ON ECONOMICS

Snow arrived covering my out-of-town neighbourhood. The development to the left are the ongoing, still unfinished Mayor's offices

flickr View my photo journal

"What is it; house prices double every five or so years?", I put it, plucking a guestimate from nowhere in particular, "no, not at all", my friend's father – a property developer – corrected me. I expected him to maybe add another year, but it was quite the opposite; "no, house prices double every two and a half years". With my jaw still hanging some place below my neck I listened to him explain of how land prices increase at such a rate that development is given up on, leaving the major cities filled with concrete skeletons gridding the skyline.

My five year guestimate was certain to be off if only I'd remembered a family member purchasing a small spot of land in the north of Iran that long ago, at what would be $5000, and it currently being valued at nearly $400,000. This land, like the neglected patches around the major cities, has simply been left untouched; and why not; why have the headache and expense when you are earning while sitting still.

Not too recently I decided to look for a place to rent that would be closer to the office and the Tehran night-life. Initially I had problems with wanting to cohabit with a male friend; two young lads rang alarm bells with landlords. The next problem was having to front a refundable deposit of roughly ten months rent in advance, of which not I nor my friend had saving to hand. And it's this situation that baffles me daily: inflation is at such a rate that the money in my hands, or even the bank (if I was to use one here - which I don't) is currently depreciating at such a rate that it's frustrating if not futile saving for those big ticket items.

An odd, yet equally unfeasible alternative for us could have been to give a large sum of money to a landlord upfront. With this, our deposit of roughly $30,000 within a one year period would have adjusted (through inflation and bank interest) so much that upon getting this exact figure back from the landlord our rent would have materialised. If that same landlord were to invest it in land in the north of Iran then my five year residency could have gotten them a $2.5m asset to play with.

My friend and I gave up on the house hunt and continued living in the out-of-town apartment gifted by my family. The monthly rental amounts we were looking at never ventured below the national minimum wage (per month), meaning that to rent in what is wider-central Tehran, one must be of a healthy threshold. Although I met this threshold comfortably it didn't justify the exchange in commuting and would have paradoxically decreased the means to enjoy the Tehran night-life.

my savings may never keep up with the adjustment and I should claim the value while it correlates with my blood loss

With these big ticket items I am often castigated by my grandmother for not looking to invest in a house or being a, "real adult", and getting a car – apparently the money I drain away in coffee shops will bring this to reality. As she keeps pointing out, I do get a relatively healthy income putting me in the top 0.5% of earners here, yet when I thinking about saving money (which is made easier by my not currently paying rent), I can't help but wonder if I'd be wasting my time; that I'd be better off spending it fast. By that I mean that my savings may never keep up with the adjustment and I should claim the value while it correlates with my blood loss.

If I was to use a bank, I could accumulate the money there at what I think is around 18% APR, but this would probably still not keep up with the cost-of-being-alive and certainly not with the current climate in the property market. With this move I might then also be able to ask the bank for a loan, which I hear would be hard to arrange and not likely to be enough to get a footing. As for a full mortgage; they are pretty much unheard of here in Iran.

I was quoted in an Indian economics journal recently about this inability to keep up, yet was cut off without qualifiers such as joining the capitalist tramplings, using banks or using my family. The tramplings I think about a lot, by which I could buy and sell land - yet at the cost of any moral sensibility. The banks give me the same unease and the family is an altogether different unease. It's hard to avoid getting drawn in though; the longer I don't join in the tramplings the harder it will be for me - but I can't help but feel I would become part of the wider problem if I do.

everybody has two jobs - it's funny and it's true. That second job is the difference between being alive and living

For those slow or unable to indulge the tramplings there's always the blood loss. There is a funny comment I often hear in Iran; that everybody has two jobs, and that they work harder on the second - it's funny and it's true. That second job is the difference, the difference between being alive and living. It is increasingly more common to hear talk of all the above while sat in taxis around Tehran; the government bear the brunt of the frustration for which harsh words get shouted back at the car radios. Often I hear both inside and outside of the country that the president, Ahmadinejad is responsible for all the developing financial issues; I couldn't say either way, but I rather think he's an easy target and people maybe neglect external pressures and the country full-on embrace of neo-liberalism among other incidental matters.

The Iranian new year is coming and with it the usual price adjusting period where within a single week one can observe a national inflation hike. My healthy wage should increase also during this period but I figure it will only keep up with the post new year adjusted inflation, meaning that as the year creeps forward I'll lose more blood for my Rial and I'll still not consider buying a house or even a car. You'll more likely find me regularly draining it away in coffee shops, attempting to at least appreciate its value while discussing how bad this could all turn out.

IN MUMBAI

A sculpture in the Prince of Wales Museum, Mumbai.

flickr View my photo journal

"So where abouts in England are you from", asked the gentleman propped at the bar, "Oh I'm not from England my friend, I'm from Iran", I semi proudly responded, cautious to not seem too snooty as I glanced around at the various leathery northern England sorts that out numbered me. I got a similar response then as with all the other times I was asked while away, which was a slight pause in anticipation of a punch line.

I think the slight sense of cultural elevation carried over from stepping into Bombay's attempt of an international airport and seemed to continue throughout my trip. I can clearly remember the smell of Tehran as I first stepped out of the airport nearly 5-years ago and I'm sure the smell of Mumbai will remain just as long. India was to be a recorded for me by smells and it begun there as a waft of warm moist air literally hit me, filling me with memories of my hometown as I sensed the sea being nearby. If I found freedom from the Islamic Republic is was in air quality – I could breath in the literal sense – which was odd as most Indians I met complained about Mumbai's pollution for which could be seen lining the sky so thinly as we landed. I kept tasting the air as we made our way to the terminal at which the smell blended to a slightly soggy, chlorinated whiff, much like that of a water park.

I was in Mumbai for two days where I met my sister who'd been in India for nearly month already. My visit was to coincide her birthday, Christmas and meeting with my mother and a brother from England. My two days in Mumbai were to be followed by four in India's former Portuguese ruled Goa - now very much a tourist spot recognised as much by many Iranians before I left.

There was no consistency in anything I thought as rich and poor shared every square metre that could be found

During the lengthy journey from the airport to the hotel my sister filled me in on her adventures with many a surprising story of her lone travels. I was lost between following this and nine months of catching up as I tried to absorb the scenes from our tin can of a taxi in which the driver repeatedly sat on the horn or shouted some form of abuse when not. There was no consistency in anything I thought as rich and poor shared every square metre that could be found. Animals would do the same as dogs or cows lay rested where they would least be hit. Billboards tried to keep the standard up with their flashy graphics and English slogans but directly below would be families housed in corrugated metal sheet shacks with men idling, women cooking and children playing in the dust. Our journey ended as we reached a part of town that closely resembled Europe with its Gothic sculpted exteriors presumably gifts of the colonial past.

Those two days continue with much of the same as my sister and I chopped it up between rejected the barrage of harassment, "hello, come take at look at these", and the, "sir, can I help you - buy this!". It was a peculiar environment where I would remain baffled by how English was spoken everywhere, even with natives among one another. Think accented nationals would wonder the museums informing their children of the exhibits in English while I would accidentally respond to people in Farsi through confusion of a second language.

Continued IN GOA...

IN GOA

My brother standing in the Indian Ocean.

flickr View my photo journal

"All the usual, the people in Iran that you don't know have once again asked me to say hello", I redundantly informed them as much of the nine months of catching up got repeated as we took an equally long journey from Goa's airport to our seaside villa we hired in a lively part of town. My mother and brother had timed the flight with ours and their ensuing stories would compete with my tales of Iran and my sister's of India. The journey through Goa to the villa was illustrated with palm trees and narrow terracotta soiled roads would occasionally be blocked by heavy traffic and the occasional elephant being rather a different scene scene from Mumbai, lush and tricky.

As the family rested from their long journey I took to the moonlit sea shore and followed the far off sound of life pulsing in the distant. I followed the louder sounds, struggling with the soft sand as music from the passing beach huts blended into one another, "you want a drink sir?", they asked one by one and even on one occasion; "yes, yes my friend, you want some ecstasy". I reached the thick of it where nationals were leaping around to their fusion beats before I decided to head back. While returning I found that most of the huts had closed for the evening with tourists wrapped up asleep on the brollied sunbeds. I'd reached an open space and aroused a pack of dogs where the bark of one triggered many more as they set after me. I carried on slowly, not looking back, nor making a move to arouse them further, "OK doggies, I'm leaving", I nervously said as I felt every centimetre of distance between us. Just as they let off, fireworks exploded close by, setting the dogs off once again. With the increasing darkness I'd gotten lost, over stepping my noted marker, Jack's Shack, "Is it raining out there", asked my brother when I did eventually arrive back; I looked in the mirror to which I was dripping with, no doubt, nervous sweat.

In daylight things were very different, the sunbeds still had occupants but they were far from wrapped up. I did as one is suppose to do and tucked into a book and lay still for a few hours only breaking for the occasional swim in the warm water as the sun set upon the ocean. Sadegh Hadayat's Blind Owl described his mother's Indian background as beach traders interrupted offering massages, trinkets, nuts and even Christmas carols.

We took to a popular night club in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere to celebrate both my sister's birthday and the coming of Christmas. The local preference of trance music intoxicated the punters beyond the free bar where the staff juggled bottles if only to compete with the flame swallowers on the lower level. I made up for the nine months, intoxicating myself enough to not be conscious of my mother shuffling to the beat and then her chatting with the twitching guy that was coincidentally from our home town.

"you're killing me!", they would gasp as I made offers on the limited rubbish they sold

Christmas happened, or so I was told. The following day we set of to the market for some harsh haggling. I thought I'd gotten the knack for it until I got treble-teamed by three young female traders, "you're killing me!", they would gasp as I made offers on the limited rubbish they sold. With each piece of crap I bought to fend them off they would pass that item to the next dragging me to their nearby stall. They were curious as the Iranian money they caught glimpse of; I explained who the picture on it was of – "how much is it worth?" they asked, to which my answer led them to reject it even as a gift.

I caught up with the family later and sat in a large beach hut where my sister was found in the linked internet cafe downloading her excel 'finance' spreadsheets, updating it then uploading it again. My mother had joined her there; checking on the Boxing Day football results as I sat with my brother observing the drop-outs skinning up as the sun came down. With the smell of weed, joss sticks, spilled beer on the tables and varying international dishes passing before us, both my brother and I turned to one another and agreed that we really didn't fit in. It was interesting sitting there observing what nice weather, nice scenes and relative currency strength brings. Among the culture of intoxication that has become associated with Goa I sat there breathing it all in; we were all breathing a freedom of sorts, and although mine may have been comparably modest, it was just as intoxicating.