Letter from Iran

A trade delegation to Iran is a rare and memorable occasion. The largest delegation since the end of the Iraq-Iran war comprises about twenty-five businessmen. We arrive at an apparently prestigious hotel in Tehran once part of the Hilton chain. Upon entry we are greeted by a huge banner hanging across the lobby bearing the words ‘Down with American Pigs’.

I guess they don’t like Americans.

We are allocated rooms. Some members of the delegation request a different room but the Iranian organiser is adamant they cannot move. My guess is they have a master plan of the hotel and for security reasons – surely not listening devices – they need to know precisely where everyone is.

Although vehicular traffic in the city of Tehran appears constantly heavy, we have little difficulty in travelling between meetings in several large limousines. Police cars and motorcycle police at the front and rear with strobe lights and blaring sirens make it easy.

As we race through the busiest intersection in Tehran where several roads converge a police outrider stands on his motorbike and stops traffic with arms horizontally stretched. Look at me – no hands! An amazing sight, even for a stunt rider.

Most meetings are held in Tehran but a government aircraft transports a group of us to a fishing village on the Caspian Sea. We visit a processing facility, which is more like a hospital surgery; such is the cleanliness and attention to hygiene. Masked men in long white coats slide a large sturgeon onto a stainless steel table and slice it open with a surgeon’s precision. By gloved hand large quantities of caviar is scraped out of the freshly killed fish and immediately deposited in cans for export. The fish has just produced tens of thousands of dollars worth of product.

From the Caspian we fly courtesy of the Iranian government in a private reconfigured Boeing 727 to Isfahan towards the south of Iran.

“How do you like our plane?” asks an official from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

I smile and nod my approval as he continues: “It belonged to the Prime Minister during the Shah’s reign. We shot him!”

“Errr, yes,” I reply. No mincing words. How do you respond to that?

Comfortably ensconced in a large leather lounge chair my thoughts drift to the person who had possibly occupied this seat at one time. What was his or her fate?

Isfahan is a beautiful city situated roughly in the centre of the country. At the time of our visit the population of the province is close to four million people. The city is situated between a mountain range to the north and desert to the south and is sustained by a large river known as the Zayandeh River. In the 1500’s it became the capital of Persia and remained so for about two hundred years.

Our hotel is grand. From the main entrance I cross a large open area featuring small gardens, fountains and ornate pathing to my room diagonally across the square. My room is on the first floor and upon exiting I walk downstairs, passing a room with large windows occupied by government officials and bodyguards.

It has been a very cold day and the paths crossing the garden area are covered with ice. I have a meeting with an Austrade official who has a room above the reception area in the main body of the hotel. Stealthily I make my way down the stairs, being careful not to arouse the bodyguards. Time for some fun.

At the bottom of the stairs I can see the bodyguards relaxing in the warmth, jackets removed. Pistol holsters straddle the lounge chairs and sub-machine guns lean against the wall near the door. I move quickly now, guessing at least one of them will probably dress and follow me across the square.

Diagonally crossing the square to the main hotel building I glance over my shoulder from whence I came and there is chaos. Picture this – several bodyguards are strapping the holsters over their shoulders and attempting to put their jackets on at the same time. Arms and legs are going everywhere. The first bodyguard falls on the ice and three others fall over him as they scramble in my general direction. I hope the safety catches have been activated on their weapons. Light amusement in an otherwise serious day.

In the days that follow we visit the steel works at Mobarakeh, 65 kilometres south of Isfahan and the Sarcheshmeh copper mine, one of the largest open cut copper mines in the world. Sarcheshmeh is in the Kerman province of Iran. Kerman is the ‘home’ of pistachio. I am told there are producing trees in the area that are over 200 years old.

For our return flight to Tehran we are escorted to a different government aircraft but one of similar size and opulence.

“To whom did this aircraft belong, or who had use of it?” Curiosity getting the better of me I ask the government official accompanying our group.

“The Shah’s sister,” came a stern reply. I chose not to ask of her fate and the information was not volunteered.

“I must apologise,” an Iranian government official announces. “There will be a short delay before our departure. I hope you don’t mind, but we must take an additional passenger to Tehran.”

“Of course not,” I quickly reply. Who am I to say who can or cannot fly on their planes?

Whilst waiting on the tarmac we enjoy some of the local Kerman harvest but, not surprisingly, the service doesn’t extend to a tipple to wash the pistachios down. It isn’t long before we are in the air and the official again approaches me.

“We were delayed because one of our most important and distinguished leaders needed to fly back to Tehran after his meetings in Kerman. He is leader of the Army of Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. Would you like to meet him?”

Not really! “Yes, I would like to meet him. It would be an honour.”

Upon meeting the leader of the Revolutionary Guard I am underwhelmed. He is a diminutive figure, flesh and bone with a swarthy complexion. Looks like a man who has spent months in the desert on a diet of pistachio nuts. After meeting him it’s clear his power and influence belie his appearance and demeanour.

The Iranian hospitality was exceptional and the visit will be long remembered; especially by the companies that have successfully opened doors to new business opportunities.

Gordon d’Venables has been, inter alia, a teacher, soldier, farmhand, lawyer and businessman. As a lawyer he travelled extensively for international clients. His letters from various times and places around the globe (PNG, England, Ireland, France, USA, Saudi Arabia, Serbia, Iran and others) refer to some of his experiences.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letters.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from USA, pre-Soviet Union Breakup.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Belgrade.