February, when great drifts of snow showcase the brutal beauty of the treeless Kurdish hills. I’m leaving Sanandaj the capital to travel south towards the head of the Persian Gulf. Sanandaj is, in rug parlance, Senneh. Senneh rugs have a distinctive weave that can be easily identified. In English the look of the back or underside is “salt and pepper”, the little dots of fine white cotton (the salt) among the little dark dots of the pile knots.
I easily take a seat at the front of this long-distance bus and settle down for the night. Within a few minutes I’m stripping down to tee-shirt. I’ve taken a seat right in front of the one blower that keeps the whole bus warm in these cold conditions. Extreme discomfort. No wonder the locals didn’t rush it.
Being almost next to the driver and co-driver was a typical full frontal Kurd experience. After dawn the panoramic views of the low plains ahead combined with the imminent success of a journey, where nothing is taken for granted produces a series of spontaneous operatic airs by the driver. His wild tenor must have got him the job. People started to wake and join in in the obviously better-known verses. We arrived in noisy style in a dusty truck stop village.
I get out and look around. The feeling is Mexican mid-day. A mangy dog carries it’s one limp leg and a crow squarks overhead. I take refuge in the almost deserted bus station. Well certainly deserted of travellers but with three local employees. Two oily workers and a shuffling severe down syndrome young man. This did not feel like Iran where personal grooming is an art form.
But Iran it was, a face I’d never seen. The two men proceeded to play a game. Over and over they would speak sweetly to the boy, hold his arm and burn a cigarette into his skin. The boy would chase them as they dodged laughing. After finally settling down they would repeat the torture. The boy had many burns. I chose to turn my back and retreat to the street. Spying a stand-up 30cm brassier kabob seller, I buy one, just for something to do. The man takes the sword of burnt meat, grabs it with a flat bread and hands it to me. No smile, no friendly bon mots, am I really in Iran, home of poets? I pay and take a bite. The meat is goat heart and raw within. Blood gushes down my chin and across my last washed shirt. Yes this place is hell.
This story has a happy ending. I get the next bus to Behbehan and stay comfortably with my referred contacts. Behbehan is a winter centre of the Boyer Ahmadi and Mammasani Luri nomadic weaving groups, but that's another story.
