35 — The Armenian Trucker
The temperature hovered in the low 60s Fahrenheit as the tractor-trailer rig crossed the Aras river from Agarak, Armenia, into Nordouz, Iran. Just over 100 meters past the bridge, the truck slowed and turned right into the dirt parking lot of the Iranian customs center. The time in Iran was 10:02 in the morning, exactly 30 minutes earlier than the time would be if the truck was still on the other side of the river in Armenia. Hamak Arsadian knew from years of experience that this was the optimal time to show up. A customs officer would get to him within an hour and that meant that he would want to wrap up quickly so that he could break for lunch and Dhuhr prayers at noon. For Arsadian that meant getting back on the road by noon so that he could make it through Tabriz before the start of rush hour.
On this morning, twelve trucks were parked as bored Iranian customs agents checked paperwork and inspected the cargo area of the trucks, always being more thorough for those drivers who were disliked or, more importantly, were too poor or naive to have placed two crisp new 100,000 Iranian rial notes on the inside of their passport. The banknotes were only worth about $10, but for the customs agents who worked the Nordouz crossing, the weekly distribution of pooled “gratuities” were handed out based on a strict seniority system, doubling the pay of rookie officers and tripling the pay of senior officers. Of course, 25 % of the take had to be forwarded on to regional headquarters in Tabriz, which, in turn, sent 25 % of their take on to Tehran. Everybody participated — and therefore everybody was happy.
Arsadian knew the routine from almost 20 years of delivering goods to the cities of Iran. The businessmen of the Islamic Republic had faced many hurdles since the Revolution, including boycotts, sanctions and the bad publicity that many western companies faced if caught doing business with Iran. One result was the evolution of trade with Armenian front companies that purchased goods in the west — often via an intermediary Russian company — and delivered them to the eager consumers of Iran via a network of trucks that plied the roadways between the warehouses of Yerevan and the major, and minor, cities of Iran. Muslim Azerbaijan’s close relations with Israel over recent years had only added fuel to the growth of this trade network between Iran and the overwhelmingly Christian nation of Armenia.
Like his father before him, Hamak Arsadian made a decent living driving this route on a weekly basis, a history that had allowed him to build a wide network of Armenian and Iranian business associates. Arsadian had made his name by being on time and avoiding the inventory “shrinkage” that was so prevalent among many drivers. As a result, he was one of the preferred drivers for high-value items and his rates reflected this standing. The route through Nordouz meant driving along a poorly maintained secondary road that wound its way for almost 70 miles through the mountains until reaching Road 32, a four lane divided highway running into Tabriz. But the pay for making the trip was well worth the effort.
Just under an hour had passed when an Iranian customs officer approached. “Ah, Hamak,” smiled the aging officer. “As-salamu alayka.” The officer’s teeth were rotting and his breath reflected it. Hamak involuntarily recoiled from his window and cursed his luck at drawing Abdul Hamid Sherazi.
“Wa’ alayka s-salam, Abdul Hamid.” The Armenian’s Farsi had become quite fluent over the years of travelling the roads of Iran and engaging in the constant negotiating that was the foundation of Persian commerce. Arsadian passed his clipboard through the window and down to the officer, who began to scan the attached passport, manifest, bill of lading, invoice, certificate of origin, proof of insurance and TIR carnet. The motion of his right hand from the opened passport to his pocket was so routine that the officer did not need to think about it.
The customs officer stepped back a few feet, his head following his eyes as he scanned along the driver side of the tractor-trailer rig. He then took a couple of steps to his left and looked at the front of the tractor. “Is this a new truck?”
“New for me, but, no, not a new truck. I purchased it this week. It’s a 2009 MAN GTX. What do you think?”
“You must be doing well, Hamak. Allah has smiled upon you.”
“Praise be to him,” replied the driver. Arsadian was raised a Christian and still attended church on major holidays, but he had long learned the wisdom of adopting a Muslim attitude once he crossed the border. “My old tractor was costing me too much money in repairs, so I had no choice. At least that is what I tell my wife.” Arsadian chuckled.
The guard smiled broadly. “I am impressed.” He looked at the 13.6 meter Montracon box van trailer, which lacked side doors. “A new trailer too?”
Arsadian felt his stomach muscles tighten. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. Just respond as you have practiced. “Yes, it was a deal. The prior owner immigrated to the United States. To New York City I believe.”
“Ah, lucky bastard,” responded the officer. It was a spontaneous utterance that was not in keeping with the official position of Iran. As soon as the words left his mouth, he became self-conscious for the first time in many weeks. Fortunately for him, members of VEVAK, the Iranian secret police, were not particularly prevalent in this remote border crossing.
The truck driver picked up on the officer’s emotion. It made him relax. “Not so much,” joked Arsadian. “He’s driving a taxi.”
The customs officer thought about how he would gladly accept such a job for a chance to live in America, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “Hmmm,” was all that came out. He returned his mind to his work. “I see you went with a hard side.” Most of the trailers in this region had one or two canvas sides to reduce weight and make loading and unloading easier. Many trailers were open and the load simply covered in a large canvas that was tied down. This type of closed box van was rare.
“This is what he had.” Arsadian shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, this lets me sleep easier while I’m delivering a load… and no leaks.”
Sherazi nodded his head slowly in agreement as he raised the clipboard up. He began to scour the manifest. “Where are you headed this trip?”
“I am delivering toilet paper to Ahvaz.”
Sherazi looked up from the manifest, which clearly listed 450 cartons of toilet paper. “Toilet paper?” His right eyebrow was raised and his right palm was turned upward in wonderment.
Arsadian smiled. “Charmin.” This was a true luxury in Iran.
“Ah, Charmin!” The customs officer was excited. Unlike the usual load of large appliances or automotive spare parts, this was something he could take home to his wife and kids. “Let’s take a look,” the officer said as he walked to the back door, not caring about Arsadian’s response. The driver quickly exited his cab and hurried to the back of the truck, always mindful of the power that Abdul Hamid Sherazi could bring to bear if made unhappy. He reached the rear doors of the trailer before the overweight officer, who had no need to ever move quickly. The Armenian lifted the right side handle from its cradle and rotated it out and to the left effortlessly. An experienced observer could tell a veteran truck driver simply by how smooth his motion was when opening the back doors. After opening the right side, he just as easily opened the left.
The cartons were stacked right to the door and came within a few inches of the ceiling. Sherazi was excited; he had never before seen a shipment of Charmin. The printing on the cartons was clearly genuine — crisp, clear and straight from the Procter and Gamble plant in Mehoopany, Pennsylvania. Even though the same product could be purchased for less under the brand name Cushelle, wealthy Iranians wanted Charmin in their bathrooms and would pay for it.