Honeymoon in Purdah: An Iranian Journey

by Alison Wearing

Overview

The beautifully written travel memoir of a Western woman's journey in Iran.

With a love of travel, Alison Wearing invites us to journey with her to Iran—a country that few Westerners have a chance to see. Traveling with a male friend, in the guise of a couple on their honeymoon, Wearing set out on her own at every available opportunity. She went looking for what lay beneath the media's representation of Iran and found a country made up of welcoming, curious, warmhearted, ambitious men and women.

With humor and compassion, Wearing gives Iranians the chance to wander beyond headlines and stereotypes, and in doing so, reveals the poetry of their lives—those whose lives extend beyond Western news stories of kidnapping, terrorism, veiled women, and Islamic fundamentalism.

"With this engrossing account, Wearing casts a sympathetic eye on the real people of Iran, so often invisible to the West."—Publishers Weekly

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780312263447
Publisher:	Picador
Publication date:	12/07/2001
Edition description:	First Edition
Pages:	336
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.75(d)

About the Author

Alison Wearing is a journalist and travel writer. She lives in Canada, where she has received the National Magazine Award and the Western Canada Magazine Award. Honeymoon in Purdah is her first book.

Read an Excerpt

On the main street, tin-box cars race along like go-karts. There are no traffic lights, therefore no pattern of movement, no lulls or rushes, only a steady stream of cars moving as fast as they can without crashing. As a result, there is no opportune time to cross. The only thing to do is swallow hard and make a run for it. And not expect oncoming cars to make allowances.

The reason we are so determined to cross is that I see colour, there--No, look: over there, no, there, in the window. Circles of bright orange, canary yellow, two shades of green, lurid pink with black spots.

Carrots. Carrots and grapefruits and oranges and watermelons and bananas, all piled up in the window into a fruit mosaic.

Behind the counter is a young boy, looks about ten, an orange press, a blender and a juicing machine. I sound out the words from the list on the wall and am so excited by the idea of a fresh juice, I projectile-salivate when I open my mouth to order. "Yek--" Oops, sorry. (Wipe.) "Yek livan ab portegal lotfan."

The boy blinks a hundred times as he is cutting oranges in half. Looks at us from the corner of one eye as he is pressing the fruit into juice, gives an embarrassed smile as he hands me the glass. A smile that grows as I swallow the contents in one long gulp.

I order another one each.

He looks at us face-on now, even as he is halving fruit with a knife the length of his forearm. He serves up two more pulpy juices and crosses his arms over his chest, proudly. We drink these just as quickly, replace the glasses and thank him. Move to pay.

The boy steps back. He tilts his head shyly and waves our money away.

Iantries again with a different amount, but the boy tosses his head back in refusal, raises his hand to his heart and closes his eyes.

Ian and I exchange smiles of disbelief and put the money away. We thank the boy again and again. Each time, he nods and looks embarrassed. We thank him once more before leaving. The boy smiles and shrugs. We step back onto the street.

--

"That was generous!" Ian and I say in unison. "What a sweet boy! So gracious! I wonder if the whole country will be like this!" Ian checks his watch. "We should head back."

We walk back to the intersection and are gearing ourselves up to cross when the boy catches up to us, panting, eyes brimming with tears. He looks at the sidewalk, red-faced, and asks Ian, in a combination of hand gestures and humble whispers, if we could please pay for our juices.

I pull out a roll of bills and ask the boy how much. He mumbles the price out of the corner of his mouth. Seven hundred rials. Exactly what was written on the wall. The precise sum we offered him a few minutes ago. I pay. The boy bows and leaves. Ian and I watch him run back into his shop, turn, and look at each other with the dopey expression of walruses.

--

Hamid is beside himself with worry. He speaks for minutes at a time and has a voice like grape jelly. Did we have difficulties? Was everything enough interesting? Have we enough eating and drinking?

"Yes yes yes, just fine. Except . . . well there was this boy at the juice shop. He refused our money, then chased us down the street for it a few minutes later. We're not sure whether he--"

"--this is taarof." Hamid is laughing. "I think it is not Canadian taarof, only Iranian. A man must not take first time, no, he must not accept--" Hamid tsks and throws his head back, just as the boy did

"--then again second time--" he closes his eyes and puts a hand over his heart "--then, third time okay for taking. It is custom."

"Custom to refuse everything twice?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why?" Hamid repeats.

"Yes, why?"

Hamid pauses. Wrinkles his chin. "Why, it is not good question. Please make me another question."

***

Ian is ill. Just a cold, but a bad one. He's been in bed the last two days. Headache, fever, chills, a cough, and a throat so sore it hurts to swallow.

Hamid is worried, terribly terribly worried. Paces and holds his head when I tell him that Ian isn't hungry. Looks teary-eyed when I tell him Ian has a cold. Shakes his head and gathers the roll of blankets in the corner of the room.

"No no, there are enough blankets. He isn't cold, he has a cold." I look the phrase up in my book, but it isn't there. I cough and fake the sniffles. Hamid purses his lips. Looks up a word up in his Farsi-English dictionary (bought especially for our visit) and shows me an entry translated as Windpipe disease: infibulation of the neck and sinus holes.

I nod.

Hamid calls a friend whose uncle is a doctor. After the examination and several glasses of tea, the doctor says he has just the thing for Ian's condition. A special medication from America, given to him by his wife's cousin, whose husband's nephew lives in Los Angeles. The doctor has only one pill left, but he is happy to give it to Ian. He reaches into his bag and passes Hamid a pill wrapped in paper and plastic. Hamid passes it to me. I take it to Ian. It is something called Dristan.

Table of Contents

	The Small Speed Bus	1
	Wall Comb Frans	19
	Dinner with the Shah	55
	We Seek the Truth	85
	Confession	99
	Seex-meel-yun-do-lur-men	121
	Mister Canada, We Take Your Wife	145
	The Greatest Tea House in Iran	169
	So Much Ridiculous	195
	An Angel at the Airport	231
	The Colour of Old Blood	245
	I Martyr No Am	267
	The Act of Respiration	285
	Iran Khoob	303
	Acknowledgments	321

Editorial Reviews

Wise, compassionate, amused, and amusing, Alison Wearing is the ideal traveling companion.” —Paul William Roberts, author of The Demonic Comedy: Some Detours in the Baghdad of Saddam Hussein

“Written with great humor, candor, and tenderness, Honeymoon in Purdah transformed Iran from a country I formerly associated with fear and black cloth and oppression to a place of a thousand colors and tastes and kindnesses.” —Jamie Zeppa, author of Beyond the Sky and Earth: A Journey Into Bhutan

“A vivid and endearing picture of Iran's people.” —Independent on Sunday

“With this engrossing account, Wearing casts a sympathetic eye on the real people of Iran, so often invisible to the West.” —Publishers Weekly

“A vivid sketch of a lively, wonderfully hospitable, but utterly lost society under the hell of religious tyranny.” —Kirkus Reviews

From the Publisher

Written with great humor, candor, and tenderness, Honeymoon in Purdah transformed Iran from a country I formerly associated with fear and black cloth and oppression to a place of a thousand colors and tastes and kindnesses.

author of Beyond the Sky and Earth: A Journey Jamie Zeppa

Wise, compassionate, amused, and amusing, Alison Wearing is the ideal traveling companion.

author of The Demonic Comedy: Some Detours in Paul William Roberts

To blend in on their recent visit to Iran, journalist Wearing and her gay roommate pose as a married couple, complete with wedding rings and a forged marriage certificate. Wearing also purchases a chaador (literally "tent"), made of heavy black polyester, which she wears throughout her journey--110-degree heat notwithstanding. From that point forward, the friends can't go anywhere without receiving copious offers of gifts, dinners, invitations into people's homes, free taxi rides and fruit from Iranians who are delighted by the Westerners' attempt to understand and appreciate their customs. The characters Wearing meets are extraordinary in their ordinariness, and the author deftly shows that our opinion of the Middle East is really our opinion of Middle Eastern government. She seeks out the most intriguing of the people around her, then steps back and lets them take center stage. Tip, for instance, spent 12 years in California. Now in his early 20s, he's been stuck in Iran doing odd jobs for three dollars a day, so to save money he started a side business selling opium. Another Iranian they meet, deeply religious, explains to them why Iran is superior to the West, while other Iranians apologize profusely for the conditions of their country since the fall of the Shah 20 years ago. Wearing lets readers glimpse the anti-Americanism, oppression and miserably inefficient bureaucracy portrayed in the American news, but again and again she demonstrates the generosity of the Iranians. With this engrossing account, Wearing casts a sympathetic eye on the real people of Iran, so often invisible to the West. (Nov.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

One can only applaud Canadian journalist and travel writer Wearing for her evenhanded reportage of a five-month journey through Iran. Traveling in the company of pseudo-husband (her gay male roommate), Wearing sets out to explore a country replete with contradictions and to record her experiences with compassion, humor, and objective observation. The natural hospitality of the Iranian people is a constant thread throughout the author's journey; for example, new acquaintances go in search of candy as a busload of people cheerfully delay their departure to accommodate the casual query of the Canadians for a place to buy chocolate bars. All is not wonderful in Iran, and Wearing doesn't gloss over the restrictive atmosphere that particularly affects women. Through her stay, she agrees to address as an Iranian woman despite the discomfort of being swathed in fabric from head to toe. The moments of high humor are delicious, as when Wearing's "husband" is informed by telephone, "Mr. Canada, we take your wife. We make her cold" when a kind family takes her for a drive in the countryside to cool off. This is a very special travel, both entertaining and enlightening. Highly recommended.-Janet Ross, Sparks Branch Lib., NV

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