CHAPTER XVII

NOVEMBER, 1967

Mr. Hashemi complained to the Office of Education and to Peace Corps that he needed another English teacher in Ahar. Mr. Dastmalchie's transfer to Teheran left him further shorthanded, and he would want the rest of us cover more classes unless a replacement came from somewhere. Peace Corps solved the problem when it assigned a second volunteer to Ahar.

Valdemar Schultz also came from Portland Oregon. He arrived in Ahar a few weeks before the coronation. We converted the second room in the house, which had been my classroom, into his bedroom. Of different temperaments and with varied interests, we each had our own schedule and our own set of friends. We seldom did much together, but we provided each other with company and support which helped in isolated Ahar.

A few days after the coronation the seventh grade boys arrived and the principals at the three high schools lined up all of the boys, divided them into classes and assigned them their rooms. I worked almost exclusively in Pahlavi taking all of the seventh grade classes. And I shared the eighth grades, the groups I taught the previous year, with Usef. Among them sat Mr. Hashemi's son Mehdi. As Usef predicted, he had passed his examinations during the summer. Val taught at Reza Shah High School. We shared visits to Himmat.

I bought a heavy wood ruler at the store of Mr. Hashemi's friend and carried it with me the first time I attended each class. Whenever a boy caused a problem, I used the ruler, flat side down, on the palm of his hand. I seldom needed it more than once with each group. This satisfied Mr. Hashemi and the boys' fathers as in their eyes I finally established myself as a real teacher. Only after showing them that I could be Iranian could I finally attempt to be an American. I never felt easy hitting the boys, and I did it as little as possible, but I have to admit that it resolved my discipline problem.

In the eighth grade class, the boys worked with more complicated drills. Dr. Dorry's English book provided dialogues which reinforced patterns and vocabulary. I assigned different sets of boys to memorize the dialogues and repeat them in class, but I ran into a new problem.

"What does it mean when the boys join their fingers like this?" I asked Usef while hooking my index fingers together and pulling my arms to demonstrate.

"It is meaning that the boys are not talking one with the other."

"I don't understand. If I tell them to do a dialogue, don't they have to do what I say?"

"But they will not do it," said Usef. "Nothing will make one of these boys talk to the other one."

"Why?"

"Because the families of these boys are being in an argument."

"I don't understand."

"Sometimes people in one family are finding some reason to fight with people in another family. Perhaps they are being neighbors. Many things can cause these fights. Sometimes the causes are forgotten because they are happening many years ago. But no member of the one family will be talking to any member of the other family."

In doing the dialogues, whenever I stumbled on pairs of boys who would not speak to each other I quickly changed the combinations and went on with the lesson. As Usef predicted, nothing I did could force members of the feuding families to talk to each other. Once an Iranian decided not to deal with someone else, little could change his mind.

During my first year in Ahar I had never attended a faculty meeting at any of the schools. Whenever he announced a meeting, Mr. Hashemi would come to me and tell me that nothing important would happen and that I need not attend. During the summer, however, the Office of Education transferred Ahar's Chief of Education, Mr. Moqtadar, to a city in West Azarbaijan near Lake Rezaiyeh. His replacement, Mr. Moosavi, came from Teheran. He liked the principals to hold more meetings and he insisted that everyone attend.

"It is good that you will be coming just this day for a meeting in my office," Hashemi told me over a cup of tea. "It is not to be long and we are talking about things which are about the school."

Usef sat next to me and translated since everyone spoke in Turkish. A large wood desk filled one corner of Mr. Hashemi's office. It sat opposite a large portrait of the Shah. Another corner held an Iranian flag which Hashemi moved into the auditorium during any function held there. The teachers sat quietly in chairs that lined the room's perimeter, drinking tea that Old Hotami brought them.

"He is welcoming everyone to the meeting," Usef translated in a whisper. "He is saying that it is good to have meetings because the teachers are needing to talk about the business of the school. But we are all knowing that he is doing this because the new big chief Moosavi is making him have all of these damn things," Usef editorialized.

"That man is saying that the recesses between classes are very short," continued Usef. "He is wanting recesses of fifteen or twenty minutes and not five or ten as the new discipliner is making on most days."

Mr. Koshtinat had returned to teaching Persian Literature and the job of vice principal went to Mr. Janabzadeh. While everyone liked Koshtinat, they did not think much of his successor. The students feared his stick which he often applied with sadistic fervor.

"That man is saying that with only five minutes one cannot be drinking even one cup of tea and that he is not having enough time to prepare his lessons before each class," continued Usef. "Now the writing teacher is telling Hashemi that there must be more discipline in the school and that Mr. Janabzadeh must be working harder. He is thinking that the boys are not listening to the lessons and that Mr. Janabzadeh must punish them."

Another teacher joined in.

"That one is saying that the vice principal must be making the boys to understand how they are behaving when the teacher is in the classroom. He is saying that the job requires more talking to the boys and he is thinking that the new vice principal is not practiced and that every teacher must encourage him to do his job in a better way.

Mr. Janabzadeh squirmed in his chair and looked at the ceiling, the floor, or occasionally at the Shah. His face turned red and he bit at the ends of his mustache. But he listened to the teachers and said nothing.

"They are not liking him," whispered Usef. "In this way they are telling him this thing."

Finally Mr. Hashemi stopped the discussion and began something of a rambling prelude which seemed pointless.

"Now we are seeing the reason for this meeting," said Usef between translations.

Hashemi talked slowly and softly. In time he came to the point.

"He is agreeing with the teachers that the school is needing discipline. He is saying that everyone is knowing that this is a difficult job. He is telling us that many classes are studying for only ten or fifteen minutes in each hour and that the boys are making noise when the teacher is sitting and reading or doing nothing. This thing is making the job of Mr. Janabzadeh very difficult. Hashemi is saying that the walls of the school are more than one meter of brick and that just the loudest sounds can go to another room. But some classes are making enough noise that the people in the next room are hearing it."

Mr. Janabzadeh relaxed and sat back in his chair. The teachers fumbled with their worry beads and looked out the windows into the garden in front of the school or at the ceiling. Some ran their fingers through their hair or tugged at their mustaches.

"Hashemi is telling them that they must work harder and give good lessons so that the boys are learning. He is saying that soon enough it will be time for studying before the examinations. The boys must learn before that time and they must be working each minute so that they are knowing everything that is important."

With each sentence, Hashemi spoke more quietly. He presented a dramatic contrast with the complaining teachers who had criticized the vice principal.

"You must be serious in the classrooms," said Usef repeating Hashemi's words. "You must spend more minutes making the boys learn."

Then Hashemi sat back and waited.

"Now that one is saying that Mr. Hashemi is correct," said Usef translating for one of the teachers.

"And now this other one is saying that they must all work harder with the lessons and they must help discipline the boys."

Each teacher in turn echoed the sentiment. They would spend more time in the classrooms and they would work harder. I sensed a lack of conviction in the tone they used. As they spoke, although I did not understand the language, I felt a hollow ring in their words.

When it ended Hashemi dismissed the meeting and everyone left.

"The teachers are knowing what Hashemi will be telling them," said Usef. "So they are saying things first so that they are making some way to blame Mr. Janabzadeh who they are not liking."

The next day classes began on schedule and nothing changed.

Dr. Adjami invited both Val and me to dinner. He greeted us at the door, shook our hands and welcomed Val to Ahar. Both Mr. and Mrs. Kashavarz sat along one side of the room drinking tea. Mr. Shayaste sat in a corner playing backgammon with the husband of Mrs. Mohiempor.

During the summer Mr. Mohiempor received word that she passed the high school examinations and she received a diploma. The government raised her pay and allowed her to enter the university in Tabriz. She arranged her schedule so that she had a few days free each week and used them to travel there for her classes.

Val and I shook hands with everyone. Mr. Shayaste grinned and said something in Turkish when I greeted his backgammon partner. The man turned red and Mr. Shayaste giggled.

"Why are you calling that man 'Mr. Mohiempor?'" asked Mr. Kashavarz when I sat next to him later that evening.

"Because his wife is Mrs. Mohiempor."

"But that is the name of his wife. He is Mr. Hazarati. Mohiempor is not being his name."

"I don't understand."

"In Iran a women is not having the name of her husband's family. Each woman is having her own name. If someone is calling a man by the name of his wife, this thing is an insult."

"But I've called him Mr. Mohiempor for a long time." "Yes, I am knowing this. It is a great joke at Reza Shah High School, and the teachers there are making Mr. Hazarati very embarrassed because of this thing which you do." "Why didn't you tell me this before?" "We are all thinking that you are knowing this thing and that you are doing it for some reason. We are knowing that you are not making an insult to Mr. Hazarati, but what you do is very funny for us."

Early in the morning, men gathered along the Ahar River to buy and sell sheep, cows and goats. In the distance is Reza Shah High School.

Before Val and I left, I walked over to Mr. Shayaste and his partner and said, "Good-bye Mr. Hazarati." He looked up and smiled.

I can only guess how many mistakes I made that no one ever corrected. Those I discovered proved uncomfortable enough.

"You must not walk on the street with your hands in your pockets," said Mr. Hashemi. "Americans are doing this, but it is giving people some bad ideas about them."

"It is good to be asking a man about his health or his sons," said Mr. Haddadpor. "But it is not good to be asking about his wife ['woman,' actually since Persian has no word that translates directly as 'wife'] or his daughters. We do not do these things."

"Some people are not having enough money," explained Usef, and they are not allowing others to know how they are living. We have been doing this thing in my family as you know. It is not good to ask a man about his house or where he is living. These things are for them only."

On the other hand Iranians openly asked me about my religion and my politics.

"Are you a Christian?" "Are you liking Jewish people?" "Why did Americans kill President Kennedy?" "Do all Americans love war?" "Why do American people hate people who are being black?" "Why are the clothes of Americans so strange?" "Are all American people rich?" They asked me questions like these frequently.

And they stared. In Iran staring at someone or something carried no stigma. People openly gawked at anything they considered unusual. Beggars went to extremes to look grotesque in order to compete for attention. Iranian men in each social class dressed more or less the same according to prescribed norms depending on position and status. The women hid beneath their chadores. Our clothes, height, and manners made Americans stand out and as a result we received considerable attention which was, by our standards, not always welcome. In Teheran and Tabriz, where the people frequently saw more foreigners we had greater anonymity. But in isolated rural settings like Ahar we immediately stood out.

Val and I both found the straightforward curiosity annoying. Now and then a volunteer resigned and returned home. During my second year in Ahar I went to Tabriz more frequently and escaped into the small American community there. Some volunteers arranged their lives so that they associated with Iranians as little as possible. Although this ran counter to the goals of Peace Corps service, it allowed us to cope with the weight of culture shock. Some people adjust to a new society but for others the pressures that the subtle cultural differences bring increase over time. For them culture shock can become a serious problem.

My cooking slowly improved. As different fruits and vegetables appeared in the shops I experimented, occasionally trying Val's and my tolerance for dishes that turned out more exotic or less successful than I intended. Val ate many meals at Ahar's restaurant.

Late in the fall I bought a bag of plums. And I decided to try something I heard about at one of the conferences. In the bazaar I found a small aluminum pot which fit inside the pressure cooker that had come with the house. I halved and pitted the plumbs, set them on the bottom of the pot, whipped up a mixture of cake batter using more of my baking powder, and set the pot on some small pebbles inside the pressure cooker. All of this I sat on the gas burner. The sides of the pressure cooker warmed making an oven inside. The contents baked and after about twenty minutes I removed it, turned it over, and had plum upside-down cake.

That evening Mr. Hashemi, Usef, and Mr. Kashavarz visited. I served tea as we talked. Then I showed them the cake.

"Would you like a piece?"

"Yes," said Hashemi. "This thing is new for us."

Hashemi chewed carefully, finally deciding that he liked it. Then he took something out of his mouth.

"Is this thing a part of your new cake?" he asked showing me a chrome-colored round marble about the size of a large pea. "It is not being good on my tooth."

I had no idea where the metallic mass came from. The aluminum pot showed no flaws and appeared solid. Then I looked at the pressure cooker. Its lid had held a metal plug inside of a rubber gasket. They provided the safety valve in case of dangerously high pressure. The gasket remained but the plug had disappeared. The high heat melted it and it dropped into the cake. After that, whenever he ate anything that I fixed, Mr. Hashemi inspected it carefully, wary of more surprises.

I fixed stews most of the time. They contained their own challenge in the form of small rocks that came with the rice, beans, and yellow peas. No matter how long I spent trying to separate out the tiny pebbles, I always seemed to miss a few and Val invariably found them. Sometimes the meal had an unusual muddy taste and had little stones in it even though I had not used beans, rice, or yellow peas.

During one of his visits, Dennis Yates joined Val and me for a dinner of lamb stew. I put the pot on a new electric burner I had bought in Tabriz and as it warmed we drank tea and talked. When I went into the kitchen to stir the stew I found little rocks and a few pieces of mud laying on the table next to the burner. More debris fell from the ceiling. I looked up and realized that the plastic layer which had been tacked to the beams that supported the mud roof had pulled loose allowing bits and pieces to fall onto the area where I cooked. I had no idea how long chunks of mud, straw, rock, and manure had been falling into our meals.

"This is really good," said Dennis between bites. "Your cooking shows improvement every time I come."

Val grumbled.

"Go ahead and finish it up," I urged. "I want to start a fresh batch tomorrow."

"You will have to learn some day how to sort through the beans and pick out the rocks," Val complained.

I never told either of them what had been happening.

Dennis stayed for two days. I looked around the shops on the main street hoping to find something different to cook that night. One merchant had just gotten little peppers that were long and bright red. I bought a few hoping they would add color to a beef stew with carrots and greens that I would serve with rice. At home I cut the peppers into strips and put them in the pot just before we ate to keep them from over-cooking.

Dennis had the bad fortune to take the first bite. His mouth dropped open and he made an unusual noise as he sucked in air.

"My God," he managed, "I'm on fire."

While he drank a full bottle of Coca Cola I gingerly tasted the stew. Just the tiniest amount made my mouth burn and my nose sting.

"The only new thing I added was these little peppers," I said. "I've never seen or used them before."

"How many?"

"Eight or ten."

"Half of one might have been enough."

Still a novice as a cook and unaccustomed to spicy foods, I assumed that red ones and green peppers all tasted about the same. We added the stew to the pile of failed meals that rotted in the area behind the school wall where the dogs picked selectively at a few of the things I left for them.

"You've done this before haven't you?" asked Dennis as he watched me empty the pot.

"Yes," I admitted.

"I thought so."

In November Val and I received invitations to the annual Thanksgiving dinner in Tabriz. On the day we intended to leave Ahar about ten inches of snow fell. It gave the city a Christmas card appearance, piling up on the buildings and filling the streets. Men shoveled off the roofs as Val and I trudged off to the bus station.

Busses trapped in the snow on the Tabriz road

Our bus left about on schedule and we had no trouble going through the first pass west of Ahar. Some areas on the flat between the two passes contained large deposits of salt. The highway builders used some of this as the road bed and in those places the snow and ice melted quickly. As we approached Payan, the second pass, the driver dug into his vocabulary for more of those untranslatable Turkish expletives that caused Usef to blush. Through falling snow we saw busses lining the switch backs above and I counted fifteen of them. One driver had misjudged and had driven his vehicle too close to the edge on one turn. The bus hung there with its wheels over the side of the road, unable to move and completely blocking the way.

Men dug and swore. They put ropes and chains around the front of the bus and used them to pull it forward. Each time the bus moved the roadbed crumbled beneath it and hard fought gains vanished. Finally, with everyone straining together, we managed to jockey the big bus onto the road and around the curve. The next vehicle in line fell into the same trap. In turn we helped each bus around the corners. The one we rode avoided the crumbling edge but the driver turned to wide and wedged it against the side of the hill. No one could see much of anything in the heavy blowing snow. As we freed our bus, it slipped and slid, spun its wheels, and threw mud, show, and gravel as it inched up the steep hill. Tired, cold, dirty, and hungry we pulled into Tabriz fifteen hours after we left Ahar.

The snow stopped, but the temperature dropped. None of the busses that went to Ahar had any heat, and in winter the ride was always cold. Gaps around the windows let in blasts of frigid air and the seats felt like ice. On the return trip I sat and shivered and watched the white scenery go by.

We negotiated the first pass without problems. Marks on the road showed where the busses had damaged the edge two nights before. As we crossed the flat, a strong wind buffeted the bus and made it sway from side to side. Then the motor stopped dead.

Nothing the driver did restarted the engine. None of his oaths, uttered through a frosty white breath that drifted across the front of the bus, helped. The assistant, who usually sat in the back, climbed out and got under the vehicle to look for the problem. Then the driver and the assistant took off the hood and tinkered with the engine, carrying on an animated conversation while pointing to and playing with different parts of the mechanism.

We rode in an older bus that used gasoline. The newer ones ran on diesel. The driver unscrewed the gas line that ran to the carburetor. He used rags to soak up the trickle of gas that flowed out of the little pipe. Then the assistant lit a match, lighted the gas-soaked rags, and put them under the bus in order to thaw out the frozen lines.

At that point I got out and walked down the road a few yards and watched. But nothing explosive happened and a few minutes later the assistant pulled away the burning rags, stamped out the fire, and reconnected the lines. The driver started the bus, it responded nicely, and I returned to my seat.

"Why were you leaving the bus?" asked Mr. Haddadpor when I told him and Usef about my trip.

"Well," I said sheepishly, "I thought the gas tank might explode."

"Is Mr. Schultz leaving the bus?"

"No, but he's braver than I am. I think that doing something like that can be dangerous. It could explode."

"This thing has never happened here," said Haddadpor. "Do the busses explode in America?"