On the Streets of Tehran and Kabul…
WAR STORIES By Phil Cohen
Editor’s Note: This is Part I of Phil’s three-part saga chronicling his harrowing days trying to eke out a living on the streets of Tehran and Kabul just prior to the Iranian Revolution and Russia's invasion of Afghanistan.
The road goes on forever and the party never ends – Robert Earl Keen
In 1976, I’d been driving medallion taxis in New York City for two years, working several long night shifts per week, sufficient to pay the rent on my small apartment. I found myself living a lifestyle similar to the Robert De Niro character in Taxi Driver, the ultimate cinematic portrayal of a lonely job in the heart of urban ugliness, violence and alienation.
I still hadn’t recovered from breaking up with the girl I considered my eternal soulmate, and several magazines where I’d been writing went out of business during the recession. There was no purpose to my existence other than staying alive on the streets at night and remaining sane during the day. It was time to fold my cards and deal myself a new hand.
I had a friend who’d travelled through Asia several years before, gone native in India, learned the language, and became involved in agricultural projects. His letters described a primitive, beautiful world that sounded like the opposite of everything I’d lived. It also contained an open invitation. For six months, I worked round-the-clock, saving $2,000 for a ticket to Brussels, which was the cheapest flight available.
I took a two-day train ride to Athens, got on a ferry and relaxed for three months in the Greek Islands. From there, I began the long overland journey across Asia, traveling tenth class on domestic busses and staying in cheap hotels. I planned to make my remaining $1,500 last a year.
During a chilly November night, I was heading east down the highways of Iran on a bus filled with members of the local population and three tourists–a pair of young men from Switzerland and one man from Australia. At 3 a.m., the driver suddenly pulled over in the slums of Tehran and ordered all foreigners to disembark.
“Can’t you at least drop us at a hotel?” I asked.
“No! You get off here! Ride finished!”
Three minutes later, I was standing with the other Westerners, encircled by our belongings on a dark street that experience and instinct told me was in a very dangerous neighborhood. The pavement was lit by two huge bonfires surrounded by migrants from neighboring countries looking for work. “We need to stick together, keep our eyes open and find a hotel as quickly as possible,” I told my new acquaintances.
“Why? There is nothing to be afraid of. The Persian people are all nice people. We should all split up so we can cover more ground,” said one of the Swiss kids as the others nodded their heads in approval. I discovered myself in the company of the most arrogantly naïve people I’d ever met.
“I’ll tell you why!” I responded. “I’ve spent my life in places like this. For you it’s the first time. If you go off on your own, fifty-fifty you’ll get your throat slit. There’s safety in numbers. Stick with me, do what I tell you and we’ll get through this alive.” Reluctantly the others agreed, but even I didn’t fully comprehend what we were up against.
We walked down several blocks, unlit except by bonfires and encountered our first street gang, only it wasn’t comprised of humans but rather wild dogs. I’d first experienced this in Istanbul where I learned it was common in most Asian cities and the incidence of rabies was high.
“Move slowly to the side but keep walking,” I told my troops. We can’t show any fear or even interest in the dogs. They’re already on alert because we smell different from the locals.”
“I think I should talk to one who looks nice and try petting him,” said one my Swiss companions. “You’re too paranoid about everything.”
“That’s a good idea,” I told him, “if you’re tired of having two hands.”
A few minutes later, we arrived at a modest rooming house with a vacancy sign in several languages and little evidence of guests. Grateful we’d survived our excursion, I knocked on the door. Following a short wait, a man in pajamas appeared, glanced at us and said, “All full! No rooms! You go!”
“The place looks empty,” I replied. “And we have money. We can all fit into one room if necessary.”
“All full! You go now!” the owner insisted.
We were on a main avenue and continued walking in the same direction for an hour, getting a similar reception from a dozen small hotels. I knew that certain Middle Eastern countries hated Westerners but it was incomprehensible that these small-time proprietors would refuse our business, especially knowing they could easily overcharge us.
“OK, we’ve tried it your way, mate,” said the Australian. “I think our comrades had it right the first time. We split up, go in separate directions and meet back here in an hour. Whoever finds a hotel leads the others to it.” The others enthusiastically proclaimed their agreement.
“I guarantee at least one of us won’t make it back here alive,” I said. “But that person won’t be me because if I find a place, I’m staying put. I’m not risking my life for idiots. What do you think of the hospitality you’ve received so far from the nice Persian people?”
Our small group grudgingly remained together, and twenty minutes later we discovered a flop house for Korean migrant workers where the owner was happy to rent us a dormitory room.
I awoke shortly after dawn and went out on my own to find a restaurant for breakfast. The management of two establishments declined my patronage and angrily ordered me to leave. I continued walking for another mile, lightheaded and ravenous, until finding a run-down joint that didn’t object to my presence. I stood in line at the front where customers were served cafeteria style, dreaming of eggs and coffee, wondering if the cook would be able to understand my preferences. Upon reaching the counter, I learned there was only one item on the menu: a bowl of broth with a ball of dough in the middle. I sat at a rickety wooden table and forced down an extremely spicy liquid, resisting the temptation of local water to extinguish the fire in my throat.
I wanted to get the hell out of this country and decided to find the Afghan embassy and apply for a travel visa. I returned to the dormitory, hoping the English-speaking Korean manager could provide directions. But his only advice was taking a bus downtown where I’d run into foreign businessmen who might be of more assistance.
Following an intolerable wait, I finally boarded a fairly modern bus and approached the ticket clerk who stood beside the driver. “Bus all full. You wait next one,” he said.
I looked around and saw a dozen empty seats. “Bullshit,” I instinctively told him and held some local currency up to his face. The man reluctantly handed me a ticket but withheld my change. It wasn’t enough to worry about so I took a seat.
Downtown Tehran was a whole other universe. In contrast to the third-world squalor of outlying districts, the streets were so clean one could feed a baby off them. I’d never seen such a well kept urban landscape. American businessmen in expensive suits, embellished with cowboy hats and string ties, walked briskly about as if they owned the place. It was immediately obvious these oil tycoons ran the show. One of them provided the necessary directions.
I entered the consulate with passport in hand and filled out a form with standard identity questions, including my occupation. I put down writer. A few minutes later, I presented my documents to an official who casually glanced at them until reaching the line about my employment.
“We don’t usually allow writers into the country unless prior arrangements were made by their news agency,” he said in fluent English. “I can try to put this through but you’ll probably have to wait a month and I can’t make any promises.”
It felt like I’d slammed into a brick wall at a hundred miles per hour and I saw no alternative but to humble myself.
“Well actually, writing is just what I hope to do someday. I make my living as a taxi driver.”
The man looked me over and decided my overall appearance validated the alternate definition of my existence. “Come back in five days,” he told me.
Though travel visas were usually issued immediately, I was now doomed to spend nearly a week in a flop house on the wrong side of town in a city that considered me a pariah. Walking down a crowded street, the hatred permeating the air was so volatile it felt as though if someone lit a match the whole place would explode. “This must be how black people felt down South in the 1950’s,” I thought to myself.
I understood the resentment of living in a society controlled and exploited by Texas oilmen. But this philosophical consideration didn’t offer much comfort or make me feel safe enough to drop my guard for a second.
I forced my way onto another bus and returned to the dormitory. I hadn’t bathed in over a week of hard travel and went looking for a shower but the establishment didn’t offer this accommodation. Instead, I was directed to a nearby public shower.
I stood in line with a small group of men waiting to use the outdoor facility on this cold and windy afternoon. When my turn came, I stepped naked into a shower booth, and was horrified to discover there was no hot water. But I stood tall in the freezing downpour and even washed my hair. Testing the limits of one’s endurance to cold is not an experience worth repeating.
On my second day of exile in the slums of Tehran, I got directions to the public health center where I could get a hepatitis vaccine before venturing further east. As I boarded a bus, the ticket agent attempted to physically shove me down the stairs and out the door. I swung my palm heel into his chest and pushed back hard enough to slam him into the driver’s seat. I quickly approached and politely offered exact change.
The office building to which I’d been provided an address was in an even more immaculate downtown neighborhood than I’d previously observed. However, upon exploration of every floor in the twenty-story structure, I learned it didn’t contain a health center. But it did house a classy restaurant that catered to an international clientele. I invested my dwindling resources on buying a decent meal.
I continued sharing the large room with my unintended entourage, but avoided their company as much as possible. I did meet one interesting fellow – a former helicopter pilot for an oil company who’d augmented his already generous income by smuggling drugs until receiving a tip that the police were closing in. He was now reduced to cowering in low-rent communities, unable to get a travel visa, terrified of spending ten years in a dungeon and the inevitable torture that went with it. The fugitive shared my views about the underlying cause of hostility toward Westerners. Having spent several years in-country, he sensed an imminent revolution, which for him would mean enough chaos for an escape.
After three more days of soaking up hatred and being denied restaurant service, I returned to the Afghan embassy, had the visa stamped on my passport, took a bus to my lodging and packed. I had an awkward array of travel gear: a cloth sleeping bag with a removable inner layer, stuffed with several shirts, underwear, socks and a portable typewriter. It was rolled tightly, bound with a rope and slung over my shoulder, while the other hand carried a quality guitar in a soft case, with the neck wrapped in a scarf for protection. I glanced enviously at the sturdy backpacks lying around the room…but I’d had no idea what to expect when I left home.
I said farewell to my Korean host, hailed a taxi to the bus station and bought a ticket for an 8 p.m. departure to the Afghan border. The five-hour wait passed slowly, sitting in an uncomfortable chair with my feet on the bedroll and tightly gripping the guitar—an all mahogany Favilla, acquired from a Lower East Side hock shop which had purchased the final inventory of a once venerable instrument manufacturer. On two occasions, men passing by looked at me with idiotic grins on their faces and gestured as if strumming a guitar. Finally, my boarding call was announced in various languages and I found a seat on the crowded bus about to depart for the twenty-hour drive down narrow two-lane roads. My fellow passengers were all local working people, as this wasn’t the preferred mode of transportation for the small middle class.
The driver was a grisly middle-aged man who, by appearance and disposition, reminded me of the fictional character "Fred Sanford” from TV. He was accompanied by a young assistant with surprisingly long hair to alternate shifts on the tedious journey. Every few hours, we stopped at a police station where the senior driver presented a device from his rear wheel that documented speed. Citations were issued to those who’d exceeded the limit. After completing each review we’d proceed, periodically passing wrecked vehicles on both sides of the road. We briefly frequented small cafes that only served chi (the word for tea across Asia) and pastries. It wasn’t nutritional, but felt better than an empty stomach.
The secondary driver was at the wheel at around 2 a.m. when I noticed an empty seat by the front window and relocated to enjoy the view of the nearly deserted highway. Suddenly, we came upon several wooden produce carts shattered and strewn across both lanes with half a dozen bodies lying amid the wreckage. There was no stopping distance but the young man kept his wits about him as he tried to navigate a path through the carnage. Just when it seemed he’d pulled it off, a body lying horizontally across the road loomed in our headlights and the wheels bumped as we crushed him beyond recognition.
Our driver panicked and hit the brakes. But the older man stood up waving his hands, gruffly addressing his subordinate in Persian with what I assumed meant, Get the fuck out of here!
Once we were past the accident scene, the senior driver arose once more and led his passengers in prayer for the deceased. I was very touched by the level of sincerity throughout the bus. In some ways it ameliorated my experiences in Tehran and showed me a different side of Iranian culture. If this had happened back home, young guys would have been nudging each other in the ribs snickering, Whoo wee! We sure creamed the piss out of that motherfucker!
The following evening, we arrived at the Afghan border just as the gate shut behind the last vehicle allowed through for the day. Two soldiers entered our bus, inspected passports and then instructed passengers to step outside. I had no idea what they were saying, but followed the crowd into a fairly large customs headquarters where I found the floor covered with people lying on makeshift bedding. Sensing my confusion a bilingual man said, “We sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, van takes us to Herat in Afghanistan.”
I spotted a small opening on the floor across the room and waded through the reclining masses to claim it. After crawling into my sleeping bag, I lashed the guitar to my right arm with the rope used to secure and carry my belongings.
Part II—Welcome to the Tenth Century!