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.

The 13th Day of Norooz

Friday, April 2nd, 1971
Tadjrish, Iran
Sizdeh Bedar

From my father’s diary:
The 13th day of Norooz – The period of visitations is over. This is the traditional picnic day. Everyone leaves the city in a kind of mass exodus for the countryside….

For the two weeks following Norooz there was a bustle of guests, grownups spending long afternoons talking Farsi over tea and sweets. Some days there would be car rides to the homes of others, but most days I was allowed to stay at home to be ruled only by the schedule of meals, the unpredictable weather, and the arrival of dusk which marked the time to be ready for bed. The weather was still cold, some days cloudy and raining, punctuated by beautiful crisp spring days throwing a sharp sunlight in to the dust clouds we stirred up in our soccer games. Sometimes my half-brother, Ramin, would join us, sometimes it would be my cousins. Often, any child that happened down the road would be invited in to our game. I felt wild, inspired by Lygeia’s bold movements, content to observe the world at her heels to watch the older children kick our ball across the dusty road outside our courtyard door. When she ran too fast for me, I stood with my back against the stone wall, my hands cushioning me from the sharp places. When the ball came near enough I was allowed to chase it down and throw it back in to the circle of children, my face flush from the excitement of my moment in the game.

Sizdeh Bedar, the 13th day of the new year, was a cloudy and wet day, and we woke to learn that there were big plans in store for a party, a picnic outside of the city. My grandmother had prepared a tremendous pot of soup, steamy and fragrant, and the food was packed in to my grandfather’s idling car. Another car arrived, and my father, mother, sister, Aunty Mehry and the baby and I climbed in, bundled in heavy winter clothing. I sat on my mother’s lap in the front passenger seat, and listened to everyone sing festively as we drove through the crowded streets of Tehran, surrounded by other cars as packed as ours, honking and joyful, everyone in a party mood, defiant of the brooding clouds above us that only grew darker. As the drizzle became rain, and grew to a pelting, rhythmic beating on our windshield, my mother’s mood grew quieter and I descended in to a deep sleep.

BANG. A crash and we all heaved forward, and in my half-asleep state I felt my mother’s arms tighten around me. A tiny scream erupted from my sister in the back seat followed by whimpering, and loud voices. Bang again and my mother’s arms tightened further. I could hear my Aunt Mehry and Lygeia crying. My mother’s voice sounded angry, and then I opened my eyes.

White, everything outside was white, and steam had formed on the inside of the windows. I woke to a chaotic scene, snow, cars all around us. I held on tightly to my mother. Minutes passed, half-an-hour, and we could not move, wedged in to a 6 car pile-up, a blizzard attacking our picnic plans and trapping us inside our car. My father, in the back seat, pushed his door open roughly and disapeared in to the white whirls of snow. Minutes later, a rapping on our window, and my mother rolled it down bringing in a cold and wind that assaulted our skin. I burrowed my face in her chest and let tears pour from my eyes, letting my cry drown out the sound of her voice. More doors opening, slamming and I was lifted through the open car window, torn from my mother's arms. Squinting, my tears felt icy cold on my cheeks and the world looked like a white swirling cloud. I felt hard pellets attacking my eyes from all directions and couldn’t see whose arms held me tightly and carried me through the driving snow. Bitterly angry, I struggled and screamed, until wet and miserable I was settled into another car. Once I felt brave enough to open my eyes again, I discovered I had been in my father’s arms all along, and released a flood of new tears onto my father’s already wet coat.

From my father’s journal:
A man alone in a car stopped and took us in – the Major stayed with his crushed car – and we began a difficult journey to Karaj as our “angel of mercy” could not make his windshield wipers work. For 3 ½ hours we crawled through the howling storm bumper to bumper towards Karaj, when we stalled for 2 hours just outside of the city. We decided to walk in to town. With our shoes and clothes splashed with mud and snowy slush, we made our way past hundreds of stalled and frustrated cars. It was 5:00pm before we made it into Karaj.

The blizzard had subsided, but had left snow everywhere, melting in to muddy puddles at the side of the road. In my father’s arms I held tightly to his neck, and complained bitterly against the cold.

“I gotta pee” I whispered in his ear, and he lifted me down so that I could squat at the side of the road. My sister clung to Aunt Mehry, and Aunt Mehry clung to her baby Maryam, wrapped completely in a white polyester blanket, her tiny feet poking out the bottom. We were a motley crew, a wet disheveled mess, but we held out hope of finding Grandpapa’s car somewhere in the Karaj square.

From my mother’s version:
We were in the Karaj square and there was no sign of Baba’s car. We were in a horrible state. Suddenly my cousin Parvin and sister-in-law Mehry got very excited. “Stop a car, stop that car!” and I began waving my arms in the air until the lone driver in the blue Mercedez came to a stop. “Can you help?” I asked him. “We have children. We need to get back to Tadjrish. We had a bad accident on the Karaj highway and we’re all very cold.” He was very gratious and agreed to help. Your father sat with you in the front seat and tried to hold a conversation but the fellow didn’t speak much English. It was a few minutes in to the ride when I noticed that Mehry and Parvin were giggling and whispering to one another, and then began to notice that the cars around us were slowing and the passengers were pointing at us. Who is this guy? I asked and Mehry and Parvin told me he was a famous TV star named “Cardon”. I hadn’t heard of him since I’d been living in the US for the past 5 years, but he was well known by everyone except your father and I.

From my father’s journal:
Roshan had flagged a car and I thought we were in a taxi – but lo and behold we were in the car of “Cardon”, one of Iran’s most famous artists and TV personalities. This gracious man drove us all to our door in Tadjrish. The drive was punctuated by people passing us in screaming delight at seeing the famous Cardon. But WE had him to ourselves! At home, that night, with everyone reunited, we had a happy carnival with food and drink, a delight by candlelight and song that lasted in to the late hours of the night. Thus had come our 13th day of Norooz, on the heels and wind of a storm, and a calamity to bring us an omen of life, a reminder that to expect and know joy one must be bitten too by despair.