Persian Odyssey: Part XVI - Hueys

typical Huey used to train cadets

pilot training

You simply haven't lived until you've gone up into the wild (and I mean wild) blue yonder as an in-flight tutor  in the back seat of a Huey with a “Texas cowboy” instructor pilot who may or may not think the student pilot is “stupid” (but probably does) and where both come from different cultural and linguistic backgrounds. Instead of returning to classroom duties, I requested this in-flight tutor and problem solver assignment because 1) I wanted a change, 2) I had never flown in a helicopter and 3) I thought it would be fun and exciting. The job, plain and simple, was to iron out communication problems in mid flight between these two, on both of whom all our lives depended. And, to be completely honest, I doubt if the Texas cowboys had much confidence in either the student pilots or me. But to give the instructor pilots their due, they were very competent pilots and teachers. The fact that I'm alive today and writing about it is testament to their skill. 

what "rock-a-bye-baby" looks like if you blow it

Helicopter pilot training isn't simply a matter of taking off, cruising and landing. What else, you may ask? Emergency procedures is what else. Remember, Hueys, after all, are not passenger aircraft, they are combat machines—and THAT can lead to any number and type of “emergencies”. One of these is what I came to call, evocatively enough, “rock-a-bye-baby”. Rock-a-bye-baby perhaps shouldn't be classified as an emergency procedure, more like breaking a horse. It may even have been an inside joke, for all I know, on the part of the Texas cowboys to scare the flight suit off both the student and the poor schlep whose gone and gotten him or herself sitting in the back seat. These right stuff he-man types probably thought of English instructors of either sex as she-men.

left/right rocking maneuver

In the rock-a-bye-baby maneuver, with the Huey hovering a mere meter or so above the ground the pilot begins to rock the aircraft back and forth (side to side and front and back) until the rotor blades and nose and tail practically touch the ground. One slight miscalculation and we'd all have been cooked in a great ball of fire. Hearty guffaws and high fives all around and we're off into the lemon yellow blue with the rest of the training squadron. 

medium high flight

Riding in a helicopter and flying over the desert is an experience not to be missed. High Flight, a poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr,* describes the feeling best: 

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I have trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

*Unfortunately, Magee felt the fist of God a short while later and was killed in a mid-air collision in England at 19-years of age.

To be continued...

How to save the equivalent of $1,194...D.I.Y.

Living nowadays mostly on a fixed income, we have joined the ranks of the nouveau pauvre (newly poor) since I have more or less retired—at least from the full-time nine to five rat race. Although not on the verge of tumbling onto the street in this 21^st Century Depression (bank savings no longer generating interest income that is not to be laughed at and equities on a wild Wall Street casino roller coaster ride), unnecessary expenses seem prudent to avoid. Lack of prudence being what has gotten us into this global economic meltdown. But, to the issue at hand.

Our metal outdoor spiral fire escape was showing signs of rusting here and there and we decided that it should be repainted before it could rust through and collapse. Accordingly, I repainted it myself and saved around $1,194 on a quote to have it done by our house builder for $1,257 at current yen/dollar exchange rates. It cost around $64 for the materials to do the job (wire brush, paint, thinner and brushes). Even if I had charged a reasonable amount for “sweat equity” (as a friend of mine calls what his labor is worth), it wouldn't have come anywhere near the original quote.

And, then too, who can do a job better than you yourself can anyway?

Persian Odyssey: Part XV – Flashback

When I returned from my motorcycle journey through Ancient Persia, I came back to an increasingly turbulent present day Iran and the third of the four houses that I rented within the year that I lived in Esfahan. There were no restrictions on where we were allowed to live as foreigners in Iran as was the case later, for example, in Saudi Arabia where foreign workers were required to live in compounds specially designated for foreigners.

The incredible beauty of Esfahan aside, individual homes, in harmony with the city, can also be quite charming. As is characteristic in that desert part of the world Iranian homes are enclosed by relatively high walls, a world unto themselves, with a house and courtyard within. There is often a small fountain and garden in the courtyard and the house opens out onto the courtyard.

J.

Returning from a 2½ -year stint with the Peace Corps in Africa, I got a job with a company based in Chicago that had a contract with Bell Helicopter International to teach English in Esfahan, Iran. I shared my first house with J., a colleague I had met in Chicago at the home office of our company (I've seen it referred to ironically as “Belemedia”). Pretty close to its actual name in fact. J. and I were hired at the same time and we decided to share a house once we arrived in Esfahan. A funny story about him: he was rather phobic about eating local food and would always soak vegetables and fruit purchased from local markets in an anti-bacterial solution (such as bleach and water), but always complained of stomach disorders anyway—the bleach, I wonder? Me, I ate anything I wanted (unsoaked and unbleached) and never even got the hiccups. One of my favorites stops, while off on short bike jaunts, was eating at roadside stands that sold lamb kebab with roasted tomatoes and salads of mixed herbs. Nun (pronounced 'noon') is the most delicious flat-bread I ever tasted. It is baked in kiln-like ovens by slapping the dough on the inside wall and baking it. We would go in the early morning before school to the bakery and buy some, piping hot fresh from the oven, scrape off the ash residue, take it home and eat it immediately with some coffee for breakfast.

D.

I soon met D., a teacher at the school. We were attracted to each other, and after dating and discoing and cycling around the area for a while we decided to get a place together, so we rented what was my second house with all the right characteristics, high wall, courtyard with fountain and garden and a nice house with a great cellar that made a wonderful den. Unfortunately, I felt constrained by domestic bliss; the bloom was soon off the rose and I began going out again—on my own. I then met C., another teacher, at my favorite disco, and she was soon riding pillion on the Yamaha. Naturally, living in a goldfish bowl and frequenting the same haunts as expats usually do, word got around and I came home one night to find the door locked, which led to a ruckus in the neighborhood—shouting match and threats to break the door down, etc. Soon enough, a hunt for another house, this time alone, my third—the one I came back to after returning from my odyssey.

Meanwhile, I had returned to work at the air base, this time as an in-flight tutor to the students who had graduated from the classroom part of their English and pilot training program. Essentially, I rode in the back seat of the UH-1 type Bell helicopters (Hueys) that are synonymous with the Vietnam War and tried to rectify any communication problems between the “Texas cowboys” (many were Vietnam veterans) instructor pilots and the Iranian cadets they were flight training. Hooeee, Huey!

mosque in Nain (famous for carpets) near Esfahan 

relatively unadorned but blends beautifully into the desert around Nain

interior of Nain mosque dome also plain but beautiful

metalwork tray (one of my few remaining mementos)

miniature 7 by 12 cm. (another memento)

To be continued....

Orange Delights

intoxicating French Manhattan - cheers!

If you think of France, what comes to mind? Wine? Cuisine? Perfume? La Marseillaise? L'amour, toujours l'amour? French fries? (They're not really from France you know.) Edith Piaf? The Eiffel Tower? The Louvre? The land of my ancestors? Yes, all of those and much more. But what about oranges?

There is the city of Orange with its old Roman theater where they produce outdoor operas in summer. There are orange liqueurs like Cointreau and Grand Marnier.  I'll bet you never heard of Orange and Black Olive Salad, but you may know about French Manhattans. The main difference between an ordinary Manhattan and a French one (I don't know if they're really from France either) is that it uses Dubonnet instead of sweet vermouth (I use Noilly Prat, the patron saint of my blog) and a strip of orange peel (you can eat it) instead of Maraschino cherries. You can readily buy Maraschino cherries at any market, but you have to make the orange peels yourself—and that is a bit of a culinary art.

cut into strips

peel off the strips

A good time to prepare the orange peels is when you make an Orange and Black Olive Salad, a taste bud explosion invented by a chef in a small restaurant (don't remember either his name or the restaurant's) in Nice down on the French Riviera. Without further ado I'll explain how to make both.

place in a jar

First, cut the orange peel in strips from navel to stem and peel them off leaving the fruit for the salad. Scrape off the pulp with a potato peeler leaving only the orange skin (a little pulp is OK). Place all the peels in a jar and cover them with Cointreau or a combination of Cointreau and Grand Marnier liqueurs, cover and marinate in the refrigerator until ready for use—the longer the better.

fill and cover with Cointreau

French Manhattan

You use them in a French Manhattan. For that mix Dubonnet and a good bourbon (I use Four Roses): 1 part Dubonnet to 3 parts bourbon (1 to 4 is OK, too). Stir with four or six ice cubes in a cocktail shaker. In a cocktail glass put one orange peel strip and ~¼ tsp. of the Cointreau marinade (optional) and add the bourbon and Dubonnet. Magnifique!

Orange and Black Olive Salad

Now, what to do with all those oranges? Make an Orange and Black Olive Salad, of course. First, put about ½ cup of pitted black olives in a small food processor with a bit of powdered thyme or dried thyme flakes and some olive oil and chop them up so that they are a little coarse (you don't want to pulverize them to mush). Set aside. Slice a couple of oranges (or three if they're small) into ¼” halved slices and arrange on a plate. Sprinkle them with olive oil and spoon the olive mixture over them. Sprinkle some fennel seeds over that and add a few sprigs of fresh thyme for garnish and voila. 

Bon appétit!

Persian Odyssey: Part XIV – Return to Esfahan

Leaving the sites of Persepolis and Pasargad I came to the crossroads where the tomb of Cyrus the Great is located. It just stands there in what I can only call splendid isolation. Unimposing, really, at first sight its sheer simplicity, almost blending with the surrounding desert, gives you the impression that the whole desert constitutes his final resting place. Unconfined to a mere rock face as is the tomb of Darius and others at Naghsh e Rostam, Cyrus's “greatness” seems as vast as the land itself.

Almost literally in the shadow of Cyrus's tomb I checked the drive train of the now considerably lightened Enduro, threw away most of the remaining gear that would no longer be needed for the final push back to Esfahan, turned away and headed west by northwest. The damaged sprocket had survived reasonably intact thanks, I suppose, to the constant attention and TLC I gave it and I no longer worried about making it back to Esfahan. It had come more than three quarters of the distance and would undoubtedly last for the final leg of the journey. I wondered (considering what I had seen in Kermanshah), as I rode along the highway, what I would find when I arrived back in Esfahan at the end of August, 1978 when, in retrospect, strikes and demonstrations began to paralyze the country.

Iranian kebab with roasted tomatoes

salad with various herbs

Superficially, things hadn't changed much in the week or so that I had been away. My third house looked unchanged as I opened the gate and pulled into the courtyard. I was looking forward to a good meal and a bath and sleeping in a real bed, but I let the bike idle while quickly dumping my gear in the courtyard. I was pretty worn out but there was nothing to eat in the house so I decided to go out for some lamb kebab and the green herbs on the side that I loved so much. I was probably not as alert as I should have been and the traffic on one of the main thoroughfares was very heavy. At any rate I hit a guy who was working his way on foot through the stalled bumper to bumper traffic. Being on a bike you can snake through traffic snarls and that was what I was doing when this guy suddenly appeared in front of me. I hit him and spilled right there on the street. 

Next thing I knew I was sitting, dazed, on the sidewalk with a crowd of people all around me. The bike had been righted and appeared not to be seriously damaged. I asked about the man I had plowed into and, although he was nowhere in sight, they insisted that he was not seriously injured either. Nevertheless, they were anxiously urging me to get back on the bike and get out of there. My head was clearing up by now and I could sense the urgency of their entreaties. They were frightened about something. I tried to ask what was bugging them, but my Farsi was totally inadequate. They realized, of course, that I was a foreigner, probably American, and someone managed to speak enough English to let me know that it would be best if I made myself scarce before the police came. I don't know if they were trying to help me or simply didn't want any hassles with the police, but I picked up their nervous vibes and did, in fact, get back on the bike and, a little shakily at first, returned to my house unfed. I locked the gate then took a long hot back and went to bed. I had some trouble getting to sleep even though I was exhausted, with the incident leaving an uneasy foreboding in my mind. 

To be continued...