The writer, Fred Sengmueller, visits a local mullah in Iran.
Sometimes things don't go as planned – and those moments often make for the best stories. Tripping columns offer readers a chance to share their wild adventures.
I must confess travelling solo around Iran last year made me feel like a champion freeloader.
To my astonishment, shopkeepers, taxi drivers and waiters sometimes refused to take my money. On various occasions, my attempts to pay would be met with a resolute head waggle and the expression ghabeli nadari (no charge). I think I once went as long as 48 hours without spending any money on anything.
Of course, had I bothered to read the section in my guidebook on Ta'arof or "ritualized politeness," I would have understood it's just a formality and that, after the initial protests, everybody really expects to get paid. I cringe to think how rude and selfish it must have seemed whenever I just walked away with a goofy smile while stammering my thanks in Farsi: "Moteshakeram."
Even if it is just good manners, there's something incredibly heartening (and unusual) about country where people compete at appearing to be generous.
I remember arriving late one night in a sleepy place called Yasuj in the Zagros mountains. The bus had dropped me along a lonely stretch of highway from where I managed to find a taxi to take me into town. It was past 11 and my dingy hotel was empty, except for a group of stubble-faced locals in the lobby drinking tea. I suppose not too much happens in these parts, because the arrival of a Canadian tourist at such a late hour became something of an event.
The driver, who had insisted on carrying my pack, was showing me off to his buddies, looking as proud as if he had landed a trophy fish.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked, waving a wad of bills in the air.
"Ghabeli nadari" came the standard reply, but by now I'd read about Ta'arof and wasn't about to be fooled. I pressed forward with the money, but he just backed away and shook his head.
"He doesn't want to be paid," said the teenager at the reception desk.
It was hard to know if he was really refusing the fare or just grandstanding for the audience. I decided to take no chances and slipped the money into his shirt pocket. Judging by the smiles on everybody's faces it must have been the right move.
But the next morning, as I was leaving the hotel, the front desk handed me an envelope labelled "Farid" – the Iranian version of my name. It contained last night's taxi money.
I was totally flummoxed. So the driver had really meant it, and again I'd failed to understand. Feeling like a clueless rube, I shouldered my pack and stepped into the bright morning light. The bus station was several kilometres out of town and I would need to find a taxi to take me there.
I was hoping this time I'd get a chance to pay.
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