I’ve been to Iran seven times between 1989 and 1998. The first time was just after the Iran/Iraq war had finished so the Esfahan Steel Plant which I visited was still surrounded by anti-aircraft guns. My hosts also helpfully pointed out, from the panoramic viewing window in their board-room, the hill over which the Iraqi planes came when they bombed the place throughout the war. They had managed to keep the plant operating, to their credit, which is why I was there – to try to sell them some coal. But that trip’s not the reason for this post. There are plenty of incidents and experiences gathered over seven trips to write about but I’m going to tell you another story.
Getting to Tehran was problematic because there were so few flights so I’d waitlist on flights from Rome, Frankfurt, Vienna, London or Dubai and whichever one came up first I would take. These flights invariably got in early in the morning which allowed a few hours sleep in a cash only, once five-star hotel which had been Iranianized into a two-star. Then it was back out to the domestic airport to catch a flight down to Esfahan. Then would follow a lazy eight or so hours of shouting, fist banging “negotiation” then a flight back to Tehran to collapse into bed in the same hotel I had been in that morning.
After doing this a few times I decided to ask my hosts if we could negotiate our next deal in Tehran rather than Esfahan. They declined but to compensate, said I would be picked up at the airport and driven down to Esfahan thereby being able to sleep in the car. How kind.
Firstly, let’s consider the “picking-up” bit. On a previous trip they had “forgotten” to pick me up at Esfahan airport. The airport is on the north-east side of town and the steel plant is 45 kilometres south-west of town, in fact, that’s its address – 45Km on The Esfahan-Shahrekord Road. In the domestic airports back then there were no English signs and no English announcements. Also, there were no mobile phones and no public phones, just a phone call shop where I could have booked a call if only I could speak Farsi or one of the attendants could speak English. This prompted me, in desperation, to step away from the counter and shout into the terminal crowd “does anyone here speak English”. But that’s another story for another day.
As luck would have it, on the day in question, a driver was on hand to pick me up as I emerged from customs. Whether or not anyone is there at all is just part of the lottery and anyone could act as a taxi driver and most people who owned cars did. So you could be picked up by the local axe murderer if your luck was out. Being 4.00am after a flight from Europe where you had one or two gin and tonics because they’d be the last ones for a while and then wended your tortuous way through the airport formalities, you were fair game. But this bloke had a clipboard so was obviously legit. And he had another passenger – a German engineer who was also going to the plant.
So we set off in an ancient Chevrolet with four bald tyres on the four or five hour drive through the desert down to Esfahan. Now give the shah his due. He may have been a typical monarchical despot but he was our despot and he knew how to build roads. The freeway system round Tehran was pretty impressive although starting to resemble Ozzy Osbourne – visibly deteriorating. And the road to Esfahan was a wide-open highway. But that didn’t stop us getting a flat tyre.
So there we were – an Iranian who couldn’t speak English or German, a German who couldn’t speak English or Farsi and an Australian who couldn’t speak Farsi or German – alternately looking at each other and then the flat tyre. There was no spare – obviously – but there was a jack. Eventually our driver decided he would take the wheel off himself because the German and the Aussie obviously weren’t interested.
Way off in the distance we could see what looked like buildings so after removing the tyre and leaning it against the vehicle the driver jogged off into the heat haze, towards said buildings. The German and I looked at each other, shrugged our respective shoulders, found a bit of shade each and recommenced reading our books,
Eventually the driver materialized and without acknowledging us, stood the wheel up and commenced to roll it down the road in the direction from whence he had just come, occasionally batting it with his hand to ensure that it kept up with his steady jogging pace. Fritz and I went back to our books.
After another hour or so, the driver presented triumphally with a freshly fixed bald, fraying tyre and I swore to myself that I would be flying back to Tehran.
We eventually made it to Esfahan after passing through the city of Qom which is where all the religious heavies live. There were check-point-charlies on all roads in and out and security was somewhat ubiquitous. That is one place you don’t want to go for your holidays – smiles were as rare as golf courses and frivolity is a capital offence. And if applying for a job there, a sense of humour is definitely surplus to requirements on your CV.
The first hour of discussions with my hosts was taken up by trying to arrange how I was going to get back to Tehran. They eventually got me on a flight back that evening. Elimination of that source of stress allowed me to relax into the rough and tumble of hours of intense negotiation over a couple of dollars per tonne of coal for a 12 month contract. That was then, when the price was around $50/tonne. Today it’s $185/tonne and varies by up to $8/tonne daily.
Iran is a different world and today, so’s the coal market.