Our intrepid little group was the ‘united nations’ of teams – under the guidance of Shirin, a lovely Iranian-British friend with a true passion for the mountains and sharing her Iranian heritage through her newly established British-Iranian trekking company, we were a small team made up of a patchwork of nationalities and backgrounds - British, Belgian, Brazilian, Japanese, South African, Spanish, Italian, Iranian and Canadian.
With boots crunching over the gravel, I reassured myself with the knowledge that we were embarking on what is a relatively uncomplicated climb. “Basically a walk-up,” had been my conclusion based on the numerous websites I’d consulted while researching the trip. “Technically easy and physically moderate.” Technically easy it was – the terrain being very similar to Kilimanjaro. Having said that, it differed from a standard Kilimanjaro climb as the physical element came from a very aggressive altitude profile – a 1600m summit day to 5671m - the climax of a 2.5 day climb which left very little room for acclimatisation. Empty syringes of dexamethasone, a steroid used to aggressively treat symptoms of altitude sickness, were littered between the rocks from past climbers.
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.
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.
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.
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