PART II: PERSIA

Kirmanshah

KIRMANSHAH (4900 FT), 29 SEPTEMBER

We travelled for twenty hours yesterday. The effort was more in argument than locomotion.

A burning dust-storm wafted us along the road to Khanikin. Through the murk loomed a line of hills. Christopher grasped my arm. ‘The ramparts of Iran!’ he announced solemnly. A minute later we breasted a small incline and were on the flat again. This happened every five miles, till an oasis of sour green proclaimed the town and frontier.

Here we changed cars, since Persia and Irak refuse admission to one anther’s chauffeurs. Otherwise our reception was hospitable: the Persian officials offered us their sympathy in this disgusting business of customs, and kept us three hours. When I paid duty on some films and medicines, they took the money with eyes averted, as a duchess collects for charity.

I remarked to Christopher on the indignity of the people’s clothes: ‘Why does the Shah makes them wear those hats?’

‘Sh. You mustn’t mention the Shah out loud. Call him Mr Smith.’

‘I always call Mussolini Mr Smith in Italy.’

‘Well, Mr Brown.’

‘No, that’s Stalin’s name in Russia.’

‘Mr Jones then.’

‘Jones is no good either. Hitler has to have it now that Primo de Rivera is dead. And anyhow I get confused with these