From Amazon
The idea of a honeymoon in Iran sounds like a concept cooked up for a sitcom or an easy joke on late-night TV: it's where you go to wear a veil after the ceremony (not to mention for the rest of your life). But Alison Wearing's five-month journey through Iran was not born of dark humour or a "try to top this" approach to adventure. Rather, she chose Iran "because it frightens me; because it frightens the world... and because I don't believe in giving [fear] such power. I refused to believe that such a place of unalloyed evil truly existed, that that was the end of the story."
Wearing's journey becomes a story of expectations met head-on, altered and exceeded. Travelling into territory unknown to or stereotyped by most Westerners, she presents a collection of portraits of a complex, multi-faceted, and humane people who live and struggle daily with the legacy of revolution. Wearing's entertaining, compassionate, and insightful journal reveals a country of great faith and great contradictions, where religious fundamentalism means freedom to some and enduring oppression to others. The author's experience of this chafing of beliefs and values is perhaps best embodied by her struggle with the chaador--the heavy, body- and face-obscuring manteaus and veils required for females over the age of nine. Unlike her travelling companion, who is free to dress appropriately for the scorching desert weather, she struggles and suffers under layers of stifling black clothing that require constant attention to keep in place. The chaador--uncomfortable, restricting, yet at times oddly liberating--comes to symbolize a great deal about contemporary Iran.
Though Wearing's travels are peppered with frustrations, she is treated with exceptional generosity and kindness wherever she goes, finding herself welcomed into the homes of strangers, fed, entertained, and put in the path of adventure. Honeymoon in Purdah becomes an eloquent and humorous statement about the spirit of a people--irrepressible and full of heart. --Svenja Soldovieri
From Publishers Weekly
To blend in on their recent visit to Iran, journalist Wearing and her gay roommate pose as a married couple, complete with wedding rings and a forged marriage certificate. Wearing also purchases a chaador (literally "tent"), made of heavy black polyester, which she wears throughout her journeyD110-degree heat notwithstanding. From that point forward, the friends can't go anywhere without receiving copious offers of gifts, dinners, invitations into people's homes, free taxi rides and fruit from Iranians who are delighted by the Westerners' attempt to understand and appreciate their customs. The characters Wearing meets are extraordinary in their ordinariness, and the author deftly shows that our opinion of the Middle East is really our opinion of Middle Eastern government. She seeks out the most intriguing of the people around her, then steps back and lets them take center stage. Tip, for instance, spent 12 years in California. Now in his early 20s, he's been stuck in Iran doing odd jobs for three dollars a day, so to save money he started a side business selling opium. Another Iranian they meet, deeply religious, explains to them why Iran is superior to the West, while other Iranians apologize profusely for the conditions of their country since the fall of the Shah 20 years ago. Wearing lets readers glimpse the anti-Americanism, oppression and miserably inefficient bureaucracy portrayed in the American news, but again and again she demonstrates the generosity of the Iranians. With this engrossing account, Wearing casts a sympathetic eye on the real people of Iran, so often invisible to the West. (Nov.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Library Journal
One can only applaud Canadian journalist and travel writer Wearing for her evenhanded reportage of a five-month journey through Iran. Traveling in the company of pseudo-husband (her gay male roommate), Wearing sets out to explore a country replete with contradictions and to record her experiences with compassion, humor, and objective observation. The natural hospitality of the Iranian people is a constant thread throughout the author's journey; for example, new acquaintances go in search of candy as a busload of people cheerfully delay their departure to accommodate the casual query of the Canadians for a place to buy chocolate bars. All is not wonderful in Iran, and Wearing doesn't gloss over the restrictive atmosphere that particularly affects women. Through her stay, she agrees to address as an Iranian woman despite the discomfort of being swathed in fabric from head to toe. The moments of high humor are delicious, as when Wearing's "husband" is informed by telephone, "Mr. Canada, we take your wife. We make her cold" when a kind family takes her for a drive in the countryside to cool off. This is a very special travel, both entertaining and enlightening. Highly recommended.
Janet Ross, Sparks Branch Lib., NV
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Janet Ross, Sparks Branch Lib., NV
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Booklist
Wearing's first-person account is more personal and amusing. She traveled to Iran with a gay friend, pretending to be husband and wife on their honeymoon. Wearing dons the chador and listens to Iranian women envy her freedom. She and her companion encounter an array of characters, effusive in their interest and curiosity about Western culture and generous in their hospitality. Both Wearing and Sciolino look beyond the images of the terrorist and the veil to provide glimpses of the people and places of a nation with a long and exotic history that now experiences troubled international relations. Vanessa Bush
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Review
"As a writer, Wearing is all luscious texture and running narrative-- She is the companion on the bus with the endless supply of traveller's tales, each one tripping into the next. And like most raconteurs, she has embroidered the fabric of her reportage to 'lend artistry to a scene,' and to paint portraits that are true in spirit." - The Globe and Mail
"One of the most entertaining and insightful travel diaries since Paul Theroux fell in love with Asian railways--. After reading Honeymoon, you will never think of Iran in the same way again." - The Ottawa Citizen
"Compulsively readable." - The Toronto Star
"Lyrical, insightful, funny and stubbornly independent." - National Post
"One of the most entertaining and insightful travel diaries since Paul Theroux fell in love with Asian railways--. After reading Honeymoon, you will never think of Iran in the same way again." - The Ottawa Citizen
"Compulsively readable." - The Toronto Star
"Lyrical, insightful, funny and stubbornly independent." - National Post
Book Description
To go beyond the legacy of revolution, religious fundamentalism and veiled women and find the real people of Iran, a young Canadian dons the cloak of Islam. The result of Alison Wearing's journey is a warm, funny and shocking collection of riveting portraits and stories about the generous, irrepressible people she met. With a novelist's love of language and eye for detail, she takes the reader into the homes and hearts of people whose spirit, intelligence and laughter enlighten and impress. Beautifully written, engaging, fascinating at every turn, Honeymoon in Purdah reveals an Iran rarely seen by Westerners and leads this exceptional bestselling young writer across new literary borders.
From the Back Cover
"As a writer, Wearing is all luscious texture and running narrative-- She is the companion on the bus with the endless supply of traveller's tales, each one tripping into the next. And like most raconteurs, she has embroidered the fabric of her reportage to 'lend artistry to a scene,' and to paint portraits that are true in spirit." - The Globe and Mail
"One of the most entertaining and insightful travel diaries since Paul Theroux fell in love with Asian railways--. After reading Honeymoon, you will never think of Iran in the same way again." - The Ottawa Citizen
"Compulsively readable." - The Toronto Star
"Lyrical, insightful, funny and stubbornly independent." - National Post
About the Author
Alison Wearing is the recipient of a National Magazine Award Gold Medal and Western Canada Magazine Award 1st Prize, both for travel writing. She has worked and travelled throughout Europe, the Middle East, China, the former Soviet Union, and the Amazonian regions of Ecuador and Peru. Alison Wearing lives near Peterborough, Ontario.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On the main street, tin-box cars race along like go-karts. There are no traffic lights, therefore no pattern of movement, no lulls or rushes, only a steady stream of cars moving as fast as they can without crashing. As a result, there is no opportune time to cross. The only thing to do is swallow hard and make a run for it. And not expect oncoming cars to make allowances.
The reason we are so determined to cross is that I see colour, there--No, look: over there, no, there, in the window. Circles of bright orange, canary yellow, two shades of green, lurid pink with black spots.
Carrots. Carrots and grapefruits and oranges and watermelons and bananas, all piled up in the window into a fruit mosaic.
Behind the counter is a young boy, looks about ten, an orange press, a blender and a juicing machine. I sound out the words from the list on the wall and am so excited by the idea of a fresh juice, I projectile-salivate when I open my mouth to order. "Yek-" Oops, sorry. (Wipe.) "Yek livan ab portegal lotfan."
The boy blinks a hundred times as he is cutting oranges in half. Looks at us from the corner of one eye as he is pressing the fruit into juice, gives an embarrassed smile as he hands me the glass. A smile that grows as I swallow the contents in one long gulp.
I order another one each.
He looks at us face-on now, even as he is halving fruit with a knife the length of his forearm. He serves up two more pulpy juices and crosses his arms over his chest, proudly. We drink these just as quickly, replace the glasses and thank him. Move to pay.
The boy steps back. He tilts his head shyly and waves our money away.
Ian tries again with a different amount, but the boy tosses his head back in refusal, raises his hand to his heart and closes his eyes.
Ian and I exchange smiles of disbelief and put the money away. We thank the boy again and again. Each time, he nods and looks embarrassed. We thank him once more before leaving. The boy smiles and shrugs. We step back onto the street.
--
"That was generous!" Ian and I say in unison. "What a sweet boy! So gracious! I wonder if the whole country will be like this!" Ian checks his watch. "We should head back."
We walk back to the intersection and are gearing ourselves up to cross when the boy catches up to us, panting, eyes brimming with tears. He looks at the sidewalk, red-faced, and asks Ian, in a combination of hand gestures and humble whispers, if we could please pay for our juices.
I pull out a roll of bills and ask the boy how much. He mumbles the price out of the corner of his mouth. Seven hundred rials. Exactly what was written on the wall. The precise sum we offered him a few minutes ago. I pay. The boy bows and leaves. Ian and I watch him run back into his shop, turn, and look at each other with the dopey expression of walruses.
--
Hamid is beside himself with worry. He speaks for minutes at a time and has a voice like grape jelly. Did we have difficulties? Was everything enough interesting? Have we enough eating and drinking?
"Yes yes yes, just fine. Except . . . well there was this boy at the juice shop. He refused our money, then chased us down the street for it a few minutes later. We're not sure whether he--"
"--this is taarof." Hamid is laughing. "I think it is not Canadian taarof, only Iranian. A man must not take first time, no, he must not accept--" Hamid tsks and throws his head back, just as the boy did
"?then again second time--" he closes his eyes and puts a hand over his heart "--then, third time okay for taking. It is custom."
"Custom to refuse everything twice?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why?" Hamid repeats.
"Yes, why?"
Hamid pauses. Wrinkles his chin. "Why, it is not good question. Please make me another question."
***
Ian is ill. Just a cold, but a bad one. He's been in bed the last two days. Headache, fever, chills, a cough, and a throat so sore it hurts to swallow.
Hamid is worried, terribly terribly worried. Paces and holds his head when I tell him that Ian isn't hungry. Looks teary-eyed when I tell him Ian has a cold. Shakes his head and gathers the roll of blankets in the corner of the room.
"No no, there are enough blankets. He isn't cold, he has a cold." I look the phrase up in my book, but it isn't there. I cough and fake the sniffles. Hamid purses his lips. Looks up a word up in his Farsi-English dictionary (bought especially for our visit) and shows me an entry translated as Windpipe disease: infibulation of the neck and sinus holes.
I nod.
Hamid calls a friend whose uncle is a doctor. After the examination and several glasses of tea, the doctor says he has just the thing for Ian's condition. A special medication from America, given to him by his wife's cousin, whose husband's nephew lives in Los Angeles. The doctor has only one pill left, but he is happy to give it to Ian. He reaches into his bag and passes Hamid a pill wrapped in paper and plastic. Hamid passes it to me. I take it to Ian. It is something called Dristan.
The reason we are so determined to cross is that I see colour, there--No, look: over there, no, there, in the window. Circles of bright orange, canary yellow, two shades of green, lurid pink with black spots.
Carrots. Carrots and grapefruits and oranges and watermelons and bananas, all piled up in the window into a fruit mosaic.
Behind the counter is a young boy, looks about ten, an orange press, a blender and a juicing machine. I sound out the words from the list on the wall and am so excited by the idea of a fresh juice, I projectile-salivate when I open my mouth to order. "Yek-" Oops, sorry. (Wipe.) "Yek livan ab portegal lotfan."
The boy blinks a hundred times as he is cutting oranges in half. Looks at us from the corner of one eye as he is pressing the fruit into juice, gives an embarrassed smile as he hands me the glass. A smile that grows as I swallow the contents in one long gulp.
I order another one each.
He looks at us face-on now, even as he is halving fruit with a knife the length of his forearm. He serves up two more pulpy juices and crosses his arms over his chest, proudly. We drink these just as quickly, replace the glasses and thank him. Move to pay.
The boy steps back. He tilts his head shyly and waves our money away.
Ian tries again with a different amount, but the boy tosses his head back in refusal, raises his hand to his heart and closes his eyes.
Ian and I exchange smiles of disbelief and put the money away. We thank the boy again and again. Each time, he nods and looks embarrassed. We thank him once more before leaving. The boy smiles and shrugs. We step back onto the street.
--
"That was generous!" Ian and I say in unison. "What a sweet boy! So gracious! I wonder if the whole country will be like this!" Ian checks his watch. "We should head back."
We walk back to the intersection and are gearing ourselves up to cross when the boy catches up to us, panting, eyes brimming with tears. He looks at the sidewalk, red-faced, and asks Ian, in a combination of hand gestures and humble whispers, if we could please pay for our juices.
I pull out a roll of bills and ask the boy how much. He mumbles the price out of the corner of his mouth. Seven hundred rials. Exactly what was written on the wall. The precise sum we offered him a few minutes ago. I pay. The boy bows and leaves. Ian and I watch him run back into his shop, turn, and look at each other with the dopey expression of walruses.
--
Hamid is beside himself with worry. He speaks for minutes at a time and has a voice like grape jelly. Did we have difficulties? Was everything enough interesting? Have we enough eating and drinking?
"Yes yes yes, just fine. Except . . . well there was this boy at the juice shop. He refused our money, then chased us down the street for it a few minutes later. We're not sure whether he--"
"--this is taarof." Hamid is laughing. "I think it is not Canadian taarof, only Iranian. A man must not take first time, no, he must not accept--" Hamid tsks and throws his head back, just as the boy did
"?then again second time--" he closes his eyes and puts a hand over his heart "--then, third time okay for taking. It is custom."
"Custom to refuse everything twice?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why?" Hamid repeats.
"Yes, why?"
Hamid pauses. Wrinkles his chin. "Why, it is not good question. Please make me another question."
***
Ian is ill. Just a cold, but a bad one. He's been in bed the last two days. Headache, fever, chills, a cough, and a throat so sore it hurts to swallow.
Hamid is worried, terribly terribly worried. Paces and holds his head when I tell him that Ian isn't hungry. Looks teary-eyed when I tell him Ian has a cold. Shakes his head and gathers the roll of blankets in the corner of the room.
"No no, there are enough blankets. He isn't cold, he has a cold." I look the phrase up in my book, but it isn't there. I cough and fake the sniffles. Hamid purses his lips. Looks up a word up in his Farsi-English dictionary (bought especially for our visit) and shows me an entry translated as Windpipe disease: infibulation of the neck and sinus holes.
I nod.
Hamid calls a friend whose uncle is a doctor. After the examination and several glasses of tea, the doctor says he has just the thing for Ian's condition. A special medication from America, given to him by his wife's cousin, whose husband's nephew lives in Los Angeles. The doctor has only one pill left, but he is happy to give it to Ian. He reaches into his bag and passes Hamid a pill wrapped in paper and plastic. Hamid passes it to me. I take it to Ian. It is something called Dristan.
