Iran: change in the desert

guardian.co.uk

Manoeuvring the car along the precipitous mountain passes north of Kerman, Tahereh asks: "Are you ready to be kidnapped?" Beyond the date palm plantations of Shahdad, abandoned chicken farms, police checkpoints and commemorations to martyrs, was the vast erg of the Dasht-e Lut desert, home to desert farmers and gangs smuggling Afghani opium.

Tahereh and her brother Arash were our guides, whom we'd met by chance at the bus station. "You must stay with our family," they'd insisted.

"Kermanis don't like change," Tahereh explained. But change is inexorable. We entered the Jameh Mosque where men swapped their slippers for prayer mats. Lights in green illuminated their prostrate forms.

In the chai house, youths offered kolompeh, date-filled biscuits, in exchange for English conversation. Outside, Arash pointed out the caged van of the Basiji, Islamic volunteers, used to parade inappropriately dressed women.

His parents sighed, recalling the pre-1979 days of the Shah.

In the early morning came the odd sound of creaking metal and the deep-voiced: "Ya-Allah! Ya-Allah!" Heavy footfall crunched; our friends' tent zipper shrilly reverberated.

Tense, abrupt conversations ensued. Eventually, Arash begged us to dress appropriately and step outside.

A weather-beaten Saba had come to us. Its driver leaned his arm on the rusting door frame. A policeman, he gestured to my husband. Arash translated: "Passport? Name? Date of birth? Who is your father? Where was he born? What are you doing here?"

Next was my turn. Who was I? What was my husband's date of birth? Where was my wedding certificate? It wasn't at hand, but I had photos of the ceremony. The policeman merrily inspected them.

"You must understand I ask you for your own safety," he said kindly. "We're here for your protection."

Later, after much relieved laughter, we drove towards the rising sun.

On the Sirch Road, another policeman scrutinised our luggage. He warned us to be prudent, for foreigners have been kidnapped by drug gangs.

We'd been kidnapped instead by the charismatic customs and hospitality of strangers.

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