
True hero in combat: navigating Iran's traffic with nothing but flesh and bones—and he's pulling a giant load too!
I am navigating the sidewalks on Tehran’s Jordan Avenue, taking care not to step into any puddles of water, hopping back and forth into the street to avoid garbage or construction debris, constantly watching for uneven ground since apparently property owners get to build the sidewalk according to personal taste.
I step off the sidewalk to cross a side street—only to pull back to save my life. A Peugeot pulls in front of me so fast and so close that it misses me by only a few centimeters. It’s not going anywhere, though. The traffic on Jordan is as always at a standstill. The Peugeot screeches to a halt and just sits there, blocking my way.
It’s daytime. I am standing . But the driver, a man in an office suit, is completely oblivious to my presence.
Welcome to Iran, I mumble to myself and turn to go around the back of the Peugeot. The back, not the front, lest he speeds forward without looking.
I've extended one foot into the street when a BMW screeches to a halt right behind the Peugeot. It’s a young female, all made out in layers of makeup and fake blonde hair, the color of urine.
Again, there is not so much as a glance in my direction.
I am a pedestrian in Tehran; to most Iranian drivers I’m either non-existent or as resilient as rubber and steel. I am not a person.
I know all this already but again I feel the blood rushing to my head. I see myself pounding my fist on the BMW’s hood and screaming, “You animal!”
I just mumble the words, though. I turn to fit myself through the foot she allowed me and scurry on before the Peugeot lets go of its brake and rolls back to crush me into the BMW—a daily occurrence here.
Everyday eight people die and 160 are critically injured in Tehran traffic accidents. Iran either has the world’s highest or third highest per capita traffic casualties, depending on whom you believe. (I’m working on finding the published stats; Pakistanis and Tanzanians also claimed the top honor for themselves when I visited those countries.)
If there is one thing that the foreigner would want to grab and shake senseless on daily basis, it’s the Iranian driver. For me, nothing else even comes close.

Only if the automobile never arrived in Iran. The doroshkeh in Naghsh-i Jahan square, Isfahan.