The Lurs of Pu$ht~i~Kuh
sons revolted against him, and he and part of his family are
now in exile in Iraq while the strong hand of Riza Shah is
stretched over their country. But though the Pusht-i-Kuh
is as safe as any so lonely region can be, and though it has
great attractions—mountains and forest so near the flatness
of the desert—it is not a summer resort for Baghdad citizens.
It is still, indeed, as primitive as it must have been ten centuries
ago or more.
Once a year the Lurs of Pusht-i-Kuh who work in the
Baghdad custom house give a theatrical performance and
show to a small audience the life and traditions of their
province. There are bandits in white, with faces bound up
as for the toothache all except the eyes (the correct costume
for a brigand in the East): there are songs on the high, sobbing
note like yodelling of the Alps: there are the full black velvet
coats with sash wrapped round them and a dagger in the
front, and tasselled turbans: there are white felt coats and
pointed caps, where the hair sticks out in half a circle below,
worn by the shepherds. And the charm of the performance is
that it is no mere tradition of the past, but is what anyone may
see who will take the trouble to climb from the Iraq desert over
the most desolate of mountain ranges, up into Pusht-i-Kuh.
Until a year ago this high and lonely region had no houses
at all except a small erection here and there belonging to the
Vali. Now the Persians are building up the capital of Husain-
abad, and four boulevards (unfinished), a group of government
offices, and the motor road from Kermenshah begin to cast
shadows of progress over the quite unwilling spirits of the
inhabitants. These live in groups of tribal tents scattered
thinly between steep ranges, and move from the central
heights east or west as the case may be to warmer winter
pastures. Travelling there, you would think that so they
must have lived from the beginnings of time. But as a
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