Last Night In Bushehr

Children ride their bicycles through dusty alleys, speeding up so that the humid breeze cools off their sunburnt faces. On the shore, not far from the giant cockleshell, bagpipes can be heard. I slide on the concrete pearl, listening to the sailors and fishmongers singing folk songs; a language so familiar it becomes an accent.
The aroma of succulent fish permeates the entire town, mingling with the breath of the streetside palm trees. I’m assured that after sunset in more than half of the households hot shrimp will be served with white rice. Only a few days here, I’ve already learned how to wash down the burning spice with local dates and tea for dessert.
Not far from the beach stands Rais Ali Delvari in his gray dishdasha. With his right hand, he points towards the north of the city, at the cars orbiting him, at the women wandering in the Friday bazaar. Almost a century ago he fought against British colonialism anchored in the Persian Gulf, yet every now and then curious words in an altered British accent are bittersweet reminiscences for him: To-maa-teh (tomato) or sey (see). Today he can see the Pearl Camp from his spot. Russian employees of the power plant reside in this gated neighborhood, restricted from joining the diaspora.
I can’t tell who is native to this soft sand and the rough trunks of the palm trees. The black-haired Persian Aryans whose tanned skin is almost the same shade as their African fellows’; or the Afro-Iranians whose tale of human possession dominates their history even in a small southern city in Iran.
The diversity has faded in the eyes of the natives, for they are all of the Gulf, accustomed to the power of the tides. One wouldn’t criticize Bushehris for their fast-speaking or dance-like body language. These are the people of the sea, they inherit its movement and zest. A myth well demonstrated in their music that has traveled here all the way from the arid African lands. Men dance and hop in their frayed-edge skirts as they blow into their sheepskin bagpipes. Some play the doumbeks as they lean to their left and right repeatedly, imitating the waves. We too, clap and move back and forth.
The entire city joins in, swinging back and forth, enjoying a life as transient as an evening tide. Even I feel like a native here once I leave my thoughts in the hands of the waves. We know human is rootless, we float on the water. Neither is the sea ours, nor the sand. Yet we dance, knowing we shall pass too. The tides remain, and the rain.