"Qashqai Country"

 

 

My parents had been living in Shiraz, the capital of Fars Province in southern Iran, for four years. During those years I was in the Army, and at college. I had requested leave time from the Army to visit them, but the brass denied my request. I worked with top-secret cryptographic equipment, and because the US deemed Iran an unstable country, my travel there was ruled out. But now I was a civilian, thrilled to be able to spend the summer of 1964 in Iran. My parents’ letters had spoken mostly of political intrigues at Pahlavi University, where my father was helping to establish an American-style medical school. But I was more interested in the friendships he had made with tribal people.

In the summer of 1877, several thousand U.S. Army soldiers pursued a few bands of Nez Perce Indians from Oregon through Idaho and Montana. The Nez Perce fought brilliantly. They outfought and eluded the Army for more than three months. Fewer than one hundred warriors, with several hundred women, children, and old men, covered over a thousand miles, trying to reach sanctuary in Canada. Their fine horsemanship, and their prized Appaloosa horses, made the trek possible. Forty miles from the Canadian border, just when they thought they were safe, the Nez Perce were caught. My great-grandfather, C.E.S. Wood, was Aide-de-Camp to General Oliver Howard throughout that campaign. When Chief Joseph surrendered, my great-grandfather wrote down his words. Joseph ended by saying “I want to have time to look for my children… Maybe I shall find them among the dead… I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I shall fight no more forever.”

What happened to Joseph and his band in the months and years that followed tore at my great-grandfather’s heart. Before he surrendered, Joseph was promised that he and his people could remain in the northwest. It didn’t happen. They were sent first to Leavenworth Kansas, then to Oklahoma. My great-grandfather spoke out against this travesty. He and Joseph corresponded, and they became friends. When Joseph was finally allowed to return from Oklahoma, my great-grandfather sent his teen-aged son to live with him for a summer.

I heard this story countless times. Told by my grandmother, the only one of his children who remained close to him, after he left her mother for Sara Ehrgott, a young suffragette. By my mother, who loved to reminisce about her times with him and Sara. The story had soaked into my bones. It played a big part in forming the lens through which I saw the world. I grew up wanting to be in wild places, to live in cultures different from my own.

At 24, I hoped to spend part of my summer with a tribe that had a lot in common with the Nez Perce. The Qashqai were masterful horsemen, and lived closely with the animals they depended on. They summered high in the Zagros Mountains of Iran, and wintered on the lowlands near the Persian Gulf, some 300 miles to the south. The Qashqai migration – groups of hundreds of people, moving with their flocks of thousands of sheep and goats, herds of horses, donkeys and camels carrying all their possessions – takes two to three months every spring and fall. I wanted to immerse myself in their life as much as I could.

Shortly after I arrived in Shiraz, my father asked his friend Mohammed Bahmanbeigi if he would help me. Bahmanbeigi was a Qashqai, and had a law degree from Tehran. He loved the open life of the tribes, and also the comfort of the city. The tribal tent schools were his inspired way to have both. He found a few young men in the tribe who had received a rudimentary education, yet had no clear future. He persuaded them to become teachers. He gave each a tent with books, chalk, and blackboard, and told them to teach what they knew – reading, writing, and arithmetic – to the youngsters in their tribal camps. Bahmanbeigi took their best students, and made them into teachers. Within five years, nearly 2,000 Qashqai children – boys and girls, as he insisted – attended schools in the round white tents. My father loved this project. He invited Bahmanbeigi for lunch, as he often did, soon after my arrival. Bahmanbeigi came into the garden talking a blue streak. He strode back and forth across the carpets of our broad dining room, puffing on his pipe, wielding it like a baton. “You cannot believe how these children love to learn!” he began. “I have just returned from Boir Ahmad. The children there could not wait for turns to be examined! They would grab chalk pieces out of each other's hands, and fight to occupy the testing position next to the dilapidated blackboard. Whatever word I wanted to be spelled out was met by “That's too easy,” and whatever number I wanted to be added or multiplied by “That's too small!” These protests were so natural and sweet that I had to surrender to their demands.” Bahmanbeigi tugged on his pendulous earlobes, as if to align his thoughts. “I gave a little tot some numbers to add. Out came his challenge: “No! Give me something to subtract!” I waited a while for him to finish his addition. Holding on to the blackboard he yelled “I won't move till you give me a subtraction!” To another tot, with half her teeth missing, I gave a pair of three digit numbers to add. Not finding it challenge enough, she added three more, adding them faster than a calculator. Second year pupils multiplied rows of numbers with lighting speed, giving the result with a shrill cry, “Next please..!”

Bahmanbeigi’s passion was infectious, and he talked about teaching teachers, and fighting the cowardice and venality of government officials. He thought about my request. He said it would be very difficult to arrange. “The situation is delicate,” he explained. A year ago the tribes had violently opposed land-reform measures, and the Shah had used US aircraft to bomb and strafe tribal camps. A number of Qashqai leaders were now in prison in Shiraz, awaiting execution. Everyone in the tribes was tense. There was risk in doing anything that might attract attention. But, Bahmanbeigi said, he could arrange something. “Yes, I will find a way.” He thought I might spend some of the summer teaching English to a khan’s son in the Farsimadan, one of the Qashqai tribes.

On July 3^rd my alarm went off early. The stars were still bright in the sky, which was lightening in the east. Our cook Rahim came to tell me that the Farsimadan men had arrived to take me to sarhad, their summer quarters. It was only 4:30, but Bahmanbeigi had told me I would be picked up around six o'clock. I hated being late. I threw on some clothes and packed a few more, while wolfing down bread and cheese that Rahim had brought me.

My hosts were anxious to be underway. After hurried good-byes, we stepped through the heavy garden doors to the street and piled into a green Jeep pickup. Two men and a cluster of younger boys were already in the back, sitting on big cloth bundles. I sat next to the driver. Two young men squeezed in on my right, and one more to the driver's left. Five people in the seat of a ‘50s Jeep! My legs straddled the shifting lever, and the driver, Kiamarce, tapped my knee lightly with two fingers to draw my attention. He carefully and deliberately moved my knees apart, then demonstrated the space he needed to move the shifting lever through the gears. He seemed concerned that I respect this space, so that he would not inadvertently touch my leg, but that if he did so it would be my fault, not that he was being impolite.

The city was just coming awake. Bread bakeries were alive with activity, clusters of early customers gathered round. Other shopkeepers were beginning to get ready for business, unlocking the huge padlocks at the bottom of the heavy steel shutters protecting the front of their shops. Three-wheeled pickup trucks (called taxi-bars) putted about. They seemed to carry, as did the porters in the bazaar, loads that were twice their weight and bulk. Here and there men pushed heavily laden two-wheeled wooden carts toward some mercantile rendezvous.

The Quran gate, where the paved highway leading north leaves Shiraz, marks the edge of the city. It is a high arch over the road, and embedded in the bricks near the top is a Quran, so that all departing travellers may pass below it, and be blessed. Just beyond the gate the terrain becomes rugged. Rocky, jagged hills and narrow ravines line either side of the winding road climbing out of the city.

About 20 kilometers outside of Shiraz we came to a Gendarme post. The square adobe building was strategically situated, about 100 meters off the highway, on the crest of a ridge. On its side were painted black silhouettes of infantrymen, charging forward with fixed bayonets. Next to the post was a M-47 Patton tank, its cannon pointed toward the highway. Farrokh noticed me staring at the tank. He said, "We are thanking President Johnson for the help he makes our government." Surprised, I asked him what he meant. "America must fight Vietnam, but can also send tanks to our government." I was certain these tanks were ranged against the tribes, and I could not believe Farrokh meant what he said. "Why does your government need tanks here?" I asked. "To fight the bandits in the countryside," he replied with a straight face. I said nothing.

We drove straight across the plain into the first rays of sun, to Persepolis, Takht-e Jamshid, stately ruins of the capital of the ancient Persian Empire. We stopped for tea at a small restaurant across the highway. Stretching out the kinks in our legs, we all took a better look at each other. Farrokh was seventeen, a wispy black moustache beginning to show on his upper lip. He was in charge of this trip, and he took his role seriously. The eldest son of an important Farsimadan khan, he was practicing his leadership style, trying out being in command. Someday, if all went well, he would become a leader.

Farrokh was eager to practice his English, but kept his enthusiasm in check. The younger boys ran out of breath as they strained to find words and phrases they could try out. They perched on the edge of their chairs, leaning forward, their stares trying to encompass all that I was. Whenever there was a dead spot in our conversation, someone would ask me, "What time is it?" That question was rock solid, and they know it could be counted on for a comprehensible answer. Their rapid-fire questioning became silly, and began to annoy me. 

My thoughts turned to the ruins across the road. Five centuries before Christ, these stone steps and intricately carved walls and pillars had been the capital of an empire that encompassed most of the known world. Much of Herodotus' Histories concerns what happened here, from the armies that went forth under Cyrus and Darius to its destruction by the young Macedonian, Alexander the Great. This historic site stood unprotected, right there, at the base of the mountains. And here I was, across the street from all that, sitting with young men whose forebears came from Central Asia… young men who probably carry the DNA of Genghis Khan. 

We drove north without stopping until mid-day when we reached Abadeh, half way between Shiraz and Isfahan. Both sides of the highway were lined with shops, some in the business of repairing buses and trucks, others selling cloth and dry goods, carpets, household wares. For generations, Abadeh has been a stopping point for travellers on the highway. It is a hub, a transfer point for goods and information exchanged between the cities to the north and south, and the hinterlands to the east and west. Farrokh told me Abadeh was famous for giveh, the crocheted shoes worn by people of the countryside.

Kiamarce pulled into the government guesthouse, a low, nondescript building fronting on a garden filled with shade trees. I was glad to get out of the Jeep. The day was hot now, very hot. The air was dry as could be, but crammed together in the cab we had begun to smell… the smell of sweat that dries before it can bead up, releasing each of our signatures in scent. Room to move freely was a blessing. A narrow stream ran through the garden, and we squatted to wash our hands and faces in the cool water. Tea, Pepsi, and Canada were immediately brought for us. Within minutes the tables were loaded with plates of broiled chicken, lamb, rice, onions, limes, yoghurt and fresh herbs.

After lunch, one of the men from the back of the Jeep spread flat-woven blankets, called gelims, on the ground. Kiamarce handed each of us a big piece of cheesecloth, to keep flies off our faces while we slept. I couldn't sleep with a cloth on my face, and it was impossible to relax with flies crawling around my eyes and nose. My naptime passed restlessly.

An hour later we piled back into the Jeep. We crossed the highway, bumped our way through the dusty alleys of Abadeh, and followed a rutted track toward the Zagros Mountains, sixty miles to the west. About half the way to the mountains we came to another gendarme post, where we stopped briefly. All of the gendarmes and the Farsimadan knew each other. The gendarmes greeted our party effusively, right hand on the heart, bowing to my hosts. They seemed nervous. Pawns in a larger game, they were manning a government outpost in territory they did not control.

A few miles beyond the gendarme post, we pulled alongside a man carrying a huge cloth bundle slung over his shoulder. A rapid exchange in Persian followed, then the man threw his bundle into the back of the truck and climbed in after it. Farrokh nudged me, laughing, pointing at the new passenger. "Jood, jood!" Farrokh exclaimed. He seemed perplexed by my failure to respond. "Yahoudi, yahoudi!" Farrokh persisted, clamping his fist around his nose, his sign of the Semite. "Mifahmam," I replied, deflated. I understand.

The Jew (for that was the only name I heard used for him) lived in Abadeh, and was a moneylender. Once a month, except in winter when the roads were bad, he traveled west into the mountains, spending a night in each village where he might have business. I thought his life outside of town must be lonely at best, unpleasant whenever around the likes of Farrokh. I had known that not everything about the tribes fit the romantic frame I’d constructed, that I would discover clashes with my way of dealing with the world. I expected something shocking, which this was. Yet it was banal. No high drama, no heart-in-the-mouth terror. But so repugnant. All the same, they had stopped for him, and were giving him a ride to his destination. Not all black or white.

The tracks became twisted and rocky as we left the alluvial plain for the jagged foothills. We were entering sarhad. Pasture for their flocks of sheep and goats, their horses, donkeys, and camels. To me, the ground looked barren. No lush green grasses that I could see. We passed numerous flocks, some small, some composed of several hundred animals. I wondered how they survived.

The sun was sliding behind the shoulder of 14,000 foot Kuh Denah as we came into sight of our destination, the camp of Hossein Khan Zakipour, chief of the Farsimadan tribe of the Qashqai Confederacy. Kiamarce gradually slowed the truck to a stop at the edge of the camp, being careful to avoid raising dust. Men and boys ran up, greeting my companions and hustling to unload the truck. Following them came a man in his mid-forties, barrel-chested and sturdy. He walked with measured step, fingering prayer beads. There was no need for introduction. He knew who I was, and he was clearly Hossein Khan, lord and master of this place. We shook hands and he welcomed me, then escorted me to his tent, and introduced me to half a dozen men of the Farsimadan.

We removed our shoes at the front of the tent, and joined the others in a semi-circle on the carpeted floor. The men sat cross-legged on the soft rugs, some back on their heels, some with one knee raised, arms wrapped around it. Everyone was careful not to let their feet intrude into the circle, or their back face another person. I’d learned the importance of these matters in one of many informal lessons on Persian manners back in Shiraz. There is a charming exchange to deal with the faux pas of presenting one's back to another's face. "Please, excuse my back," the offender says, to which one automatically replies, "But a flower has no back!"

The dusty travellers were given cold water and tea, while servants with warm water and towels came and stood just beyond the tent. Farrokh and I washed and refreshed ourselves. Early evening snacks arrived, to accompany conversation and backgammon. There were bowls of toasted salted pumpkin seeds, mixed with fat pistachio nuts. Fruit, several different kinds of melons, and cucumbers. The cucumbers were smaller than those I was used to seeing, the flesh denser and less juicy, the seeds smaller and more compact. But so full of flavor! Peeled from the blossom end, leaving a finger-hold by the stem, touched with salt, they were a crisp and delicious fruit.

Flatbread, bowls of yoghurt, plates of herbs and radishes were set in front of us. Juje-kabob was presented, broiled young cockerels, crisp and succulent, surrounded by lime wedges and sprigs of tarragon. The chicken was served on layers of flatbread, with an extra layer on top intended to keep the heat in and the flies out. The flies didn’t find it much of a barrier. Another broiled meat was brought, which with the help of my Persian-English dictionary we determined was gazelle. The bread, called lavosh, was being made while the kabobs were being broiled over the fire. The flour for the bread was ground from wheat grown by nearby villagers, the water came from the spring just above the camp, and the salt had been brought from the salt lake southeast of Shiraz. No doubt the seeting played a big role, but I found the flavor extraordinarily good.

One of the young khans invited me to play backgammon. I didn’t know the game, and teaching it to me tried his patience. They played so fast that moves were completed before the dice stopped shaking on the board. A few of the Farsimadan spoke a bit of English, and I had learned but a few phrases and words of Farsi. We took turns looking up words in my dictionary, pronouncing them, trying them out.

The camp was in a gentle swale that meandered toward the river several hundred yards to the west. At the center was Hossein Khan’s tent, a rectangle of black, covered roughly 12 by 5 meters. The open front was hung with bright bands decked with balled tassels of red, orange, and yellow wool. Several layers of carpets made a comfortable floor, and gelims covered the bedding and other household items stored at the back of the tent. All of the tents were rectangular, open on one long side. They were made from coarse, tightly spun goat’s wool. Behind the khan's tent was an arc of nine smaller tents, housing servants, grooms, herdsmen and their families, and drivers. The size of a tent is described by the number of poles it requires: Hossein Khan's tent had 32 poles. Fars Ali, his major-domo, had a 16 pole tent, and the others 6 poles. Off to the right of the main tent was another big tent, for male guests.

About thirty yards behind Hossein Khan's tent was a round white tent. The Iranian flag flew at its peak. This was the school tent, not made by the tribe. Twenty-some children, including several girls and servant children, attended classes here every day. 

A slender clear stream ran behind the guest tent. Its source was a spring some hundred yards distant, below which a grove of small trees served as a stable for the family’s horses. Young poplar trees lined the raised banks on each side of the stream. I was used to poplars on the farms and ranches in central and eastern Oregon, where they border driveways and yards, windbreaks providing shelter for man and beast. Poplar shoots, easily gathered by the handful from a mature tree, can be sharpened and pushed into damp ground where they will take root quickly, and grow fast and straight. 

I was surprised to see the horses running loose. There were no corrals, and none of the horses was tied. None of the stallions had been gelded. Two stallions and four mares were grazing and just hanging out, as horses do, content perhaps to be standing on this small patch of grassy earth. The rocky terrain beyond the camp could not be inviting to their unshod hooves. A young colt, born in the spring, wandered about the camp, curiously exploring tents until someone would gently push him off the carpets. Hossein Khan had lost 30 of his horses in the past three years from the drought, he said.

As the evening went on, we played backgammon, and nibbled on fruit and nuts until dinner was served. Servants spread a long plastic cloth across the carpets, and quickly arranged dinner plates, cups of salt and pepper, bowls of yoghurt, plates of sparkling radishes and green onions, pitchers of dugh (buttermilk) and bottles of Pepsi and Canada. Then came dinner. Two large copper trays arrived, piled high with fragrant rice topped with reddish-gold chunks of crusted rice, surrounded by joints of lamb on one tray, and half a dozen chickens on the other. Over all were scattered tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, and a small richly-flavored squash, all cooked in a heady saffron-infused broth.

Hossein Khan filled my plate with food. Farrokh folded soft rounds of paper-thin lavosh bread and put them on each person's plate. The khan next to me showed how to tear a small piece of lavosh and use it to pull a bite-sized piece of lamb off the bone, or to gather a mouthful of rice and vegetables, and pop it all in one’s mouth. I loved the food: uncomplicated, yet each piece bursting with its own rich flavors.

I saw no signs of gardens where these vegetables and herbs might have grown. Where did all this food come from? “Een gazah az kojast?” I asked. Their faces looked puzzled. A flash of understanding hit Farrokh. “The village over there,” he waved an arm loosely to show me where. “It is ours. There are more villages nearby. They have gardens. Eggplant, squash, tomatoes, herbs. Everything.” I feared my question had offended them, that it might have suggested they weren’t entirely self-sufficient. I felt my ears turn red.

When we were through eating, servants removed the plates. The oldest servant returned with a brass ewer on a deep round tray. When my turn came, I knew what to do. I held my right hand over the broad tray while the servant poured a stream of warm water over my hand, which had to wash itself. It was awkward, but the left hand could have nothing to do with eating. Or any other social activity, like shaking hands. The left hand’s job is at the toilet.

When everyone had washed, a final round of tea was served before bedtime. My bed and Farroukh's were made up on the soft rugs of the guest tent, where we retired. The night air was cold and sweet, the stars as clear in the heavens as I had ever imagined them. The occasional sounds of a horse munching, sheep stirring, and the tinkling of the little jube behind the tent eased me gently into the lap of Morpheus.

In the morning, a boiled goat head was on the breakfast menu. I was unnerved by the droopy ears, the blind eyes, and the tight smile of this steaming, succulent treat. But a chunk of the masseter muscle, wrapped in lavash with a piece of green onion and a bit of tarragon, was delicious.

After breakfast, I told Farrokh that I wanted to visit the school, at the edge of camp. The school tent was white canvas, conical in shape, with the sides rolled up to about four feet above the ground. The lining was bright cotton, patterned with broken stripes of oranges and reds. I greeted the young teacher, but Farrokh interrupted to introduce me to his younger brother Fereydoun, a pupil in the school. Fereydoun was about twelve years old, and wore a gray Qashqai hat, distinguishing himself from nearly every other male, who wore tan hats. He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye, the look of a pampered baby outlaw.

I had brought some ball-point pens to give to the students, young boys and girls from families of the camp. I handed one to each of them, and they were thrilled to receive a gift. Especially, it seemed, a writing implement all their own. I asked the teacher if I might sit in the back of the class and observe for a while, which seemed to please him. But not Farrokh. “Why do you want to stay here?” he asked with a hint of a sneer. “These are children!” I stood my ground. “I am interested in the school,” I answered. “Boshe.” Okay, was his bored reply. He turned away, and left me with the children, who were just as Bahmanbeigi described.

The students were as eager to participate in class as American children would be to attend the circus. Sitting cross-legged on a zelu (a machine-woven gelim), they strained toward the action at the blackboard. The teacher had a remarkable technique to select students for examination. Out of the mass of waving hands – for it seemed that every student was eager to be quizzed – he would pick two, and bring them to the front of the class. These two would alternately recite poems from memory, the key being that one had to recite a poem that began with the last word of the previous poem. Whichever child was finally unable to continue lost, but there was no shame and little disappointment in losing. The students were all supportive of one another, never relishing another's defeat. When a student being examined was stumped, the attempt by the others to telepathically jar his or her memory was palpable. Their communal spirit put a lump in my throat.

After a couple of hours at the school, I returned to the main tent. Farrokh accosted me. "When you have gifts for people, you must give them to me. I will give them. You must not." "Why?" I asked. I had a good idea what was coming, and I didn’t like it. "Because you do not know. You cannot give the same things to a servant and the son of a khan." My intention to treat the children equally was out of line. This pettiness was another thing about Farrokh that I didn’t like. The next time I visited the school, all the pens were in the pockets of Fereydoun and two of his companions.

As the morning warmed, a young man in his late twenties approached from the southeast, flanked by two companions. He was tall and angular, big-boned, almost gaunt. Farrokh introduced me to Elias Khan, Hossein Khan’s father's brother's son. He was to be married in a few weeks, and Hossein Khan was directing the arrangements. Ordinarily, Elias Khan's father would have done so, but he had been killed the previous year.

We sat in the tent for a while, drinking tea, eating fruit and smoking cigarettes, chatting. Juje kabob appeared, and it was superb. I was given some of the "nun-e zir-e kabob,” the bread underneath the kabobs. It soaks up the juices of the chicken, and is divine. Elias Khan explained that the expression “nun-e zir-e kabob” had another meaning. “Nun-e zir-e kabob is the wife of a younger brother. If he dies, you must marry her,” he smiled. So, she too is a delectable treat.

After lunch, everything slowed down. The summer heat weighed heavy, and lying down in the shade was the best way to pass the mid-day. Servants passed out mosquito netting to keep flies off one’s face, and everyone but me used it. I couldn’t sleep with my face being touched. The flies were a trial worthy of Job... vile creatures, equally at home on a pile of dung, a plate of meat, or a child's moist mouth, nostrils or eyes. Fortunately the flies were sluggish in the early morning and seemed to settle by late afternoon — at those times you could pretend they didn't exist. But in the middle of the day they were a real annoyance.

Conversation that afternoon turned to marriage and courtship customs. Two weddings were coming up in the next few weeks, so this was a subject of particular interest. I showed them the symbols used by anthropologists for male and female, and the ways to indicate marriage, siblings and offspring. They asked questions about American courtship and marriage, and my answers amazed them. How could any sense, or order, or balance be maintained in such a free-for-all? How could alliances be created and maintained? Why, with the American system, your sister could marry the cousin of a sworn enemy! It was too bizarre to contemplate… although the freedom of courtship did sound like salacious fun to some of the men.

The days slid by easily. I loved being in the high mountains, living on the ground, open to the heavens above. I loved no fences, no pavement, no electricity. I loved being with these hospitable people. I loved their relationship with their animals, the way a foal was free to wander into a tent when powerful men were having serious discussions. I loved the sound of yoghurt tied in a goat skin, sloshing rhythmically as it rocked it’s way into butter and dugh. Sometimes after breakfast, I would take a morning walk to the nearby village or to the river. Just to look. I could stare at the icy clear water in the river, examine the sparse bushes on its banks, or look at the way walls and roofs were built in the village for hours. Sometimes I watched activities in the camp: grooms working with the horses, women carding and spinning wool. Women of every age wove tent cloth from black goat yarn, or gelims from brightly dyed wool. Men butchering animals, women preparing food, churning butter, all the while the buzz of the school like cicadas in the background.

Late one afternoon, I was asked if I knew how to ride a horse. I said yes. This led to an immediate challenge: to race one of Elias Khan's companions to the nearby village of Biyeh and back, a round trip of a few kilometers. I’d been around horses. I got Misty, a dappled gray Cayuse pony, when I was nine. Even though he sometimes tried to dislodge me from his back at a full gallop by veering under a low tree branch, we got along. Misty’d been “cut proud,” incompletely castrated, but I didn’t see that it mattered a lot. I rode a fair amount as I got older, when I worked on the Lazy M Bar ranch in Lonerock. I figured I’d be all right.

Hossein Khan’s groom, Ali, approached with a couple of horses, and handed me the reins of a fine white stallion. The horse pranced lightly, ears forward, a calm but eager look in his eyes. There was no saddle. A hackamore bridle was the only tack – tight knees and calves, and a handfull of mane would take the place of a saddle. I figured all I had to do was to stick on him, and he'd take care of the rest. The race was underway the moment we were aboard. We tore across the hillside, running parallel to the path connecting the camp to the village. As we flew over rocky ground I was more concerned with staying aboard than with calling for more speed. We cleared the volleyball net at the edge of Biyeh, turned around it low and tight, then dug hard back for camp. My horse opened a good lead of sevaral lengths. I felt great riding him. He was very fast, ran smoothly, and was sure-footed. As we raced up to camp, Ali was laughing and yelling at me, “Yavosh, agha, yavosh!“ (slow down, sir, slow down!). My heart was pounding from the exhilarating ride. I pulled up on the reins more suddenly than I should have, and the horse dropped his rump and skidded to a stop. He kept his head and neck high, a move that kept me from tumbling to the rocky ground.

The following afternoon, Elias Khan asked me if I knew how to shoot a rifle. When I said yes, we all got up and strolled to the far side of the stable grove. Ali brought out a single-shot .22 calibre rifle, and Elias Khan loaded it. The younger boys scrabbled around gathering rocks of the sort I was used to skipping on a pond or flat river. In this shooting game, a boy would toss one of the flat rocks, two to three inches in diameter, as high as he could, the flat plane parallel to the ground. The shooter would try to hit the rock as quickly as possible. This was skeet shooting with a rifle. After Elias Khan had shattered a few rocks, he handed me the loaded rifle with a wry smile.

I had gone duck hunting three or four times in my life, and the only creature I had managed to kill was a weasel. So as far as leading a moving target was concerned, I wasn't any good, but I did know how to shoot. Plinking rats around our barn, or shooting marmots in the columnar basalt of eastern Oregon, had long been a pastime. I figured that if I shot just as the rock reached its apogee, the target would be nearly stationary. I shouldered the rifle, a boy launched a rock, and it flew into pieces when the bullet struck. I tried to be nonchalant, but I couldn’t hold the grin from spreading across my face. I knew I’d been lucky, but I was happy as hell. Success on five out of six tries earned praise, but I didn’t earn any points for speed. I took every shot when the rock was dead still. My companions shouted congratulations. "Kheili nikhbakht," I answered. I was very fortunate.

The following day we were invited to visit Elias Khan, whose camp was at a spot called Lurkosh, a couple of kilometers to the east. It was a pleasant stroll, as the hot afternoon cooled into evening. The semi-domesticated camp watchdogs ran at us snarling and barking, but backed off under the hail of baseball-sized rocks hurled by our attending servants. Elias Khan's tent was oriented south-southeast, on a hillside overlooking the river. It was on open ground, with no trees to give it shade. In front of the tent was a garden, planted with cucumbers, melons, squash, corn, radishes, herbs and sunflowers. At one end of the tent was the cooking area, three small adobe fireplaces. Outside was another fire-pit, where much of the mid-day cooking was done.

Twenty or so khans lounged about, cousins and uncles of Elias Khan. Some were in the tent drinking tea, playing backgammon and conversing, while others stood outside blasting rocks from the sky with a .22 and a .30-06. Shortly after sundown everyone gathered in the tent, and arak-e-keshmesh was served. Arak is a brandy, distilled from rough wine made by Armenians in Shiraz from local raisins. It was hot and heady stuff. We drank it in heavy glass tumblers, the sort found on the bedside tables of ordinary hotels. The glass would be filled half way, a toast offered, and the drink tossed off at one gulp. None of the young men was served. Elias Khan told me in an aside that young men must not drink (or smoke) in the presence of their older male relatives unless ordered to do so.

As usual, we were served fruit, yoghurt, bread, roast chicken. We drank arak, sang songs, and talked. The senior khans had many questions. Why was America fighting a war half way around the world? What had America to gain? The notion of fighting an ideological war so far from home perplexed them. I told them my opposition to the war, as best I could. Of course, they said, they could understood how I might disagree with my government's policies. That was not at issue. They wanted to understand how the American government’s policy decisions were made. Aside from those complicated matters, they were impressed by the technology of the west. Airplanes that could carry trucks and tanks. Highways that could handle huge volumes of traffic at 70 miles an hour. A car for nearly every family, no matter what their status.

Then their questions turned toward home. “Why does President Johnson give tanks, airplanes, and machine guns to the Shah? Doesn't he know that they are used against innocent people?” No longer was the Shah the benevolent ruler, but a despot whose goals included the elimination of tribal life in the Zagros mountains. We talked late that night. In the morning I went to the school tent, and things were different. There were no opening ceremonies praising the national state. The Iranian flag wasn’t flying from the top of the tent. The large picture of the Shah above the blackboard was nowhere to be seen.

A few days later there was another party at Elias Khan's camp. As the heat of the day broke, we strolled across the rocky hillsides, reaching the small cluster of tents in about twenty minutes. Again a large group was there, including Zarir Khan (Hossein Khan's father's brother's son), Hassan Ali Khan, Ali Zamani, and several young men my age, Mas'oud Khan (son of Zarir Khan) and two of his brothers, and a few other young khans. Everyone was sitting on the carpets in Elias Khan's tent, drinking tea and eating fruit. Dinner was served surprisingly early, about seven-thirty. When we finished the meal, Zarir Khan and the other older men took their leave. The young khans loosened up immediately, grabbing cigarettes, and glasses for arak. After a couple of belts I had reached my limit, so I declined the next refill. But this was not to be. “As long as Mas'oud Khan drinks, you must drink,” declared one of the young khans in an unequivocal tone. Well, I thought, now I get it. Riding, shooting, and now drinking, three emblems of male culture. So be it. Head to head we drank, half a glass each time, alternating toasts, until we had consumed nearly a bottle apiece.

Servants brought grilled meats and fowl, with pickled vegetables and yoghurt to counter the heat of the alcohol. At dusk, musicians arrived. Men danced in pairs, facing each other, their hands on their hips, squatting low and kicking their legs out like the Cossack sword dance. Though reluctant, I had to dance. Whistling, clapping, and friendly grins helped me to my feet. Hands on my hips, feet kicking out, I let loose. I cut a wide swath, and danced my way right into the nearest fire, smashing a teapot nestled in the coals. My apologies were tossed aside, the music quickened, and on we danced. More toasts, more drink.

Night fell, and lanterns were lit inside the tent. Outside a knot of young boys tended a fire, feeding it with dry desert thistles. A group of teen-age girls approached shyly. The musicians, who had been sitting at the edge of the circle of light beyond the tent, resumed their playing. The girls began to dance. Each of them wore six or more full skirts, which hung from their hips, swishing half a beat behind their steps. Above, they wore a long tunic, which was split at the hips into front and rear panels. The tunic was pinned at the throat, open to just below the breasts. Over this they wore a velvet bolero, with long sleeves tapering to a point at their fingertips, thus covering the backs of their hands. The boleros were piped with gold, silver and red thread, and sequins were sewn in paisley patterns on some. All the materials were of the brightest colors – pinks, blues, reds, oranges. Many were interwoven with gold, silver and red metallic threads. The girls' heads were covered with a delicate white veil, held in place by a long, folded silk scarf, tied at the back. Several of the girls had bands of gold coins circling their foreheads. In each hand they held a handkerchief by a corner, snapping and waving it in counterpoint to the motion of their skirts as they danced. The dancers swirled back and forth, the circle slowly turning, colors and faces flashing in the firelight.

We men stood at the front of the tent to watch. I managed to find a tent pole to steady myself, trying to maintain my bearings. I was very drunk, and desperately trying to keep my wits about me. I didn’t want to fall apart. After a while the circle of dancers broke, and the girls walked away, disappearing into the darkness. As we turned to go back into the tent, Mas'oud Khan, who had been standing to my right, suddenly turned and without warning threw a punch, a right cross that caught me squarely on the left cheekbone. I reacted, hitting him twice, once on the mouth and once in the nose. He fell backward, bleeding. People rushed to pick him up and to restrain me. I needed no restraining, stunned by what had happened. I caught a glimpse of Mas'oud Khan as Farokh and his servant Mohammed Ali led me away from the tent. The white handkerchief he held to his face was soaked with blood. I was crying as the three of us walked back to our camp. Twice I had to stop to throw up. “Why? Why did he hit me?” I asked again and again, but the question went unanswered. Back at the tent, I fumbled out of my clothes and fell drunkenly into bed.

I awoke with a pounding headache and a threatening stomach. As I groped for my clothes, I saw that my shirt was ripped, and blood spattered on my shoes. The images returned. When I was dressed and washed, I went to apologize to Hossein Khan’s wife Hosni Khanum and to Farrokh for the terrible trouble I had caused. ''Aib nadare (it has no fault) ” she said. Forget anything happened. It seemed that as far as they were concerned, the matter was closed for discussion. Over. A big breakfast was served, including goat's head, the appearance of which did little for my stomach. As we were finishing up with tea and a Winston cigarette, Elias Khan appeared.

I apologized, but he would not hear it. He said it was his fault, because the incident had occured in his tent. We smoked and had more tea, then Elias Khan said, “Come, let’s take a walk together.” I knew that to take a walk meant to have a private conversation, which could not be done within the physical bounds of the camp. I asked him where we would go. “In the hills,” he replied, waving vaguely toward the northwest. I glanced at the automatic pistol he wore today at his side. I hadn’t seen it before. The spilling of blood was not taken lightly here. I wished that Mas'oud Khan had bloodied me, to balance matters. 

As we walked, Elias Khan refused to discuss the events of the previous night. To relieve my own tension, I spoke in my jumbled Farsi about flocks, village crops, the weather, anything to bolster my connection with Elias Khan. As we walked, I realized that we were taking a circuitous route back to his camp. I was struck by the fact that we were approaching from the rear of the tent, something that ordinarily should not be done. It is important to make one's presence known from a distance, honestly, face on. But before I could worry much about the meaning of this approach, three men walked toward us from the tent. The penultimate scene of "High Noon" flashed through my mind. It was Mas'oud Khan, flanked by two of his brothers. A piece of paper, glued in place by blood, held his split lip together. When we met, he bowed, kissed my hand and then my cheek, and we embraced. “We must forget about last night” he said. “From today, we are brothers. Do not speak of this anymore.”

We kissed each other again on both cheeks, then walked hand in hand down to the tent. We settled in for a morning of skeet shooting and backgammon, tea, arak and conversation. All was well.

In bed that night, I thought about what had happened. The horse race, shooting at rocks in the sky, drinking and fighting. I was sure that the insistence on drinking was intended to loosen any internal constraints, to make sure that my response to an attack would not be confused by my thinking about being a guest. It was my response that was being tested, how a man deals with a physical assault. I was also sure that the incident had to take place away from Hossein Khan's camp, for he could never allow a guest to be attacked on his ground. I figured I’d passed the test. I wondered if the Nez Perce did anything similar, testing a guest. But now, there was no one I could ask.