this village and no further. Past it there is only jungle he explains. I understand this as an invitation to hike further and to spend a night breathing rainforest air away from settlements, but find that the jungle and mountains form an impassable wall at the edge of the village.
I hitchike back to Ramsar and then continue to Chalus. As I want to hitchhike to Tehran a man stops. Habitually I say: "Are you going to Tehran? I have no money . . . no money."
"Yeah man, take it easy" the man answers in perfect English.
I get in and he asks whether I have any plans for today or tomorrow morning. He invites me to his place in Noshahr near Chalus for the night. I'm tired from hiking, it's getting dark slowly and I'm happy to have the opportunity to get to know another local. Pourya's apartment is luxurious. I join him in his daily two hours of meditation on the multifariously shaped fifteen or so species of fish and the one lobster in his freshwater aquarium.
"This is my love" Pourya says.
He does however live with his wife, who is just visiting her family in Tehran for some days.
In the evening we visit his uncles place. We enter a walled terrain with many enormous villas and finally reach a huge palace of a villa. Inside there is a young girls party, all dancing to pop-music, shouting around and laughing freely. Upstairs we enter his uncles study. Kazim greets us calmly, from among his artworks, which are spread across the whole floor. He proceeds with his work, appearing to dismantle and put together again from scratch a huge flashlight. Pourya explains that his uncle is preparing to go out hunting for the night, pointing out the two guns in the beautifully decorated hand-made cabinet. I am struck by the atmosphere of the room. I sense Kazim going about his work with seemingly infinite peace of mind. His entire nature sings:
' I just do W H A T E V E R I want ' There is not the least bit of pride or vileness in his energy, but rather constant creativity and productivity.
I learn that Kazim is a renowned architect and most of what is spread on the floor are samples of his custom-made decorative wall-tiles, each one of which costs well over 1000 dollars. The family Shahyeste, of which Pourya is one of the numerous descendants, fled from Tehran after the Islamic revolution. They owned entire neighborhoods. The government worked to break their power, which even led to a family member being murdered.
Pourya and I talk of world civilizations, the developments of history, social structure and traveling. while Kazim interjects most composedly and thoughtfully once in a while, not lifting his eyes from the gigantic flashlight he is now testing on the balcony.
"The development of civilizations proceeds in ever recurring cycles" I say
"You know that this our civilization is not the first to span the globe with flying vehicles and high technology." Pourya adds assuredly.
"We are not in fact rising to a golden age at the moment. We are descending to the depths of a dark age. We are facing an end. In what manner is hard to say, but this civilization is falling" Pourya translates Kazims comment from Persian.
The next day Pourya insists on organizing a ride for me to Tehran instead of myself hitchiking. The road from Chalus to Tehran is blocked, due to heavy snow in the mountain pass and a rock having fallen onto the road. At the blockade the cars turn to go the alternative way over Amol and Pourya walks among the cars and talks with several drivers. After some minutes Pourya calls me to a car. A man, Mehdi, agrees to take me to Tehran. I tell him from the outset that I have no money. He says its no problem at first, but quite soon he asks me for money as he needs to buy fuel. He notices that he does not have enough himself. I only have Euro bills left. In addition he has difficulties finding the way to Amol. One man on the street he asks for directions, lends him money worth at least half a tank full of fuel. He insists on not taking anything in return. They exchange numbers. The man is a total stranger. Again I am amazed at how people are ready to help each other here.
Mehdi takes another couple and child with him from Amol and we make our way through the mountains to Tehran. We change seats several times and I drive perhaps one third of the way in total, as Mehdi wants to use the phone, smoke or just rest. In Tehran the couple gets out and we make our way to Azadi Square. Mehdi runs out of credit and I lend him my phone. He then stops once again under a large bridge and asks me to drive again. There are mounds of earth beside the road under the bridge and I tell him I'll take a leak there. As I face away from the road I hear the engine wailing behind me, driving off at full speed. Phone, passport and wallet are in the car, along with everything else I had. Im wearing my glasses, sweater, jacket, linen pants and shoes.
In a fraction of a second comes first disbelief then realization. I jog along the road for some meters just to make sure Mehdi hasn't reparked the car or if bad conscience hasn't stopped him somewhere. Fear and anger creep in, but together with the realization that he is indeed gone and that there is not the slightest thing I can do, I let go of it completely. What is left is the wave, the impetus, but without its cold and negative coloration; a wakeful and productive high grows. Only Life can continue my story now.
Two men drive me to the nearest metro station from where I go to Azadi Square. Hossein, a couchsurfer is waiting there for me, but I am well aware that I will reach the square long after the appointed time. I feel a thrill and joy. I taste a crumb of the pure life without credit cards, phones, money, passports and appointments. What I have vaguely desired in some unknown form becomes reality for a moment. Naked as I was born, so I stand again. For the duration of the 45 minute metro ride I float in no-where. From no side is there any pressure, for there is nothing like a cellphone, or contact number with which I could get back in touch with the entire society I grew up in, the society I was in touch with, the society that sketches the outlines of my course of action. From no side is there any pull, for no part of this society can in any way contact me and in fact I cannot do the least in the moment to change this. I have no possessions, perhaps a dollar in my pocket, there is not a thing I can loose. The slightest subconscious thoughts of protecting my own person dissolve in nothingness. I am practically invincible.
I feel an immense health and vigor pushing its way out from my breast and throat through my mouth, nose and eyes. Every pore of my skin breaths out full-throttle from an inexhaustible reservoir of power. I sense in what a sea of incredibly dull energy I am sitting: the metro, city-life, routine. Some eyes turn towards me once in a while. I wield a resistless lightsaber of attention and hold it at every person in my view; not a single one replies to it or reflects it for any appreciable length of time. All the while I am talking to a man who gave me money for the metro ticket. He tells me of his 7-days-a-week job, deep in his tracks of routine, deeply depressed and deeply pessimistic. I lighten him up: Life is beautiful; there is always something to look up to; maybe it is not your situation that is bad, maybe it is essentially very similar for people anywhere in the world; there are always alternatives, perhaps not easy to achieve, but more than worthwhile to dare.
On arriving to Azadi Sqaure I don't look for Hossein anymore. I don't believe he would have waited this long. Under the Freedom Tower my freedom is sacrificed. I touch down again to return to the simple chain of practicalities. I meet three young men to whom I portray my situation. The high begins to subside. They are extremely forthcoming, ready to help and take me with them in their car. For some minutes Farzad and I are in the car alone and I express one of the recognitions which has just crystallized:
"It is hard to be completely integral and truthful in your life without being fully responsible for yourself in all respects. You cannot be truthful to yourself if you are dependent on the whims of others. You cannot be truthful to others if you cannot be truthful to yourself. You cannot attain inner Peace and Power if you are not truthful to the world around you."
At their friends place I access the internet and use their phone. I do not have Hosseins number online, but Ali, another couchsurfer sent me his. Kianoush and Farzad lend me money, for which I am deeply grateful and I meet Ali at Pastor Square. We proceed to his friends place, Ahoura who lives just around the corner. Ahoura plays in three heavy metal bands, performs on underground gigs, directs films and is an avid photographer. Ali tries to call my phone, but it seems to be switched off. He tells me that he will send Mehdi a text on my number, threatening him to give back my things. The next day Ali tells me that Mehdi's girlfriend called him, ready to give back my backpack, at a yet undefined time. I cannot believe my ears, but Ali doesn't fail to remind me that they could just be trying to win time with a false message to have enough time to sell my passport.
I proceed organize things at the embassy that day and meet Ali again in the evening. He does not mention a thing about the backpack at first, but when I ask him he says that he has not received a call back from Mehdi or his girlfriend for specifying a time for returning the backpack. The following day at noon Ali tells me on the phone that he has a surprise for me. In the evening we meet at Ahoura's home. I ask about the surprise and Ali is happy to portray his own presence as the surprise. Ali leaves for the night and later Ahoura calls me from his room, beckoning me out on the street:
"Ali called! Your backpack is on the street. A taxi driver left it there. Ali got a call."
We find my backpack on the sidewalk just around the corner to Ahoura's place. Everything is there except for passport and money. What...?!...Is it my worn out socks that smell fishy?
The following day I leave Ahoura's place and meet Hossein and his friend Mustafa.
I hitchike back to Ramsar and then continue to Chalus. As I want to hitchhike to Tehran a man stops. Habitually I say: "Are you going to Tehran? I have no money . . . no money."
"Yeah man, take it easy" the man answers in perfect English.
I get in and he asks whether I have any plans for today or tomorrow morning. He invites me to his place in Noshahr near Chalus for the night. I'm tired from hiking, it's getting dark slowly and I'm happy to have the opportunity to get to know another local. Pourya's apartment is luxurious. I join him in his daily two hours of meditation on the multifariously shaped fifteen or so species of fish and the one lobster in his freshwater aquarium.
"This is my love" Pourya says.
He does however live with his wife, who is just visiting her family in Tehran for some days.
In the evening we visit his uncles place. We enter a walled terrain with many enormous villas and finally reach a huge palace of a villa. Inside there is a young girls party, all dancing to pop-music, shouting around and laughing freely. Upstairs we enter his uncles study. Kazim greets us calmly, from among his artworks, which are spread across the whole floor. He proceeds with his work, appearing to dismantle and put together again from scratch a huge flashlight. Pourya explains that his uncle is preparing to go out hunting for the night, pointing out the two guns in the beautifully decorated hand-made cabinet. I am struck by the atmosphere of the room. I sense Kazim going about his work with seemingly infinite peace of mind. His entire nature sings:
' I just do W H A T E V E R I want ' There is not the least bit of pride or vileness in his energy, but rather constant creativity and productivity.
I learn that Kazim is a renowned architect and most of what is spread on the floor are samples of his custom-made decorative wall-tiles, each one of which costs well over 1000 dollars. The family Shahyeste, of which Pourya is one of the numerous descendants, fled from Tehran after the Islamic revolution. They owned entire neighborhoods. The government worked to break their power, which even led to a family member being murdered.
Pourya and I talk of world civilizations, the developments of history, social structure and traveling. while Kazim interjects most composedly and thoughtfully once in a while, not lifting his eyes from the gigantic flashlight he is now testing on the balcony.
"The development of civilizations proceeds in ever recurring cycles" I say
"You know that this our civilization is not the first to span the globe with flying vehicles and high technology." Pourya adds assuredly.
"We are not in fact rising to a golden age at the moment. We are descending to the depths of a dark age. We are facing an end. In what manner is hard to say, but this civilization is falling" Pourya translates Kazims comment from Persian.
The next day Pourya insists on organizing a ride for me to Tehran instead of myself hitchiking. The road from Chalus to Tehran is blocked, due to heavy snow in the mountain pass and a rock having fallen onto the road. At the blockade the cars turn to go the alternative way over Amol and Pourya walks among the cars and talks with several drivers. After some minutes Pourya calls me to a car. A man, Mehdi, agrees to take me to Tehran. I tell him from the outset that I have no money. He says its no problem at first, but quite soon he asks me for money as he needs to buy fuel. He notices that he does not have enough himself. I only have Euro bills left. In addition he has difficulties finding the way to Amol. One man on the street he asks for directions, lends him money worth at least half a tank full of fuel. He insists on not taking anything in return. They exchange numbers. The man is a total stranger. Again I am amazed at how people are ready to help each other here.
Mehdi takes another couple and child with him from Amol and we make our way through the mountains to Tehran. We change seats several times and I drive perhaps one third of the way in total, as Mehdi wants to use the phone, smoke or just rest. In Tehran the couple gets out and we make our way to Azadi Square. Mehdi runs out of credit and I lend him my phone. He then stops once again under a large bridge and asks me to drive again. There are mounds of earth beside the road under the bridge and I tell him I'll take a leak there. As I face away from the road I hear the engine wailing behind me, driving off at full speed. Phone, passport and wallet are in the car, along with everything else I had. Im wearing my glasses, sweater, jacket, linen pants and shoes.
In a fraction of a second comes first disbelief then realization. I jog along the road for some meters just to make sure Mehdi hasn't reparked the car or if bad conscience hasn't stopped him somewhere. Fear and anger creep in, but together with the realization that he is indeed gone and that there is not the slightest thing I can do, I let go of it completely. What is left is the wave, the impetus, but without its cold and negative coloration; a wakeful and productive high grows. Only Life can continue my story now.
Two men drive me to the nearest metro station from where I go to Azadi Square. Hossein, a couchsurfer is waiting there for me, but I am well aware that I will reach the square long after the appointed time. I feel a thrill and joy. I taste a crumb of the pure life without credit cards, phones, money, passports and appointments. What I have vaguely desired in some unknown form becomes reality for a moment. Naked as I was born, so I stand again. For the duration of the 45 minute metro ride I float in no-where. From no side is there any pressure, for there is nothing like a cellphone, or contact number with which I could get back in touch with the entire society I grew up in, the society I was in touch with, the society that sketches the outlines of my course of action. From no side is there any pull, for no part of this society can in any way contact me and in fact I cannot do the least in the moment to change this. I have no possessions, perhaps a dollar in my pocket, there is not a thing I can loose. The slightest subconscious thoughts of protecting my own person dissolve in nothingness. I am practically invincible.
I feel an immense health and vigor pushing its way out from my breast and throat through my mouth, nose and eyes. Every pore of my skin breaths out full-throttle from an inexhaustible reservoir of power. I sense in what a sea of incredibly dull energy I am sitting: the metro, city-life, routine. Some eyes turn towards me once in a while. I wield a resistless lightsaber of attention and hold it at every person in my view; not a single one replies to it or reflects it for any appreciable length of time. All the while I am talking to a man who gave me money for the metro ticket. He tells me of his 7-days-a-week job, deep in his tracks of routine, deeply depressed and deeply pessimistic. I lighten him up: Life is beautiful; there is always something to look up to; maybe it is not your situation that is bad, maybe it is essentially very similar for people anywhere in the world; there are always alternatives, perhaps not easy to achieve, but more than worthwhile to dare.
On arriving to Azadi Sqaure I don't look for Hossein anymore. I don't believe he would have waited this long. Under the Freedom Tower my freedom is sacrificed. I touch down again to return to the simple chain of practicalities. I meet three young men to whom I portray my situation. The high begins to subside. They are extremely forthcoming, ready to help and take me with them in their car. For some minutes Farzad and I are in the car alone and I express one of the recognitions which has just crystallized:
"It is hard to be completely integral and truthful in your life without being fully responsible for yourself in all respects. You cannot be truthful to yourself if you are dependent on the whims of others. You cannot be truthful to others if you cannot be truthful to yourself. You cannot attain inner Peace and Power if you are not truthful to the world around you."
At their friends place I access the internet and use their phone. I do not have Hosseins number online, but Ali, another couchsurfer sent me his. Kianoush and Farzad lend me money, for which I am deeply grateful and I meet Ali at Pastor Square. We proceed to his friends place, Ahoura who lives just around the corner. Ahoura plays in three heavy metal bands, performs on underground gigs, directs films and is an avid photographer. Ali tries to call my phone, but it seems to be switched off. He tells me that he will send Mehdi a text on my number, threatening him to give back my things. The next day Ali tells me that Mehdi's girlfriend called him, ready to give back my backpack, at a yet undefined time. I cannot believe my ears, but Ali doesn't fail to remind me that they could just be trying to win time with a false message to have enough time to sell my passport.
I proceed organize things at the embassy that day and meet Ali again in the evening. He does not mention a thing about the backpack at first, but when I ask him he says that he has not received a call back from Mehdi or his girlfriend for specifying a time for returning the backpack. The following day at noon Ali tells me on the phone that he has a surprise for me. In the evening we meet at Ahoura's home. I ask about the surprise and Ali is happy to portray his own presence as the surprise. Ali leaves for the night and later Ahoura calls me from his room, beckoning me out on the street:
"Ali called! Your backpack is on the street. A taxi driver left it there. Ali got a call."
We find my backpack on the sidewalk just around the corner to Ahoura's place. Everything is there except for passport and money. What...?!...Is it my worn out socks that smell fishy?
The following day I leave Ahoura's place and meet Hossein and his friend Mustafa.
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