Hijabs, Hitchhiking and Hangovers: Lessons from Iran

Prologue

“Look, Mum, a foreigner!”
The boy pointed as he yelled in Farsi into his mother’s left ear. Nobody ever

knew I could understand every word. He looked around ten years old, not quite old enough to sit in the male section of the underground. He had gallantly offered his mother a seat as he stood protectively nearby. Most of my fellow female passengers had politely refrained from staring for uncomfortable lengths of time, but the boy stared, mouth agape. The boy’s mother was opposite me. She leant across the crowded women’s carriage and spoke softly,

“Where are you from? Why are you in Iran?” Her forehead furrowed. My appearance had sparked her maternal instinct. I was exhausted after a hectic week of both studying and socialising. I had been exploring Enghelab, the university district, in an attempt to buy a new Persian dictionary. At least, the busy underground always offered a welcome escape from the dry afternoon heat. The lady was dressed fashionably and had dyed blonde hair styled in a bob that was visible from the front of her hijab as she tilted her head forward to hear my reply.

“I’m from England. I’m studying Farsi,” I mumbled in my best Farsi, slowly pronouncing each word. I was afraid the clamour of the train would make it near impossible to understand my attempt at a Persian accent.

“My name is Neda. I give you my number. Any problems, you call me okay?” She reached for my phone to type in her digits.

“Why would you come here? We all want to go to England,” her son added in confusion. I gave my rehearsed response;

“Iran is so beautiful. I love it here. Nothing like the media says.” I smiled at the boy, who was amazed by the fact I could somehow communicate in his mother tongue.

“Even hijab?” whispered Neda, leaning in even closer. The carriage was busy and she clearly didn’t want this question to be heard by some of the other women.

“It’s okay.” I shrugged. “It means I don’t need to style my hair every day. It’s one less thing to worry about in the mornings,” I replied to Neda, who found this hilarious. Our conversation was clearly a prompt for her to bring her hijab closer around her head as she smiled cheekily.

“Is your mother not scared you are here alone?” Neda pressed, still in amazement I was sitting in front of her. She reached across to hold my hand with her immaculately manicured gel nails.

“She misses me very much,” I said.

“Promise me you will come for Persian food with us?” demanded Neda as her son reminded her that it was nearly their stop by tugging his mother’s long manteau. They waved me goodbye through the closing carriage doors as I continued my journey further North, back to my accommodation.

Hijab Art: Lesson One

I pulled my hair back tightly into a ponytail. I wrestled every last strand into its pliable prison, the sound of stragglers crackling off and floating to the plane’s bathroom floor or sticking statically to my black skinny jeans.

I hated ponytails as they drew attention to my mousy mane, but the various YouTube tutorials on hijabs that I’d watched in the safety of the British countryside had all insisted on this trick for beginners. Now that I had attempted to manage my unruly swirl, I manoeuvred myself sideways in the airplane bathroom to allow the sole of my right trainer to rest against the wall, my knee grazing the moulded plastic sink opposite me. This gave me enough surface area and stability to fold my black cotton scarf neatly on top of my right thigh.

I stared at my reflection, dotted with toothpaste marks, indicating that we were nearing the end of the overnight flight from London Heathrow to Dubai. I lay the folded edge of the scarf against my forehead, making sure my hairline was concealed. Slowly I pulled the cloth down over my ears towards my chin, unfurling its creases with a false expertise. I looped one end of the scarf tightly around my neck like a noose and let the other end of generous material fall down the front of my unbuttoned rumpled tunic, cloaking my bare neckline. I scrutinised my art, jiggling my head around to see if it would slide off. It held firm. I smirked at the stranger in front of me.

My ponytail poked out of the top of my hijab like a horn and the black cloth drooped down by my pale cheeks. My focus now centred on my oily skin and tired eyes, bloodshot and encircled with dark smudges. I inspected my reflection from all angles, carefully smoothing down stray curls, now auburn in the orange florescence and tucked them under the coal fabric. I didn’t know much about Allah, but it was weird to be wearing a headscarf with no personal religious affiliation.

I can’t have been the only one. Plenty of Iranian women must feel uncomfortable about the idea of compulsory hijab, but I tried to view it now as an accessory, romantically imagining myself as one of those film stars from the sixties who used to wear silk headscarves. Isadora Duncan’s silk scarf got caught in the rear wheel of her open car, strangling her to death and she has gone down in history.

I bundled my scarf into a ball and headed back to my row, stabilising myself on the grey speckled seats. I was in an aisle seat for the six-hour journey, so I didn’t have to wake any dozing passengers as I shuffled inelegantly, stepping over feet that had wandered out of their designated areas of confinement in economy class. Snores reverberated from the man to my left. He was from the North of England, somewhere near Manchester, he had said. I recalled our conversation a few hours earlier.

“You alright love?” he said as I approached my seat, scattering my passport, headphones, plane ticket, rucksack and black shawl clumsily all over the aisle.

“Yes, and you?” I replied politely as I attempted to gather my belongings and stow them away safely under my seat before the next wave of passengers reached the back of the plane.

“You don’t look alright,” he remarked, observing with amusement as I awkwardly faffed around. I was taken aback by his directness, but then again, he was from the North. I had a system for long haul flights. Water, lip balm and hand sanitiser must be in the pocket in front of me at all times and a book is essential for me to feel at ease before take-off. To get me in the mood for a year in Iran I had brought my copy of City of Lies by Ramita Navai. I delicately placed it next to my rucksack by my feet. The book covered themes from sex, drugs, prostitution and hypocrisy in Tehran and was subsequently banned by the Islamic regime. I knew I had to finish it before I got on the connecting flight in Dubai.

“What are you up to in Dubai then?” he asked once I was settled and buckled into my seat, with my things neatly aligned in front of me. I patted my hands, wrists, and face with hand sanitiser and offered some to the man who shook his head, while making a weird duck face.

“I’m just passing through. I’m going to Iran, actually. There are no direct flights from London.” The man gaped at me, then laughed while staring at me as if to evaluate my chances of survival.

“Isn’t there a war there or something?” he inquired, leaning in close enough for me to smell the bold aroma of beer emanating off his whole person.

“No war. Definitely not. It is perfectly safe there. I’m just going to study Farsi,” I said as if reassuring myself. I left out that there were still red Foreign Office restrictions against travelling to Iran. This man was judging me to be incapable and I didn’t want to add nuclear sanctions into the mix of complications.

“Is that like the Latin of the Middle East? Do they not speak Arabic there?” he asked.

“No, it’s a modern language. You can call it Persian too,” I explained. I was used to having this type of conversation with most of my friends from University. From a group of supposed intellectuals, it was disappointing how little people knew about Iran.

“Christ, your friends and family must be worried,” he said, chuckling as he wiggled to find a comfortable position in his seat.

“Well I did receive more messages this week than I did on my birthday this year,” I mentioned, only half-joking. It was a sad fact. My trip to Iran had prompted more well-wishing emails, texts and cards than my twentieth birthday. Thankfully before being trapped in a six-hour conversation explaining all intricacies of my journey to a man who clearly predicted an early death, the beer did its job and he fell fast asleep for the remainder of the flight.

I now stared at the snoring man to my left, envious of his ability to sleep. I returned to using my hijab as a blanket against the chill from the air conditioning and attempted to ready myself mentally for the second stint of the journey as we descended into Dubai. I was filled with an overwhelming anxiety.

My three fellow classmates who could have shared this journey with me, had all made different plans, opting to focus on the Arabic language or travelling separately to stay with their Iranian family abroad. As the crowd trickled from the plane to arrivals, I couldn’t trace a single smile in the hordes nor an ounce of inspiration from the blank surfaces of faces that headed further into the airport. Time stood still in this frenzy of complex identities and this seething mass of bodies elbowed, shoved and shouted through the terminal.

Dubai airport reflects its oil wealth. It is a strange combination of the opulence of designer shops combined with weary travellers sleeping like curled up dogs or dragging their lethargic bodies and sellotaped suitcases past a surprisingly busy Mulberry in the early hours. It is a hub for travellers and a simple pit stop. You become one of the many raggedy drifters passing through this time machine.

I examined my Iran visa as I sidestepped through the crowds to my connection. I kept impulsively checking it was still safely between the pages of my passport, afraid my visa photo wasn’t Islamic enough. After all, how would I know? I felt underprepared and had received little support from the University. The Middle Eastern Faculty was famous for its laissez-faire approach. The fact I was a twenty-year-old woman heading to Iran alone, in spite of Foreign Office restrictions and with no family or friends out there, was daunting to say the least. I could always turn around, go home and forsake that incredibly costly crested sheet of A4 paper, known as a Cambridge degree.

I studied my visa again. It had taken months to finally be notified I was able to pick it up in Dublin, the closest functioning embassy to the UK that maintained relations with Iran. My expressionless face was wrapped in uneven black material, which was for all purpose’s sake, a hijab. I had grabbed my friend’s thin, black jumper to use as a veil which I had pulled around my head, tying the sleeves around my neck like a ribbon. When combined with the high exposure of the photo booth in Boots, this surprisingly did the job. We had giggled about it afterwards, saying how I should walk around the streets of Iran with a black polyester jumper resting on my head. I smiled fondly at the memory that, for a brief moment had taken me back to England. My friends would be getting ready for a summer of sunbathing, parties, Pimm’s, crop tops and boys.

I don’t know what it was that made me cross the threshold of that plane to Tehran. I guess I was already halfway there and the only option was to continue. I shuffled down the aisle behind a sweaty man who was coughing violently. He hunched ever so slightly forward to ease his breathing as his cough whistled to a stop. I presumed it was a smoker’s cough, yet just in case I held my breath so that I might avoid inhaling a germ or two. Combined with trying to avoid sucking in the waves of chemicals from the plane’s ventilation, my lack of oxygen triggered my panic attack. To make matters worse, my allocated seat was so misshapen that it dug unpleasantly into my spine, forcing me to sit awkwardly sideways for two and a half hours from Dubai to Tehran. Luckily, the plane was eerily empty, so I could stretch my legs diagonally across the two shabby rear seats and place my forehead against the cold glass of the window to cool off and calm down. As I surveyed the gloomy hollow tube from my unusual seating position, I settled my nerves with the idea of my escape-in-progress.

I was still heartbroken. My first love had dumped me at the end of term without explanation. It had been the unforgettable grey day that I had finished

my second-year exams. My elation had swiftly come to an end as he finished with me outside King’s College on King’s Parade in Cambridge, a busy street rammed with tourists and reluctant students on their way to lectures. Everyone always wisely tells you it will get better; the pain will go away. It is more of an obsession than real love anyway, a heart ache that is raw, but worsened with naivety.

Going at least 3,417 miles away with minimal internet, blocked skype and generally inaccessible social media was one extreme way to force myself to move on. It was an opportunity to escape everything and everyone. Travelling in a tin box through various time zones made me feel detached from the chaotic university social scene. The plane wing sliced through the clouds like cutting through dimensions. I could have been anywhere as we glided through the never- ending mist as I let the gentle hum of the engine rock me into a dose.

I was stirred back into my reality by the intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be commencing our descent into Tehran, please ensure your seatbelts are fastened.” The plane was beginning its downward journey into the unknown, clouds melting like icebergs and I realised I would have to tie my hijab for real this time. Should I put it on now? Am I in Iran if I’m on the plane? I glanced around the cabin to try and spot a fellow female traveller. There’s one, and only two rows in front. Perfect. I would simply copy what she does. I studied her exact movements as she loosely enveloped her dyed blond hair with a silk Hermès headscarf. She fashionably let some golden strands of fringe cascade down her forehead in an effortlessly glamourous manner. She hadn’t even bothered tying her hair in a ponytail but had gathered her locks into a low bun. I held my black scarf in my lap with both hands. The untidy bundle was now slightly damp with sweat. I didn’t want to stand out as a foreigner and I hated being bad at anything, and this included wearing a hijab. I could not possibly allow myself to fail at the first hurdle. Copying the lady in front, I covered my hair with my shabby scarf, with as much confidence as I could muster, resting the material, as practised on my ponytail. The Cabin had suddenly come to life with an array of colourful headscarves, my own a shadow amid the vibrant shades. Following the other women by example, I dared to leave an inch of my hairline showing. I stepped off the plane with slightly more confidence than when I was staring at my hijab-art in the airplane bathroom.

***

I approached a man in murky green uniform. His rugged black beard framed his face and he hunched over both his protruding belly and desk as he methodically checked each page of everyone’s passports. I awaited my turn. “Why are you in Iran?” he asked as I tiptoed forwards on the polished white tiles underfoot that reflected every ray of manmade light in the room. He frowned as he removed the hot pink leather passport cover to better inspect my visa. He began flicking through the pages as if shuffling a pack of cards, almost generating a light breeze from the pace.

“Why am I in Iran?” I mumbled as if confused he could ask such a blatant question. I was expecting some trick questions and an interrogation at the very least. “Oh yes! Erm. My studies. My studies. Dars,” I replied with enthusiasm. I smiled smugly at the guard when I said the Farsi for ‘studies’. I waited for him to react to my Farsi vocabulary, but he didn’t even look up from my visa page. I don’t know what I was hoping for, a round of applause, an iced tea or a flower garland perhaps? I reached protectively for the pink case that my mother had bought me as a going-away gift. She had spent hours perusing brands and colours online, finally settling on Aspinal of London. I knew she would not want it getting bashed around by a heavy-handed security guard.

The man continued to analyse the pages of my passport for an uncomfortable length of time. I tried to play it cool by diverting my gaze to the initials engraved on my passport cover and I fiddled with the hem of my tunic with my restless hands, tugging it further over my hips and thighs. The linen had become creased during the journey, so what began as a respectful curve-concealing ensemble, now barely covered my bottom. Although it was hard to tell whether the guard was satisfied, I think I saw him nod as he slid my passport over the counter, so I trundled uncertainly forwards, turning back just before I passed through the doors to make sure I was really allowed to go through. The guard had moved onto his next objective, so I hurried through passport control before it was too late. It felt like I had passed the next level of a video game.

The spectacle of bright white knees and dazzling shins alerted me to the presence of a fellow tourist. I followed behind the middle-aged Western fellow wearing khaki knee-length shorts towards baggage reclaim. They were the shorts one would imagine the typical tourist to wear, with all the pockets and zips that are designed, above all, for functionality. He had also not perfected his Islamic dress as shorts are not permitted in Iran. I toyed with the idea of mentioning this to him, but I decided against it as he kept on taking deep breaths as he looked down at his pallid pins. It was comforting to see how, despite his illegal dress, he had made it through passport control. I hovered near him to share some invisible camaraderie. As I awaited my suitcase, I too examined my modesty and tilted my chin and eyes downwards to confirm that the three buttons on the upper section of my tunic were still done up. I chuckled to myself because I could look down at an awkward angle, yet my double chins were completely hidden by the scarf. It was an unexpected positive of my new headpiece.

The cobalt blue of my Cath Kidston bag instantly caught my eye in the drab arrival’s terminal. The suitcase moved slowly towards me like one of the most expensive plates at Yo Sushi, except this time my mouth was dry with distress rather than watering in anticipation. Heaps of passengers had gathered around the conveyor belt and my heart sunk as my bag turned the bend onto the main chunk of belt. After all, there was only one baggage reclaim and of course, only one polka-dotted bag.

I was desperately attempting to not cause offence and remain inconspicuous, but the ridiculously loud pattern had already been noticed by a small child who pointed at it while tugging her mother’s hand. I jostled sheepishly through the masses to claim my luggage. I lunged for the handle from within the throng and twisted the suitcase weirdly off the belt, yanking it with all my might while still trying not to bend over. I knew that if I leant forward too far, the shape of my bottom would become visible in my well-worn black skinny jeans. In an airport full of security and police, scanning suitcases for anyone daring to bring illegal items into Iran, such as pork or alcohol, I felt even more ridiculous for drawing attention to myself. Suitcase in hand, a cheery man waved me through arrivals. His grey-haired colleague randomly picked passengers to place their baggage in the x-ray machine and other suitcases, large and small, lay open on the floor ready for inspection. It had all been too easy so far. I hadn’t even been taken aside for any suitcase-scanning. Perhaps my bag was so bright, no one would think it could be suspicious.

People milled around, adjusted their hijabs and headed towards the exit. I veered towards the phone stand plonked deliberately to the left of security to ensnare needy tourists, the automatic doors still in the corner of my eye as if a reminder of the inevitable. One of the few pieces of advice given by the university was to buy a sim card at this location. The higgledy-piggledy shops in central Tehran would supposedly be an impossible task for a newcomer. By waving my iPhone around, together with some broken Farsi, I procured a sim-card from the young vendor. He smirked at me but watched patiently as I flicked my hands around in a combination of strange hand gestures. He had probably allowed the theatre sketch to continue for his own amusement, but within a few minutes my phone had been Iranified by his nimble fingers and I was ready to follow the remaining passengers through the sliding doors.

The scorching summer sun reflected off the tarmac and I felt the dry heat swallow me whole. The haze from the exhaust fumes cloaked me like a second skin as I inhaled the air that is particularly rotten and dirty around airports. Beyond the airport terminal were rows of undergrown, unhealthy bushes lining the dusty road. My eyes began to sting and the bright outdoors was a blur as my vision adjusted from the dark interior of the building. I squinted to make out the figures that moved all around me in the fray of taxis, tourists and suitcases. I was in the grip of silent panic, a heart racing, brain-frying fluster. I tried to remember the next steps I had rehearsed again and again on the plane. As if to wake me from my own nightmare, my phone rang. I recognised the low rumble of the vendor’s voice. He had provided me with a new Iranian number but had also kept it for himself. As the same number popped up again and again on my screen, I continued to hang up on his calls while waddling forward towards the beeping of car horns. The taxi rank was my next objective. Taxi drivers shouted to one another, exchanging cigarettes over their dented yellow and green cars.

‘Come on Rose, you can do this, just go and speak to a taxi driver.’ I was tempted to walk back into the arrivals hall and wait until I gained some confidence, but I was also aware that the sim card vendor was back inside and I did not want him to think I was going back for him. I headed closer towards the chaos.

“khanom, khanom (miss, miss),” a pair of bearded men screeched at me while others flocked to help me with my suitcase, knowing whoever I allowed to carry my luggage would be my designated driver. Although I welcomed the help by this point, this gallantry was clearly a means to entice me into their taxis where they could charge a higher price from the bewildered foreigner. I chose a driver who had the recommended ‘Safar o Seir’ logo painted onto his car. He charged 700,000 rials, around fifteen British pounds, which I knew from my extensive studying of the tour guide was slightly too high a price for this particular journey, but I was too shy and exhausted to protest. I plonked myself down in the back of the dented car on some fake leather seats that made me sticky with sweat. The cab pulled away and I was relieved to escape the hustle and bustle of the airport.

I was thankful my mother had insisted on packing clothes made out of natural fibres as my linen tunic limited my sweating in the 38-degree July heat, amplified in the sauna-like box of this car.