When surprises cease to surprise

by Tim McGlone (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Iran

A teenage boy pointed his gun at me, as I crouched nervously on my haunches. We were squatting with about 20 others in a circle while the leader, a smartly dressed man with a beard, was conducting things from the centre of the ring. There must have been 200 other men with us in the large, lavishly decorated room. They had all warned us not to go to Iran. “What would you want to go there for?” was the most common reaction, and Mum certainly wasn’t pleased. I thought of this as we waited for the situation unfold. It was a common theme throughout our trip to have no clue what was about to happen next, and this was certainly no exception. I looked at Henri, who was doing well to conceal his terror. We were petrified at being called into the middle. There was just no way we could possibly match the dancing, all fluid and sinuous and with genuine affection. The circle was filled with guests at the wedding we’d been invited to, the smartly dressed man the groom, a cousin of Hamid, the friend we’d made in Isfahan. The boy’s gun was his fingers twisted into the shape of a gun, part of a game in which he would occasionally point at me in fits of laughter until I returned fire. The groom was now dancing with everyone one by one, and it was our turn soon. It is worth mentioning that we had only met Hamid two days earlier, almost too predictably over a cup of chai in a carpet shop. His willingness to acquire extra invitations for two white westerners, with no commercial gain on his end, was our first introduction to the famed level of Iranian hospitality. Weddings in the Islamic Republic are often split into two parties based on gender. We’d watched at the start of the night as the bride and groom walked down an extravagant aisle to sparks and flares, releasing two white doves into the night sky, before saying goodbye to the girls and going into a separate hall. What followed was six hours of food, dancing and selfies. Happy and gregarious Iranian men came from everywhere to introduce themselves, hugging and kissing and welcoming us to Isfahan. After our turn in the middle we were beckoned over to the table of Imam, a tall and mischievous looking character in Hamid’s endless line of cousins. With a dangerous look in his eye he reached into his jacket and pulled out no less than 20 small cucumbers, placing them on the table. This seemed extraordinarily random but we didn’t dare question it, given Iran’s aforementioned penchant for producing surprises. The cucumbers turned out to be chasers for arak, a lethal home-brew spirit which I found almost undrinkable, but ended up drinking quite a lot of. While alcohol is illegal nationwide, a blind eye is turned to family occasions. After an incredible feast and more dancing to the DJ’s eclectic mix of Arab-disco and Pitbull (he truly is Mr. Worldwide) we filed out of the building, waving goodbye to the happy couple as they drove away. This however, proved to be a false conclusion. With Hamid at the wheel and nine passengers, we sped off after the newlyweds in a convoy totaling 30 cars, all swerving and maneuvering at high speed and waving white towels out of the window on a busy highway. The game seemed to be to get as close to the bride and groom’s chariot as possible, without touching it. Every ten minutes or so there was yet more dancing and fireworks down a sandy alley, before piling back into the car for more cat and mouse. The race ended at the bride’s mother’s house near the desert, where a sheep was unexpectedly slaughtered in the name of love. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, we turned around to find our taxi driver from the start of the night ready to take us home – having waited for us for six hours and kept up with us in the speedy procession. We might have been surprised by this level of kindness but by now, we were getting used to it.