Without the window it’s not worthwhile. To think of the
exorbitant rates of plane tickets, how soon the journey is over, clearly the
most valuable item up for grabs is the view. Consequently, it is entirely
unsatisfactory to slum it in the aisle or worse, squashed between unwelcome
strangers in the middle seat, especially when the price is the same. Those
other seats are simply a rip off for people who know no better, who cannot have
enjoyed a window seat previously. Without a window seat it’s not worth flying.
It’s perfectly reasonable not to board the plane.
These are not my words. While I tend to prefer the window I
would not refuse to fly; nor would I expend so many words explaining my
preference. For Iqbal, silence was a negative waiting to be filled. His tips
and stories came like a flash flood, bowled you over with barely time to
recover before the next flood began.
Farsi is a language of exquisite beauty. It’s the language
of great literature, of poets like Hafez and Saadi and simply to hear the
language spoken is like a melody from heaven. The phrases used even for
everyday speech are poetic and enlightening. Of course Iqbal couldn’t
appreciate the entirety of it, but from his Urdu he could glean enough. He was
Pakistani and it was a dreadful loss for my Australian friend Lachlan and me to
be in Iran
surrounded by the sweetest language unable to comprehend a single word.
Farsi is beautiful. I would say we might have told Iqbal we
had Farsi lessons and were more than beginners, but it’s not easy to spit into
a raging torrent. And yet, Iqbal was very likeable.
We were on the same flight from Bandar Abbas to Chah Bahar
in eastern Iran , in Iran ’s
Baluchestan. Flights were very cheap in Iran with one way fares as low as
ten dollars due to the appalling, for the Iranians, exchange rate. I don’t
think we met on the plane, as Iqbal found the window seat in front of mine –
but as we needed transport from the airport into Chah Bahar town, we shared a
taxi.
It’s unacceptable to use somebody else’s bathroom. If one
needs to use the bathroom they should certainly do it before leaving home,
before arriving at another person’s home as a valued guest. Children should be
instructed same. There is nothing worse than visiting another man’s bathroom –
it will leave the host wondering if it was them you came to see or if you only
came to use the plumbing.
No comment from me.
Chah Bahar has its Baluchi ways that were significantly
different to most of Iran .
Baluchis were mostly Sunni and their clothes harked more to the subcontinent
than to the country’s west. The only difficulty, common to all port cities in Iran , hotels
for foreigners were expensive. As Iqbal really was a nice guy, the three of us
agreed to share a room, with two single beds and a mat on the floor for me, in
between.
It was in that small period between the turning off the
light and the sleep arriving, with the very last of the day’s chat winding
down, when I heard one of the strangest sentences ever. We were finally asking
Iqbal why he was in Iran .
Through the darkness I heard him say, “I lost my jeans. I’ve come to find
them.”
Politeness says a small reply is in order, something along
the lines of “oh, that’s nice” or “I hope you find them.” I don’t recall if I
managed to squeeze something out, but I was entirely grateful for the darkness
– nobody could see me biting hard on my lip to prevent laughter from bursting
out. It was helpful that I couldn’t see Lachlan ’s
face at that stage, because I knew he would be having great difficulty holding
his own laughter back. But the silence – it was no longer a negative waiting to
be filled – it was substantial, unbearably heavy and with the force of a category
five cyclone. That silence couldn’t be resisted.
I heard the first busts from Lachlan ’s
closed mouth – and then we roared laughing, both of us – unseemly, rude and for
several minutes, unstoppable. Iqbal didn’t understand what was humorous.
There were some obvious questions – why would a man lose a pair
of jeans in a neighbouring country – had he been there before or were they
somehow smuggled over the border? How regularly is it that people travel abroad
in search of missing trousers?
When the laughter eased and we sought explanation it became
apparent we’d misunderstood. It wasn’t his jeans he’d lost but his jinns. He’d
sent them to Iran
and they’d not returned. Of course, the concept of losing one’s jinns also
raises some obvious questions – but it was better not to ask. It was time to
sleep.
We took the plane on to Zahedan, the capital of Iran ’s Sistan and Baluchestan province and not
very far from the border with Afghanistan .
Iqbal was with us – he was going the same way – and he was still a rather good
and likeable guy. So we stayed at the same hotel.
If you ever happen to get shot in the leg, it’s certainly no
excuse for interrupting a dinner party. Particularly if it’s a family birthday
party and others are in high spirits in the hope of an entertaining night over
a meal, then it’s better not to mention the shooting. As for the blood that’s
dripping on the floor under the table, a fistful of napkins can help, and if
it’s done discretely nobody need know. Then, once the meal is completed, it
will possible to drive the wife and children home before quietly continuing on
to check into a hospital.
It was the first moments in Zahedan that I started to
consider that Iqbal might indeed have some kind of superpower. Lachlan and I had gone to buy water and I was discussing
Iqbal’s flourishing communicativeness. I said, “He can talk on any topic. He
could talk for an hour about his socks!” Socks was random; yet minutes later,
back at the hotel when we went to find Iqbal to go sightseeing, he was just
putting on his socks.
The best socks are made with thicker wool by Afghans. You
can buy them at the Afghan market and other socks simply won’t compete – Afghan
socks are warmer and more comfortable and never get holes in them because they
are hand knitted. Once you’ve worn Afghan socks you’ll never wear others. If
it’s not Afghan the socks aren’t worth buying.
Zahedan is picturesque with its backdrop of jet black hills.
We took to the city’s photogenic suburbs with their mud brick houses. It was
inevitable that in the mix of buildings we’d end up standing on somebody’s
roof. What was unexpected was that the householder came rushing out and asked
us not to stand there because it might collapse. Instead, he invited us to come
in for tea.
We chatted with the Zahedani and he was rather impressed by
our Farsi. For some reason, maybe his accent, we could understand him well
while Iqbal struggled. “These two have come from the other side of the world,”
said the Zahedani, “and their Farsi is good, but you come from a neighbouring
country and you can’t understand.”
Yet he really was nice guy, Iqbal. So what did it matter if
he’d lost his jinns? It could happen to anybody.
The story of apparel cannot be told by jeans and socks alone... There'd need to be...
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