A charming man

I left my hotel this morning with something unusual: a plan. I didn’t make a list, but I knew exactly what I wanted to visit and where I wanted to go in Tabriz. Not long after I stepped outside, though, it all came to nothing.

From inside a small yellow taxi, a man shouted at me in Farsi, pointing to his wrist. Without understanding a word, I imagined he was asking me for the time. I lifted both my sleeves and shrugged my shoulders. He realized I didn’t have a watch, but kept waving me over with his right hand. As I leaned my head inside the car window, he asked, “Tourist?” To which I replied, “Baleh” (one of the few Farsi words I can pronounce properly). Despite my resistance to getting inside, I soon found myself already being driven away – door still open, right leg half-dragged on the road. For an instant there, I panicked: what on earth is happening? Why is this guy in such a hurry?

As it turned out, Mr. Akbar, a middle-aged charming Iranian whose energy seemed limitless, had decided to drive me around Tabriz on his own terms. So much for my plan.

Besides numbers and the word okay, he didn’t speak any English. On my side, I could manage only four or five sentences in Farsi. And yet, we managed to have some very insightful dialogues:

Akbar: Tabriz, okaaaaay? Me: Tabriz, okay. Akbar: Ah! Tabriz okay. Iran okaaaay? Me: Iran, okay. Akbar: Ah! Iran okay. Portugal okaaaaaaay? Me: Baleh, Portugal okay. Akbar: Iran, Portugal (joining both index fingers), okaaaaaaaaay? Me: Baleh, baleh. Iran, Portugal okay. Akbar: In shā’a llāh (tapping my left leg). Me: Inshallah, inshallah. Akbar: Taxi, okaaaaaaayyyyyy? Me: Taxi, okay. Akbar: Okayyyyyyyyyyyy! Iran … (some Farsi) … ? Me: Iran? Tabriz, Jolfa, Kaleybar, Ardabil, Astara, Rasht, Noshar, Teheran, Ghazvin, Kashan, Yazd, Isfahan, Shiraz... Akbar: Ohhhhhhh! Iran: Tabriz okay, Jolfa okay, Kaleybar okay, Ardabil okay, Astara okay, Rasht okay, Noshar okay, Teheran okay, Ghazvin okay, Kashan okay, Yazd okay, Isfahan okay, Shiraz okay. Okaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy? Me: Baleh, baleh, okay. Akbar: Ah! Portugal, in shā’a llāh, in shā’a llāh (tapping my left leg). Musee, okayyyyyy? Me: Okay.

During the whole day, Akbar insisted on paying (against my half-hearted resistance) for my entrance fees to museums and historical sites. Tourists are usually charged 10 times more than locals, and I was thankful for having Akbar with me. A recurring thought kept popping into my head, though: what’s the catch? Why would someone pick up a complete stranger, spend the whole day driving him around, and pay for his tickets out of his own pocket? He’ll probably expect money, I thought, and felt guilty for doubting him.

Although our verbal communication was clumsy and limited, Akbar had no trouble expressing his affection for me in public. Whenever we stepped out of the taxi, he would gently take my hand, and we would walk through Tabriz’s main attractions hand in hand – like proper Iranian friends.

It must have been shortly past 10 a.m. when I entered his taxi as a complete stranger. By the time he brought me back to my hotel at 5 p.m., he was calling me "brother". Even "brothers" have families to feed, and I didn’t want to say goodbye without paying my debt. He had earned nothing from his taxi that day; instead, he had given me a tour of Tabriz out of his own pocket. I handed him 25 dollars. “No,” he said, almost offended. I insisted. “No, no,” he replied, now with a serious face. I insisted again. “No, no,” half-smiling. I nodded. He blinked and took the notes. I walked into the hotel wondering: was he offended? Was it too little?