47: Summer before the Storm
“Even a man with a matchbox is a potential danger in Iran.” – Josef Stalin
Tyler’s Account
As soon as we leave Tehran’s dense urban environment, I feel a sense of drama wrapping itself around my shoulders. The magnificent landscapes of Iran speak to me of ancient secrets even more so than the Korean mountains did.
Summer progresses pleasantly enough in Esfahan. I seek out positive activities so as to avoid developing a dragged-out attitude. Teaching the Iranian cadet mechanics is no piece of cake, and our working conditions are pretty lousy, but the fat paychecks ease the pain a lot.
I buy a membership at the Kurosh Hotel outdoor pool where I head most weekdays after work. It’s a veritable fountain of youth. You fall into the water exhausted and emerge as vigorous as the New Socialist Man.
One day, as I lounge on the pool deck sipping a cocktail with some other teachers, I notice somebody swimming laps. He just sort of appears in the water, on the far side of the pool.
“Who is that guy?” I ask.
“Beats me,” one of the teachers says.
The group conversation resumes. It is the usual downer talk: a) the company sucks, b) Iran sucks, and c) our students are obnoxious pests. There is, undeniably, some truth to this last complaint.
Aside from an occasional older sergeant, our students are all young cadets, some as little as sixteen. They have signed on for thirty-year army hitches! If I were in their predicament, I’d be an obnoxious pest myself. Still, I rather like them – most of the time.
An hour of vapid discussion passes before I hear the blessed words: “See you later, Tyler.”
My colleagues leave, and I occupy myself with a book. The deck empties out until I am the last person on it. All this time, the guy has kept swimming, back and forth without tiring, like a machine. Sun glare and splashing water obscure his features.
Then everything goes abruptly quiet, and I pull my nose out of the book. Maybe the guy has run out of steam and sunk to the bottom! I hurry to the deep end and peer down to the pool floor – nobody. No wet footprints lead away from the water. I quickly get dressed and leave for a walk.
Walking is my other favorite activity. Hurry along busy sidewalks, pass women washing clothes and dishes in the open jubes, buy pistachios from a street vendor. Pause at the open-air bakery to watch men toss flat bread into their oven with long-handled paddles. With my dark hair and a three-day beard, I can almost fake being a local, if I keep my sunglasses on and my mouth shut. This is quite a change from Korea where I always stuck out like a sore thumb.
Saturdays are great for treks along the Zayandeh Rud – River of Life. The countryside starts right after the final picturesque arched bridge. A greenbelt winds along the river, a world away from the desert where we spend our working hours. I’ve come upon a Zoroastrian fire temple and other ruins. Returning after dark, I’ve seen packs of stray dogs scavenging in town. Big brutes, lurking around the deserted streets, eyeing the lone pedestrian.
Esfahan is a surprising combination of modern and exotic. A trip to the bazaar is a step back in time. Within its convoluted passages are rug merchants, copper smiths, craftsmen working in silver and inlay. But go outside to the Chahar Bagh main drag and you’re among modern banks and offices. First class hotels dot the landscape.
Heavy traffic buzzes everywhere, and drivers are reckless. I saw an Iranian man punch his head through a windshield on Pahlavi Boulevard. Another time, as I rode in a taxi on Bozorgmehr, a truck swerved over. Its load of steel rods ripped open the car in front of us like a sardine can. Two dazed foreigners exited the car, apparently uninjured, thank God.
Thousands of foreigners are living here, mostly Americans. They have brought the most raucous aspects of Western society, often running roughshod over Iranian sensibilities.
American Esfahan includes many restaurants and bars, some with gorgeous Southeast Asian girls serving drinks. There’s Bell Family Services, where you can watch American movies, and you can watch softball games between the various foreign corporations’ teams.
Our team, the Jube Dogs, is excellent. I’ve heard people express surprise that a “fag company” like ours would have enough “veer-ile males” for a team.
Economic fear is a big motivator in our expatriate community. People are holding desperately on to their jobs, hating the work and the country, but afraid to leave. One guy has big medical bills to settle back home. He’d once suffered a lung embolism.
“I woke up and there was blood everywhere,” he explained once during lunch. “Blood on the sheets, blood on the floor!”
“Please, that’s enough,” we all protested.
Jolfa is the relatively placid Armenian quarter – an area of high walls and narrow kuches. The sole jarring note is a message somebody scrawled on a wall in bold letters: “Death for Turkey Government,” no doubt in reference to the Armenian genocide conducted by Turkey around WW1.
Our house is a traditional one on Kuche Voskan. Bob and Stars have rooms in the main house. My room, the former servant quarters, is across the courtyard by the gate. It offers privacy, although it is sometimes a bit noisy – like at night when Bob stumbles through the gate drunk.
Stars handles food and fuel purchases, he even cooks dinner. Bob and I clean the kitchen, and everybody takes turns scrubbing the john.
So, I just drift along, as If I am inside a soap bubble looking out at this peculiar world. My surroundings give me a sense of the temporary and the timeless. The temporary, bogus world of American Esfahan amid the timeless history and geography of Persia.
American Esfahan won’t last much longer, I’m convinced.
Civil unrest is increasing throughout Iran, and numerous riots have occurred in major cities. The US Consulate in Esfahan suffered a bomb attack. Everybody sees a foreign hand behind the unrest. I have a simpler theory: The Shah has screwed up big time and is now paying the price.
I’m certainly no expert, but I believe the Shah’s days are numbered. I felt the same way during the earliest days of the Watergate scandal – Nixon was doomed long before he and most other people realized it.
Destiny is working out. The Shah just has to wait for his to arrive.
A few weeks after arriving here, I received a letter from Julie. She’d gotten my address from Mom. Things are going well between us again. In my last phone call, I invited her to visit over her Christmas break. She agreed. I didn’t tell her the full story, though, as I hadn’t figured it out myself yet.
If things don’t settle down soon – and I don’t think they will – the situation here could be pretty dicey come Christmas. Why not get out and meet Julie in Paris or Rome? Then we could take off and travel the world. We could spend months doing this, maybe even years. Julie and the road. Talk about the best of everything!
But a nagging inner voice tells me, “The real choice is Julie or the road.”
48: Helicopter Encounter
“Sovereignty! Liberty! An Islamic Republic!” – Voice of the Revolutionary Masses
Our employee bus to the Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi army base makes excellent time. The Iranian driver handles the thing like an oversized Ferrari, barreling down the straight ways and whipping through Shiraz circle oblivious to the other traffic. Students mill about the gate of Esfahan University brandishing placards and chanting slogans.
Typical grousing conversations occupied the American passengers.
“Every one of my students fell asleep during language lab yesterday,” somebody says. “By the time I woke up the last one, the others had nodded off again.”
“Sounds like they were smoking opium in the barracks,” another teacher observes.
We pass through the base gate and bump along the dirt road toward the Mechanics’ school. Then, the driver suddenly pulls over and slows to crawl. A loud thumping on the side of the bus brings us to a halt.
“What’s going on?” Bob asks from across the a
isle.
I look out my window and am astonished to see Colonel Shanaz strutting by in full dress uniform, a sword hanging from a gold sash around his waist. He grasps the weapon by the hilt and walks with measured strides, like a windup toy.
I hear various muttered endearments from my colleagues including: “sicko,” “lunatic,” and “fucking idiot.”
Common soldiers stand around trying to look important. One of them must have banged on our bus as the Colonel would not have wanted to soil his white gloves.
“Who is that guy?” one of the new teachers asks.
“Colonel Shanaz,” I say, “the base commander.”
“Him?” An alarmed expression crosses the teacher’s face.
Bob comes over to look out my window. “Yep, it’s the great man himself.”
The inspection completed, we continue on to the school building and disgorge ourselves onto the desert. I enter the first-floor lounge and take a place at the staff table. Rolf sits at his desk, writing furiously.
I pull an unsealed aerogramme out of my briefcase and peruse its contents. The message I’ve written to Julie is brief and to the point. In a couple of paragraphs I tell her that I’ve decided to resign by year’s end. Things are starting to go south in Iran, I say, and it probably isn’t wise for her to come at Christmas break. How about meeting someplace else, like Paris?
I sign off “love, Tyler” and seal the aerogramme. I hold it briefly in my hands, studying the front. Julie’s neatly typed name and address looks up toward me with solid finality.
Printed in the upper right is a dramatic portrait of the Shah in military uniform – royal epaulets on his shoulders and a chest full of decorations. Behind him a sleek airliner thrusts toward the future. Royal crowns festoon both upper edges of the aerogramme.
At least nobody can fail to recognize who the boss of Iran is. Shah on the stamps, Shah on the money, on newspaper front pages and TV screens. Boulevards and public squares bear his name. The military base is named after his son – pointing to the immortality of the regime. I thought that President Pak in Korea commanded a lot of exposure, but he is a shy lily compared to the Shah.
I slip the letter back into my brief case. After work, I’ll mail it from the main post office. Now that I have committed my intentions to writing, they take on a solemn reality, as if my departure from Iran is now a matter of days instead of months.
Bob will be unhappy, but maybe this will be the push needed to get him back to Bangkok where he belongs. I’ll miss Bob, but what about everything else?
I look about the shabby lounge with its dingy, battered furnishings, at the gray faces of my colleagues and their dust ingrained clothing, at the wind-blown desert sand outside the window. A photocopy machine sits out there, exposed to the elements. It was delivered days ago, but nobody has seen fit to bring it inside.
Hell no, I won’t miss anything here! At the proper time, I’ll write up my resignation and submit it to Rolf. He can then shove it up the chain of command to the big bosses in the rarefied upper echelon. I’ll take a financial hit by breaking my contract, but I’ll still come out way ahead moneywise.
Julie arises in my consciousness, like a beacon – her captivating eyes and incredible eroticism, her little gasps when she is about to orgasm ...
The phone on Rolf’s desk jangles. He yanks it off the hook, still scribbling on his note pad with his other hand.
“Hello, Ullrich here,” he says.
He speaks a few moments, then calls me over.
“What’s up, Rolf?” I say.
“Are you interested in a helicopter ride?” Rolf says. “Somebody canceled out, and there’s room on a flight this morning.”
“Yeah!” I say.
Rolf speaks a bit more, then hangs up.
“They’re sending a car,” he says. “I’ll arrange a sub for your class.”
Isn’t this the icing on the cake? Ever since I got here I’ve been looking forward to my orientation helicopter ride. Now that I’ve given up on the idea, my number has finally come in.
“All right everybody,” Rolf announces, “time to get started!”
He presses a button for the electric bell, nothing happens.
“Damn, broken again!” he says.
He grabs a makeshift bell crafted from a junked helicopter part and, flinging open a window, bangs the contraption with a metal pipe. The room empties amid a chorus of mutterings and shuffling feet.
I move out into the hallway, deserted now except for grizzled old Akbar, the janitor, who is sweeping the floor. I bound up the external stairway to gain a lookout for my ride. The door to the second floor hall is propped open, and I can see an Iranian army lieutenant strolling past the classrooms.
The lieutenant looks trim and dapper in his well-pressed uniform and silk cravat, swagger stick in hand. There must be other things he would rather be doing than patrolling this dump. A breeze stirs down the hallway, bringing the stench of a backed-up lavatory with it. I move down the stairs away from the blow zone.
A dust stream moving across the barrens indicates the approach of my ride. After a few minutes, a Jyane ‘pickup truck’ pulls alongside the building. Unknown to me, a couple of other instructors are waiting outside beneath the stairs, and they grab the two best places on the single bench seat. I have to wedge myself in on the left side of the driver, hanging half out of the vehicle. A chain is the only barrier keeping me from tumbling out.
“Looks like a good day for flying!” the American driver says.
“Yeah,” we all agree.
The flimsy vehicle groans along much more slowly than it had come, its two cylinder engine laboring under our added weight. Ahead, off to our left, I notice several dark spots moving towards us across the desert.
“Ever been up in a helicopter?” the driver asks.
I twist his direction.
“No, but I parachuted out of an airplane once,” I say.
“Yeah?” he says. “The way some of these Iranian pilots fly, you might want to consider jumping out again!”
He laughs, but I don’t find the comment amusing. I turn my attention back outside the car. The dark spots are much closer now – a dog pack, heading right for us.
“Can you go any faster?” I point to the rapidly closing dogs.
“Hey, the welcoming committee,” the driver cries.
He grabs the lever protruding from the dashboard and downshifts. Then he stomps the gas and the overloaded Jyane begins moving slightly faster. The dogs are right beside us now, snapping at me. I shove myself as far as possible inside the car.
“Watch out!” the driver cries. “You’re pushing me off the wheel!”
“Want to trade places?” I shout back.
Hot breath puffs on me. The pack leader is a huge, ugly brute with a savage head and a trunk incongruously covered with fluffy hair that flows back in the slipstream. He looks like Chief with a werewolf head grafted on. Fortunately, they soon fall off the pace and vanish back into the dust. I ease myself out of the driver’s lap.
“Thanks,” he says. “If you’re so interested, why didn’t you just ask for my phone number?”
Everybody is a comedian these days.
“This is an army base,” I say. “Why don’t they shoot those goddam things?”
“Maybe they love animals,” the driver says.
We arrive at the main base without further incident. This area looks decent – tidy buildings, flags snapping in the wind, helicopters lined up on the tarmacs – nothing like the desolate corner where the Mechanics’ School lurks.
We attend a brief orientation, don flight suits and helmets; then we clamber aboard a helicopter. The three of us passengers occupy the back. Up front, a young Iranian student pilot takes the left seat, while an American instructor pilot sits on the right.
The American turns back toward us. “Ready to go, folks?”
“Sure!” we reply.
The Iranian student pilot jerks us a
irborne.
“Easy on the controls!” the instructor cries.
This sets the tone for the flight – the nervous student pilot screwing up and the instructor bawling him out. We chopper into the desert and fly low over a small adobe settlement. Astonished villagers watch us from their rooftops.
“You’re too damned low!” the instructor shouts. “Are you fixin’ to give them folks haircuts with the rotor?”
We fly along the edge of a canyon, then suddenly drop like a stone down inside it. The cliff face shoots by dangerously close.
“Jesus!” the instructor cries. “Get over!”
We pull away from the wall and continue downwards.
“Get us outta here!” the instructor roars.
The elevator ride reverses and we pop up into open sky again. The American turns toward us.
“Sorry folks,” he says. “I’m having a little trouble communicating with my student. I’m radioing ahead to see if we can get an English instructor to join us.”
I’ve heard of these guys, the in-flight language tutors who serve as intermediaries between the Iranian student pilots and their American trainers. They fly around all day, listening in on the front seat communications and translating the often colorful language of the flight instructors into the familiar patterns the Iranians have learned in their English classes. This is the primo teaching job, available to only a select few.
We continue on straight and level for a while, then the instructor speaks again.
“We’re stopping to pick up the language tutor,” he says. “There’s a brook nearby, so feel free to get out and take a drink.”
Our helicopter sets down in the barren desert. We three passengers clamber out, stooping lower than necessary under the steady Wonka! Wonka! of the rotor blades, and make our way to a little brook bubbling out of the ground. Clunking about in our unfamiliar jump suits and helmets, we seem like spacemen on the surface of the moon. The water tastes wonderfully cool.
We return to our seats. Soon, another chopper lands nearby and a lone figure disembarks, dressed as we are. He walks toward us with a sinuous gait, the way a snake might walk if it could stand upright. He isn’t a big guy, but an aura of power attends him.