I was also very aware of Damavand’s tempestuous
weather system. Like other prominent peaks around the world, Damavand has a
weather system all of its own: hot air blowing up from Iran’s dry interior hits
the mountain’s southern flank, producing storms that are sudden, unpredictable
and can easily quash the ambitions of the most seasoned climbers. In the early
1970s, Reinhold Messner, who is widely considered the greatest alpinist in
history (and a personal hero of mine!), learned firsthand about Damavand’s
fickle winds when a storm swept in and sabotaged his summit bid. Henceforth,
Messner, whose normal playground is the 8000m death-zone of the Himalaya, would
describe Damavand as “That little hill that defeated me”.
With that thought, I continued on, head bowed in
submission to the altitude and moving slowly in single file behind our guide
plodding on up the hill. We calculated that our average speed on the way up was
just over 1km / hour. We certainly weren’t setting any speed records but we
were moving at a steady and comfortable pace.
About 6 hours later we were within touching
distance of what looked like an ominous rocky gate, a gap between two rocky
outcrops, like a half-finished barricade, through which we could see our goal.
Cheered by its apparent proximity we were urged onwards. “Ten minutes from
here,” said our indefatigable guide, fibbing brazenly in a last-gasp attempt to
raise our spirits – it turned out to be more like 40.
A welcome cultural distraction to our monotonous
plodding was provided by a government religious group made up of about 10
rather militant looking men who were climbing alongside us. Every few minutes a
call of prayer echoed down the ridge from what appeared to be a heavily bearded
and prominent group leader. The climbing party, between strained gasps of
breath, would respond in chorus, urged onwards and upwards, driven by their
faith. I looked on and became increasingly conscious of my presence in this
‘foreign’ land – a woman, a Canadian, climbing as an equal alongside a party of
men, in a country which I felt had, thus far, defied the media headlines and the many
preconceptions I’d had. I adjusted my warm hat and pulled my head-scarf more
prominently over my face to cover my western features and also provide
protection against the acrid fumes.
Eventually, at a little before noon, our intrepid
little team breached the crater rim and trundled onto the roof of the Middle
East, a barren plateau festooned with sulphur-yellowed stones. The noxious
smoke contaminated each triumphant breath, as fumaroles within the crater – the
reason behind the rocks’ jaundiced coloration – pumped out a concoction of
gases from the center of the earth. The stench served as a reminder of
Damavand’s earthly purpose: a pressure-valve built by nature to relieve the
earth-shuddering friction at the conjunction of the Arabian and Eurasian
plates.
Living up to the Canadian stereotype, I arrived
at the summit with a modest-sized Canadian flag stored in the depths of my
rucksack. Earlier that morning, I’d spoken to our guide asking whether it would
be permissible to have a picture on the summit of myself, alongside both the
Iranian and Canadian flag. After much deliberation it was decided that as long
as I was discrete the moment could be captured on film. So, it was with much
trepidation that I stood on the summit with the red and white, maple leaf
emblazoned flag hoping for a quick photo.
In the meantime, the burly-looking men which made
up the government religious group had also arrived on the summit and were busy
offering each other congratulations whilst continuing their exhortations of
faith. My ‘sixth sense’ kicked into overdrive and I became aware that taking
out a Canadian flag could go one of two ways, possibly putting me in the centre
of a diplomatic incident… I began to visualize the headlines flashing across
the ‘Globe and Mail’ and wondered how my parents would fare in dealing with
ransom demands… The irony was that the risk that I found myself deliberating
with surprising clarity was very different from the risk that I normally found
myself deliberating on my more frequented Himalayan stomping ground.
And then it happened.
As I discretely attempted to unfurl the Canadian
flag, one of my teammates started to cheer… All eyes turned to me. There was no
going back as I held my flag – a symbol of democracy, freedom and equality -
proudly above my head. The leader of the local Iranian religious group waved
with a gentle nod indicating that it was ok to proceed. My united nations team
looked on smiling. Suddenly it struck me. I was on the highest point in the
Middle East, surrounded by friends, old and new… a team which reflected my perception
of the ‘modern Iran’. Whilst the summit reflected the ‘crux’ of our climb, I
realised that it actually was so much more than that. It was a symbol of the
multifarious melting-pot that is defining modern Iran –a country that is
endlessly welcoming and a country that is desperate to been seen for what it
is, rather than what it is depicted to be.
Before we began our descent, all of the teams
standing on the summit – a mosaic of cultures – stood together to celebrate
what we individually and jointly had achieved. It was one of the most pivotal
and memorable moments that have shaped my climbing ‘journey’ as other flags
soon began to appear from the depths of dusty climbing packs – Iranian, Ukranian,
Palestinian… Climbing mountains has become a symbol of a journey which brings
together people from all walks of life with a shared passion to achieve a
common goal; to celebrate, learn from, and inspire each other.
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