Speedos and Citadels

What’s your name? What’s your occupation? What are you doing in Kish? A burly airport manager bellowed these questions as I sat in a musky office. Interrogation was the only welcome extended by the Islamic Republic of Iran. Even though the small island of Kish, nestled between mainland Iran and Gulf States, is still open to the West; I have never felt so alienated. While this welcome was unorthodox, eventually I was permitted to stay for two entire days.
Night had fallen by the time I entered a cab headed towards my new home, a dilapidated hostel for lost tourists. As the windows rolled down to provide relief from the stuffy vehicle, exotic smells of flowers and dark silhouettes filled my senses calming any remaining fears. Sleep came quickly that night replenishing my depleted strength.
Shortly after daybreak I searched for a licensed cab. It took little time to learn haggling over taxi fares was not my forte. Communication was broken as English is unknown but the taxi drivers made it clear I was stealing from them when asked for the same rate the locals paid. After much arguing and a crumpled 50,000 Rial bill, the sea rose before me.
Upon arriving, I realized why Kish is the pearl of Iran. The gentle breeze whisked away any problems of airports and taxis and the clear turquoise waters brought Iranian elites to life. Iranian men water skied in tight Speedos while the women sat under palm trees smothered in black robes. Never before have I seen such stark contrast with the men following the West and the women locked in tradition even on the humid salty sand. Even so, the horses triumphantly trotting and the women’s giggling rising from the shore showed me that happiness was still present on Kish Island.
I found my happiness in another area of that resort island. Sitting cautiously in the rear of a rusty taxi I was told of ancient ruins hidden among dunes of sand. He sped off with me as his captive. Seeing my distraught he provided a complimentary smoke and chewing gum; a small act of compassion in a hostile world. Wandering through those ancient ruins I was not alone. Surrounding me where a multitude of visitors speaking snippets of French, Arabic, Persian and even English. The ruins seemed alive, exhaling musk and swaying with the black clothes of visitors. Nothing brings people together like an 800 hundred year old citadel.
Stamped in my worn out passport is the date of my departure. During this trip terror tingled through my spine, sights bombarded my senses, and culture clashed and combined. Just as departure time arrived, a plane entered the scenic airport of Kish carrying the president of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Armed guards stood at all corners with adults’ wrinkled noses pressing against the glass panes like children in an aquarium trying catch a glimpse. In two days I was given a crash course into Iranian culture, and I passed.