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They want us to be afraid, to hate, so we will rally behind them. Why on earth do you want to go there? The real tragedy of this attitude is that it is the result of the dividing line being deliberately blurred. True, concern is justified in the case of the religious government that has ruled the country for the last 25 years: but should it really apply to the million ordinary people that live there, or the country itself? I think we can agree that such a suggestion is obviously absurd. It is no different in Iran, a country around four times the size of France and the cradle of a civilisation that began well over years ago. Still, given the extent of misinformation the word is not too melodramatic , it was difficult not to feel slightly, well, scared as we flew across Europe heading east. And yet, indications that our fears were embarrassingly misplaced began the moment our plane touched down in Tehran, when Mahmood, our guide and soon to be lifelong friend, smilingly sorted out our visa hassles and laughed at our obvious discomfiture. It was a Sunday, and the large family groups sipping tea in the convivial atmosphere were visibly tickled to have a group of British white boys in their midst. It was a similar story later, when we walked through The Park of the Nation in the centre of the city. The feeling was heightened by the general activity in the park, with people sledging, strolling, chatting and, soon, mobbing us. Groups of girls caked in make-up flirted aggressively, while young Iranian lads told us their DJ names and offered to find us whiskey and vodka. By the time we left, a whole crew had gathered to escort us back to our van, cheerfully waving us off as we drove back to the hotel, exchanging glances and shaking our heads in embarrassment at seeing our prejudices so spectacularly debunked. And this was only day one. This inquisitive and heartfelt hospitality would be the recurring motif of our trip, and it soon became clear that our preconceptions were being challenged before our eyes. Soon we noticed it everywhere. It was written in such a style that you could almost see the raised eyebrow of the reporter. Most tellingly, we noticed it in the compulsive need among ordinary people to communicate this feeling to us. With his tattoos, trendy haircut and sunglasses, Reza, 23, was keen to tell us about his impressive playboy lifestyle. He runs his own construction firm in Tehran, but seemed to spend much of the time we spent with him maintaining an impressive social circle, drinking the alcohol that is strictly prohibited in Iran and smoking the marijuana he smuggled back with him from his three-month holiday in Thailand. European people think here we are very very bad. But we are not — we like to have a good time. According to Erik Lofgren, a Swede we met who had been living in Shemshak for a few months, more and more young people want to live like Reza. Part of it is the desire of any bored kid to own the latest technological gizmo, but in a country with religious strictures like Iran, openly pursuing such a lifestyle constitutes an act of very real rebellion. When we first met Reza we were surprised to find that Iranian kids even had the resources to be so up on the latest phone crazes sweeping the West. After all, as the biggest oil producer in the Middle East, Iran is the richest and most powerful country in the region. As previously noted, it is also huge, and this financial and geographical security perhaps explains why the US and Britain have preferred to follow a diplomatic route in their recent dealings with the country. It also explains why so many of the Iranians we met seemed to find the prospect of imminent Anglo-US invasion so hilariously unlikely. But less easy to square, in the light of the materialistic rebellion practised by Reza and friends, was their complex attitude to their own country. Scott Fitzgerald would have truly appreciated. Some of the young Iranians we met seemed able to flit between the two at will, alternatively hating their leaders while loving their land, appearing fiercely independent yet appealing to the rest of the world for understanding, and generally seeing the current situation as an aberration to be changed on their own terms. As we headed towards Isfahan, we began to realise that our view of the country had changed irrevocably, and that our constant surprise at the reality of life for ordinary people in Iran was beginning to diminish. Although he laboured away in upper class obscurity during his own lifetime, posterity has been kind to Byron and today he occupies a curious position as the unlikely poster boy of twentieth century literary travel. It deals in diary form with his s journey from England to Afghanistan and it is a very unusual kind of classic text. His paean of praise to the Sheik Luftullah Mosque in Isfahan must put him at least in the rank of Ruskin. Hell, it was why we were going to Isfahan and had been my main inspiration for the journey. An upper-class aesthete and fop like Robert Byron might seem an unlikely cheerleader for Iran, but today his influential alternative reading of the country is needed more than ever. But as the Safavids were eclipsed by raiding Afghans by , so Isfahan gradually slipped below the radar. It now has 2. We spent three days in Isfahan, and spent much of that time in the square. It felt strange, finally seeing a place I had for so long wanted to visit, and we concentrated on exploring the three architectural centrepieces in the square upon which the fame of the city largely rests: the Royal Palace, or Ali Qapu, the Imam Mosque, or Masjid-I- Shah, and the Sheik Luftullah Mosque that so enraptured Byron. But mostly, we walked around and goggled in awe at the architecture. But it is difficult to see how anybody can be anything but overwhelmed by the Sheik Luftullah Mosque. It is easily the most impressive building I have ever been in. I am not religious, but usually I like a cathedral or church mainly because of the efforts the architects and builders have gone to in confining a huge amount of open space in an effort to impress upon the visitor their devotion to God. Myself, I was just glad that others had definitively described the details of the room, leaving me free to enjoy its emotional effect. In contrast, with its music room, elaborate frescoes and view overlooking the square onto an ancient polo pitch, the Royal Palace betrayed its pleasure palace roots. In form, with its bowed and elegant wooden columns supporting the roof against seemingly impossible odds, it too is formidable and it is strange for the western eye to comprehend the different forms of beauty that these buildings represent. It was here in the 17th century, apparently, that a Russian ambassador became so overwhelmed with the surroundings and the excellence of the local wine that he was sick into his top hat. I almost knew how he felt. At sunset on our last day, we sat back at our teashop and watched flocks of crows fly towards the sun as smaller unidentifiable birds flitted around them. The mountains on the outskirts of the city looked like a lilac smudge on the horizon, while the sinking sun caused an orange glow to irradiate the outlines of the silhouetted buildings. As we sat in silence, a nomad broke the reverie by coming over and asking us how many languages we could speak. He shrugged when we told him English and French. Equally as compelling were the souks we spent an evening exploring, and the other architectural masterpiece that stopped Byron in his tracks, the Friday Mosque, where we spent a morning being escorted around by a blind man, bursting with pride at finding British people in his city and keen to tell us the history of the building. Welcome to Iran! I know 20, English words! I know words that that even English people do not know! For example, philanthropy. Do you know the word philanthropy? Speaking English makes my head hurt! By the time we reached Tehran and prepared to travel home, we realised that there was no escaping the fact that our views of our own country and our own lives had changed as well. Not any more. According to the guidebooks, the most famous inhabitant of the Lebanese mountain town of Becharre is a poet, artist and mystic called Khalil Gibran. What can we do to make the snow last a little bit longer, after the worst European season on record it,s about time we all Last year saw a break with tradition as a second British snowboard movie, Hungerpain, was released. Please enter your email so we can keep you updated with news, features and the latest offers. If you are not interested you can unsubscribe at any time. We will never sell your data and you'll only get messages from us and our partners whose products and services we think you'll enjoy. Home Share Search. Lebanon — The Axis of Powder According to the guidebooks, the most famous inhabitant of the Lebanese mountain town of Becharre is a poet, artist and mystic called Khalil Gibran. Features Green Snowboarding What can we do to make the snow last a little bit longer, after the worst European season on record it,s about time we all Travel Stories Lebanon — The Axis of Powder According to the guidebooks, the most famous inhabitant of the Lebanese mountain town of Becharre is a poet, artist and mystic called Khalil Gibran. Interviews Playground Rules - A new approach Last year saw a break with tradition as a second British snowboard movie, Hungerpain, was released. We use cookies on our website to give you the most relevant experience by remembering your preferences and repeat visits. However, you may visit 'Cookie Settings' to provide a controlled consent. Cookie Settings Accept All. Manage consent. 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Shemshak buy MDMA pills

Sick of the hordes at trendy resorts? Then head for Tehran - great powder isn't just restricted to to the well-known slopes. It all started with a photograph in a magazine I picked up in a Parisian dentist's waiting room it's a long story, but if you really must know I chipped my tooth on a weirdly bony sausage. Anyway, I was flicking through the pages when I saw this great photo. It was of two women in full burkhas, the all-encompassing black robes worn by women in strict Islamic countries. So far, so ethnic, but these women, so illustrative of all that is alien and strange to us about Islam, were skiing. It was a striking image and I had to know more. Middle Eastern skiing did not come as a complete surprise to me because I grew up and learnt to ski in Lebanon, which has some wonderful slopes. The picture in question, however, was taken in Iran, slap bang in the middle of the Axis of Evil. From the moment I found this out I knew that I had to go and see for myself. It took a while but, eventually, I found myself on a plane bound for Tehran. I had been a bit nervous about the trip, especially after a couple of recent sabre-rattling incidents involving the American navy. Fortunately, David Miliband, Britain's hip young Foreign Secretary, is a Facebook friend of mine, so I sent him a message telling him that I was off to Iran for a ski holiday and would he mind postponing any aggressive actions until my return? To my delight, he replied almost immediately, warning me not to go near one particular area. As it happened, I was not planning to go anywhere near this site, but that's the kind of one-on-one service I want from my Foreign Secretary. I was suitably impressed. I was nearly not allowed on the flight from Heathrow to Iran after a last-minute security check. The suspicious UK official asked me why I was going to Iran. He asked me to accompany him into a little room; I imagine there's going to be a lot of that from now on whenever anyone spots my Iranian visa. Being born in Lebanon immediately guarantees me an anal frisk at US airports. Now that I've got an Iranian visa to accompany my ones from Vietnam, China and Syria, I'll get an even more interesting reception. Determined to not worry about the future, I tucked into British Midland airline's free onboard champagne with gusto. I wasn't going to see much more of this for a bit in the totally dry Islamic Republic. Unfortunately, just before we landed in Tehran, we hit some turbulence and I spilt a whole glass over my trousers. This made me very paranoid that I would stink of booze and be arrested and flogged the moment I set foot in the airport. All was well, however, and I managed to slip through unflogged and met up with my charming Iranian guide. He took me on a little whistle-stop tour of the capital before we set off for my final destination, the village of Shemshak, high in the Alborz mountains. It would not be unfair to say Tehran is a fairly unattractive city, but it's full of things to look at and has great museums. I paid a quick visit to the Persian Carpet museum, which was amazing; the doorman said I was the first foreign visitor for three months and he was unbelievably nice to me. This quickly became a running thread as I met one wonderfully friendly and hospitable Iranian after another. I checked out the Central Bazaar, where I had lunch in a tiny hole-in-the-wall type place, eating delicious Fesenjan chicken in walnut and pomegranate sauce washed down with sweet tea. Being a bit of a cultural heathen, I must admit that my favourite sights in Tehran were the anti-American slogans daubed on the walls of the old US Embassy. There was great revolutionary stuff such as 'The United States is too weak to do anything' and 'We will make America face a great defeat'. A huge sign above the old entrance to the embassy proclaimed a 'Great Satan Exhibition', but when I tried to see it I was refused entry and told that it was a prohibited military site. I'm sure I'll catch it when it gets to London. The piece de resistance was painted down the whole side of a block of flats - a huge 'Down with the USA' over an American flag with skulls for stars and bombs raining down. My guide was very embarrassed by the whole thing, but I couldn't get enough of it. Eventually we left the city and headed off in his car towards the impressive mountains that serve as a mighty, snowy backdrop to the Iranian capital. As is not uncommon in these sorts of destinations, my guide was a big fan of British heavy metal music. I was treated to a track from the new solo album by the former lead singer of Iron Maiden, Bruce Dickinson, famous for such songs as Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter. This particular composition was something about swords and warriors and beasts - the usual, awful, heavy metal lyrical content. My guide was in ecstasy: 'This Bruce Dickinson, he is great poet yes? He is like English Sufi philosopher. There are many things I could call Bruce Dickinson - but Sufi philosopher? This was not the soundtrack I wanted to accompany the staggering scenery we were driving through. The farther we drove into the mountains, the less I felt the grip of the Islamic state. Here we saw almost none of the endless photos of Ayatollah Khomeini that adorn every wall in Tehran. There were also far fewer women in the all-concealing black burkhas that I'd seen in the photo. When I did spot the occasional one, they looked like fragile black ghosts, only half there and dwarfed by the huge mountains surrounding them. There were also fewer beards - the obvious sign of devout followers of the Islamic revolution. I've always wondered about the relationship between facial hair and revolution. Someone should make an in-depth study But I digress. As we neared the ski resorts I began to see more and more Western-looking Iranians, some in shiny new cars with visible signs of wealth - something I didn't see too much in Tehran. After an hour or so we arrived in Shemshak, at an altitude of m. The weather was perfect: blue skies and fresh powder on the slopes. I checked into Hotel Shemshak, which was right on the slopes. It looked like an old Austrian ski lodge and had a restaurant and a bar coffee and soft drinks only, of course as well as some very smiley staff who seemed thrilled to see me. A huge poster in the hall proclaimed that it was the duty of a Muslim to look after a traveller and to reimburse him should any of his belongings go missing; excellent stuff. My room had a balcony that allowed me to look straight on to a piste and you could ski straight out of the front door down to the nearest lift. The chairlifts were installed by the French in the pre-revolutionary s, but seemed to be in very good working order. As it was the middle of the week, the place was not at all busy, though I was told it gets quite packed at weekends when skiers from Tehran swarm into the valley. I quickly changed and got in a couple of runs before sunset. The snow was perfect, the views spectacular and I had to pinch myself to remember that I was in Iran. The only hint was the gleam of sunlight off the golden roof of a Shia shrine far down in the valley. Around me everyone was in expensive ski gear, complete with designer shades. The only thing lacking was a couple of gluhweins mulled wine at the two mountain cafes on the piste. I had to satisfy myself with a double espresso. The following day I drove up to Dizin, the next, and largest, of the ski resorts. It was higher up m and a little bit more regulated than the more cosmopolitan Shemshak. Until very recently the slopes were segregated, with women skiing on one side and men the other and a big fence plonked down in the middle of the mountain. This turned out to be pretty unenforceable as none of the religious police who monitor this sort of thing could ski. The lifts, however, were still segregated, with two lines, one for women and one for men. It was also illegal for men and women to share a gondola. That said, the place was still very carefree, and at a cafe halfway down one of the pistes everybody mingled happily, knocking back coffees and smoking like it was going out of style. House music was playing on the outdoor PA, with a female singer, another thing that is technically illegal: apparently a lady singing could arouse me too much. As with lots of things in Iran, everybody just turns a blind eye. Most people on the slopes were skiers, with just a small community of snowboarders. Overall, the skiing was superb everywhere I went. I was incredibly lucky with the weather and had sun and blue skies every day. The pistes are varied and interesting enough to keep an average skier happy for a week or so, and the off-piste skiing is amazing and very challenging. I didn't see a single Westerner during my whole stay. Personally I loved this, but it might freak out some people. A journalist for a Norwegian ski magazine wrote about some of the fabulous off-piste skiing in this area of Iran and for a couple of years it became quite the hip spot for young Norwegians, but they have all now moved on to Kashmir so you'll have the place to yourselves. I even solved the no drinking problem with extreme ease - but can't go into this too much as I would get some of the Iranian home-brewers I met into trouble. Suffice to say that there was no shortage of refreshments should they be needed. On my last night, after a meal of lamb and aubergine stew served with mountains of rice and sweet tea, I retired to my room. I was just stretching my weary body when I heard something outside. I opened the door and stepped on to my balcony. About m away on the empty, floodlit piste sat two huge grey wolves, howling at the bright moon. The Sufi poet Bruce Dickinson would have loved it. The wolves must have heard me because they stopped their howling and, for a second, our eyes met. Then the sound of a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer filled the steep valley, echoing around the still, moonlit mountains. The wolves bolted into the darkness; I shivered and stepped back inside. There are tiny moments in life that you know will stay with you forever. Dom Joly travelled with Persian Voyages. Introducing all the finalists for the New Zealand Tourism Awards The best of NZ tourism in No wonder everyone wants to visit us. Hot deals to cool places: Grab a bargain price in the sun or the snow. Latest from Travel.

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