An Angel Called Nima - Saturday, February 13th

We touched down with little over an hour to go before the connecting flight to Tehran. Another short sprint across an airport was needed and soon I was well ensconced in my seat. Sadly the seat fairy hadn’t paid a visit this time. I was bang in the middle, and in Japanese PoW fashion, couldn’t extend any of my limbs without hitting a person, or a seat.

No matter. The seat fairy had a bit of karma in her and had sat me down next to a real gem. Nima and I got talking almost instantly. A bookish, slightly doughy, man in his 50s who had moved to Germany some years ago to pursue a PhD in wireless technologies. His time in the motherland had inflected him with an endearingly Teutonic sensibility. Having discovered my intentions he quickly fell into the pervading school of thought that, clearly, this chap is a nutter.

When I explained the story of my ticketing crisis he also came to the conclusion that I was a disorganised nutter and spent much of our time together trying to instill some kind of decorum in my approach to this journey.

Once we had landed and I’d wobbled off the plane like a freed veal calf, he put every effort into making sure I stayed out of the soup. He helped me obtain my entry visa which was invaluable. The process of different windows and inevitable top up fees was not intuitive by any means and I’d still probably be at the airport of it weren’t for him.

Iran airport itself was a curiosity. Sanctions had forced the Iranians into being almost entirely dependent on themselves and a few other non-western states. The airport had been built by Iranian engineers and painted a picture of a country that had been left out of the world stage for the last 40 or so years. There were no Rolex ads, nor was there any other advertising except one solitary ad for a lesser known South Korean phone brand. The only decor in the terminal were posters advertising Iranian travel hotspots… And certainly no branded dining to speak of, not even a Pret.

Once I had Visa’d up he helped me find a currency exchange that gave me the best rate and even negotiated a car to take me directly to the ski resorts 3 hours from the city. I had planned to take the bus to Shemshek (apparently the more challenging of Iran’s two ski resorts) but total lack of sleep and a stressful trip twisted my arm for me.

Nima had done a wonder of a job finding a driver too. My chariot was a beaten up old Samand. A car designed and built entirely in Iran. In fact all of Iran’s cars were home grown. Even the ones that looked a lot like Peugeots were in fact Iranian copies. And looking at them you could sort of see it. But as fakes go, it’s not bad work.

Nima joined us for the drive as we were dropping him off at his home in Tehran. Throughout the trip he regularly dispensed his charming brand of pedantry, educating me in all things Iran. It was enlightening and I couldn’t have been more grateful to him for all of his kindnesses. He asked for nothing except a mention in the blog so I thought the least I could do was dedicate this chapter to him.

During the drive into Tehran it was decided for me that we would be going to the other ski resort, Dizin, and I had little say I’m the matter. I was left in the very capable hands of my driver Ahmad, after a warm farewell at Nima’s home. Aside from a habit of talking to himself incessantly and changing the radio station every 30 seconds, Ahmad was a stand up guy. We even stopped for a breakfast together at the Iranian equivalent of a roadside diner. The meal was on me, of course, but considering his wife had recently died of cancer I was in no position to deny the chap a free meal.

Sadly his English was nowhere near as good as Nima’s but that had its perks too. You certainly don’t feel as guilty for not making idle chat and considering I was a sleep deprived mess there wasn’t going to be much of that.

Soon the snow capped peaks that had stood like guardian monoliths over Terhan had engulfed us. The drive was as beautiful as any alpine road with the added benefit that it was Iran and therefore a massive novelty. There weren’t many chocolate box chalets to speak of but cetainly an abundance of makeshift roadside diners.

Once we got there I settled up and went to find some lodgings. The first place I walked into was a hotel that looked like the set of a Roger Moore Bond flick. An orgy of wooden lacquered furniture and giant leather backed sofas trimmed with Persian patterning. It smelt like it would blow my budget and I was already handing out pounds like they were going out of fashion. Remeber, there are still technically sanctions in place so there is no way for love or money that I could get into my bank accounts here. What you bring is all you have. A bad budgeter’s worst nightmare.

About two hours before my flight I’d read in the Lonely Planet that couch surfing is not banned here. So I hastly set up a profile and sent two messages. One to a guy in Shemshek and one to a guy in Dizin. Given the timeframes, it was a serious long shot. Thankfully the hotel had free WiFi so I checked my messages. Lo and behold, Alex from Dizin had replied. He wasn’t in town but he said he could sort me out.

I called and he said that his friend Mahmoud was on his way to the hotel to pick me up. Alex had a strong American accent and spoke English fluently. He warned me that Mahmoud did not. Once under Mahmoud’s stewardship I would sort out my skiis, passes and find the cheapest lodgings in town. Mahmood diligently appeared and we set off.

The ski shop was made of unpainted cinder blocks and the kit had seen better days but it was cheap as chips and did the job. As I wasn’t sorting lodgings until the skiing was done, I had to change into my ski kit then and there. Clearly prudishness isn’t really a thing in Iran, as I stripped down to my privvies with three men watching and quietly passing judgement.

Once that was done it was time to ski. I had arrived in a state of near delerium but the thought of skiing for the first time in 5 years stirred my soul to the point of frenzy. To help things along, there had just been a snow dump and there wasn’t a cloud sullying the the horizon, end to end. Nothing was getting in the way of me and my afternoon of skiing. Especially not fatigue.

As we ascended the first rickety French gondola I mulled over just how drastically things had turned around in 24 hours. This time yesterday I hadn’t even started packing, now I’m about to ski in bloody Iran with my new mate Mahmoud!

The skiing certainly didn’t disappoint. As good as the majority of European slopes I’d been on but very empty. There were no Burkas or even veils, no forms of segregation and not one poster of the Ayatollah. It was certainly a joy unlike any other I had experienced. Suddenly the events of yesterday had melted away and I could focus on the here and now. My heart felt like an orb that was about to burst with the sheer glee. ‘Who was the nutter now?’ I mused.

Click on the picture to activate the slideshow.

After a solid few hours on piste and even a bit of cheeky powder along the way, we stopped for tea. Iranians seemed to have filled the alcoholic void in their lives with caffene and sugar quite comfortably. They easily drink the English under the table in tea terms. As Mahmoud was seemingly mates with everyone, we ended up having tea with two chaps in the operations room of one of the ski lifts.

As none of the three guys spoke a word of English, I brought out my London postcard party trick. They were all enthralled until one of the post cards revealed two fat, bare arsed women running in front of Big Ben. Suddenly the atmohere got a bit frosty and the postcard was hurried out of sight. It has since been removed from the deck.

My lodgings were 10 minutes down the road by car from Dizin’s ski area Mahmoud kindly escorted me to a house down a side alley and left me to it. The palace was more than adequte. A ligerimg smell of gas and a constant tapping sound from the radiator were the only real causes for alarm. The house consisted of several rooms with thin mattress es on a well carpeted attic room adjoimed by a semi-functional hamam shower. I spent an hour in the hamam. The experience was just as reviving as the moment I hit the slopes earlier that day.

Dizin itself is hard to describe. There is no architectural through line whatsoever. It’s essentially the outcome of a complete absence of planing laws. Each house seems to be a different style, material and colour. All cobbled together in a valley that feels very far removed from the rest of the world.

Later that eve Alex, his best friend Reza, Reza’s wife Reia and their 3 year old son Rasa, another female friend and dear Mahmoud came to the house. Reza , it turned out, had an extended family in Manchester and a neice called Chandice. Alex had said earlier that he was now coming to town, in part to celebrate my arrival. And celebrate we did. It turns out that the home brew scene in Iran certainly is alive and kicking, with surprisingly good results. We had some of the best plastic bottle Grappa I’ve ever had and some tasty Shiraz, from Shiraz.

The Iranians were, by most accounts, the inventors of alcohol and many view this little 35 year highjacking by Islamic fundamentalism as a minor ink stain on the glorious history of these people. I was inclined to agree. Normally when you cut a country off from the rest of the world they tend to collapse. In Iran they were able to hack American military drones and land them using their own home brew tech. That’s impressive to say the least.

We made Iranian style burgers, danced and conversed on just about every topic imaginable. It felt like an evening with old friends. Alex had spent much of his life in Canada and everyone else spoke fluent or conversational English which made things very easy. Tomorrow, we would ski together as a group. Squad skiing in Iran, I thought. How marvellous.

Dizin was apparently at about to undergo a sea change in the next few years. From sleepy mountain town to the Iranian equivalent of Gstaad. Poor them, I thought, they don’t know what the hell is coming to them. Although it did mean that Mahmoud and his family were likely to hit the big time given the land they owned in town. That tickled me.

Personally, I’d come back here for the tap water alone. It’s got something addictive in it. Caffeine from the tea perhaps.