Standing at a busy intersection, I was picked up; actually I had to run through traffic to catch them as they passed me and the roundabout. Puffing and panting I greeted my new hiking friends, two very attractive and charming Iranian women.

As we drove through the tree lined northern suburbs and up the valley towards the mountains I questioned them about an old looking complex. They explained that the odd looking compound was a prison (in Persian it's described romantically as "the one with the view"). To put things into perspective Iran is half full of hard line fanatical Muslims not much different than devout Christians. The rest of the country are mostly atheists or very borderline Muslims who have to show their political and religious faith in public. There's no free speech; complain about government policies and you will end up in the prison with a view. But at home behind closed doors they are generally just like the rest of the western world so to speak, my hiking friends fell into the latter category.

We passed road side restaurants with waiters calling for our attention, and drove up a tree-lined mountain road to a small village where we paid an attendant to park. The area was green and somewhat rocky, with more restaurants and a snow melt river flowing through the valley. The restaurants here had the novel idea of putting tables and chairs in the shallows so their patrons can eat and soak at the same time.

As we hopped out of the car I realised something; I'm dressed like the mannequin in the Paddy Pallin store, whilst the girls look like they are going shopping - must be a Muslim dress code thing I say in my head. We started the hike through the winding back lanes of the village, following the stream of snow melt. Everyone was chatty as we proceeded up the trail. Half an hour later, it's hard not to notice the garden restaurants; each one has diverted water flowing through to give it appeal against the others but they all end up looking the same - large wooden platforms with carpets and cushions, little bridges and fake concrete tree like pergolas.

Thinking we are just warming up until we shed the trappings of mountain side catering, and looking further over the dry landscape towards the snow caps, I wonder if I have brought enough clothing or snacks. My fellow hikers inform me that there is a place to eat further up. I day dream of Refugio's in Argentina with good food, fantastic views and a cozy place to sleep, but I am quickly pulled back to reality when donkeys carrying drink bottles, chip packs and soda cans brushed past with their handler and big stick in tow.

We'd been walking for an hour and gaining some height, when we were suddenly directed into one of those garden restaurants. Hmm, must be morning tea I think, my hosts inform me that this is their favorite place on the trail. I wondered if the fake concrete trees, are a selling point or maybe it was the blaring music.

The beautiful language of Persian is spoken and meals are ordered. We sit and I drink my favorite grape juice and then inquire as to when we shall resume the hike. You have to have tact (something I don't have), because it's very easy to offend here. With some odd facial expressions and some awkward laughter, they informed me that this is the final spot for the day. Hmmm guess they should have said it's a Sunday picnic not a hike, but the food was great and the atmosphere was certainly unusual. Like most things for traveller in a different land with language barriers it pays to ask and ask again.

I was to learn in weeks to come, through more awkward moments, that mountain biking involved riding at a kids park, complete with bitumen trails and outdoor camping meant base camping with Kmart - actually make it Target - quality gear. The girls explained that due to government policies on western imports Iranians have a very limited range of good outdoor gear. What little that's available is very expensive and can only be afforded by a select few (the North Face jacket is fake).

Iranian students on a field trip

There is a small but very enthusiastic adventure community in Tehran, but it's very difficult to comply to the strict dress code in outdoor gear. They actually have fashion police in the streets and rural areas, wielding a big stick enforcing the rules to males and females if certain parts of the body are showing and should be covered. Cyclists and hikers have to be completely covered from head to toe, even on hot days. It's quite a sight seeing cyclists and hikers tramping around in full lycra.

So with a belly full of omelets, and dizzy from the hookah pipe (no meal is complete without one) the inexpensive bill was paid and we departed back to the northern suburbs of Tehran. I was dropped off at the busy intersection once again, getting curious looks from the locals in normal western street wear as I was somewhat of a novelty in my Columbia pants and Patagonia top with full mountain hiking boots, a broad hat and pack.

Not that many westerners hang out in the suburbs of Tehran and most Iranians love a chat about how the world feels about them and their government plus they are inquisitive as to what you are doing here. I eventually found my way home to my host family, a little bedazzled and more humble from my Iranian hiking experience…

Jason Foote.