Akhal Teke UK
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©Black Fox 2007-2009
A Memorial Service for Louise Elisabeth Firouz was held at St Mary Church in Thorpe,
Surrey, led by the Reverend Canon Dr Michael J.Hereward-Rothwell. He never met
Louise but recounted with great charm his own memories of a trip to Aleppo at the age
of twelve, in pursuit of his interests in classical languages and history. He spoke
profoundly of human encounters with the people of other cultures and the relative
concept of home.
Brenda Dalton, the Registrar of the International Caspian Stud Book and Dr Rosemary
Harris, the Secretary of the Caspian Horse Society paid tribute to Louise's life and work,
as did Ruth Staines who has a long-standing interest in Central Asian horses and travel,
and stayed and rode with Louise on several occasions. We are grateful to Ruth for letting
us publish her memories of Louise Firouz.
__________________________________________________________________
Surrey, led by the Reverend Canon Dr Michael J.Hereward-Rothwell. He never met
Louise but recounted with great charm his own memories of a trip to Aleppo at the age
of twelve, in pursuit of his interests in classical languages and history. He spoke
profoundly of human encounters with the people of other cultures and the relative
concept of home.
Brenda Dalton, the Registrar of the International Caspian Stud Book and Dr Rosemary
Harris, the Secretary of the Caspian Horse Society paid tribute to Louise's life and work,
as did Ruth Staines who has a long-standing interest in Central Asian horses and travel,
and stayed and rode with Louise on several occasions. We are grateful to Ruth for letting
us publish her memories of Louise Firouz.
__________________________________________________________________
For Louise Firouz Memorial Service, October 25 2008
I feel privileged to have been Louise’s first paying customer when she started her horse
treks in Northern Iran in 1999. I had ridden in the enormous expanses of Mongolia, and
through the great peaks of the Hindu Kush, but riding with Louise was a very different
experience. That first ride was a family affair, and when I first stepped out of the taxi to
be greeted by Louise I felt immediately that I was not only part of her family, but a part
of the wider, Turkmen one, stretching back centuries. Louise had lived with a family in
the village of Gharah Tappeh Sheikh (known as GTS) for a while when she first moved
there, watching relationships at work: the animals, dogs, chickens, donkeys, all knew
their places, not just the humans. All seemed imbued with the Turkmen spirit.
Apparently the villagers were doubtful about bringing tourists to their area at first, but this
attitude soon changed when they realised they had a ready market for the carpets, hats,
felts etc that they produced, and several of them were employed staffing the trips.
Meantime Louise had bought bread ovens for them, and in return they supplied her daily
bread, delicious delivered warm! The Turkmen women never allowed her to use the
ovens, they felt they were far too dangerous for her!
I feel privileged to have been Louise’s first paying customer when she started her horse
treks in Northern Iran in 1999. I had ridden in the enormous expanses of Mongolia, and
through the great peaks of the Hindu Kush, but riding with Louise was a very different
experience. That first ride was a family affair, and when I first stepped out of the taxi to
be greeted by Louise I felt immediately that I was not only part of her family, but a part
of the wider, Turkmen one, stretching back centuries. Louise had lived with a family in
the village of Gharah Tappeh Sheikh (known as GTS) for a while when she first moved
there, watching relationships at work: the animals, dogs, chickens, donkeys, all knew
their places, not just the humans. All seemed imbued with the Turkmen spirit.
Apparently the villagers were doubtful about bringing tourists to their area at first, but this
attitude soon changed when they realised they had a ready market for the carpets, hats,
felts etc that they produced, and several of them were employed staffing the trips.
Meantime Louise had bought bread ovens for them, and in return they supplied her daily
bread, delicious delivered warm! The Turkmen women never allowed her to use the
ovens, they felt they were far too dangerous for her!
The feel of riding a Turkoman mare into the river on the first afternoon was magical.
Being part of the area’s history. Riding a horse whose ancestry went back for millennia.
Maybe Alexander the Great had passed near here. The week’s ride was over endless,
treeless hills to the shrines of Khaled Nabi, a Nestorian Christian, though, surprisingly,
often visited now by Muslim pilgrims. Louise’s daughter Roshan was riding with us, and
her three children, the youngest aged three following with the support vehicle. He seemed
then to be more interested in motor bikes than horses.
I rode five times with Louise in all. Another trip was particularly special as we could not
find a date when I could join other riders, and she agreed to take me on my own if I did
not mind exploring! This time we rode in a different direction, to the outskirts of the
Golestan Forest. Of that trip, I wrote in my diary ‘we ride off soon after dawn. The
horses’ hooves are swishing through carpets of wild flowers, and, as the sun comes up,
disturbing myriads of butterflies. Sounds increase with the warmth: birdsong, the hum of
bees, the tapping of a woodpecker. The smell of flower blossom mingles with the sweat
of the horses. A wolf glides silently across the track in front of us. The horses start, and
then our attention is drawn to the shadows by the bushes. Slight movement indicates a
herd of small deer. An eagle glides past and alights on a bush beside us. The horses’ ears
indicate something else is present: a family of wild boar makes its way from the
undergrowth and up the grassy hillside in front of us. By now riders and horses are
convinced that many eyes are following us.’
Being part of the area’s history. Riding a horse whose ancestry went back for millennia.
Maybe Alexander the Great had passed near here. The week’s ride was over endless,
treeless hills to the shrines of Khaled Nabi, a Nestorian Christian, though, surprisingly,
often visited now by Muslim pilgrims. Louise’s daughter Roshan was riding with us, and
her three children, the youngest aged three following with the support vehicle. He seemed
then to be more interested in motor bikes than horses.
I rode five times with Louise in all. Another trip was particularly special as we could not
find a date when I could join other riders, and she agreed to take me on my own if I did
not mind exploring! This time we rode in a different direction, to the outskirts of the
Golestan Forest. Of that trip, I wrote in my diary ‘we ride off soon after dawn. The
horses’ hooves are swishing through carpets of wild flowers, and, as the sun comes up,
disturbing myriads of butterflies. Sounds increase with the warmth: birdsong, the hum of
bees, the tapping of a woodpecker. The smell of flower blossom mingles with the sweat
of the horses. A wolf glides silently across the track in front of us. The horses start, and
then our attention is drawn to the shadows by the bushes. Slight movement indicates a
herd of small deer. An eagle glides past and alights on a bush beside us. The horses’ ears
indicate something else is present: a family of wild boar makes its way from the
undergrowth and up the grassy hillside in front of us. By now riders and horses are
convinced that many eyes are following us.’
Little wonder Louise found her life here more exciting than in the west. She was to take
many riders to these magical places. She made history come alive: as she talked of
Parthian orchards and terraces, of Scythian burial chambers full of gold, we could see
nomadic horsemen riding over the landscape. On one trip we rode east to Jargalan,
another Turkmen area on the border with Turkmenistan. Here a colleague of hers, a
doctor, has brought electricity to the area, runs a medical clinic and breeds Turkoman
horses, which are occasionally raced at weddings and circumcisions. We never managed
to see a race there, but on another trip Louise arranged some races at a village near
GTS. Horses and riders, with their families, came from all the neighbouring villages as
word spread. Turkeys were cleared from the ‘racetrack’, a flat field, and pairs of horses
raced each other, flat out, sometimes missing the winning post as they were riding into the
sun!
many riders to these magical places. She made history come alive: as she talked of
Parthian orchards and terraces, of Scythian burial chambers full of gold, we could see
nomadic horsemen riding over the landscape. On one trip we rode east to Jargalan,
another Turkmen area on the border with Turkmenistan. Here a colleague of hers, a
doctor, has brought electricity to the area, runs a medical clinic and breeds Turkoman
horses, which are occasionally raced at weddings and circumcisions. We never managed
to see a race there, but on another trip Louise arranged some races at a village near
GTS. Horses and riders, with their families, came from all the neighbouring villages as
word spread. Turkeys were cleared from the ‘racetrack’, a flat field, and pairs of horses
raced each other, flat out, sometimes missing the winning post as they were riding into the
sun!
As we rode she would tell us about her beloved horses, Turkomans and Caspians, and
their ancestry, of her work with geneticists and archaeologists and their combined efforts
to trace their story over the centuries, work which is still carrying on. Relaying allthis to
her trekkers must have been an effective way of spreading her work.
Louise was well known in many villages, but on the way to Jargalan we came across a
couple who said they had not seen travellers for twenty years, when a couple rode by.
Yes, said Louise, that was me and my husband! She could talk her way out of difficult
situations – police telling her she did not have permission to camp were firmly told
‘Turkmenistan welcomed these people, why can’t you?’ And when some village elders
expressed concern at us females sleeping in such difficult conditions, her reply was ‘they
like it rough!’ No difficulty was more than a minor problem for her to solve, as when a
mare stepped rather further into a water hole than was sensible, she just lashed a tether
rope to the horn of a western saddle and pulled her out with another horse.
Louise felt passionately she did not want to be put into a home at the end of her life, as
seemed to happen in the west: she wanted to stay with the Turkmen to the end, as they
looked after all generations. Her wish was granted. For years she tried to get me to come
out to Iran again, I had not been since 2003. Her final email to me last December ended
with the words ‘your place is empty’.
their ancestry, of her work with geneticists and archaeologists and their combined efforts
to trace their story over the centuries, work which is still carrying on. Relaying allthis to
her trekkers must have been an effective way of spreading her work.
Louise was well known in many villages, but on the way to Jargalan we came across a
couple who said they had not seen travellers for twenty years, when a couple rode by.
Yes, said Louise, that was me and my husband! She could talk her way out of difficult
situations – police telling her she did not have permission to camp were firmly told
‘Turkmenistan welcomed these people, why can’t you?’ And when some village elders
expressed concern at us females sleeping in such difficult conditions, her reply was ‘they
like it rough!’ No difficulty was more than a minor problem for her to solve, as when a
mare stepped rather further into a water hole than was sensible, she just lashed a tether
rope to the horn of a western saddle and pulled her out with another horse.
Louise felt passionately she did not want to be put into a home at the end of her life, as
seemed to happen in the west: she wanted to stay with the Turkmen to the end, as they
looked after all generations. Her wish was granted. For years she tried to get me to come
out to Iran again, I had not been since 2003. Her final email to me last December ended
with the words ‘your place is empty’.
