Draft
I recall with equal parts shock n pleasure when a group of Iranians I was staying with walked me into one. a den, albeit down at heel, in Singapore of all places in 92. I had arrived worried about chewing gum, didnt expect poppy gum. One of my Iranian mates cautioned: "Kevin just because there's an ocean doesnt mean you should drown." These dudes were buying gold n cameras etc to smuggle into India with the cash they had made selling acid in Japan. Two had fought in the Basra marshes and had to caution with a slap a Bangladeshi student who called them bad Muslims. After the slaughter they had witnessed, they were a tad sick of his kind. A couple of others, one a judo Olympiam and the other a chess champion, just wanted to get to Canada n lead conventional lives. But they were doomed by passport n forced to be transients, hip to every scam going in 90s Asia. Educated n razor sharp, they were scintillating company. But that passport was a one way palookaville. And it introduced me to the concept of people in exile.
The old Iranian I met in a Malaysian dorm I deemed ancient. But I reckon he was younger than me now. It took several encounterz over as many in the cheap hostels of Asia's backpacker circuit to piece togethet his story.
