See    A slide show (quickie)

Another World

Most of the guys that took the "A&P" class with me were interested, when someone found an ad for aircraft people to travel, with their families, all expenses paid, and an ample salary, to Iran, hired by Northrop World Wide Aircraft Services, to work directly for the Iranian government. I was hired as a ground support technician, and my responsibility was to maintain, and repair aircraft ground support equipment. When we arrived, our first accommodations were the Kings Hotel, Tehran, Iran. No one was prepared to receive us, so we had a lot of free time to look for a place to live. I have prepared a slide show to give some perspective. ()

The Officers Club

R.H.I.P.....A large percentage of the people hired were retired military. The Shah had allowed a large military(U.S.)presence to build, and there were so many perks, such as A.P.O. post office, Officer's Club, P.X., commissary, and too numerous to mention. The retirees were allowed to bring guests, and John and Irene Loper invited us to the O.C., where, on the first visit, we met an Iranian artist, (cartoonist) and we bought a couple of his works.

Hayroza Tehran0001  Hayroza Tehran0002


I had traveled around the world with my dad, so I was better prepared to cope, than most. We moved from King's Hotel to Hotel Victoria to conserve our allowance. From there, I traveled by bus to work. Tehran is a big city, with little organization to the street layout, so it was easy to get lost. On the main drag, a lot of the signs were in English, but the loster you get, the less English you see, and the loster you become. Orange cabs were the way to get from a to b, unless you hired a car and driver,(usually a Mercedes, driven by a man that was accustomed to sleeping in the car). The "Imperial Taxi Company" had a driver with a fair knowledge of English, and we would try to get the same guy every time, and when we didn't, there became an enormous language barrier. I could see, that, in order to really enjoy my time there, it would be necessary for me to learn Farsi.

Getting Busy

I was enjoying all the challenges of the job, Like, trying to figure out how to teach my counterparts not to put gasoline in machines that run on JP4 or 5, and almost everything I learned in A&P class was useful to me now. We were trying to become accustomed to the strange taste of the food, and it seemed like everyone in the family had to get sick, one at a time, seemingly, never ending. There was a cafeteria at the jobsite, and you could get rice with a meat on the side, usually chicken, but a lot of times I wasn't sure what I was eating. I never did get sick, and it didn't take long to organize the shop so that we started to have a lot of free time on our hands. One of our tow vehicles,(a big powerful thing) had a lever to turn the back wheels the same as the steering wheel would turn the front. this enabled the driver to maneuver in and out of tight spots, and pretty soon, I had Iranians racing down the taxiways, sideways. It was low geared and wouldn't go faster than, maybe, 25 m.p.h., and I had nightmares about somebody rolling it over.

One of our machines broke, and it was "foreign" made. Ordering the parts was made ridiculous with red tape, and I told one of my superiors that I could make the parts if I had access to some machine shop equipment

Staying Busy

There was no available equipment at Mehrabad airport, and the nearest accomodation was Doshan Tappeh, an army base, down one of those streets where you don't see much English.

 I was escorted there and introduced to the man that ran the show, called "Ibrahimi", a middle aged man that probably had never met an American before, and had no knowledge of English. He pointed at the shop, and barked an order, and a blond haired, blue eyed Iranian appeared, and he apologized for his poor grasp of English,(not poor at all), and said his name was "Ahmadi", and he was at my service. We became very close friends, and I quickly began to pick up the language, simply because no one but Ahmadi spoke any English at all.

Had I been a faster learner, I could have done some amazing things. A lot of the people there were foreigners, from India, Iraq, Turkey, and even a Farsi speaking German that didn't know any English. One guy from Turkey, insisted that I learn to say "hello" and "how are you?" in Turkish, and the gutteral sounding words he taught me, made everybody laugh. I always thought that I was saying something "nasty".

There was a foundry available, and I had a requisition to make a fixture for the hot section of the C-130 engine. It required a large casting, and because of the size of it, I decided it should be made from aluminum. It was so easy to get things done, in this shop. All I had to do was ask, and the item would, almost magically appear. Even an aluminum casting, made simpler by casting it solid, and recycling the material I bored out of the center of this thing, was enormously heavy, and had to be lifted by crane. It was transported to the largest lathe I had ever seen, so large that the carriage had an operator's seat mounted, and the distance between centers is like 40 feet. I could chuck up and turn down a tanker truck with this thing.

large lathe

I taught them what a K.D.K. holder is, and built a set for them.

 I made a lot of friends, and one of them, "Mahmood Zulfagri", invited me to his wedding. With Ahmadi by our side, Pam and I entered the building where the wedding was to be held.

029             030

 We were immediately separated, and Pam was whisked off to be with the women, and Ahmadi, and Mahmood, and I joined the men. Mahmood's bride was beautiful, in white, and the ceremony was not unlike our own, with an "Imam" presiding. I could see the women, on a balcony across the room, and I haven't yet learned the strictness of sex segregation.

Back to work the next day with a hangover, few men partook of alcoholic beverage, but they made certain that I had plenty. Back to business as usual.

I.A.C.I. soon realizes that they need their own machine, and suddenly I become a purchasing agent. A site was selected,(a building), and the toolboxes, and the tools I purchased were assembled there.

And Busier

My time is divided up between, manufacturing hard to get parts, and purchasing equipment for the shop, and setting up the new machines, which arrived on a daily basis. Next thing I know is that I.A.C.I. is hiring machinists, at twice my pay.


 I go to check this out, and I get to deal with "Tim", my boss’ manager, an older fellow, that thinks it's his calling to teach young folks a few things. Unable to negotiate, I requested to return to the states, and after exactly one year, I am on my way home.

Priceless Experience

During the shift to Doshen Tappeh, we rented an apartment, almost right across the street from Hotel Victoria. It is a high ceiling,


021            023

marble mansion, cold and empty. I only have a few things brought from the states. The few Americans that went before us, has made a list of things that were unavailable, or extremely expensive. Most of the things on the list were useless, or unnecessary, and the only things that were useful were; a one gallon can of Kikkoman soy sauce, our clothes, and my guitar, the one I bought in Oklahoma. The owner of the building lives upstairs, and we share a telephone, one of the more expensive items. The wall sockets put out 220 volts, 50 cycles, so if you brought appliances from the states, you needed a converter, which worked for most things, except television, which also required 60 cycles (hertz). There were street vendors that carried everything from melons to bread. I remember I was having trouble converting money values, and I paid about 20 dollars U.S. for a strange melon, resembling a cantaloupe, only in outer appearance. The guy still acted like I cheated him, 'till he got out of sight.

Seeing the Sights

My best friend ever, Don Hill was more adventurous than most,(that's what I liked about him), and rather than rely on orange cabs, or busses, Don acquired an old Land Rover",


 ratty looking, but in immaculate mechanical condition. He would bring Nancy, and Don-Ray to visit often, and we would load up our families, and drive around to see the sights.

 An icon for Iran is the monument now called Azadi Tower, we knew as Shayad Monument. Everything that was named during the Shah's rule has had a name change.


A lot of times, it would be only Don and me, and we did some crazy things, not having women and children to think about. We would cruise the "Hotel Strip", and there was always a vendor there to get a little "pastod", never considering the consequences of getting caught. Life was very liberal with the "Shah" in power. I had been introduced to cannibis, during my last week at Boeing, when a friend invited me to a pot party. I would love to have some weed, but I am told there's none available. One of the guys, Leroy Walker, has some hash, and when I try it, I realize that I have found a friend. Our driver from Imperial Taxi says he can get some for me, and soon I have this lovely oval cake, made in Nepal. I was a beer drinker, but the hash is so strong that I am unable to mix it with alcohol. If I come out my door, make a left, walk 50 feet, and make a right, I would be standing in front of an Armenian deli, where I bought beverages, and they had on display, cuts of meat, I could only guess their origin. My beverage choice became "7up" instead of "Tuborg". There are several bottling plants, and I see a lot of classic coke bottles, with the lettering in Farsi, and Pepsi, and seven up, and if you wanted beer, all you had was Tuborg. We considered ourselves lucky, because we heard that the guys in Saudi weren't allowed to drink alcohol at all.

You could buy hard liquor, imported from everywhere, but each bottle had a wax seal with a government impression, and anything without was considered contraband. When we first got in country, I read in the paper how two dozen people died at a wedding reception, after drinking beverages composed of hard liquor, that had been diluted with isopropyl alcohol, by the grooms father, trying to save a few bucks.

The Muslims forbid the use of alcohol, but the loosening of strict adherence, allows the liberal minded, to imbibe, and the variety of liquor is as prolific, as the variety of country of origin of the people I meet every day. I have been introduced to a plethora of strange spirits, one of the unusual favorites being Uzo, and the other licorice flavored spirit of Greek origin, Anisette. I'm invited to parties at the Tehran Hilton, and Sheraton, and I meet princesses, and royalty from various countries. They all speak good English, and I am amazed that no one speaks Farsi. Every time I meet a native, they seem honored, that I learned a little of their language. It made my time soooooo smooth, and I enjoyed things, out of reach to everyone else. I can't emphasize that enough!

We discover the Tehran Steak House, and once or twice a week, we took the kids out for chateaubriand. The owner, an Armenian woman, shares her butcher, and we are privileged to buy cuts of meat, and good hamburger, from the same place she got all her meat from.

Faroushga, Bozorg, meaning "big store" was just up the street, and we could walk there in a matter of minutes. The ground floor was a grocery store, like a Safeway, where they carried more and more American products, everyday. The second floor, and the rest of the floors, all the way to the top, (8th I think), were like Sears, Mtgy. Wards, and Macys, featuring things imported from everywhere you could imagine.

The traffic is so ridiculous, it is impossible to describe. You have to see it yourself to get a good understanding and feel for the chaos. The first time we tried to cross the streer, we went with the light. It was rush hour. and the Intersection was blocked. Everyone was honking their horn, and inching forward. The pedestrians, (there was a lot), weaved in and out between the cars. Pam and I had the boys between us, holding their hands, and as I tried to wend my way through the spaces that came and went, Todd was so terrified that he just sat down. I had to pick him up, and carry him the rest of the way, across the street. Pam and Scott disappeared in the mess, and I didn't see her again 'till we got across. This became a daily thing, and from then on, Todd would pull my hand to lead me through traffic, and the boys became fearless.

Nixon came to visit, and the parade went up Pahlavi Avenue, right in front of our apartment. Nobody got too excited, except for Pam, who ran out with a camera and took a picture of the back of his head, as the parade went up the street. I heard more about Cassius Clay, a.k.a. Mohammed Ali's visit to Tehran. His conversion to Muslimism, was talked about by everyone. The girls are beautiful, chador free, short skirts, and they are free to move about, and mingle with boys. I had a true sense of freedom, and now, forty years later, I hear about strife, and a desire by the young people to revive that feeling of true freedom.

Bandar Pahlavi

I don't remember how we found out about it, but someone told us about a hunting lodge, in northern Iran, really close to the Caspian Sea. Chuck Westfall, Lance Bordon, and Jerry Burney, before Teresa, from Johnny Green and the green men, and myself head out for Bandar Pahlavi in somebody's rental car, and it is amazing, as we head north, how quickly the terrain changes from dry, rock, sandy brown mountains, to greener, wide, river valleys, and through small villages, and as we get closer to the resort area, we see roadside stands, where novelties were sold, handmade, and beautifully done, I purchased several woven mats, with designs printed on them. I gave 100 rials for them, and Chuck said, "I paid 750 rials, in town, for one of those." The perks for learning to speak the language.

We need to stop in the town of Rasht, where we are directed to buy our fishing license. Even with my reasonable knowledge of Farsi, the official in charge of licenses, kept breaking into the Rashti dialect, and when he does, I can't understand most of what he says. We finally satisfy everybody, and as we head out of town, the smell of fresh bread is overwhelming, coming from the back door of this little shop. I stuck my head in the door, and asked one of the bakers if I could buy some bread. We got several of, what looked like a raised pizza dough with no toppings. It was delicious, and from then on, I always stopped, and bought a huge pile of bread to share with the people at the lodge.

We get to the lodge, and check in. The cabins, and the lodge were so westernized, that I really felt comfortable, more so than for a long time. A good nights sleep, and we awaken to clear skies, and the sun coming up is pink and red, like something's on fire just below the horizon. The staff spoke excellent English, and they introduced us to "Bashir", a guide, somehow connected to the lodge. He led us from the dining area, where we had just finished a bacon and egg breakfast, and as we walked towards an algae covered body of water, he was reaching down and grabbing frogs. He motioned for us to do the same, and repeated the word, ghorbagheh, ghorbagheh, for frog, which I hadn't learned 'till now. We soon had our arms loaded with fishing gear and frogs, and we loaded everything in the 12 ft. skiff with a ten horse merc, and headed out across the lake? Mordab translates as "dead water". Does that mean swamp? Some of the research I have done lately, suggests that I use the word "lagoon", most likely correct. Anyway, we leave a wake, clear of algae, and Lance gets some awesome pictures. After a considerable time, we reach a place where a good size river flowed into the mordab, and Bashir steered the boat up stream. We met a lot of, similar boats, headed in the opposite direction, overloaded, with entire families on board, the gunnels, just inches above swamped. About a half mile upstream, Bashir landed us, and tied us off. We threw everything ashore, and Bashir proceeded to hook up a frog, and cast him about 25 ft. upstream and fed line 'till the sinker hit bottom. I'm a fisherman, and I was a close second to Bashir, and before I got my line in the water, Bashir landed a five pound catfish. We continued to land large catfish, until the sun burned us all to crisp. shows slides taken by Lance.

018  9            

 We returned to the lodge, and Bashir filleted our fish, and the staff froze them for us. I tried to give some to Bashir, but he declined, explaining to me that , Muslims don't eat fish without scales. These were slippery skinned catfish, and we went back several more days, as we had a long weekend. We stockpiled fifty pounds of catfish fillets, and Bashir told us about the fish that he could eat, that resided in the mordab. He called it mahi-ordack, which translates as, "duck fish". I tried to picture what could he possibly be describing. I started to get a clue, when he suggested wire leaders, and Lance couldn't wait and he was already trolling with a spinner. As soon as it hit the water, there was a huge boil, and Lance's line went limp. I hit the water, and thinking I was hung up in the weeds and I hauled in 10 pounds of swamp grass, and a beautiful four pound pike, with a duck's bill, full of needle sharp teeth. Bashir said, "I'll take that one." We caught pike 'till it was almost dark, and Lance got some gorgeous pictures of two Iranian boys in a 10 ft. rowboat, one boy casting a circular net with weights on it's circumference, and the other boy, positioning the boat for a more productive haul. They called to us and came over to talk. I was the only one that could understand what they were saying, and when they spoke the "Rashti" dialect, I couldn't understand them either. They showed how the net worked, and just fooling around, they caught a species I wasn't familiar with and Bashir said, "That's the one everybody likes." I'll never forget the food at the lodge. We had a waiter in a tux, and he took our order. I ordered a sturgeon souffle that was so light and fluffy, with a delicate flavor, over rice, and to this day, I have to say, that was the most satisfying meal I had ever eaten.

I returned many times, each time, with a different group, and always brought back a pile of fish. I remember one trip, where we were still about 40 miles from the lodge and we were with Chuck's boss, the little Texan with the fat wife, who used to say, "If she ever need to haul ass, she'd have to make two trips", anyway, it was just after sundown, and we were following an Iranian made car, and it was obvious that the driver was falling asleep. Tex wanted to tailgate the guy with his American Jeep, as the guy in front of us, drifted back and forth over the centerline. I told him to back off, and as he did, the car in front of us, full of ladies in chadores, drifted off the road, in a gentle curve, around a small hill, and as he glided into the berm, the car overturned. It was going really slow, and I don't think anyone was hurt bad, but I told Tex to drive on around, as I was told by my Iranian friends, that if I tried to help, I could be held responsible, like what happened to Don. He stopped for a guy he knocked down, an act of compassion, and a mistake an Iranian would never make. If I hadn't been well traveled, I would have done the same thing, having not been warned by my friends.(Iranian)

One time, during frog season, we brought back 50 lbs. of dressed frog-legs, another thing Bashir said he wouldn't eat, along with crawdads, and turtles. I tried all of those things, but the only thing in abundance was catfish, pike, and some really huge frogs that would be coveted in Calaveras county. After Pam and the kids were gone, and I took one last trip up in my Ghian, and I got stuck in the mud, after a rain, and I was driving out in open fields, trying to find where Bashir lived. I took the back seat out, and made preps to sleep, when these two river tramps showed up. I was cooking two turtles, which tasted like mud, and dehydrated peas from the U.S. commissary. Those two guys couldn't believe, when I showed them dry peas, and when you boil them a minute or two, and they taste like fresh out of the garden. I had a little cake of hash, and I shared it with them. They had a black, silly putty looking thing, opium, and he cut off a piece and rolled it between his hands 'till it was toothpick diameter around and 6 inches long, and he wound it around my cigarette, so that it would fume as I smoked my cigarette. It tasted like burning rubber and I didn't feel much effect. They were getting ready to tell me that their stuff was better than mine, when they both nodded off. I had to sleep outside, on the ground, and when I woke up, they were gone.

It happened to be a good frog season, and this new guy I meet, wants to hang out. We had a communications problem, as he would not speak to me directly, and to simplify the language for me, he referred to himself in the third person. I tried to dazzle him with every word I ever learned, but he was unshakable, and we struggled to understand each other.

I finally find Bashir, and he takes me to his house, and I am shocked. Bashir lives in a mud hut, with dirt floors, and his family is huge, it looks like 4 daughters and 3 sons, with a babe in arms. I chide him for being 60, and virle, and the girls blush. They feed me, much to my chagrin, and I reluctantly spent the night, knowing that I had displaced, however many people shared the room, which I had to myself. I knew I would soon be headed back to the states, and I would probably never see him again, I took out gas money home, and gave him the rest, about 200 dollars worth, and that was a years salary for him, he wanted to kiss my feet, and the tears came to me and I said that his feet were the ones that needed to be kissed. I will always remember him and I wish he and I had been able to spend more time, alone together. This true friendship crossed all cultural barriers, and I will always treasure the memory of "Bashir", my friend.

Don and I make a trip to the country west of Tehran, and once out of town, it gets desolate, really quick, and towns, and anything at all, become few and far between. Thirty or forty miles out of town, we could see buildings off in the distance, but no visible way to get there, so Don drives off the road and across the desert toward this village. It's farther than it seems, and when we get within 2 or 3 miles of it, I took some panoramic shots of, what, I didn't know yet. We continued to drive closer, thinking it strange that we haven't seen any people for a while. When we arrive, it is obvious that this a ghost town, and not knowing customs, or consequences, we took a few pictures; and got the hell out of there. I tried to describe the place to my Persian friends, but no-one knows anything about it. Other than a few pictures, and a lot of memories, that place remains a mystery to this day.

See all my photos from Iran at

See fishing trip slides at



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                                When we tried to get closer to this,                we see a village                 


                                                                    A Panorama

                                                                           It is a ghost town


                             with crumbling walls                                       and an underground aquaduct,

7         6

                                          and next to this reservoir,                        the only green in sight.

    04          Picture1

Back in town, everyone was trying to stay busy, and see the sights.

At work there was really nothing to do, except scramble for something better than what you were hired for.There were a lot of mid level and upper management positions available, and there was scrambling, and back stabbing, and level shifting as I.A.C.I. stabilized into a relatively well functioning organization. Don got a good job out of it all, and when I left country, I knew I would miss him.

Back at San Bdoo, one of the guys I worked with, Clint Withington, is disgusted with Tim, and soon he is back in the states. He is plant superintendent for "Casings Western", and he calls and asks me to work for him as plant manager, and machinist, so I uproot my family and move to Hayward/San Leandro. The owner is an alcoholic of the worst I have ever seen, and this job goes sour quickly, so I head back to Bdoo, and L.S.I. picks me up as machine shop foreman. This time it's Bell Helicopter that’s hiring for Iran, and they pick me right up. This time, I had to travel by myself, ahead of my family. This time I know a bunch of people, and I have visitor after visitor, at the Commodore Hotel, where I first stayed. Chuck and Nancy Westfall, Don and Nancy, and Leroy, who brought me a chunk of hash to welcome me back. I am hired as a machinist, and I am with a lot of new people. We would get together and make plans what to do with the money we made. We talked about starting an airport, and a dozen of us had plans to make it work.

One of the guys I met there, Marvin Engle, had an Idea for a rotary engine, and in the process of doing research to understand the action, I invented a mechanical advantage engine, cultivated the Idea of water hydrolysis to produce hydrogen for fuel, by way of solar energy, (free fuel for everyone out of the garden hose), which met resistance in an oil producing country, resistance I am not at liberty to discuss to this day.

Marvin's engine required an elliptical cylinder bore, and I was challenged to find a way to bore an ellipse on the lathe. I have developed a really good relationship with my counterparts, Hassan Afrakhteh, and Hossein Ardakani. Hassan, is a college graduate, and has an engineering degree. I learned a lot of things from him. Language, math, customs, every thing I didn't know, Hassan knew. They took me to the movie theater, where I saw "Papillon". Popcorn was available, but roasted pumpkin seeds were most popular, so we ate salted pumpkin seeds, and Dustin Hoffman and Steve McQueen spoke Farsi.

We kept up with the few work orders we would receive, and we had a lot of free time, so I got permission to dismantle one of the Czeckoslavakian lathes, and modify it to bore Marvin's engine block. When I finally get it to work, no one can believe their eyes. What I did is so simple now with cnc machinery, but at the time it was thought to be impossible. This started a major feud between the manager and myself, and unable to resolve the conflict, I was transferred to Esfahan, 200 miles south of Tehran.

Whole new Desert

Esfahan is a small town when compared to Tehran and there is only one main street, called "Four Gardens". One end is called Four Gardens Upper, and the other end is called Four Gardens Lower. Traffic is less chaotic, and we decide to purchase an automobile. The only thing we can really afford is a citroen, gian, a beer can shell around a motorcycle engine and transmission, with a shifter in the dash. Now we can go anywhere, anytime, and get about 50 miles to the gallon. One of our favorite places to go is Bandar Pahlavi. There is a hunting lodge, on a lake, fed by a river, where there are catfish of monstrous proportions, and lots of them. One of the trips there, my son Todd caught a fifty pound catfish,(Todd weighed 55 pounds), and when we got home, the people we went with, Chuck Westfall and his Texan boss, got up in the middle of the night, and took Todd's catfish home for themselves. We had caught a hundred fish, so there was plenty, but the idea of what they did still leaves a bad taste.

I made several trips to the Caspian Sea, one trip, I met a Russian guy that couldn't speak English, but knew Farsi. We had an interesting conversation, and another time I met two Iranian guys, one from Tehran and the other from Esfahan. The guy from Tehran asked me how I liked Esfahan, after living in Tehran, and I said, "Biabanieh", loosely translated means, "It's a desert". I thought the guy from Esfahan was going to sock me, one of the times when my limited knowledge of the language almost got me into trouble.


We have been to the Bazaar in every city we have visited. We have a collection of nick knacks, and goodies we plan to carry back to the states with us. there are carpets, a sheep hide area rug, ten feet in diameter. We have gem stones, and some neat things of copper and brass; coffee tables, samavars, fondue set, imitation, antique, armor, and weapons from the middle ages, gold Pahlavi coins, Camel saddle bar stools, and all sorts of conversation pieces, like cartoon art, and popular middle eastern posters. On one trip, I was lucky enough to score several posters from "The Seventh Asian Games", affectionately known to the crass, as raghead olympics. I also have my, now cracked guitar that Don knocked off my marble mantle, onto my marble floor. This guitar has a story that shows how truly small of a world that this is. I would, later, give that very guitar to a young lady who was a cheerleader for my "Pop Warner" team. It was her reward for learning a song that she asked me to teach her. This was Poway, and later, when I moved to Sacramento, I was visiting my son, and I had along with me my Yamaha. A friend of his ran down to his car to get his guitar, so we could jam, and when he came in, I said, "I used to have a guitar just like that, except it got cracked." The guy flipped over the guitar, and showed where Don had knocked a chunk out of it, fifteen years earlier, and a chill went up my spine, like I have never experienced. I said, "I know who gave you that guitar.", and he said, "no way.", and I said, "Tracy Browning.", and that's when a chill went up his spine. "What are the odds?" we both wondered, and I have worn that story out, so if you want to hear it again, you'll have to read it here.

Back in Tehran, Don is in jail. Apparently, an elderly Iranian man had stepped off the curb in front of Don, and he was unable to stop. The man fell backwards, and hit his head. He was in a coma, and when he finally died, the family, thinking all Americans are rich, causes Don to be imprisoned in Tehran's Evin prison. I can only imagine what conditions are like in a jail in Tehran, and all the information I am getting, is second hand, and third hand and so on. I'm having problems of my own, and I cannot think of anything I could have done to help Don's situation. I keep hearing rumors that if you got anything besides prison slop, it was brought to you by family. I heard that somehow, he survived, got out somehow, and escaped to Turkey, on a motorcycle. I haven't heard anything since, and I have searched for any sign that might lead me to find him.

We also bought dirt bikes, and there was such a variety of places to ride, that you never get tired of one type of terrain. The only thing unavailable was sand dunes, and we made several trips to western Iran to "Kermanshah" where the sand dunes go on forever.

                                       nan w kashan

One of the trips to Kashan, this giant native American, and his Iranian girlfriend went with us. We lost that big guy, and when I went back for him, I found him just getting back on his bike. He had made a jump, came down hard, and cut most of his upper lip off on the handlebars. We limped him back to camp where his girlfriend immediately became hysterical, and insisted that I accompany them to the hospital. When we get there the girl is unable to speak, and I become interpreter. We can only find a tribal doctor, of dubious degrees, and I explain how the accident happened, and what kind of first aid we required. The doctor? took him into an examining room, numbed his face, and proceeded to put about 200 stitches in his face.

My bike is a "C.Z." 400, and my experience riding with Jon Rogers is really valuable, and I am one of the best riders around. Winter comes, and riding becomes more difficult, and working conditions are miserable. I must sweep the snow off the helicopters every day, and it is bitter cold, no way to get warm. Somehow we survive the winter, and it is spring. Time to go bike riding, so the Westfalls, and the Petersons head out to ride. The kids jumped out first, and by the time I was ready to get out, Scott came at me, running with his arm dangling and flopping. I immediately knew he had a compound fracture, and Nancy, and her nurses training, grabbed him and wrapped his arm in a "Time Magazine" and we rushed him to the hospital, where they reset his arm twice, and it still looks bad in the x-rays, and he also has a double hernia (inguinal), so I decide to send him back to the states. With my family gone, I fell into depression, compounded by my new duties of crash recovery, including retrieving aircraft bodies, and human ones as well. Bell doesn't want to pay my family’s way back, so I asked to be terminated, and I returned to the states as well.


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