“What? No. No. No. I didn’t mean stop” I called out as our car veered unexpectedly to me off the side of the Iranian highway. Concerned that my pleas would be heard outside by the stoic-faced inhabitants of this roadside camp, I continued to whisper-yell, “I just meant can you point out the nomads as we zoom by…not can we stop and disturb them!” “It’s no problem” came the now familiar reply of Kamran, our eager-to-please guide. Kamran gesticulated that we should follow him out of the car and meet the 3 grim faces. Farsi was bantered back and forth as my friend Jen and I quietly debated how to appear both attentive and non-threatening. No doubt it was Kamran’s negation skills and not our distorted facial expressions that ultimately earned grins from our new hosts. “They live here 5 months a year”, Kamran explained as we followed along dirt trails through fields of sunflowers and beans. We learnt how this Qashqai tribe relocated seasonally with their herds of goat and sheep to best take advantage of agricultural opportunities. Our suspicions developed as we were led to an idyllic but foreseeable scene of women washing clothes on the banks of a creek while children splashed in the shallow water. Fairly well travelled, we considered ourselves connoisseurs of identifying sightseer schemes; the “genuine” African village where you meet an alleged “warrior”, who is wearing a Rolex. Recognizing this was nothing more than another attempt to exploit our tourist dollars, we plastered faux smiles and politely nodded without any of our previous enthusiasm. We dutifully took the tour of a ramshackle home constructed of wooden pallets, animal feedbags and a tin roof. I was silently admiring the authenticity of it all, happy that no one truly slept there, when an older woman approached. I inwardly groaned knowing that this was the time for me to stock up on souvenirs. She smiled warmly before pulling out a woolen handmade bag and holding it up in the same manner as Rafiki displayed Simba in the Lion King. Aware of my role in this charade, I waved Kamran over to ascertain the price. He appeared genuinely confused, “how much?” “Yes, how much money does she want for the bag?” “You want to give her money for the bag?” “Yes, she is trying to sell me the bag.” His confusion continued as he replied, “She is trying to show you because she is proud of it. It’s her bag.” I stood there, my face reddening as realization set in. “Please tell her that they bag is gorgeous. I can see how much work went into it”, was all I could choke out as humbleness engulfed me. She beamed with pride as Kamran translated my words. Oblivious to my arrogance, our hosts continued their generosity with an invitation to join them for a meal. Culturally we were required to consume a respectable amount of an impressive spread of fresh bread, sheep butter, goat cheese and grapes. Jen, a culinary adventurous consumer of unpasteurized, unrefrigerated products served out of animal skins on the side of a road, did the bulk of work. Utilizing a few visualization techniques, I managed to swallow a bit of the dairy but focused on grape consumption. The laughter and smiles that were shared will always mean more than the food, and we wanted to show our appreciation for this hospitality. Kamran conveyed to us that any attempt to give money to would be considered offensive, so we parted with our only appropriate item…a sleeve of Oreos purchased on a whim at the Dubai airport. It was greeted with confused looks. Trade embargoes in place mean that none of this family had ever heard of an Oreo. After a few cautious bites, kids and adults were giggling, nibbling and posing for photos proudly displaying their cookie. I travelled to Iran to experience the bustle of Tehran, photograph the tile-mosaic mosques and explore the historical site of Persepolis. I was fortunate to do all of that. I didn’t expect to find my own humility on the side of the road with an Oreo-naïve sociable Qashqai nomadic tribe, but no better lesson could have been learnt.