The hills are alive with....
....sheep... and not any vestige of schlock from the awful
diabetes-inducing 'musical' (T*e S***d of M***c),that insults the defenseless
hills with sharps, flats, and what it.claims to be music. This is the real
thing: quiet except for the satisfying rhythmic basso much-crunch-munch of
shaggy sheep, the soprano grace notes from their neck bells, the slightly sibilant arpeggios from the
breeze, and the sighs of contentment
from three very satisfied picnickers.
We are in the green, green, green
moutain-rich landscape west of the Caspian Sea on our way to Tabriz. This road
is 100 kilometers shorter than the highway but takes a few hours longer.
Hossein suggests we take it because it is more interesting and beautiful and
there will be fewer people. We like this guy! He's our kind of traveler.
There is no place to eat enroute. We add picnic supplies to
Hossein's Mobile Grocery (aka the backseat): bread, tangy cream cheese,
watermelon.
The road rises from the coast. We expect the dry, sere,
landscape of the Iran of our imagination. The world here is instead all lush
green. Green waves of manicured tea plants ripple near even greener rice
paddies, flat mirrors reflecting the blue sky. As we rise, these yield to
slopes of green pasture sheared short by those shaggy sheep. But green, green,
green. We stop at one spot and share the view with a young Iranian couple who
share pistachios and roasted sunflower seeds with us. She's a recent MBA graduate
looking for a job. Pictures taken and shared, we wave goodbye and head down the
slope.
Hossein has spotted a hill in the distance too good to pass up. We hike
down, pass and are greeted by families
who have set up tents or spread out blankets in the soft grass. The top
of the hill is such a perfect spot for our picnic that Hossein runs back down
for the munchies ( ah, youth) and we stretch out in the grass. Our young
friends come by and invite us to come to their home for dinner in Tehran. It's
a genuine invitation, but Tehran is now behind us The memory of that kind
invitation is not.
We eat our picnic, fingers wet with watermelon, stretch out
to watch the.sky. Shaggy sheep surround us, unconcerned that we are lying on
their lunch. They munch around us, great rasta-haired beasts in solid brown or
black or white. Some are all mixed color, piebald proof of color blind sheepish
assignations. Luxuriant heaps of wool now, they will be shorn to produce yarn,
perhaps for the exquisite carpets Persia is so known for. For now, these shaggy
carpets in larval form deal with the issue in front of them: lunch. They
politely ignore us. Lounging in the distance their pair of shepherd dogs do
not. In size and coloring a match for their shaggy chargers, keep watch. Wolves
can be around.
Hours later we finally reach Tabriz, find the narrow alley
leading to the hotel garage, check in, and head out for dinner. Kebabs and
slightly tart barley soup settle us for the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment