lentil-munching soap dodger, so as far as I was concerned, his troubles were pretty much selfinflicted.
The milkshake shop was great, and we were greeted there with warm handshakes and smiles from the staff—all of us except Malle that is, who was ignored. After an animated sales pitch from me to Ricardo on the promised savings of Mr. Khan’s recommended route, Ricardo changed his plans and decided to tag along to Masuleh with me. This was great news as it would be nice to have some English-speaking company for a bit.
Having failed to pay for just about anything over the last two days with Shahram, I gladly picked up the tab for everybody using a mere fraction of the obscene-sized bank roll I had in my pack.
A round of carrot shakes later and we made a move out onto the street. Here, I saw a small stall selling posters which were simply too good for me to pass by. I purchased one of a stern-looking Khomeini for my friend Nick, one of another bearded religious-looking chap for my friend Chris, and two posters of a big muscled Iranian wrestler hugging his minute little old mother, who was wrapped up in a full black chador and wearing big chunky spectacles. It was exceptional. Down at the bottom of the poster were smaller shots of him in different poses to show his various qualities: family man, philosopher, scholar, man of the people, philanthropist, and all-in bareknuckle wrestler. I got one for my ex-girlfriend and one for my brother. I couldn’t stop laughing at the thought of their reaction upon receiving them in the mail.
Unfortunately for Hannes, we now walked straight past a barber’s shop. On spotting him, all the staff inside went crazy and rushed out, leaving their clients in the chairs. They were amazed at his dreadlocks and invited Hannes inside so they could study his hair. I was keen to go in, but there was no persuading Hannes. A couple of the barbers touched his hair out of real fascination. I know he was having a hard time of it, but I thought Hannes could have popped inside for a minute to satisfy their curiosity.
Ricardo and I bailed out on Hannes and Malle at this point and headed off on our own in search of a post office. Whilst walking around in circles, hopelessly lost, we were approached out of the blue by a young guy in his late teens, who said in English, “Can I help you?”
His name was Nima and he was very keen to practice English, so we forgot about the post office and went for a cola with him in a nearby café. He was a dentistry student, and wanted to meet up with us if and when we came back to Tabriz. He couldn’t stay for long but passed on his details in case we returned. Before he left, he craftily went up and, under the pretext of speaking to the café owner, paid for our drinks. Iranians sure are generous people.
Ricardo still needed to book his bus ticket and get back to his hotel to pack all his gear up, so we quickly got down to the ticket office. After squaring up there, we started the long walk back to his hotel, where on the way we met the most amazing character imaginable.
He approached us like the student before from out of nowhere and with the same greeting: “Can I help you?” There was nothing we needed help with but it was a rhetorical question anyway. With manic enthusiasm, he fired off a volley of words at breakneck speed.
“I want my daughter be superstar!” he exclaimed. “She is singer very good, oh yes!”
“And your son?” Ricardo queried.
“He just be accountant.”
“How old are they?” I asked.
“She is six; he is seven!”
“Are you married?” he asked me in a fraction of the time it would take a normal person to say three words. I told him I wasn’t and was expecting the usual condolences but instead got, “You are very lucky man; it be far better to be single!”
This was a shock to me and to Ricardo who’d obviously already had the same treatment as I had for being single.
“But surely you are married if you have children,” I
The milkshake shop was great, and we were greeted there with warm handshakes and smiles from the staff—all of us except Malle that is, who was ignored. After an animated sales pitch from me to Ricardo on the promised savings of Mr. Khan’s recommended route, Ricardo changed his plans and decided to tag along to Masuleh with me. This was great news as it would be nice to have some English-speaking company for a bit.
Having failed to pay for just about anything over the last two days with Shahram, I gladly picked up the tab for everybody using a mere fraction of the obscene-sized bank roll I had in my pack.
A round of carrot shakes later and we made a move out onto the street. Here, I saw a small stall selling posters which were simply too good for me to pass by. I purchased one of a stern-looking Khomeini for my friend Nick, one of another bearded religious-looking chap for my friend Chris, and two posters of a big muscled Iranian wrestler hugging his minute little old mother, who was wrapped up in a full black chador and wearing big chunky spectacles. It was exceptional. Down at the bottom of the poster were smaller shots of him in different poses to show his various qualities: family man, philosopher, scholar, man of the people, philanthropist, and all-in bareknuckle wrestler. I got one for my ex-girlfriend and one for my brother. I couldn’t stop laughing at the thought of their reaction upon receiving them in the mail.
Unfortunately for Hannes, we now walked straight past a barber’s shop. On spotting him, all the staff inside went crazy and rushed out, leaving their clients in the chairs. They were amazed at his dreadlocks and invited Hannes inside so they could study his hair. I was keen to go in, but there was no persuading Hannes. A couple of the barbers touched his hair out of real fascination. I know he was having a hard time of it, but I thought Hannes could have popped inside for a minute to satisfy their curiosity.
Ricardo and I bailed out on Hannes and Malle at this point and headed off on our own in search of a post office. Whilst walking around in circles, hopelessly lost, we were approached out of the blue by a young guy in his late teens, who said in English, “Can I help you?”
His name was Nima and he was very keen to practice English, so we forgot about the post office and went for a cola with him in a nearby café. He was a dentistry student, and wanted to meet up with us if and when we came back to Tabriz. He couldn’t stay for long but passed on his details in case we returned. Before he left, he craftily went up and, under the pretext of speaking to the café owner, paid for our drinks. Iranians sure are generous people.
Ricardo still needed to book his bus ticket and get back to his hotel to pack all his gear up, so we quickly got down to the ticket office. After squaring up there, we started the long walk back to his hotel, where on the way we met the most amazing character imaginable.
He approached us like the student before from out of nowhere and with the same greeting: “Can I help you?” There was nothing we needed help with but it was a rhetorical question anyway. With manic enthusiasm, he fired off a volley of words at breakneck speed.
“I want my daughter be superstar!” he exclaimed. “She is singer very good, oh yes!”
“And your son?” Ricardo queried.
“He just be accountant.”
“How old are they?” I asked.
“She is six; he is seven!”
“Are you married?” he asked me in a fraction of the time it would take a normal person to say three words. I told him I wasn’t and was expecting the usual condolences but instead got, “You are very lucky man; it be far better to be single!”
This was a shock to me and to Ricardo who’d obviously already had the same treatment as I had for being single.
“But surely you are married if you have children,” I
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