The taxi driver had just dropped Gretchen and me at Arc
Plaza and we were only a few steps into the front of the bazaar when I felt the
first hints of trouble. It started as a
slight, but noticeable, watery vibration in my stomach. It was like a hungry growl, but it was early
in the day and I had so recently eaten breakfast that I ignored it. The smells
and colors in the shops engaged us and we began to move deeper into the
mile-long, vaulted cavern that is the Kerman Bazaar. We had been in this ancient Persian city for
two days and we were planning to meet a new acquaintance inside.
The city of Kerman was to be our Peace Corps assignment for
the next two years. We had been living
at a training center in Tehran for the last five weeks. This inaugural visit to
Kerman was arranged to further develop language and cultural skills and give us
the opportunity to reconnoiter our future home.
We were staying at the home of the Peace Corps couple we were going to
work with at the end of our three month training period, Jim and Cindy Ranii. The
previous evening we had met Hussein at the Ranii’s house and he had agreed to
give us a tour of the bazaar the next day.
He spoke perfect English and he was eager to practice. Our Farsi was marginal, but he agreed to help
us. Hussein’s father had been a carpet merchant and had owned a carpet shop
before his death and the bazaar was a second home to our new friend. Eagerly we
accepted his offer of a tour and agreed to meet early the next morning.
The bazaar is an endless, or so it sometimes seemed, linear series of connected, ribbed
vaults. At the sides of each of the
vaults, shops tucked neatly between the brick columns. The floor is a mosaic of cleanly swept tiles
and the vaulted ceiling, thirty feet above, an intricate pattern of interlaced,
yellow bricks. The daylight fades behind us and we draw deeper. Light streams in dusty streaks through holes
built into the center of each vault where the ribs intersect. Through this portal is the bluest, cleanest
sky we have ever seen. Although it was
early, it was already hot. A breeze from
the bazaar entrance followed at our backs and exited through these openings,
cooling the air.
Everywhere goods spilled from the shops onto the floor. Ceramic
and copper vessels of rice, dried beans, flour, figs and dates, nuts, seeds,
dried vegetables, spices, dried herbs and other unidentifiable things were offered
for sale. Crates of tomatoes, potatoes, onions, carrots, turnips, coconuts, squashes,
oranges, lemons, grapefruits, peaches, pomegranates, melons, grapes, bananas,
apples, strawberries and baskets containing green vegetables framed the tiny
entrances into each shop. Cones of white sugar and bricks of brown date sugar
stacked on shelves and tins and pails of things we had never seen before lined
along the walls. Trays piled high with herbs and spices wafted myriad smells
into the breeze. Carts heaped with ice, upon which were huge shrimp, lobsters
and fresh fish brought daily from the Persian Gulf. Tapestries and brilliantly
colored fabrics hung from poles sticking out of the columns.
On ropes tied between the columns cloth, bundles of raw wool and colored
yarn hung. Everywhere, the shopkeepers
noisily hawked their wares to the crowds of people passing, offering breads,
yogurt, cheeses, meats, fish, clothing, housewares, blankets, baskets, shoes,
tobacco, knives, jewelry, teas and coffee, flowers, saddles and harnesses, live
chickens and goats and sheep, eyeglasses and a hundred more things. Our senses filled and we were excitedly
caught up in the quickened pulse. It was marvelous.
We entered a larger space and the ceiling dome raised
another twenty feet. Here the ceiling bricks were glazed and inlaid tiles on
the columns made geometric patterns of reds and blues. We were at an
intersection. To both left and right of us were streets of more shops, as far
as we could see through the dim light. To the left was the noise of hammers on
tin and copper and brass; to the right, hundreds of bolts of silk and cotton
and wool yard goods were stacked high. Our instructions from Hussein were to
stay in the main bazaar and to meet him at the first carpet shop we found, so we
continued along.
Again, a vibrating, angry growl ruminated from my stomach,
a deep rumbling sound and then a sharp pain.
I grabbed my side and Gretchen noticed and commented that my face was
pale.
“Are you feeling OK?” She asked.
Perhaps I was tired from the bus trip, I thought, or maybe
I had something going through my system. The pain in my abdomen worsened and I
began to think that it might be a good thing if I could find a restroom. Another minute passed and I decided that it
would be a really good thing to find a restroom and I told Gretchen. She said
that she thought that we would soon meet Hussein and that I could ask him if he
could find one for me. Good idea, but I
could wait no longer. I told her to meet Hussein at the carpet shop and tell
him that I would be along shortly. Then I started running. I do not know why
and I had no idea where I was running to, but I just had to find a place to go
to the bathroom and running to find one seemed appropriate. I had not gone fifty feet before I passed a
carpet shop and a face that I recognized as Hussein’s, but I was, by that time
in an absolute panic and I kept running.
I thought that I should attempt to make it back to the Ranii’s house on
Zariff Street to relieve myself and thought that if I took a left out of the
bazaar, I would find a street and catch a taxi to their house. I took the next left and trotted passed a
dozen shops of coppersmiths and into a court yard where camels were being
loaded with bales of cotton. A frantic foreigner
running crazy through the caravan sari caught every one's attention, including
the camels, but I was focused. No bathroom was obvious. In my state of
heightened excitement, I dared not attempt to communicate in Farsi with the
fellows loading the camels, so I ran back passed the copper shops, back into
the main bazaar and took the next left. By then I was desperate. I was running
at full speed and squeezing the muscles in my ass as tightly as I was able. I
thought that if the street was just down this alley, I could make it to the
Ranii’s, I would be able to..............I was wrong. My belly bellowed one
more time and I..........
(author's note:
I think the readers of this story can imagine what happened next. It is
embarrassing. A verb has been edited-out at this point as a delicate matter of
good taste)
...........myself, copiously.
I ran a few more steps and it ran down both pants' legs and out my pants’
cuffs. It came in spasms; waves of
muscle contractions, each squeezing the contents of my bowels into my trousers
and down onto the ground. Gallons. I
remember passing two horrified women wearing black chadores, who pressed
against the alley wall to let me pass. They drew their veils across their
faces. I slowed to a trot. My belly pain
was gone. The spasms slowed and very little was coming out of my pants' legs. The
episode was ending, but I was a mess from my waist down into my shoes. Behind
me was a trail of puddles. I had no idea of
what was ahead or where I was in this maze of alleys and passageways.
Now what do I do?
Before I could begin to feel sorry for myself, I exited the
alley and found myself on the sidewalk on Pahlavi Street, dodging
pedestrians. Without thinking, I
squeezed between two parked cars, leaned against one of them and began looking
for a taxi in the busy traffic. A little
puddle collected at my feet. It was less
than a minute and I was sliding into the front seat of a cab. Even before I closed the door behind me, the
driver was testing the air with his nose. The cab filled with an unmistakable
smell. The driver turned to a woman in the back seat, sitting between two
children and spoke sharply. I gathered that he was telling her that one of her
kids had messed and he wanted to make sure his back seat was not soiled. I told
him my destination and stared straight ahead.
The Ranii’s house was located in the outskirts of town and
the taxi ride took seven or eight minutes.
I sat perfectly still, for fear of drawing the driver’s attention to my
plight. The smell was horrific. The taxi
driver continued to mumble about messy children. He appeared convinced
that the passengers in the back of the cab were responsible for the smell and
for ruining his seat.
At 69 Zariff Street, the taxi stopped and I thrust a
handful of coins into the driver’s hand, opened the door and slid backwards out
of the cab. As I did, I dragged my arm
across the vinyl seat, attempting to take as much of my mess as I could with
me. The door to the Ranii’s house was open and I noticed an old man doing
something in the yard. There was no time for introductions and I dashed
directly to the bathroom and turned on the shower and climbed in, fully
clothed. There was no hot water, but that mattered little. I wanted to excise
the mess and the clean, cold water was luxuriant. I stepped out of my shoes and
dumped them out, pealed off my pants and undershorts and then my shirt. Standing
there in my birthday suit, I turned to the door and to my astonishment, the old
man was standing there, watching the whole thing, pointing his finger in my
direction and yelling. I had no idea of what he was saying. The shower was loud
and his old voice difficult to hear and I probably would not have understood
him, anyway. Just then, Gretchen and
Hussein appeared in the doorway and the old man started yelling at them and
pointing his finger at me. I closed the door and finished rinsing out my
clothes and cleaning my shoes.
The old man was gone when I had finished showering. Gretchen
had learned that the he was Mr. Ashjedi, the landlord, and he was quite upset
that I was using up all of the water in the well. Hussein had explained my
situation to him and then taken Mr. Ashjedi back to his house. They both were
chuckling as they walked away, she added.
I later learned that Gretchen and Hussein had tracked me
out of the bazaar by following the puddles. I was driving away in the taxi as
they exited the alley. She explained that if I had stopped running when I saw
our new friend in the bazaar, the whole messy episode might have been
avoided. The carpet shop where I saw
Hussein belonged to his family and there was a toilet in the back room. They tried to catch me, but could not.
It was an eventful beginning to life in a new city. Funny
thing also, in subsequent conversations with other Peace Corps volunteers we
encountered during our tour in Iran, whenever this episode came up in
conversation, I'd learn that I was not alone. Mine was not an uncommon
occurrence.
