Breakfasting on the Peaks of Sarband
I just read about some surefooted mountain goats that lived somewhere on the craggy mountains of Europe, perhaps in the Alps. They are so sure-footed it is truly amazing to behold. Just looking at photos of them, as they balance themselves on little rocks while looking down into a chasm miles down, makes one hold one’s breath in sheer terror! That photograph reminded me of the mules in Iran. They were just as sure-footed as the mountain goats.
At dawn on a summer morning, we would sometimes ride them all the way up the craggy steep peaks of Sarband. The mules would carry us to the very top. At the end of our destination, there was a tiny village of perhaps a half a dozen families. They were self-sufficient. They grew everything they required for their needs. On the weekends, they served a delicious country breakfast. They served a hot porridge-like broth to warm one’s innards, for at those altitudes, the air was thin and positively chilly. They served the freshest eggs I have ever tasted. The yolks were a deep yellow, almost the color of turmeric. They fried them in ghee. The aroma of them made one drool. They baked their own bread. It had a certain unique taste. It had an earthy taste like no other bread I ever tasted. To this day, forty or so years later, I can still feel its unique texture and taste its distinctive flavor in my mouth when I think of it. They raised their own cows. From their milk, they made their own rich butter, cream, yogurt, and cheese. They were a self-sufficient people, those who lived in that village. They dressed in old-fashioned costumes similar to what their forefathers wore. The women adorned their faces with tattooed blue dots about their forehead over their eyebrows. In summer, they walked barefoot. Their skin was weathered, tanned, and leathery. Both the men and the women had big gaps in their mouths where teeth were missing. They looked so old, but they were not. They had little children. The women carried their babies strapped to their backs as they worked. They were in their twenties. I was in my twenties then. They looked as if they could be my grandparents. They lived such harsh lives. That fascinated me. How could they look so aged while I looked so very young, I wondered.
As I said, we always began our journey before the break of day. As we mounted the mules, I would hold my daughter securely in front of me, and my ex would carry our son. The mules were as sure-footed as those mountain goats. The terrain was comparable. I remember looking down the steep rocky mountains thinking, one wrong step, one slip, and we would be hurled into the abyss down below! The mules never did. Each precarious step they took felt so terrifying yet so thrilling! It took over an hour to reach the top. The higher we climbed, the thinner the air became. Sometimes it became very misty as well! The air was pure. With each breath we took, we discarded gas-fumed city air and breathed in pure, clean mountain air. One could almost feel one’s lungs tingle with it. It was so exhilarating!
With relief, we reached our destination. Impatiently, our party disembarked. The children squealed with laughter and joy as they finally were able to run about and play with glee. Usually, we would be three or four families that went on these excursions. The children had their playmates, and we, the adults, enjoyed our friends. Wooden chairs and tables were arranged to accommodate each group. As the day progressed, more groups arrived. The village served breakfast and lunch. They had no electricity, only lanterns. There was no way to safely light the way back down the mountains in the evening, so dinner was not served. Sometimes we stayed for both breakfast and lunch. The air was so intoxicating; we were loathe to leave. The food was so fresh and delicious. I remember one time commenting that it was taking a long time to serve us. They were very apologetic. They were just slaughtering the chickens for our meal. We were a larger party that day than they had expected.
After a pleasant day on the peaks of Sarband, we reluctantly had to return to the city. Once more we mounted the mules, one more we held our children protectively close to ourselves. Our guides led the mules back. Gradually the atmosphere began to change. The air was no longer thin and chilly. We were back to the normal hot summer weather of Tehran. It felt as if we had left another world, another dimension and returned back to reality. As we reached Darband, we heard the happy sound of the weekend crowds enjoying themselves. Peddlers could be heard hawking their wares. “Fresh sweet barbecued corn! As sweet as sugar!” “Walnuts, tender and fresh!” “Luscious, mouth-watering kebabs!” And in the background, the almighty roar of the mountain streams as they rushed down to the city.
Looking back, I realize one has to be young and foolhardy to attempt that trip to the top of the mountains on a mule, clutching a child tightly to oneself. It was something I will always remember with a great thrill. Would I attempt it now? Definitely not! Oh, but what a very pleasant memory it is!