On the Road Again

This week’s Mustard Seed resumes my travel tales.
With ice removed from the wheel wells and the front tires free to steer again, we continued on cautiously. We saw many vehicles abandoned by the roadside, some too damaged to drive, others just stuck.
We stopped at every tea house we met to warm up and to find relief from such stressful driving conditions. The washrooms were very interesting. None would pass muster back home. At one restaurant, the washroom was about three feet wide by nine long with a door in the centre of the long wall. About a foot and a half each side of the door a short wall stretched from side to side. Patrons would lower there trousers, back up, squat, and let fall behind the partition whatever needed to be left behind. I had to wait as the attendant cleaned it out. A stick propped the door open and he was simply scooping out the troughs with a shovel and firing the contents out onto the gravel parking lot. I imagined he must handle the chore differently during warmer times, probably using buckets to cart the loads a little further. I felt thankful that the worst of our facilities are better than the best of those we encountered during that phase of our journey. Looking back, I remember how often I felt more gratitude for the comforts of home than compassion for conditions where we were. I was glad we were just passing through.
     Our ultimate destination, before turning back toward home, was Bandar Pahlavi in northern Iran. Our eastbound route intersected the northbound highway at Qazvin. Tehran lay about a hundred miles further on. Many people we had met along the way advised it would be well worth the detour. We arrived on a dark, rainy night, found a safe parking spot well into Tehran, crawled under the blankets in the back, and woke refreshed the next morning to a warm sunny day. We walked about, finding a bakery, a grocer, and a tea shop. I was surprised to learn that there was a local ski hill. We decided to splurge and headed off to Abali Ski Resort for a day on the slopes.
     Visions of Whistler, Cypress Bowl, Grouse Mountain, and Mount Seymour back home were soon dashed as we approached the ski hill. We decided to make the best of it. Abali Ski Resort had no lodge and no ski shop. There was gate, a ticket booth, and a t bar. Just inside, an entrepreneur had an eclectic assortment of ski paraphernalia spread over some folding tables. We rented boots  and skis. My sister's skis were a proper pair. My two skis were the same lengths but not the same brands.
     We made our way to the t bar and had a few trips down the short run of tall moguls. On one descent I picked a fairly good course and reached a decent speed before a rather large chador-clad woman wandered into my path. I was confronted with three poor options; crash into the t bar, crash into the woman, or plough straight into a mogul. I chose the third. I came to an abrupt halt. One of my skis was standing straight up, firmly stuck in the snow. I was dangling via safety strap from the makeshift stake. I contorted into a position where I could unbuckle my tether and released my foot.
     I rose, brushed off the snow, and pulled up on the ski. It wouldn’t budge. I gave it a kick to loosen it. To my surprise, the ski popped out sideways. There was a ninety-degree bend about a foot from the tip. The aluminum strips down each side of the ski held the two pieces together. I managed to bend it almost straight. It was obviously damaged but surprisingly sturdy. I continued on.
    A few runs later the t bar closed down. When we returned our equipment the proprietor decided to abuse his propitious circumstance with two foreigners. He demanded five hundred American dollars compensation. I complained that was a completely unreasonable amount for one of a not-pair of skis. I countered with fifty Deutschmarks. I felt that was also too much, but manageable. The man became irate, hopped up, waved his arms in the air, and began yelling. I decided it was more prudent to flee than to bargain further. We disappeared amid the throng of departing skiers and escaped. Skiing in Iran was quite an adventure.
     Next week: Finding My Uncle.
                                                                 God bless.

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