As much fun as these trips were, and as fantastic as my dad really made them once we were there, getting there or even being in the same car with my dad, was as much of a nightmare – Adam Ro NesFeh Joon MiKard.

Along with FohSh [cursing] (remember Farsi Goozidan, like that) and NefReen [ominous wishes, also cursing] from all other cars and families on the road, he always got speeding or other moving violation citations, and typical of ALL Iranian drivers, he either tore the ticket and threw it out the window, or wrinkled it up and threw it out … As if !!!

My dad was the inspiration for a Disney cartoon about a sweet man who would even walk carefully on the sidewalk to avoid stepping on ants, but when he would get behind the wheel, he would turn into a mean, out of control monster who was ready to demolish.

Did you hear a joke about these two “Jaahel”s who are on their way to Shomal (probably to BandarPahlavi) and their brakes and steering fails? When the he sees a truck coming from the opposite direction, the driver wakes up his friend who had fallen asleep and says “Hey Abbass, Me Khayee TassAdof Tamoosha Koni?” [Want to see an accident?]

Yes, my dad is that cartoon character who we always expected to wake us up to say “Hey Kids, wanna watch an accident?”.

We once gave my MobeSir [a student who was in charge of maintaining the order in the classroom until the teacher arrives] a ride to school, after which he stopped ever having eye contact with me and never spoke with me again - I also think that’s when I also noticed that he stutters, which I never noticed prior to that ride!

At home, we always knew my dad was coming because we would always hear this loud screeching noise outside (e.g. his breaks or rubbing tires) then a few angry honking (e.g. other drivers), and some altercations, generally some FohShe Khar Madar [cursing and profanity] (e.g. other drivers, pedestrians, neighbors, birds!) seconds later, he would walk in, looking at us to see if we heard anything – I sometimes would open the door for him even before he knocked because we knew it was him, but we always pretended it was another bad mean driver and not our dad – He returned the favor when we grew older and started to smoke and he pretended it was never us! He would even borrow a cigarette from me, asking if my friends may have left theirs in my room!!!

We would never carry food with us in the car – It was pointless! With his kind of driving, you would more likely spill it on yourself than you would manage to either eat or drink it and worse, if you spilt it in his car, which may explain why the specialty floor mats in my dad’s cars looked more like Tasht [buckets] than actual floor mats. Visualize Cookie Sheets, you know, the pan you bake cookies on, Like that!

Driving with my dad to Shomal was a three hour roller coaster venture of a ride - a price we had to pay for three months of summer super fun. Let’s see, an hour of horror per month of non-stop fun seemed like a fair trade (sorry, make that two hours of horror per month, taking into account the return ride back to Tehran). 15 years of going to Shomal x 3 hours x 2 for the return ride = 90. 90 hours of horror is even less than four days. Four days shorter that my sisters and I will live.

Wasn’t it for every hour of horror that we experience, we live one hour less, or was it for every hour of horror we live one day less? Oh dad! That’s three months!

We would leave Tehran about 4:00am to avoid some kind of catastrophic traffic or some deadly winter storm or something - we usually had breakfast by the time we got to Chaloos! Once in the car and because of the way he drove, it was impossible to go back to sleep – Although we had car-seats in the later years, bumping our heads against each others’ or against the window was inevitable, with or without seatbelts, if my dad was driving. How can you sleep when you are sitting so stiff to avoid head injuries and concotion? And yes, if he was in the car, he was driving. No one else, I mean NO ONE else, was qualified to drive, despite near death accidents and non-stop citations.

We would not stop anywhere either unless we had to because one of my sisters was about to throw up (or had already thrown up after multiple warnings) or someone’s bladder was about to explode. Imagine going on a roller coaster ride with full bladder. That’s us.

My older sister usually vomit in the car, typically on the way to Shomal only. We called her Dahatee [villager] because she wasn’t used to being in a car. We also always looked when she was throwing up, waiting for the smell to hit us so that we could oooh and a’hhh about it.

My dad always shouted at us : “Agha joon, khob Negah naKon – Aah, Hal e Adam o Beham MiZanan!” [ kids, don’t look! You are making me throw up!!] He knew that my younger sister would get nauseous as soon as she sees Marzieh’s EstefRugh, and would eventually Shokoofeh [throw up] herself – I owe my incredible reflexes to my childhood practices, trying to get out of my sisters’ way as they were about to throw up, or were already throwing up, that rotten digested smelly food.

My Amoo [Dad’s brother] had playfully nicknamed my dad “Hassan SoTee” [ Hassan, going Speed of Sound] for speeding all the time in his endless pursuit to break the sound barrier on the ground.

I just realized this may have been why he never heard us when we asked him to stop when we had number one: Think scientifically - he was already ahead of our sounds and couldn't hear us:

” d … a … d … …. I … … h …a … v …e … … t … o … … P ……… e ………. e”

We looked with HassRat [envy] at other cars that were stopped at truck stops and surprised that there were actually kids who could come out of their cars and play on their way to Shomal! Idiots! (it was like the Lord of the Rings where others looked like Arwen and the happy elves, and we were like the captured Hobbits by Saruman and other forces of the darkness)

… And what was that with the cigarette ashes? My dad smoked back then and I don’t know why he would not use the ashtray in the car - he would tap the cigarette ashes on the half way rolled down driver side window. The ashes would travel right back in through the rear passenger window into the eyes and the face of whomever was sitting behind my dad, namely yours truly. He would even sometimes throw out the cigaretter butt without actually putting out first - I am amazed I can still see and I didn’t go blind!

I won’t be surprised to find out that I may have so far been describing 99.99% of dads in Iran!

Read Part I of The Real Reason Sheep Chew Gum.

Stay Tuned for the Finale of The Real Reason Sheep Chew Gum.

 

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