Our Northern Adventure

May 11-19th, 1971
Mahabat, Iran

In May we departed on a week-long road trip to the north, to the cities of Tabriz and Mahabat in the Azarbaijan region of Iran. I slept my way through most of the 11 hour bus ride to Tabriz and was amazed to wake up in an altogether different kind of place. My eyes were glued to the scene during the bumpy jeep ride that took us on the last leg to Mahabat. Gone were the wide streets of Tehran, and in their place I saw primitive roads and people dressed in a village costume that was colorful and festive. This was a Kurdish region, surrounded by rolling hills filled with wildflowers and spotted with adobe and brick huts. My mother’s friend, Hon Joon, delivered us safely to a cozy brick house with bedrooms, and a kitchen – a magical home away from home away from home. The world was proving to be much larger than I had ever imagined.

This northern adventure was set up by my mother’s relatives and friends, new names to remember, more faces to recognize, and every day there were new ruins to explore, and dimly lit bazaars to ramble through. My father was beside himself with excitement. Unable to converse in Farsi he used his camera to dig deep, and reach further in to absorb the immensity of images, smells and sensations that met us each day. We were accustomed to the pace of his camera, the click click and the smiles that followed, the conversations with wide gestures and pats on the back, tea delivered on a silver tray by a small boy not much larger than my sister. The scenes seemed to unfold for my father and we watched with wide eyes as he embraced it all.

One day, on an excursion in to a Kurdish village outside of Mahabat, my mother negotiated with a Kurdish villager to have her dress me and my sister in her children’s clothes. I complained bitterly about being stripped down and redressed in layer ofter layer in the hot shadows of her hut. My mother watched the Kurdish woman wrap a long scarf round and round my middle, and place a tall headdress on my head, and with my sister I was paraded in front of my father’s camera, squinting in to the sun. In spite of my tearful protest, the memory was collected on Kodachrome – two American children masquerading as Kurds, on either side of an unknown Kurdish villager. Lygeia managed a smile, but a smile was more than I could muster, for I was too uncomfortable and sweaty to appreciate the moment.

From my father's journal:

Today, some six families, others, about 30 in all, head west along the Mahabat Lake for what can only be called a "Persian" picnic. A caravan of seven cars filled with people and food in search of a sylvan setting. Arriving at the approximate site, I can only describe what followed as a fitful-fretful orgy of tug-of-war, a 1 1/2 hour search for the perfect spot. At one point, Behrooz relieved his frustration by driving straight across a wild looking field whereupon he got decidedly stuck in an irrigation ditch. We towed him out with a jeep. We found our sylvan setting under a grove of apricot trees faced by a flowing fields of green hills - what a picnic! Hon June brought out a great big pot of osh (soup) and only the darkness of approaching night brought our caravan together on the road.

The party never ended, but only faded to dreams as I dozed on a colorful rug with a breeze blowing by my face. Another bumpy car ride and then another party would begin, as simple as rugs being thrown down on the road, food delivered in massive tin pots and voices all around in jovial tones. The grown-ups were absorbed by one another and their drink, and I would settle in to a contented wandering, watching the children's games until sleep or hunger would overtake me again.

From my father's recollection:

The court jester who (happened to be the chief of police of Mahabat) officiated an all night party in the main street that faced our Mahabat habitat. He closed the entire street (to my amazement) and this hearty bull of a man served as conductor and master jester...We danced, dined, recited poetry and there was story telling--we devoured potfuls of rice, meats, osh soup, mast and vodka until well past midnight and long past your bedtime. So long as the "chief" was the master of ceremonies the party kept going until nearly 2:a.m. but only when he--our "court jester" decided it was over.

A few days later we were boarding a night bus from Tabriz to Tehran and back to the familiar sounds of Tadjrish. It was a Thursday in the early hours of the morning when we pulled in to the Tehran bus station, the 20th of May, and by breakfast time I was settled back at home, expectant of my birthday which was only a few days away, for while Christmas and Easter may have passed hardly noticed, my birthday was set to arrive on mark.