It is hard to describe how precarious my present situation is. I am on the opposite side of the world from my home with only US$70 to my name and no way to access any more. I am a great distance from any Canadian embassy or consulate and I know no one here. I have returned to the post office twice today. Vincent hasn’t picked up the message I left for him yesterday or left any for me. My mind wants to figure out why but my heart doesn’t want to go there. He and Coen have either decided to continue on without me, a thought that stings painfully and drags me to an abyss of panic, or the answer is much worse, that something terrible has happened to the two of them.
Now, as I have learned at an earlier time in my life, a true drag queen would never let a situation like this prevent her from having a great day. The show must go on. It’s hard to go on alone, without an audience or other actors but the movie camera of life just keeps rolling. I am sure there is something I have to learn from this. If I survive this, I am sure it will come clear over time. I am not suffering at the moment. My health is still a bit shaky but much better than last week. Have faith, Charlie Brown!
I cycle out to the edge of town and climb a small outcropping about 20 m high so I can see over the town. It spreads out like a pancake on a flat griddle, a uniform height of two floors for the most part. There’s half a million people here but it seems impossible to gain access to them, an ocean of anonymity. I have become the Ancient Mariner with a tale to tell and no one to tell it to – “Water water everywhere and all the boards did shrink/ Water water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”
This thought makes me thirsty and I return to the chai house where I met Mustapha and Ziad yesterday. I told Mustapha I would return here today at 4 and it’s half past two. I sit and wait. I am more open to meeting his parents today, to being dragged around like a showpiece. The chai house is half full of old men, most of them focused on a football match on the small television on the back wall. I don’t fit in here with my Western clothes and Western looks. I am a freak, a mysterious infidel, a distraction strange enough that few want to talk to me. I suspect they suspect they can’t speak my language.
Mustapha shows up after his classes at the local university and is thrilled to see me waiting for him. I surprise myself by being thrilled to see him. Yes, I am lonely. He doesn’t speak to me like a friend, which I am aware I am not. He doesn’t ask what I have done or seen today, but maybe’s that typical of 20-year olds.
He leads me back to his father’s home several blocks from here. His parents have been told I am coming as they come to greet me in the foyer. I am not sure what his father does but I assume he is finished work for the day. I offer each of them my hand, realizing too late that it is not polite to offer a woman your hand her. His mother looks at my hand to make it clear that she sees it, but she makes no attempt to honour my gesture. I mumble an apology but they give it no further concern. They leading us into a sitting room and his mother brings out a tray of figs and sliced oranges. Mustapha and I eat but his parents sit formally, stiffly, and ask polite questions about my trip. I don’t tell them about my predicament, my robbery or illness.
I stay only half an hour here as Mustapha has other plans to show me to his friends before dinner. Apparently, I am not invited for dinner. I did not expect to be. The visit passes smoothly without any other gaffes on my part, but Mustapha, in his enthusiasm for his home town, boasts that eight of the 24 Iranian fighter planes that defected to Iran at the close of the Iran-Iraq war are here in Zahedan. “Mustapha!” his parents gasp in unison. “You must not say such a thing to a foreigner! Do you want us to end up in prison?” I promise them, as sincerely as possible, that I will never mention a word of it. That seems to reassure them.
As we are leaving they tell Mustapha something in Farsi, which I am sure is something about not staying out too late or being back in time for dinner. We return to the chai house but none of his friends are there at this time, not even Ziad. He seems at a loss of what to do with me since conversation between us is awkward. I ask him a few questions about his schooling, his first year of engineering, but he is not eager to talk about that much. Suddenly he stands and says he must get home. He shakes my hand, looking around to see if any of the old men around us are watching, and then disappears into the falling darkness.
I find a restaurant and order a lamb dinner. It is very inexpensive, but still a bit more than I should spend with my limited resources, but I feel the need to be good to myself. Afterwards, I return to my hotel room to avoid the cold air, the dark, broken sidewalks and the glare of flashing, speeding headlights. This town is such a hole.
I wish I had not left Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” at the hostel in Istanbul or that I had picked up something else to read. There is no hostel here, no English bookstores, no meeting places. I study my maps of Iran and Pakistan. It is 65 km from here to Mirjaweh, which is about 3 km from the border. Beyond it lies a great desert valley that follows the underside of Afghanistan, for 700 km. This is where 75% of Alexander the Great’s huge army, returning from conquering western India, died of heatstroke and dehydration. I can’t wait.
PHOTO 1: the buildings of Zahedan
PHOTO 2: panorama of the city
PHOTO 3: young boys are not camera shy
PHOTO 4: downtown Zahedan
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