Everywhere I went, the
same searing incongruity
was clear: the conflict
between political ideology
on the one hand, which
viewed foreigners as a threat,
and Persianhospitality
on the other, which treated
them as a friend
When I saw the bush, I could hardly contain
my delight. It rose from the grainy sweep of
sand before me like a towering will-o’-the-
wisp, part-fern, part-wishful phantasm. Shade
pooled from its roots in delicious, wasteful
abandon. Could it be real? For several hours,
I’d been cycling north through the exposed
desert valleys of Hormozgan Province in
southern Iran, searching for shelter. There
were no buildings to be found here, no
landmarks, houses or trees; nothing to
ruffle the smooth brow of the horizon except
featureless scrubland and thorn. Until now.
Reaching the patch of undergrowth, I
collapsed under its shadowed canopy almost
mad with joy and relief. I removed my helmet,
shook the sweat from my hair and stretched
out on the bracken to sleep.
“Hijab!”
The cry startled me. Leaping instantly to my
feet, I saw a group of heavily armed security
officers approaching from the road. Behind
them were two police cars, doors open, roof-
lights flashing. I caught my breath. The cars
were green and white: a familiar hue, and a
forbidding one. It was the infamous Gasht-e
Ershad, or morality police.
“Hijab!” the man repeated, more urgently
this time, and I glanced over to where my
headscarf was hanging limply across my
bike’s handlebars. I knew it should officially
have been on my head but under the brutal
glare of the midday sun, the mercury in
my thermometer was touching 41C. That
didn’t feel like scarf-wearing weather to me.
Resistance, of course, was futile. And I didn’t
have the nerve to disobey. So, as four pairs of
eyes surveyed me, I walked over to my bike,
picked up the hijab and wrapped it reluctantly
about my head. It hung loosely, but its
symbolic weight was profound. Fight, I urged
myself. Resist. Yet the closest I could bring
myself to insurrection was a peevish nostril
flare and sigh.
One of the men strode towards me and
handed me a phone.
“Salam,” a voice said from the receiver.
“You’re English?”
“Yes,” I replied, confused. “British.”
“Ah, good.” The voice was curiously muffled.
“And tell me, do you like koobideh kebab?”
The question caught me off-guard. This
wasn’t quite the ruthless admonishment I was
expecting. Had I heard right? “Well... yes,” I
said. “I do.”
“Good! The officer is my brother-in-law, and
we invite you to our home tonight. Please go
with him now. We’re very happy you’re here!”
The line went dead — and 30 minutes later,
I found myself sitting on the carpeted floor of
a cosy mud-brick bungalow, bathing under the
icy gasps of a wall-mounted air conditioner,
surrounded by a glistening banquet of
watermelon, cucumber, chicken, lamb,
rice, tea and nan-e barbari (flatbread). The
invitation, it appeared, had been genuine.
As I continued my journey through the
arid sandflats and stark mountain passes
of central Iran, I soon realised this incident
was far from an anomaly. Everywhere I went,
the same searing incongruity was clear: the
conflict between political ideology on the one
hand, which viewed foreigners as a threat, and
Persian hospitality on the other, which treated
them as a friend. Time again, it was apparent
which of the two would prevail. I was delighted
at every turn. There was the ex-Communist
farmer who decried the “wily fox” Churchill
while lighting me a qalyan (shisha pipe) and
treating me like a queen. And the fiercely
devout mullah who deplored the “treacherous”
BBC while providing endless jugs of sharbat
(floral fruit cordial) and hours of shelter in
his mosque. To these people — and so many
others — I wasn’t a walking Whitehall proxy
called to answer for policymakers back home
as British stereotypes might suggest; I was
merely a passing cyclist with an odd penchant
for koobideh kebabs. For the locals I met, the
line between citizen and statehood was clear.
Iran felt like a country at war with itself.
A place of deep traditionalism and wild
liberalism, of cold oppression and extravagant
goodwill. The further I travelled through
this vast and inscrutable land, the more the
Islamic Republic faded before my eyes. The
country I feared wasn’t the country I found.
Deep in the cracks, the brume and shadows
bled away, lost in a warm wash of light.
ILLUSTRA
TI
ON:
JA
CQUI
OAKLE
Y
NOTES FROM AN AUTHOR • REBECCA LOWE
A 6,835-mile journey of discovery through the Middle East by bike
reveals a region of stark contradictions, notably on the road to Tehran
IRAN
A journalist specialising in human rights and the
Middle East, Rebecca Lowe is the author of The Slow
Road to Tehran: A Revelatory Bike Ride through
Europe and the Middle East, published by September
Publishing, £18. 99.
@reo_lowe
SMART TRAVELLER
JUNE 2022 39
