The relentless Tehran August sun beats down on our bodies, but the mid-30s to mid-40s temperatures are surprisingly bearable as it is a dry heat. Crossing the street represents a serious hazard to your health, as mopeds weave in and out of passing pedestrians at high speeds – reportedly Iran has statistically the most road fatalities per capita in the world. In hindsight, that’s something I probably shouldn’t have told mum. The city hums and buzzes with a cacophony of engine blasts and the beeping of horns.
As we walk through the crowded Grand Bazar, people greet us in a unanimously friendly manner. A beaming smile and a passing “Hello!” is standard. We are the only foreigners present and are afforded something approaching celebrity status. A retired English teacher opens conversation by immediately offering us free accommodation, and even those with rudimentary English try to engage in friendly chit-chat: “Where you from? Irland? Ah, yes, Sinn Féin, very good, very good”.
The nascent Revolutionary leadership renamed the street of the British embassy in Tehran from Winston Churchill Boulevard to Bobby Sands Street at the height of the 1981 Hunger Strikes (or “Babi Sandez” according to Iranian spelling). Despite “no photography” signs every few metres, my friend manages to snap a discreet picture of me under the Bobby Sands street sign, Celtic jersey and all.
Iran is often dubbed the “land of contradictions”, and with good reason. Trendy young women wear the headscarf as far back on their head as they dare, and apply heavy make-up. At the sight of police, women scramble to push the headscarves forward. Others wear the full chador, a full-body black gown with only a small opening for the face. The sight of nose bandages is bizarrely common, as the plastic surgery fad hits the women (and men) of Tehran. Many young men are absurdly muscular and would give any Southside jock a run for his money.
Ali, our first Couchsurfing host (a social media website that hooks you up with a free place to stay around the world), tells of widespread drink and drug-fuelled weekend parties brushed under the carpet by the regime. We get invited to a tamer version of one of these illicit parties, and dance until 4am with people of all ages at a family gathering, complete with DJ, dancefloor, miniskirts and a large supply of bootleg booze.
The party host and other guests offer us free accommodation for the remainder of our stay, which we graciously accept. They accompany us on a tour to the lush green hills beside the Caspian Sea, a welcome relief from the desert landscapes that define much of the country. The tour guide closes the curtains of the bus after everyone is picked up at 4am, and proceeds to blare Iranian disco music from two large speakers at the back (exactly where we are seated) and force everyone to dance.
The prospect of getting some sleep before our 7am arrival at the Caspian seems fairly bleak. What follows for the next 19 hours or so (aside from stunning landscapes and cavernous gorges) until our 11pm drop-off is continuous bus dancing, with the locals, even those in their 70s, possessing seemingly limitless energy.
Iranians are possibly the most hospitable people on earth, and their prevailing image in the West is so wildly inaccurate that it seems funny once you’re there, until you realise that their mischaracterisation as bloodthirsty fundamentalists hurts them deeply. While the regime is religious, by the end of my stay I had dubbed this ancient country the “not very Islamic Republic” of Iran.
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