The Nomads of Mount Sabalon

Location:
Iran

Adventure travel culture

By Steve Foreman

Returning from our successful climb of Mount Sabalon, a young boy conveyed a message inviting us to visit a nearby nomad’s camp. We told him we would be delighted to do so.

Next morning, full of excitement, we walked around the flank of the mountain in the wake of Reza, who had returned to guide us. Arriving at a grassy plateau some one hour later, we discovered a large grouping of dark circular tents, with some thirty or so nomads waiting to greet us. The air was crisp and clear, the snow-capped peak of Sabalon gleamed brilliantly in the early morning sunlight, and the dazzling blue sky formed a perfect backdrop to the tranquil and timeless scene.

We were welcomed immediately into the chief’s large tent. We were quite nervous at first, being unsure of what was expected of us in terms of protocol. The chief sat down cross-legged on the carpet that covered the floor of the huge circular tent. He made a sweeping gesture with his outstretched arms, indicating that we should do likewise. From the gloom of the darkened periphery of the interior, a woman appeared (one of the chief’s wives) and poured us all a small glass of clear tea from the large, antique-looking samovar. We were also offered large irregular-shaped lumps of sugar, and following the chiefs example, place one between our teeth and allowed the tea to dissolve it, and become sweetened, as we sipped it. Up to this point, hardly a word had passed between us, but now the chief began to talk. It soon became obvious that we didn’t understand a word he said (now we really needed our missing ‘guide’) and he resulted to that timeless international way of communication - sign language and the drawing of pictures in the dust at the doorway to the tent. We responded in that timeless English way of communicating with foreigners - i.e. continuing tenaciously to speak English, but at an increased volume and slower speed, as if the person we were addressing was deaf, stupid or both!

It was a struggle, but it worked, and there was very little misunderstanding throughout our long visit. I had a chance to look around my surroundings while all this was going on. The tents, as mentioned earlier, are a low, circular, and windowless structure, varying in size according to their use and status of the inhabitants. The chief’s tent was the biggest, standing at about seven feet high at the apex, where there was a small smoke-hole. The diameter of the tent was about twenty-five feet at ground level. There was one small doorway, with a roll-down flap. The furnishings consisted of the large main carpet, lots of scattered rugs, blankets and cushions, the large samovar and the table upon which it sat. Within the tent, but only half-guessed in the gloom, were about ten other women, all of them at great pains to keep their faces covered with their purdah shawls. I would have not found this such an anomaly had not one of the younger ones been quite openly breast-feeding a baby! The women whispered softly to each other in the shadows, their dark eyes flashing in the wavering lamplight.

Once we had finished our tea, we were able to mingle with the other nomads who were waiting to have their share of us outside. The menfolk were interested in our manner of dress, our cameras, and our small, brightly coloured day sacks, while the women stood around in small groups, whispering and giggling behind their hands and giving coy glances through the gaps in their purdah shawls.

With the Chief acting as guide, we watched sheets of tent felt being made; whereby teased and dampened wool, shorn from the herds of fat-tailed sheep that formed the basis of the nomads’ economy, was spread on a large sheet of previously made felt. This was then wrapped around a long wooden pole - the length and diameter of a telegraph post - and then pummelled along the ground by a whole line of people, dancing, chanting, and kicking the pole as it rolled along. Even we joined in this ritual dance, arms linked and trying hard not to trip over our own feet as laughing children cavorted around us.

We were offered food, and dined on fresh yoghurt, unleavened bread, cheese, and meat with pea or barley gruel. After this satisfying repast, we continued our explorations.

Some of the tents had spinning wheels, with old women deftly turning tangled fleece into fine thread for weaving. We caused an uproar of laughter when trying, unsuccessfully, to master the art of mounting and then riding the camels which the nomads use for their heavy, seasonal moves. Their traditional crafts, based mainly on the by-products of the sheep, although essentially for practical use and trading, made wonderful souvenirs, and we each willingly purchased an item; a Persian rug, a woollen cushion or a pair of woven saddlebags. I took many photographs that day, and once the Polaroid’s were all used up, I reverted to my 35mm SLR, clicking as furiously and apparently as aimlessly as my comrades (It is a cause of recurring regret to me that somewhere in the maze of life stretching out behind me, all my photographs of Persian Carpet have been lost).

Finally, the incredible day ended. The whole experience had been one of mutual respect, friendship, and entertainment, and it was with great regret that we said farewell to our wonderful hosts, the Nomads of Khu-es-Sabalon.

Despite my failure to reach the summit of the mountain, the disappointment was softened, if not erased completely, by the two days I had spent in the company of those wandering shepherds. .My visit to Sabalon was then, and remains to this day, one of the highlights of my life.

Further Information

Travel tips: You cannot visit at this time