My Vision of a Peaceful Iran

Looking down on the vastness that is Iran, I ponder what will allow it to be free and expressive of its beauty. So rich, yet so sad, physically choking on its own effluent, emotionally it is being strangled by fear. Fear pervades so many decisions made by the people of Iran that we in the west take for granted. Fear of speaking openly; fear that a satellite dish may be taken, in other words, fear of speaking, and listening.

The Islamic Republic of Iran is afraid of information. As with any totalitarian state it must impose its view through fear and intimidation. I realize that only now, as I fly away from Iran over European airspace, that I feel free to openly discuss, even with myself, the large contingent of various security forces that are ever present throughout the Republic. From the fighter jets that greet you on the tarmac of Meherabad Airport to the police officers stationed at 50-meter intervals up both sides of Vali Asr Street surrounding a park during the Narooz celebration, the imposition of government security is pervasive.

Three times in two weeks we were stopped at police checkpoints. Our vehicle was searched and identification checked. I saw countless military police and special forces patrols every day that I travelled. On several occasions I witnessed security forces patrolling the streets or guarding a building armed with fully automatic weapons.

I am now flying over Germany, soon to descend into Amsterdam. I look down on the neatly cared for rural landscape, the well-organized cities, and the traffic flowing on the autobahn. Less than sixty years ago this country was devastated by war, its infrastructure destroyed and its people despairing at the site of the ruins that lay around them. How could they rebuild? How could they make life worth living again? Since, then, they did that, and much more. They have many modern day problems, but they have developed a country that is a respected world leader.

Germany was able to move from a totalitarian, repressive, militaristic society. I believe Iran can as well. The Iranian society is as rich and its culture as strong as anything German society has laid claim to. It is my hope that Iran can move on the path of becoming a more open, free and pluralistic society. All the people of Iran deserve it.

The Caspian Sea

Our trip to the Caspian Sea was hastily arranged after Masoud received a phone call from his old friend Javod, whom he had been trying to contact for several weeks. Although previously a resident of Tehran for many years, unbeknownst to Masoud, he had recently moved back to Chaloos on the seacoast. The reasons for this move would become apparent later.

We pull away at 0718h, another crystal clear, beautiful day. It is 7 degrees Celsius. Two traffic police officers stand at a corner. These traffic officers seem to appear everywhere, but through my western eyes, don’t control anything. On this early morning during Narooz, we are on the four lane controlled access Niayish Highway. We continually pass buildings in various stages of construction.

The original plan was for five of us to take this journey, but Ahmed is sick and Maryam, Ali’s fiancée, has decided it would be unwise if she came. If stopped at a police checkpoint she is concerned about being challenged as an unmarried woman travelling with men with whom she is not related as defined by the Islamic Republic of Iran.

As the sun rises higher the dirty brown smudge of the Tehran air becomes more visible. By 0800h we have pulled off the main highway at Karaj. Before continuing, we stop for an oil change where David Beckham (or his card board cut out) sells his Castrol brand of service. The business owner cheerfully and briskly serves us, and in less than ten minutes our trip continues. If only I could count on this service from Canadian Tire.

This is regarded by many as the most beautiful of the highways to take you north to the Caspian Sea. We approach a large traffic circle where dozens of people stand, looking for a ride. As we push into the mountains small dilapidated square box residences seem to crawl up the slopes with us. We enter the first of a series of tunnels, signifying our departure from Karaj. This is a mountainous winding route. We follow a stream up the valley. Sheer cliffs loom on either side. The road is busy, yet impatient drivers insist on attempting to pass. Overloaded vehicles crawling up the hill further reduces traffic speed while increasing everyone’s frustration level. Stone walls protect many of the roadside properties. Most of these walls are covered in painted advertising.

Garbage often litters the side of road and a dog is seen picking through it. An endless snake of vehicles proceeds up the mountain.

Cars continue to pass on corners as we wind our way up the hill. The police are maintaining a strong presence on this section of the road, and are actually pulling some wayward drivers over. A cruiser screams past us, hopefully in pursuit of a particularly offensive driver whom I witnessed force several vehicles off the road as he charged up the hill in his 30 year old Oldsmobile.

From the valley I look up and note at least four major switchbacks in the road as it makes its way up the mountain. The rock faces are sheer. It is a very long way to the bottom as I glance out of my window. It is the first time I have experienced my fear of heights from a car. I have never noticed so much tension in my body on a road trip as I am experiencing at this moment. With the treacherous road and the outrageous driving habits I feel every muscle flexing. I note the almost constant grip I have had on the “holy shit” handle above the passenger door.

The tunnels are lit, but the interior rock face is jagged, as they have not been lined with concrete. We have passed a large dam, and the headwater is to our left.

Families pull off on the side of the road, often cooking breakfast on an open-air fire. There is much evidence of recent rockslides. The headwater from the dam is now reduced to a fast flowing stream a few metres wide.

We pull into Gadchscar for a toilet break. The shaded ground is frozen, but mud is beginning to appear where the sun is shining. A police checkpoint is twenty metres ahead of where we stop. I observe them as they randomly motion oncoming traffic to pull over. We climb back into our vehicle and pull into traffic, but as soon as we approach the checkpoint we are ordered to the side of the road for inspection. The officer at the driver’s door demands my passport, while another officer opens my door. A brief discussion in Farsi ensues. It was later explained to me that the officer in temporary possession of my passport began to insist that I needed a permit to travel on this particular road. Masoud was able to deftly dissuade him of this opinion by pointing out that since I had a visa for Iran, and the road was in Iran, that I had all the permission I required. We continued on our journey.

As we head to higher elevations snow banks are appearing, and looming larger. Travel is slow, barely exceeding 40 kph, as we follow two diesel belching Mercedes 0302 buses. Snow sheds are in place to protect from avalanche. We have travelled through the Kandovan tunnel to enter a completely snow covered environment.

This changes quickly though, as our elevation drops, and we head down to the Caspian Sea. Our first accident of the morning, with one vehicle nose first into a ditch and rock face, slows traffic temporarily.

We are now driving down a steep gorge, not much wider than the road itself. We enter Sizeh Bizesh. Roadside services selling souvenirs and various foodstuffs hug the cliff. Fresh meat hangs in the windows of several stores while a smoky haze hangs over the entire valley.

We have been on the road a few minutes short of 3 hours and have come 150 kms. Small rocks litter the road. We descend the mountain only meters behind a fully loaded pick up truck. Masoud constantly peers for an opportunity to pass. More than once he has attempted to respond to my concerns about this dangerous road. He is confident in his knowledge of this road and his skills. He even offers to turn back, probably noting a greying of my complexion with every twist and turn. I tell him that I won’t give up this experience that easily. Just then a car without headlights passes our line of vehicles through an unlit tunnel.

The trip through the gorge north from our tea break to Marzan Abad is relentless. It is the most dramatic highway I have ever experienced. The switchbacks are countless. Large rock faces hang over us. At times I feel that if I were permitted to stand in the middle of the road I could touch the gorge on either side.

For the second day of travel I am observing the world from the front passenger seat. Yesterday Faraj sat in the back. Today it is Ali occupying that spot. Perhaps out of a need to care for both the driver and the foreign visitor, both of them seem compelled to feed us. There is a steady stream of peeled apples and oranges, nuts and the occasional zucchini. Although well intentioned, it magnifies my apprehension as I travel this road and watch Masoud expertly thread our car through the available space while removing excess orange seeds, apple cores, pistachio shells and zucchini stems from his hand.

Another component of driving in Iran is that you are constantly being pleaded with by roadside vendors to buy their wares. People stand by the side of the road waving oranges, bananas, bottles of refreshment, and anything else they think they may entice you with. They are just as pervasive on this mountain road as they are on an expressway. They are not so much the danger, as are the purchasers, as they are prone to sudden stops, or driving at you from the opposite side of the road to negotiate for the bargain they have eyed.

If you are stopped in traffic, perhaps at a highway tollbooth or police checkpoint, they will descend to sell flowers, pillows, or food. From young children to the elderly, they all have something to sell.

Traffic chaos greets us as we descend the mountain and approach our destination. Several disorganized lanes converge to traverse a single lane bridge. After this bottleneck we are soon driving in excess of 100 km/h. Both sides of the road however are littered with debris and piles of rotting garbage. Many buildings are in disrepair.

After driving less than an hour along the coast we pull into a hotel/fast food parking lot to meet Javod. Masoud introduces him as a poet and his best friend. After a brief conversation Ali hops in Javod’s car and Masoud and I follow them down a series of twisted broken alleyways. Eventually we are driving down a wide boulevard that takes us to the Caspian Sea. It is the first time I see cows wandering about in a built up area. At this apparent dead end we turn left down a very rocky trail. This leads us to a rope gate and a wire-fenced property with more than a hundred meters of frontage on the seacoast. Within this compound, surrounded by newly planted trees is a two room newly constructed bungalow.

Several middle-aged men greet us. One of them is preparing freshly caught white fish on a concrete slab next to the house for our lunch. We have a tour of the property, taking time to skip stones into the sea and watch as fishermen tend to their nets.

It is now time to move inside for tea and conversation. Javod opens a briefcase and pulls out a few sheaves of paper. He then begins to recite what I know to be poetry. Though I do not understand a word of the meaning, I feel the lyricism, flow and rhythm of his poetry as he speaks. Several men sit, entranced by his words.

His story is a tortured one, literally and figuratively. An engineer by profession, he is no longer permitted to practice his profession because of government restriction. Previously residing in Tehran, he was politically active and involved in student demonstrations at Tehran University last summer. As a result, he was arrested, questioned, beaten and tortured for his views. Well over six feet in height, his body is well proportioned. Signs of grey are appearing through his full head of dark hair. His face, though beginning to show the creases of middle age, displays a warmth and tenderness that I would thought uncharacteristic of someone who had suffered a state sponsored beating. But then, it is probably his openness that provoked the beating in the first place.

Apparently, this was the reason for his sudden move back to the coast. Wanting to reduce his profile to those who may be interested in his political activism, he has chosen to return, with his young family, to the community he grew up in.

How representative his story is of the tragedy of Iran. So rich with culture, emotion and expression, yet their citizens live in fear of their own government. So many people are afraid that they may speak the wrong words in the wrong place, allowing them to be overheard by someone who will betray them.

It is mid afternoon before we are sitting down for our lunch of fresh white fish, rice, yoghurt and bread. I can tell that Masoud wishes we had more time to enjoy an extended leisurely visit with his old friend. There are many stories that will have to be told on another day. We do linger, though, spending time visiting a family farm where kiwis, oranges and bananas grow.

As enjoyable as this is, our departure is now delayed to late afternoon, and we are several hours away from Tehran. After poignant goodbyes, we once again join the traffic of the coast, proceeding east on a jammed holiday route. Cows continue to be a concern, wandering aimlessly along the side of the road. Occasionally they graze on piles of discarded garbage.

Some additional albums of photos are available on my Picasa Website.

Into the Mountains beyond Tafresh

We hit the road by 0715h, pick up Faraj, and head south on a six lane divided highway toward Qom. The air is a thick choking soup. Most cars on the road (usually Paykans) are filled with families, six to a car. Many hitchhikers are on the side of the road, offering to pay a negotiated sum for a ride.

Sitting in the front seat of the car, with a three-hour drive in front of me, this is my first opportunity to record in my journal as life speeds by.

We keep up with the traffic, speeding down the highway. In a short distance we pass a roll over accident, and then a vehicle on fire, its owner desperately trying to douse the flames. A child is pulled back from running onto the highway. Cars refuse to pick a lane; instead they seem to try to be in all lanes at once. Fortunately there are no transport trucks on the road, as this is Narooz, the Iranian New Year, a two-week holiday period. The only other vehicles are buses, which vary from brand new yellow Volvos to ancient Fiats and old rounded Mercedes 302s. Families are picnicking on the side of the dusty road.

Approaching Qom, we pass a large salt lake on the left. The pavement is rough. It is a cloudless day, yet a brown haze is entrenched across the basin. I find my body in a state of heightened alert, as a vehicle suddenly appears within a couple of inches of our car on my side, temporarly creating a fourth lane of traffic.

I can see snow capped peaks in the distance.

Faraj is feeding us oranges from the back seat. The traffic remains thick with vehicles dodging and weaving. We are passing the city of Qom on the ring road. So many of the factories are ringed with high fences topped with barbed wire. Often there are also armed guards stationed in turrets high above the fences. Open fires create ugly visible pollution. Dump trucks rumble along the paved shoulder while we speed by at 130 kph. I view the occasional patch of green, or a tree, surrounded by vast areas of sand and rock.

Traffic speeds up and slows down in a random fashion. You can never assume anything about what the other driver will do. A car wanders into our lane, and then slows down. A bus straddles two lanes. A pick up truck wanders into the fast lane for a slow pass without warning. Dozens of sheep are visible on the side of the unfenced highway. We are heading west out of Qom, into the higher elevations. We pass a roadside pomegranate stand. The stacks of fruit present a remarkable deep red colour.

We are now within 25 kms of Tafresh and climbing higher. The snow of the mountain appears to be travelling down to greet us. The road winds its way up, the twists and turns becoming tighter as we climb. The soil is often imbued with a green hue akin to the colour of a tarnished copper rooftop. We have reached the summit of our climb, and are now descending into Tafresh. Before entering the town, however, we are stopped at a police checkpoint. One officer with a holstered pistol motions us to the side of the road. He inspects the trunk and the back seat. Although I have my passport ready, I am not asked to produce it.

We enter Tafresh, a tired, dirty, broken town. What I see are so many crumbling walls, piles of rubble, and broken pavement. Most women here but not all, wear the traditional chador.

Leaving Tafresh, we head east into the mountains, climbing up a twisting road. A cluster of modern houses appears on the left. They have been built by the sons of former villagers who have returned from Tehran after making their fortune. The paved road we are travelling on was constructed in the past ten years through the combined efforts of the villagers and the government. The former donkey trail can be seen below. This road traverses difficult terrain. There are frequent signs of minor rockslides. After a long climb we descend briefly and enter the village of Naghoosan. Suddenly the car is brought to a halt with Masoud exclaiming, “There is my aunt!” Brief kisses, then we drive on for a hundred meters, and turn left down a narrowing stone wall sided alley, past a donkey, until the car can physically go no further.

I do not know what to expect in the village itself, although I have heard much about it. The previous week some members of Masoud’s family had joked about whether or not I should be “allowed” to go to the village, perhaps fearing that I may find it too overwhelmingly rustic. Ultimately, nothing could be farther from the truth, as I was soon to discover. Most of the structures in this village, as in most of rural Iran that I have seen, are constructed out of yellow sand coloured brick or spread compound. This is just like so many of us in the west see on our television screens whenever Middle East villages are shown. Up close, though, touching it, I feel how weathered and impermanent it is.

As we enter the home of Masoud’s relatives, I am immediately impressed with the well cared for feel of the property. Yes, it is rustic. No material from Home Depot was used to construct this home. Farm animals are heard just behind the back wall of the main living quarters. But everything is cared for. Everything is in its place, and there seems to be a place for everything. This walled property is roughly twenty by thirty meters. Three buildings; a cookhouse, living quarters and a barn cover about 60% of this area. Different from most other structures in this village, they are built with stone and partially covered with whitewashed stucco.

I am soon introduced to several family members who are visiting during Narooz. Included are several young women between fifteen and thirty years of age. I am greeted by many warm, yet shy smiles. I remember the instructions given by Masoud before coming to Iran not to extend my hand to a woman, - to shake a woman’s hand only when it is offered. None is offered. Included in these introductions is Masoud’s Uncle, who immediately welcomes me in the traditional fashion with kisses on alternate cheeks three times. It is the first time I have felt the rasping of such grizzled whiskers against my face since hugging my grandfather goodnight as a child. This greeting feels very warm, open and accepting.

Soon we are offered tea, nuts and fruit as a snack, sitting on the floor with our feet under a table heated with a basin filled with hot coals. Also in this room is a partially completed rug on a loom. Masoud spends a few minutes with his Aunt working on it. Next we go into the cookhouse, a stone building with an open wood fire and nothing but a smoke hole in the roof to act as a chimney. A single bare light bulb illuminate the otherwise soot blackened space. In the middle of the room is a hole filled with hot coals for baking bread. Chicken kebabs are being prepared on the floor.

It is now time to go for a hike around the town. First we head off toward the mountains, and through some of the backfields. The air is clear and fresh, not a cloud in the sky. Vegetation is sparse. Only the men go on this walk, as the women are busy preparing the meal. It is a time for stories, and for meeting old friends, as this is the village where Masoud spent his summers as a child, visiting his grand parents. Masoud shows me where they use to live, now unfortunately a crumbling ruin.

We wind back through the village, where it is decided that I need to experience a special kind of transport, this time on a donkey. No trip to an Iranian village is complete without one! Both Masoud and I take turns coaxing the trusty steed along.

The highlight of the day, however, is yet to come. I am speaking of the meal. A traditional feast served on the floor, with chicken kebabs, fresh bread, saffron rice many fine salads, and fresh yoghurt.

No one that I meet in this village speaks English, yet everyone communicates warmth and acceptance as they greet me. As we prepare to leave I shake my head in disbelieve as Masoud explains that his Aunt is concerned that the meal is too simple. I ask him to convey that it is one of the most enjoyable, and certainly memorable meals I have ever had.

In preparing to go, I ask if we may have a group picture. Everyone gathers, some more shyly than others.

As we begin the return journey the air is clear. Unfortunately this condition does not last. In less than an hour, the thin brown line visible on the horizon grows ever larger. As we approach the city of Saveh, we are enveloped in this brown smudge. The reasons are obvious as we enter the city. Large factories are frothing black soot and old diesel buses are doing the same. Open fires can be seen on the side of the highway. North of Saveh we turn left to drive a few kilometres to a modern six-lane highway.

Cars continue to drift from lane to lane for no apparent reason. The barren landscape flashes by. A concrete tall wall separates opposing traffic. Tumbleweed, and other debris are resting against it. The highway is unfenced, yet sheep can be seen once again grazing in the distance. Snow capped peaks are barely visible to the north through the smog. I can feel the coarseness of the air as I breathe.

Just sparse tufts of vegetation appear to be all that holds soil (if it can be called that) in place. I am thankful that it is not windy. As we pass the “70 kms to Tehran” sign the traffic is very light, yet vehicles continue to struggle with the concept of maintaining a constant lane and speed, including at times the one I am in. The visible demarcation of smog rests just above the highest peak of the distant mountains.

Thick black smoke is rising from an open fire on the side of the road. A large tractor tire is in flames. This thick feather wafts upward, uncaring, and uncared for. We descend a barren valley and view Parand City to the left. There is no vegetation visible as we climb up the other side of the valley. I wonder what holds everything together. There is a reddish hue to the terrain. As we pass the “10 kms to Tehran” sign the beautiful mountains that I know to be there are totally shrouded from view by smog.

Leaving Shiraz

I am waiting in the warm observation lounge of the Shiraz Airport. My 1240h flight has been delayed due to snow in Tehran. This is one delay I did not anticipate.

Maintaining this journal is beginning to take on a life of its own. I don’t know what will become of it. It will only move beyond the personal once it is transcribed from my unreadable long hand. My experiences have been so full since arriving in Iran, that it has been difficult to be current with my writing. Last night I put down point form notes of my previous three days in Esfahan and Shiraz. Presented with an “ocean” of time sitting in this airport I will endeavour to transform the notes.

My experience in Iran is transformed and enriched with Masoud, my friend, guide, and interpreter extraordinaire. Not only does he explain the details of what I observe, such as the coupon line-ups for food rations, he spends hours in discussion with me nightly, explaining the revolution, the intricacies of daily life, the yearnings of the young people and so much more.

Exploring Esfahan

After two days in this beautiful city I feel I have lived an explosion of experiences since arriving. These experiences have been relentless. I feel pummeled. And, I would not trade a moment of it. I have a strong need to put these last two days into perspective, before the memory fades.

Our hotel is (according to my map) at the corner of Chadar Bagh and Boustan-e-Mellat, overlooking Se-o-Se Pol Bridge. The literal translation of this bridge is “thirty-three bridges” bridge, because of the thirty-three arches in its structure. Just say “Se-o-Se Pol” to any Iranian, and they seem to know what you mean, and where you have been.

The hotel itself is a standard, mid-city hotel, outfitted with brass and a uniformed bellhop. Our room costs 45 USD per night. Upon arrival on Friday evening, I am tired but exhilarated. Masoud wants tea and a bite to eat, and has already noted a teahouse across he road that should fit the bill. However, our second floor corner room with small balcony affords us some of the best entertainment in town, watching the traffic.

I find it difficult to pull myself away from the real life movie that constantly unfolds before me. Cars making a left hand turn from the far right side of the road, cutting against oncoming traffic on the opposing street to make a u-turn. Throw in a half a dozen pedestrians going in whatever direction suits them, a motorcycle or two traveling against traffic without headlights, perhaps carrying two or three passengers, and a couple of police officers standing in the boulevard observing it all with me.

It is after eleven o’clock before we head to the tearoom. I descend into the basement of a non-descript 1960’s three-storey commercial building. On the left are some large polyester bags. To my right is a rectangular room covered in carpet with carpeted and cushioned raised areas about eight feet square around the sides. Several groups of young men are sitting, smoking from traditional pipes and drinking tea. A young man sitting at a table directly in front of the entrance greets us. Masoud explains to me that we must remove our shoes before entering. Now the purpose of the bags becomes apparent, as they are for our shoes. We sit in the nearest raised area, ordering tea and mint tobacco.

Our host, a young man in his twenties, decides to sit down and join us in conversation. He explains that all businesses must close by midnight, and that the authorities will check to ensure that everyone complies. As we still have not yet eaten, we decide to finish our tea and smoke and find a snack in one of the shops above us. Having purchased sausages in a bun, we take a midnight walk across Se-o-Se-Pol. Even at this late hour the streets are still alive with traffic and strolling young people.

The stone of Esfahan is unique yellow ochre. It is seen throughout the city, including this bridge. A strong wind is blowing as I sit on a park bench viewing the beautiful thirty-three arches. Suddenly, I observe a woman in full flowing black chador walking north on the path to the bridge. She is a haunting lonely figure, silhouetted against the yellow light of the bridge.

It is so beautiful this night, I feel like I never want to go to bed. The warm breeze, the extraordinary site of this fascinating architecture entrances me. It is well past midnight before we stroll back to our hotel room.

We have two days in Eshfahan before departing for Shiraz early Sunday evening. We intend to make the most of our time. We once again walk across Se-o-Se Pol this time on a beautiful Saturday morning. Traffic, as ever, is chaotic. Just crossing the street requires skill not resident in most westerners. Masoud instructs me to stay close, and follow me. I feel like a child as he offers me his hand to begin the slow yet steady dodge and weave through cars, bicycles, and people. Over time, I develop this skill and will feel bolder as I venture into traffic. For now, however, I am Masoud’s shadow, mimicking his every move as we cross the street.

It is now time to find a taxi, so we join the crowds standing near the curb and Masoud begins the process. Cream-colored Paykans (apparently the Iranian national brand of car) continually pull over, and the negotiation begins. I soon find myself jammed in the back seat and off we go. Including the driver there are at least five people, and occasionally up to seven in the vehicle as we head to our destination near the famous bazaar of Eshfahan.

I found the following information on the web:

The bazaar forms a part of the Imam Khomeini (former Naqsh-e Jahan) Square, which is one of the largest and most beautiful squares in the world. This square, measuring 500 x 160 meters, was set up in the second half of the 16th century AD by the Safavid King, Shah Abbas I. On the south side of the square is the Imam Mosque. The Ali Ghapou monumental compound on the west and Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque on the east occupy other sides of the square.

The Isfahan bazaar is essentially a district consisting of numerous streets with stores on both sides connected together, under a high-rise roof. Some of the arcades, including the textiles bazaar and the Qeisariye market, have been ornately designed, thanks to their proximity to the royal palaces, and the famous mosques. In order to provide the necessary lighting for the bazaar's environment, some skylights were built on the roof to let the sunlight in.

I have visited Tianenmen Square, reputedly the largest in the world. It pales, however, to what I am viewing now. This is alive with people, activity and history. From the beautiful mosques, to the Ali Ghapou compound, and the bustle of commercial activity, to say it is steeped in history and culture is certainly understatement.

More photographs are available online in my Esfahan Picasa Album.

Travel to Esfahan

After a simple breakfast I am experiencing Tehran traffic in daylight. Traffic is an overwhelming consideration, as I will later find out, in this country. There are simply too many cars, and not enough infrastructure to carry those cars. It is constant chaos.

In my first venture into it we head north to a mountain overlooking Tehran known as Tochal. Being Friday, it is a day off for most people in this country. Thousand of mostly young Iranians have come here to walk up the road or hike up the cliffs. A uniformed man stops four very attractive young women. I am told that in the eyes of the police they are not appropriately dressed for public as they are wearing tight clothes. Their only deference to Islam is the loosely worn headscarves.

Men and women also are not permitted to touch each other in public according to Islamic law. However, that doesn’t mean it never happens, as our observation up the mountain discovers. We notice what appears to be someone far up the slope. Using the zoom of my camera shows there are actually two people who are perhaps closer than the Republic would ordinarily permit. There is some behaviour that is simply too natural for any law to curtail.

The landscape is rugged with mountains looming to the north. They are barren, devoid of any vegetation. A strong wind swirls dust and debris around us. Tehran is a city whose population is well over ten million, having doubled in less than twenty years. Building sites are continually being developed up the mountain slopes. This population also is young, with over half under the age of thirty.

My time in Tehran is cut short, as I have a four thirty flight to Shiraz. This requires another round of Tehran traffic. The city is choking with cars, fulfillment of a government decision to build millions of cheap vehicles for the masses. The brand name is the Paykan. The demand for transportation far exceeds the supply. At virtually every street corner I see lines of people trying to flag down a ride, for a price. Many vehicles with empty seats are usually seen pulling over to the curb (or within a few meters) and negotiating the price of a ride with those standing by the road. The starting price for a straight line ride of a couple of kilometers is 100 toman (about fifteen CDN cents). If you want the car to yourself, you have to pay for all five seats, or five times the price. If you are in the front bucket seat, expect to share it.

Our initial flight takes us to Shiraz, where, after a three-hour stopover, we fly to Esfahan, arriving at 9:30 that evening. Hundreds of years ago this city was the capital. At its height, the Shah Abas ruled an area extending from Turkey to India from this city.

The Esfahan airport has recently been rebuilt and has a modern feel to it. The buildings have a fine stone façade. Esfahan is a city of art. This becomes clear to me as our taxi takes us to our hotel. Our driver welcomes me to “antique” Iran. He shares a laugh with Masoud on this comment as I realize he is not just talking about the buildings. We drive down a wide boulevard on the south side of the Zayandeh River. This takes us past some of their famous bridges, first the Khajou Bridge, the Jouee Bridge, and finally stopping in front of Se-o-Se Pol Bridge. Our hotel, the Suites, and our second floor room, overlooks this famous site.

Flying to Tehran

Schipol Airport, Amsterdam Thursday, March 11

I enter the waiting room for Gate D5. The ratio of men to women appears to be about 60/40. Very few of the women have their heads covered. As boarding time approaches, the scarves start to go up. Many of these coverings, though, continually slip back, as though the person underneath is pushing it away.

I do not see any woman pass by the ticket taker without her scarf in place. Once in the lounge, they start, once again though, to fall back.

There is one woman on the flight who remains uncovered and I have not yet seen her scarf. She is dressed in jeans and is with a male companion.

I have only observed two female cabin crew and several males. All of them are middle aged. The two women are almost stern in their composure. Their faces reveal nothing, as they glance about the cabin.

An older woman stands in the aisle engaged in conversation. Her face sparkles as she smiles continually. Her light demeanor is highlighted by her light blue and cream-colored head scarf.

There is still a reluctance to stay in place being expressed by some of the head scarves, but the closer we get to the Islamic Republic of Iran the more firmly they stay up. All, that is, except for the woman in seat 7A.

Headsets are being handed out, but there doesn’t appear to be anything to listen to. We continue to watch a toy plane traverse Europe on its way to Tehran on our TV screens.

Sometimes I wonder if I should be censoring my writing, for fear someone will insist on reading my words before I enter the Republic. Fear has the power to shape and direct behavior in many ways.

To me, most passengers on this plane appear to be native of Iran. There is much friendly banter. I expect these people are not representative of the population, as these are people who can afford to fly to Europe. Perhaps, though, they are ex-pats returning for a visit.

Suddenly, a movie begins to show on the screen. A quote from Charles Dickens flashes on the screen: “I hope we are all judged based upon the truth.” The movie, with English sub-titles is called “The Last Dinner”. I find the movie engages me. In some ways it seems to parallel “Reading Lolita in Tehran”, as it is about a Professor of Architecture at the University of Tehran. In this story, however, the 45-year-old Professor is sought after by a much younger man in his twenties. It is an interesting social commentary on the institution of marriage.

With the movie over, I am now intrigued by the route of our aircraft displayed on the screen. From Amsterdam across Europe, we cross the Black Sea north of Istanbul. We continue south easterly to the border with Iraq, and then veer left, staying in Turkish airspace to the Iranian border. Our groundspeed is in excess of 1,000 km/h, so far topping out at 1020 km/h.

I am speaking with my seatmate and I ask him if he is from Iran. “No”, he states, “I am from Kurdistan.” We talk about the movie we have just seen, which leads to a discussion of the social situation in Iran. He explains that in many places, such as Europe, people are living for today. “Here, we live for the future.” His expression is relaxed, and he speaks with confidence.

You know you are in Iran when you exit the door of your Airbus 300 onto an unsheltered stairway leading down to the tarmac. You then walk to a waiting crowded bus, where everyone stands, holding on for dear life as we make our way to the airport. As we start rumbling along I have no idea how long this part of my journey will take, but mercifully, it ends after three or four minutes. I simply follow the crowd.

Ours is the second of two flights to arrive within minutes of each other and the passport control lines are deepening. I am standing behind a short balding, yet swarthy gentleman who, upon noting my Canadian passport, strikes up a conversation. I note that I am feeling guarded in my response, as I am unsure of his motives. Suddenly, a man appears behind me to my right and, without warning, snatches my passport and entry document and begins scribbling on it. Perhaps noticing my startled look, he starts to explain, “validation” and hands my documents back. By this time my “swarthy” companion has explained that he is of Iranian origin but now a Canadian, and the person who snatched my passport was a policeman who just made my entry a little bit easier. I just think to myself “I hope so.” (Later, I reflect that perhaps this was the reason they required me to submit a photograph of myself when I applied for my visa.) Easy, though, my entry is, as no questions are asked as my passport is stamped.

Next I approach what I assume to be custom control where I will be questioned. There is a simple guard with an x-ray machine to my right, and about fifty feet of open space to his left. About fifty feet directly in front of me is a vast sea of faces. I place my bag in the x-ray machine. Apparently I pass inspection as I am waved through without questioning. I am free to join the sea of faces. But, is one of them familiar to me? And then, I spot Masoud. I dive in, we meet, and he introduces me to his brother Ali.

Within half an hour of touching down, I am walking to the parking lot. The driving in Tehran is surreal. In a word, it is nightmarish. The main problem with traffic in this country is that very few people follow the rules of the road. Cars drive without headlights. I observe four people on a motorcycle driving on the wrong side of the road. I will have more to say about it later, but it is like nothing I have ever seen.

After about half an hour of hell on the streets, I am introduced to Masoud and Ali’s mother in her beautiful three-bedroom apartment, just off of Vali-Asr Street. It is after two in the morning before I am asleep.

City of Ottawa Budget - 2004

Presentation of the Community Council of Overbrook to the Economic Development and Corporate Services Committee of Ottawa City Council

Scheduled for 12:05 PM Monday, March 1, 2004 Andrew S. Haydon Hall – City Hall

Good afternoon. My name is Leonard Poole and I am speaking on behalf of the Community Council of Overbrook.

We understand that our municipal tax system is a multi-headed monster that needs to be brought under control. We realize that it creates incredible distortions, often pitting taxpayers, and tax classes against each other. We strongly urge the city and province to work together immediately to develop a more equitable tax system. However, I only have five minutes, not the five hours needed to dissect that beast further, so I will leave it for now.

Today I intend to focus on one topic, that of Fiscal Responsibility. We believe that taxes can be kept at their lowest level when Ottawa City Council demonstrates Fiscal Responsibility. It is our belief, however, that this budget is Fiscally Irresponsible.

How could that be, you might ask? It proposes no tax increases, and keeps our costs down! What it comes down to, essentially, is how you define “Fiscal Responsibility”. For some of us, and perhaps some members of this committee, it means spending the least amount of money, every year, and do whatever it takes to avoid a tax increase. In our view, it means spending the correct amount of money today to ensure that in the long term we spend the least amount of money. This budget is irresponsible because it focuses on short-term gain as opposed to long-term payback.

To pick one example, out of many available, cutting funding to outdoor rinks is a fast way to put almost half a million dollars to the bottom line, and a few cents in each taxpayer's pocket, in the short term. However, the effect of the withdrawal of that investment is that our citizens, particularly our youth will have reduced opportunity for physical exercise and positive social behaviour. We need to understand that those groups of ten or twenty teenagers who were playing a game of shinny, for a couple of hours on a Tuesday night, are now going to be looking for other things to do. This situation will be multiplied at every rink in every community across the city every night during the winter. If these rinks curtail one swarming, or one stolen car joyride, they are worth it. I expect they curtail much more. It is much more expensive to control and police such behaviour after the fact. One high-speed joyride easily leads to incalculable costs. It is not difficult to see that cutting half a million dollars in rink expense can quickly lead to a substantial increase in police expense. And that expense will multiply every year. This is but one example. A cut in one area, will have an effect in another area. You reduce buses, you increase the use of cars, which increases the cost of road repair, you reduce senior home visits, you increase senior's isolation and the strain on our health care system. Whenever you view a cut, you have to consider what other costs will increase.

So often we hear that we have to cut the frills. There are a number of people, including members of this committee, who believe that this budget proposal is an exercise in cutting those “frills”. On one level, they are correct. Be it swimming pools, rinks, flu shots, crisis intervention, festivals, planting flowers, sweeping our streets, funding OCRI, or libraries, our lives will go on without them. And if we go through with these cuts, every taxpayer, this year, will have extra money in his or her pocket. But if you are prepared to pass this budget as it currently stands, you also must face the reality of the effects of these cuts. And the reality is that they will lead to substantial increased costs and reduced revenue in the years to come. Eliminating funding to arts and culture will reduce tourism. Eliminating recreation services will increase policing costs in future. Reducing funding to transit will increase the cost of road repair, as more cars hit the street. Therefore, when you, as a politician, stand up and shout out how you “saved” the average taxpayer money this year, also have the courage to accept responsibility for substantially increased costs in the years to come.

This budget is fiscally irresponsible, in that it focuses on a short-term payment to its shareholders, as opposed to keeping its eye on the long-term vision of prudent management. This budget represents the ESE view of economics, otherwise known as the Enron School of Economics. That mythical school tells us to keep the shareholders happy with short-term paybacks, and hopefully they won’t notice that the business itself is collapsing. Seriously though, any enduring enterprise is forever mindful of a long-term vision that will ensure keeping costs down over the long term. This budget is a recipe for much higher taxes in the future, as it guarantees that we will have to invest in higher cost solutions to social and economic problems that will be the inevitable result.

In conclusion, we implore you to make courageous choices that ensure that our future taxes will not rise astronomically to pay for short-term payouts today. In other words, don’t follow in Mike Harris’s footprints and try to bribe us with our own money as he did in October 2000 with these $200 cheques. Each of you is fully aware of the more than five billion dollar legacy he left behind. We couldn’t afford it then, and we can’t afford it now.