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AROUND THE WORLD ON A BICYCLE
Volume II.
From Teheran To Yokohama
By Thomas Stevens
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
THE START FROM TEHERAN, ........ 1
CHAPTER II.
PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD, ...... 34
CHAPTER III.
PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD,...... 43
CHAPTER IV.
THROUGH KHORASSAN,.......... 65
CHAPTER V.
MESHED THE HOLY,.......... 84
CHAPTER VI.
THE UNBEATEN TRACKS Of KHORASSAN,...... 109
CHAPTER VII.
BEERJAND AND THE FRONTIER OF AFGHANISTAN, .. .. 135
CHAPTER VIII
ACROSS THE "DESERT OF DESPAIR,"....... 160
CHAPTER IX.
AFGHANISTAN,............ 181
CHAPTER X.
ARRESTED AT FURRAH,......... 197
CHAPTER XI.
UNDER ESCORT TO HERAT,......... 209
CHAPTER XII.
TAKEN BACK TO PERSIA,......... 230
CHAPTER XIII.
ROUNDABOUT TO INDIA,...... 255
CHAPTER XIV.
THROUGH INDIA,........... 284
CHAPTER XV.
DELHI AND AGRA,.......... 809
CHAPTER XVI.
FROM AGRA TO SINGAPORE,........ 833
CHAPTER XVII.
THROUGH CHINA,........... 365
CHAPTER XVIII.
DOWN THE KAN-KIANG VALLEY,........ 400
CHAPTER XIX.
THROUGH JAPAN,............ 432
CHAPTER XX.
THE HOME STRETCH,.......... 451
CAMBRIDGE, MASS., April 10, 1887.
FROM TEHERAN TO YOKOHAMA.
CHAPTER I.
THE START FROM TEHERAN.
The season of 1885-86 has been an exceptionally mild winter in the
Persian capital. Up to Christmas the weather was clear and bracing,
sufficiently cool to be comfortable in the daytime, and with crisp,
frosty weather at night. The first snow of the season commenced falling
while a portion of the English colony were enjoying a characteristic
Christmas dinner of roast-beef and plum-pudding, at the house of the
superintendent of the Indo-European Telegraph Station, and during January
and February, snow-storms, cold and drizzling rains alternated with brief
periods of clearer weather. When the sun shines from a cloudless sky in
Teheran, its rays are sometimes uncomfortably warm, even in midwinter; a
foot of snow may have clothed the city and the surrounding plain in a
soft, white mantle during the night, but, asserting his supremacy on the
following morning, he will unveil the gray nakedness of the stony plain
again by noon. The steadily retreating snow line will be driven back-back
over the undulating foot-hills, and some little distance up the rugged
slopes of the Elburz range, hard by, ere he retires from view in the
evening, rotund and fiery. This irregular snow-line has been steadily
losing ground, and retreating higher and higher up the mountain-slopes
during the latter half of February, and when March is ushered in, with
clear sunny weather, and the mud begins drying up and the various
indications of spring begin to put in their appearance, I decide to make
a start. Friends residing here who have been mentioning April 15th as the
date I should be justified in thinking the unsettled weather at an end
and pulling out eastward again, agree, in response to my anxious
inquiries, that it is an open spell of weather before the regular spring
rains, that may possibly last until I reach Meshed.
During the winter I have examined, as far as circumstances have
permitted, the merits and demerits of the different routes to the Pacific
Coast, and have decided upon going through Turkestan and Southern Siberia
to the Amoor Valley, and thence either follow down the valley to
Vladivostok or strike across Mongolia to Pekin--the latter route by
preference, if upon reaching Irkutsk I find it to be practicable; if not
practicable, then the Amoor Valley route from necessity. This route I
approve of, as it will not only take me through some of the most
interesting country in Asia, but will probably be a more straightaway
continuous land-journey than any other. The distance from Teheran to
Vladivostok is some six thousand miles, and, well aware that six thousand
miles with a bicycle over Asiatic roads is a task of no little magnitude,
I at once determine upon taking advantage of the fair March weather to
accomplish at least the first six hundred miles of the journey between
Teheran and Meshed, one of the holy cities of Persia.
The bicycle is in good trim, my own health is splendid, my experience of
nearly eight thousand miles of straightaway wheeling over the roads of
three continents ought to count for something, and it is with every
confidence of accomplishing my undertaking without serious misadventure
that I set about making my final preparations to start. The British
Charge d'Affaires gives me a letter to General Melnikoff, the Russian
Minister at the Shah's court, explaining the nature and object of my
journey, and asking him to render me whatever assistance he can to get
through, for most of the proposed route lies through Russian territory.
Among my Teheran friends is Mr. M------, a lively, dapper
little telegraphist, who knows three or four different languages, and who
never seems happier than when called upon to act the part of interpreter
for friends about him.
Among other distinguishing qualities, Mr. M------shines in
Teheran society as the only Briton with sufficient courage to wear a
chimney-pot hat. Although the writer has seen the "stove-pipe" of the
unsuspecting tenderfoot from the Eastern States made short work of in a
far Western town, and the occurrence seemed scarcely to be out of place
there, I little expected to find popular sentiment running in the same
warlike groove, and asserting itself in the same destructive manner in
the little English community at Teheran. Such, however, is the grim fact,
and I have ventured to think that after this there is no disputing the
common destiny of us Anglo-Saxons, whatever clime, country, or government
may at present claim us as its own. Having seen this unfortunate
headgear of our venerable and venerated forefathers shot as full of
holes as a colander in the West, I come to the East only to find it
subjected to similar indignities here. I happen to be present at the
wanton destruction of Mr. M------'s second or third importation from
England, see it taken ruthlessly from his head, thrust through and
through with a sword-stick, and then made to play the unhappy and
undignified part of a football so long as there is anything left to kick
at. More than our common language, methinks--more than common customs and
traditions--more than all those characteristic traits that distinguish us
in common, and at the same time also distinguish us from all other
peoples--more than anything else, does this mutual spirit of
destructiveness, called into play by the sight of a stove-pipe hat, prove
the existence of a strong, resistless undercurrent of sympathy that is
carrying the most distant outposts of Anglo-Saxony merrily down the
stream of time together, to some particular end; perchance a glorious
end, perchance an ignominious end, but certainly to an end that will not
wear a stove-pipe hat.
Mr. M------'s linguistic accomplishments include a fair
knowledge of Russian, and he readily accompanies me to the Russian
Legation to interpret. The Russian Legation is situated down in the old
Oriental quarter (birds of a feather, etc.) of the city, and, for us at
least, necessitated the employment of a guide to find it. On the way
down, Mr. M------, who prides himself on a knowledge of
Russian character, impresses upon me his assurance that General Melnikoff
will turn out to be a nice, pleasant sort of a gentleman. "All the
better-class Russians are delightfully jolly and agreeable, much more
agreeable to have dealings with than the same class of people of any
other country," he says, and with these favorable comments we reach the
legation and send up my letter. After waiting what we both consider an
unnecessarily long time in the vestibule, a full-faced, sensual-looking,
or, in other words, well-to-do Persian-looking individual, in the full
costume of a Persian nobleman, comes out, bearing my letter unopened in
his hand. Bestowing upon us a barely perceptible nod, he walks straight
on past, jumps into a carriage at the door, and is driven off.
Mr. M------looks nonplussed at me, and I suppose I looked
equally nonplussed at him; anyhow, he proceeds to relieve his feelings in
language anything but complimentary to the Russian Minister. He's
the--well, I've met scores of Russians, but--him, queer! I
never saw a Russian act half as queer as this before, never!"
"Small prospect of getting any assistance from this quarter," I suggest.
"Seems deucedly like it," assents Mr. M------. "I said,
just now, that, being a Russian, he was sure to be courteous and
agreeable, if nothing else; but it seems as if there are exceptions to
this rule as to others;" and, talking together, we try to find
consolation in the thought that he may be merely eccentric, and turn out
a very good sort of fellow after all. While thus commenting, a liveried
servant presents himself and motions for us to follow him in the wake of
the departing carriage. Following his guidance a short distance through
the streets, he leads us into the court-yard of a splendid Persian
mansion, delivers us into the charge of another liveried servant, who
conducts us up a broad flight of marble stairs, at the top of which he
delivers us into the hands of yet a third flunky, who now escorts us into
the most gorgeously mirrored room it has ever been my fortune to see. The
apartment is perfectly dazzling in its glittering splendor; the floor is
of highly polished marble, the walls consist of mirror-work entirely, as
also does the lofty, domed ceiling; not plain, large squares of
looking-glass, but mirrored surfaces of all shapes and sizes, pitched at
every conceivable angle, form niches, panels, and geometrical designs--yet
each separate piece plays well its part in working out the harmonious and
decidedly pretty effect of the whole. All the furniture the large
apartment boasts is a crimson-and-gold divan or two, a few strips of rich
carpet, and an ebony stand-table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; but
suspended from the ceiling are several magnificent cut-glass chandeliers.
At night, when these Persian mirrored rooms are lit up, they present a
scene of barbaric splendor well calculated to delight the eye of the
sumptuous Oriental; every tiny square of glass reflects a point of light,
and every larger one reproduces a chandelier; for every lamp he lights,
the Persian voluptuary finds himself surrounded by a thousand.
Seated on a divan toward one end of this splendid room, with an open box
of cigarettes before him, is the man who a few minutes ago passed us by
on the other side and drove off in his carriage. Offering us cigarettes,
he bids us be seated, and then, in very fair English (for he has once
been Persian Minister to England), introduces himself as "Nasr-i-Mulk,"
the Shah's Minister for Foreign Affairs; the same gentleman, it will be
remembered, to whom I was introduced on the morning of my appearance
before the Shah. (Vol. I.) I readily recognize him now, and he recognizes
me, and asks me when I am going to leave Teheran; but in the gloomy
vestibule of the other palace, my own memory of his face and figure was
certainly at fault. It turns out, after all, that the wretch whom we paid
to guide us to the Russian Legation, in his ignorance guided us into the
Persian Foreign Office.
"I knew--yes, dash it all! I knew he wasn't the Russian Minister the
moment I saw him," says Mr. M------as we take our departure from the
glittering room. His confidence in his knowledge of Russian character,
which a moment ago had dropped down to zero, revives wonderfully upon
discovering our ludicrous mistake, and, small as he is, it is all I can
do to keep up with him as we follow the guide Nasr-i-Mulk has kindly sent
to show us to the Russian Legation. A few minutes' walk brings us to our
destination, where we find, in the person of General Melnikoff, a
gentleman possessing the bland and engaging qualities of a good
diplomatist in a most eminent degree.
"Which is Mr. Stevens?" he exclaims, with something akin to enthusiasm,
as he advances almost to the door to meet us, his face fairly beaming
with pleasure; and, grasping me warmly by the hand, he proceeds to
express his great satisfaction at meeting a person, who had "made so
wonderful a journey," etc., etc., and etc. Never did Mr. Pickwick beam
more pleasantly at the deaf gentleman, or regard more benignantly Master
Humphrey's clock, than the Russian Minister regards the form and features
of one whom, he says, he feels "honored to meet." For several minutes we
discuss, through the medium of Mr. M------, my journey from San Francisco
to Teheran, and its proposed continuation to the Pacific; and during the
greater part, of the interview General Melnikoff holds me quite
affectionately by the hand. "Wonderful!" he says, "wonderful! nobody ever
made half such a remarkable journey; my whole heart will go with you
until your journey is completed."
Mr. M------looks on and interprets between us, with a fixed and confident
didn't-I-tell-you-so smile, that forms a side study of no mean quality.
"There will be no trouble about getting permission to go through
Turkestan?" I feel constrained to inquire; for such excessive display of
affection and bonhommie on the Russian diplomat's part could scarce fail
to arouse suspicions. "Oh dear, no!" he replies. "Oh dear, no! I will
telegraph to General Komaroff, at Askabad, to remove all obstacles, so
that nothing shall interfere with your progress." Having received this
positive assurance, we take our leave, Mr. M-------reminding me gleefully
of what he had said about the Russians being the most agreeable people on
earth, and the few remaining clouds of doubt about getting the road
through Turkestan happily dissipated by the Russian Minister's assurances
of assistance.
Searching through the bazaar, I succeed, after some little trouble, in
finding and purchasing a belt-full of Russian gold, sufficient to carry
me clear through to Japan; and on the morning of March 10th I bid
farewell to the Persian capital, well satisfied at the outlook ahead.
While packing up my traps on the evening before starting, it begins
raining for the first time in ten days; but it clears off again before
midnight, and the morning opens bright and promising as ever. Six members
of the telegraph staff have determined to accompany me out to
Katoum-abad, the first chapar-station on the Meshed pilgrim road, a
distance of seven farsakhs. "Hodge-podge," the cook, and Meshedi Ali, the
gholam, were sent ahead yesterday with plenty of substantial refreshments
and sun-dry mysterious black bottles--for it is the intention of the
party to remain at Katoum-abad overnight, and give me a proper send-off
from that point to-morrow morning.
Some little delay is occasioned by a difficulty in meeting the fastidious
tastes of some of the party as regards saddle-horses; but there is no
particular hurry, and ten o'clock finds me bowling briskly through the
suburbs toward the Doshan Tepe gate, with four Englishmen, an Irishman,
and a Welshman cantering merrily along on horseback behind.
"Khuda rail pak Kumad!" (May God sweep your road!), All Akbar had
exclaimed as I mounted at the door, and as we pass through the city gate
the old sentinel, when told that I am at last starting on the promised
journey to Meshed on the asp-i-awhan, supplements this with "Padaram
daromad!" (My father has come out!), a Persian metaphorical exclamation,
signifying that such wonderful news has had the effect of calling his
father from the grave.
The weather has changed again since early morning; it is evidently in a
very fitful and unsettled mood; the gray clouds are swirling in confusion
about the white summit of Demavend as we emerge on the level plain
outside the ramparts, and fleecy fugitives are scudding southward in wild
haste. Imperfect but ridable donkey-trails follow the dry moat around to
the Meshed road, which takes a straight course southeastward from the
city and is seen in the distance ahead, leading over a sloping pass, a
depression in the Doshan Tepe spur of the Elburz range. The road near the
city is now in better condition for wheeling than at any other time of
the year; the daily swarms of pack-animals bringing produce into Teheran
have trodden it smooth and hard during the ten days' continuous fine
weather, while it has not been dry sufficiently long to develop into
dust, as it does later in the season. Our road is level and good for
something over a farsakh, after which comes the rising ground leading
gently upward to the pass. The gradient is sufficiently gentle to be
ridable for some little distance, when it becomes too rocky and steep,
and I have to dismount and trundle to the summit. The summit of the pass
is only about nine miles from the city walls, and we pause a minute to
investigate a bottle of homemade wine from the private cellar of Mr.
North, one of our party, and to allow me to take a farewell glance at
Teheran, and the many familiar objects round about, ere riding down the
eastern slope and out of sight.
Teheran is in semi-obscurity beneath the same hazy veil observed when
first approaching it from the west, and which always seems to hover over
it. This haziness is not sufficiently pronounced to hide any conspicuous
building, and each familiar object in the city is plainly visible from
the commanding summit of the pass. The different gates of the city, each
with its little cluster of bright-tiled minars, trace at a glance the
size and contour of the outer ditch and wall; the large framework of the
pavilion beneath which the Shah gives his annual tazzia (representation
of the religious tragedy of Hussein and Hassan), denuded of its canvas
covering, suggests from this distance the naked ribs of some monster
skeleton. The square towers of the royal anderoon--which the Shah
professes to believe is the tallest dwelling-house in the
world--loom conspicuously skyward above the mass of indefinable mud
buildings and walls that characterize the habitations of humbler folk,
but perhaps happier on the whole than the fair occupants of that
seven-storied gilded prison.
Hundreds of women-wives, concubines, slaves, and domestics are understood
to be dwelling within these palace walls in charge of sable eunuchs, and
the fate of any female whose bump of discretion in an evil moment fails
her, is to be hurled headlong from the summit of one of the anderoon
towers--such, at least, is the popular belief in Teheran; it may or
may not be an exaggeration. Some even assert that the Shah's chief object
in building the anderoon so high was to have the certainty of this awful
doom ever present before its numerous inmates, the more easily to keep
them in a submissive frame of mind. Off to the right, below our position,
is the Doshan Tepe palace, a memorable spot for me, where I had the
satisfaction of first introducing bicycle-riding to the notice of the
Persian monarch. Off to the left, the Parsee "tower of silence" is
observed perched among the lonely gray hills far from human habitation or
any traversed road; on a grating fixed in the top of this tower, the
Guebre population of Teheran deposit their dead, in order that the
carrion-crows and the vultures may pick the carcass clean before they
deposit the whitened bones in the body of the tower.
Having duly investigated the bottle of wine and noticed these few
familiar objects, we all remount and begin the descent. It is a gentle
declivity from top to bottom, and ridable the whole distance, save where
an occasional washout or other small obstacle compels a dismount. The
wind is likewise favorable, and from the top of the pass the bicycle
outdistances the horsemen, except two who are riding exceptionally good
nags and make a special effort to keep up; and at two o'clock we arrive
at Katoum-abad. Katoum-abad consists of a small mud village and a
half-ruined brick caravansarai; in one of the rooms of the latter we find
"Hodge-podge" and Me-shedi Ali, with an abundance of roast chickens, cold
mutton, eggs, and the before-mentioned mysterious black bottles.
The few Persian travellers in the caravansarai and the villagers come
flocking around as usual to worry me about riding the bicycle, but the
servants drive them away in short order. "We want to see the sahib ride
the aap-i-awhan," they explain,-no doubt thinking their request most
natural and reasonable. "The sahib won't let you see it, nor ride on it
this evening," reply the servants; and, given to understand that we won't
put up with their importunities, they worry us no more. "Oh, that I could
get rid of them thus readily always!" I mentally exclaim; for I feel
instinctively that the farther east I get, the more wretchedly worrying
and inquisitive I shall find the people. We arrive hungry and thirsty,
and in condition to do ample justice to the provisions at hand. After
satisfying the pressing needs of hunger, we drink several appropriate
toasts from the contents of the mysterious black bottles--toasts for the
success of my journey, and to the bicycle that has stood by me so well
thus far on my journey, and promises to stand by me equally as well for
the future.
About four o'clock two of the company, who have been thoughtful enough to
bring shotguns along, sally forth in quest of ducks. They come plodding
wearily back again shortly after dark, without any game, but with deep
designs on the credulity of the non-sporting members of the company. In
reply to the general and stereotyped query, "Shoot anything?" one of the
erring pair replies, "Yes, we shot several canvas-backs, but lost them in
the reeds; didn't we, old un?" "Yes, five," promptly asserts "old un," a
truthful young man of about three-and-twenty summers. After this, the
silence for the space of a minute is so profound that we can hear each
other think, until one of the company, acting as spokesman for the silent
reflections of the others, inquires, "Anybody know of any reeds about
Katoum-abad?" Some one is about to reply, but sportsman No. 1 artfully
waives further examination by heaping imprecations on the unkempt head of
a dervish, who at this opportune moment commences a sing-song monotone,
in a most soul-harrowing key, outside our menzil doorway.
A slight drizzling rain is falling when the early riser of the company
wakes up and peeps out at daybreak next morning, but it soon ceases, and
by seven o'clock the ground is quite dry. The road for a mile or so is
too lumpy to admit of mounting, as is frequently the case near a village,
and my six companions accompany me to ridable ground. As I mount and
wheel away, they wave hats and send up three ringing cheers and a
"tiger," hurrahs that roll across the gray Persian plain to the echoing
hills, the strangest sound, perhaps, these grim old hills have ever
echoed; certainly, they never before echoed an English cheer.
And now, as my friends of the telegraph staff turn about and wend their
way back to Teheran, is as good a time as any to mention briefly the
manner in which these genial lightning-jerkers assisted to render my five
months' sojourn in the Persian capital agreeable. But a few short hours
after my arrival in Teheran, I was sought out by Messrs. Meyrick and
North, who no sooner learned of my intention to winter here, than they
extended a cordial invitation to join them in their already established
bachelors' quarters, where four disconsolate halves of humanity were
already messing harmoniously together. With them I took up my quarters,
and, under the liberal and wholesome gastronomic arrangements of the
establishment, soon acquired my usual semi-embon-point condition, and
recovered from that gaunt, hungry appearance that the hardships and scant
fare of the journey from Constantinople had imparted. The house belonged
to Mr. North, and he managed to give me a little room to myself for
literary work, and, under the influence of a steady stream of letters and
papers from friends and well-wishers in England and America, that snug
little apartment, with a round, moon-like hole in the thick mud wall for
a window, soon acquired the den-like aspect that seems inseparable from
the occupation of distributing ink.
Three native servants cooked for us, waited on us, turned up missing when
wanted for anything particular, cheated us and each other, swore eternal
honesty and fidelity to our faces, called us infidel dogs and pedar sags
behind our backs, quarrelled daily among themselves over their modokal
(legitimate pickings and stealings--ten per cent, on everything
passing through their hands), and meekly bore with any abuse bestowed
gratuitously upon them, for an aggregate of one hundred and thirty kerans
a month--and, of course, their modokal. Some enterprising members of
the colony had formed themselves into a club, and imported a
billiard-table from England; this, also, was installed in Mr. North's
house, and it furnished the means for many an hour of pleasant diversion.
Like all Persian houses, the house was built around a square court-yard.
Mr. North had also a pair of small white bull-dogs, named, respectively,
"Crib" and "Swindle." The last-named animal furnished us with quite an
exciting episode one February evening. He had been acting rather
strangely for two or three days; we thought that one of the servants had
been giving him a dose of bhang in revenge for having worried his kitten,
and that he would soon recover; but on this particular day, when out for
a run with his owner, his strange behavior took the form of leaping
impulsively at Mr. North, and, with seemingly wild frolic, seizing and
shaking his garments. When Mr. North returned home he took the
precautionary measure of chaining him up in the yard. Shortly afterward,
I came in from my customary evening walk, and, all unconscious of the
change in his behavior, went up to him; with a half-playful, half-savage
spring he seized the leg of my trousers, and, with an evidently
uncontrollable impulse, shook a piece clean out of it. He became
gradually worse as the evening wore away; the wild expression of his eyes
developed in an alarming manner; he would try to get at any person who
showed himself, and he made night hideous with the fearful barking howl
of a mad dog. Poor Swindle had gone mad; and I had had a narrow escape
from being bitten. We lassoed him from opposite directions and dragged
him outside and shot him. Swindle was a plucky little dog, and so was
Crib; one day they chased a vagrant cat up on to the roof; driven to
desperation, the cat made a wild leap down into the court-yard, a
distance of perhaps twenty feet; without a moment's hesitation, both dogs
sprang boldly after her, recking little of the distance to the ground and
the possibility of broken bones.
Sometimes the colony drives dull care and ennui away by indulging in
private theatricals; this winter they organized an amateur company,
called themselves the "Teheran Bulbuls," and, with burnt-corked faces and
grotesque attire, they rehearsed and perfected themselves in "Uncle
Ebenezer's Visit to New York," which, together with sundry duets, solos,
choruses, etc., they proposed to give, an entertainment for the benefit
of the poor of the city. When the Shah returned from Europe, he was moved
by what he had seen there to build a small theatre; the theatre was
built, but nothing is ever done with it. The Teheran Bulbuls applied for
its use to give their entertainment in, and the Shah was pleased to grant
their request. The mollahs raised objections; they said it would have a
tendency to corrupt the morals of the Persians. Once, twice, the
entertainment was postponed; but the Shah finally overruled the bigoted
priests' objections, and "Uncle Ebenezer's Visit to New York" was played
twice in Nasr-e-Deen's little gilded theatre a few days after I left,
with great success; the first night, before the Shah and his nobles and
the foreign ambassadors, and the second night before more common folk.
The two postponements and my early departure prevented me from being on
hand as prompter. The winter before, these dusky-faced "bul-buls" had
performed before a Teheran audience, and one who was a member at that
time tells an amusing story of the individual who acted as prompter on
that occasion. One of the performers appeared on the stage sufficiently
charged with stage-fright to cause him to entirely forget his piece.
Expecting every moment to get the cue from the prompter's box, what was
his horror to hear, after waiting what probably seemed to him about an
hour, instead of the cue, in a hoarse whisper that could be distinctly
heard all over the room, the comforting remark, "I say, Charlie, I've
lost the blooming place!"
The American missionaries have a small chapel in Teheran, and on Sunday
morning we sometimes used to go; the little congregation gathered there
was composed of strange elements collected together from far-off places.
From Colonel F ______, the grizzled military adventurer, now in the
Shah's service, and who was also with Maximilian in Mexico, to the young
American lady who is said to have turned missionary and come,
broken-hearted, to the distant East because her lover had died a few days
before they were to be married, they are an audience of people each with
a more or less adventurous history. It is perfectly natural that it
should be so; it is the irrepressible spirit of adventure that is either
directly or indirectly responsible for their presence here.
Half an hour after the echoes of the three cheers and the "tiger" have
died away finds me wet-footed and engaged in fording a series of
aggravating little streams, that obstruct my path so frequently that to
stop and shed one's foot-gear for each soon becomes an intolerable
nuisance. I should think I can lay claim, without exaggeration, to
crossing fifty of these streams inside of ten miles. A good-sized stream
emerges from the Elburz foot-hills; after reaching the plain it follows
no regular channel, but spreads out like an open fan into a gradually
widening area of small streams, that play their part in irrigating a few
scattering fields and gardens, and are then lost in the sands of the
desert to the south. Situated where it can derive the most benefit from
these streams is the village of Sherifabad, and beyond Sherifabad
stretches a verdureless waste to Aivan-i-Kaif. On this desert, I sit
down, for a few minutes, on one of those little mounds of stones piled up
at intervals to mark the road when the trail is buried beneath the winter
snows; a green-turbaned descendant of the Prophet, bestriding a bay
horse, comes from the opposite direction, stops, dismounts, squats down
on his hams close by, and proceeds to regale himself with bread and figs,
meanwhile casting fugitive glances at the bicycle. Presently he advances
closer, gives me a handful of figs, squats down closer to the bicycle,
and commences a searching investigation of its several parts.
"Where are you going?" he finally asks. "Meshed." "Where have you come
from?" "Teheran." With that he hands me another handful of figs,
remounts his horse, and rides away without another word. Inquisitiveness
is seen almost bristling from the loose sleeves and flowing folds of his
sky-blue gown, but his over-whelming sense of his own holiness forbids
him holding anything like a lengthy intercourse with an unhallowed
Ferenghi, and, much as he would like to know everything about the
bicycle, he goes away without asking a single question about it.
Shortly after parting company with the sanctimonious seyud, I encounter a
prosperous-looking party of dervishes. Some of them are mounted on
excellent donkeys, and for dervishes they look exceptionally flourishing
and well to do. As I ride slowly past, they accost me with their
customary "huk yah huk," and promise to pray Allah for a safe journey to
wherever I am going, if I will only favor them with the necessary
backsheesh to command their good offices.
There are some stretches of very good road across this desert, and I
reach Aivan-i-Kaif near noon. There has been no drinkable water for a
long distance, and, being thirsty, my first inquiry is for tea. "There is
a tchai-khan at the umbar (water-cistern), yonder," I am told, and
straightway proceed to the place pointed out; but "tchai-khan neis" is
the reply upon inquiring at the umbar. In this manner am I promptly
initiated into one peculiarity of the people along this portion of the
Meshed pilgrim road, a peculiarity that distinguishes them from the
ordinary Persian as fully as the shaking of their heads for an
affirmative reply does the people of the Maritza Valley from other people
of the Balkan Peninsula. They will frequently ask you if you want a
certain article, simply for the purpose of telling you they haven't got
it. Whether this queer inconsistency comes of simon-pure inquisitiveness,
to hear what one will say in reply, or whether they derive a certain
amount of inquisitorial pleasure from raising a person's expectations one
moment so as to witness his disappointment the next, is a question I
prefer to leave to others, but more than once am I brought into contact
with this peculiarity during the few brief hours I stay at Aivan-i-Kaif.
It is not improbable that these people are merely carrying their ideas of
politeness to the insane length of holding out the promise of what they
think or ascertain one wants, knowing at the same time their inability to
supply it.
It is threatening rain as I pick my way through a mile or so of mud
ruins, tumble-down walls, and crooked paths, leading from the umbar to
the house of the Persian telegraph-jee, who has been requested, from
Teheran, to put me up, and, in view of the threatening aspect of the
weather, I conclude to remain till morning. The English Government has
taken charge of the Teheran and Meshed telegraph-line, during the
delimitation of the Afghan and Turkestan boundary, and, besides
guaranteeing the native telegraph-jees their regular salary-which is not
always forthcoming from the Persian Government-they pay them something
extra. In consequence of this, the telegraph-jees are at present very
favorably disposed toward Englishmen, and Mirza Hassan readily tenders me
the hospitality of the little mud office where he amuses himself daily
clicking the keys of his instrument, smoking kalians, drinking tea, and
entertaining his guests. Mr. Mclntire and Mr. Stagno are somewhere
between here and Meshed, inspecting and repairing the line for the
English Government, for they received it from the Persians in a wretched,
tumble-down condition, and Mr. Gray, telegraphist for the Afghan Boundary
Commission, is stationed temporarily at Meshed, so that, thanks to the
boundary troubles, I am pretty certain of meeting three Europeans on the
first six hundred miles of my journey.
Mirza Hassan is hospitable and well meaning, but, like most Persians, he
is slow about everything but asking questions. Being a telegraph-jee, he
is, of course, a comparatively enlightened mortal, and, among other
things, he is acquainted with the average Englishman's partiality for
beer. One of the first questions he asks, is whether I want any beer. It
strikes me at once as a rather strange question to be asked in a Persian
village, but, thinking he might perchance have had a bottle or two left
here by one of the above-mentioned telegraph-inspectors, I signify my
willingness to sample a little. True to the peculiar inconsistency of his
fellows, he replies: "Ob-i-jow neis" (beer, no). If he hasn't ob-i-jow,
however, he has tea, and in about an hour after my arrival he produces
the samovar, a bowl of sugar, and the tiny glasses in which tea is always
served in Persia.
Visitors begin dropping in as usual, and, before long, hundreds of
villagers are swarming about the telegraph-khana, anxious to see me ride.
It is coming on to rain, but, in order to rid the telegraph-office of the
crowd, I take the bicycle out. Willing men carry both me and the bicycle
across a stream that runs through the village, to smooth ground on the
opposite side, where I ride back and forth several times, to the wild and
boisterous delight of the entire population.
In this manner I succeed in ridding the telegraph-office of the crowd;
but there is no getting rid of the visitors. Everybody in the place who
thinks himself a little better than the ragamuffin ryots comes and squats
on his hams in the little hut-like office, sips the telegraph-jee's
sweetened tea, smokes his kalians, and spends the afternoon in staring
wonderingly at me and the bicycle. Having picked up a little Persian
during the winter, I am able to talk with them, and understand them,
rather better than last season, and, Persian-like, they ply me
mercilessly with questions. Often, when some one asks a question of me,
Mirza Hassan, as becomes a telegraphies, and a person of profound
erudition, thoughtfully saves me the trouble of replying by undertaking
to furnish the desired information himself. One old mollah wants to know
how many farsakhs it is from Aivan-i-Kaif to Yenghi Donia (New
World-America); ere I can frame a suitable reply, Mirza Hassan forestalls
my intentions by answering, in a decisive tone of voice that admits of no
appeal, "Khylie!" "Khylie" is a handy word that the Persians always fall
back on when their knowledge of great numbers or long distances is vague
and shadowy; it is an indefinite term, equivalent to our word "many."
Mirza Hassan does not know whether America is two hundred farsakhs away
or two thousand, but he knows it to be "khylie farsakhs," and that is
perfectly satisfactory to himself, and the white-turbaned questioner is
perfectly satisfied with "khylie" for an answer.
A person from the New World is naturally a rara avis with the simple
villagers of Aivan-i-Kaif, and their inquisitiveness concerning Yenghi
Donia and Yenghi Donians fairly runs riot, and shapes itself into all
manner of questions. They want to know whether the people smoke kalians
and ride horses--real horses, not asps-i-awhans-in Yenghi Donia, and
whether the Valiat smoked the kalian with me at Hadji Agha. Mirza Hassan
explains about the kalian and horses; he enlightens his wondering
auditors to the extent that Yenghi Donians smoke nargilehs and chibouques
instead of kalians, and he contemptuously pooh-poohs the idea of them
keeping riding-horses when they are clever enough to make iron horses
that require nothing to eat or drink and no rest. About the question of
the Heir Apparent smoking the kalian with me he betrays as lively an
interest as anybody in the room, but he maintains a discreet silence
until I answer in the negative, when he surveys his guests with the air
of one who pities their ignorance, and says, "Kalian neis."
A lusty-lunged youngster of about three summers has been interrupting the
genial flow of conversation by making "Rome howl" in an adjoining room,
and Mirza Hassan fetches him in and consoles him with sundry lumps of
sugar. The advent of the limpid-eyed toddler leads the thoughts and
questions of the company into more domestic channels. After exhaustive
questioning about my own affairs, Mirza Hassan, with more than
praiseworthy frankness and becoming gravity, informs me that, besides the
embryo telegraphjee and sugar-consumer in the room, he is the happy
father of "yek nim" (one and a half others). I cast my eye around the
room at this extraordinary announcement, expecting to find the company
indulging in appreciative smiles, but every person in the room is as
sober as a judge; plainly, I am the only person present who regards the
announcement as anything uncommon.
After an ample supper of mutton pillau, Mirza Hassan proceeds to say his
prayers, borrowing my compass to get the proper bearings for Mecca, which
I have explained to him during the afternoon. With no little dismay he
discovers that, according to my explanations, he has for years been
bobbing his head daily several degrees east of the holy city, and, like a
sensible fellow, and a person who has become convinced of the
infallibility of telegraph instruments, compasses, and kindred aids to
the accomplishment of human ends, he now rectifies the mistake.
Everybody along this route uses a praying-stone, a small cake of stone or
hardened clay, containing an inscription from the Koran. These
praying-stones are obtained from the sacred soil of Meshed, Koom, or
Kerbela, and are placed in position on the ground in front of the
kneeling devotee during his devotions, so that, instead of touching his
forehead to the carpet or the common ground of his native village, he can
bring it in contact with the hallowed soil of one of these holy cities.
Distance lends enchantment to a holy place, and adds to the efficacy of a
prayer-stone in the eyes of its owner, and they are valued highly or
lightly according to the distance and the consequent holiness of the city
they are brought from. For example, a Meshedi values a prayer-stone from
Kerbela, and a Kerbeli values one from Meshed, neither of them having
much faith in the efficacy of one from his own city; familiarity with
sacred things apparently breeds doubts and indifference. The prayer-stone
is reverently touched to lips, cheeks, and forehead at the finish of
prayers, and then carefully wrapped up and stowed away until praying-time
comes round again. To a sceptical and perhaps irreverent observer, these
praying-stones would seem to bear about the same relation to a pilgrimage
to Meshed or Kerbela as a package of prepared sea-salt does to a season
at the sea-side.
CHAPTER II.
PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD
It rains quite heavily during the night, but clears off again in the
early morning, and at eight o'clock I take my departure, Mirza Hassan
refusing to allow his son and heir to accept a present in acknowledgment
of the hospitality received at his hands. The whole male population of
the village is assembled again at the spot where their experience of
yesterday has taught them I should probably mount; and the house-tops
overlooking the same spot, and commanding a view of the road across the
plain to the eastward, are crowded with women and children. The female
portion of my farewell audience present quite a picturesque appearance,
being arrayed in their holiday garments of red, blue, and other bright
colors, in honor of Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath.
Pour miles of most excellent camel-path lead across a gravelly plain,
affording a smooth, firm, wheeling surface, notwithstanding the heavy
rains of the previous night; but beyond the plain the road leads over the
pass of the Sardara Kooh, one of the many spurs of the Elburz range that
reach out toward the south. This spur consists of saline hills that
present a very remarkable appearance in places; the rocks are curiously
honey-combed by the action of the salt, and the yellowish earthy portion
of the hills are fantastically streaked and seamed with white. A trundle
of a couple of miles brings me to the summit, from which point I am able
to mount, and, with brake firmly in hand, glide smoothly down the eastern
slope. After descending about a mile, I am met by a party of travellers
who give me friendly warning of deep water a little farther down the
mountain. After leaving them, my road follows down the winding bed of a
stream that is probably dry the greater part of the year; but during the
spring thaws, and immediately after a rain-storm, a stream of brackish,
muddy water a few inches deep trickles down the mountain and forms a most
disagreeable area of sticky salt mud at the bottom. The streak this
morning can more truthfully be described as yellow liquid mud than as
water, and both myself and wheel present anything but a prepossessing
appearance in ten minutes after starting down its grimy channel. I am,
however, congratulating myself upon finding it so shallow, and begin to
think that, in describing the water as nearly over their donkeys' backs,
the travellers were but indulging their natural propensity as subjects of
the Shah, and worthy followers in the footsteps of Ananias.
About the time I have arrived at this comforting conclusion, I am
suddenly confronted by a pond of liquid mud that bars my farther progress
down the mountain. A recent slide of land and rock has blocked up the
narrow channel of the stream, and backed up the thick yellow liquid into
a pool of uncertain depth. There is no way to get around it;
perpendicular walls of rock and slippery yellow clay rise sheer from the
water on either side. There is evidently nothing for it but to disrobe
without more ado and try the depth. Besides being thick with mud, the
water is found to be of that icy, cutting temperature peculiar to cold
brine, and after wading about in it for fifteen minutes, first finding a
fordable place, and then carrying clothes and wheel across, I emerge on
to the bank formed by the land-slip looking as woebegone a specimen of
humanity as can well be imagined. Plastered with a coat of thin yellow
mud from head to foot, chilled through and through, and shivering like a
Texas steer in a norther, feet cut and bleeding in several places from
contact with the sharp rocks, and no clean water to wash off the mud!
With the assistance of knife, pocket-handkerchief, and sundry theological
remarks which need not be reproduced here, I finally succeed in getting
off at least the greater portion of the mud, and putting on my clothes.
The discomfort is only of temporary duration; the agreeable warmth of the
after-glow exhilarates both mind and body, and with the disappearance of
the difficulty to the rear cornea the satisfaction of having found it no
harder to overcome.
A little good wheeling is encountered toward the bottom of the pass, and
then comes an area of wet salt-flats, interspersed with saline
rivulets--those innocent-looking little streamlets the deceptive clearness
of which tempts the thirsty and uninitiated wayfarer to drink. Few
travellers in desert countries but have been deceived by these
innocuous-looking streamlets once, and equally few are the people who
suffer themselves to be deceived by their smooth, pellucid aspect a
second time; for a mouthful of either strongly saline or alkaline water
from one of them creates an impression on the deceived one's palate and
his mind that guarantees him to be wariness personified for the remainder
of his life. Since a certain experience in the Bitter Creek country,
Wyoming, the writer prides himself on being able to distinguish drinkable
water from the salty or alkaline article almost as far as it can be seen,
and a stream about which the least suspicion is entertained is invariably
tasted with gingerly hesitancy to begin with.
Soon after noon I reach the village of Kishlag, where a halt of an hour
or so is made to refresh the inner man with tea, raw eggs, and
figs--a queer enough bill of fare for dinner, but no more queer than
the people from whom it is obtained. Some of my readers have doubtless
heard of the Milesian waiter who could never be brought to see any
inconsistency in asking the guests of the restaurant whether they would
take tea or coffee, and then telling them there was no tea, they would
have to take coffee. The proprietor of the little tchai-khan at Kishlag
asks me if I want coffee, and then, in strict conformity with the curious
inconsistency first discovered and spoken of at Aivan-i-Kaif, he informs
me that he has nothing but tea. The country hereabout is evidently the
birthplace of Irish bulls; when the ancestors of modern Handy Andys were
running wild on the bogs of Connemara, the people of Aivan-i-Kaif and
Kishlag were indulging in Irish bulls of the first water.
The crowd at Kishlag are good-natured and comparatively well-behaved. In
reply to their questionings, I tell them that I am journeying from Yenghi
Donia to Meshed. The New World is a far-away, shadowy realm to these
ignorant Persian villagers, almost as much out of their little,
unenlightened world as though it were really another planet; they
evidently think that in going to Meshed I am making a pilgrimage to the
shrine of Imam Riza, for some of them commence inquiring whether or no
Yenghi Donians are Mussulmans.
The weather-clerk inaugurates a regular March zephyr in the east, during
the brief halt at Kishlag; and in addition to that doubtful favor blowing
against me, the road leading out is lumpy as far as the cultivated area
extends, and then it leads across a rough, stony plain that is traversed
by a network of small streams, similar to those encountered yesterday at
Sherifabad. To the left, the abutting front of the Elburz Mountains is
streaked and frescoed with salt, that in places vies in whiteness with
the lingering-patches of snow higher up; to the right extends the gray,
level plain, interspersed with small cultivable areas for a farsakh or
two, beyond which lies the great dasht-i-namek (salt desert) that
comprises a large portion of the interior of Persia.
Wild asses abound on the dasht-i-namek, and wandering bands of these
animals occasionally stray up in this direction. The Persians consider
the flesh of the wild donkey as quite a delicacy, and sometimes hunt them
for their meat; they are said to be untamable, unless caught when very
young, and are then generally too slender-limbed to be of any service in
carrying weights. Wild goats abound in the Elburz Mountains; the
villagers hunt them also for their meat, but the flesh of the wild goat
is said to contribute largely to the prevalence of sore eyes among the
people. The Persian will eat wild donkey, wild goat, and the flesh of
camels, but only the very poor people--people who cannot afford to be
fastidious--ever touch a piece of beef; gusht-i-goosfang (mutton) is the
staple meat of the country.
The general aspect of the country immediately south of the Elburz
Mountains, beyond the circumscribed area of cultivation about the
villages, is that of a desert, desolate, verdureless, and forbidding. One
can scarcely realize that by simply crossing this range a beautiful
region is entered, where the prospect is as different as is light from
darkness. An entirely different climate characterizes the Province of
Mazanderan, comprising the northern slopes of these mountains and the
Caspian littoral. With a humid climate the whole year round, and the
entire face of the country covered with dense jungle, the northern slopes
of the Elburz Mountains present a striking contrast to the barren,
salt-frescoed foot-hills facing the south hereabout. Here, as at Resht,
the moisture from the Caspian Sea does for the province of Mazanderan
what similar influences from the Pacific do for California. It makes all
the difference between California and Nevada in the one case, and
Mazanderan and the desert-like character of Central Persia in the other.
In striking and effective contrast to the general aspect of death and
desolation that characterizes the desert wastes of Persia--an effect
that is heightened by the ruins of caravansaries or villages, that are
seldom absent from the landscape--are the cultivated spots around the
villages. Wherever there is a permanent supply of water, there also is
certain to be found a mud-built village, with fields of wheat and barley,
pomegranate orchards, and vineyards. In a country of universal greenness
these would count for nothing, but, situated like islands in the sea of
sombre gray about them, they often present an appearance of extreme
beauty that the wondering observer is somewhat puzzled to account for; it
is the beauty of contrast, the great and striking contrast between
vegetable life and death.
These impressions are nowhere more strongly brought into notice than when
approaching Aradan, a village I reach about five o'clock. Like almost all
Persian towns and villages, Aradan has evidently occupied a much larger
area at one time than it does at present; and the mournful-looking ruins
of mosques, gateways, walls, and houses are scattered here and there over
the plain for a mile before reaching the present limits of habitation.
The brown ruins of a house are seen standing in the middle of a
wheat-field; the wheat is of that intense greenness born of irrigation
and a rich sandy soil, and the mud ruins, dead, desolate, and crumbling
to dust, look even more deserted and mournful from the great contrast in
color, and from the myriad stems of green young life that wave and nod
about them with every passing breeze. The tumble-down windows and
doorways form openings through which the blue sky and the green waving
sea of vegetation beyond are seen as in a picture, and the ruined mud
mosque, its dome gone, its windows and doorways crumbled to shapeless
openings, seems like a weather-beaten skeleton of Persia's past, while
the ever-moving waves of verdant life about it, seem to be beating
against it and persistently assailing it, like waves of the sea beating
against an isolated rock.
While engaged in fording a stream on the stony plain between road. The
shagird-chapar is with them, on a third "bag of bones," worse, if
possible, than the others. Taking the world over, there is perhaps no
class of horses that are, subject to so much cruelty and ill-treatment as
the chapar horses of Persia, With back raw, ribs countable a hundred
yards away, spavined, blind of an eye, fistula, and cursed with every ill
that horseflesh in the hands of human brutes is subject to, the chapar
horse is liable to be taken out at any hour of the day or night,
regardless of previous services being but just finished. He is goaded on
with unsparing lash to the next station, twenty, or perhaps thirty miles
away, staggering beneath the weight of the traveller, or his servant,
with ponderous saddlebags.
This chapar, or post-service, is established along the great highways of
travel between Teheran and Tabreez, Teheran and Meshed, and Teheran and
Bushire, with a branch route from the Tabreez trail to the Caspian port
of Enzeli; the stations vary from four to eight farsakhs apart. Not all
the chapar horses are the wretched creatures just described, however, and
by engaging beforehand the best horses at each station along the route,
certain travellers have made quite remarkable time between points
hundreds of miles apart. In addition to horses for himself and servants,
the traveller is required to pay for one to carry the shagird-chapar who
accompanies them to the next station to bring back the horses. The
ordinary charge is one keran a farsakh for each horse. It wouldn't be a
Persian institution, however, if there wasn't some little underhanded
arrangement on hand to mulct the traveller of something over and above
the legitimate charges. Accordingly, we find two distinct measurements of
distance recognized between each station--the "chapar distance" and the
correct distance. If, for instance, the actual distance is six farsakhs,
the "chapar distance" will be seven, or seven and a half; the difference
between the two is the chapar-jee's modokal; without modokal there is no
question but that a Persian would feel himself to be a miserable,
neglected mortal.
Aradan is another telegraph control station, and Mr. Stagno informs me
that the telegraph-jee is looking forward to my arrival, and is fully
prepared to accommodate me over night; and, furthermore, that all along
the line the people of the telegraph towns are eagerly anticipating the
arrival of the Sahib, with the marvellous vehicle, of which they have
heard such strange stories. Aradan is reached about five o'clock; the
road leading into the village is found excellent wheeling, enabling me to
keep the saddle while following at the heels of a fleet-footed ryot, who
voluntarily guides me to the telegraph-khana. The telegraph-jee is
temporarily absent when I arrive, but his farrash lets me inside the
office yard, spreads a piece of carpet for me to sit on, and with
commendable thoughtfulness shuts out the crowd, who, as usual,
immediately begin to collect. The quickness with which a crowd collects
in a Persian town has to be seen to be fully comprehended. For the space
of half an hour, I sit in solitary state on the carpet, and endure the
wondering gaze and the parrot-like chattering of a thin, long row of
villagers, sitting astride the high mud wall that encloses three sides of
the compound, and during the time find some amusement in watching the
scrambling and quarrelling for position. These irrepressible sight-seers
commenced climbing the wall from the adjoining walls and houses the
moment the farash shut them out of the yard, and in five minutes they are
packed as close as books on a shelf, while others are quarreling noisily
for places; in addition to this, the roof of every building commanding a
view into the chapar-khana compound is swarmed with neck-craning,
chattering people.
Soon the telegraph-jee puts in an appearance; he proves to be an
exceptionally agreeable fellow, and one of the very few Persians one
meets with having blue eyes. He appears to regard it as quite an
understood thing that I am going to remain over night with him, and
proceeds at once to make the necessary arrangements for my accommodation,
without going to the trouble of extending a formal invitation. He also
wins my eternal esteem by discouraging, as far as Persian politeness and
civility will admit, the intrusion of the inevitable self-sufficients who
presume on their "eminent respectability" as loafers, in contradistinction
to the half-naked tillers of the soil, to invade the premises and satisfy
their inordinate curiosity, and their weakness for kalian, smoking and
tea-drinking at another's expense. After duly discussing between us a
samovar of tea, we take a stroll through the village to see the old
castle, and the umbars that supply the village with water. The telegraph-
gee cleared the walls upon his arrival, but the housetops are out of his
jurisdiction, and before starting he wisely suggests putting the bicycle
in some conspicuous position, as an inducement for the crowd to remain
and concentrate their curiosity upon it, otherwise there would be no
keeping them from following us about the village. We set it up in plain
view on the bala-khana, and returning from our walk, are amused to find
the old farrash delivering a lecture on cycling.
The fortress at Aradan is the first one of the kind one sees when
travelling eastward from Teheran, but as we shall come to a larger and
better preserved specimen at Lasgird, in a couple of days, it will,
perhaps, be advisable to postpone a description till then. They are all
pretty much alike, and were all built to serve the same purpose, of
affording shelter and protection from Turkoman raiders. The Aradan umbars
are nothing extraordinary, except perhaps that the conical brick-work
roofs are terraced so that one can walk, like ascending stairs, to the
summit; and perhaps, also, because they are in a good state of repair
--asufficiently unusual thing in a Persian village to merit remark. These
umbars are filled by allowing the water to flow in from a street ditch
connecting with the little stream to which every village owes its
existence; when the umbar is full, a few spadefuls of dirt shut the water
off.
The chief occupation of the Eastern female is undoubtedly carrying water;
the women of Oriental villages impress the observant Occidental, as
people who will carry water-worlds may be created and worlds destroyed;
all things else may change, and habits and costumes become revolutionized
by the march of time, but nothing will prevent the Oriental female from
carrying water, and carrying it in huge earthenware jugs! At any hour of
the day--I won't speak positively about the night--women may be seen
at the unbars filling large earthenware jugs, coming and going, going and
coming. I don't remember ever passing one of these cisterns without
seeing women there, filling and carrying away jars of water. No doubt
there are occasional odd moments when no women are there, but any person
acquainted with village life in the East will not fail to recognize this
as simply the plain, unvarnished truth. As the ditch from which the umbar
is filled not infrequently runs through half the length of the village
first, the personal habits of a Mohammedan population insure that it
reaches the umbar in anything but a fit condition for human consumption.
But the Koran teaches that flowing water cannot be contaminated or
defiled, consequently, when he takes a drink or fills the village
reservoir, your thoroughbred Mussulman never troubles his head about what
is going on up-stream. The Koran is to him a more reliable guide for his
own good than the evidence of all his seven senses combined.
Stagnant pools of water, covered, even this early in the season (March
12th), with green scum, breed fever and mosquitoes galore in Aradan; the
people know it, acknowledge it readily, and suffer from it every summer,
but they take no steps to remedy the evil; the spirit of public
enterprise has dwindled to such dimensions in provincial Persia, that it
is no longer equal to filling up a few fever-breeding pools of water in
the centre of a village. The telegraph-jee himself acknowledges that the
water-holes cause fever and mosquitoes, but, intelligent and enlightened
mortal though he be in comparison with his fellow-villagers, when
questioned about it, he replies: "Inshalla! the water don't matter; if it
is our kismet to take the fever and die, nothing can prevent it; if it is
our kismet not to take it, nothing can give it to us." Such unanswerable
logic could only originate in the brain of a fatalist; these people are
all fatalists, and--as we can imagine--especially so when the
doctrine comes in handy to dodge doing anything for the public weal.
All Persian villages, except those clustered about the immediate vicinity
of a large city, have some peculiarity of their own to offer in the
matter of the people's dress. The pantaloons of any Persian village are
not by any means stylish garments, according to Western ideas; but the
male bipeds of Aradan have something really extraordinary to offer, even
among the many startling patterns of this garment met with in Eastern
lands. To note the quantity of material that enters into the composition
of a pair of Aradan pantaloons, would lead an uninitiated person into
thinking the people all millionaires, were it not likewise observed that
the material is but coarse blue cotton, woven and dyed by the wearer's
wife, mother, or sister. One of the most conspicuous features about them
is that their shape--if they can truthfully be said to have any
shape--seems to be a wild, rambling pattern of our own ideas
concerning the shape this garment ought to assume. The legs, instead of
being gathered, Oriental fashion, at the ankles, dangle loosely about the
feet; and yet it is these same legs that are the chief distinguishing
feature of the pants. One of the legs, cut off and sewed up at one end,
would make the nicest kind of an eight-bushel grain sack; rather too
wide, perhaps, in proportion to the depth, to make a shapely grain sack,
but there is no question about the capacity for the eight bushels. No
doubt these people would be puzzled to say why they are wearing yards and
yards of stuff that is not only useless, but positively in the way,
except that it has been the fashion in Aradan from time immemorable to do
so. These simple Persian peasants, when they make any pretence of
sprucing up, probably find themselves quite as much enslaved by fashion
as our very fastidious selves; a wide difference betaken ourselves and
them, however, being, that while they cling tenaciously to some
prehistoric style of garment, and regard innovations with abhorrence,
fashion demands of us to be constantly changing.
The Aradan telegraph-jee is a young man skin-full of piety, rejoicing in
the possession of a nice little praying-carpet, a praying-stone from holy
Kerbela, the holiest of all except Mecca, and he owns a string of beads
of the same soul-comforting material as the stone. During his waking
hours he is seldom without the rosary in his hand, passing the holy beads
back and forth along the string; and five times a day he produces the
praying-stone from its little leathern pouch and goes through the
ceremony of saying his prayers, with becoming earnestness. At eventide,
when he spreads his praying-carpet and places the little oblong tablet
from Kerbela in its customary position, preparatory to commencing his
last prayers for the day, it is furthermore ascertained by the compass
that he has been pretty accurate in his daily prostrations toward Mecca.
With all these enviable advantages--the praying-carpet, the praying-stone,
the holy rosary, and the happy accuracy as regards Mecca--the Aradan
telegraph-jee is a Mussulman who ought to feel tolerably certain of a
rose-garden, a gurgling rivulet, and any number of black-eyed houris to
contribute to his happiness in the paradise he hopes to enter beyond the
tomb.
Indications have not been wanting during the day that the weather is in
anything but a settled condition, and upon waking in the morning I fancy
I hear the pattering music of the rain. Fortunately it proves to be only
fancy, and the telegraph-jee, assuming the part of a weather-prophet,
reassures me by remarking, "Inshalla, am roos, baran neis" (Please God,
it will not rain to-day). Being a Persian, he says this, not because he
has any particular confidence in his own predictions, but because his
idea of making himself agreeable is to frame his predictions by the
measurement of what he discovers to be my wishes.
The road into Aradan led me through one populous cemetery, and the road
out again leads me through another; beyond the cemetery it follows
alongside a meandering streamlet that flows, sluggishly along over a bed
of deep gray mud. The road is lumpy but ridable, and I am pedalling
serenely along, happy in the contemplation of better roads ahead than I
had yesterday, when one of those ludicrous incidents happen that have
occurred at intervals here and there all along my journey. A party of
travellers have been making a night march from the east, and as we
approach each other, a wary kafaveh-carrying mule, suspicious about the
peaceful character of the mysterious object bearing down toward him,
pricks up his ears, wheels round, and inaugurates confusion among his
fellows, and then proceeds to head them in a determined bolt across the
stream. Unfortunately for the women in the kajavehs, the mud and water
together prove to be deeper than the mule expected to find them, and the
additional fright of finding himself in a well-nigh swamped condition,
causes him to struggle violently to get out again. In so doing he bursts
whatever fastenings may have bound him and his burden together, scrambles
ashore, and leaves the kajavehs floating on the water!
The women began screaming the moment the mule wheeled round and bolted,
and now they find themselves afloat in their queer craft, these
characteristic female signals of distress are redoubled in energy; and
they may well be excused for this, for the kajavehs are gradually filling
and sinking; it was never intended that kajavehs should be capable of
acting in the capacity of a boat. The sight of their companion's
difficulties has the effect of causing the other mules to change their
minds about crossing the stream, and almost to change their minds about
indulging in the mulish luxury of a scare; and fortunately the charvadars
of the party succeed in rescuing the kajavehs before they sink. Nobody is
injured, beyond the women getting wet; no damage is done worth
mentioning, and as the two heroines of the adventure emerge from their
novel craft, their garments dripping with water, their doleful looks are
rewarded with unsympathetic merriment from the men. Few have been my
wheeling days on Asian roads that have not witnessed something in the
shape of an overthrow or runaway; so far, nobody has been seriously
injured by them, but I have sometimes wondered whether it will be my good
fortune to complete the bicycle journey around the world without some
mishap of the kind, resulting in broken limbs for the native and trouble
for myself.
After a couple of miles the road and the meandering stream part company,
the latter flowing southward and the road traversing a flat, curious,
stone-strewn waste; an area across which one could step from one large
boulder to another without touching the ground. Once beyond this, and the
road develops into several parallel trails of smooth, hard gravel, that
afford as good, or better, wheeling than the finest macadam. While
spinning at a highly satisfactory rate of speed along these splendid
paths, a small herd of antelopes cross the road some few hundred yards
ahead, and pass swiftly southward toward the dasht-i-namek. These are the
first antelopes, or, for that matter, the first big game I have
encountered since leaving the prairies of Western Nebraska. The Persian
antelope seems to be a duplicate of his distinguished American relative
in a general, all-round sense; he is, if anything, even more
nimble-footed than the spring-heeled habitue of the West, possesses the
same characteristic jerky jump, and hoists the same conspicuous white
signal of retreat. He is a decidedly slimmer-built quadruped, however,
than the American antelope; the body is of the same square build, but is
sadly lacking in plumpness, and he seems to be an altogether lankier and
less well-favored animal. For this constitutional difference, he is
probably indebted to the barren and inhospitable character of the country
over which he roams, as compared with the splendid feeding-grounds of
the--Far West. The Persians sometimes hunt the antelope on horseback,
with falcons and greyhounds; the falcons are taught to fly in advance and
attack the fleeing antelopes about the head, and so confuse them and
retard their progress in the interest of the pursuing hounds and
horsemen.
The little village of Deh Namek is reached about mid-day, where my
ever-varying bill of fare takes the shape of raw eggs and pomegranates.
Deh Namek is too small and unimportant a place to support a public
tchai-khan; but along the Meshed pilgrim road the villagers are keenly
alive to the chance of earning a stray keran, and the advent of one of
those inexhaustible keran-mines, a "Sahib," is the signal for some
enterprising person, sufficiently well-to-do to own a samovar, to get up
steam in it and prepare tea.
East of Deh Namek, the wheeling continues splendid for a dozen miles,
traversing a level desert on which one finds no drinkable water for about
twenty miles. Across the last eight miles of the desert the road is
variable, consisting of alternate stretches of ridable and unridable
ground, the latter being generally unridable by reason of sand and loose
gravel, or thickly strewn flints. More antelopes are encountered east of
Deh Namek; at one place, particularly, I enjoy quite a little exciting
spurt in an effort to intercept a band that are heading across my road
from the Elburz foot-hills to the desert. The wheeling is here
magnificent, the spurt develops into a speed of fourteen miles an hour;
the antelopes see their danger, or, at all events, what they fancy to be
danger, and their apprehensions are not by any mean lessened by the new
and startling character of their pursuer. Wild antelopes are timid things
at all times, and, as may be readily imagined, the sight of a mysterious
glistening object, speeding along at a fourteen or fifteen mile pace to
intercept them, has a magical effect upon their astonishing powers of
locomotion. They seem to fly rather than run, and to skim like swallows
over the surface of the level plain rather than to touch the ground; but
they were some distance from the road when they first realized my
terrifying presence, and I am within fifty yards of the band when they
flash like a streak of winged terror across the road. These antelopes do
not cease their wild flight within the range of my powers of observation;
long after the mousy hue of their bodies has rendered their forms
indistinguishable in the distance from the sympathetic coloring of the
desert, rapidly bobbing specks of white betray the fact that their
supposed narrow escape from the vengeful pursuit of the bicycle has given
them a fright that will make them suspicious of the Meshed pilgrim road
for weeks.
"Deh Namek" means "salt village;" and it derives its name from the salt
flats that are visible to the south of the road, and the general saline
character of the country round about. Salt enters very largely into the
composition of the mountains that present a solid and fantastically
streaked front a few miles to the north; and the streams flowing from
these mountains are simply streams of brine, whose mission would seem to
be conveying the saline matter from the hills, and distributing it over
the flats and swampy areas of the desert. These flats are visible from
the road, white, level, and impressive; like the Great American Desert,
Utah, as seen from the Matlin section house, and described in a previous
chapter (Vol. I.), it looks as though it might be a sheet of water,
solidified and dead.
At the end of the twenty miles one comes to a small and unpretentious
village and an equally small and unpretentious wayside tchai-khan, both
owing their existence to a stream of fresh water as small and
unpretentious as themselves. Beyond this cheerless oasis stretches again
the still more cheerless desert, the rivulets of undrinkable salt water,
the glaring white salt-flats to the south, and the salt-encrusted
mountains to the north. The shameless old party presiding at the
tchai-khan evidently realizes the advantages of his position, where many
travellers from either direction, reaching the place in a thirsty
condition, have no choice but between his decoction and cold water.
Instead of the excellent tea every Persian knows very well how to make,
he serves out a preparation that is made, I should say, chiefly from
camelthorn buds plucked within a mile of his shanty; he furthermore
illustrates in his own methods the baneful effects of being without the
stimulus of a rival, by serving it up in unwashed glasses, and without
noticing whether it is hot or cold.
Much loose gravel prevails between this memorable point and Lasgird, and
while trundling laboriously through it I am overtaken by a rain-storm,
accompanied by violent wind, that at first encompasses me about in the
most peculiar manner. The storm comes howling from the northwest and
advances in two sections, accompanied by thunder and lightning; the two
advancing columns seem to be dense masses of gray cloud rolling over the
surface of the plain, and between them is a clear space of perhaps half a
mile in width. The rain-dispensing columns pass me by on either side with
muttering rolls of thunder and momentary gleams of lightning, enveloping
me in swirling eddies of dust and bewildering atmospheric disturbances,
but not a drop of rain. It is plainly to be seen, however, that the two
columns are united further west, and that it behooves me to don my
gossamer rubbers; but before being overtaken by the rain, the heads of
the flying columns are drawn together, and for some minutes I am
surrounded entirely by sheets of falling moisture and streaming clouds
that descend to the level plain and obscure the view in every direction;
and yet the clear sky is immediately above, and the ground over which I
am walking is perfectly dry. After the first violent burst there is very
little wind, and the impenetrable walls of vapor encompassing me round
about at so near a distance, and yet not interfering with me in any way,
present a most singular appearance. While appreciating the extreme
novelty of the situation, I can scarce say in addition that I appreciate
the free play of electricity going on in all directions, and the
irreverent manner in which the nickeled surface of the bicycle seems to
glint at it and defy it; on the contrary, I deem it but an act of common
discretion to place the machine for a short time where the lightning can
have a fair chance at it, without involving a respectful non-combatant in
the destruction. In half an hour the whole curious affair is over, and
nothing is seen but the wild-looking tail-end of the disturbance climbing
over a range of mountains in the southeast.
The road now edges off in a more northeasterly course, and by four
o'clock leads me to the base of a low pass over a jutting spur of the
mountains. At the base of the spur, a cultivated area, consisting of
several wheat-fields and terraced melon-gardens, has been rescued from
the unproductive desert by the aid of a bright little mountain stream,
whose wild spirit the villagers of Lasgird have curbed and tamed for
their own benefit, by turning it from its rocky, precipitous channel, and
causing it to descend the hill in a curious serpentine ditch. The contour
of the ditch is something like this: ~~~~~~~~~~~; it brings the water
down a pretty steep gradient, and its serpentine form checks the speed of
its descent to an uniform and circumspect pace. The road over the pass
leads through a soft limestone formation, and here, as in similar places
in Asia Minor, are found those narrow, trench-like trails, worn by the
feet of pilgrims and the pack-animal traffic of centuries, several feet
deep in the solid rock. On a broad cultivated plain beyond the pass is
sighted the village of Lasgird, its huge mud fortress, the most
conspicuous object in view, rising a hundred feet above the plain.
CHAPTER III.
PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD.
A mile or so through the cultivated fields brings me to the village just
in time to be greeted by the shouts and hand-clapping of a wedding
procession that is returning from conducting the bride to the bath. Men
and boys are beating rude, home-made tambourines, and women are dancing
along before the bride, clicking castanets, while a crowd of at least two
hundred villagers, arrayed in whatever finery they can muster for the
occasion, are following behind, clapping their hands in measured chorus.
This hand-clapping is, I believe, pretty generally practiced by the
villagers all over Central Asia on festive occasions. As a result of
riding for the crowd, I receive an invitation to take supper at the house
of the bridegroom's parents. Having obtained sleeping quarters at the
chapar-khana, I get the shagird-chapar to guide me to the house at the
appointed hour, and arrive just in time for supper. The dining-room is a
low-ceiled apartment, about thirty feet long and eight wide, and is dimly
lighted by rude grease lamps, set on pewter lamp-stands on the floor.
Squatting on the floor, with their backs to the wall, about fifty
villagers form a continuous human line around the room. These all rise
simultaneously to their feet as I am announced, bob their heads
simultaneously, simultaneously say, "Sahib salaam," and after I have been
provided with a place, simultaneously resume their seats. Pewter trays
are now brought in by volunteer waiters, and set on the floor before the
guests, one tray for every two guests, and a separate one for myself. On
each tray is a bowl of mast (milk soured with rennet--the "yaort" of Asia
Minor), a piece of cheese, one onion, a spoonful or two of pumpkin butter
and several flat wheaten cakes. This is the wedding supper. The guests
break the bread into the mast and scoop the mixture out with their
fingers, transferring it to their mouths with the dexterity of Chinese
manipulating a pair of chop-sticks; now and then they take a nibble at
the piece of cheese or the onion, and they finish up by consuming the
pumpkin butter. The groom doesn't appear among the guests; he is under
the special care of several female relations in another apartment, and is
probably being fed with tid-bits from the henna-stained fingers of old
women, who season them with extravagant and lying stories of the bride's
beauty, and duly impress upon him his coming matrimonial
responsibilities.
Supper eaten and the dishes cleared, an amateur luti from among the
villagers produces a tambourine and castanets, and, taking the middle of
the room, proceeds to amuse the company by singing extempore love songs
in praise of the bride and groom to tambourine accompaniment and
pendulous swayings of the body. Pretending to be carried away by the
melodiousness and sentiment of his own productions, he gradually bends
backward with hands outstretched and castanets jingling, until his head
almost touches the floor, and maintains that position while keeping his
body in a theatrical tremor of delight. This is the finale of the
performance, and the luti comes and sets his skull-cap in front of me for
a present; my next neighbor, the bridegroom's father, takes it up and
hands it back with a deprecatory wave of the hand; the luti replies by
promptly setting it down again; this time my neighbor lets it remain, and
the luti is made happy by a coin.
Torchlight processions to the different baths are now made from the house
of both bride and groom, for this is the "hammam night," devoted to
bathing and festivities before the wedding-day. Torches are made with dry
camelthorn, the blaze being kept up by constant renewal; a boy, with a
lighted candle, walks immediately ahead of the bridegroom and his female
relations, and a man with a farnooze brings up the rear. Nobody among the
onlookers is permitted to lag behind the man with the farnooze, everybody
being required to either walk ahead or alongside. The tambourine-beating
and shouting and hand-clapping of the afternoon is repeated, and every
now and then the procession stops to allow one or two of the women to
face the bridegroom and favor him with an exhibition of their skill in
the execution of the hip-dance.
The bridal procession is coming down another street, and I stop to try
and obtain a glimpse of the bride; but she is completely enveloped in a
flaming red shawl, and is supported and led by two women. There seems to
be little difference in the two processions, except the preponderance of
females in the bride's party; everything is arranged in the same order,
and women dance at intervals before the bride as before the groom.
It begins raining before I retire for the night; it rains incessantly all
night, and is raining heavily when I awake in the morning. The weather
clears up at noon, but it is useless thinking of pushing on, for miles of
tenacious mud intervene between the village and the gravelly desert;
moreover, the prospect of the fine weather holding out looks anything but
reassuring. The villagers are all at home, owing to the saturated
condition of their fields, and I come in for no small share of worrying
attention during the afternoon. A pilgrim from Teheran turns up and tells
the people about my appearance before the Shah; this increases their
interest in me to an unappreciated extent, and, with glistening eyes and
eagerly rubbing fingers, they ask "Chand pool Padishah?" (How much money
did the King give you?) "I showed the Shah the bicycle, and the Shah
showed me the lions, and tigers, and panthers at Doshan Tepe," I tell
them; and a knowing customer, called Meshedi Ali, enlightens them still
further by telling them I am not a luti to receive money for letting the
Shah-in-Shah see me ride. Still, luti or no luti, the people think I
ought to have received a present. I am worried to ride so incessantly
that I am forced to seek self-protection in pretending to have sprained
my ankle, and in returning to the chapar-khana with a hypocritical limp.
I station myself ostensibly for the remainder of the day on the
bala-khana front, and busy myself in taking observations of the villagers
and their doings.
Time was, among ourselves, or more correctly, among our ancestors, when
blood-letting was as much the professional calling of a barber as
scraping chins or trimming hair, and when our respected beef-eating and
beer-drinking forefathers considered wholesale blood-letting as a
well-nigh universal panacea for fleshly ills. In travelling through
Persia, one often observes things that suggest very strikingly those
"good old days" of Queen Bess. The citizens of Zendjan offering the Shah
a present of 60,000 tomans, as an inducement not to visit their city, as
they did when he was on his way to Europe, has a true Elizabethan ring
about it, a suggestion of the Virgin Queen's rabble retinue travelling
about, devouring and destroying, and of justly apprehensive citizens,
seeing ruin staring them in the face, petitioning their regal mistress to
spare them the dread calamity of a royal visit.
The ancient Zoroastrian barber, no doubt, bled his patients and customers
on the public streets of Persian towns, for the benefit of their healths,
when we pinned our pagan faith on Druidical incantations and mystic rites
and ceremonies; his Mussulman descendants were doing the same thing when
we at length arrived at the same stage of enlightenment, and the Persian
wielder of razor and tweezers to-day performs the same office as
belonging to his profession. From my vantage point on the bala-khana of
the Lasgird chapar station, I watch, with considerable interest, the
process of bleeding a goodly share of the male population of the village;
for it is spring-time, and in spring, every Persian, whether well or
unwell, considers the spilling of half a pint or so of blood very
necessary for the maintenance of health.
The village barber, with his arms bared, and the flowing, o'er-ample legs
of his Aradan-Lasgird pantaloons tucked up at his waist, like a
washerwoman's skirt, a bunch of raw cotton in lieu of lint under his left
arm, and his keen-edged razor, looks like a man who thoroughly realizes
and enjoys the importance of the office he is performing, as from the
bared arm or open mouth of one after the other of his neighbors he starts
the crimson stream. The candidates for the barber's claret-tapping
attentions bare their right arms to the shoulder, and bind for each other
a handkerchief or piece of something tightly above the elbow, and the
barber deftly slits a vein immediately below the hollow of the
elbow-joint, pressing out the vein he wishes to cut by a pressure of the
left thumb. The blood spurts out, the patient looks at the squirting
blood, and then surveys the onlookers with a "who-cares?--I-don't" sort of
a grin. He then squats down and watches it bleed about a half-pint,
occasionally working the elbow-joint to stimulate the flow. Half a pint
is considered about the correct quantity for an adult to lose at one
bleeding; the barber then binds on a small wad of cotton.
Now and then a customer gives the barber a trifling coin by way of
backsheesh, but the great majority give nothing. In a mere village like
Lasgird, these periodical blood-lettings by the barber are, no doubt,
regarded as being all in the family, rather than of professional services
for a money consideration. The communal spirit obtains to a great extent
in village life throughout both Asia Minor and Persia; nevertheless
backsheesh would be expected in Persia from those able to afford it. Some
few prefer being bled in the roof the mouth, and they all squat on their
hams in rows, some bleeding from the arm, others from the mouth, while
the inevitable crowd of onlookers stand around, gazing and giving advice.
While the barber is engaged in binding on the wad of cotton, or during
any interval between patients, he inserts the handle of the razor between
his close-fitting skull-cap and his forehead, letting the blade hang down
over his face, edge outward; a peculiar disposition of his razor, that he
would, no doubt, be entirely at a loss to account for, except that he is
following the custom of his fathers. As regards the customs of his
ancestors, whose trade or profession he invariably follows, the Asiatic
is the most conservative of mortals. "What was good enough for my father
and grandfather," he says, "is certainly good enough for me;" and
earnestly believing in this, he never, of his own accord, thinks of
changing his occupation or of making improvements.
Later in the afternoon I descend from the bala-khana and take a strolling
look at the village, and with the shagird-chapar for guide, pay a visit
to the old fortress, the conspicuous edifice seen from the trail-worn
limestone pass. Forgetting about my subterfuge of the sprained ankle, I
wander forth without the aforementioned limp; but the people seem to have
forgotten it as completely as I had; at all events, nobody makes any
comments. A ripple of excitement is caused by a two-storied house
collapsing from the effects of the soaking rains, an occurrence by no
means infrequent in the spring in a country of mud-built houses. A crowd
soon appears upon the scene, watching, with unconcealed delight, the
spectacle of tumbling roof and toppling wall, giving vent to their
feelings in laughter and loud shouts of approval, like delighted
children, whenever another bulky square of mud and thatch comes tumbling
down. Fortunately, nobody happens to be hurt, beyond the half-burying in
the debris of some donkeys, which are finally induced to extricate
themselves by being vigorously bombarded with stones. No sympathy appears
to be given on the part of the spectators, and evidently nothing of the
kind is expected by the tenants of the tumbling house; the wailing women,
and the look of consternation on the face of the men who barely escaped
from the falling roof, seem to be regarded by the spectators as a tomasha
(show), to be stared at and enjoyed, as they would stare at and enjoy
anything not seen every day; on the other hand, the occupants of the
house regard their misfortune as kismet.
Returning to the chapar-ktiana, I get the shayird to pilot me into and
round about the fortress. It is rapidly falling to decay, but is still in
a sufficiently good state of preservation to show thoroughly its former
strength and conformation. The fortress is a decidedly massive building,
constructed entirely of mud and adobe bricks, a hundred feet high, of
circular form, and some two hundred yards in circumference. The
disintegrated walls and debris of former towers form a sloping mound or
foundation about fifty feet in height, and from this the perpendicular
walls of the castle rise up, huge and ugly, for another hundred feet.
Following a foot-trail up the mound-like base, we come to a low, gloomy
passage-way leading into the interior of the fort. A door, composed of
one massive stone slab, that nothing less than a cannon-shot would
shatter, guards the entrance to this passage, which is the only
accessible entrance to the place. Following it along for perhaps thirty
yards, we emerge upon a scene of almost indescribable squalor--a scene
that instantly suggests an overcrowded "rookery" in the tenement-house
slums of New York. The place is simply swarming with people, who, like
rabbits in an old warren, seem to be moving about among the tumble-down
mud huts, anywhere and everywhere, as though the old ruined fortress were
burrowed through and through, or that the people now moved through, over,
under, and around the remnants of what was once a more orderly collection
of dwellings, having long forsaken regular foot-ways.
The inhabitants are ragged and picturesque, and meandering about among
them, on the most familiar terms, are hundreds of goats. Although
everything is in a more or less dilapidated condition, huts or cells
still rise above each other in tiers, and the people clamber about from
tier to tier, as if in emulation of their venturesome four-footed
associates, who are here, we may well imagine, in as perfect a paradise
as vagrom goatish nature would care for or expect. At a low estimate, I
should place the present population of the old fortress at a thousand
people, and about the same number of goats. In the days when the bold
Turkoman raiders were wont to make their dreaded damans almost up to the
walls of Teheran, and such strongholds as this were the only safeguard of
out-lying villagers, the interior of Lasgird fortress resembled a
spacious amphitheatre, around which hundreds of huts rose, tier above
tier, like the cells of a monster pigeon-house, affording shelter in
times of peril to all the inhabitants of Lasgird, and to such refugees as
might come in. At the first alarm of the dreaded man-stealers' approach,
the outside villagers repaired to the fortress with their portable
property; the donkeys and goats were driven inside and occupied the
interior space, and the massive stone door was closed and barricaded. The
villagers' granaries were inside the fortress, and provisions for
obtaining water were not overlooked; so that once inside, the people were
quite secure against any force of Turkomans, whose heaviest arms were
muskets.
The suggestion of an amphitheatre, as above described, is quite patent at
the present day, in something like two or three hundred tiered dwellings;
in the days of its usefulness there must have been a thousand. Thanks to
the Russian occupation of Turkestan, there is no longer any need of the
fortress, and the present population seem to be occupying it at the peril
of having it some day tumble down about their ears; for, massive though
its walls most certainly are, they are but mud, and the people are
indifferent about repairs. Failing to surprise the watchful villagers in
their fields or outside dwellings, the baffled marauders would find
confronting them fifty feet of solid mud wall without so much as an
air-hole in it, rising sheer above the mound-like foundation, and above
this, tiers of rooms or cells, from inside which archers or musketeers
could make it decidedly interesting for any hostile party attempting to
approach. This old fortress of Lasgird is very interesting, as showing
the peaceful and unwarlike Persian ryot's method of defending his life
and liberty against the savage human hawks that were ever hovering near,
ready to swoop down and carry him and his off to the slave markets of
Khiva and Bokhara. These were times when seed was sown and harvest
garnered in fear and trembling, for the Turkoman raiders were adepts at
swooping down when least expected, and they rode horses capable of making
their hundred miles a day over the roughest country. (Incredible as this
latter fact may seem, it is, nevertheless, a well-known thing in Central
Asia that the Turkoman's horse is capable of covering this remarkable
distance, and of keeping it up for days.)
A thunder-storm is raging violently and drenching everything as I retire
for the night, dampening, among other things, my hopes of getting away
from Lasgird for some days; for between the village and the gravelly, and
consequently always traversable, desert, are some miles of slimy clay of
the kind that in wet weather makes an experienced cycler wince to think
of crossing. The floor of the bala-khana forms once again my nocturnal
couch; but the temperature lowers perceptibly as the night advances and
the rain continues, and toward morning it changes into snow. The doors
and windows of my room are to be called doors and windows only out of
courtesy to a rude, unfinished effort to imitate these things, and the
floor, at daybreak, is nicely carpeted with an inch or so of "the
beautiful snow," and a four-inch covering of the same greets my vision
upon looking outside.
Determined to make the best of the situation, I remove my quarters from
the cold and draughty bala-khana to the stable, and send the
shagird-chapar out in quest of camel-thorn, bread, eggs, and
pomegranates, thinking thus to obtain the luxury of a bit of fire and
something to eat in comparative seclusion. This vain hope proves that I
have not even yet become thoroughly acquainted with the Persians. No
sooner does my camel-thorn blaze begin to crackle and the smoke to betray
the whereabouts of a fire, than shivering, blue-nosed villagers begin to
put in their appearance, their backs humped up and their bare ankles and
slip-shod feet adding not a little to the general aspect of wretchedness
that seems inseparable from Persians in cold weather.
And these are the people who, during a gleam of illusory sunshine
yesterday, were so nonchalantly parting with their blood--of which, by the
by, your bread and cucumber eating, and cold water drinking Persian has
little enough, and that little thin enough at any time. These
rag-bedecked, shivering wretches hop up on the raised platform where the
fire is burning and squat themselves around it in the most sociable
manner; and under the thawing process of passing their hands through the
flames, poking the coals together, and close attention to the details of
keeping it burning, they quickly thaw out in more respects than one.
Fifteen minutes after my fire is lighted, the spot where I anticipated a
samovar of tea and a pomegranate or two in peace, is occupied by as many
Persians as can find squatting room, talking, shouting, singing, and
kalian-smoking, meanwhile eagerly and expectantly watching the
preparations for making tea. Preferring to leave them in full possession
rather than be in their uncongenial midst, I pass the time in promenading
back and forth behind the horses. After walking to and fro a few times,
the, to them, singular performance of walking back and forth excites
their easily-aroused curiosity, and the wondering attention of all
present becomes once again my unhappy portion. An Asiatic's idea of
enjoying himself in cold weather is squatting about a few coals of fire,
making no physical exertion whatever beyond smoking and conversing; and
the spectacle of a Ferenghi promenading back and forth, when he might be
following their example of squatting by the fire, is to them a subject of
no little wonder and speculation.
The redeeming feature of my enforced sojourn at Lasgird is the excellence
of the pomegranates, for which the place is famous, and of which there
seems an abundance left over through the winter. A small quantity of
seedless pomegranates, a highly valued variety, are grown here at
Lasgird, but they are all sent to Teheran for the use of the Shah and his
household, and are not to be obtained by anyone. It has been a raw,
disagreeable day, and at night I decide to sleep in the stable, where it
is at least warmer, though the remove is but a compromise by which one's
olfactory sensibilities are sacrificed in the interest of securing a few
hours' sleep.
An unexpected, but none the less welcome, deliverance appears on the
following morning in the shape of a frost, that forms on the sticky mud a
crust of sufficient thickness to enable me to escape across to the
welcome gravel beyond the Lasgird Plain ere it thaws out. Thus on the
precarious path of a belated morning frost, breaking through here,
jumping over there, I leave Lasgird and its memories of wedding
processions, and blood-letting, its huge mud fortress, its pomegranates,
and its discomforts.
Three miles of mostly ridable gravel bring me to another village, and to
four miles of horrible mud in getting through its fields and over its
ditches. A raw wind is blowing, and squally gusts of snow come scudding
across the dreary prospect--a prospect flanked on the north by cold, gray
hills, and the face of nature generally furrowed with tell-tale lines of
winter's partial dissolution. While trundling through this village, both
myself and bicycle plastered to a well-nigh unrecognizable state with
mud, feeling pretty thoroughly disgusted with the weather and the roads,
an ancient-looking Persian emerges from a little stall with a last
season's muskmelon in hand, and advancing toward me, shouts, "H-o-i"
loud enough to wake the seven sleepers. Shouting "H-o-i!!" at a person
close enough to hear a whisper, as loud as though he were a good mile
away, is a peculiarity of the Persians that has often irritated
travellers to the pitch of wishing they had a hot potato and the
dexterity to throw it down their throats; and in my present unenviable
condition, and its accompanying unenviable frame of mind, I don't mind
admitting that I mentally relegated this vociferous melon-vender to a
place where infinitely worse than hot potatoes would overtake him.
Knowing full well that a halt of a single minute would mean a general
mustering of the population, and an importuning rabble following me
through the unridable mud, I ignore the old melon-man's foghorn efforts
to arrest my onward progress; but he proves a most vociferous and
persistent specimen of his class. Nothing less than a dozen exclamation
points can give the faintest idea of how a "hollering" Persian shouts
"H-o-i."
Seven miles over very good gravel, and my road leads into the labyrinth
of muddy lanes, ditches, and water-holes, tumble down walls, and
disorderly-looking cemeteries of the suburbs of Semnoon. In traversing
the cemeteries, one cannot help observing how many of the graves are
caved in by the rains and the skeletons exposed to view. Mohammedans bury
their dead very shallow, usually about two feet, and in Persia the grave
is often arched over with soft mud bricks; these weaken and dissolve
after the rains and snows of winter, and a cemetery becomes a place of
exposed remains and of pitfalls, where an unwary step on what appears
solid ground may precipitate one into the undesirable company of a
skeleton. By the time Semnoon is reached the day has grown warmer, and
the sun favors the cold, dismal earth with a few genial rays, so that the
blooming orchards of peach and pomegranate that brighten and enliven the
environs of the city, and which suggest Semnoon to be a mild and
sheltered spot, seem quite natural, notwithstanding the patches of snow
lying about. The crowds seem remarkably well behaved as I trundle through
the bazaar toward the telegraph office, the total absence of missiles
being particularly noticeable. The telegraph-jee proves to be a sensible,
enlightened fellow, and quite matter-of-fact in his manner for a Persian;
apart from his duty to the Governor and a few bigwigs of the place, whom
it would be unpardonable in him to overlook or ignore, he saves me as
much as possible from the worrying of the people.
Prince Anushirvan Mirza, Governor of Semnoon, Damghan, and Shahrood, is
the Shah's cousin, son of Baahman Mirza, uncle of the Shah, and formerly
Governor of Tabreez. Baahman Mirza was discovered intriguing with the
Russians, and, fearing the vengeance of the Shah, fled from the country;
seeking an asylum among the Russians, he is now--if not dead--a refugee
somewhere in the Caucasus. But the father's disgrace did not prejudice
the Shah against his sons, and Prince Anushirvan and his sons are honored
and trusted by the Shah as men capable of distinguishing between the
friends and enemies of their country, and of conducting themselves
accordingly.
The Governor's palace is not far from the north gate of the city, and
after the customary round of tea and kalians, without which nothing can
be done in Persia, he walks outside with his staff to a piece of good
road in order to see me ride to the best advantage. (As a specimen of
Persian extravagance--to use a very mild term--it may be as well to
mention here as anywhere, that the Governor telegraphed to his son,
acting as his deputy at Shahrood, that he had ridden some miles with me
out of the city!)
During the evening one of the Governor's sons, Prince Sultan Madjid
Mirza, comes in with a few leading dignitaries to spend an hour in
chatting and smoking. This young prince proves one of the most
intelligent Persians I have met in the country; besides being very well
informed for a provincial Persian, he is bright and quick-witted. Among
the gentlemen he brings in with him is a man who has made the pilgrimage
to Mecca via "Iskenderi" (Alexandria) and Suez, and has, consequently,
seen and ridden on the Egyptian railway. The Prince has heard his
description of this railway, and the light thus gained has not
unnaturally had the effect of whetting his curiosity to hear more of the
marvellous iron roads of Frangistan; and after exhausting the usual
programme of queries concerning cycling, the conversation leads, by easy
transition, to the subject of railways.
"Do they have railways in Yenghi Donia?" questioned the Prince.
"Plenty of railways; plenty of everything," I reply.
"Like the one at Iskenderi and Stamboul?"
"Better and bigger than both these put together a hundred times over; the
Iskenderi railroad is very small."
Nods and smiles of acquiescence from Prince and listeners follow this
statement, which show plainly enough that they consider it a pardonable
lie, such as every Persian present habitually indulges in himself and
thinks favorably of in others.
"Railroads are good things, and Ferenghis are very clever people," says
the Prince, renewing the subject and handing me a handful of salted melon
seeds from his pocket, meanwhile nibbling some himself.
"Yes; why don't you have railroads in Iran? You could then go to Teheran
in a few hours."
The Prince smiles amusingly at the thought, as though conscious of
railroads in Persia being a dream altogether too bright to ever
materialize, and shaking his head, says: "Pool neis" (we have no money).
"The English have money and would build the railroad; but, 'Mollah neis'
--Baron Reuter?--you know Baron Reuter--' Mollah neis,'
not 'pool neis.'"
The Prince smiles, and signifies that he is well enough aware where the
trouble lies; but we talk no more of railroads, for he and his father and
brothers belong to the party of progress in Persia, and the triumph of
priests and old women over the Shah and Baron Reuter's railway is to them
a distressful and humiliating subject.
The late lamented O'Donovan, of "To the Merve" fame, used to make Semnoon
his headquarters while dodging about on the frontier, and was personally
known to everyone present. Semnoon is celebrated for the excellence of
its kalian tobacco, and O'Donovan was celebrated in Semnoon for his love
of the kalian. This evening, in talking about him, the telegraph-jee says
that "when he pulled at the kalian he pulled with such tremendous
eagerness that the flames leaped up to the ceiling, and after three
whiffs you couldn't see anybody in the room for smoke!"
The telegraph-jee's farrash builds a good wood fire in a cozy little room
adjoining the office; blankets are provided, an ample supper is sent
around from the telegraph-jee's house, and what is still better
appreciated, I am left to enjoy these substantial comforts without so
much as a single spectator coming to see me feed; no one comes near me
till morning.
The morning breaks cold and clear, and for some six miles the road is
very fair wheeling; after this comes a gradual inclination toward a
jutting spur of hills; the following twenty miles being the toughest kind
of a trundle through mud, snow-fields, and drifts. This is a most
uninviting piece of country to wheel through, and it would seem but
little less so to traverse at this time of the year with a caravan of
camels, two or three of these animals being found exhausted by the
roadside, and a couple of charvadars encountered in one place skinning
another, while its companion is lying helplessly alongside watching the
operation and waiting its own turn to the same treatment. It is said to
be characteristic of a camel that, when he once slips down, cold and
weary, in the mud, he never again tries to regain his feet. The weather
looks squally and unsettled, and I push ahead as rapidly as the condition
of the ground will permit, fearing a snow-storm in the hills.
About three p.m. I arrive at the caravansarai of Ahwan, a dreary,
inhospitable place in an equally dreary, inhospitable country. Situated
in a region of wind and snow and bleak, open hills, the wretched serai of
Ahwan is remembered as a place where the keen, raw wind seems to come
whistling gleefully and yet maliciously from all points of the compass,
seemingly centring in the caravansarai itself; these winds render any
attempt to kindle a fire a dismal failure, resulting in smoke and watery
eyes. Here I manage to obtain half-frozen bread and a few eggs; after an
ineffectual attempt to roast the latter and thaw out the former, I am
forced to eat them both as they are; and although the sun looks ominously
low, and it is six farsakhs to the next place, I conclude to chance
anything rather than risk being snow-bound at Ahwan. Fortunately, after
about five miles more of snow, the trail emerges upon a gravelly plain
with a gradual descent from the hills just crossed to the lower level of
the Damghan plain. The favorable gradient and the smooth trails induce a
smart pace, and as the waning daylight merges into the soft, chastened
light of a cloud-veiled moon, I alight at the village and serai of
Gusheh.
There are at the caravansarai a number of travellers, among them a moujik
of the Don, travelling to Teheran and beyond in company with a Tabreez
Turk. The Russian peasant at once invites me to his menzil in the
caravansarai; and although he looks, if anything, a trifle more
indifferent about personal cleanliness than either a Turkish or Persian
peasant, I have no alternative but to accept his well-meant invitation.
At this juncture, when one's thoughts are swayed and influenced by an
appetite that the cold day and hard tugging through the hills have
rendered well-nigh uncontrollable, a prosperous-looking Persian
traveller, returning from a pilgrimage to Meshed with his wives, family,
and servitors, quite a respectable-sized retinue, emerges from the
seclusion of his quarters to see the bicycle.
Of course he requests me to ride, sending his link-boys to bring out all
the farnoozes to supplement fair Luna's coy and inefficient beams; and
after the performance, the old gentleman promises to send me round a dish
of pillau. In due time the promised pillau comes round, an ample dish,
sufficient to satisfy even my present ravenous appetite, and after this
he sends round tea, lump sugar, and a samovar. The moujik turns to and
gets up steam in the samovar, and over tiny glasses of the cheering but
non-intoxicating beverage, he sings a Russian regimental song, and his
comrade, the Tabreez Turk, warbles the praises of Stamboul. But although
they make merry over the tea, methinks both of them would have made still
merrier over something stronger, for the moujik puts in a good share of
the evening talking about vodka consumed at Shahrood, and smacking his
lips at the retrospective bliss embodied in its consumption; while the
Turk from Tabreez catches me aside and asks mysteriously if my packages
contain any "raki" (arrack). Like the Ah wan caravansarai, the one at
Gusheh seems to draw the chilly winds from every direction, and I arise
from a rude couch, made wretchedly uncomfortable by draughts, the attacks
of insects, and the persistent determination of a horse to use my
prostrate form as a rest for his nose-bag, to find myself the possessor
of a sore throat.
Persian travellers are generally up and off before daylight, and the
clicking noise (Persian curry-combs are covered with small rings that
make a rattling noise when being used) of currying horses begins as early
as three o'clock. The attendants of the old gentleman of happy
remembrance in connection with last night's pillau and samovar, have been
busy for two hours, and his taktrowan and kajauehs are already occupied
and starting, when by the first gleam of awakening dawn I mount and wheel
eastward. A shallow, unbridged stream obstructs my path but a short
distance from Gusheh, and I manage to get in knee-deep in trying to avoid
the necessity of removing my footgear; I then wander several miles off
my road to an outlying village. This happy commencement of a new day is
followed by a variable road leading sometimes over stony or gravelly
plains where the wheeling varies through all the stages of goodness,
badness, and indifference, and sometimes through grazing grounds and
cultivable areas adjoining the villages.
Scattered about the grazing and arable country are now small towers of
refuge, loop-holed for defense, to which ryots working in the fields, or
shepherds tending their flocks, fled for safety in case of a sudden
appearance of Turcoman marauders. But a few years ago men hereabouts went
to plough, sow, or reap with a gun slung at their backs, and a few of
them reaching the shelter of one of these compact little mud towers were
able, through the loop-holes, to keep the Turcomans at bay until relief
arrived. The towers are of circular form, about twenty feet high and
fifteen in diameter; the entrance is a very small doorway, often a mere
hole to crawl into, and steps inside lead to the summit; some are roofed
in near the top, others are mere circular walls of mud. On grazing
grounds a lower wall often encompasses the tower, fencing in a larger
space that formed a corral for the flocks; the shepherds then, while
defending themselves, were also defending their sheep or goats. In the
more exposed localities these little towers of refuge are often but a
couple of hundred yards apart, thickly dotting the country in all
directions, while watch-towers are seen perched on peaks and points of
vantage, the whole scene speaking eloquently of the extraordinary
precautions these poor people were compelled to adopt for the
preservation of their lives and property. No wonder Russian intrigue
makes headway in Khorassan and all along the Turco-inan-Perso frontier,
for the people can scarcely help being favorably impressed by the
stoppage of Turcoman deviltry in their midst, and the wholesale
liberation of Persian slaves.
The town of Damghan is reached near noon, and I am not a little gratified
to learn that the telegraph-jee has been notified of my approach, and has
stationed his farrash at the entrance to the bazaar, so that I should
have no trouble in finding the office. This augurs well for the reception
awaiting me there, and I am accordingly not surprised to find him an
exceptionally affable youth, proud of a word or two of English he had
somehow acquired, and of his knowledge of how to properly entertain a
Ferenghi. This latter qualification assumes the eminently practical, and,
it is needless to add, acceptable form of a roast chicken, a heaping dish
of pillau, and sundry other substantial proofs of anticipatory
preparations. The telegraph-jee takes great pleasure in seeing roast
chicken mysteriously disappear, and the dish of pillau gradually diminish
in size; in fact, the unconcealed satisfaction afforded by these savory
testimonials of his cook's abilities give him such pleasure that he urges
me to remain his guest for a day and rest up. But Shahrood is only forty
miles away, and here I shall have the pleasure of meeting Mr. McIntyre,
before mentioned as line-inspector, who is making his temporary
headquarters at that city. Moreover, angry-looking storm-dogs have
accompanied the sun on his ante-meridian march to-day, and such
experience as mine at Lasgird has the effect of making one, if not
weather-wise, at least weather-wary.
In approaching Damghan, long before any other indications of the city
appear, twin minarets are visible, soaring above the stony plain like a
pair of huge pillars; these minars belong to the same mosque, and form a
conspicuous landmark for travellers and pilgrims in approaching Damghan
from any direction; at a distance they appear to rise up sheer from the
barren plain, the town being situated in a depression. Six farsakhs from
Damghan is the village of Tazaria, noted in the country round about for
the enormous size of the carrots grown there; the minarets of Damghan and
the extraordinary size of the Tazaria vegetables furnish the material for
a characteristic little Eastern story, current among the inhabitants.
Finding that people came from far and near to see the graceful minarets
of Damghan, and that nobody came to see Tazaria, the good people of that
neglected village became envious, and they reasoned among themselves and
said: "Why should Damghan have two minarets and Tazaria none?" So they
gathered together their pack-donkeys, their ropes and ladders, and a
large company of men, and reached Damghan in the silence and darkness of
the night, intending to pull down and carry off one of the minarets and
erect it in Tazaria. The ropes were fastened to the summit of the minar,
but at the first great pull the brick-work gave way and the top of the
tall minaret came tumbling down with a crash and clatter, killing several
of its would-be removers. The Damghan people turned out, and after
hearing the unhappy Tazarians' laments, some sarcastic citizen gave them
a few carrot-seeds, bidding them go home and sow them, and they could
grow all the minarets they wanted. The carrots grew famously, and the
villagers of Tazaria, instead of the promised minarets, found themselves
in possession of a new and useful vegetable that fetched a good price in
the Damghan bazaars. The Damghanians, meeting a Tazarian ryot coming in
with a donkey-load of these huge carrots, cannot resist twitting him
regarding the minars; but the now practical Tazarians no longer mourn the
absence of minarets in their village, and when twitted about it, reply:
"We have more minarets than you have, but our minarets grow downward and
are good to eat."
During the afternoon I pass many ruined villages and castles, said to
have been destroyed by an earthquake many years ago. Some few natives
find remunerative employment in excavating and washing over the dirt and
debris of the ruined castles, in which they find coins, rubies, agates,
turquoise, and women's ornaments; sometimes they unearth skeletons with
ornaments still attached. The sun shines out warm this afternoon, and its
genial rays are sufficiently tempting to induce the jackals to emerge
from their hiding-places and bask in its beaming smiles on the sunny side
of the ruins. Wherever there are ruins and skeletons and decay in Eastern
lands--and where are there not?--there also is sure to be found the
prowling and sneakish-looking jackal.
Shelter, and the usual rude accommodation, supplemented on this occasion
by a wandering luti and his vicious-looking baboon, as also a company of
riotous charvadars, who insist on singing accompaniments to the luti's
soul-harrowing tom-toming till after midnight, are obtained at the
caravansarai of Deh Mollah. From Deh Mollah it is only a couple of
farsakhs to Shahrood, and after the first three miles, which is slightly
upgrade and not particularly smooth, it is downgrade and very fair
wheeling the remainder of the distance. The road forks a couple of miles
from Shahrood, and while I am entering by one road, Mr. McIntyre is
leaving on horseback by the other to meet me, guessing, from word
received from Damghan, that I must have spent last night at Deh Mollah,
and would arrive at Shahrood this morning.
Only those who have experienced it know anything of the pleasure of two
Europeans meeting and conversing in a country like Persia, where the
habits and customs of the natives are so different, and, to most
travellers, uncongenial, and only to be tolerated for a time.
I have met Mr. Mclntyre in Teheran, so we are not total strangers, which,
of course, makes it still more agreeable. After the customary interchange
of news, and the discussion of refreshments, Mr. Mclntyre hands me a
telegram from Teheran, which bears a date several days old. It is from
the British Legation, notifying me that permission is refused to go
through the Turcoman country; an appendage from the Charge d'Affaires
suggests that I repair to Astrakhan and try the route through Siberia.
And this, then, is the result of General Melnikoff's genial smiles and
ready promises of assistance; after providing myself with proper money
and information for the Turkestan route, on the strength of the Russian
Minister's promises, I am overtaken, when three hundred miles away, with
a veto against which anything I might say or do would be of no avail!
Sultan Ahmed Mirza, a sou of Prince Anushirvan, is deputy governor of
Shahrood, responsible to his father; and ere I have arrived an hour the
usual request is sent round for a "tomasha," the word now used by people
wanting to see me ride, and which really means an exhibition. His place
is found in a brick court-yard with the usual central tank, and the airy
rooms of the building all opening upon it, and once again comes the
feeling of playing a rather ridiculous role, as I circle awkwardly around
the tank over very uneven bricks, and around short corners where an upset
would precipitate me into the tank--amid, I can't help thinking, "roars of
laughter." The Prince is very lavish of his flowery Persian compliments,
and says, "You English have now left nothing more to do but to bring the
dead back to life." In the court-yard my attention is called to a set of
bastinado poles and loops, and Mr. McIntyre asks the Prince if he hasn't
a prisoner on hand, so that he can give us a tomasha in return for the
one we are giving him; but it is now the Persian New Year, and the
prisoners have all been liberated.
Here, gentle reader, in Shahrood--but it now behooves us to be dark and
mysterious, and deal in hints and whispers, for the Persian proprieties
must not be ruthlessly violated and then as ruthlessly exposed to satisfy
the prying curiosity of far off Frangistan that would never do.
Behold, then, Mr. Mclntyre absent; behold all male humans absent save
myself and a couple of sable eunuchs, whose smooth, whiskerless faces
betray inward amusement at the extreme novelty of the situation, and we
all alone between the high brick walls that encircle the secrecy of an
inner court--and yet not all alone, fortell it in whispers--some half-dozen
shrouded female forms are clustered together in one corner. Yashmaks are
drawn aside, and plump oval faces and bright eyes revealed, faces brown
and soft of outline, eyes black, large and lustrous, with black lines
skillfully drawn to make them look still larger, and lashes deeply
stained to impart love and languor to their wondrous depths. Whisper it
not in Gath, and tell it not in the streets of Frangistan, that the
wondrous asp-i-awhan has proved an open sesame capable of revealing to an
inquisitive and all-observant Ferenghi the collective charms of a Persian
swell's harem!
We can imagine these ladies in the seclusion of the zenana hearing of the
Ferenghi and his wonderful iron horse, and overwhelmed with feminine
curiosity, with much coaxing and promising, obtaining reluctant consent
for a strictly secret and decorous tomasha, with covered faces and no one
present but the attendant eunuchs and the Ferenghi, who, fortunately,
will soon leave the country, never to return. Mohammedan women are merely
overgrown children, and the promise of strict decorousness is forgotten
or ignored the moment the tomasha begins; and the fun and the wickedness
of removing their yashmaks in the presence of a Ferenghi is too rare an
opportunity to be missed, and, no doubt, furnishes them with material for
amusing conversation for many a day after. Rare fun these ladies think it
to uncover their olive faces and let the Ferenghi see their beauty; the
eunuchs are generally indulgent to their charges whenever they can safely
be so, and on this occasion they content themselves with looking on and
saying nothing. After seeing me ride, the ladies cluster boldly around
and examine the bicycle, chatting freely among themselves the while
concerning its capabilities; but some of the younger ladies regard me
with fully as much curiosity as the bicycle, for never before did they
have such an opportunity of scrutinizing a Ferenghi.
And now, while granted the privilege of this little revelation, we must
be very careful not to reveal the secret of whose harem we have seen
unveiled, and whose inner court our paran wheels have pressed; for the
whirligig of time brings about strange things, and apparently trifling
things that have been indiscreetly published by travellers in books at
home, have sometimes found their way back to the far East, and caused
embarrassment and chagrin to people who treated them with hospitality and
respect.
CHAPTER IV.
THROUGH KHORASSAN.
Shahrood is at the exit from the mountains of the caravan route from
Asterabad, Mazanderan, and the Caspian coast. The mountains overlooking
it are bare and rocky. A good trade seems to be done by several firms of
Russian-Armenians in exporting wool, cotton, and pelts to Russia, and
handling Russian iron and petroleum. But for the iniquitous method of
taxation, which consists really of looting the producing classes of all
they can stand, the volume of trade here might easily be tenfold what it
is.
Shahrood is, or rather was, one of the "four stations of terror,"
Mijamid, Miandasht, and Abassabad being the other three, so called on
account of their exposed position and the consequent frequency of
Turcoman attacks. Even nowadays they have their little ripples of
excitement; rumors of Turcoman raids are heard in the bazaars, and news
was brought in and telegraphed to Teheran a week ago that fifteen
thousand sheep had been carried off from a district north of the
mountains. Word comes back that a regiment of soldiers is on its way to
chastise the Turcomans and recover the property; what really will happen,
will be a horde of soldiers staying there long enough to devour what few
sheep the poor people have left, and then returning without having seen,
much less chastised, a Turcoman. The Persian Government will notify the
Russian Minister of the misdoings of the Turcomans, and ask to have them
punished and the sheep restored; the Russian Minister will reply that
these particular Turcomans were Persian subjects, and nothing further
will be done.
Mr. Mclntyre is a canny Scot, a Royal Engineer, and weighs fully three
hundred pounds; but with this avoirdupois he is far from being inactive,
and together we ramble up the Asterabad Pass to take a look at the Bostam
Valley on the other side. The valley isn't much to look at; no verdure,
only a brown, barren plain, surrounded on all sides by equally brown,
barren mountains. In the evening the Prince sends round a pheasant, and
shortly after calls himself and partakes of tea and cigarettes,
I accept Mr. McIntyre's invitation to remain and rest up, but only for
another day, my experience being that, when on the road, one or two days'
rest is preferable to a longer period; one gets rested without getting
out of condition. We take a stroll through the bazaar in the morning, and
call in at the wine-shop of a Russian-Armenian trader named Makerditch,
who keeps arrack and native wine, and sample some of the latter. In his
shop is a badly stuffed Mazanderaii tiger, and the walls of the private
sitting-room are decorated with rude, old-fashioned prints of saints and
scriptural scenes. It is now the Persian New Year, and bright new
garments and snowy turbans impart a gay appearance to the throngs in the
bazaar, for everybody changed his wardrobe from tip to toe on
eid-i-noo-roos (evening before New Year's Day), although the "great
unwashed" of Persian society change never a garment for the next twelve
months. Considering that the average lower-class Persian puts in a good
share of this twelve months in the unprofitable process of scratching
himself, one would think it must be an immense relief for him to cast
away these old habiliments with all their horrid load of filth and
vermin, and don a clean, new outfit; but the new ones soon get as thickly
tenanted as the old; and many even put the new garments on over certain
of the old ones, caring nothing for comfort and cleanliness, and
everything for appearance. The Persian New Year's holiday lasts thirteen
days, and on the evening of the thirteenth day everybody goes out into
the fields and plucks flowers and grasses to present to his or her
friends.
Governors of provinces who retain their position in consequence of having
sent satisfactory tribute to the Shah, and ruled with at least a
semblance of justice, get presents of new robes on New Year's Day, and
those who have been unfortunate enough to lose the royal favor get
removed: New Year's Day brings either sorrow or rejoicing to every
Persian official's house.
The morning of my departure opens bright and warm after a thunder-storm
the previous evening, and Mr. Mclntyre accompanies me to the outskirts of
the city, to put me on the right road to Mijamid, my objective point for
the day, eleven farsakhs distant. The streets are, of course, muddy and
unridable, and ere the suburbs are overcome a messenger overtakes us from
the Prince, begging me to return and drink tea with him before starting.
"Tell the Prince, the sahib sends salaams, but cannot spare the time to
return," replies my companion, who knows Persian thoroughly. "You must
come," says the messenger, "for the Khan of Bostam has arrived to pay the
New Year's salaam to the Prince, and the Prince wants you to show him the
bicycle."
"'Must come!' Tell the Prince that when the sahib gets fairly started, as
he is now, with his bicycle, he wouldn't turn back for the Shah himself."
The messenger looks glum and crestfallen, as though very reluctant to
return with such a message, a message that probably sounds to him
strangely disrespectful, if not positively treasonable; but he sees the
uselessness of bandying words, and so turns about, feeling and looking
very foolish, for he addressed us very boldly and confidently before the
whole crowd when he overtook us.
A few small streams have to be crossed on leaving Shahrood for the cast;
splendid rivulets of clear, cold water in which there ought to be trout.
After these streams the road launches at once on to a level camel-thorn
plain, the gravelled surface of which provides excellent wheeling. An
outlying village and caravanserai is passed through at a couple of
farsakhs, where, as might be expected in the "district of terror," are
hundreds of the little towers of refuge. This village would be in a very
exposed position, and it looks as though it is but just now being rebuilt
and repopulated after a period of ruin and desertion. Beyond this village
the towers of refuge and other signs of human occupation disappear; the
uncultivated desert reigns supreme on either hand; but the wheeling
continues fairly good, although a strong headwind somewhat impedes my
progress. Beyond the level plain and the lower hills to the north are the
snowy heights of the Elburz range; a less ambitious range of mountains
forms a barrier some twenty miles to the south, and in the distant
southeast there looms up a dark, massive pile that recalls at a glance
memories of Elk Mountain, Wyoming; though upon a closer inspection there
is no doubt but that the densely wooded slopes of our old acquaintance of
the Rockies would be found wanting.
Twenty miles of this level plain is traversed, and I find myself gazing
curiously at a range of mica-flecked hills off to the right. These hills
present a very curious appearance; the myriads of flakes of mica
scattered all about glitter and glint in the bright sunlight as if they
might be diamonds, and it requires but an easy effort of the imagination
to fancy one's self in some strange, rich land of the "gorgeous East,"
where precious jewels are scattered about like stones. These
mica-spangled hills bear about the same relation to what one's
imagination might conceive them to be as the "gorgeous East" as it
actually exists does to the "gorgeous East" we read of in fairytales.
Beyond the mica hills, I pass through a stretch of abandoned cultivation,
where formerly existed fields and ditches, and villages with an abundance
of portable property tempted Turkoman raiders to guide their matchless
chargers hither. But small outlying settlements hereabout were precarious
places to live in, and the persistent damans generally caused them to be
abandoned entirely from time to time.
The road has averaged good to-day, and Mijamid is reached at four
o'clock. Seeking the shelter of the chapar-khana, that devoted building
is soon surrounded by a new-dressed and accordingly a good-natured and
vociferous crowd shouting--"Sowar shuk! sowar shuk! tomasha!
tomasha!"
As I survey the grinning, shouting multitude from my retreat on the roof,
and note the number of widely-opened mouths, the old wicked thoughts
about hot potatoes and dexterity in throwing them persist in coming to
the fore. Several scrimmages and quarrels occur between the chapar-jee
and his shagirds, and the crowd, who persist in invading the premises,
and the tumult around is something deafening, for it is holiday times and
the people feel particularly self-indulgent and disinclined for
self-denial. In the midst of the uproar, from out the chaotic mass of
rainbow-colored costumes, there forms a little knot of mollahs in huge
snowy turbans and flowing gowns of solid blue or green, and at their head
the gray-bearded patriarchal-looking old khan of the village in his
flowered robe of office from the governor. These gay-looking, but
comparatively sober-sided representatives of the village, endeavor to
have the crowd cease their clamorous importunities--an attempt,
however, that results in signal failure--and they constitute
themselves a delegation to approach me in a respectful and decorous
manner, and ask me to ride for the satisfaction of themselves and the
people.
The profound salaams and good taste of these eminently respectable
personages are not to be resisted, and after satisfying them, the khan
promises to provide me with supper, which at a later hour turns up in the
form of the inevitable dish of pillau.
Two miles on the road next morning and it begins raining; at five miles
it develops into a regular downpour, that speedily wets me through. A
small walled village is finally reached and shelter obtained beneath its
ample portals, a place that seems to likewise be the loafing-place of the
village. The entrance is a good-sized room, and here on wet days the men
can squat about and smoke, and at the same time see everything that
passes on the road. The village is defended by a strong mud wall some
thirty feet high, and strengthened with abutting towers at frequent
intervals; the only entrance is the one massive door, and inside there is
plenty of room for all the four-footed possessions of the people; the
houses are the usual little mud huts with thatched beehive roofs, built
against the wall. The flocks of goats and sheep are admitted inside every
evening, and taken out again to graze in the morning; the appearance of
the interior is that of a very filthy, undrained, and utterly neglected
farmyard, and as no breath of wind ever passes through it, or comes any
nearer the ground than the top of the thirty-foot wall, living in its
reeking, pent-up exhalations must be something abominable.
Such a place as this in Persia would be fairly swarming with noxious
insect life, of which fleas would be the most tolerable variety, and
two-thirds of the people would be suffering from chronic ophthalmia. This
little village, doubtless, had enough to do a few years ago to maintain
its existence, even with its remarkably strong walls; and on the highest
mountain peaks round about they point out to me their watch-towers, where
sentinels daily scanned the country round for the wild horsemen they so
much dreaded. Four men and three women among the little crowd gathered
about me here, are pointed out as having been released from slavery by
the Russians, when they captured Khiva and liberated the Persian slaves
and sent them home. Every village and hamlet along this part of the
country contains its quota of returned captives who, no doubt, entertain
lively recollections of being carried off and sold.
Soon after my arrival here, a little, weazen-faced, old seyud, in a
threadbare and badly-faded green gown, comes hobbling through the rain
and the mahogany-colored slush of the village yard to the gate. Everybody
rises respectfully as he comes in, and the old fellow, accustomed to
having this deference paid him by everybody about him, and wishing to
show courtesy to a Ferenghi, motions for me to keep seated. Seeing that I
had no intention of rising, this courtesy was somewhat superfluous, but
the incident serves to show how greatly these simple villagers are
impressed with the idea of a seyud's superiority, to say nothing of the
seyud's assumption of the same. They explain to me that the little,
unwashed, unkempt, and well-nigh unclad specimen of humanity examining
the bicycle is a seyud, with the manner of people pointing out a being of
unapproachable superiority. Still, looking at the poor old fellow's rags,
and remembering that it is new year and the time for a change of raiment,
one cannot help thinking, "Old fellow, you evidently come in for more
resect, after all, than material assistance, and would, no doubt,
willingly exchange a good deal of the former for a little of the latter."
Still, one must not be too confident of this; the bodily requirements of
a wrinkled old seyud would be very trifling, while his egotism would, on
the other hand, be insufferable. This is a grazing village chiefly, and
the gravelly desert comes close up to the walls, so that there is no
difficulty about pushing on immediately after it ceases raining.
Two farsakhs of variable wheeling through a belt of low hills and broken
country, and two more over the level Miandasht Plain, and the
caravanserai of Miandasht is reached. Here the village, the telegraph
office and everything is enclosed within the protecting walls of an
immense Shah Abbas caravanserai, a building capable of affording shelter
and protection to five thousand people. In the old--and yet not so very
old--dangerous days, it was necessary, for safety, that travellers and
pilgrims should journey together through this section of country in large
caravans, otherwise disaster was sure to overtake them; and Shah Abbas
the Great built these huge caravanserais for their accommodation. In
deference to the memory of this monarch as a builder of caravanserais all
over the country, any large serai is nowadays called a Shah Abbas
caravanserai, whether built by him or not. Certainly not less than three
hundred pack-camels, besides other animals, are resting and feeding, or
being loaded up for the night march as I ride up, their myriad clanging
bells making a din that comes floating across the plain to meet me as I
approach.
Miandasht is the first place in Khorassan proper, and among the motley
gathering of charmdars, camel-drivers, pilgrims, travellers, villagers
and hangers-on about the serai, are many Khorassanis wearing huge
sheepskin busbies, similar to the head-gear of the Roumanians and Tabreez
Turks of Ovahjik and the Perso-Turkish border. Most of these busbies are
black or brown, but some affect a mixture of black and white, a piebald
affair that looks very striking and peculiar.
The telegraph-jee here turns out to be a person of immense importance in
his own estimation, and he has evidently succeeded in impressing the same
belief upon the unsophisticated minds of the villagers, who, apparently,
have come to regard him as little less than "monarch of all he surveys."
True, there isn't much to survey at Miaudasht, everything there being
within the caravanserai walls; but whenever the telegraph-jee emerges
from the seclusion of his little office, it is to blossom forth upon the
theatre of the crowd's admiring glances in the fanciful habiliments of a
la-de-da Persian swell. Very punctilious as regards etiquette, instead of
coming forth in a spontaneous manner to see who I am and look at the
bicycle, he pays me a ceremonious visit at the chapar-khana half an hour
later. In this visit he is preceded by his farrash, and he walks with a
magnificent peacock strut that causes the skirts of his faultless
roundabout to flop up and down, up and down, in rhythmic accompaniment to
his steps. Apart from his insufferable conceit, however, he tries to make
himself as agreeable as possible, and after tea and cigarettes, I give
him and the people a tomasha, at the conclusion of which he asks
permission to send in my supper.
The room in which I spend the evening is a small, dome-roofed apartment,
in which a circular opening in the apex of the dome is expected to fill
the triple office of admitting light, ventilation, and carrying off smoke
from the fire; the natural consequence being that the room is dark,
unventilated, and full of smoke. Now and then some determined sightseer
on the roof fills this hole up completely with his head, in an effort to
peer down through the smoke and obtain a glimpse of myself or the
bicycle, or a mischievous youngster, unable to resist the temptation,
drops down a stone.
The shagird-chapar here is a man who has been to Askabad and seen the
railroad; and when the inevitable question of Russian versus English
marifet (mechanical skill) comes up, he endeavors to impress upon the
open-mouthed listeners the marvellous character of the locomotive. "It is
a wonderful atesh-gharri" (fire-wagon), he would say, "and runs on an
awhan rah (iron road); the charvadar puts in atesh and ob. It goes chu,
chu! chu!! ch-ch-ch-chu-ch-u-u-u!!! spits fire and smoke, pulls a
long-khylie long-caravan of forgans with it, and goes ten farsakhs an
hour." But in order to thoroughly appreciate this travelled and highly
enlightened person's narrative, one must have been present in the
smoke-permeated room, and by the nickering light of a camel-thorn fire
have watched the gesticulations of the speaker and the rapt attention of
the listeners; must have heard the exclamations of "Mashal-l-a-h!" escape
honestly and involuntarily from the parted lips of wonder-stricken
auditors as they endeavored to comprehend how such things could possibly
be. And yet there is no doubt that, five minutes afterward, the verdict
of each listener, to himself, was that the shagird-chapar, in describing
to them the locomotive, was lying like a pirate--or a Persian--and, after
all, they couldn't conceive of anything more wonderful than the bicycle
and the ability to ride it, and this they had seen with their own eyes.
It is the change of the moon, and a most wild-looking evening; the sun
sets with a fiery forge glowing about it, and fringing with an angry
border the banks of darksome clouds that mingle their weird shapes with
the mountain masses to the west, the wind sighs and moans through the
archways and menzils of the huge caravanserai, breathing of rain and
unsettled weather. These warning signals are not far in advance, for a
drenching rain soaks and saturates everything during the night,
converting the parallel trails of the pilgrim road into twenty narrow,
silvery streaks, that glisten like trails of glass ahead, as I wheel
along them to meet the newly-risen sun. It is a morning of hurrying,
scudding clouds and fitful sunshine, but fresh and bracing after the
rain; a country of broken hills and undulating road is reached in an
hour; the broken hills are covered with blossoming shrubs and green young
camel-thorn, in which birds are cheerily piping.
Six farsakhs bring me to Abbasabad, the last of the four stations of
terror. A lank villager is on the lookout a couple of miles west of the
place, the people having been apprised of my coming by some travellers
who left Miandasht yesterday evening. Tucking the legs of his pantaloons
in his waistband, leaving his legs bare and unencumbered, he follows me
at a swinging trot into the village, and pilots me to the caravanserai.
The population of the place are found occupying their housetops, and
whatever points of vantage they can climb to, awaiting my appearance,
their curiosity having been wrought to the highest pitch by their
informant's highly exaggerated accounts of what they might expect to see.
The prevailing color of the female costume is bright red, and the swarms
of these gayly-dressed people congregated on the housetops, and mingled
promiscuously with the dark gray of the mud walls and domes, makes a
picture long to be remembered.
And long also to be remembered is the reception awaiting me inside the
caravanserai yard--the surging, pushing, struggling, shouting mob, among
whom I notice, with some wonderment and speculation, a far larger
proportion of blue-eyed people than I have hitherto seen in Persia. Upon
inquiry it is learned that Abbasabad is a colony of Georgians, planted
and subsidized here by Shah Abbas the Great, as a check on the Turkomans,
whose frequent alamans rendered the roads hereabout well-nigh impassable
for caravans. These warlike mountaineers were brought from the Caucasus
and colonized here, with lands, exemption from taxes, and given an annual
subsidy. They were found to be of good service as a check on the
Turkomans, but were not much of an improvement upon the Turkomans
themselves in many respects. As seen in the caravanserai to-day, they
seem a turbulent, headstrong crowd of people, accustomed to be petted,
and to do pretty much as they please.
At the caravanserai is a traveller who says he hails from the Pishin
Valley, and he produces a certificate in English, recommending him as a
stone mason. The certificate settles all doubts of his being from India,
for were one to meet an Hindostani in the classic shades of purgatory
itself, he would immediately produce a certificate recommending him for
something or other. As the crowd surge and struggle for some position
around me where they can enjoy the exquisite delight of seeing me sip
tiny glasses of scalding hot tea, prepared by the enterprising individual
who met me two miles out, the Pishin Valley man tries to look amused at
them, and to rise superior to the situation, as becomes a person to whom
a Sahib, and whatever wonderful things he may possess, are nothing
extraordinary. The crowd seem very loath to let such an extraordinary
thing as the bicycle and its rider depart from among them so soon,
although at the same time anxious to see me speed along the smooth,
straight trails that fortunately lead directly from the caravanserai
eastward. Scores of the shouting, yelling mob race, bare-footed and
bare-legged, over the stones and gravel alongside the bicycle, until I
can put on a spurt and out-distance them, which I take care to do as soon
as practicable, thankful to get away and eat the bread pocketed in
disgust at the caravanserai in the peace and quietude of the desert.
Beyond Abbasabad my road skirts Mazinan Lake to the north, passing
between the slimy mud-flats of the lake shore and the ever-present Elburz
foot-hills, and then through several wholly ruined or partially ruined
villages to Mazinan, where I arrive about sunset, my wheel yet again a
mass of mud, for the Mazinan lake country is a muddy hole in spring. A
drizzling rain ushers in the dusky shades of the evening, as I repair to
the chaparkhana, a wretched hole, in a most dilapidated condition. The
balakhana is little better than being out of doors; the roof leaks like a
colander, the windows are mere unglazed holes in the wall, and the doors
are but little better than the windows. It promises to be a cold,
draughty, comfortless night, and the prospects for supper look gloomy
enough in the light of smoky camel-thorn and no samovar to make a cup of
tea.
Such is the cheerless prospect confronting me after a hard day's run,
when, soon after dark, a man arrives with a thrice-welcome invitation
from a Russian officer, who he says is staying at the caravanserai. The
officer, he says, has pillau, kabobs, wine, plenty of everything, and
would be glad if I would bring my machine and come and accept his
hospitality for the night. Under the circumstances nothing could be more
welcome news than this; and picturing to myself a pleasant evening with a
genial, hospitable gentleman, I take the bicycle down the slippery and
broken mud stairway, and follow my guide through drizzling rain and
darkness, over ditches and through miry byways, to the caravanserai.
The officer is found squatting, Asiatic-like, on his menzil floor, his
overcoat over his shoulders. He is watching his cook broiling kabobs for
his supper. It is a cheery, hopeful prospect, the glowing charcoal fire
sparkling in response to the vigorous waving of half a saddle-flap, the
savory, sizzling kabobs and the carpeted menzil, in comparison with the
dreary tumble-down place I have just left. My first impression of the
officer himself, however, is scarcely so favorable as my impression of
the picture in which he is set--the picture as just described; a sinister
leer characterizes the expression of his face, and what appears like a
nod, with an altogether unnecessary amount of condescension in it,
characterizes his greeting. Hopping down to the ground, lamp in hand, he
examines the bicycle minutely, and then indirectly addressing the
by-standers, he says, "Pooh! this thing was made in Tiflis; there's
hundreds of them in Tiflis." Having delivered himself of this lying
statement, he hops up on the menzil front again and, without paying the
slightest attention to me, resumes his squatting position at the fire,
and his occupation of watching the preparations of his cook. Nothing is
more evident to me than that he had never before seen a bicycle, and
astounded at this conduct on the part of an officer who doubtless thinks
himself a civilized being, even though he might not understand anything
of our own conception of an "officer and a gentleman," I begin looking
around for an explanation from the fellow who brought me the invitation,
thinking there must be some mistake. The man has disappeared and is
nowhere to be found.
The chapar-jee accompanied us to the caravanserai, and seeing that this
man has bolted, and that the Russian officer's intentions toward me are
anything but hospitable, he calls the missing man--or the officer, I
don't know which--a pedar suktar (son of a burnt father), and
suggests returning to the cold comfort of the bala-khana. My own feelings
upon realizing that this wretched, unscrupulous Muscovite has craftily
designed and executed this plan for no other purpose but to insult and
humiliate one whom he took for granted to be an Englishman, in the eyes
of the Persian travellers present, I prefer to pass over and leave to the
reader's imagination. After sleeping on it and thinking it over, early
next morning I returned to the caravanserai, bent on finding the fellow
who brought the invitation, giving him a thrashing, and seeing if the
officer would take it up in his behalf. In the morning, the cossacks said
he had gone away; whether gone away or hiding somewhere in the
caravanserai, he was nowhere to be found; which perhaps was just as well,
for the affair might have ended in bloodshed, and in a fight the chances
would have been decidedly against myself.
This incident, disagreeable though it be to think of, is instructive as
showing the possibilities for mean and contemptible action that may lurk
beneath the uniform of a Russian officer. Russian officers as a general
thing, however, it is but fair to add, would show up precisely the
reverse of this fellow, under similar circumstances, being genial and
hospitable to a fault; still, I venture that in no other army in the
world, reckoning itself civilized, could be found even one officer
capable of displaying just such a spirit as this.
The unwelcome music of pattering rain and flowing water in the concert I
have to sit and listen to all the forenoon, and a glance outside is
rewarded by the dreariest of prospects. The landscape as seen from my
lone and miserable lookout, consists of gray mud-fields and gray
mud-ruins, wet and slimy with the constant rains; occasional
barley-fields mosaic the dreary prospect with bright green patches, but
across them all--the mud-flats, the ruins, and the barley-fields--the
driving rain sweeps remorselessly along, and the wind moans dismally.
There is only one corner of my room proof against the drippings from the
roof, and through the wretched apologies for doors and windows the
driving rain comes in. Everything seems to go wrong in this particular
place. I obtain tea and sugar, but there is no samovar, and the
chapar-jee attempts to make it in an open kettle; the result is sweetened
water, lukewarm and smoky. I then send for pomegranates, which turn out
to be of a sour, uneatable variety; but worse than all is the dreary
consciousness of being hopelessly imprisoned for an uncertain period.
It grows gradually colder, and toward noon the rain changes to snow; the
cold and the penetrating snow drive me into the shelter of the
ill-smelling stables. It blows a perfect hurricane all the afternoon,
accompanied by fitful squalls of snow and hail, and the same programme
continues the greater part of the night. But in the morning I am thankful
to discover that the wind has dried the surface sufficiently to enable me
to escape from my mud-environed prison and its uncongenial associations.
Before getting many miles from Mazinan, I encounter the startling novelty
of streams of liquid mud, rolling their thick, yellow flood over the
plain in treacly waves, travelling slowly, like waves of molten lava. The
mud is only a few inches deep, but the streams overspread a considerable
breadth of country, as my road is some miles from where they leave the
mountains, and they seem to have no well-defined channels to flow in. A
stream of slimy, yellow mud, two hundred yards wide, is a most
disagreeable obstacle to overcome with a bicycle; but confined in narrow,
deep channels, the conditions would be infinitely worse. It is a dreary
and forbidding stretch of country hereabout, the carcasses of camels that
have dropped exhausted by the roadside, are frequently passed, and
jackals feasting on them slink off at my approach, watch my progress past
with evident impatience, and then return again to their feast. Occasional
stretches of very fair wheeling are passed over, and at six farsakhs I
reach Mehr, the usual combination of brick caravanserai and mud village.
Here a halt is made for tea and such rude refreshments as are obtainable,
consuming them in the presence of the usual sore-eyed and
miserable-looking crowd; more than one poor wretch appealing to me to
cure his rapidly-failing sight. A gleam of warm sunshine brightens my
departure from Mehr, and after shaking off several following horsemen,
the going seems quite pleasant, the wheeling being very good indeed. The
mountains off to the left are variegated and beautiful on the lower and
intermediate slopes, and are crested with snow; scudding cloudlets, whose
multiform shadows are continually climbing up and over the mountains,
produce a pleasing kaleidoscopic effect, and here and there a sunny,
glistening peak rises superior to the changeful scenes below.
Sheepskin-busbied shepherds are tending flocks of very peculiar-looking
sheep on this plain, the first of the kind I have noticed. The fatty
continuation of the body, popularly regarded as an abnormal growth of
tail, is wanting; but what is lacking in this respect is amply
compensated for in the pendulous ears, these members hanging almost to
the ground; they have a goatish appearance generally, and may possibly be
the result of a cross. Herds of antelope also frequent this locality,
which by and by develops into a level mud-plain that affords smooth and
excellent wheeling, and over which I take the precaution of making the
best time possible, conscious that a few minutes' rain would render it
impassable for a bicycle; and wild wind-storms are even now careering
over it, accompanied by spits of snow and momentary squalls of hail.
A lone minar, looming up directly ahead like a tall factory chimney,
indicates my approach to Subzowar. The minaret is reached by sunset; it
turns out to be a lone shrine of some imam, from which it is yet two
farsakhs to Subzowar. The wheeling from this point, however, is very
good, and I roll into Subzowar, or, at least, up to its gate, for
Subzowar is a walled city, shortly after dark. Sherab (native wine) they
tell me, is obtainable in the bazaar, but when I inquire the price per
bottle, with a view of sending for one, several eager aspirants for the
privilege of fetching it shout out different prices, the lowest figure
mentioned being three times the actual price. Being rather indifferent
about the doubtful luxury of drinking wine for the amusement of an
eagerly curious crowd, which I know only too well beforehand will be my
unhappy portion, I conclude to chagrin and disappoint the whole dishonest
crew by doing without. One gets so thoroughly disgusted with the
ever-present trickery, dishonesty, and prying, unrestrained curiosity of
the ragged, sore-eyed and garrulous crowds that gather about one at every
halting place, that a person actually comes to prefer a mere crust of
bread in peace by a road-side pool to the best a city bazaar affords.
A well-dressed individual makes his salaam and intrudes his person upon
the scene of my early preparations to depart, on the following morning,
and, when I start, takes upon himself the office of conducting me through
the labyrinthian bazaar and to the gate of exit beyond. I am wondering
somewhat who this individual may be, and wherefore the officiousness of
his demeanor to the crowd at our heels; but his mission is soon revealed,
for on the way out he pilots me into the court-yard of the Reis, or mayor
of the city. The Reis receives me with the glad and courteous greeting of
a person desirous of making himself agreeable and of creating a favorable
impression; trays of sweetmeats are produced, and tea is served up in
little porcelain cups.
As soon as tea and sweetmeats and kalians appear on the board, mollahs
and seyuds mysteriously begin to put in an appearance likewise, filing
noiselessly in and taking their places near or distant from the Reis,
according to their respective rank and degree of holiness. My
observations everywhere in the Land of the Lion and the Sun all tend to
the conclusion that whenever and wherever a samovar of tea begins to sing
its cheery and aromatic song, and the soothing hubble-bubble of the
kalian begins telling its seductive tale of solid comfort and social
intercourse, a huge green or white turban is certain to appear on the
scene, a robed figure steps out of its slippers at the door, glides
noiselessly inside, puts its hand on its stomach, salaams, and drops, as
silently as a ghost might, in a squatting attitude among the guests.
Hardly has this one taken his position than another one appears at the
door and goes through precisely the same programme, followed shortly
afterward by another, and yet others; these foxy-looking members of the
Persian priesthood always seem to me to possess the faculty of scenting
these little occasions from afar and of following their noses to the
place with unerring precision.
Upon emerging from the shelter of the city and adjacent ruins, I find
myself confronted by a furious head-wind, against which it is quite
impossible to ride, and almost impossible to trundle. During the forenoon
I meet on the road a disgraced official, in the person of the
Asaf-i-dowleh, Governor-General of Khorassan, returning to Teheran from
Meshed, having been recalled at New Year's by the Shah to give an account
of himself for "oppressing the people, insulting the Prophet, and
intriguing with the Russians." The Asaf-i-dowleh made himself very
obnoxious to the priests and people of the holy city by arresting a
criminal within the place of refuge at Imam Riza's tomb, and by an
outrageous devotion to his own pecuniary interests at the public expense.
Riots occurred, the mob taking possession of the telegraph-office and
smashing the windows, because they fancied their petition to the Shah was
being tampered with. A timely rain-storm dispersed the mob and gave time
for the Shah's reply to arrive, promising the Asaf-i-dowleh's removal and
disgrace. The ex-Governor is in a carriage drawn by four grays; his own
women are in gayly gilded taktrowans, upholstered with crimson satin; the
women of his followers occupy several pairs of kajavehs, and the
household goods of the party follow behind in a number of huge Russian
forgans or wagons, each drawn by four mules abreast. Besides these are a
long string of pack-camels, mules, and attendants on horseback, forming
altogether the most imposing cavalcade I have met on a Persian road. How
they manage to get the heavily loaded forgans and the Governor's carriage
over such places as the pass near Lasgird is something of a
mystery--but there may be another route--at any rate, hundreds of
villagers would be called out to assist.
An opportunity also presents this morning of seeing the amount of
obstinacy and perverseness that manages to find lodgement within the
unsightly curves and angles of a runaway camel. A riding-camel, led by
its owner, scares at the bicycle, and, breaking away, leads him a lively
chase through a belt of low sand ridges near the road, jolting various
packages off his back as he runs. Every time the man gets almost within
seizing distance of the rope, the contrary camel starts off again in a
long, awkward lope, slowing up again, as though maliciously inviting his
owner to try it over again, when he has covered a couple of hundred
yards. These manoeuvres are repeated again and again, until the chase has
extended to perhaps four miles, when a party of travellers assist in
rounding him up; the man then has to re-traverse the whole four miles and
gather up the things.
A late luncheon of bread, warm from the oven, is obtained at the village
of Lafaram, where I likewise obtain a peep behind the scenes of everyday
village life, and see something of their mode of baking bread. The walled
village of Lafaram presents a picture of manure heaps, holes of filthy
water, mud-hovels, naked, sore eyed youngsters, unkempt, unwashed,
bedraggled females, goats, chickens, and all the unsavory elements that
enter into the composition of a wretched, semi-civilized community. With
bare, uncombed heads, bare-armed, bare-breasted, and bare-limbed, and
with their nakedness scarcely hidden beneath a few coarse rags, some of
the women are engaged in making and baking bread, and others in the
preparation of tezek from cow manure and chopped straw. In carrying on
these two occupations the women mingle, chat, and help each other with
happy-go-lucky indifference to consequences, and with a breezy
unconsciousness of there being anything repulsive about the idea of
handling hot cakes with one hand and tezek with the other. The ovens are
huge jars partially sunk in the ground; fire is made inside and the jar
heated; flat cakes of dough are then stuck in the inside of the jar, a
few minutes sufficing for the baking. The hand and arm the woman inserts
inside the heated jar is wrapped with old rags and frequently dipped in a
jar of water standing by to keep it cooled; the bread thus baked tastes
very good when fresh, but it requires a stomach rendered unsqueamish by
dire necessity to relish it after seeing it baked.
The plain beyond Lafaram assumes the character of an acclivity, that in
four farsakhs terminates in a pass through a spur of hills. The adverse
wind blows furiously all day and shows no signs of abating as the dusk of
evening settles down over the landscape. A wayside caravanserai is
reached at the entrance to the pass, and I determine to remain till
morning. Here I meet with a piece of good fortune in a small way, in the
shape of a leg of wild goat, obtained from a native Nimrod; a thin rod of
iron, obtained from the serai-jee, serves for a skewer, and I spend the
evening in roasting and eating wild-goat kabobs, while a youth fans the
little charcoal fire for me with the sole of an old geiveh.
CHAPTER V.
MESHED THE HOLY.
Warning spits of snow accompany my early morning departure from the
wayside caravanserai, and it quickly develops into a blinding snow-storm
that effectually obscures the country around, although melting as it
touches the ground.
A mile from the caravanserai the trails fork, and, taking the wrong one,
I wander some miles up the mountains ere discovering my mistake.
Retracing my way, the right road is finally taken; but the gale increases
in violence, the cold is numbing to unprotected hands and ears, and the
wind and driving snow difficult to face. At one point the trail leads
through a morass, in which are two dead horses, swamped in attempting to
cross, and near by lies an abandoned camel, lying in the mud and wearily
munching at a heap of kali (cut barley-straw) placed before him by his
owners before leaving him to his kismet; perchance with a forlorn hope
that he might pull through and finally regain his feet.
I have a narrow escape from swamping in the treacherous morass myself,
sinking knee-deep in the slimy, oozing mud-mass, pulling off my geivehs
and having no end of trouble in recovering them.
Shurab is reached about noon, where the customary crowd and customary
rude accommodations await me. Quite an unaccustomed luxury, however, is
obtained at Shurab--a substance made from grapes, called sheerah,
which resembles thin molasses. A communal dish, which I see the
chapar-jee and his sliagirds prepare for themselves and eat this evening,
consists of one pint of sheerah, half that quantity of grease, a handful
of chopped onions and a quart of water. This awful mixture is stewed for
a few minutes and then poured over a bowl of broken bread; they then
gather around and eat it with their hands--that they also eat it with
great gusto goes without saying.
Opium smoking appears to be indulged in to a great extent here, two out
of the three chapar men putting in a good portion of their time "hitting"
the seductive pipe, and tinkering with their opium-smoking apparatus.
They only have one outfit between them; both of them are half blind with
ophthalmia, and the bane of their wretched existence seems to be a
Russian candle-lamp, with a broken globe, that persists in falling apart
whenever they attempt to use it--which, by the by, is well-nigh all
the time--in manipulating the opium needle and pipe. Observing them
from my rude shake-down, after supper, bending persistently over this
broken, or ever-breaking lamp, their sore eyes and shrunken features, the
suzzle-suzzle of the opium as they suck it into the primer and inhale the
fumes--the indescribable odor of the drug pervading the
room--all this would seem to be a picture of an ideal Chinese opium
den rather than of a chapar-khana in Persia.
A broken bridge and miles of deep mud not far ahead has been the burthen
of information gathered from the villagers during the afternoon, and the
chapar-jee urges upon me the necessity of employing men and horses to
carry me and the bicycle across these obstructions into Nishapoor.
Preferring to take my chances of getting through, however, I pay no heed
to these warnings, well aware that the chapar-jee's interest in the
matter begins and ends in the fact that he has horses to hire himself.
In imitation of my example yesterday, I wander off the proper road again
this morning, taking a road that leads to an abandoned ford instead of to
the bridge, a mistake that is probably a very good one to have made when
viewed from the stand-point of mud, as my road is at least the shorter
one of the two.
A wild-looking, busby-decked crowd of Khorassani goatherds from a
neighboring village follow behind me across the level mudflats leading to
the stream, vociferously clamoring for me to ride. They shout
persistently: "H-o-i! Sowar shuk; tomasha! tomasha!" even when they see
the difficult task I have of it getting the bicycle through the mud. I
have singled out a big, sturdy goat-herder to assist me across the
streams, of which I learn there are two, a mile or thereabout apart, and
his compatriots are accompanying us to see us cross, as well as being
impelled by prying curiosity to see how many kerans he gets for his
trouble. The first stream is found to be arm-pit deep, with a fairly
strong current. My sturdy Khorassani crosses over first, to try the
bottom, feeling his way with a long-handled spade; he then returns and
carries the bicycle across on his head, afterward carrying me across
astride his shoulders, landing me safely with nothing worse than wet
feet.
A mile of awful saline mud, and stream number two is reached and crossed
in a similar manner--although here I unfortunately cross part way
over fairly sitting on the water. The water and the weather are both
uncomfortably chilly, and my assistant emerges from the second stream
with chattering teeth and goose-pimply flesh. A liberal and well-deserved
present makes him forget personal discomforts, and, fervently kissing my
hand and pressing my palm to his forehead, he tells me there is no more
water ahead, and, recrossing the stream, he wends his way homeward again.
Fortunately the road improves rapidly, developing beyond the Nishapoor
Valley into smooth, upland camel-trails that afford quite excellent
wheeling. The Nishapoor Valley impresses me as about the finest area of
cultivation seen in Persia, except, perhaps, the Tabreez Plain; and
toward Gadamgah the country gets positively beautiful--at least, beautiful
in comparison. Crystal streamlets come purling and gurgling across the
road over pebbly beds; and, looking northward for their source, one finds
that the usually gray and uninteresting foot-hills have changed into
bright, green slopes, on whose cheerful brows are seen an occasional pine
or cedar. Overtopping these green, grassy slopes are dark, rugged rocks,
and higher still the grim white region of--winter. Somewhere behind
these emerald foot-hills, near Gadamgah, are the famous turquoise mines
alluded to in the "Veiled Prophet of Khorassan." The mines are worked at
the present time, but only in a desultory and unenterprising manner.
Favored with good roads, I succeed in reaching Gadamgah before dark,
where, besides a comfortable and commodious caravanserai, and the
pleasure of seeing around a number of fine-spreading cedars, one can
obtain the rare luxury of pine-wood to build a fire.
Immediately upon my arrival a knowing and respectable-looking old
pilgrim, who calls himself a hadji and a dervish from Mazan-deran,
rescues me from the annoying importunities of the people and invites me
to share the accommodation of his menzil. Augmenting his scanty stock of
firewood and obtaining eggs and bread, quite a comfortable evening is
spent in reclining beside the blazing pine-wood fire, which is itself no
trifling luxury in a country of scanty camel-thorn and tezek. Whenever
the prying curiosity of the occupants of neighboring menzils impels them
to visit our quarters, to stand and stare at me, my friend the hadji
waxes indignant, and, waving a stick of firewood threateningly toward
them, he pours forth a torrent of withering and sarcastic remarks. Once,
in his wrath, he hops lightly off the menzil floor, seizes an individual
twice his own size by the kammerbund, jerks him violently forward, bids
him stare until he gets ashamed of staring, and then, turning him round,
shoves him unceremoniously away again, pursuing him as he retreats to his
own quarters with vengeful shouts of "y-a-h!"
To a few eminently respectable travellers, however, the hadji graciously
accords the coveted privilege of squatting around our fire and chatting.
Being himself a person who dearly loves the music of his own voice, he
holds forth at great length on the subject of himself in particular,
dervishes in general, and the Province of Mazanderaii. Like a good many
other people conscious of their own garrulousness, the hadji evidently
suspects his auditors of receiving his statements with a good deal of
allowance; consequently, when impressing upon them the circumstance of
his hailing from Mazanderan--a fact that he seems to think creditable in
some way to himself--he produces from the depths of his capacious
saddlebags several dried fish of a variety for which that province is
celebrated, and exhibits them in confirmation of his statements.
It is genuine wintry weather, and with no bedclothes, save a narrow
horse-blanket borrowed from my impromptu friend, I spend a cold,
uncomfortable night, for a caravanserai menzil is but a mere place of
shelter after all. The hadji rises early and replenishes the fire, and
with his little brass teapot we make and drink a glass of tea together
before starting out.
At daybreak the hadji goes outside to take a preliminary peep at the
weather, and returns with the unwelcome intelligence that it is snowing.
"Better snow than rain," I conclude, as I prepare to start, little
thinking that I am entering upon the toughest day's experience of the
whole journey through Persia.
Before covering three miles, the snow-storm develops into a regular
blizzard; a furious, driving storm that would do credit to Dakota.
Without gloves, and in summer clothes throughout, I quickly find myself
in a most unenviable plight. It is no common snow-storm; every few
minutes a halt has to be made, hands buffeted and ears rubbed to prevent
these members from freezing; yet foot-gear has to be removed and streams
waded in the bitter cold.
The road leads up into a region of broken hills, and the climax of my
discomfort is reached, when the blizzard is raging with ever-increasing
fury, and the cold has already slightly nipped one finger. While
attempting to cross a deep, narrow stream without disrobing, it is my
unhappy fate to drop the bicycle into the water, and furthermore to front
the necessity of instantly plunging in, armpit deep, to its rescue. When
I emerge upon the opposite bank my situation is really quite critical; in
a few moments my garments are frozen stiff; everything I have with me is
wet; my leathern case, containing the small stock of medicines, matches,
writing material, and other small but necessary articles, is full of
water, and, with hands benumbed, I am unable to unstrap it.
My only salvation consists in vigorous exercise, and, conscious of this,
I splurge ahead through the blinding storm and the fast-deepening snow,
fording several other streams, often emerging dripping from the icy water
to struggle through waist-deep snow-drifts that are rapidly accumulating
under the influence of the driving blast and fast-falling snow. Uncertain
of the distance to the next caravanserai, I push determinedly forward in
this condition for several hours, making but slow progress. Everything
must come to an end, however, and twenty miles from Gadamgah the welcome
outlines of a road-side caravanserai become visible through the thickly
falling snow-flakes, and the din of many jangling camel-bells proclaims
it already occupied.
The caravanserai is found so densely crowded with people, horses, camels,
and their loads that it is impossible to at first carry the bicycle
inside. Confusion, and more than confusion, reigns supreme; every menzil
is occupied, and the whole interior space is a confused mass of
charvadars, stoutly vociferating at one another and at the pack-animals
lying down, wandering about, or being unloaded.
Leaving the bicycle outside in the snow, I clamber over the humpy forms
of kneeling camels, through an intricate maze of mules and over
barricades of miscellaneous merchandise, and, making a virtue of dire
necessity, invade the menzil of a well-to-do looking traveller. Here,
waiving all considerations of whether my presence is acceptable or the
reverse, I take a seat beside their fire and forthwith proceed to shed my
saturated foot-gear. Under ordinary conditions this proceeding would be
nothing less than a piece of sublime assurance; but necessity knows no
law, and my case is really very urgent. When I explain to the occupants
of the menzil that this nolens volens invasion of their premises is but a
temporary arrangement, in the flowery language of polite Persian they
tell me that the menzil, the fire, and everything they have is mine.
After the inevitable examination of my map, compass, and sundry effects,
I begin to fancy my presence something of an embarrassment, and
consequently am not a little gratified at hearing the authoritative voice
of my friend the hadji shouting loudly at the charvadars, telling them
that he is a hadji and a Mazanderan dervish, for whom they cannot clear
the way too quickly. Looking round, I see him appear at the caravanserai
entrance with a party of pilgrims, in whose company he has journeyed from
Gadamgah. The combined excellences that enter into the composition of a
person who is both a dervish and an ex-Mecca pilgrim are of great benefit
in securing the respect and consideration of the common herd in Persia;
and as, in addition to this, our hadji commands attention by the peculiar
tone and volume of his voice when delivering his commands, his tall,
angular steed is quickly tied up in a snug and sheltered corner and his
saddle-bags deposited on the floor of a fellow-pilgrim's menzil.
Hearing of my arrival, he straightway seeks me out and invites me to
share the accommodation of his new-found quarters, not forgetting to
explain to the people he finds me with, however, that he is a hadji, a
dervish, and that he hails from Mazanderan. I shouldn't be much surprised
to see him back up the latter assertion by producing a dried fish from
the ample folds of his kammerbund; but these finny witnesses are reserved
to perform their role later in the evening.
As the gloom of night envelopes the interior of the caravanserai, and the
scores of little brushwood fires smoke and glimmer and twinkle fitfully,
the scene appeals to an observant Occidental as being decidedly unique,
and totally unlike anything to be seen outside of Persia. Around each
little fire, from four to a dozen figures are squatting, each group
forming a most social gathering; some are singing, some chatting
pleasantly, some quarrelling and arguing violently; some are shouting
lustily at each other across the whole width of the serai; all are taking
turns at smoking the kalian or sipping tea, or preparing supper.
Occasionally a fiery wheel glows through the darkness, from which fly
myriads of sparks, looking very pretty as it describes rapid circles.
This is a. little wire cage, full of live charcoal, that is being swung
round and round like a sling to enliven the coals for priming the kalian.
In the middle space, crowded with animals and their loads, the horses,
being all stallions, are constantly squealing and fighting; camels, are
grunting dolefully, donkeys are braying and bells clanging, and grooms
and charvadars are shouting and quarrelling. Taken all in all, the
interior of a crowded caravanserai is a decidedly animated place.
The snow-storm subsides during the night, and a clear, frosty morning
breaks upon a wintry landscape, in which nothing is visible but snow. The
hadji announces his intention of "Inshallah Meshed, am roos" (please God,
we will reach Meshed to-day) as he covers up the obtrusive tail of a fish
emerging from one of the saddle-bags and prepares to mount. I give him my
packages to carry, by way of lightening my burden as much as possible for
the struggle through the snow, and promise him a bottle of arrack, upon
reaching Meshed, as a reward for thus assisting me through. Arrack is
forbidden fruit to a hadji above all things else, so that nothing I could
promise him would likely prove more tempting or acceptable, or be better
appreciated!
It proves slavish work trundling, tugging, and carrying the bicycle
through the deep snow along a half-broken trail made by a few horses, and
through deep drifts; but the cold, bracing air is favorable for exertion,
and by ten o'clock we reach Shahriffabad, where a halt is made to prepare
a cup of tea and to give the hadji's horse a feed of barley. At
Shahriffabad we are warned that on the hills between here and Meshed snow
will be found two feet deep, streams belly deep to the hadji's horse will
have to be forded, and, toward Meshed, mud knee-deep. Conscious that the
mud will be "knee-deep" the whole distance, after the disappearance of
the snow, this makes us only the more eager to push on while we may.
The sun has by this time become uncomfortably warm, and the narrow trail
is fast becoming a miry pathway of mud and slush under the trampling feet
of the animals gone ahead, and of villagers' donkeys returning from the
city. Mile after mile is devoted to the unhappy task of trundling the
bicycle ahead, rear wheel aloft, through mud and slush varying from
ankle-deep to worse, occasionally varying the programme by fording a
stream.
Late in the afternoon we arrive at the summit of the hills overlooking
the Meshed Plain, and the hadji points out enthusiastically the golden
dome of Imam Biza's sanctuary; the yellow, glistening goal whose famed
sanctity has attracted hosts of pilgrims from all quarters of Central
Asia for ages past. The hills hereabout are of a rocky character, and
pious pilgrims have gathered into little mounds every loose piece of
rock, it being customary for each pilgrim to find a stone and add it to
one of these piles upon first viewing the bright golden dome of the holy
city from this commanding spot.
Below the rocky paths of this declivity the snow disappears in favor of
slippery mud, and the hadji's wearied charger slips and slides about, to
the imminent danger of its rider's neck; and all the time the slim
Turkoman! steed trembles visibly in terror of the old Mazanderan
dervish's whip and his awful threats. Two miles down the bed of the
stream, crossing and recrossing it a dozen times, often thigh-deep, and
we emerge upon the gently sloping area of the Meshed Plain, with the
yellow beacon-light of Meshed glowing in the mellow light of the evening
sun six miles away.
The late storm has been chiefly rain in the lower altitude of the plain,
and the day's sunshine has partially dried the surface, but leaving it
slippery and treacherous here and there. After leaving the bed of the
stream the hadji becomes anxious about reaching Meshed before dark, and
advises me to mount and put on the speed.
"Inshallah, Meshed yek saat," he says, and so I mount and bid him follow
along behind. By vocal suasion and a liberal application of his cruel,
triple-thonged, raw-hide whip, he urges his well-nigh staggering animal
into a canter, lifting his forefeet clear of the ground seemingly by the
bridle at every jump. Suspicious as to his lank and angular steed's
sure-footedness under the strain, I take the very laudable precaution of
keeping as far from him as possible, not caring to get mixed up in a
catastrophe that seems inevitable every time the horse, goaded by the
stinging stimulus of the whip and the threats, makes another jump. Not
more than a mile of the six is covered when I have ample reason for
congratulating myself on taking this precaution, for the horse stumbles,
and, being too far gone to recover himself, comes down on his nose, and
the "hadji and Mazanderau dervish" is cutting a most ridiculous figure in
the mud. His tall lambskin hat flies off and lands in a pool of muddy
water some distance ahead; the ponderous saddle-bags, which are merely
laid on the saddle, shoot forward athwart the horse's neck, the horse's
nose roots quite a furrow in the road, and the horse's owner picks
himself up and takes a woeful survey of his own figure. It is needless to
say that the survey includes a good deal more real estate than the hadji
cares to claim, even though it be the semi-sacred soil of the Meshed
Plain.
The poor horse is altogether too tired to attempt to recover his legs of
his own inclination; but, regarding him as the author of his ignominious
misadventure, the hadji surveys him with a wrathful eye for a moment,
mutters a few awful imprecations--imported, no doubt, from Mazanderan--and
then attacks him savagely about the head with the whip. In his wrath and
determination to make a lasting impression of each blow given, the hadji
emphasizes each visitation with a very audible grunt; and, to speak
correctly, so does the horse. It goes without saying, however, that
master and animal grunt from widely different motives; although, so far
as the mere audible performance is concerned, one grunt might almost be
an echo of the other.
At length, by adopting a more circumspect pace, we reach the gate of the
holy city about sunset without further mishap. The hadji leads the way
through a bewildering labyrinth of narrow streets that consist of an open
sewage-ditch in the centre, at present full of filth, and a narrow
footway of rough, broken, and mud-bespattered cobble-stones on either
side. Of course we are followed through these fearful thoroughfares by a
surging and vociferous crowd of people such as a Central Asian city alone
can produce; but I can this time happily afford to smile at these usually
irritating accompaniments to my arrival in a populous city, for ten
minutes after entering the gate finds me shaking hands with Mr. Gray, the
genial telegraphist of the Afghan Boundary Commission. With a
well-guarded gate between our cosey quarters and the shouting mob
outside, the evening is spent very pleasantly and quietly, in striking
comparison with what it would have been had no one been here to afford me
a place of refuge.
Meshed is "the jumping off place" of telegraphy; the electric spider
spins his galvanized web no farther in this direction, and the dirge-like
music of civilization's--AEolian harp, that, like the roll of
England's drum, is heard around the world, approaches the barbarous
territory of Afghanistan from two directions, but recoils from entering
that fanatical and conservative domain. It approaches from Persia on the
one side, and from India on the other; but as yet it only approaches. The
drum has already been there; it is only a question of time when the
AEolian harp will follow.
It is with lively recollection of Khorassani March weather and the
experience of the last few days that, after a warm bath, I array myself
in a suit of Mr. Gray's clothing, elevate my slippered feet, "Yenghi
Donia fashion," on a pile of Turcoman! carpets, and, abetted by the
cheering presence of a bottle of Shiraz wine, exchange my recent
experiences on the road for telegraphic scraps of the latest news. How
utterly unsatisfactory and altogether wretched seems even the gilded
palace of a Persian provincial governor--the meaningless compliments, the
salaaming lackeys and empty show of courtesy, when compared with the
cosey quarters, the hearty welcome, the honest ring of an Englishman's
voice, and the genuineness of everything!
Shortly after my arrival, a gentleman with a coal-black complexion, a
retreating forehead, and an overshadowing wealth of lip appears at the
door bearing a tray of sweetmeats. Making a profound salaam, he steps out
of his slipper-like shoes, enters, and places the sweetmeats on the
table, smiling a broad expectant-of-backsheesh smile the while he
explains his mission.
"The Sartiep has sent you his salaams and a present of sweetmeats,
preparatory to calling round himself," explains mine host; "he is a
Persian gentleman, Ali Akbar Khan, at the head of the Meshed
telegraph-service, and has the rank of general or Sartiep." The Sartiep
himself arrives shortly afterward, accompanied by his favorite son, a
budding youth of some eight or ten summers, of whose beauty he feels very
justly proud. The Sartiep's son is one of those remarkably handsome boys
met with occasionally in modern Persia, and which so profusely adorn old
Persian paintings. With soft, girlish features, big, black, lustrous
eyes, and an abundance of long hair, they remind one of the beautiful
youths of Oriental romance; his fond parent takes him about on his visits
and finds much gratification in the admiring remarks bestowed upon the
son.
The Sartiep is an ideal Persian official, courteous and complimentary,
but never forgetful of Ali Akbar Khan; his full, round figure and sensual
Oriental face speak eloquently of mutton pillau and other fattening
dishes galore, sweetmeats, cucumbers, and melons; and deep draughts from
pleasure's intoxicating cup have not failed to leave their indelible
marks. In this particular the Sartiep is but a casually selected sample
of the well-to-do Persian official. Leaving out a few notable exceptions,
this brief description of him suffices to describe them all.
Following in the train of the Sartiep arrive more servants, bearing
dishes of kabobs, herb-seasoned pillau, and various other strange, savory
dishes, which, Mr. Gray explains, are considered great delicacies among
the upper-class Persians and are intended as a great compliment to me.
Although Mohammedans, and particularly Shiite Mohammedans, are forbidden
by their religion to indulge in alcoholic beverages, the average high
official in Persia is anything but a sanctimonious individual, and
partakes with a keen relish of the forbidden fruit in an open-secret
manner. The thin, transparent veil of abstemiousness that the Persian
noble wears in deference to the sanctimonious pretensions of the mollahs
and seyuds and the public eye at large, is cast aside altogether in the
presence of intimate friends, and particularly if that intimate friend is
a Ferenghi. Owing to their association in the telegraph-service, mine
host and the Sartiep are on the most intimate terms. The Sartiep soon
after his arrival intimates, with a humorous twinkle of the eye, that he
feels the need of a little medicine. Mr. Gray, as becomes a good
physician who knows well the constitutional requirements of his patient,
and who knows what to prescribe without even going through the
preliminary act of feeling the pulse, produces a pale-green bottle and a
tumbler and pours out a full dose of its contents for an adult.
The patient swallows it at a gulp, nibbles a piece of sweetmeat, and
strokes his stomach in token of approval.
"What was the medicine you prescribed, Gray?" "High wines," says the
physician, "95 proof alcohol; a bottle that the entomologist of the
Boundary Commission happened to leave here a year ago; it was the only
thing in the house except wine. The patient pronounces it the 'best
arrack' he ever tasted; the firier these fellows can get it the better
they like it."
"Why, it didn't even make him gasp!"
"Gasp--nonsense; you haven't been in Persia as long as I have yet, or you
wouldn't say 'gasp' even at 95% alcohol."
But how polite, how complimentary, these French of Asia are, and how
imaginative and fanciful their language! Not having shaved since leaving
Teheran, after surveying myself in the glass, I feel called upon, in the
interest of fellow-wheelmen elsewhere, to explain to our discerning
visitors that all bicyclers are not distinguished from their fellow men
by a bronzed and stubby phiz and an all-around vagrom appearance.
The Sartiep strokes his beard and stomach, casts a lingering glance at
the above-mentioned green-glass bottle, smiles, and replies: "Having
accomplished so wonderful a journey, you are now prettier with your
rough, unshaven face than you ever were before; you can now survey
yourself in the looking-glass of fame instead of in a common mirror that
reflects all the imperfections of ordinary mortals." Having delivered
himself of this compliment, the Sartiep's eye wanders in the direction of
the 95% alcohol again, and the next minute is again smacking his lips and
complacently stroking his stomach.
In the morning, before I am up, a servant arrives from a Mesh-edi notable
named Hadji Mahdi, bringing salaams from his master, and a letter clothed
in the fine "apparel diplomatique" of the Orient. The letter, although in
reality nothing more than a request to be allowed to come and see the
bicycle, reads in substance as follows: "Salaams from Hadji Mahdi--may he
be your sacrifice!-to Gray Sahib and the illustrious Sahib who has
arrived in Holy Meshed from Teheran, on the wonderful asp-i-awhan, the
fame of whose deeds reaches to the ends of the earth. Bismillah! May your
shadows never grow less! Your sacrifice's brother, Hadji Mollah Hassan,
whose eyes were gladdened by a sight of the asp-i-awhan Sahib at
Shahrood, and who now sends his salaams, telegraphs me--his unworthy
brother--that upon the Sahib's arrival in Meshed I should render him
any assistance he might need. Inshallah, with your permission--may
it not be withheld--your sacrifice will be pleased to call and
gladden his eyes with a sight of Gray Sahib and the illustrious Sahib his
guest."
As might have been expected, the advent of a Ferenghi on so strange a
vehicle as a bicycle, arriving in the sacred city of Imam Eiza's
sanctuary, arouses universal curiosity; and not only the Sartiep and
Hadji Mahdi, but hundreds of big-turbaned Meshedi notables, mollahs, and
seyuds are admitted during the day to enjoy the happy privilege of
feasting their eyes on the latest proof of the Ferenghis' wonderful
marifet,
Upon receipt of the telegram at Shahrood refusing me permission to go
through Turkestan, I telegraphed to Mr. Gray, requesting him to obtain
leave for me to go to the Boundary Commission Camp, and accompany them
back to India, or reach India from the camp alone. Mr. Gray kindly
forwarded my request to the camp, and now urges me to consider myself his
guest until the return courier arrives with the answer. This turns out to
mean a stop-over of seven days, and on the second day immense crowds of
people assemble in the street, shouting for me to come out and ride the
bicycle. The clamor on the streets renders it impossible for them to
transact business in the telegraph office, and several times requests are
sent in begging me to appease them and stop the uproar by riding to and
fro along the street. An outer door separates the compound in which the
house is built from the street, and to prevent the rabble from invading
the premises, and the possibility of unpleasant consequences, the
Governor-General stations a guard of four soldiers at the door. This
precaution works very well so far as the common herd are concerned, but
every hour through the day little knots of priestly men in the flowing
new garments and spotless turbans representing their Noo Roos purchases,
or the lamb's-wool cylinder and semi-European garb of the official,
bribe, coerce, or command the guard to let them in.
These persistent people generally stand in a respectful attitude just
inside the outer gate, and send word in by a servant that a Shahzedah
(relative of the Shah) wishes to see the bicycle. After the first
"Shahzedah" has been treated with courtesy and consideration in deference
to his royal relative at Teheran, fully two-thirds of those who come
after unblushingly proclaim themselves uncles, cousins, or nephews of
"His Majesty, the King of Kings and Ruler of the Universe!" The constant
worry and annoyance of these people compel us to adopt measures of
self-defence, and so, after admitting about a hundred uncles, twice that
number of nephews, and Heaven knows how many cousins, we conclude that
blood-relations of the Shah are altogether too numerous in Meshed to be
of much consequence. Soon after arriving at this conclusion, Mr. Gray's
farrash, an Armenian he brought with him from Ispahan, comes in with a
message that another Shahzedah has succeeded in getting past the guard
and sends in his salaams. "Shahzedah be d----d! Turn him out--put him
outside, and tell the guards to let nobody else in without our
permission!"
A moment later the farrash re-enters with the look of a man scarcely able
to control his risibilities, and says the man and his friends are still
inside the gate.
"Why the devil don't you put them out, as you are told, then?"
"He says he is the Padishah's step-father."
"Well, what if he is the Padishah's step-father? It's nothing to be the
Shah's step-father; the Shah probably has five hundred step-father's, to
say the least--turn him out. No; hold hard; let him stay."
We conclude that a step-father to the king, whether genuine or only a
counterfeit, is at least something of a relief after the swarms of
nephews, cousins, and uncles, and so order him to be shown in He proves
to be a corpulent little man about sixty, who advances up the bricked
walk toward us, making about three extra profound salaams to the rod and
smiling in a curious, apprehensive manner, as though not quite assured of
his reception. About a dozen long-robed mollahs and seyuds follow with
timid hesitancy in his wake. Strange to say, he makes no allusion to his
illustrious step-son, the King of Kings at Teheran; and plainly betrays
embarrassment when Gray mentions the fact of my having appeared before
him on the wheel. We conclude that the Shah's step-father and the little
group of holy men clubbed together and paid the Persian guard about a
keran to let them in, and perhaps another half-keran to the Armenian
farrash for not summarily turning them out. He tries very hard, however,
to make himself agreeable, and when told about the Russians refusing me
the road, exclaims artfully: "I was not an enemy of the Russians before I
heard this, but now I am their worst enemy! Suppose the Sahib's iron
horse was a wheel of fire, what harm would it do their country even
then?"
Our most distinguished caller to-day is Mirza Abbas Khan, C. I. E., a
Kandahari gentleman, who has been the British political agent at Meshed
for many years. He makes a formal call in all the glory of his official
garments, a magnificent Cashmere coat lined with Russian sable and
profusely trimmed with gold braid; a servant leads his gayly caparisoned
horse, and another brings up the rear with a richly mounted kalian.
Appearances count for something among the people of Northeastern Persia,
and Abbas Khan draws a sufficiently large salary to enable him to wear
gorgeous clothes, and thereby dim the lustre of his bitter rival, the
political agent of Russia.
Abbas Khan is perhaps the handsomest man in Meshed, is in the prime of
life, dyes his flowing beard an orthodox red, and possesses most charming
manners; in addition to his ample salary he owns the revenue of a village
near Meshed, and seems to be altogether the right man in the right place.
Abbas Khan and a friend of his from Herat both agree that the
difficulties and dangers of Afghanistan will be likely to prove
insurmountable; at the same time promising any assistance they can render
me in getting to India, consistent, of course, with Abbas Khan's duties
as British Agent. It seems to be a pretty general opinion that
Afghanistan will prove a stumbling-block in my path; friends at Teheran
telegraph again, advising me to go anywhere rather than risk the dangers
to be apprehended in that most lawless and fanatical territory. Nothing
can be decided on, however, until the arrival of an answer from the
Commission.
In the meantime, the days slowly pass away in Meshed; every day come
scores of visitors and invitations to go and ride for the delectation of
sundry high officials; ever-present are the crowds in the streets
shouting, "Tomasha! tomasha! Sowar shuk!" and the frequent squabbles at
the gate between the guard and the people wanting to come in.
Above the din and clamor of the crowd outside there sometimes arise the
chanting voices of a party of newly arrived pilgrims making their way
joyously through the thronged streets toward the gold-domed sanctuary of
Imam Riza, the tomb being situated a couple of hundred yards down the
street from our quarters. Sometimes we hear parties of men uttering
strange cries and sounding aloud the praises of Imam Riza, Houssein,
Hassan, and other worthies of the Mohammedan world, in response to which
are heard the swelling voices of a multitude of people shouting in
chorus, "Allah be praised! Allah be praised!!" These weird chanters are
dervishes, who, with tiger-skin mantles drawn carelessly about them,
clubs or battle-axes on shoulder, their long unkempt hair dangling down
their backs, look wildly grotesque as they parade the streets of the
Persian Mecca.
Meshed is a strange city for a Ferenghi to live in; every day are heard
the chanting and singing of newly arriving bands of pilgrims, the
strange, wild utterances of dervishes preaching on the streets, and the
shouting responses of their auditors. Conspicuous above everything else
in the city, as gold is conspicuous from dross, is the golden dome and
gold-tipped minarets of the holy edifice that imparts to the city its
sacred character. The gold is in thin plates covering the hemispherical
roof like sheets of tin; like most Eastern things, its appearance is more
impressive from a distance than at close quarters. Grains of barley
deposited on the roof by pigeons have sprouted and grown in rank bunches
between the thin gold plates, many of which are partially loose,
imparting to the place an air of neglect and decay. By resting their feet
on the dome of this sacred edifice, the pigeons of Meshed have themselves
become objects of veneration; shooting them is strictly prohibited, and a
mob would soon be about the ears of anyone venturing to do them harm.
The two most important persons in Meshed are the acting Governor-General
of Khorassan, and Mardan Khan, Ex-Governor of Sarakhs and Hereditary
Chief of the powerful tribe of Timurees. Of course, the Governor sends
his salaams, and invites me to come round to the government konak and
favor him with an exhibition. Since our refusal to entertain any more of
the "Shah's relations," we find that the worthy and long-suffering Abbas
Khan has been worried almost to the verge of despair by requests from all
over the city begging the privilege of seeing me ride.
"Knowing that you have been worried in the same way yourselves," says
Abbas Kahu, "I have replied to them, 'Is the Sahib a giraffe and I his
keeper? Why, then, do you come to me? The Sahib has travelled a long way,
and is stopping here to rest, not to make an exhibition of himself."
An exception is of course made in favor of the Governor-General and
Mardan Khan. The Government compound is a large enclosure, and to reach
the Governor-General's quarters one has to traverse numerous long
court-yards connected with one another by long, gloomy passage-ways of
brick, where the tramping of the sentinels and the march of retiring and
relieving guards resound through the vaults like an echo of mediaeval
times.
There is nothing particularly interesting about the Governor's
apartments, but Mardan Khan's palace is a revelation of barbaric splendor
entirely different from anything hitherto seen in the country. In
contradistinction to the dazzling, silvery glitter of the mirror-work and
stuccoed halls of the Teheran palaces, the home of the wealthy Timuree
Chieftain is distinguished by a striking and lavish display of colored
glass, gilt, and tinsel.
Mardan Khan is a valued friend of Mirza Abbas Khan and a man of powerful
influence; besides this, he is a pronounced admirer of the Ingilis as
against the Oroos, and my reception at his palace almost takes the
character of an ovation. News of the great tomasha has evidently been
widely spread, crowds of outsiders fill the streets leading to the
palace, and inside the large garden are scores of the elite of the city,
mollahs, seyuds, official and private gentlemen; the numerous niches of
the walls are occupied by groups of closely veiled females. Trundling
through this interesting and expectant crowd with Abbas Khan, Mardan Khan
issues forth in flowing gown of richest Cashmere-shawl material and gold
braid, to greet us and to take a preliminary peep at the bicycle, and to
lead the way into his gorgeously colored room of state.
The scene in this room is an ideal picture of the popular occidental
conception of the "gorgeous East." Abbas Khan and Mar-dan Khan sit
cross-legged side by side on a rich Turcoman rug, salaaming and
exchanging compliments after the customary flowery and extravagant
language of the Persian nobility. The marvellous pattern and costly
texture of Abbas Khan's coat, the gold braid, the Russian sable lining,
and the black Astrakhan cylinder he wears, are precisely matched by the
garments of Mardan Khan. Twenty or thirty of the most important
dignitaries and mollahs of the city are ranged according to their
respective rank or degree of holiness around the room; prominent among
them is the Chief Imam of Meshed, a very important and influential person
in the holy city.
The Chief Imam is a slim-built, sharp-looking individual of about forty
summers, with a face pale, refined, and intellectual; hands white and
slender as a lady's, and a foot equally shapely and feminine. He wears a
monster green turban, takes his turn regularly at the kalian, and passes
it on to the next with the easy gracefulness that comes of good breeding;
and by his manners and appearance he creates an impression of being a
person rather superior to his surroundings.
Liveried pages pass around little glasses of tea, kalians, cigarettes,
and sweetmeats, as well as tiny bottles of lemon-juice and rose-water, a
few drops of these two last-named articles being used by some of the
guests to impart a fanciful flavor to their tea. Now and then a new guest
arrives, steps out of his shoes in the hallway, salaams, and takes his
proper position among the people already here. Everybody sits on the
carpet except me, for whom a three-legged camp-stool has been
thoughtfully provided.
Finally, all the guests having arrived, I ride several times around the
brick-walks, the strange audience of turbaned priests and veiled women
showing their great approval in murmuring undertones of "kylie khoob" and
involuntary acclamations of "Mashallah! mash-all-ah!" as they witness
with bated breath the strange and incomprehensible scene of a Ferenghi
riding a vehicle, that will not stand alone.
Altogether, the great tomasha at Mardan Khan's is a decided success.
Scarcely can this be said, however, of the "little tomasha" given to the
members of Abbas Khan's own family on the way home. Abbas Khan's compound
is very small, and the brick-walks very rough and broken; therefore, it
is hardly surprising to me, though probably somewhat surprising to him,
when, in turning a corner I execute an undignified header into a bunch of
busbies.
The third day after my arrival in Meshed, I received a telegram from the
British Charge d'Affaires at Teheran saying: "You must not attempt to
cross the frontier of Afghanistan at any point." Two days later the
expected courier arrives from the Boundary Commission Camp with a letter
saying: "It is useless for you to raise the question of coming to the
Commission Camp. In the first place, the Afghans would never allow you to
come here; and if you should happen to reach here, you would never be
able to get away again."
These two very encouraging missives from our own people seem at first
thought more heartless than even the "permission refused" of the
Russians. It occurs to me that this "you must not attempt to cross the
Afghan frontier" might just as easily have been told me at the Legation
at Teheran as when I had travelled six hundred miles to get to it; but
the ways of diplomacy are past the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
What, after all, are the ambitions and enterprises of an individual,
compared to the will and policy of an empire? No matter whether the
empire be semi-civilized and despotic, or free and enlightened, the
obscure and struggling individual is usually rated 0000.
Russia--"permission refused." England--paternally--"must
not attempt;" cold, offish language this for a lone cycler to be
confronted with away up here in the northeast corner of Persia, from
representatives of the two greatest empires of the world. What is to be
done?
Mr. Gray, returning from the telegraph office later in the evening, finds
me endeavoring to unravel the Gordian knot of the situation through the
medium of a brown-study. My geographical ruminations have already
resulted in a conviction that there is no possible way to unravel it and
reach India with a bicycle; my only chance of doing so is to cut it and
abide by the consequences.
"I have just been communicating with Teheran," says Mr. Gray. "Everybody
wants to know what you propose doing."
"Tell them I am going down to Beerjand to consult with Heshmet-i-Molk,
the Ameer of Seistan, and see if it is possible to get through to Quetta
via Beerjand."
"Ever hear of Dadur?" queries Mr. Gray. "Ever hear of Dadur, the place of
which the Persians tritely say: 'Seeing that there is Dadur, why did
Allah, then, make the infernal regions?' That is somewhere in
Beloochistan. You'll find yourself slowly broiling to death on a
geographical gridiron if you attempt to reach India down that way."
"Never mind; tell them at Teheran I am going that way anyhow."
Having entered upon this decision, I bid my genial host farewell on April
7th, and mounting at the door, depart in the presence of a well-behaved
crowd of spectators. In my pocket is a general letter from the
Governor-General of Khorassan to subordinate officials of the province,
ordering them to render me any assistance I may require, and another from
a prominent person in Meshed to his friend Heshmet-i-Molk, the Ameer of
Kain and Governor of Seistan, a powerful and influential chief, with his
seat of government at Beerjand.
Couched in the sentimental language of the country, one of these letters
concludes with the touching remark: "The Sahib, of his own choice is
travelling like a dervish, with no protection but the protection of
Allah."
It is a fine bracing morning as I leave the Mecca of Khorassan behind,
and the paths leading round outside the walls and moat of the city from
gate to gate afford excellent wheeling. The Beerjand trail branches off
from the Teheran and Meshed road about a farsakh east of Shahriffabad;
for this distance I shall be retraversing the road by which I came, and
shall be confronted at every turn of my wheel by reminiscences of dried
fish, a Mazanderau dervish, and an angular steed.
The streams that under the influence of the storm ran thigh-deep have now
dwindled to mere rivulets, and the narrow, miry trail through the melting
snow has become dry and smooth enough to ride wherever the grade permits.
The hills are verdant with the green young life of early spring, and are
clothed in one of nature's prettiest costumes--a costume of seal-brown
rocks and green turf studded with a profusion of blue and yellow flowers.
Shahriffabad is reached early in the afternoon, and the threatening
aspect of the changed weather forbids going any farther today.
Shortly after taking up my quarters in the chapar-khana, a party of
Persian travellers appear upon the scene, and with them a fussy little
man in big round spectacles and semi-European clothes. Scarcely have they
had time to alight and seek out quarters than the little man makes his
appearance at my menzil door in all the glory of a crimson velvet
dressing-cap and blue slippers, and beaming gladsomely through his
moon-like spectacles, he comes forward and without further ceremony
shakes hands. "Some queer little French professor, geologist,
entomologist, or something, wandering about the country in search of
scientific knowledge," is the instinctive conclusion I arrive at the
moment he appears; and my greeting of "bonjour, monsieur," is quite as
involuntary as the conclusion.
"Paruski ni?" he replies, arching his eyebrows and smiling.
"Paruski ni; Ingilis."
"Parsee namifami?"
"Parsee kam-kam."
In this brief interchange of words in the vernacular of the country we
define at once each other's nationality and linguistic abilities. He is a
Russian and can speak a little Persian. It is difficult, however, to
believe him anything else than a little French professor, wise above his
generation and skin-full of occult wisdom in some particular branch of
science; but then the big round spectacles, the red dressing-cap, and the
cerulean leather slippers of themselves impart an air of owlish and
preternatural wisdom.
Six times during the afternoon he bounces into my quarters and shakes
hands, and six times shakes hands and bounces out again. Every time he
renews his visit he introduces one or more natives, who take as much
interest in the hand-shaking as they do in the bicycle. Evidently his
object in coming round so frequently is to exhibit for the gratification
of his own vanity and the curiosity of the Persians, this European mode
of greeting, and the profound depth of his own knowledge of the subject.
Later in the evening the women of the village come round in a body to see
the Ferenghi and his iron horse, and the wearer of the spectacles, the
red cap, and blue slippers, takes upon himself the office of showman for
the occasion; pointing out, with a good deal of superficial enthusiasm,
the peculiar points of both steed and rider.
Particularly is it impressed upon these woefully ignorant fail-ones, that
the bicycle is not a horse, but a machine--a thing of iron and not
of flesh and blood.
The fair ones nod their heads approvingly, but it is painfully apparent
that they don't comprehend in the least, how, since it is an asp-i-awhan,
it can be anything else but a horse, regardless of the material entering
into its composition.
When supper-time arrives the chapar-Jee announces his willingness to turn
cook and prepare anything I order. Knowing well enough that this
seemingly sweeping proposition embraces but two or three articles, I
order him to prepare scrambled eggs, bread, and sheerah. An hour later he
brings in the scrambled eggs, swimming in hot molasses and grease! He has
stirred the grease and molasses together, and in this outlandish mixture
cooked the eggs.
Off the main road the country assumes the character of low hills of red
clay, across which it would be extremely difficult to take the bicycle in
wet weather, but which is now fortunately dry. After three or four
farsakhs it develops into a curious region of heterogeneous parts; rocky,
precipitous mountains, barren, salt-streaked hills, saline streams, and
pretty little green valleys. Here, one feels the absence of any plain,
well-travelled road, the dim and ill-defined trail being at times very
difficult to distinguish from the branch trails leading to some isolated
village. The few people one meets already betray a simplicity and a lack
of "gumption" that distinguish them at once from the people frequenting
the main road.
CHAPTER VI.
THE UNBEATEN TRACKS OF KHORASSAN.
During the afternoon I traverse a rocky canon, crossing and recrossing a
clear, cold stream that winds its serpentine course from one precipitous
wall to another. Mountain trout are observed disporting in this stream,
and big, gray lizards scuttle nimbly about among the loose rocks on the
bank. The canon gradually dwindles into a less confined passage between
sloping hills of loose rock and bowlders, a wild, desolate region through
which the road leads gradually upward to a pass.
Part way up this gorge is a rude stone tower about twenty feet high, on
the summit of which is perched a little mud hut, looking almost as though
it might be a sentry-box. While yet a couple of hundred yards away, a
rough-looking customer emerges from the tower and appears to be awaiting
my approach. His head is well-nigh hidden beneath a huge Khorassani
busby, and he wears the clothes of an irregular soldier. The long, shaggy
wool of the sheepskin head-dress dangling over his eyes imparts a very
ferocious appearance, and he is armed with the ordinary Persian sword and
one of those antiquated flint-lock muskets that are only to be seen on
the deserts of the East or in museums of ancient weapons.
Taken all in all, he presents a very ferocious front; he is, in fact,
about the most ruffianly-looking specimen I have seen outside of Asiatic
Turkey. As I ride up he motions for me to alight, at the same time
retreating a few steps toward his humble stronghold, betraying a spirit
of apprehension lest, perchance, he might be unwittingly standing in the
way of danger. Greeting him with the customary "Salaam aleykum" and being
similarly greeted in reply, I dismount to ascertain who and what he is.
He retreats another step or two in the direction of his strange abode,
and eyes the bicycle with evident distrust, edging off to one side as I
turn toward him, as though fearful lest it might come whizzing into his
sacred person at a moment's notice like a hungry buzz-saw. In response to
my inquiries, he points up toward the pass and offers to accompany me
thither for the small sum of "yek keran;" giving me to understand that
without his presence it is highly indiscreet to proceed.
Little penetration is required to understand that this is one of the
little black-mailing schemes peculiar to semi-civilization, and which, it
is perhaps hardly necessary to explain, comes a trifle too late in the
chapter of my Asiatic experiences to influence my movements or to
replenish the exchequer of the picturesque and enterprising person
desirous of shielding me from imaginary harm.
This wily individual is making his living by the novel and ingenious
process of trading on the fears and credulity of stray travellers, making
them believe the pass is dangerous and charging them a small sum for his
services as guard. It is not at all unlikely that he is the present
incumbent of an hereditary right to extort blackmail from such travellers
along this lonely road as may be prevailed upon without resorting to
violence to pay it, and is but humbly following in the footsteps of his
worthy sire and still more worthy grandsire.
The pass ahead is neither very steep nor difficult, and the summit once
crossed, and the first few hundred yards of rough and abrupt declivity
overcome, I am able to mount and wheel swiftly down long gradients of
smooth, hard gravel for four or five miles, alighting at the walled
village of Assababad in the presence of its entire population.
Some keen-sighted villager has observed afar off the strange apparition
gliding swiftly down the open gravel slopes, and the excited population
have all rushed out in breathless expectancy to try and make out its
character. The villagers of Assababad are simple-hearted people, and both
men and women clap their hands like delighted children to have so rare a
novelty suddenly appear upon the scene of their usually humdrum and
uneventful lives. Quilts are spread for me on the sunny side of the
village wall, and they gather eagerly around to feast to the full their
unaccustomed eyes. A couple of the men round up a matronly goat and exact
from her the tribute of a bowl of milk; others contribute bread, and the
frugal repast is seasoned with the unconcealed delight of my hospitable
audience.
They are not overly clean in their habits, though, these rude and
isolated people; and to keep off prying housewives, bent on satisfying
their curiosity regarding the texture of my clothing and the comparative
whiteness of my skin, I am compelled to adopt the defensive measure of
counter curiosity. The signal and instantaneous success of this plan,
resulting in the hasty, scrambling retreat of the women, is greeted with
boisterous merriment, by the entire crowd.
I have about made up my mind to remain over-night with the hospitable
people of Assababad; but at the solicitation of a Persian traveller who
comes along, I conclude to accompany him to a building observable in the
distance ahead which he explains is a small but comfortable serai. The
good villagers seem very loath to let me, go so soon, and one young man
kneels down and kisses my dusty geivehs and begs me to take him with me
to Hindostan--strange, unsophisticated people; how simple-hearted,
how childlike they seem!
The caravanserai is but a couple of miles ahead, but it is situated in
the dip of an extensive, basin-like depression between two mountain
ranges, and the last half mile consists of mud and water eighteen inches
deep. The caravanserai itself stands on a slight elevation, and is found
occupied by a couple of families, who make the place their permanent
abode and gain a livelihood by supplying food, firewood, and horse-feed
to travellers.
Upon our arrival, a woman makes her appearance and announces her
willingness to cater to our wants.
"Noon ass?"
"Yes, plenty of bread."
"Toke-me-morge neis f"
"Neis; loke-me-morge-neis."
"Sheerah ass?"
"Sheerah neis."
"What have you then besides bread?"
For answer the woman points to a few beruffled chickens scratching for
grains of barley among a heap of rubbish that has evidently been
exploited by them times without number before, and says she can sell us
chickens at one keran apiece.
Seeing the absence of anything else, I order her forthwith to capture one
for me, and the Persian gentleman orders another. The woman sets three
youngsters and a yellow, tailless dog to run down the chickens, and in a
few minutes presents herself before us, holding in each hand the plucked
and scrawny carcass of a fowl that has had to scratch hard and
persistently for its life for heaven knows how many years. One of the
chickens is considerably larger than the other, and I tell the Persian
gentleman to take his choice, thinking that with himself and his two
servants he would be glad to accept the larger fowl. On the contrary,
however, he fixes his choice on the smaller one.
Touched by what appears to be a simple act of unselfishness, I endeavor
to persuade him to take the other, pointing out that he has three mouths
to fill while I have only one. My importunities are, however, wasted on
so polite and disinterested a person, and so I reluctantly take
possession of the bulkier fowl.
The Persian's servant dissects his master's purchase and stows it away
for future use, the three making their supper off bread and a mixture of
grease, chopped onions and sheerah from the larder of their saddle-bags.
The woman readily accepts the offer of an additional half keran for
relieving me of the onerous task of cooking my own supper, and takes her
departure, promising to cook it as quickly as possible.
Happy in the contemplation of a whole chicken for supper, I sit around
and chat and drink tea with my disinterested friend for the space of an
hour. To a hungry person an hour seems an ominously long period of time
in which to cook a chicken, and, becoming impatient, the Persian
gentleman's servant volunteers to go inside and investigate. I fancy
detecting a shadow of amusement passing over the face of the gentleman as
his servant departs, and when he returns with the intelligence that the
chicken won't be tender enough to eat for another hour, his risibilities
get the better of his politeness and he gives way to uncontrollable
laughter. Then it is that a gleam of enlightenment steals over my
unsuspecting soul and tells me why my guileless fellow-traveller so
politely and yet so firmly selected the smallest of the fowls--he is a
better judge of Persian "morges" than I. The woman finally turns up,
bringing the result of her two hours' culinary perseverance in a large
pewter bowl; she has cut the chicken up into several pieces and has been
industriously keeping the pot boiling from the beginning. The result of
this laudable effort is meat of gutta-percha toughness, upon which one's
teeth are exercised in vain; but I make a very good supper after all by
breaking bread into the broth. I don't know but that the patriarchal
ruler of the roost makes at least the richer broth.
Thin ice covers the water when I leave this caravanserai in the gray of
the morning, and the Persian travellers, who nearly always start before
daybreak, have already departed. Stories were heard yesterday evening of
streams between here and the southern chain of mountains, deep and
difficult to cross; and I pull out fully expecting to have to strip and
do some disagreeable work in the water. Considerable mud is encountered,
and three small streams, not over three feet deep, are crossed; but
further on I am brought to a stand by a deep, sluggish stream flowing
along ten feet below the level of the ground. Though deep, it is very
narrow in places, and might almost be described as a yawning crack in the
earth, filled with water to within ten feet of the top.
A little way up stream is a spot fordable for horses, and, of course,
fordable also for a cycler; but the prevailing mud and the chilliness of
the morning combine to influence me to try another plan. A happy plan it
seems at the moment, a credit to my inventive genius, and spiced with the
seductive condiment of novelty, the stream is sufficiently narrow at one
place to be overcome with a running jump; but people cannot take running
jumps encumbered with a bicycle. The bicycle, however, can quickly and
easily be taken into several parts and thrown across, the jump made, and
the wheel put together again.
Packages, pedals, and backbone with rear wheel are tossed successfully
across, but the big wheel attached to fork and handle-bar, unfortunately
rolls back and disappears with a splash beneath the water. The details of
the unhappy task of recovering this all-important piece of property--how I
have to call into requisition for the first time the small, strong rope I
have carried from Constantinople--how, in the absence of anything in the
shape of a stick, in all the unproductive country around, I have to
persuade my unwilling and goose-pimpled frame into the water and duck my
devoted head beneath the waves several times before succeeding in passing
a slip-noose over the handle--is too harrowing a tale to tell; it makes me
shiver and shrink within myself, even as I write.
Beyond the stream the road approaches the southern framework of the plain
with a barely discernible rise, and dry, hard, paths afford fair
wheeling. Looking back one can see the white, uneven crest of the Elburz
Range peeping over the lesser chain of hills crossed over yesterday,
showing wondrously sharp and clear in the transparent atmosphere of a
more or less desert country.
A region of red-clay hills and innumerable little streams ends my riding
for the present, and the road eventually leads into a cul-de-sac, the
source of the little streams and the home of spongy morasses whose
deceptive mossy surface may or may not bear one's weight. Bound about the
cul-de-sac is a curious jumble of rocks and red-clay heights; the strata
of the former inclining to the perpendicular and sometimes rising like
parallel walls above the earth, reminding one of the "Devil's Slide" in
Weber Canon, Utah. A stiff pass leads over the brow of the range, and on
the summit is perched another little stone tower; but no valiant champion
of defenceless wayfarers issues forth to proffer his protection
here--perhaps our acquaintance of yesterday comes down here when he wants
a change of air.
From the pass the descent is into a picturesque region of huge rocks and
splendid streams that come bubbling out from among them, and farther
along is a more open space, a few fields of grain, and the little hamlet
of Kahmeh. Stopping here an hour for refreshments, the country again
becomes rough and hilly for several miles; the road then descends a rocky
slope to the plain, where a few miles ahead can be seen the crenelated
walls and suburban orchards and villages of Torbet-i-Haiderie.
Remembering my letter from the Governor-General to subordinate officials,
I permit a uniformed horseman, who seems anxious to make himself useful
in the premises, to pilot me into the city, telling him to lead the way
to the Mustapha's office. Guiding me through the narrow, crowded streets
into the still more crowded bazaar, he descants, from his commanding
position in the saddle, to the listening crowd, on the marvellous nature
of my steed and the miraculous ability required to ride it as he had seen
me riding it outside the walls. Having accomplished his vain purpose of
attracting public attention to himself through me, and by his utterances
aroused the popular curiosity to an ungovernable pitch, he rides off and
leaves me to extricate myself and find the Mustapha as best I can.
The ignorant, inconsiderate mob at once commence shouting for me to ride.
"Sowar shuk; sowar shuk! tomasha; tomasha!" a thousand people cry in the
stuffy, ill-paved bazaar as they struggle and push and surge about me,
giving me barely room to squeeze through them. When it is discovered that
I am seeking the Mustapha, there is a great rush of the crowd to reach
the municipal compound and gain admittance, lest perchance the gates
should be closed after I had entered and a tomasha be given without them
seeing.
Following along with the crowd, the compound is reached and found to be
jammed so tightly with people that the greatest difficulty is experienced
in forcing my way through them to the Mustapha's quarters. Nobody seems
to take a particle of interest in the matter, save to lend their voices
to help swell the volume of the cry for me to ride; nobody in all the
tumultuous mob seems capable of the simple reflection that there is no
room whatever to ride, not so much as a yard of space unoccupied by human
beings. They might with equal propriety be shouting for a fish to swim
without providing him with water.
The Mustapha is found seated on the raised floor of his open-fronted
office, examining, between whiffs of the kalian, papers brought to him by
his subordinates, and I hand him my general letter of recommendation.
Taking a cursory glance at the contents, he gives a sweep of his chin
toward the bicycle, and says, "Sowar shuk; tomasha." Pointing out the
utter impossibility of complying with his request in a badly-paved
compound packed to its utmost capacity with people; he looks wearily at
the ragged and unruly multitude before him, as though conscious that it
would be useless to try and do anything with them, and then giving some
order to an officer resumes his official labors.
The officer summons a couple of farrashes, and with long willow switches
they flog their way through the crowd, opening a narrow, but instantly
filled again, passage for me to follow. Outside the compound the officer
practically forsakes me and goes over body and soul to the enemy. Filled
with the same dense ignorance and overwhelming desire to see the bicycle
ridden, he desires also to gain the approbation of the crowd, and so
brings all his powers of persuasion to bear against me. Time and again,
while traversing with the greatest difficulty the narrow bazaar in the
midst of a surging mob, he faces about and makes the same insane request,
shouting like a maniac to make his voice audible above the din of a
thousand clamorous appeals to the same purpose. Had I the power to
annihilate the whole crazy, maddening multitude with a sweep of the hand,
I am afraid they would at this juncture have received but small mercy.
The caravanserai is a big, commodious affair, a quadrangular structure of
brick surrounding fully an acre of ground, and with a small open space
outside. There is plenty of room to satisfy their insane curiosity here
without jeopardizing my own neck, and in a fruitless effort to gratify
them I essay to ride. My appearance in the saddle is greeted with wild
shouts of exultation, and in their eagerness to come closer and see
exactly how the bicycle is propelled and prevented from falling over,
they close up in front as well as behind, compelling an instant dismount
to prevent disagreeable consequences to myself. Howls of disapproval
greet this misinterpreted action, and the officer and farrashes commence
flogging right and left to clear a space for another trial.
This time, while circling about in the small amphitheatre, walled around
by shouting, grinning human beings, wanton youngsters from the rear shy
several stones, and the officer comes near giving me a header by
accidentally inserting his willow staff in the front wheel while pointing
out to the crowd the action of the pedals and the modus operandi of
things in general. The officer evidently regards me as the merest dummy,
unable to speak or comprehend a word of the language, or help myself in
any way--the result, it is presumed, of some explanation to that effect in
the letter--and he stalks about with the proud bearing and
self-conscious expression of a showman catering successfully to an
appreciative and applauding populace.
The accommodation provided at the caravanserai consists of doorless
menzils, elevated three feet above the ground; a walled partition, with
an open archway, divides the quarters into a room behind and an open
porch in front. Conducting me to one of these free-for-anybody places,
which I could just as easily have found and occupied without his
assistance, he takes his departure, leaving me to the tender
consideration of an overbearing, ragamuffin mob, in whom the spirit of
wantonness is already aroused.
I attempt to appeal to the reason of my obstreperous audience by standing
on the menzil front and delivering a harangue in such Persian as I have
at command.
"Sowar shuk, neis, tomasha, caravanserai neis rah koob neis. Inshalla
saba, gitti koob rah Beerjandi, khylie koob lomasha-kh-y-l-ie koob
tomasha saba," is the burden of this harangue; but eloquent though it be
in its simplicity, it fails to accomplish the desired end. Their reply to
it all takes the form of howls of disapproval, and the importunities to
ride become more clamorous than ever.
An effort to keep them from taking possession of my quarters by shoving
them off the front porch, results in my being seized roughly by the
throat by one determined assailant and cracked on the head with a stick
by another. Ignorant of a Ferenghi's mode of attack, the presumptuous
individual, with his hand twisted in my neck-handkerchief, cocks his head
in a semi-sidewise attitude, in splendid position to be dropped like a
pole-axed steer by a neat tap on the temple. He wears the green
kammerbund of a seyud, however; and even under the shadow of the
legations in Teheran, it is a very serious and risky thing to strike a
descendant of the Prophet. For a lone infidel to do so in the presence of
two thousand Mussulman fanatics, already imbued with the spirit of
wantonness, would be little less than deliberate suicide, so a sense of
discretion intervenes to spare him the humiliation of being knocked out
of time by an unhallowed fist. The stiff, United States army helmet,
obtained, it will be remembered, at Fort Sidney, Nebraska, and worn on
the road ever since, saves my bump of veneration from actual contact with
the stick of number two; and finding me making only a passive resistance,
the valiant individual in the green kammerbund relaxes both the severity
of his scowl and his grip on my neck gear.
After this there is no use trying to keep them from invading my quarters,
and I deem it advisable to stand closely by the bicycle, humoring their
curiosity and getting along with them as peaceably as possible. The crowd
present is constantly augmented by new arrivals from without; at least
two thousand people are struggling, pushing and shouting, some coming
forward to invade my menzil, others endeavoring to escape from the crush.
While the rowdiest portion of the crowd struggle and push and shout in
the foreground of this remarkable scene, little knots of big-turbaned
mollahs and better-class citizens are laying their precious heads
together scheming against me in the rear. Now and then a messenger in the
semi-military garb of a farrash, pushes his way to the front and delivers
a message from these worthies, full of lies and deceit. From the top of
their shaved and turbaned heads to the soles of their slip-shod feet they
are filled with a pig-headed determination to accomplish their object of
seeing the bicycle ridden. They send me all sorts of messages, from one
of but ordinary improbability, saying that the Mustapha is outside and
wants me to come out and ride, to one altogether ridiculous in its wild
absurdity, promising me a present of two tomans.
Occasionally a dervish holds aloft the fantastic paraphernalia of his
profession, battles his way through the surging human surf, and with his
black, ferret-like eyes gleaming with unconscious ferocity through a
vision of unkempt hair, thrusts his cocoa-nut alms-receiver under my nose
and says, "Huk yah huk!" or "backsheesh!" Shouted at, gesticulated at,
intrigued against and solicited for alms all at the same time, and with
brain-turning persistency, the classic halls of Bedlam would, in
contrast, be a reposeful and calm retreat. Driven by my tormentors almost
to the desperate resolve of emptying my six-shooter among them, let the
result to myself be what it may, the sun of my persecutions has not
reached the meridian even yet. The officer who an hour ago
inconsiderately left me to my own resources, now returns with a large
party of friends, bent on seeing the same wonderful sight that has
seemingly set the whole city in an uproar. He has been about the place
collecting friends and acquaintances for the purpose of treating them to
an exhibition of my skill on the wheel. The purpose of the officer's
return, with his friends, is readily understood by the crowd, and his
arrival is announced by a universal roar of "Sowar shuk! tomasha!" as
though not one of this insatiable mob had yet seen me ride.
Appearing before the elevated porch of the menzil, he beckons me to "come
ahead" in quite an authoritative manner. The peculiar beckoning twist of
this presumptuous individual's chin and henna-stained beard summoning me
to come out and "perform" reminds me of nothing so much as some tamer of
wild animals ordering a trained baboon to spruce himself up and dance for
the edification of the circus-going public. Signifying my unwillingness
to be thus made a circus of over and over again, the officer beckons even
more peremptorily than before, and even makes a feint of coming and
fetching me out by force.
As may well be believed, the sum of my patience is no longer equal to the
strain, and jerking my revolver around from the obscurity of its
hiding-place at my hip to where it can plainly be seen, and laying a hand
menacingly on the butt, I warn him to clear off, in a manner that causes
him to wilt and turn pale. He leaves the caravanserai at once in high
dudgeon. It has been a most humiliating occasion for him, to fall so
ignobly from the very high horse on which he just entered with his bosom
friends; but it is no more than he rightly deserves.
Shortly after this little incident the part-proprietor of a tchai-khan
not far from the caravanserai, proposes that I leave my menzil and come
with him to his place. Happy in the prospect of any kind of a change that
will secure me a little peace, I readily agree to the proposal and at
once take my departure. A few stones are thrown, fortunately without
doing any damage, ere the tchai-khan is reached; but once inside, the
situation is materially improved.
It soon transpires that the speculative proprietors have conceived the
bright idea of utilizing me as an attraction to draw customers to their
place of business. Two men are stationed at the door with clubs, and
admittance is only granted to likely-looking people who have money to
spend on water-pipes and tea. A rival attraction already occupies the
field in the person of a Tabreez Turkish luti with a performing rib-nosed
mandril and a drum. Now and then, when the crowd with no money to spend
becomes too clamorous about the doorway, the luti goes to the assistance
of the guards, and giving the mandril the length of his chain, chases the
people away.
These wandering troubadours and their performing monkeys are common
enough all over Persia, and one often meets them on the road or in the
villages; but the bicycle is quite a different thing, and the
enterprising Tchan-jees do a roaring business all the evening with
customers pouring in to see it and me. The bicycle, the luti, and the
mandril occupy the back part of the large room, where several lamps and
farnooses envelop this attractive and drawing combination with a garish
and stagy glow, so that they can be seen to advantage by the throngs of
eager visitors. My own place, as the lion of the occasion, is happily in
the vicinity of the samovar, where liberal-minded customers can treat me
to cigarettes and tea.
Ridiculous as is my position in the tchai-khan, it is, of course,
infinitely superior in point of comfort and freedom from annoyance, to my
exposed quarters over at the caravanserai. The luti sings doubtful love
songs to the accompaniment of finger-strumming on the drum, and the
mandril now and then condescends to stand on its head, grunt loudly in
response to questions, spin round and round like a dancing dervish, and
otherwise give proof of his intelligence and accomplishments. Its long
hair is shorn from the lower portion of its body, but its head and
shoulders are covered with a wealth of silvery-grayish hair that overlaps
the nakedness of its body and gives it the grotesque appearance of
wearing a tippet. The animal's temper is anything but sweet,
necessitating the habitual employment of a muzzle to prevent him from
biting. Every ten or fifteen minutes, as regular almost as the movements
of Father Time, the mandril's bottled discontent at being made to perform
seems to reach the explosive point, and springing suddenly at his master,
he buries his nose viciously among his clothing in a. determined effort
to chew him up. This spasmodic rage subsides in horrible grunts of
disappointment at being unable to use his teeth, and he becomes
reasonably tractable again for another ten minutes.
The luti himself is filled with envy and covetousness at the immense
drawing powers of the bicycle; and in a burst of confidence wants to know
if I am an "Ingilis lut;" at the same time placing his forefingers
together as an intimation that if I am we ought by all means to form a
combination and travel the country together. About ten o'clock the
khan-jees make me up quite a comfortable shake-down, and tired out with
the tough journey over the mountains and the worrying persecutions of the
afternoon, I fall asleep while yet the house is doing a thriving trade;
the luti singing, the mandril grunting, kalians bubbling, and people
talking, all fail to keep me awake.
The mental and physical exhaustion that makes this possible, does not,
however, prevent me from falling asleep with a firm determination to
leave Torbet-i-Haiderie and its turbulent population too early in the
morning for any more crowds to gather. Accordingly, the morning star has
scarcely risen above the horizon ere I turn out, waken one of the
khan-jees, pocket some bread and depart.
Beyond the streams and villages about Torbet-i-Haiderie, the country
develops into a level desert, stretching away southward as far as eye can
reach. The trail is firm gravel, the wind is favorable, the morning cool,
and the fresh, clear air of the desert exhilarating; under these
favorable conditions I bowl rapidly along, overtaking in a very short
time night-marching camel-riders that left the city last night. Traces of
old irrigating ditches and fields in one or two places tell the tale of
an attempt to reclaim portions of this desert long ago; but now the
camel-thorn and kindred hardy shrubs hold undisputed sway on every hand.
During the forenoon a small oasis is found among some low, shaly hills
that give birth to a little stream, and consequent subsistence, to a few
families of people; they live together inside a high mud-walled enclosure
and cultivate a few small fields of grain. The place is called Kair-abad,
and the people mix chopped garlic with their bread before baking it, or
sprinkle the dough liberally with garlic seeds.
About 2 p.m. is reached a much larger oasis containing a couple of
villages; beyond this are diverging trails with no one anywhere near to
ask the way. Choosing the one that seems to take the most southerly
course, the trail continues hard and ridable for a few more miles, when
it becomes lost in a sea of shifting sand. Firmer ground is visible in
the distance ahead, and on it are seen the small black tents of a few
families of Eliautes. Considerable difficulty is experienced in getting
through the sand; but the width is not great, and the dim trail is
recovered on the southern side with the assistance of a chance
acquaintance.
This chance acquaintance is an Eliaute goat-herd, whom I unwittingly
scared nearly out of his senses, and whose gratitude at finding himself
confronting a kindly-disposed human being instead of some supernatural
agent of destruction, is very great indeed. He was slumbering at his
post, this gentle guardian of a herd of goats, stretched at full length
on the ground. Surveying his unconscious form for a moment and carried
away by the animal-like simplicity of his face, I finally shout "Hoi!"
Opening his eyes with a start and seeing a white-helmeted head surveying
him over the top of a weird, bristling object, the natural impulse of
this simple-hearted child of the desert is to seek safety in flight.
Recovering his head, however, upon hearing reassuring words, he adopts
the propitiatory course of rushing impulsively forward and kissing my
hand.
Spending his whole life here on the lonely desert in the constant society
of a herd of goats, rarely seeing a stranger or meeting anybody to speak
to outside the very limited members of his own tribesmen in yonder tents,
he seems to have almost lost the power of conversation. His replies are
mere guttural gruntings, as though the ever-present music of bleating
goats has had the lamentable effect of neutralizing the naturally
superior articulation of a human being and dragging his powers of
utterance down almost to the ignoble level of "mb-b-a-a."
My small stock of Persian words seems also to be altogether lost upon his
warped and blunted powers of understanding, and it is only by an
elaborate use of pantomime that I finally succeed in making my wants
understood. He possesses the simple hospitable instincts of a child of
Nature's broad solitudes; he leads the way for over a mile to put me on
the now scarcely perceptible continuation of the trail, and with a
worshipfully anxious face he begs of me to go and stay over night at the
tents.
My road leads right past the little cluster of black tents; several women
outside collecting stunted brushwood greet me with the silent, wondering
stare of people incapable of any deeper display of emotion than the
animals they daily associate with and subsist upon; half-naked children
stare at me in a dreamy sort of way from beneath the tents. Even the dogs
seem to have lost their canine propensity to resent innovations; the
result, no doubt, of the same dreary, uneventful round of existence, in
which the faculty of resentment has become dwarfed by the general absence
of anything new or novel to bark at.
The tents of the Eliautes are small and inelegant as compared with the
tents of well-to-do Koords, and the physique and general appearance of
the Eliautes themselves is vastly inferior to the magnificent fellows
that we found loafing about the headquarters of the Koordish sheikhs in
Asia Minor and Western Persia.
The trail I am now following is evidently but little used, requiring the
tracking instincts of an Indian almost to keep it in view. It leads due
southward across the broad, level wastes of the Goonabad Desert, the
surface of which affords most excellent wheeling even where there is not
the faintest indication of a trail. Much of the surface partakes of the
character of bare mud-flats that afford as smooth a wheeling surface as
the alkali flats of the West; the surface is covered all over with crisp
sun peelings--the thin, shiny surface of mud, baked and curled upward by
the fierce heat of the sun, and which now crackle like myriads of dried
twigs beneath the wheel. Occasionally I pass through thousands of acres
of wild tulips, and scattering bands of antelopes are observed feeding in
the distance. The bulbous roots of a great many of the tulips have been
eaten by herbivorous animals of epicurean tastes---our fastidious
friends, the antelopes, no doubt. The flags are bitten off and laid
aside, the tender, white interior of the bulb alone is extracted and
eaten, the less tender outside layers being left in the hole. It is a
glorious ride across the Goonabad Desert, a ten-mile pace being quite
possible most of the way; sometimes the trail is visible and sometimes it
is not. With but the vaguest idea of the distance to the next abode of
man, or the nature of the country ahead, I bowl along southward, led by
the strange infatuation of a pathfinder traversing terra incognita, and
rejoicing in the sense of boundless freedom and unrestraint that comes of
speeding across open country where Nature still holds her primitive sway.
Twice I wheel past the ruins of wayside umbars, whose now utterly
neglected condition and the well-nigh obliterated trail point out that I
am travelling over a route that has for some reason been abandoned. A
variation from the otherwise universal level occurs in the shape of a
cluster of low, mound-like hills, whose modest proportions are made
gorgeous and interesting by flakes of mica that glint and glisten in the
sunlight as though the hills might be strewn with precious jewels.
The sun is getting pretty low, and no signs of human habitation anywhere
about; but the wheeling is excellent, and the termination of the
lake-like level is observable in the distance ahead in favor of low
hills. Between my present position and the hills the prospect is that of
continuous level ground. Imagine my astonishment, then, at shortly
finding myself standing on the bank of a stream about thirty yards wide,
its yellow waters flowing sluggishly along twenty feet below the surface
of the desert. The abrupt nature of its banks, and an evidently
unpleasant habit of becoming unfordable after a rain, tell the story of
the abandoned trail I have been following. Whether three feet deep or
thirty, the thick, muddy character of its moving water refuses to reveal,
as, standing on the bank, I ruefully survey the situation.
No time is to be lost in idle speculation, unless I want to stretch my
supperless form on the barren, brown bosom of mother earth, and dream the
dreary visions conjured up by the clamorous demands of unsatisfied
nature; for the sun has well-nigh sunk below the horizon. Clambering down
the almost perpendicular bank I succeed, after several attempts, in
discovering a passage that can be forded, and so, wrapping my clothing,
money, revolver, etc. tightly within my rubber coat, I essay to carry the
bundle across. All goes well until I reach a point just beyond the middle
of the stream, when the bed of the stream breaks through with my weight
and lets me down into a watery cavern to which there appears to be no
bottom. The bed of the stream at this point seems to be a mere thin
shell, beneath which there are other aqueous depths, and fearful lest the
undercurrent should carry me beneath the crust and prevent me recovering
myself, I loose the bundle and regain the surface without more ado. The
rubber covering preserves the clothes from getting much of a wetting, and
I swim and wade to the opposite shore with them without much trouble.
To get the bicycle over, however, looks a far more serious undertaking;
for to break through in this way with a bicycle held aloft would probably
result in getting entangled in the wheel and held under the water. It
would be equally risky to take that important piece of property apart and
cross over with it piece by piece, for the loss of any part would be a
serious matter here.
Several new places are tried, but this one is the only passage that can
be forded. My rope is also too short to be of avail in swimming over and
pulling the bicycle across. Finally, after many attempts, I succeed in
finding a ford immediately alongside where I had broken through, and
after thoroughly testing the strength of the crust by standing and
jumping up and down, I conclude to risk carrying the wheel. Owing to the
extreme difficulty of following the same line, it is scarcely necessary
to remark that every step forward is made with extreme caution and every
foot of the riverbed traversed tested as thoroughly as possible, under
the circumstances, before fully trusting my weight upon it. Once the
crust breaks through again, letting me down several inches; but,
fortunately, the second bottom is here but a matter of inches below the
first shell, and I am able to recover myself without dropping the
bicycle; and the southern bank is reached without further misadventure.
No trail is visible on the crackled surface of the mud-flat across the
river, as I continue in a general southward course, hoping to find it
again ere it becomes too dark Soon a man riding on a camel is descried
some distance off to the right, and deeming it advisable to seek for
information at his hands, I shape my course toward him and give chase.
Becoming conscious of a strange-looking object careering over the plain
in his direction, the man surveys me for a moment from the back of his
awkward steed and then steers his ship of the desert in another
direction. The lumbering camel is quickly overtaken, however, and the
gallant but apprehensive rider makes a stand and threateningly waves me
away. Observing the absence of the familiar long-barrelled gun, I persist
in my purpose of interviewing him regarding the road, and finally learn
from him that the village of Goonabad is eight miles farther south, and
that the trail will be easier followed when I reach the hills. Had he
been armed with a gun, there would have been more or less risk in
approaching him in the dusky shades of evening on so strange a vehicle of
travel; but before I depart he alights from his camel for the
characteristic purpose of kissing my hand.
A couple of miles brings me to the hills, where my riding abruptly comes
to an end; the hills are simply huge waves of sand and dust collected on
the shore of the desert and held together by a growth of coarse shrubs.
The dim light of the young moon proves insufficient for my purpose of
keeping the trail, and the difficulty in trundling through the sand
compels me to seek the cold comfort of a night in the desert, after all.
Goonabad appears to be a sort of general rendezvous for wandering tribes
of Eliautes that roam the desert country around with their flocks and
herds, the tent population of the place far outnumbering the soil-tilling
people of the village itself. A complete change is here observable in
both the climate and the people; north of the desert the young barley is
in a very backward state, but at Goonabad both wheat and barley are
headed out, and the sun strikes uncomfortably hot as soon as it rises
above the horizon. It is a curious change in so short a distance. The men
affect the long, dangling, turban-end of the Afghans and the women
blossom forth in the gayest of colors; the people are refreshingly
simple-hearted and honest, as compared with the knowing customers along
the Teheran-Meshed road.
Sand-hills, scattering fields and villages, and a bewildering time
generally, in keeping my course, characterize the experience of the
forenoon. The people of one particular village passed through are
observed to be all descendants of the Prophet, wearing monster green
turbans and green kammerbunds; the women are dressed in white
throughout--white socks, white pantalettes, and white shrouds; they
move silently about, more like ghostly visitants than human beings.
Distinctly different types of people from the majority are sometimes met
with--full-bearded, very dark-skinned men, whose bared breasts betray the
fact that they are little less hairy than a bison.
Beyond the sand-hills, the villages, and the cultivation is a stony plain
extending for sixteen miles, a gradual upward slant to a range of
mountains. At the base of the mountains an area of dark-green coloring
denotes the presence of fields and orchards and the whereabouts of the
important village of Kakh. Beautifully terraced wheat-fields and
vineyards, and peach and pomegranate orchards in full bloom, gladden the
eyes and present a most striking contrast to the stony plain as the
vicinity of Kakh is reached, and another pleasing and conspicuous feature
is the dome of a mesjid mosaicked with bright-colored tiles.
The good people of Kakh are inquisitive even above their fellows, if such
can be possible, but they are well-behaved and mild-mannered with it.
After taking the ragged edge off their curiosity by riding up and down
the main thoroughfare of the village, the keeper of a mercantile affair
locks the bicycle up in his room, and I spend the evening hobnobbing with
him and his customers in his little stall-like place of business. Kakh is
famous for the production of little seedless raisins like those of
Smyrna. Bushels of these are kicking about the place, and our merchant
friend becomes filled with a wild idea that I might, perchance, buy the
lot. A moment's reflection would convince him that ten bushels of
sickly-sweet raisins would be about the last thing he could sell to a
person travelling on a bicycle; but his supply of raisins is evidently so
outrageously ahead of the demand that his ambition to reduce his stock
obscures his better judgment like a cloud, and places him in the position
of a drowning man clutching wildly at a straw.
Considerable opium is also grown hereabouts, and the people make it into
sticks about the size of a carpenter's pencil; hundreds of these also
occupy the merchant's shelves. He seems to have very little that isn't
grown in the neighborhood except tea and loaf-sugar.
Eyots, who were absent in their fields when I arrived, come crowding
around the store in the evening, bothering me to ride; the shop-keeper
bids them wait till my departure in the morning, telling them I am not a
luti, riding simply to let people see. He provides me with a door that
fastens inside, and I am soon in the land of dreams.
Early in the morning I am awakened by people pounding at the door and
shouting, "A/tab, Sahib-a/tab.'" It is the belated ryots of yesterday
eve; thoroughly determined to be on hand and see the start, they are
letting me know that it is sunrise.
A boisterous mountain stream, tearing along at racing speed over a rocky
bed a hundred and fifty yards wide, provides Kakh with perpetual music,
and furnishes travellers going southward with an interesting time getting
across. This stream must very frequently become a raging torrent, quite
impassable; for although it is little more than knee-deep this morning,
the swift water carries down stones as large as a brick, that strike
against the ankles and well-nigh knock one off his feet.
Beyond Kakh the trail winds its circuitous way through a mountainous
region, following one little stream to its source, climbing over the
crest of an intervening ridge and down the bed of another stream. It is
but an indistinct donkey trail at best, and the toilsome mountain
climbing reminds me vividly of the worst parts of Asia Minor. Toward
nightfall I wander into the village of Nukhab, a small place perched
among the hills, inhabited by kindly-disposed, hospitable folks.
Having seen the unhappy effect of the Governor-General's letter of
recommendation at Torbet-i-Haiderie, and desirous of seeing what effect
it might, perchance, have on the more simple-hearted people of Nukhab, I
present it to the little, old, blue-gowned Khan of the village. Like a
very large proportion of his people, the Khan is suffering from chronic
ophthalmia; but he peruses the letter by the glimmer of a blaze of
camel-thorn. The intentions of these people were plainly most hospitable
from the beginning, so that it is difficult to determine about the effect
of the letter.
Willing hands sweep out the quarters assigned for my accommodation, the
improvised besoms filling the place with a cloud of dust; the doorway is
ruthlessly mutilated to make it large enough to admit the bicycle;
nummuds are spread and a crackling fire soon fills the room with mingled
smoke and light. The people are allowed to circulate freely in and out to
see me, but only the Khan himself and a few of the leading lights of the
village are permitted to indulge in the coveted privilege of spending the
entire evening in my company. The village is ransacked for eatables to
honor their guest, resulting in a bountiful repast of eggs, pillau, mast,
and sheerah.
Away down here among the mountains and out of the world, these people see
nothing more curious than their next-door neighbors from year to year;
they take the most ridiculous interest in such small affairs as my
note-book and pencil, and everything about me seems to strike them as
peculiar.
The entire village, as usual, assembles to see me dispose of the eatables
so generously provided; and later in the evening there is another
highly-expectant assembly waiting around, out of curiosity, to see what
sort of a figure a Ferenghi cuts at his evening devotions. Poor benighted
followers of the False Prophet, how little they comprehend us Christians!
Suddenly it seems to dawn upon the mind of the simple old Khan that,
being a stranger in a strange land, I might, perchance, be a trifle mixed
about my bearings, and so he kindly indicates the direction of Mecca.
When informed that the Ingilis never prostrate themselves toward Mecca
and say "Allah-il-allah!" they evince the greatest astonishment; and then
the strange, unnatural impiousness of people who never address themselves
to Allah nor prostrate toward the Holy City, impresses their simple minds
with something akin to the feeling entertained among certain of ourselves
toward extra dare-devil characters, and they seem to take a deeper and
kindlier interest in me than ever. The disappointment at not seeing what
I look like at prayers is more than offset by the additional novelty
imparted to my person by the, to them, strange and sensational omission.
They seem greatly disappointed to learn that I am going away in the
morning; they have plenty of toke-me-morge, pillau, mast, and sheerah,
they say--plenty of everything; and they want me to stay with them
always. Revolving the matter over in my mind, I am forcibly struck with
the calm, reposeful state of Nukhab society; and what a brilliant field
of enterprise for an ambitious person the place would be. Turned
Mussulman, joined in wedlock to three or four sore-eyed village damsels;
worshipped as a sort of strange, superior being, hakim and eye-water
dispenser; consulted as a walking store-house of occult philosophy on all
occasions; endeavoring to educate the people up to habits of all-round
cleanliness; chiding the mothers for allowing the flies to swarm and
devour the poor little babies' eyes--all this, for toke-me-morge, pillau,
mast, and sheerah, twice or thrice a day! Involuntarily my eye roams over
the gladsome countenances of the eligible portion of my female auditors,
as though driven by this whimsical flight of fancy to the necessity of at
once making a choice. There is only one present with any pretence to
comeliness; and embarrassed, no doubt, by the extreme tenderness of the
stranger's glance, she shrinks from view behind an aged and ugly person
whom I take to be her mother.
Everybody stops to see what a Ferenghi looks like en deshabille, and when
I am snugly sandwiched between the quilts provided, they gather about me
and peer curiously down into my face.
An enterprising youth is on hand at daybreak making a fire; but it is
eight o'clock before I am able to get away; they seem to be mildly
scheming among themselves to keep me with them as long as possible.
The trail winds and twists about among the mountains, following in the
train of a wayward little stream, then leads over a pass and emerges, in
the company of another stream, upon a slanting plateau leading down to an
extensive plain. Rounding the last spur of the hills, I find myself
approaching a crowd numbering at least a hundred people. Hats are waved
gleefully, voices are lifted up in joyous shouts of welcome, and the
whole company give way to demonstrations of delight at my approach. A
minute later I find myself surrounded by the familiar faces of the
population of Nukhab--my road has followed a roundabout course of
six or seven miles, and our enterprising friends have taken a short cut
over the lulls to intercept me at this point, where they can watch my,
progress across the open plain. They have brought along the kind old
Kahn's kalian and tobacco-bag, and the wherewithal to make me a parting
glass of tea.
Eight or ten miles of fair wheeling across the plain, through the
isolated village of Mohammedabad, and the trail loses itself among the
rank, dead stalks of the assafoetida plant that here characterizes the
vegetation of the broad, level sweep of plain. The day is cloudy, and
with no trail visible, my compass has to be brought into requisition;
though oft-times finding it useful, it is the first time I have found
this article to be really indispensable so far on the tour.
The atmosphere of an assafoetida desert is among those things that can
better be imagined than described; the aroma of the fetid gum is wafted
to and fro, and assails the nostrils in a manner quite the reverse of
"Araby the blest." The plant is a sturdy specimen among the annuals: its
straight, upright stem is but three or four feet high, but often
measuring four inches in diameter, and it not infrequently defies the
blasts of the Khorassan winter and the upheaving thaws of spring, and
preserves its upright position for a year after its death. The thick,
dead stems and branching tops of last year's plants are seen by the
thousands, sturdily holding their ground among the rank young shoots of
the new growth.
Mountainous territory is again entered during the afternoon, and shortly
after sunset I arrive at a cluster of wretched mud hovels, numbering
about two dozen. Here my reception is preeminently commercial and
business-like, the people requiring payment in advance for the bread and
eggs and rogan provided.
A nonsensical custom among the people of Southern Khorassan is to offer
one's food in turn to everybody present and say, "Bis-millah," before
commencing to eat it yourself. Although a ridiculous piece of humbug, it
is generally my custom to fall in with the peculiar ways of the country,
and for days past have invariably offered my food to scores of people
whom I knew beforehand would not take it. The lack of courtesy at this
hamlet in exacting payment in advance would seem naturally to preclude
the right to expect the following of courteous customs in return. In
this, however, I find myself mistaken; for my omission to say
"Bis-millah" not only fills these people with astonishment, but excites
unfavorable comment.
The door-ways of the houses here are entirely too small to admit the
bicycle, and that much-enduring vehicle has to take its chances on the
low roof with a score or so inquisitive and meddlesome goats that
instantly gather around it, as though revolving in their pugnacious minds
some fell scheme of destruction. Outside are several camels tied to their
respective pack-saddles, which have been taken off and laid on the
ground. Before retiring for the night, it occurs to my mind that the
total depravity of a goat's appetite bodes ill for the welfare of my
saddle, and that, everything considered, the bicycle could, perhaps, be
placed safer on the ground; in addition to regarding the saddle as a
particularly toothsome morsel, the goats' venturesome disposition might
lead them to clambering about on the spokes, and generally mixing things
up. So, taking it down, I stand it up against the wall, and place a heap
of old pack-saddle frames and camel-trappings before it as an additional
precaution. During the night some of the camels break loose and are heard
chasing one another around the house, knocking things over and bellowing
furiously. Apprehensive of my wheel, I get up and find it knocked over,
but, fortunately, uninjured; I then take off the saddle and return it to
the tender care and consideration of the goats.
Four men and a boy share with me a small, unventilated den, about ten
feet square; one of them is a camel-driving descendant of the Prophet,
and sings out "Allah-il-allah!" several times during the night in his
sleep; another is the patriarch of the village, a person guilty of
cheating the undertaker, lo! these many years, and who snuffles and
catches his breath. The other two men snore horribly, and the boy gives
out unmistakable signs of a tendency to follow their worthy example;
altogether, it is anything but a restful night.
CHAPTER VII.
BEERJAND AND THE FRONTIER OF AFGHANISTAN.
Thirty miles over hill and dale, after leaving the little hamlet, and
behold, the city of Beerjand appears before me but a mile or thereabouts
away, at the foot of the hills I am descending. One's first impression of
Beerjand is a sense of disappointment; the city is a jumbled mass of
uninteresting mud buildings, ruined and otherwise, all of the same dismal
mud-brown hue. Not a tree exists to relieve the eye, nor a solitary green
object to break the dreary monotony of the prospect; the impression is
that of a place existing under some dread ban of nature that forbids the
enlivening presence of a tree, or even the redeeming feature of a bit of
greensward.
The broad, sandy bed of a stream contains a sluggishly-flowing reminder
of past spring freshets; but the quickening presence of a stream of water
seems thrown away on Beerjand, except as furnishing a place for
closely-veiled females to come and wash clothes, and for the daily wading
and disporting of amphibious youngsters. In any other city a part of its
mission would be the nurturing of vegetation.
The Ameer, Heshmet-i-Molk, I quickly learn, is living at his
summer-garden at Ali-abad, four farsakhs to the east. Curious to see
something of a place so much out of the world, and so little known as
Beerjand, I determine upon spending the evening and night here, and
continuing on to Ali-abad next morning.
There appears to be absolutely nothing of interest to a casual observer
about the city except its population, and they are interesting from their
strange, cosmopolitan character, and as being the most unscrupulous and
keenest people for money one can well imagine. The city seems a seething
nest of hard characters, who buzz around my devoted person like wasps,
seemingly restrained only by the fear of retribution from pouncing on my
personal effects and depriving me of everything I possess.
The harrowing experiences of Torbet-i Haiderie have taught a useful
lesson that stands me in good stead at Beerjand. Ere entering the city
proper, I enlist the services of a respectable-looking person to guide
the way at once where the pressing needs of hunger can be attended to
before the inevitable mob gathers about me and renders impossible this
very necessary part of the programme. Having duly fortified myself
against the anticipated pressure of circumstances by consuming bread and
cheese and sheerah in the semi-seclusion of a suburban bake-house, my
guide conducts me to the caravanserai, receives his backsheesh, and loses
himself in the crowd that instantly fills the place.
The news of my arrival seems to set the whole city in a furore; besides
the crowds below, the galched roof of the caravanserai becomes standing
room for a mass of human beings, to the imminent danger of breaking it
in. So, at least, thinks the caravanserai-jee, who becomes anxious about
it and tries to persuade them to come down; but he might as well attempt
to summon down from above the unlistening clouds.
Around two sides of the caravanserai compound is a narrow, bricked walk,
elevated to the level of the menzil floors; at the imminent risk of
breaking my neck, I endeavor to appease the clamorous multitude, riding
to and fro for the edification of what is probably the wildest-looking
assembly that could be collected anywhere in the world. Afghans, with
tall, conical, gold-threaded head-dresses, converted into monster turbans
by winding around them yards and yards of white or white-and-blue cloth,
three feet of which is left dangling down the back; Beloochees in flowing
gowns that were once white; Arabs in the striped mantles and peculiar
headdress of their country; dervishes, mollahs, seyuds, and the whole
fantastic array of queer-looking people living in Beerjand, travelling
through, or visiting here to trade.
Some of the Afghans wear a turban and kammerbund, all of one piece; after
winding the long cotton sheet a number of times about the peaked
head-dress, it is passed down the back and then ends its career in the
form of a kammerbund about the waist. Fights and tumults occur as the
result of the caravanserai-jee's attempt to shut the gate and keep them
out, and in despair he puts me in a room and locks the door. In less than
five minutes the door is broken down, and a second attempt to seclude
myself results in my being summarily pelted out again with stones through
a hole in the roof.
A Yezdi traveller, occupying one of the menzils--all of which at
Beeriand are provided with doors and locks--now invites me to his
quarters; locking the door and keeping me out of sight, he hopes by
making me his guest to assist in getting rid of the crowd. Whatever his
object, its consummation is far from being realized; the unappeased
curiosity of the crowds of newly arriving people finds expression in
noisy shouts and violent hammering on the door, creating a din so
infernal that the well-meaning traveller quickly tires of his bargain.
Following the instincts of the genuine Oriental, he conjures up the
genius of diplomacy to rid himself of his guest and the annoyance
occasioned by my presence.
"If you go outside and ride around the place once more," he says,
"Inshallah, the people will all go home."
This is a very transparent proposition--a broad hint, covered with
the thin varnish of Persian politeness. No sooner am I outside than the
door is locked, and the wily Yezdi has accomplished his purpose of
ousting me and thereby securing a little peace for himself. No
right-thinking person will blame him for turning me out; on the contrary,
he deserves much praise for attempting to take me in.
I now endeavor to render my position bearable by locking up the bicycle
and allowing the populace to concentrate their eager gaze on me, perching
myself on the roof in position to grant them a fair view. Swarms of
people come flocking up after me, evidently no more able to control their
impulse to follow than if they were so many bleating sheep following the
tinkling leadership of a bellwether or a goat. The caravanserai-jee begs
me to come down again, fearing the weight will cause the roof to cave in.
well-nigh at my wit's end what to do, I next take up a squatting position
in a corner and resign myself to the unhappy fate of being importuned to
ride, shouted at in the guttural tones of desert tribesmen, questioned in
unknown tongues, solicited for alms and schemed against and worried for
this, that, and the other, by covetous and evil-minded ruffians.
"The Ingilis have khylie pool-k-h-y-lie pool!" (much money) says one
ferocious-looking individual to his companion, and their black eyes
glisten and their fingers rub together feverishly as they talk, as if the
mere imagination of handling my money were a luxury in itself.
"He must have khylie pool if he is going all the way to
Hindostan-k-h-y-lie pool!" suggests another; and the coveteousness of
dozens of keenly interested listeners finds expression in "Pool, pool;
the Ingilis have khylie pool."
One eager ragamuffin brings me half-a-dozen sour and shrivelled oranges,
utterly worthless, for which he asks the outrageous sum of three kerans;
a second villainous-looking specimen worries me continuously to leave the
caravanserai and go with him somewhere. I never could make out where.
He looks the veriest cutthroat, and, curious to penetrate the secret of
his intentions, and perchance secure something interesting for my
note-book, I at length make pretence of acceding to his wishes.
Bystanders at once interfere to prevent him enticing me away, and when he
angrily remonstrates he is hustled unceremoniously out into the street.
"He is a bad man," they say; "neis koob adam."
Nothing daunted by the summary ejection of this person, a dervish, with
the haggard face and wild, restless eyes of one addicted to bhang, now
volunteers to take me under his protection and lead me out of the
caravanserai to--where? He vouchsafes no explanation where; none, at
least, that is at all comprehensible to me. Where do these interesting
specimens of Beerjand's weird population want to entice me to? why do
they want to entice me anywhere? I conclude to go with the dervish and
find out.
The crowd enter their remonstrances again; but the dervish wears the garb
of holy mendicancy; violent hands must not be laid on the sacred person
of a dervish. Our path is barred at the outer gate of the caravanserai,
however, by two men in semi-military uniforms, armed with swords and huge
clubs; they chide the dervish for wanting to take me with him, and have
evidently been placed at their post by the authorities.
Soon a uniformed official comes in and tries to question me. He is a
person of very limited intelligence, incapable of understanding and
making himself understood through the medium of the small stock of his
native tongue at my command. The linguistic abilities of the strange,
semi-civilized audience about us comprise Persian, Turkish, Hindostani,
and even a certain amount of Russian; not a soul besides myself knows a
single word of English.
After queries have been propounded to me in all these tongues, my
intellectual interviewer gives me up in despair, and, addressing the
crowd about us, cries out in astonishment: "Parsee neis! Turkchi binmus!
Hindostani nay! Paruski nicht! mashallah, what language does he speak?"
"Ingilis! Ingilis! Ingilis!" shout at least a dozen more knowing people
than himself.
"Oh, I-n-g-i-l-i-s!" says the officer, condemning his own lack of
comprehension by the tone of his voice. "Aha, I-n-g-i-l-i-s, aha!" and he
looks over the crowd apologetically for not having thought of so simple a
thing before. But having ascertained that I speak English, he now
proceeds to treat me to a voluble discourse in simon-pure Persian. Seeing
that I fail to comprehend the tenor of the officer's remarks, some of the
garrulous crowd vouchsafe to explain in Turkish, others in Hindostani,
and one in Russian!
In the absence of a lunatic asylum to dodge into, I fasten on to the
officer and get him to take me out and show me the Ali-abad road, so that
I can find the way out early in the morning.
Another caravanserai is found located nearer the road leading from the
city eastward, and I determine to change my quarters quietly by the light
of the moon, leaving the crowd in ignorance of my whereabouts, so that
there will be no difficulty in getting through the streets in the
morning.
Late at night, when the now quieted city is bathed in the soft, mellow
light of the moon, and the crenellated mud walls and old ruins and
archways cast weird shadows across the silent streets, with a few chosen
companions, parties to the secret of the removal, the bicycle is trundled
through the narrow, crooked streets and under arched alleyways, to the
caravanserai on the eastern edge of the city.
Seated beneath the shadowy archway of the first caravanserai is a silent
figure smoking a kalian; as we open the gate to leave, the figure rises
up and thrusts forth an alms-receiver and in a loud voice sings out,
"Backsheesh, backsheesh; huk yah huk!" It is the same dervish that was
turned back with me by the guards at this same gate this afternoon.
My much-needed slumbers at my new quarters are rudely disturbed--as a son
of Erin might, perhaps, declare under similar circumstances--before they
are commenced, by the fearful yowling of Beerjand cats. Several of these
animals are paying their feline compliments to the moon from different
roofs and walls hard by, and their utterances strike my unaccustomed
(unaccustomed to the Beerjand variety of cat-music) ears as about the
most unearthly sound possible.
Fancying the noise is made by women wailing for the dead, from a striking
resemblance to the weird night-sounds heard, it will be remembered, at
Bey Bazaar, Asia Minor (Vol. I), I go outside and listen. Many guesses
would most assuredly be made by me before guessing cats as the authors of
such unearthly music; but cats it is, nevertheless; for, seeing me
listening outside by the door, one of the sharers of my rude quarters
comes out and removes all doubt by drawing the rude outlines of a cat in
the dust with his finger, and by delivering himself of an explanatory
"meow." The yowl of a Beerjand cat is several degrees more soul-harrowing
than anything inflicted by midnight prowlers upon the Occidental world,
and I learn afterward that they not infrequently keep it up in the
daytime.
An early start, sixteen miles of road without hills or mountains, but
embracing the several qualities of good, bad, and indifferent, and at
eight o'clock I dismount in the presence of a little knot of
Heshmet-i-Molk's retainers congregated outside his summer-garden, and a
goodly share of the population of the adjacent village of Ali-abad. While
yet miles away, Ali-abad is easily distinguished as being something out
of the ordinary run of Persian villages by the luxuriant foliage of the
Ameer's garden. The whole country around is of the same desert-like
character that distinguishes well-nigh all this country, and the dark,
leafy grove of trees standing alone on the gray camel-thorn plain,
derives additional beauty and interest from the contrast.
The village of Ali-abad, consisting of the merest cluster of low mud
hovels and a few stony acres wrested from the desert by means of
irrigation, the people ragged, dirty, and uncivilized, looks anything but
an appropriate dwelling-place for a great chieftain. The summer garden
itself is enclosed within a high mud wall, and it is only after passing
through the gate and shutting out the rude hovels, the rag-bedecked
villagers, and the barren desert, that the illusion of unfitness is
removed.
My letter is taken in to the Ameer, and in a few minutes is answered in a
most practical manner by the appearance of men carrying carpets,
tent-poles, and a round tent of blue and white stripes. Winding its
silvery course to the summer garden, from a range of hills several miles
distant, is a clear, cold stream; although so narrow as to be easily
jumped, and nowhere more than knee-deep, the presence of trout betrays
the fact that it never runs dry.
The tent is pitched on the banks of this bright little stream, the
entrance but a half-dozen paces from its sparkling water, and a couple of
guards are stationed near by to keep away intrusive villagers; an
abundance of eatables, including sweetmeats, bowls of sherbet, and dried
apricots, and pears from Foorg, are provided at once.
A neatly dressed attendant squats himself down on the shady side of the
tent outside, and at ridiculously short intervals brings me in a newly
primed kalian and a samovar of tea. Everything possible to contribute to
my comfort is attended to and nothing overlooked; and the Ameer
furthermore proves himself sensible and considerate above the average of
his fellow-countrymen by leaving me to rest and refresh myself in the
quiet retreat of the tent till four o'clock in the afternoon.
Reclining on the rich Persian carpet beneath the gayly striped tent,
entertained by the babbling gossip of the brook, provided with luxuriant
food and watchful attendants, taking an occasional pull at a jewelled
kalian primed with the mild and seductive product of Shiraz, or sipping
fragrant tea, it is very difficult to associate my present conditions and
surroundings with the harassing experiences of a few hours ago. This
marvellous transformation in so short a time--from the madding clamor of
an inconsiderate mob, to the nerve-soothing murmur of the little stream;
from the crowded and filthy caravanserai to the quiet shelter of the
luxurious tent; in a word, from purgatory to Paradise--what can have
brought it about? Surely nothing less than the good genii of Aladdin's
lamp.
A very agreeable, and, withal, intelligent young man, the incumbunt of
some office about the Ameer's person, no doubt a mirza, pays me a visit
at noon, apparently to supervise the serving up of the--more than
bountiful repast sent in from his master's table. My attention is at once
arrested by the English coat-of-arms on his sword-belt; both belt and
clasp have evidently wandered from the ranks of the British army.
"Pollock Sahib," he says, in reply to my inquiries--it is a relic of
the Seistan Boundary Commission.
About four o'clock, this same young man and a companion appear with the
announcement that the Ameer is ready to receive me, and requests that I
bring the bicycle with me into the garden. The stream flows through a low
arch beneath the wall and lends itself to the maintenance of an
artificial lake that spreads over a large proportion of the enclosed
space. The summer garden is a fabrication of green trees and the cool
glimmer of shaded water, rather than the flower-beds, the turf, and
shrubbery of the Occidental conception of a garden; the Ameer's quarters
consist of an un-pretentious one-storied building fronting on the lake.
The Ameer himself is found seated on a plain divan at the open-windowed
front, toying with a string of amber beads; a dozen or so retainers are
standing about in respectful and expectant attitudes, ready at a moment's
notice to obey any command he may give or to anticipate his personal
wants. He is a stoutly built, rather ponderous sort of individual, with a
full, rotund face and a heavy, unintellectual, but good-natured
expression; one's first impression of him is apt to be less flattering to
his head than to his heart. He is a person, however, that improves with
acquaintance, and is probably more intelligent than he looks. He seems to
be living here in a very plain and unpretentious manner; no gaudy stained
glass, no tinsel, no mirror-work, no vain gew-gaws of any description
impart a cheap and garish glitter to the place; no gorgeous apparel
bedecks his ample proportions. Clad in the ordinary dress of a well-to-do
Persian nobleman, Heshmet-i-Molk, happy and contented in the enjoyment of
creature comforts and the universal esteem of his people, probably finds
his chief pleasure in sitting where we now find him, looking out upon the
green trees and glimmering waters of the garden, smoking his kalian, and
attending to the affairs of state in a quiet, unostentatious manner. With
a refreshing absence of ceremonial, he discusses with me the prospects of
my being able to reach India overland. The conversation on his part,
however, almost takes the form of trying to persuade me from my purpose
altogether, and particularly not to attempt Afghanistan.
"The Harood is as wide as from here to the other side of the lake yonder
(200 yards); tund (swift) as a swift-running horse and deep as this
house," he informs me.
"No bridge? no ferry-boat? no means of getting across?"
"Eitch" (no), replies the Ameer. "Pull neis, kishti neis."
"Can't it be forded with camels?"
"Shutor neis."
"No village, with people to assist with poles or skins to make a raft?"
"Afghani dasht-adam (nomads), no poles; you might perhaps find skins; but
the river is tund-t-u-n-d! skins neis, poles neis; t-u-n-d!!" and the
Ameer points to a bird hopping about on the garden walk, intimating that
the Harood flows as swiftly as the flight of a bird.
The result of the conference I have been so anxiously looking forward to
is anything but an encouraging picture--a picture of insurmountable
obstacles on every hand. The deep sand and burning heat of the dreadful
Lut Desert intervenes between me and the Mekran coast; the route through
Beloochistan, barely passable with camels and guides and skins of water
in the winter, is not only impracticable for anything in the summer, but
there is the additional obstacle of the spring floods of the Helmund and
the Seistan Lake.
The Ameer's description of the Lut Desert and Beloochistan is but a
confirmation of my own already-arrived-at conclusions concerning the
utter impracticability of crossing either in the summer and with a
bicycle; but the wish gives birth to the thought that perhaps he may not
unlikely be indulging in the Persian weakness for exaggeration in his
graphic portrayal of the difficulties presented by the Harood.
The region between Beerjand and the Harood is on my map a dismal-looking,
blankety-blank stretch of country, marked with the ominous title
"Dasht-i" which, being interpreted into English, means Desert of Despair.
A gleam of hope that things may not be quite so hopeless as pictured is
born of the fact that, in dwelling on the difficulties of the situation,
the Ameer makes less capital out of this same Desert of Despair than of
the Harood, which has to be crossed on its eastern border.
As regards interference from the Legation of Teheran, thank goodness I am
now three hundred miles from the nearest telegraph-pole, and shall enter
Afghanistan at a point so much nearer to Quetta than to the Boundary
Commission Camp that the chances seem all in favor of reaching the former
place if I only succeed in reaching the Dasht-i-na-oomid and the Harood.
The result of the foregoing deliberations is a qualified (qualified by
the absence of any alternative save turning back) determination to point
my nose eastward, and follow its leadership toward the British outpost at
Quetta.
"Khylie koob" (very well), replies the Ameer, as he listens to my
determination; "khylie koob;" and he takes a few vigorous whiffs at his
kalian as though, conscious of the uselessness of arguing the matter any
further with a Ferenghi, he were dismissing the ghost of his own opinions
in a cloud of smoke.
Shortly after sunrise on the following morning a couple of well-mounted
horsemen appear at the door of my tent, armed and equipped for the road.
Their equipment consists of long guns with resting-fork attachment, the
prongs of which project above the muzzle like a two-pronged pitchfork;
swords, pistols, and the brave but antique display of warlike
paraphernalia characteristic of the East. One of them, I am pleased to
observe, is the genial young mirza whose snuff-colored roundabout is held
in place by the "dieu et mon droit" belt of yesterday; his companion is
the ordinary sowar, or irregular horseman of the country. They announce
themselves as bearers of the Ameer's salaams, and as my escort to Tabbas,
a village two marches to the east.
A few miles of plain, with a gradual inclination toward the mountains;
ten miles up the course of a mountain-stream-up, up, up to where thawing
snow-banks make the pathway anything but pleasant for my escort's horses
and ten times worse for a person reduced to the necessity of lugging his
horse along; over the summit, and down, down, down again over a fearful
trail for a wheelman, or, more correctly, over no trail at all, but
scrambling as best one can over rocks, along ledges, often in the water
of the stream, and finally reaching the village of Darmian, the end of
our first day's march, about 3 p.m.
Darmian is situated in a rugged gulch, and the houses, gardens, and
orchards ramble all over the place--with little regard to
regularity, although some attempt has been made at forming streets.
Darmian and Poorg are twin villages, but a short distance apart, in this
same gulch, and are famous for dried apricots, pears, and dried
beetroots, and for the superior quality of its sheerah.
Among the absurdities that crop up during the course of an eventful
evening at Darmian is the case of a patriarchal villager whose broad and
enlightening experience of some threescore years has left him in the
possession of a marvellously logical and comprehensive mind. Hearing of
the arrival of a Ferenghi with an iron horse, this person's subtle
intellect pilots him into the stable of the place we are stopping at and
leads him to search curiously therein, with the expectation, we may
reasonably presume, of seeing the bicycle complacently munching kah and
jow. This is perhaps not so much to be wondered at, when it is reflected
that plenty of people hereabout have no conception whatever of a wheeled
vehicle, never having seen a vehicle of any description.
The good people of Darmian, as is perhaps quite natural in people near
the frontier, betray a pardonable pride in comparing Persia with
Afghanistan, always to the prodigious disadvantage of the latter. In the
course of the usual examination of my effects, they are immensely
gratified to learn from my map that Persia is much the larger country of
the two. A small corner of India is likewise visible on the map, and,
taking it for granted that the map represents India as fully as it does
Persia, the khan, on whom I am unwittingly bestowing the rudiments of a
false but patriotic geographical education, turns around, and with
swelling pride informs the delighted people that Seistan is larger than
India, and Iran bigger than all the rest of the world, he taking it for
granted that my map of Persia is a map of the whole world.
More and more fantastic grow the costumes of the people as one gets
farther, so to speak, out of civilization and off the beaten roads. The
ends of the turbans here are often seen gathered into a sort of bunch or
tuft on the top; the ends are fringed or tipped with gold, and when
gathered in this manner create a fanciful, crested appearance--impart a
sort of cock-a-doodle-doo aspect to the wearer.
Among the most interesting of my callers are three boys of eight to
twelve summers, who enter the room chewing leathery chunks of dried
beetroot. Although unwashed, "unwiped," and otherwise undistinguishable
from others of the same age about the place, they are gravely introduced
as khan this, that, and the other respectively; and while they remain in
the room, obsequiousness marks the deportment of everybody present except
their father, and he regards them with paternal pride.
They are sons of the village khan, and as such are regarded superior
beings by the common people about them. It looks rather ridiculous to see
grown people bearing themselves in a retiring, servile manner in
deference to youngsters glaringly ignorant of how to use a
pocket-handkerchief, and who look as if their chief pastime were chewing
dried beetroot and rolling about in the dust.
But presently it is revealed that their first visit has been a mere
informal call to satisfy the first impulse of youthful curiosity. By and
by their fond parent takes them away for half an hour, and then ushers
them into my presence again, transformed into gorgeous youths with nice
clean faces and wiped noses. Marshalling themselves gravely opposite
where I am sitting, they put their hands solemnly on their youthful
stomachs, salaam, and gracefully drop down into a cross-legged position
on the carpet.
They look like real little chieftains now, both in dress and deportment.
Scarlet roundabouts, trimmed with a profusion of gold braid, bedeck their
consequential bodies; red slippers embroidered with gold thread cover
their feet, and their snowy turbans end in a gold-flecked tuft of
transparent muslin that imparts a bantam-like air of superiority. Their
father comes and squats down beside me, and, as we sip tea together, he
bestows a fond, parental smile upon the three scarlet poppies sitting
motionless, with heads slightly bent and eyes downcast, before us, and
inquires by an eloquent sweep of his chin what I think of them as
specimens of simon-pure nobility.
All through Persia the word "ob" has heretofore been used for water; but
linguistic changes are naturally to be expected near the frontier, and
the Darmian people use the term "ow." Upon my calling for ob, the khan's
attendant stares blankly in reply; but an animated individual in the
front ranks of the crowd about the doors and windows enlightens him and
me at the same time by shouting out, "Ow! ow! ow!"
The muezzin, calling the faithful to their evening prayers, likewise
utters the summons here at Darmian quite differently from anything of the
kind heard elsewhere.
The cry is difficult to describe; but without meaning to cast reflections
on the worthy muezzin's voice, I may perhaps be permitted to mention that
the people are twice admonished, and twice a listening katir (donkey)
awakens the echoing voices of the rock-ribbed gulch in vociferous
response.
The mother-in-law of the mirza lives at Darmian, and, like a dutiful son,
he lingers in her society until nine o'clock next morning. At that hour
he turns his horse's footsteps down the bed of the stream, while his
comrade guides me for a couple of miles over a most abominable
mountain-trail, rejoining the river and the dutiful son-in-law at Foorg.
Foorg is situated at the extremity of the gulch, and is distinguished by
a frowning old castle or fort, that occupies the crest of a precipitous
hill overtopping the village and commanding a very comprehensive view of
the country toward the Afghan frontier.
The villages of Darmian and Foorg, looking out upon wild frontier
territory, inhabited chiefly by turbulent and lawless tribes-people whose
hereditary instincts are diametrically opposed to the sublime ethics of
the decalogue have no doubt often found the grim stronghold towering so
picturesquely above them an extremely convenient thing.
The escort points it out and explains that it belongs to the "Padishah at
Teheran," and not to his own master, the Ameer--a national, as
distinct from a provincial, fortification. The cultivated environs of
Foorg present a most discouraging front to a wheelman; walled gardens,
rocks, orchards, and ruins, with hundreds of water-ditches winding and
twisting among them, the water escaping through broken banks and creating
new confusion where confusion already reigns supreme. Among this
indescribable jumble of mud, water, rocks, ruins, and cultivation,
pitched almost at an angle of forty-five degrees, the natives climb about
bare-legged, impressing one very forcibly as so many human goats as they
scale the walls, clamber over rocks, or wade through mud and water.
A willing Foorgian divests himself of everything but his hat, and carries
the bicycle across the stream, while I am taken up behind the mirza. As
the mirza's iron-gray gingerly enters the water, an interesting and
instructive spectacle is afforded by a hundred or more Foorgians
following the shining example of the classic figure carrying the bicycle,
for the purpose of being on hand to see me start across the plain toward
Tabbas.
Some of these good people are wearing turbans the size of a bandbox;
others wear enormous sheep-skin busbies. A number of tall, angular
figures stemming the turbid stream in the elegant costumes of our first
parents, but wearing Khorassani busbies or Beerjand turbans, makes a
bizarre and striking picture.
A gravelly trail, with the gradient slightly in my favor, enables me to
create a better impression of a bicycler's capabilities on the mind of
the mirza and the sowar than was possible yesterday, by quickly leaving
them far in the rear. Some miles are covered when I make a halt for them
to overtake me, seeking the welcome shelter of a half-ruined wayside
umbar.
An Eliaute camp is but a short distance away, and several sun-painted
children of the desert are eagerly interviewing the bicycle when my
escort comes galloping along; not seeing me anywhere in view ahead, they
had wondered what had become of their wheel-winged charge and are quite
relieved at finding me here hobnobbing with the Eliautes behind the
umbar.
The mirza's fond mother-in-law has presented him with a quantity of dried
pears with half a walnut imbedded in each quarter; during a brief halt at
the umbar these Darmian delicacies are fished out of his saddle-bags and
duly pronounced upon, and the genial Eliautes contribute flowing bowls of
doke (soured milk, prepared in some manner that prevents its spoiling).
High noon finds us at our destination for the day, the village of Tabbas,
famous in all the country around for a peculiar windmill used in grinding
grain. A grist-mill, or mills, consists of a row of one-storied mud huts,
each of which contains a pair of grindstones. Connecting with the upper
stone is a perpendicular shaft of wood which protrudes through the roof
and extends fifteen feet above it. Cross-pieces run through at right
angles and, plaited with rushes, transform the shaft into an upright
four-bladed affair that the wind blows around and turns the millstones
below.
So far, this is only a very primitive and clumsy method of harnessing the
wind; but connected with it is a very ingenious contrivance that redeems
it entirely from the commonplace. A system of mud walls are built about,
the same height or a little higher than the shaft, in such a manner as to
concentrate and control the wind in the interest of the miller,
regardless of which direction it is blowing in.
The suction created by the peculiar disposition of the walls whisks the
rude wattle sails around in the most lively manner. Forty of these mills
are in operation at Tabbas; and to see them all in full swing, making a
loud "sweeshing" noise as they revolve, is a most extraordinary sight.
Aside from Tabbas, these novel grist-mills are only to be seen in the
territory about the Seistan Lake.
The door-way of the quarters provided for our accommodation being too
small to admit the bicycle, not the slightest hesitation is made about
knocking out the threshold. Every male visible about the place seems
eagerly desirous of lending a hand in sweeping out the room, spreading
nummuds, bringing quilts, tea, kalians, or something.
A slight ripple upon the smooth and pleasing surface of the universal
inclination to do us honor is a sententious controversy between the mirza
and a blatant individual who enters objections about killing a sheep.
Whether, in the absence of the village khan, the objections are based on
an unwillingness to supply the mutton, or because the sheep are miles
away on the plain, does not appear; but whatever the objections, the
mirza overcomes them, and we get freshly slaughtered mutton for supper.
Tea is evidently a luxury not to be lightly regarded at Tabbas; after the
leaves have served their customary purpose, they are carefully emptied
into a saucer, sprinkled with sugar, and handed around--each guest takes a
pinch of the sweetened leaves and eats it.
The modus operandi of manipulating the kalian likewise comes in for a
slight modification here. The ordinary Persian method, before handing the
water-pipe to another, is to lift off the top while taking the last pull,
and thus empty the water-chamber of smoke. The Tabbasites accomplish the
same end by raising the top and blowing down the stem. This mighty
difference in the manner of clearing the water-chamber of a hubble-bubble
will no doubt impress the minds of intellectual Occidentals as a
remarkably important and valuable piece of information. Not less
interesting and remarkable will likewise seem the fact that the
flour-frescoed proprietors of these queer little Tabbas grist-mills are
nothing less than the boundary-mark between that portion of the
water-pipe smoking world which blows the remaining smoke out and that
portion which inhales it. The Afghan, the Indian, and the Chinaman adopt
the former method; the Turk, the Persian, and the Arab the latter.
Yet another interesting habit, evidently borrowed from their uncultivated
neighbors beyond the Dasht-i-na-oomid, is the execrable practice of
chewing snuff. Almost every man carries a supply of coarse snuff in a
little sheepskin wallet or dried bladder; at short intervals he rubs a
pinch of this villainous stuff all over his teeth and gums and deposits a
second pinch away in his cheek.
Abdurraheim Khan, the chief of several small villages on the Tabbas
plain, turns up in the evening. He is the mildest-mannered,
kindliest-looking human being I have seen for a long time; he does the
agreeable in a manner that leads his guests to think he worships the
"Ingilis" people humbly at a distance, and is highly honored in being
able to see and entertain one of those very worshipful individuals. Like
nearly all Persians, he is ignorant of the Western custom of shaking
hands; the sun-browned paw extended to him as he enters is stared at a
moment in embarrassment and then clasped between both his palms.
The turban of Abdurraheim Khan is a marvellous evidence of skill in the
arranging of that characteristic Eastern head-dress; the snowy whiteness
of the material, the gracefulness of the folds, and the elegant
crest-like termination are not to be described and done justice to by
either word or pen.
In reply to my inquiries, I am glad to find that Abdurraheim Khan speaks
less discouragingly of the Harood than did the Ameer at Ali-abad; he says
it will be fordable for camels, and there will be no difficulty in
finding nomads able to provide me an animal to cross over with.
Some cause of delay, incomprehensible to me, appears to interfere with
the continuation of my journey in the morning, most of the forenoon being
spent in a discussion of the subject between Abdurraheim Khan and the
mirza. About noon a messenger arrives from Ali-abad, bringing a letter
from the Ameer, which seems to clear up the mystery at once. The letter
probably contains certain instructions about providing me an escort that
were overlooked in the letter brought by the mirza.
When about starting, the khan presents me with a bowl of sweet stuff
--a heavy preparation of sugar, grease, and peppermint. A very small
portion of this lead-like concoction suffices to drive out all other
considerations in favor of a determination never to touch it again. An
attempt to distribute it among the people about us is interpreted by the
well-meaning khan as an impulse of pure generosity on my own part; the
result being that he ties the stuff up nicely in a clean handkerchief
that an unlucky bystander happens to display at that moment and bids me
carry it with me.
An ancient retainer, without any teeth to speak of, and an annoying habit
of shouting "h-o-i!" at a person, regardless of the fact that one is
within hearing of the merest whisper, is detailed to guide me to a few
hovels perched among the mountains, four farsakhs to the southeast, from
which point the journey across the Dasht-i-na-oomid is to begin, with an
escort of three sowars, who are to join us there later in the evening.
A couple of miles over fairly level ground, and then commences again the
everlasting hills, up, up, down, up, down, clear to our destination for
the day. While trundling along over the rough foot-hills, I am approached
by some nomads who are tending goats near by. Seeing them gather about
me, my aged but valiant protector comes galloping briskly up and
imperatively waves them away. A grandfatherly party, with a hacking
cough, a rusty cimeter, and a flint-lock musket of "ye olden tyme," I
fancied "The Aged" merely a guide to show me the road. As I worry along
over the rough, unridable mountains, the irritation of being shouted
"hoi!" at for no apparent reason, except for the luxury of hearing the
music of his own voice, is so annoying that I have about resolved to
abandon him to a well-deserved fate, in case of attack.
But now, instead of leaning on me for protection, he blossoms forth at
once as not only the protector of his own person, but of mine as well! As
he comes galloping bravely up and dismisses the wild-looking children of
the desert with a grandiloquent sweep of his hand, he is almost rewarded
by an involuntary "bravo, old un!" from myself, so superior to the
occasion does he seem to rise.
The little nest of mud huts are found, after a certain amount of
hesitation and preliminary going ahead by "The Aged," and toward
nightfall three picturesque horsemen ride up and dismount; they are the
sowars detailed by the Ameer's orders to Abdurraheim, or some other
border-land khan, to escort me across the Desert of Despair.
"The Aged" bravely returns to Tabbas in the morning by himself. When on
the point of departing, he surveys me wistfully across a few feet of
space and shouts "h-o-i!" He then regards me with a peculiar and
indescribable smile. It is not a very hard smile to interpret, however,
and I present him with the customary backsheesh. Pocketing the coins, he
shouts "h-o-i!'" again, and delivers himself of another smile even more
peculiar and indescribable than the other.
"Persian-like, receiving a present of money only excites his cupidity for
more," I think; and so reply by a deprecatory shake of the head. This
turns out to be an uncharitable judgment, however, for once; he goes
through the pantomime of using a pen and says, "Abdurraheim Khan." He saw
me write my name, the date of my appearance at Tabbas, etc., on a piece
of paper and give it to Abdurraheim Khan, and he wants me to do the same
thing for him.
The three worthies comprising my new escort are most interesting
specimens of the genus sowar; the leader and spokesman of the trio says
he is a khan; number two is a mirza, and number three a mudbake. Khans
are pretty plentiful hereabouts, and it is nothing surprising to happen
across one acting in the humble capacity of a sowar; a mirza gets his
title from his ability to write letters; the precise social status of a
mudbake is more difficult to here determine, but his proper
roosting-place is several rungs of the social ladder below either of the
others. They are to take me through to the Khan of Grhalakua, the first
Afghan chieftain beyond the desert, and to take back to the Ameer a
receipt from him for my safe delivery.
It is a far easier task to reckon up their moral calibre than their
social. Before being in their delectable company an hour they reveal that
strange mingling of childlike simplicity and total moral depravity that
enters into the composition of semi-civilized kleptomaniacs. The khan is
a person of a highly sanguine temperament and possesses a headstrong
disposition; coupled with his perverted notions of meum and tuum, these
qualities will some fine day end in his being brought up with a round
turn and required to part company with his ears or nose, or to be turned
adrift on the cold charity of the world, deprived of his hands by the
crude and summary justice of Khorassan. His eyes are brown and large, and
spherical almost as an owl's eyes, and they bulge out in a manner that
exposes most of the white. He wears long hair, curled up after the manner
of Persian la-de-da-dom, and in his crude, uncivilized sphere evidently
fancies himself something of a dandy.
The mirza is quiet and undemonstrative in his manners, as compared with
his social superior; and as becomes a person gifted with the rare talent
of composing and writing letters, his bump of cautiousness is several
degrees larger than the khan's, but is, nevertheless, not large enough to
counterbalance the pernicious effect of an inherited and deeply rooted
yearning for filthy lucre and a lamentable indifference as to the manner
of obtaining it.
The mudbake is the oldest man of the three, and consequently should be
found setting the others a good example; but, instead of this, his
frequent glances at my packages are, if anything, more heavily freighted
with the molecules of covetousness and an eager longing to overhaul their
contents than either the khan's or the mirza's.
"Pool, pool, pool--keran, keran, keran," the probable amount in my
possession, the amount they expect to receive as backsheesh, and kindred
speculations concerning the financial aspect of the situation, form
almost the sole topic of their conversation. Throwing them off their
guard, by affecting greater ignorance of their language than I am really
guilty of, enables me to size them up pretty thoroughly by their
conversation, and thus to adopt a line of policy to counteract the
baneful current of their thoughts. Their display of cunning and rascality
is ridiculous in the extreme; fancying themselves deep and unfathomable
as the shades of Lucifer himself, they are, in reality, almost as
transparent and simple as children; their cunning is the cunning of the
school-boy. Well aware that the safety of their own precious carcasses
depends on their returning to Khorassan with a receipt from the Khan of
Ghalakua for my safe delivery, there is little reason to fear actual
violence from them, and their childish attempts at extortion by other
methods will furnish an amusing and instructive study of barbarian
character.
The hovel in which our queerly assorted company of eight people sleep
--the owners of the shanty, "The Aged," the khan, the mirza, the
mudbake, and myself--is entered by a mere hole in the wall, and the
bicycle has to stand outside and take the brunt of a heavy thunder-storm
during the night. In this respect, however, it is an object of envy
rather than otherwise, for myriads of fleas, larger than I would care to
say, for fear of being accused of exaggeration, hold high revel on our
devoted carcasses all the livelong night. From the swarms of these frisky
insects that disport and kick their heels together in riotous revelry on
and about my own person, I fancy, forsooth, they have discovered in me
something to be made the most of, as a variety of food seldom coming
within their province. But the complaining moans of "Ali-Akbar" from "The
Aged," the guttural grunts of disapproval from the mirza and the mudbake,
and the impatient growls of "kek" (flea) from the khan, tell of their
being at least partial companions in misery; but, being thicker-skinned,
and withal well seasoned to this sort of thing, their sufferings are less
than mine.
The rain has cleared up, but the weather looks unsettled, as about eight
o'clock next morning our little party starts eastward under the guidance
of a villager whom I have employed to guide us out of the immediate range
of mountains, the sowars betraying a general ignorance of the
commencement of the route.
My escort are a great improvement as regards their arms and equipments
upon "The Aged." Among the three are two percussion double-barrelled
shot-guns, a percussion musket, six horse-pistols of various degrees of
serviceableness, swords, daggers, ornamental goat's-paunch
powder-pouches, peculiar pendent brass rings containing spring nippers
for carrying and affixing caps, leathern water-bottles, together with
various odds and ends of warlike accoutrements distributed about their
persons or their saddles.
"Inshallah, Ghalakua, Gh-al-a-kua!" exclaims the khan, as he swings
himself into the saddle. "Inshallah, Al-lah," is the response of the
mirza and the mudbake, as they carelessly follow his example, and the
march across the Dasht-i-na-oomid begins.
The ryot leads the way afoot, following along the partially empty beds of
mountain torrents, through patches of rank camel-thorn, over
bowlder-strewn areas and drifts of sand, sometimes following along the
merest suggestion of a trail, but quite as frequently following no trail
at all. At certain intervals occurs a piece of good ridable ground; our
villager-guide then looks back over his shoulder and bounds ahead with a
swinging trot, eager to enjoy the spectacle of the bicycle spinning along
at his heels; the escort bring up the rear in a leisurely manner,
absorbed in the discussion of "pool."
Several miles are covered in this manner, when we emerge upon a more open
country, and after consulting at some length with the villager, the khan
declares himself capable of finding the way without further assistance.
It is a strange, wild country, where we part from our local guide; it
looks as though it might be the battleground of the elements. A trail,
that is only here and there to be made out, follows a southeasternly
course down a verdureless tract of country strewn with rocks and bowlders
and furrowed by the rushing waters of torrents now dried up. Jagged rocks
and bowlders are here mingled in indescribable confusion on a surface of
unproductive clay and smaller stones. On the east stretches a waste of
low, stony hills, and on the west, the mountains we have recently emerged
from rise two thousand feet above us in an almost unbroken wall of
precipitous rock.
By and by the khan separates himself from the party and gallops away out
of sight to the left, his declared mission being to purchase "goosht-i"
(mutton) from a camp of nomads, whose whereabouts he claims to know. As
the commissaire of the party, I have, of course, intrusted him with a
sufficient quantity of money to meet our expenses; and the mirza and the
mudbake no sooner find themselves alone than another excellent trait of
their character conies to the surface. Upon comparing their thoughts,
they find themselves wonderfully unanimous in their suspicions as to the
honesty of the khan's intentions toward--not me, but themselves!
These worthy individuals are troubled about the khan's independent
conduct in going off alone to spend money where they cannot witness the
transaction. They are sorely troubled as to probable sharp practice on
the part of their social superior in the division of the spoils.
The "spoils!" Shades of Croesus! The whole transaction is but an affair
of battered kermis, intrinsically not worth a moment's consideration; but
it serves its purpose of affording an interesting insight into the
character of my escort.
The poor mirza and the mudbake are, no doubt, fully justified in
entertaining the worst opinions possible of the khan; he is a sad
scoundrel, on a small scale, to say the least. While they are growling
out to each other their grievances and apprehensions, that artful schemer
is riding his poor horse miles and miles over the stony hills to the
camping-ground of some hospitable Eliaute chieftain, from whom he can
obtain goosht-i-goosfany for nothing, and come back and say he bought it.
Several miles are slowly travelled by us three, when, no sign of the khan
appearing, we decide upon a halt until he rejoins us. In an hour or so
the bizarre figure of the absentee is observed approaching us from over
the hills, and before many minutes he is welcomed by a simultaneous query
of "chand pool?" (how much money?) from his keenly suspicious comrades,
delivered in a ludicrously sarcastic tone of voice.
"Doo Tceran," promptly replies the khan, making a most hopeless effort to
conceal his very palpable guilt beneath a transparent assumption of
innocence. The mirza and the mudbake make no false pretence of taking him
at his word, but openly accuse him of deceiving them. The khan maintains
his innocence with vehement language and takes refuge in
counter-accusations. The wordy warfare goes merrily on for some minutes
as earnestly as if they were quarrelling over their own honest money
instead of over mine. The joint query of "chand pool?" gathers an
additional load of irony from the fact that they didn't seem to think it
worth while to even ask him what he had bought.
Across the pommel of his saddle he carries a young kid, which is now
handed to the mudbake to be tethered to a shrub; he then dismounts and
produces three or four pounds of cold goat meat. Before proceeding again
on our way we consume this cold meat, together with bread brought from
last night's rendezvous. By reason of his social inferiority the mudbake
is now required to assume the burden of carrying the youthful goat; he
takes the poor kid by the scruff of the neck and flings it roughly across
his saddle in a manner that causes the gleeful spirits of the khan to
find vent in a peal of laughter. Even the usually imperturbable
countenance of the mirza lightens up a little, as though infected by the
khan's overflowing merriment and the mudbake's rough handling of the
young goat. They know each other thoroughly--as thoroughly as
orchard-looting, truant-playing, teacher-deceiving school-boys--these
three hopeful aspirants to the favor of Allah; they are an amusing trio,
and not a little instructive.
CHAPTER VIII.
ACROSS THE "DESERT OF DESPAIR."
For some hours we are traversing a singularly wild-looking country; it
seems as though the odds and ends of all creation were tossed
indiscriminately together. Rocky cliffs, sloping hills, riverbeds, dry
save from last night's thunder-storm, bits of sandy desert, strips of
alkaline flat or hard gravel, have been gathered up from various parts of
the earth and tossed carelessly in a heap here. It is an odd corner in
which the chips, the sweepings and trimmings, gathered up after the
terrestrial globe was finished, were apparently brought and dumped. There
is even a little bit of pasture, and at one point a little area of arable
land. Here are found four half-naked representatives of this strange,
wild border-land, living beneath one rude goat-hair tent, watching over a
few grazing goats and several acres of growing grain.
We arrive at this remarkable little community shortly after noon, and
halt a couple of hours to rest and feed the horses, and to kill and cook
the unhappy kid slung across the mudbake's saddle. The poor little
creature doesn't require very much killing; all the way from where it was
given into his tender charge its infantile bleatings have seemed to grate
harshly on the mudbake's unsympathetic ear, and he has handled it anywise
but tenderly. The four men found here are Persian Eliautes, a numerous
tribe, that seem to form a sort of connecting link between the genuine
nomads and the tillers of the soil. They are frequently found combining
the occupations of both, and might aptly be classed as semi-nomads.
Pitching their tents beside some outlying, isolated piece of cultivable
ground in the spring, they sow it with wheat or barley, and three months
later they reap a supply of grain to carry away with them when they
remove their flocks to winter pasturage.
An iron kettle is borrowed to stew the kid in, and when cooked a portion
is stowed away to carry with us. The Eliaute quartette contribute bowls
of mast and doke, and off this and the remainder of the stewed kid we all
make a hearty meal.
More than once of late have I been impressed by the striking, even
startling, resemblance of some person among the people of Southern
Khorassan, to the familiar face of some acquaintance at home. And,
strange it is, but true, that one of these four Eliautes blossoms forth
upon my astonished vision as the veritable double of one of America's
most prominent knights of the pen and wheel. The gentleman himself, an
enthusiastic tourist, and to use his own expression, fond of "walking
large," has taken considerable interest in my tour of the world. Can it
be--I think, upon first confronting this extraordinary reproduction--can
it be, that Karl Kron's enthusiasm has caused him to start from the
Pacific coast of China on his wheel to try and beat my time in
circumcycling the globe?
And after getting as far as this strange terrestrial chip-pile, he has
been so unfortunately susceptible as to fall in love with some
slender-limbed daughter of the desert?--has he been captivated by a
pair of big, opthamalmia-proof, black eyes, a coy sidewise glance, or a
graceful, jaunty style of shouldering a half-tanned goat-skin of doke?
The very first question the nomad asks of the khan, however, removes all
suspicions of his being the author and publisher of X. M. M.--he
asks if I am a Ferenghi and whither I am going; Kron would have asked me
for tabulated statistics of my tour through Persia.
A couple of hours' rest in the Eliaute camp, and we bid adieu to this
queer little oasis of human life within the barbarous boundary-line of
the Dasht-i-na-oomid, and proceed on our way. One of the Eliautes
accompanies us some little distance to guide us through a belt of badly
broken country immediately surrounding their camp. The country continues
to be a regular jumble of odds and ends of physical geography all the
afternoon, and several times the horses of the sowars, without
preliminary warning, break through the thin upper crust of some
treacherous boggy spot and sink suddenly to their bellies. During the
afternoon the mirza is pitched headlong over his horse's head once, and
the khan and the mudbake twice. In one tumble the khan's loosely sheathed
sword slips from its scabbard, and he well nigh falls a victim to the
accident a la King Saul. While traversing this treacherous belt of
territory I make the sowars lead the way and perform the office of
pathfinder for myself and wheel. Whenever one of them gets stuck in boggy
ground, and his horse flounders wildly about, to the imminent risk of
unseating its rider, his two hopeful comrades bubble over with merriment
at his expense; his own sincere exclamations of "Allah!" being answered
by unsympathetic jeers and sarcastic remarks. A few minutes later,
perchance one of the hilarious twain finds himself unexpectedly in the
same predicament; it then becomes his turn to look scared and importune
Allah for protection, and also his turn to be the target for the wild
hilarity of the others.
And so this lively and eventful afternoon passes away, and about five
o'clock we round the base of a conglomerate hill that has been shutting
out the prospect ahead, cross a small spring freshet, and emerge upon an
extensive gravelly plain stretching away eastward to the horizon. It is
the central plain of the Dasht-i-na-oomid, the heart of the desert, of
which the wild, heterogeneous territory traversed since morning forms the
setting. So far as the utility of the bicycle and the horses is
concerned, the change is decidedly for the better, even more so for the
former than for the latter. The gravelly plain presents very good
wheeling surface, and I forge ahead of my escort, following a trail so
faint that it is barely distinguishable from the general surface. Shortly
after leaving the mountainous country the three sowars hip their horses
into a smart canter to overtake the bicycle. As they come clattering up,
the khan shouts loudly for me to stop, and the mirza and mudbake
supplement his vocal exertions by gesticulating to the same purpose.
Dismounting, and allowing them to approach, in reply to my query of "Chi
mi khoi?" the khan's knavish countenance becomes overspread with a
ridiculously thin and transparent assumption of seriousness and
importance, and pointing to an imaginary boundary-line at his horse's
feet he says: "Bur-raa (brother), Afghanistan." "Khylie koob, Afghanistan
inja-koob, hoob, sowari." (Very good, I understand, we are entering
Afghanistan; all right, ride on.) "Sowari neis," replies the khan; and he
tries hard to impress upon me that our crossing the Afghan frontier is a
momentous occasion, and not to be lightly regarded. Several times during
the day has my delectable escort endeavored to fathom the extent of my
courage by impressing upon me the danger to be apprehended in Afghanistan
by a Ferenghi. Not less than half a dozen times have they indulged in the
grim pantomime of cutting their own throats, and telling me that this is
the tragic fate that would await me in Afghanistan without their valuable
protection. And now, as we stand on the boundary line, their bronzed and
bared throats are again subjected to this highly expressive treatment;
and transfixing me with a penetrating stare, as though eager to read in
my face some responsive sign of fear or apprehension, the khan repeats
with emphasis: "Bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan." Seeing me still inclined to
make light of the matter, he turns to his comrades for confirmation. "O,
bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan," assents the mirza; and the mudbake chimes in
with the same words. "Well, yes, I understand; Afghanistan--what of
it?" I inquire, amused at this theatrical display of their childish
knavery.
For answer they start to loading up their guns and pistols, which up to
now they have neglected to do; and they examine, with a ludicrous show of
importance, the edges of their swords and the points of their daggers,
staring the while at me to see what kind of an impression all this is
making. Their scrutiny of my countenance brings them small satisfaction,
methinks, for so ludicrous seems the scene, and so transparent the
motives of this warlike movement, that no room is there for aught but a
genuine expression of amusement.
Having loaded up their imposing array of firearms, the khan gives the
word to advance, with as much show of solemnity as though leading a
forlorn hope on some desperate undertaking, and he impresses upon me the
importance of keeping as close to then as possible, instead of riding
ahead. All around us is the unto-habited plain; not a living thing or
sign of human being anywhere; but when I point this out, and picking up a
stone, ask the khan if it is these that are dangerous, he replies, as
before: "Bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan," and significantly taps his weapons.
As we advance the level plain becomes covered with a growth of wild thyme
and camel-thorn, the former permeating the desert air with its agreeable
perfume. The evening air is soft and balmy I as we halt in the dusk of
the evening to camp alongside the trail; each sowar has a large leathern
water-bottle swinging from his stirrup-strap filled at the little freshet
above mentioned, and for food we have bread and the remains of the cold
kid. The horses are fastened to stout shrubs, and a fire is kindled with
dried camel-thorn collected by the mudbake. Not a sound breaks the
stillness of the evening as we squat around the fire and eat our frugal
supper--all about us is the oppressive silence and solitude of the
desert Away off in the dim distance to the northeast can be seen a single
speck of light--the camp-fire of some wandering Afghan tribe.
"What is the fire yonder?" I ask of the khan. The khan looks at it, says
something to his comrades, and then looks at me and draws his finger yet
again across his throat; the mirza and the mudbake follow suit. The
ridiculous frequency of this tragic demonstration causes me to laugh
outright, in spite of an effort to control my risibilities. The khan
replies to this by explaining, "Afghani Noorzais-dasht-adam," and then
goes on to explain that the Noorzais are very bad Afghans, who would like
nothing better than to murder a Ferenghi. From the beginning of our
acquaintance I have allowed my escort to think my understanding of the
conversation going on among themselves is extremely limited. By this
means have they been thrown somewhat off their guard, and frequently
committed themselves within my hearing. It is their laudable purpose, I
have discovered, to steal money from me if an opportunity presents
without the chance of being detected. Besides being inquisitive about the
probable amount in my possession, there has evolved from their collective
brain during the day, a deep-laid scheme to find out something about the
amount of backsheesh they may expect me to bestow upon them at the end of
our journey. This deep-laid scheme is for the khan to pretend that he is
sending the mirza and the mudbake back to Beerjand from this point, and
for these two hopeful accomplices to present themselves before me as
about ready to depart, and so demand backsheesh. This little farce is
duly played shortly after our arrival; it is a genuine piece of light
comedy, acted on the strangely realistic stage of the lonely desert, to
which the full round moon just rising above the eastern horizon. These
advances are met on my part by broad intimations that if they continue to
act as ridiculously during the remainder of the journey as they have
to-day they will surely get well bastinadoed, instead of backsheeshed,
when we reach Ghalakua. The actors retire from the stage with visible
discomfiture and squat themselves around the fire. Long after I have
stretched my somewhat weary frame upon a narrow strip of saddle-blanket
for the night, my three "protectors" squat around the smouldering embers
of the camel-thorn fire, discussing the all-absorbing topic of my money.
Little do they suspect that concealed in a leathern money-belt beneath my
clothes are one hundred Russian gold Imperials, the money obtained in
Teheran for the journey through Turkestan and Siberia to the Pacific.
Though sleeping with the traditional one eye open and my Smith & Wesson
where it can be readily used, there is little apprehension of being
robbed, owing to their obligation to take back the receipt for my safe
delivery to Heshmet-i-Molk.
It is the weather-changeful period of the full moon, and about midnight a
clap of thunder rolls over the desert, and a smart shower descends from a
small dark cloud, that sails slowly across the sky, obscuring for a brief
period the moist-looking countenance of the moon, and then disappears. A
couple of hours later a rush of wind is heard careering across the desert
toward us, accompanied by a wildly scudding cloud. The cloud peppers us
with hailstones in the most lively manner, and the wind strikes us almost
with the force of a tornado, knocking over the bicycle, which I have
leaned against a clump of shrubs at my head, and favoring us with a
blinding fusilade of sand and gravel.
It rains and hails enough to make us wet and uncomfortable, and the
mudbake gets up and kindles another fire. In a short time the squally
midnight weather has given place to a dead calm; the clouds have
dispersed; the moon shines all the brighter from having had its face
washed; the stars twinkle themselves out one by one as the gray dawn
gradually makes itself manifest. It is a most lovely morning; the
bruising hailstones and the moistening rain have proved themselves
stimulants in the laboratory of the wild-thyme shrubs, setting free and
disseminating a new supply of aroma; and while until now the voice of
animate nature has been conspicuous by its absence, the morning vespers
of song-birds seed almost to be issuing, like flowers, from the ground.
There is an indescribable charm about this morning's experience on the
desert; dawn appears, the moon hangs low-suspended in the heavens, the
birds carol merrily, and every inspiration one takes is a tonic to
stimulate the system. Half an hour later the sun has risen, the
song-birds have one and all lapsed into silence, the desert is itself
again, stern, silent, uncompromising, and apparently destitute of life.
Total depravity, it appears, has not yet claimed my worthy escort for its
own entirely, for while saddling up their horses during this brief
display of nature's kindlier mood they call my attention to the singing
of the birds and the grateful perfumery in the air. The germ of goodness
still lingers within their semi-civilized conception of things about
them; they are the children of Nature, and are profoundly impressed by
their mother's varying moods. Their prostrations toward Mecca and their
matutinal prayers to Allah seem to gain something of sincerity from the
accompanying worship of the birds and the sympathetic essence of the
awakening day. Eastward from our camping-ground the trail is oftentimes
indistinguishable; but a few loose stones have been tossed together at
intervals of several hundred yards, to guide wayfarers across the desert.
A surface of mingled sand and gravel characterizes the way; sometimes it
is unridably heavy, and sometimes the wheeling is excellent for a mile or
two at a stretch, enabling me to leave the ambling yahoos of the sowars
far behind. Beautiful mirages sometimes appear in the distance
--lakes of water, waving groves of palms, and lovely castles; and
often, when far enough ahead, I can look back, and see the grotesque
figures of the khan, the mirza, and the mudbake apparently riding through
the air.
Perhaps twenty miles are covered, when we arrive at a pile of dead brush
that has been erected for a landmark, and find a dilapidated well
containing water. The water is forty feet below the surface, and contains
a miscellaneous assortment of dead lizards, the carcasses of various
small mammalia, and sundry other unfortunate representatives of animated
nature that have fallen in. Beyond this well the country assumes the
character of a broad sink or mud-basin, the shiny surface of its mud
glistening in the sun like a sheet of muddy water. Sloughs innumerable
meander through it, fringed with rank rushes and shrubs. A far heavier
down-pour than we were favored with on the plain has drenched a region of
stony hills adjacent, and the drainage therefrom has, for the time being,
filled and overflowed the winding sloughs.
A dozen or more of these are successfully forded, though not without some
difficulty; but we finally arrive at the parent slough, of which the
others are but tributaries. This proves too deep for the sowars' horses
to ford, and after surveying the yellow flood some minutes and searching
up and down, the khan declares ruefully that we shall have to return to
Beerjand. As I remonstrate with him upon his lack of enterprise in
turning from so trifling a difficulty, the khan finally orders the
mudbake to strip off his purple and fine linen and try the depth. The
mudbake proceeds to obey his superior, with many apprehensive glances at
the muddy freshet, and wades gingerly in, muttering prayers to Allah the
while. Deeper and deeper the yellow waters creep up his shivering form,
and when nearly up to his neck, a sudden deepening causes him to bob
unexpectedly down almost over his head. Hurriedly retreating, spluttering
and whining, he scrambles hastily ashore, where his two companions,
lolling lazily on their horses, watching his attempt, are convulsed with
merriment over his little misadventure and his fright.
The shivering mudbake, clad chiefly in goose-pimples, now eagerly
supplements the khan's proposition for us all to return to Beerjand, and
the mirza with equal eagerness murmurs his approval of the same course of
action. Making light of their craven determination, I prepare to cross
the freshet without their assistance, and announce my intention of
proceeding alone. The stream, though deep, is not over thirty yards wide,
and a very few minutes suffices for me to swim across with my clothes, my
packages, and the saddle of the bicycle; the small, strong rope I have
carried from Constantinople is then attached to the bicycle, and,
swimming across with the end, the wheel is pulled safely through the
water. Neither of the sowars can swim, and they regard the prospect of
being left behind with no little consternation. Their guileful souls seem
to turn naturally to Allah in their perplexity; and they all prostrate
themselves toward Mecca, and pray with the apparent earnestness of deep
sincerity. Having duly strengthened and fortified themselves with these
devotional exercises, they bravely prepare to resign themselves to kismet
and follow my instructions about crossing the stream.
The khan's iron-gray being the best horse of the three, and the khan
himself of a more sanguine and hopeful disposition, I make him tie all
his clothes and damageable things into a bundle and fasten them on his
saddle; the rope is then tied to the bridle and the horse pulled across,
his gallant rider clinging to his tail, according to my orders, and
praying aloud to Allah on his own account. The gray swims the unfordable
middle portion nobly, and the khan comes through with no worse damage
than a mouthful or two of muddy water. As the dripping charger scrambles
up the bank, the khan allows himself to be hauled up high and dry by its
tail; he then looks back at his comrades and favors them with a brief but
highly exaggerated account of his sensations.
The mirza and the mudbake deliver themselves of particularly deep-chested
acclamations of "Allah, Allah!" at the prospect of undergoing similar
sensations to those described by the khan, whereupon that unsympathetic
individual vents his hilarity in a gleeful, heartless peal of laughter,
and tells them, with a diabolical chuckle of delight, that they will most
likely fare ten times worse than himself on account of the inferiority of
their horses compared with the gray. Much threatening, bantering, and
persuasion is necessary to induce them to follow the leadership of the
khan; but, trusting to kismet, they finally venture, and both come
through without noteworthy misadventure. The khan's wild hilarity and
ribaldish jeers at the expense of his two subordinates, as he stands on
the solid foundation of a feat happily already accomplished and surveys
their trepidation, and hears their prayers as they are pulled like human
dinghies through the water, is in such ludicrous contrast to his own
prayerful utterances under the same circumstances a minute before that my
own risibilities are not to be wholly controlled.
This little episode makes a profound impression upon the minds of my
escort; they now regard me as a very dare-devil and determined
individual, a person entirely without fear, and their deference during
the remainder of the afternoon is in marked contrast to their previous
attempts to work upon my presumed apprehensions of the dangers of
Afghanistan.
Following the guidance of a few rude landmarks of piled brush, we
discover, a few miles off to the left, and on the eastern environ of the
slough-veined basin, a considerable body of tents and a herd of grazing
camels. The sowars pronounce them to be a certain camp of Einiucks that
they have been expecting to find somewhere in this vicinity, and with
whose chief the khan says he is acquainted.
Wending our way thither we find a large camp of about fifty tents
occupying a level stretch of clean gravelly ground, slightly elevated
above the mud-flats. The tents are of brownish-black goat-hair, similar
in material to the tents of Koords and Eliautes; in size and structure
they are larger and finer than those of the Eliautes, but inferior to the
splendid tent-palaces of Koordistan. A couple of hundred yards from the
tents is a small spring of water, enclosed within a rude wall of
loosely-piled stone; the water is allowed to trickle through this wall
and accumulate in a basin outside. Here, as we ride up, are several women
filling goat-skin vessels to carry to the tents.
The tent of the chief stands out conspicuously from the others, and the
khan, desirous of giving his "bur-raa-ther," as he now terms the Eimuck
chieftain, a surprise, suggests that I ride ahead of the horsemen and
dismount before his tent. This capital little arrangement is somewhat
interfered with by the fact that a goodly proportion of the male
population present have already become cognizant of our presence, and are
standing in white-robed groups about their tents trying with hand-shaded
eyes to penetrate the secret of my strange appearance. Nevertheless, I
ride ahead and alight at the entrance to the chief's tent. The chief is a
middle-aged man of medium height and inclined to obesity. He and all the
men are arrayed in garments of coarse white cotton stuff throughout,
loose pantaloons, bound at the ankles, and an over-garment of a pattern
very much like a night-shirt; on their heads are the regulation Afghan
turbans, with long, dangling ends, and their feet are incased in rude
moccasins with upturned toes. As I dismount, and the chief fully realizes
that I am a Ferenghi, his face turns red with embarrassment. Instead of
the smiles or the grave kindliness of a Koordish sheikh, or the simple,
childlike greeting of an Eliaute, the Eimuck chief motions me into his
tent in a brusque, offish manner, his countenance all aglow with the
redness of what almost looks like a guilty conscience.
With the intuition that comes of long and changeful association with
strange peoples, the changing countenance of the Afghan chief impresses
me at once as the fiery signal of inbred Mussulman fanaticism, lighting
up spontaneously at the unexpected and unannounced arrival of a lone
Ferenghi in his presence. It savors somewhat of bearding a dangerous lion
in his own den. He certainly betrays deep embarrassment at my appearance;
which, however, may partly result from not yet knowing the character of
my companions, or the wherefore of this strange visitation. When my
escort rides up his whole demeanor instantly undergoes a change; the
cloud of embarrassment lifts from his face, he and the khan recognize and
greet each other cordially as "bur-raa-ther," and kiss each-other's
hands; some of his men standing by exchange similar brotherly greetings
with the mirza and the mudbake.
After duly refreshing and invigorating ourselves with sundry bowls of
doke, the inevitable tomasha is given, and the chief asks the khan to get
me to ride up before one row of tents and down the other for the
edification of the women and children, curious groups of whom are
gathered at every door. The ground between the two long, even rows of
tents resembles a macadam boulevard for width and smoothness, and I give
the wild Eimuck tribes-people a ten minutes' exhibition of circling,
speeding, and riding with hands off handles. A strange and novel
experience, surely, this latest triumph of high Western civilization,
invading the isolated nomad camp on the Dasht-i-na-oomid and disporting
for the amusement of the women and children. Some of the women are
attired in quite fanciful colors; Turkish pantaloons of bright blue and
jackets of equally bright red render them highly picturesque, and they
wear a profusion of bead necklaces and the multifarious gewgaws of
semi-civilization. The younger girls wear nose-rings of silver in the
left nostril, with a cluster of tiny beads or stones decorating the side
of the nose. The wrists of most of the men are adorned with bracelets of
plain copper wire about the size of ordinary telegraph wire; they average
large and well-proportioned, and seem intellectually superior to the
Eliautes. A very striking peculiarity of the people in this particular
camp is a sort of lisping, hissing accent to their speech. When first
addressed by the chief, I fancied it simply an individual case of
lisping; but every person in the camp does likewise. Another peculiarity
of expression, that, while not peculiar to this particular camp, is made
striking by reason of its novelty to me at this time, the use of the
expression "O" as a term of assent, in lieu of the Persian "balli." The
sowars, from their proximity to the frontier, have sometimes used this
expression, but here, in the Eimuck camp, I come suddenly upon a people
who use it to the total exclusion of the Persian word. The change from
the "balli sahib" of the Tabbas villagers to the "O, O, O" of the Afghan
nomads is novel and entertaining in the extreme, and I sit and listen
with no small interest to the edifying conversation of the khan, the
mirza, and the mudbake on the one side, and the Eimuck chieftain and
prominent members of the tribe on the other.
Standing behind the chief, who sits cross-legged on a Persian nummud, is
a handsome, intelligent-looking man, who seems to be the most
pleasant-faced and entertaining conversationalist of the nomads. The kahn
grows particularly talkative and communicative, the evening hours flow
on, and while addressing his remarks and queries directly to the chief,
he gazes about him to observe the effects of his words on the general
assembly gathered inside and crowded about the tent-entrance. The
pleasant-faced man does far more talking in reply than does the chief
himself. In reply to the khan's innumerable queries he replies, in the
peculiar, hissing shibboleth of the camp, "O, O, O-O bus-s-s-orah,
b-s-s-s-orah." Sometimes the khan delivers himself of quite a lengthy
disquisition, and as his remarks are followed by the assembled nomads
with the eager interest of people who seldom hear anything but the music
of their own voices, the interesting individual above referred to
sprinkles his assenting "O, O, O" thickly along the line of the khan's
presumably edifying narrative; now and then the chief himself chimes in
with a quiet "b-s-s-s-orah." Here also, in this camp of surprises and
innovations, do I first hear the word "India" used in lieu of "Hindostan"
among Asiatics.
The fatigue of the day's journey, and the imperfect rest of the two
preceding nights, cause me to be overcome with drowsiness, early in the
evening, and I stretch oat alongside the bicycle and fall into a deep
sleep. An hour or two later I am awakened for the evening meal. Flat,
pancake-like sheets of unleavened bread, inferior to the bread of Persia,
and partaking somewhat of the character of the chupalties of India,
boiled goat, and the broth preserved from the same, together with the
regulation mast and doke, constitute the Eimuek supper. A liberal bowl of
the broth, an abundance of meat, bread, mast and doke are placed before
me on a separate wooden tray, while my escort, the chief, and several of
his men gather around a communal spread of the same variety of edibles. A
crowd of curious people occupy the remainder of the space inside, and
stand at the door. As I rise and prepare to eat, all eyes are turned upon
me as though anticipating some surprising exhibition of the strange
manners of a Ferenghi at his meals. Surveying the broth, I motion the
khan to try and obtain a spoon. The chief looks inquiringly at the khan,
and the khan with the gladsome expression of a person conscious of having
on hand a rare piece of information for his friends, explains that a
Ferenghi eats soup with a spoon. The chief and his men smile incredibly,
but the khan emphasizes his position by appealing to the mirza and the
mudbake for confirmation. "Eat soup with a spoon?" queries the chief in
Persian; and he casts about him a look of unutterable astonishment.
Recovering somewhat from his incredulity, however, he orders an attendant
to fetch one, which shortly results in the triumphant production of a
rude wooden ladle. These uncivilized children of the desert watch me
drink broth from the ladle with most intense curiosity. In their own
case, an attendant tears several of the sheets of bread into pieces and
puts them in the broth; each person then helps himself to the
broth-soaked bread with his fingers. What broth remains at the bottom of
the bowl is drunk by them from the vessel itself in turns. After
consuming several generous chunks of "gusht" bread and mast and broth,
and supplementing this with a bowl of doke, I stretch myself out again
and at once become wrapped in sound, refreshing slumbers that last till
morning.
It is a glorious morning as, after breakfasting off the cold remains of
the meat left over from the evening meal, we bid farewell to the
hospitable Eimuek camp and resume our journey. As we leave, I offer to
shake hands with the chief to see if he understands our mode of greeting;
he seizes my hand between his two palms and kisses it. For the first few
miles the country is gravelly and undulating, after which it changes to a
sort of basin, partially covered by dense patches of tall, rank weeds. On
either side are rocky hills, almost rising to the dignity of mountains;
the rain and melting snow evidently convert this basin into a swamp at
certain periods, but it is now dry. A mile or so off to the right we
catch a glimpse, of some wild animal chasing a small herd of antelope.
From its size and motion, I judge it to be a leopard or cheetah; the
sowars regard it, bounding along after the fleet-footed antelope, with
lively interest; they call it a "baab" (tiger), and say there are many in
the reeds. It looks quite a likely spot for tigers, and it is not at all
unlikely that it may have been one, for, while not plentiful hereabout,
Tigris Asiaticus occasionally makes his presence known in the patches of
reed and jungle in Southern Afghanistan and Seistan.
All three of the sowars are frisky as kittens this morning, the result,
it is surmised, of the generous hospitality of the Eimuek chief
--gusht galore and rich broth cause their animal spirits to run
riot. Like overfed horses they "feel their oats" as they sniff the fresh
and invigorating morning air, and they point toward the shadowy form of
the racing baab a mile away, and pretend to take aim at it with their
guns. They sing and shout and swoop down on one another about the basin,
flourishing their swords and aiming with their guns, and they whip their
poor, long-suffering yahoos into wild, sweeping gallops as they swoop
down on some imaginary enemy. This wild hilarity and mimic warfare of the
desert is kept up until the ragged edge of their exuberance is worn away,
and their horses are well-nigh fagged out; we then halt for an hour to
allow the horses to recuperate by nibbling at a patch of reeds.
About ten miles from the Eimuek camp, the country develops into a
wilderness of deep, loose sand and bowlders. Across this sandy region
stretches a range of dark volcanic hills; the bases of the hills
terminate in billows of whitish-yellow sand; the higher waves of the
sandy sea stretch well up the sides like giant ocean breakers driven by
the gale up the side of the rocky cliffs. It is a tough piece of country
even for the sowars' horses, and dragging a bicycle through the mingled
sand and bowlders is abominable in the extreme. The heat becomes
oppressive as we penetrate deeper into the belt of sand-hills, and after
five miles of desperate tugging I become tired and distressed. The sowars
lolling lazily in their saddles, well-nigh sleeping, while I am struggling
and perspiring, form another chapter of experience entirely novel in the
field of European travel in Asia. Usually it is the natives who have to
sweat and toil and administer to the comfort of the traveller.
Revolving these things over in my mind, and becoming really wearied, I
suggest to the khan that he change places for a brief spell and give me a
chance to rest. The idea of himself trundling the asp-i-awhan appeals to
the khan as decidedly novel, and he bites at the bait quite readily.
Mounting his vacated saddle, I join the mirza and the mudbake in watching
him struggle along through the sand with it for some two hundred yards.
Along that brief course he topples over with it not less than half a
dozen times. The novel spectacle of the khan trundling the asp-i-awhan
arouses his two comrades from the warmth-inspired semi-torpidity of their
condition, and whenever the khan topples over, they favor him with jeers
and laughter. At the end of two hundred, yards the khan declares himself
exhausted and orders the mudbake to dismount and try it; this, however,
the mudbake bluntly refuses to do. After a little persuasion the inirza
is induced to try the experiment of a trundle; it is but an experiment,
however, for, being less active than the khan, the first time he tumbles
the bicycle over finds him sprawling on top of it, and, fearful lest he
should snap some spokes, I take it in hand again myself.
Another couple of miles and the eastern edge of the sandy area I is
reached, after which a compensational proportion of smooth gravel
abounds. Shortly after noon another small camp of nomads I is reached,
some half-dozen inferior tents, pitched on the shelterless edge of an
exposed gravelly slope. The afternoon is oppressively hot, and the men
are comfortably snoozing in all sorts of outlandish places among the
scrubby camel-thorn. Only the I women and children are visible as we
approach the tents; but youngsters are despatched forthwith, and, lo!
several tall white-robed figures seem to rise up literally out of the
ground at different spots round about; they were burrowed away under the
low, bushy shrubbery like rabbits. The women and children among these
nomads always seem industriously engaged, the former with domestic duties
about the tents, and the latter tending the flocks; but the men put in
most of their unprofitable lives loafing, sleeping, and gossiping.
We are not invited into the tents, but bread and mast is provided, and,
while we eat, four men hold the corners of an ample blue turban sheet
over us to shelter us from the sun. Spread out on sheets and on the roofs
of the tents are bushels of curds drying in the sun; the curds are
compressed into round balls the size of an apple, and when dried into
hard balls are excellent things to put in the pocket and nibble along the
road. Here we learn that the Harood is only one farsakh distant, and a
couple of stalwart young nomads accompany us to assist us across. At
Beerjand the Harood was "deep as a house;" at our last night's camp we
were told that it was fordable with camels; here we learn, that, though
very swift, it is really fordable for men and horses. First we come to a
branch less than waist-deep. My nether garments are handed to the khan;
in the pocket of my pantaloons is a purse containing a few kerans. While
engaged in fording this branch the khan ferrets out the purse and
extracts something from it, which he deftly slips into the folds of his
kammerbund. All this I silently observe from the corners of my eyes, but
say nothing.
Emerging from the stream, the wily khan points across the intervening
three hundred yards or thereabout to the main stream, and motions for me
to go ahead. The discovery of the purse and the purloined kerans has
aroused all the latent cupidity of his soul, and he wants me to ride
ahead, so that he can straggle along in the rear and investigate the
contents of the purse at his leisure. While winking at the amusing little
act of petty larceny already detected, I do not propose to give his
kleptomaniac tendencies full swing, and so I meet his proposal to sowar
and go ahead by peremptorily ordering him to take the lead.
Arriving at the bank of the Harood, I retire behind a clump of reeds, and
fold my money-belt, full of gold, up in the middle of my clothes, making
a compact bundle, with my gossamer rubber wrapped around the outside. The
river is about a hundred and fifty yards wide at the ford, with a
sand-bar about mid-stream, and is not above shoulder-deep along the ridge
that renders it fordable; the current, however, is frightfully strong.
Like the Indians of the West, the Afghan nomads are accustomed from
infancy to battling with the elements, and are comparatively fearless in
regard to rivers and deserts and storms, etc.
Such, at least, is the impression created by the conduct of the two young
men who have come to assist us across. The bicycle, my clothes, and all
the effects of the sowars are carried across on their heads, the rushing
waters threatening to sweep them off their feet at every step; but
nothing is allowed to get wet. When they are carrying across the last
bundle, the khan, solicitous for my safety, wants me to hang on to a
short rope tied around the waist of the strongest of the nomads.
Naturally disdaining any such arrangement as this, however, I declare my
intention of crossing without assistance, and wade in forthwith. Ere I
have progressed thirty yards, the current fairly sweeps me off my feet
and I have to swim for it. Fancying that I am overcome and in a fair way
of being drowned, the sowars set up a wild howl of apprehension, and
shout excitedly to the nomads to rescue me from a watery grave. The
Afghans are not so excited, however, over the outlook; they see that I am
swimming all right, and they confine themselves to motioning the
direction for me to take. The current carries me some little distance
down stream, when I find footing on the lower extremity of the sand-bar,
and on it, wade up; stream again with some difficulty against swiftly
rushing water four feet deep. The khan thinks I have had the narrowest
possible escape, and in tones of desperation he shouts out and begs me
not to attempt to cross the other channel without assistance. "The
receipt!" he shouts, "the receipt! Allah preserve us! the receipt; Hesh
met-i-Molk." The worthy khan is afflicted with a keen consciousness of
coming punishment awaiting him at Beerjand, should I happen to come to
grief while under his protection, and he, no doubt, suffers an agony of
apprehension during the fifteen minutes I am battling with the rapid
current of the Harood.
The second channel is found less swift and comparatively easy to ford.
The sturdy nomads, having transported all of my escort's damageable
effects, those three now stark-naked worthies mount with fear and
trembling their equally stark-naked steeds-naked all, save for the
turbans of the men and the bridles of their horses. Whatever of
intrepidity the khan possesses is of a quantity scarcely visible to the
naked eye, and it is, therefore, scarcely surprising to find him trying
to persuade, first the mudbake and then the mirza, to take the
initiative. His efforts prove wholly ineffectual, however, to bring the
feebly flowing tide of their courage up to the high-water level of
assuming the duties of leadership, and so in the absence of any
alternative, he finally screws up his own courage and leads the way. The
others allow their horses to follow closely behind. The horses seem to
regard the rushing volume of yellow water about them with far less
apprehension than do their riders. While dressing myself on the eastern
bank, the frightened mutterings of "Allah" from these gallant horsemen
come floating across the water, and, as they reach the sand-bar in the
middle of the stream, I can hear their muttered importunities for
Providential protection change, like the passing shadow-whims of Nature's
children that they are, into gleeful chuckles at their escape.
When the khan emerges from the water, the ruling passion within his
avaricious nature asserts itself with ridiculous promptness. With the
water dripping from his dangling feet, he rides hastily to where I am
dressing and whispers, "Pool neis; Afghani dasht-adam, pool neis." By
this he desires me to understand that the men who have been so
industrious and ready in helping us across, being Afghan nomads, will not
expect any backsheesh for their trouble. The above-mentioned ruling
passion is wonderfully strong in the rude breast of the khan, and in view
of his own secret machinations against my money he, no doubt, entertains
objections to leakages in other directions. So far as presenting these
hospitable souls of the desert with money for their services is
concerned, the khan's advice probably contains a good deal more wisdom
than would appear from a superficial view of the case merely. Assisting
travellers across streams and through difficult places evidently appeals
to these people as the most natural thing in the world for them to do. It
is a part of the un-written code of the hospitality of their uncivilized
country, and is, in all probability, undertaken without so much as a
mercenary thought. Presenting them with a money-consideration for their
services certainly has a tendency to awaken the latent spirit of
cupidity, generally resulting in their transformation from simple and
unsophisticated children, hospitable both by nature and tradition, into
wretched mercenaries, who regard the chance traveller solely from a
backsheesh-giving stand-point. The baneful result of this is today
glaringly apparent along every tourist route in the East; and, among the
pool-loving subjects of the Shah of Persia, travellers do not have to
appear very frequently to keep alive and foster a wild yearning for
backsheesh that effectually suppresses all loftier considerations.
These Afghans, however, seem to be people of an altogether different
mould; the ubiquitous Western traveller has not yet become a palpable
factor in their experiences. The hidden charms of backsheesh will not
become apparent to the wild Afghans until their fierce Mussulman
fanaticism has cooled sufficiently to allow the Ferenghi tourist to
wander through their territory without being in danger of his life.
The danger of corruption in the present instance is exceedingly small,
considering that I am the only representative of the Occident that has
ever happened along this way, and the probability that none other will
follow for many a year after; therefore I ignore the khan's wholly
disinterested advice and make the two worthy nomads a small present. They
accept the proffered kerans with a look of bewilderment, as though quite
unable to comprehend why I should tender them money, and they lay it
carelessly down on the sand while they assist the sowars to resaddle
their horses. To see the indifference with which the magnificent Afghan
nomads toss the silver pieces on the sand, and the eager, covetous
expression that the sight of the same coins lying there inspires in the
three Persians is, of itself, an instructive lesson on the difference
between the two peoples. The sowars become inspired, as if touched by the
magic wand of alchemy, to the discussion of their favorite theme; but the
Afghans pay no more heed to their remarks about money than if they were
talking in an unknown tongue. They really act as though they regarded the
subject of money as something altogether beyond their comprehension.
CHAPTER IX.
AFGHANISTAN.
A few miles across a stretch of gravelly river-bottom, interspersed with
scattering patches of cultivation, brings us to a hamlet of some twenty
mud dwellings. The houses are small, circular structures, unattached, and
each one removed some dozen paces from its neighbor; they are built of
mud with the roof flat, as in Asia Minor. The sun is setting as we reach
this little Harood hamlet, and, as Ghalakua is some three farsakhs
distant, we decide to remain here for the night. We pitch our camp on a
smooth threshing-floor in the centre of the village, and the headman
brings pieces of carpet for me to recline on, together with a sort of a
carpet bolster for a pillow.
The khan impresses upon these simple-minded, out-of-the-world people a
due sense of my importance as the guest of his master, the Ameer of
Seistan, and they skirmish around in the liveliest manner to provide what
creature comforts their meagre resources are equal to. The best they can
provide in the way of eatables is bread and eggs, and muscal, but they
make full amends for the absence of variety by bestowing upon us a
superabundance of what they have, and no slaves of Oriental despot ever
displayed more eager haste to anticipate their ruler's wants than do
these, my first acquaintances among the Afghan tillers of the soil, to
wait upon us. All the evening long no female ventures anywhere near our
alfresco quarters; the rigid exclusion of the female sex in this
conservative Mohammedan territory forbids them making any visible show of
interest in the affairs of men whatsoever. When the hour arrives for the
preparation of the evening meal, closely shrouded figures flit hastily
through the dusk from house to house, bearing camel-thorn torches. They
are women who have been to their neighbors to obtain a light for their
own fire. From the number of these it is plainly evident that the
housewives of the entire village light their fires from one original
kindling. The shrouds of the women are red and black plaid; the men wear
overshirts of coarse white; material that reach to their knees, pointed
shoes that turn up at the toes, white Turkish trousers, and the
regulation Afghan turban. The night is most lovely, and frogs innumerable
are in the lowlands round about us, croaking their appreciation of the
mellow moonlight, the balmy air, and the overflowing waters of the river.
For hours they favor us with a musical melange, embracing everything
between the hoarse bass croak of the full-blown bull-frog, to the tuneful
"p-r" of the little green tree-frogs ensconced in the clumps of
dwarf-willow hard by. Soothed by the music of the frogs I spend a restful
night beneath the blue, calm dome of the Afghan sky, though awakened once
or twice by the sowars' horses breaking loose and fighting.
There are no geldings to speak of in Central Asia, and unless eternal
vigilance is maintained and the horses picketed very carefully, a fight
or two is sure to occur among them during the night. As it seems
impossible for semi-civilized people to exercise forethought in small
matters of this kind, a night without being disturbed by a horse-fight is
a very rare occurrence, when several are travelling together.
The morning opens as lovely as the close of evening yesterday; a sturdy
villager carries me and the bicycle through a small tributary of the
Harood. He shakes his head when I offer him a present. How strange that
an imaginary boundary-line between two countries should make so much
difference in the people! One thinks of next to nothing but money, the
other refuses to take it when offered.
The sowars are in high glee at having escaped what seems to me the
imaginary terrors of the passage across the Dasht-i-na-oomid, and as we
ride along toward Ghalakua their exuberant animal spirits find expression
in song. Few things are more harrowing and depressing to the
unappreciative Ferenghi ear than Persian sowars singing, and three most
unmelodious specimens of their kind at it all at once are something
horrible.
The country hereabouts is a level plain, extending eastward to the Furrah
Rood; within the first few miles adjacent to the Harood are seen the
crenellated walls of several villages and the crumbling ruins of as many
more. Clumps of palm-trees and fields of alfalfa and green young wheat
environ the villages, and help to render the dull gray ruins picturesque.
The atmosphere seems phenomenally transparent, and the trees and ruins
and crenellated walls, rising above the level plain, are outlined clear
and distinct against the sky.
In the distance, at all points of the compass, rocky mountains rise sheer
from the dead level of the plain, looking singularly like giant cliffs
rising abruptly from the bed of some inland sea. One of these may be
thirty miles away, yet the wondrous clearness of the air renders apparent
distances so deceptive that it looks not more than one-third the
distance. It is a strikingly interesting country, and its inhabitants are
a no less strikingly interesting people.
A farsakh from our Harood-side camping-place, we halt to obtain
refreshments at a few rude tents pitched beneath the walls of a little
village. The owners of the tents are busy milking their flocks of goats.
It is an animated scene. No amount of handling, nor years of human
association, seems capable of curbing the refractory and restless spirit
of a goat. The matronly dams that are being subjected to the milking
process this morning have, no doubt, been milked regularly for years; yet
they have to be caught and held firmly by the horns by one person, while
another robs them of what they seem reluctant enough to give up.
The sun grows uncomfortably warm, and myriads of flies buzz hungrily
about our morning repast. Before we resume our journey a little damsel,
in flaming red skirt and big silver nose-ring, enters the garden and
plucks several roses, which she brings to me on a pewter salver. These
people are Eliautes, and the women are less fearful of showing themselves
than at the village where we passed the night. Several of them apply to
me for medical assistance. The chief trouble is chronic ophthalmia;
nearly all the children are afflicted with this disease, and at the eyes
of each poor helpless babe are a mass of hungry flies. The wonder is, not
that ophthalmia runs amuck among these people, but rather, that any of
the children escape total blindness.
Several villages are passed through en route to Ghalakua; the people turn
out en masse and indulge in uproarious demonstrations at the advent of
the Ferenghi and the bicycle. These people seem as incapable of
controlling their emotions and their voices as so many wild animals; they
shout and gesticulate excitedly, and run about like people bereft of
their senses. The uncivilization crops out of these obscure Harood
villagers far plainer than it does in the tents of the wandering tribes.
They are noisier and more boisterous than the nomads, who, as a matter of
fact, are sober-sided and sedate in their deportment.
No women appear among the crowd on the street, but a carefully covered
head is occasionally caught peeping furtively from behind a chimney on
the roof of a house, or around some corner. A glance from me, and the
head is withdrawn as rapidly as if one were taking hostile aim at it with
a rifle.
Fine large irrigating ditches traverse this partially cultivable area,
and in them are an abundance of fish. In one ditch I catch sight of a
splendid specimen of the speckled trout, that must have been three feet
long. Travelling leisurely next morning, we arrive at Ghalakua in the
middle of the forenoon; quarters are assigned us by Aminulah Khan, the
Chief of the Ghalakua villages and tributary territory. In appearance he
is a typical Oriental official, his fluffy, sensuous countenance bearing
traces of such excesses as voluptuous Easterns are wont to indulge in,
and this morning he is suffering with an attack of "tab" (fever). Wrapped
in a heavy fur-lined over-coat, he is found seated on the front platform
of a inenzil beneath the arched village gateway, smoking cigarettes; in
his hand is a bouquet of roses, and numerous others are scattered about
his feet. Dancing attendance upon him is a smart-looking little fellow in
a sheepskin busby almost as bulky in proportion as his whole body, and
which renders his appearance grotesque in the extreme. His keen black
eyes sparkle brightly through the long wool of his remarkable headgear,
the ends of which dangle over his eyes like an overgrown and wayward
bang. The bravery of his attire is measurably enhanced by a cavalry
sword, long enough and heavy enough for a six-foot dragoon, a green
kammerbund, and top-boots of red leather. This person stands by the side
of Aminulah Khan, watches keenly everything that is being said and done,
receives orders from his master, and transmits them to the various
subordinates lounging about. He looks the soul of honesty and
watchfullness, his appearance and demeanor naturally conjuring up
reflections of faithful servitors about the persons of knights and nobles
of old; he is apparently the Khan of Ghalakua's confidential retainer and
general supervisor of affairs about his person and headquarters.
Our quarters are in the bala-khana of a small half-ruined konak outside
the village, and shortly after retiring thither the khan's sprightly
little retainer brings in tea and fried eggs, besides pomegranates and
roses for myself. A new departure makes its appearance in the shape of
sugar sprinkled over the eggs. While we are discussing these refreshments
our attendant stands in the doorway and addresses the sowars at some
length in Persian. He is apparently delivering instructions received from
his master; whatever it is all about, he delivers it with the air of an
orator addressing an audience, and he supplements his remarks with
gestures that would do credit to a professional elocutionist. He is as
agreeable as he is picturesque; he and I seem to fall en rapport at once,
as against the untrustworthiness of the remainder of our company. As his
keen, honest eyes scrutinize the countenances of the sowars, and then
seek my own face, I feel instinctively that he has sized my escort up
correctly, and that their innate rascality is as well revealed to him as
if he had accompanied us across the desert.
Several visitors drop in to pay their respects; they salaam respectfully
to me, and greet the sowars as "bur-raa-thers," and kiss, their hands.
One simple, unsophisticated mortal, who in his isolated life has never
had the opportunity of discriminating between a Mussulman and a Ferenghi,
addresses me also as "bur-raa-ther," and favors my palm with the
regulation osculatory greeting. The Afghans present view this
extraordinary proceeding with dignified silence, and if moved in any
manner by the spectacle, manage to conceal their emotions beneath a
stolid exterior. The risibilities of the sowars, however, are stirred to
their deepest depths, and they nearly choke themselves in desperate
efforts to keep from laughing outright.
Offerings of roses are brought into our quarters by the various visitors,
and boys and men toss others in through door and windows, until our room
is gratefully perfumed and roses are literally carpeting the floor. One
might well imagine the place to be Gulistan itself; every person is
carrying bunches of roses in his hands, smelling of them, and wearing
them in his turban and kammerbund. The people seem to be fairly revelling
in the delights of these choicest gems from Flora's evidently overflowing
storehouse. The men average tall and handsome; they look like veritable
warrior-priests in their flowing white costumes, and they make a strange
picture of mingled barbarism and aestheticism as they loaf in lazy
magnificence about the tumble-down ruins of the konak, toying with their
roses in silence. They seem contented and happy in their isolation from
the great busy outer world, and, impressed by their universal
appreciation of a flower, it occurs to me, on the impulse of ocular
evidence, that it would be the greatest pity to disturb and corrupt these
people by attempting to thrust upon them our Western civilization--they
seem far happier than a civilized community.
The khan obtains his receipt for my delivery, and by and by Aminulah Khan
sends his man to request the favor of a tomasha. Leaving my other effects
behind in charge of the sowars, I take the bicycle and favor him with a
few turns in front of the village gate. Among the various contents of my
leathern case is a bag of kerans; but, although the case is not locked,
it is provided with a peculiar fastening which I fondly imagine to be
beyond the ingenuity of the khan to open. So that, while well enough
aware of that guileful individual's uncontrollable avarice in general,
and his deep, dark designs on my money in particular, I think little of
leaving it with him for the few minutes I expect to be absent. It strikes
me as a trifle suspicious, however, upon discovering that while everybody
else comes to see the tomasha, all three of the sowars remain behind.
Instinctively I arrive at the conclusion that with these three worthy
kleptomaniacs left alone in a room with some other person's portable
property, something is pretty sure to happen to the property; so,
excusing myself as quickly as courtesy will permit, I hasten back to our
quarters. The mudbake is found posted at the outer gate of the konak. He
is keeping watch while his delectable comrades search the package in
which they sagaciously locate the silver lucre they so much covet. Seeing
me approaching, he makes a trumpet of his hands and sings out warningly
to his accomplices that I am coming back. Taking no more notice of him
than usual, I pass inside and repair at once to the bala-khana, to find
that the khan and the mirza have disappeared. The mudbake follows me in
to watch my movements. In the simplicity of his semi-civilized
understanding he is wondering within himself whether or no I entertain
suspicions of anything being wrong, and he is watching me closely to find
out. In his dense ignorance he imagines the khan and the mirza artful
almost beyond human comprehension, and in thinking this he no doubt
merely supplements the sentiments of these two wily individuals
themselves. Time and again on the journey from Tabbas has he joined them
in chuckling with ghoulish glee over some self-laudatory exposition of
their own deep, deep, cunning. They well know themselves to be
unfathomably cute beside the simple-hearted and honest ryots and nomads
with whom they are wont to compare themselves, and from these standards
they confidently judge the world at large. The mudbake colors up like a
guilty school-boy upon seeing me proceed without delay to examine the
leathern case. The erstwhile orderly arranged contents are found tumbled
about in dire confusion. My bag of about one hundred kerans have dwindled
nearly half that number as the result of being in their custody ten
minutes.
"Some of you pedar sags have stolen my money; who is it? where's the
khan?" I inquire, addressing the guilty-looking mud-bake. He is now
shivering visibly with fright, but makes a ludicrous effort to put a bold
face on the matter, and brazenly asks, "Chand pool" (How much is
missing?). "Khylie! where is the khan and the inirza? I will take you all
to Aminulah Khan and have you bastinadoed!" The poor mudbake turns pale
at the bare suggestion of the bastinado, and stoutly maintains his own
innocence. He would no doubt as stoutly proclaim the guilt of his
comrades if by so doing he could escape punishment himself. Nor is this
so surprising, when one reflects that either of these worthies would,
without a moment's hesitation, perform the same office for him or for
each other.
Without wasting time in bandying arguments with the mudbake, I sally
forth in search of the others, and meet them just outside the gate; they
are returning from hiding the money in the ruins. The crimson flood of
guilt overspreads their faces as I raise my finger and shake it at them
by way of admonition. With them following behind with all the meekness of
discovered guilt, I lead the way back up into the bala-khana. Arriving
there, both of them wilt so utterly and completely, and proceed to plead
for mercy with such ludicrous promptness, that my sense of the ridiculous
outweighs all other considerations, and I regard their demonstrations of
remorse with a broad smile of amusement. It is anything but a laughing
matter from their own standpoint, however; the mudbake warns them
forthwith that I have threatened to have them bastinadoed, and they
fairly writhe and groan in an agony of apprehension. The khan, owing to
his more sanguine temperament, and a lively conception that the heaviest
burden of guilt and accompanying punishment would naturally fall on his
own shoulders as the chief of my escort, removes his turban and then lies
down on the floor and grovels at my feet.
All the hair he possesses is a little tuft or two left on his otherwise
smoothly shaven pate, by which he confidently expects at his demise to be
tenderly lifted up into Paradise by the Prophet Mohammed. After kissing
most of the dust off my geivehs, and banging his head violently against
the floor, he signifies his willingness to relinquish all anticipations
of eternal happiness, black-eyed houris and the like, by attempting to
yank out even this Celestial hand-hold, hoping that the woeful depth of
his anguish and the sincerity of his repentance may prove the means of
escaping present punishment. His eyes roll wildly about in their sockets,
and in a voice choking with emotion he begs me pathetically to keep the
matter a secret from the Khan of Ghalakua. "O Sahib, Sahib! Hoikim no,
hoikim no!" he pleads, and the anguish-stricken khan accompanies these
pleadings with a look of unutterable agony, and furthermore indulges in
the pantomime of sawing off his ears and his hands with his forefinger.
This latter tragic demonstration is to let me know that the result of
exposure would be to have the former, and perhaps the latter, of these
useful members cut off, after the cruel and summary justice of this
country. The mirza and mudbake cluster around and supplement their
superior's pathetic pleadings with deep-drawn groans of "Allah, Allah!"
and sundry prostrations toward Mecca.
It is a ludicrous and yet a strangely touching spectacle to see these
three poor devils grovelling and pleading before me, and at the same time
praying to Allah for protection in the little bala-khana, hoping thereby
to save themselves from cruel mutilation and lifelong disgrace. A
watchful eye is kept outside by the mirza, who does his groaning and
praying near the door, and the sight of an Afghan approaching is the
signal for a mute appeal for mercy from all three, and a transformation
to ordinary attitudes and vocations, the completeness of which would do
credit to professional comedians.
When a favorable opportunity presents, with much peering about to make
sure of being unobserved, his comrades lower the khan down over the rear
wall of the bala-khana, and a minute later they hoist him up again with
the same show of caution.
Producing from his kammerbund a red handkerchief containing the stolen
kerans, he advances and humbly lays it at my feet, at the same time
kneeling down and implanting yet another osculatory favor on my geivehs.
Joyful at seeing my readiness to second them in keeping the matter hidden
from stray Afghans that come dropping in, the guilty sowars are still
fearful lest they have not yet secured my complete forgiveness.
Consequently, the khan repeatedly appeals to me as "bur-raa-ther," lays
his forefingers together, and enlarges upon the fact that we have passed
through the dangers and difficulties of the Dasht-i-na-oomid together.
The dread spectre of possible mutilation and disgrace as the consequence
of their misdeeds pursues these guileful, grown-up children even in their
dreams. All through the night they are moaning and muttering uneasily in
their sleep, and tossing restlessly about; and long before daybreak are
they up, prostrating themselves and filling the room with rapidly
muttered prayers, The khan comes over to my corner and peers anxiously
down into my face. Finding me awake, he renews his plea for mercy and
forgiveness, calling me "bur-raa-ther" and pleading earnestly "Hoikim no,
hoikim no!"
The sharp-eyed wearer of the big busby, the cavalry sword, and red
jack-boots turns up early next morning. He dropped in once or twice
yesterday, and being possessed of more brains than the three sowars put
together, he gathered from appearances, and his general estimation of
their character, that all is not right. These suspicions he promptly
communicated to his master. Aminulah Khan is only too well acquainted
with the weakest side of the Persian character, and at once jumps to the
conclusion that the sowars have stolen my money. Sending for me and
summoning the sowars to his presence, without preliminary palaver he
accuses them of robbing me of "pool." Addressing himself to me, he
inquires: "Sahib, Parses namifami?" (Do you understand Persian?) "Kam
Kam" (a little), I reply. "Sowari pool f pool koob; rupee-rupee Jcoob?"
"O, O, pool koob; rupee koob; sowari neis, sowari khylie koob adam." In
this brief interchange of disconnected Persian the khan has asked me
whether the sowars have stolen money from me, and I have answered that
they have not, but that, on the contrary, they are most excellent men,
both "trustie and true." May the recording angel enter my answer down
with a recommendation for mercy! During this examination the little
busby-wearer stands and closely scrutinizes the changeful countenances of
the accused. He thoroughly understands that I am mercifully shielding
them from what he considers their just deserts, and he chips in a word
occasionally to Aminulah Khan, aside, like a sharp lawyer watching the
progress of a cross-examination. The chief himself, though ostensibly
accepting my statement, has his own suspicions to the same purpose, and
before dismissing them he shakes his finger menacingly at the sowars and
significantly touches the hilt of his sword. The three culprits look
guilty enough to satisfy the most merciful of judges, but, relying on my
operation to shield them, they stoutly maintain their innocence.
Some little delay occurs about starting for Furrah, my next objective
point on the road to India; the khan explains that all of his sowars have
been sent off to help garrison Herat; that the best he can provide in the
form of a mounted escort is an elderly little man whom he points out,
with an evident doubt as to my probable appreciation.
The man looks more like a Persian than an Afghan, which he probably is,
as the population of these borderland districts is much mixed. Nothing
would have pleased me better than to have had Aminulah Khan bid me go
ahead without any escort whatever, but next to nobody at all, the most
satisfactory arrangement is the harmless-looking old fellow in the
Persian lamb's-wool hat. Telling him that he has done well in sending his
sowars to Herat, and that the old fellow will answer very well as guide,
I prepare to take my departure. My guide disappears, and shortly returns
mounted on a powerful and spirited gray. Aminulah Khan gives him a
letter, and after mutual salaams, and "good ahfis," the old sowar leads
the way at a pace which shows him to be filled with exaggerated ideas
about my speediness.
Irrigating ditches and fields characterize the way for some few miles,
after which we emerge upon a level desert whose hard gravel surface is
ridable in any direction without regard to beaten trails. Numerous
lizards of a peculiar spotted variety are observed scuttling about on
this gravelly plain as we ride along. The sun grows hot, but the way is
level and smooth, and about ten o'clock we arrive at the oasis of
Mahmoudabad, five farsakhs from Ghalakua. Mahmoudabad consists of a few
mud dwellings surrounded by a strong wall, and a number of tents. Water
is brought in a ditch from some distant source, and my faculty of
astonishment is once again assailed by the sight of flourishing little
patches of "Windsor beans." This is the first growth of these particular
legumes that have come beneath my notice in Asia; dropping on them in the
little oasis of Mahmoudabad is something of a surprise, to say the least.
The men of Mahmoudabad wear bracelets and ankle-ornaments of thick copper
wire, and necklaces of beads. Nothing whatever is seen of the women; so
far as ocular evidence is concerned, Mahmoudabad might be a community of
men and boys exclusively. The plain continues level and gravelly, and
pretty soon it becomes thinly covered with green young camel-thorn. The
widely scattered shrubs fail to cover up much of the desert's nakedness
at close quarters, but a wider view gives a pleasant green plain, out of
which the dark, massive mountains rise abrupt with striking effect.
Late in the afternoon the hard surface of the desert gives place to the
loose adobe soil of the Furi-ah Eooi bottom-lands. For some distance this
is so loose and soft that one sinks in shoe-top deep at every step, and
the path becomes a mere trail through dense thickets of reeds that wave
high above one's head. Beyond this is a narrow area of cultivation and
several walled villages, most of which are distinguished by one or two
palms. Arriving at one of these villages, an hour before sunset, the old
guide advocates remaining for the night. In obedience to his orders the
headman brings out a carpet and spreads it beneath the shadow of the
wall, and pointing to it, says, "Sahib, bismillah!" Taking the proffered
seat, I inquire of him the distance to Furrah. Ho says it is across the
Furrah Rood, and distant one farsakh. "Kishtee ass?" "O, Idshtee" Turning
to the guide, I suggest: "Bismillah Furrah." The old fellow looks
disappointed at the idea of going on, but he replies, "Bismillah." The
carpet is taken away again, and the village headman sends a younger man
to guide us through the fields and gardens to the river.
The Furrah Rood is broader and swifter here than the Harood, and when at
sunset we reach the ferry, it is to find that the boat is on the other
side and the ferrymen gone to their homes for the night. Several hundred
yards back from the river the city of Furrah reveals itself in the shape
of a sombre-looking high mud wall, forming a solid parallelogram, I
should judge a third of a mile long and of slightly less width. The walls
are crenellated, and strengthened by numerous buttresses. It occupies
slightly rising ground, and nothing is visible from without but the
walls. The old guide shouts lustily at a couple of men visible on the
opposite bank; but he only gets shouted back at for his pains.
Darkness is rapidly settling down upon us, and I begin to realize my
mistake in not abiding by the guide's judgment and stopping at the
village. Another village is seen a couple of miles across the reedy
lowland to our rear, and thitherward we shape our course. The intervening
space is found to consist largely of tall reeds, swampy or overflowed
areas, and irrigating ditches. Many of the latter are too deep to ford,
and darkness overtakes us long before the village is reached. Finding it
impossible to do anything with the bicycle, I remove my packages and lay
the naked wheel on top of a conspicuous place on the bank of a ditch,
where it may be readily found in the morning.
For some reason unintelligible to me accommodation is refused us at the
village. The old guide addresses the people in tones loud and
authoritative, but all to no purpose--they refuse to let us remain. While
hesitating about what course to pursue, one of the men comes out and
volunteers to guide us to a camp of nomads not far away. Following his
guidance, a camp of a dozen tents is shortly reached, and in their
hospitable midst we spend the night on a piece of carpet beneath the sky.
The usual simple refreshments are provided, as also quilts for covering.
Upon waking in the morning I am surprised to find the bicycle lying close
to my head. The hospitable nomads, having heard the story of its
abandonment from the guide, have been out in the night and found it and
brought it in.
The same friendly person who brought us to the camp turns up at daybreak
and voluntarily guides us through the area of ditches and impenetrable
reed-patches to the river. Several people are squatting on the bank
watching a crew of half-naked men tugging a rude but strong ferryboat
up-stream toward them. The boat is built of heavy hewn timber, and
capable of ferrying fifty passengers.
The Furrah Rood, at the ferry, is about two hundred yards wide, and with
a current of perhaps five miles an hour. A dozen stalwart men with rude,
heavy sweeps propel the boat across; but at every passage the swift
current takes it down-stream twice as far as the river's width. After
disembarking the passengers, the boatmen have to tow it this distance
up-stream again before making the next crossing. The boatmen wear a
single garment of blue cotton that in shape resembles a plain loose
shirt. When nearing the shore, three or four of them deftly slip their
arms out of the sleeves, bunch the whole garment up around their necks,
and spring overboard. Swimming to shallow water with a rope, they brace
themselves to stay the down-stream career of the boat.
A small gathering of wild-looking men are collected at the landing-place,
and my astonishment is awakened by the familiar figure of a Celestial
among the crowd. He is a veritable John Chinaman--beardless face,
queue, almond eyes, and everything complete. The superior thriftiness of
the Chinaman over the Afghans needs no further demonstration than the
ocular evidence that among them all he wears by far the best and the
tidiest clothes. In this, not less than in the strong Mongolian type of
face, is he a striking figure among the people.
John Chinaman is a very familiar figure to me, and I regard this strange
specimen with almost as great interest as if I had thus unexpectedly met
a European. His grotesque figure and dress, representing, so it seems to
me at the moment, a speck of civilization among the barbarousness of my
surroundings, is quite a relief to the senses. A closer investigation,
however, on the bank, while waiting for the guide's horse, reveals the
fact that he is far from being the John Chinaman of Chinatown, San
Francisco. Instead of hailing from the rice-fields of Quangtung, this
fellow is a native of Kashga-ria, a country almost as wild as
Afghanistan. A moment's scrutiny of his face removes him as far from the
civilized seaboard Celestials of our acquaintance as is the Zulu warrior
from the plantation-darky of the South. Except for the above-mentioned
comparative neatness of appearance, it is very evident that the Mongolian
is every bit as wild as the Afghans about him.
The people regard me with a deep and peculiar interest; very few remarks
are made among themselves, and no one puts a single question to me or
ventures upon any remarks. All this is in strange contrast to the
everlasting gabble and the noisy and persistent importunities of the
Persians. The Afghans are plainly full of speculations concerning my
mission, who I am, and what I am doing in their country; although they
regard the bicycle with great curiosity, the machine is evidently a
matter of secondary importance. Like the Eimuck chieftain on the Dasht-i
several of these men change countenance when I favor them with a glance.
Whether this peculiar reddening of the face among the Afghans comes of
embarrassment, or what it is, it always impresses me as much like the
"perturbation of a wild animal at finding himself suddenly confronted
with a human being."
Hiding part way to the city gate, I send the guide ahead to notify the
governor of my arrival, and to present the letter from Aininulah Khan. He
is absent what appears to me an unnecessarily long time, and I determine
to follow him in and take my chances on the tide of circumstances, as in
the cities of Persia. It is not without certain lively apprehensions of
possible adventure, however, that I approach the little arched gateway of
this gray-walled Afghan city, conscious of its being filled with the most
fanatical population in the world. In addition to this knowledge is the
disquieting reflection of being a trespasser on forbidden territory, and
therefore outside the pale of governmental sympathy should I get into
trouble.
The fascination of penetrating the strange little world within those high
walls, however, ill brooks these retrospective reflections, or thoughts
of unpleasant consequences, and I make no hesitation about riding up to
the gate. A sharp, short turn and abrupt rise in the road occurs at the
gate, necessitating a dismount and a trundle of about thirty yards, when
I suddenly find myself confronting a couple of sentries beneath the
archway of the gate. The sensation of surprise seems quite in order of
late, and these sentries furnish yet another sensation, for they are
wearing the red jackets of British infantrymen and the natty peaked caps
of the Royal Artillery. The same crimson flush of embarrassment--or
whatever it may be--that was observed in the countenance of the
Eimuck chief, overspreads their faces, and they seem overcome with
confusion and astonishment; but they both salute mechanically as I pass
in. Fifty yards of open waste ground enables me to mount and ride into
the entrance of the principal street. I have precious little time to look
about me, and no opportunity to discover what the result of my temerity
would be after the people had recovered from their amazement, for hardly
have I gotten fairly into the street when I am met by my old guide,
conducting a guard of twelve soldiers who have been sent to bring me in.
CHAPTER X.
ARRESTED AT FURRAH.
Perhaps no stranger occurrence in the field of personal adventure in
Central Asia has happened for many a year than my entrance into Furrah on
a bicycle. Only those who know Afghanistan and the Afghans can fully
realize the ticklish character of this little piece of adventure.
My soldier-escort are fine-looking fellows, wearing the well-known red
jackets of the British Army, evidently the uniform of some sepoy
regiment. Forming around me, they conduct me through the gate of an inner
enclosure near by, and usher me into a small compound where Mahmoud
Yusuph Khan, the commander-in-chief of the garrison, is engaged in
holding a morning reception of his subordinate chiefs and officers. The
spectacle that greets my astonished eyes is a revelation indeed; the
whole compound is filled with soldiers wearing the regimentals of the
Anglo-Indian army. As I enter the compound and trundle the bicycle
between long files of soldiers toward Mahmoud Yusuph Khan and his
officers, five hundred pairs of eyes are fixed on me with intense
curiosity. These are Cabooli soldiers sent here to garrison Furrah, where
they will be handy to march to the relief of Herat, in case of
demonstrations against that city by the Russians. The tension over the
Penjdeh incident has not yet (April, 1886) wholly relaxed, and I feel
instinctively that I am suspected of being a Russian spy.
In the centre of the compound is a large bungalow, surrounded by a
slightly raised porch. Seated on a mat at one end of this is Mahmoud
Yusuph Khan, and ranged in two long rows down the porch are his chiefs
and officers. They are all seated cross-legged on a strip of carpet, and
attendants are serving them with tea in little porcelain cups. They are
the most martial-looking assembly of humans I ever set eyes on. They are
fairly bristling with quite serviceable looking weapons, besides many of
the highly ornamented, but less dangerous, "gewgaws of war" dear to the
heart of the brave but conservative warriors of Islam. Prominent among
the peculiarities observed are strips of chain mail attached to portions
of their clothing as guards against sword-cuts, noticeably on the
sleeves. Some are wearing steel helmets, some huge turbans, and others
the regular Afghan military hat, this latter a rakish-looking head-piece
something like the hat of a Chinese Tartar general.
Mahmoud Yusupli Khan himself is wearing one of these hats, and is attired
in a tight-fitting suit of buckram, pipe-clayed from head to foot; in his
hat glitters a handsome rosette of nine diamonds, which I have an
opportunity of counting while seated beside him. He is a stoutish person,
full-faced, slightly above middle age, less striking in appearance than
many of his subordinates. When I have walked up between the two rows of
seated chieftains and gained his side, he forthwith displays his
knowledge of the English mode of greeting by shaking hands. He orders an
attendant to fetch a couple of camp chairs, and setting one for me, he
rises from the carpet and occupies the other one himself. Tea is brought
in small cups instead of glasses, and is highly sweetened after the
manner of the Persians; sweetmeats are handed round at the same time.
After ascertaining that I understand something of Persian, he expresses
his astonishment at my appearance in Furrah. At first it is painfully
evident that he suspects me of being a Russian spy; but after several
minutes of questions and answers, he is apparently satisfied that I am
not a Muscovite, and he explains to his officers that I am an "Ingilis
nockshi" (correspondent). He is greatly astonished to hear of the route
by which I entered the country, as no traveller ever entered Afghanistan
across the Dasht-i-na-oomid before. I tell him that I am going to
Kandahar and Quetta, and suggest that he send a sowar with me to guide
the way. He smiles amusedly at this suggestion, and shaking his head
vigorously, he says, "Kandahar neis; Afghanistan's bad; khylie bad;" and
he furthermore explains that I would be sure to get killed. "Kliylie
koob; I don't want any sowar, I will go alone; if I get killed, then
nobody will be blamable but myself." "Kandahar neis," he replies, shaking
his finger and head, and looking very serious; "Kandahar neis; beest (20)
sowars couldn't see you safely through to Kandahar; Afghanistan's bad; a
Ferenghi would be sure to get killed before reaching Kandahar."
Pretending to be greatly amused at this, I reply, "koob; if I get killed,
all right; I don't want any sowars; I will go alone." At hearing this, he
grows still more serious, and enters into quite an eloquent and lengthy
explanation, to dissuade me from the idea of going. He explains that the
Ameer has little control over the fanatical tribes in Zemindavar, and
that although the Boundary Commission had a whole regiment of sepoys, the
Ameer couldn't guarantee their safety if they came to Furrah. He
furthermore expresses his surprise that I wasn't killed before getting
this far. The officer of the guard who brought me in, and who is standing
against the porch close by, speaks up at this stage of the interview and
tells with much animation of how I was riding down the street, and of the
people all speechless with astonishment.
Mahmoud Yusuph Khan repeats this to his officers, with comments of his
own, and they look at one another and smile and shake their heads,
evidently deeply impressed at what they consider the dare-devil
recklessness of a Ferenghi in venturing alone into the streets of Furrah.
The warlike Afghans have great admiration for personal courage, and they
evidently regard my arrival here without escort as a proof that I am
possessed of a commendable share of that desirable quality. As the
commander-in-chief and a few grim old warriors squatting near us exchange
comments on the subject of my appearance here, and my willingness to
proceed alone to Kandahar, notwithstanding the known probability of being
murdered, their glances of mingled amusement and admiration are agreeably
convincing that I have touched a chord of sympathy in their rude, martial
breasts.
Half an hour is passed in drinking tea and asking questions. Mahmoud
Yusuph Khan proves himself not wholly ignorant of English and
British-Indian politics. "General Roberts Sahib, Cabool to Kandahar?" he
queries first. The Afghans regard General Roberts' famous march as a
wonderful performance, and consequently hold that distinguished officer's
name in high repute. He asks about Sir Peter Lumsden and Colonel Sir West
Ridgeway; and speaks of the Governor-General of India. By way of testing
the extent of his knowledge, I refer to Lord Ripon as the present
Governor-General of India, when he at once corrects me with, "No; Lord
Dufferin Sahib." He speaks of London, and wants to know about Mr.
Gladstone and Lord Salisbury--which is now Prime Minister? I
explain by pantomime that the election is not decided; he acknowledges
his understanding of my meaning by a nod. He then grows inquisitive about
the respective merits of the two candidates. "Gladstone koob or Salisbury
koob?" he queries. "Gladstone koob, England, ryot, nune, gusht,
kishrnish, pool-Salisbury koob, India, Afghanistan, Ameer, Russia
soldier, officer," is the reply. To the average reader this latter reads
like so much unintelligible shibboleth; but it is a fair sample of the
disjointed language by which I manage to convey my meaning plainly to the
Afghan chieftain. He understands by these few disconnected nouns that I
consider Gladstone to be the better statesman of the two for England's
domestic affairs, and Salisbury the better for the foreign policy of the
Empire.
All this time the troops are being put through their exercises, marching
about the compound in companies and drilling with their muskets. Some are
uniformed in the picturesque Anglo-Oriental regimentals of the Indian
sepoy, and others in neat red jackets, peaked caps, and white trousers
with red stripes. The buttons, belts, bandoleers, and buckles are all
wanderers from the ranks of the British army. The men themselves--many of
them, at least--might quite as readily be credited to that high standard
of military prowess which characterizes the British army as the clothes
and accoutrements they are wearing, judging from outward appearances. Not
only do their faces bear the stamp of both fearlessness and intelligence,
but some of them are possessed of the distinctively combative physiognomy
of the born pugilist. The captain of the Governor's guard has a
particularly plucky and aggressive expression; he is a man whose face
will always remain pictured on my memory. The interesting expression this
officer habitually wears is that of a prize-ring champion, with a
determined bull-dog phiz, watching eagerly to pounce on some imaginary
antagonist. Seeing that his attention is keenly centred upon me the whole
time I am sitting by the side of his chief, he becomes an object of more
than passing interest. He watches me with the keen earnestness of a
bull-dog expectantly awaiting the order to attack.
Mahmoud Yusuph Khan now attempts to explain at length sundry reasons why
it is necessary to place me, for the time being, under guard. He seems
very anxious to convey this unpleasant piece of information in the
flowery langue diplomatique of the Orient, or in other words, to coat the
bitter pill of my detention with a sugary coating of Eastern politeness.
His own linguistic abilities being unequal to the occasion, he sends off
somewhere for a dusky Hindostani, who shortly arrives and, in obedience
to orders, forthwith begins jabbering at me in his own tongue. Of this I,
of course, know literally nothing, and, ever swayed by suspicion, it is
easily perceivable that their first impression of my being a Russian spy
is in a measure revived by my ignorance of Hindostani. They seem to think
it inconsistent that one could be an Englishman and not understand the
language of a native of India. After the interview the twelve red-jackets
that appear to constitute the Governor's bodyguard are detailed to
conduct me to a walled garden--outside the city. Before departing,
however, I give the strange assembly of Afghan warriors an exhibition of
riding around the compound. The guard, under the leadership of the
officer with the bull-dog phiz, fix bayonets and form into a file on
either side of me as I trundle back through the same street traversed
upon my arrival. Accompanying us is a man on a gray horse whom everybody
addresses respectfully as "Kiftan Sahib" (Captain), and another
individual afoot in a bottle-green roundabout, a broad leathern belt, a
striped turban, white baggy pantalettes, and pointed red shoes. Kiftan
Sahib looks more like an English game-keeper than an Afghan captain; he
wears a soiled Derby hat, a brown cut-away coat, striped pantaloons, and
Northampton-made shoes without socks; his arms are a cavalry sabre and a
revolver.
Outside the gate, at the suggestion of the young man in the bottle-green
roundabout, I mount and ride, wheeling slowly along between the little
files of soldiers. The soldiers are delighted at the novelty of their
duty, and they swing briskly along as I pedal a little faster. They smile
at the exertion necessary to keep up, and falling in with their spirit of
amusement, I gradually increase my speed, and finally shoot ahead of them
entirely. Kiftan Sahib comes galloping after me on the gray, and with
good-humored anxiety motions for me to stop and let the soldiers catch
up. He it is upon whom the commander-in-chief has saddled the
responsibility for my safe-keeping, and this little display of levity and
my ability to so easily out-distance the soldiers, awakens in him the
spirit of apprehension at once. One can see that he breathes easier as
soon as we are safely inside the garden gate.
A couple of little whitewashed bungalows are the only buildings in the
garden, and one of these is assigned to me for my quarters. Kiftan Sahib
and the young man in the bottle-green roundabout give orders about the
preparation of refreshments, and then squat themselves down near me to
gladden their eyes with a prolonged examination of my face. The
red-jackets separate into three reliefs of four each; one relief
immediately commences pacing back and forth along the four sides of the
bungalow, one soldier on each side, while the remainder seek the shade of
a pomegranate grove that occupies one side of the garden. By-and-by
servitors appear bearing trays of sweetmeats and more substantial fare.
The variety and abundance of eatables comprising the meal, are such as to
thoroughly delight the heart of a person who has grown thin and gaunt and
wolfish from semi-starvation and prolonged physical exertion. The two
long skewers of smoking kabobs and the fried eggs are most excellent
eating, the pillau is delicious, and among other luxuries is a sort of
pomegranate jam, some very good butter (called muscal), a big bowl of
sherbet, and dishes of nuts, sweetmeats, and salted melon seeds. After
dinner the young man in bottle-green, who seems anxious to cultivate my
good opinion, smiles significantly at me and takes his departure; he
turns up again in a few minutes bearing triumphantly an old Phillips'
Atlas, which he deferentially places at my feet. Opening it, I find that
the chief countries and cities of the world are indicated in written
Hindostani characters. In this manner some English officer has probably
been the undesigning medium of giving these Afghans a peep into the
configuration of the earth they live on, and their first lesson in
geography.
I reward the young man by asking him whether he too is a "kiftan." He
acknowledges the compliment by a broad grin and two salaams made in rapid
succession.
After noon a messenger arrives from Mahmoud Yusuph Khan bringing salaams
and a pair of stout English walking-boots to replace my old worn-out
geivehs; and a cake of toilet soap, also of English make. Both shoes and
soap, as may be easily imagined, are highly acceptable articles. The
advent of the former likewise answers the purpose of enlightening me a
trifle in regard to matters philological; the Afghans call their
foot-gear "boots" (the Chinese call their foot-wear "shoes," and their
gloves "tung-shoes," or hand-shoes).
About four o'clock I am visited by a fatherly old khan in a sky-blue
gown, and an interesting Cabooli cavalry colonel, with pieces of chain
mail distributed about his uniform, and a fierce-looking moustache that
stands straight out from his upper lip. Sweetmeats enough to start a
small candy shop have been sent me during the afternoon, and setting them
out before my guests, we are soon on the most familiar terms. The colonel
shows me his weapons in return for a squint down the shining rifled
barrel of my Smith & Wesson, and he explains the merits and demerits of
both his own firearms and mine. The 38-calibre S. & W. he thinks a
perfect weapon in its way, but altogether too small for Afghanistan. With
expressive pantomime he explains that, while my 38 bullet would kill a
person as well as a larger one, it requires a heavier missile to crash
into a man who is making for you with a knife or sword, and stop him. His
favorite weapon for close quarters is a murderous-looking piece, half
blunderbuss, half pistol, that he carries thrust in his kammerbund, so
that the muzzle points behind him. This weapon has a small single-hand
musket stock, and the bell-mouthed barrel is filled nearly to the muzzle
with powder and round bullets the size of buckshot. This formidable
firearm is for hand-to-hand fighting on horseback, and at ten paces might
easily be warranted to blow a man's head into smithereens.
The colonel is an amiable old warrior, and kindly points this interesting
weapon at my head for me to peer down the barrel and satisfy myself that
it is really loaded almost to the top! Like Injun-slaying youngsters in
America, the doughty Afghan warriors seem to delight in having their
weapons loaded, their sidearms sharp, and their bayonets fixed, and seem
anxious to impress the beholder with the fact that they are real
warriors, and not mere make-believe soldiers. The colonel wears a
dark-brown uniform profusely trimmed with braid, a Kashgarian military
hat, and English army shoes. In matters pertaining to his wardrobe it is
very evident that he has profited to no small extent by Afghanistan being
adjacent territory to British India; but his semi-civilized ambition has
not yet soared into the aesthetic realm of socks; doubtless he considers
Northampton-made shoes sufficiently luxurious without the addition of
socks.
The mission of these two officers is apparently to prepare me gradually
for the intelligence that I am to be taken back to Herat. So skillfully
and diplomatically does the old khan in the cerulean gown acquit himself
of this mission, that I thoroughly understand what is to be my
disposition, although Herat is never mentioned. He talks volubly about
the Ameer, the Wali, the Padishah, the dowleh, Cabool, Allah, and a host
of other subjects, out of which I readily evolve my fate; but, as yet, he
breathes nothing but diplomatic hints, and these are clothed in the most
pleasant and reassuring smiles, and given in tones of paternal
solicitude. The colonel sits and listens intently, and now and then
chimes in with a word of soothing assent by way of emphasizing the
subject, when the khan is explaining about the Ameer, or Allah, or
kismet. Mahmoud Tusuph Khan himself comes to the garden in the cool of
the evening, and for half an hour occupies bungalow No. 2. He betrays a
spark of Oriental vanity by having an attendant follow behind, bearing a
huge and wonderful sun-shade, into the make-up of which peacock feathers
and other gorgeous material largely enters. Noticing this, I make a
determined assault upon his bump of Asiatic self-esteem, by asking him if
he is brother to the Ameer. He smiles and says he is a brother of Shere
Ali, the ex-Ameer deposed in favor of Abdur Bahman. His remarks during
our second interview are largely composed of furtive queries, intended to
penetrate what he evidently, even as yet, suspects to be the secret
object of my mysterious appearance in the heart of the country. The
Afghan official is nothing if not suspicious, and although he professed
his own conviction, in the morning, of my being an English "nokshi," his
constitutionally suspicious nature forbids him accepting this impression
as final.
During this interview two more natives of India are produced and ordered
to assail my long-suffering ears with the battery of their vernacular.
They are an interesting pair, and they evince the liveliest imaginable
interest in finding a Sahib alone in the hands of the Afghans. They are
vivacious and intelligent, and try hard to make themselves understood.
From their own vocal and pantomimic efforts and the Persian of the
Afghans, I learn that they are sepoys in charge of three prisoners from
the Boundary Commission camp, whom they are taking through to Quetta.
They seem very anxious to do something in my behalf, and want Mahmoud
Yusuph Khan to let them take me with them to Quetta. I lose no time in
signifying my approval of this suggestion; but the Governor shakes his
head and orders them away, as though fearful even to have such a
proposition entertained. All the time the sepoys are endeavoring to make
themselves understood, every Afghan present regards my face with the
keenest scrutiny; so glaringly evident are their suspicions that the
situation becomes too much for my gravity. The sepoys grin broadly in
response, whereupon the pugilistic-faced captain of the Governor's guard
remonstrates with them for their levity, by roughly making them stand in
a more respectful attitude. I dislike very much to see them ordered off,
for they are evidently anxious to champion my cause; moreover, it would
have been interesting to have accompanied them through to Quetta.
Understanding thoroughly by this time that I am not to be allowed to go
through by way of Giriskh and Kandahar, and dreading the probability of
being taken back into Persia, I ask permission to travel south to Jowain
and the frontier of Beloochistan. The Afghan-Beloochi boundary is not
more than fifty or sixty miles south of Furrah, and while it would be
difficult to say what advantage would be gained by reaching there, it
would at all events be some consolation to find myself at liberty.
The interview ends, however, without much additional light being shed on
their intentions; but the advent of more sweetmeats shortly after the
Governor's departure, and the unexpected luxury of a bottle of Shiraz
wine, heightens the conviction that my own wishes in the matter are to be
politely ignored. The red-jackets patrol my bungalow till dark, when they
are relieved by soldiers in dark-blue kilts, loose Turkish pantalettes,
and big turbans. I sit on the threshold during the evening, watching
their soldierly bearing with much interest; on their part they comport
themselves as though proudly conscious of making a good impression. I
judge they have been especially ordered to acquit themselves well in my
presence, and so impress me, whether I am English or Russian, with a
sense of their military proficiency. All about the garden red-coated
guards are seen prostrating themselves toward Mecca in the prosecution of
their evening devotions. Full of reflections on the exciting events of
the day and the strange turn affairs have taken, I stretch myself on a
Turkoman rug and doze off to sleep. The last sound heard ere reaching the
realms of unconsciousness is the steady tramp of the sentinels pacing to
and fro. Scarcely have I fallen asleep--so at least it seems to me
--when I am awakened by my four guards singing out, one after
another, "Kujawpuk! Ki-i-puk!!" This appears to be their answer to the
challenge of the officer going his rounds, and they shout it out in tones
clear and distinct, in succession. This programme is repeated several
times during the night, and, notwithstanding the sleep-inducing fatigues
of the last few days, my slumbers are light enough to hear the reliefs of
the guard and their strange cry of "Kujawpuk, ki-i-puk" every time it is
repeated.
As the sun peeps over the wall of the garden my red-jackets reappear at
their post; roses are stuck in their caps' and their buttonholes, and
fastened to their guns. A big bouquet of the same fragrant "guls" is
presented to me, and a dozen gholams are busy gathering all that are
abloom in the garden. These are probably gathered every morning in the
rose season, and used for making rose-water by the officers' wives.
During the forenoon the blue-gowned old khan and his major-domo, the
mail-clad colonel, again present themselves at my bungalow. They are
gracious and friendly to a painful degree, and sugar would scarcely melt
in the mouth of the paternal old khan as he delivers the "Wall's salaams
to the Sahib." Tea and sweetmeats are handed around, and Kiftan Sahib and
Bottle Green join our company.
Nothing but the formal salaams has yet been said; but intuition is a
faithful forerunner, and ere another word is spoken, I know well enough
that the khan and the colonel have been sent to break the disagreeable
news that I am to be taken to Herat, and that Kiftan Sahib and Bottle
Green have dropped in out of curiosity to see how I take it.
The kindly old khan finds his task of awakening the spirit of
disappointment anything but congenial, and he seems very loath to deliver
the message. When he finally unburdens himself, it is with averted eyes
and roundabout language. He commences by a rambling disquisition on the
dangers of the road to Kandahar, apologizing profusely for the Ameer's
inability to guarantee the good behavior of the wandering tribes, and the
consequent necessity of forbidding travellers to enter the country.
He dwells piously and at considerable length upon our obligations to
submit to the will of Allah, not forgetting a liberal use of the Oriental
fatalist's favorite expression: "kismet." For the sake of argument,
rather than with any hope of influencing things in my favor, I reply:"
All right, I don't ask the Ameer's protection; I will go to Kandahar and
Quetta alone, on my own responsibility; then if I get murdered by the
Ghilzais, nobody but myself will be to blame." "The Wali has his orders
from the Padishah, the Ameer Abdur Eahman Khan, that no Ferenghi is to
come in the country." "Tell the Wali that Afghanistan is Allah's country
first and Abdur Eahman's country second. Inshallah, Allah gives everybody
the road." The old khan is evidently at a loss how to meet so logical an
argument, and the colonel, Kiftan Sahib, and Bottle Green are deeply
impressed at what they consider my unanswerable wisdom. They look at one
another and shake their heads and smile.
The chief concern of the khan is apparently to convince me that it is
only out of consideration for my own safety that I am forbidden to go
through, and, after a brief consultation with the others, he again
addresses his flowery eloquence to me. He comes and squats beside me,
and, with much soothing patting of my shoulder, he says: "The Wali is
only taking you to Herat to obtain Ridgeway Sahib's and Faramorz Khan's
permission for you to go through. Inshallah, after you have seen Herat,
if it is the will of Allah, and your kismet to go to Kandahar, the Ameer
will let you go." To this comforting assurance I deem it but justice to
the well-meaning old chieftain to signify my submission to the
inevitable. Before departing, he requests the humble present of a
pencil-sketch of the bicycle as a souvenir of my visit to Furrah. During
the day I get on quite intimate terms with my guard, and among other
things compete with them in the feat of holding a musket out at arm's
length, gripping the extreme end of the barrel. Tall, strapping fellows
some of them are, but they are not muscular in comparison; out of a round
dozen competitors I am the only one capable of fairly accomplishing this
feat.
Many of the soldiers carry young pheasants about with them in cages, and
seem to derive a good deal of pleasure in feeding them and attending to
their wants. The cages are merely pieces of white muslin, or
mosquito-netting, about the size of a pocket-handkerchief, enclosing a
four-inch disk of wood for the inmate to stand on. The crape is gathered
and loosely tied at the corners. It is carried as one would carry
anything suspended in a handkerchief, and is hung on the limb of a tree
in the same manner.
Late in the afternoon of the second clay my scarlet guard marshal
themselves in front of the bungalow, and Kiftan Sahib and Bottle Green
bid me prepare for departure to Herat. The old khan and the colonel, and
several other horsemen, appear at the gate; the soldiers form themselves
into two files, and between them I trundle from my circumscribed
quarters. The rude ferry-boat is awaiting our coming, and in a few
minutes the khan and the colonel bid me quite an affectionate farewell on
the river-bank, gazing eagerly into my face as though regretful at the
necessity of parting so soon. My escort favor me with the, same lingering
gaze. These people are evidently fascinated by the strange and mysterious
manner of my coming among them; who am I, what am I, and wherefore my
marvellous manner of travelling, are questions that appeal strongly to
their Asiatic imagination, and they are intensely loath to see me
disappear again without having seen more of me and my wonderful iron
horse, and learned more about it.
Several horsemen have already crossed and are awaiting us on the opposite
shore. Kiftan Sahib and another officer with a henna-tinted beard are in
charge of the party taking me back. Besides myself and these two, the
party consists of eleven horsemen; with sundry modifications, their
general appearance, arms, and dress resemble the make-up of a Persian
sowar rather than the regular Afghan soldier. The sun is just setting
behind those western mountains I passed three days ago as we reach the
western shore, the boatmen are unloading the saddles and accoutrements of
our party, and I sit down on the bank and survey the strange scene just
across the river. The steep bluff opposite is occupied by people who
accompanied us to the river. Many of them are seizing this opportune
moment to prostrate themselves toward the Holy City, the geographical
position of which is happily indicated by the setting sun.
Prominent among the worshippers are seen side by side the cerulean figure
of the khan, and the colonel in all the bravery of his military
trappings, his chain armor glistening brightly in the waning sunlight. A
little removed from the crowd, the twelve red-coats are ranged in a row,
performing the same pious ceremony; as their bared heads bob up and down
one after another, the scarlet figures outlined in a row against the
eastern sky are strangely suggestive of a small flock of flamingoes
engaged in fishing.
CHAPTER XI.
UNDER ESCORT TO HERAT.
Our party camps near a village not far from the river, but it takes us
till after dark to reach the place, owing to ditches and overflow. A few
miles of winding trails and intricate paths through the reedy
river-bottom next morning, and we emerge upon a flinty upland plain. At
first a horseman is required to ride immediately ahead of the bicycle, my
untutored escort being evidently suspicious lest I might suddenly forge
ahead, and with the swiftness of a bird disappear from their midst.
As this leader, in his ignorance, occasionally stops right in the narrow
path, and considers himself in duty bound to limit my speed to that of
the walking horses, this arrangement quickly becomes very monotonous.
Appealing to Kiftan Sahib, I point out the annoyance of having a horse
just in front, and promise not to go too far ahead. He points appealingly
to a little leathern pouch attached to his belt. The pouch contains a
letter to the Governor of Herat, and he it is whom Mahmoud Yusuph Khan
expects to take back a receipt. The chief responsibility for my safe
delivery rests upon his shoulders, and he is disposed to be abnormally
apprehensive and suspicious.
Reassuring him of my sincerity, he permits the horseman to follow along
behind. When the condition of the road admits of my pushing ahead a
little, this sowar canters along immediately behind, while the remainder
of the party follow more leisurely.
One of the party carries a skin of water, and as the morning grows
fearfully hot, frequent halts are made to wait for him and get a drink,
otherwise we two are usually some distance ahead. These water-vessels are
merely goat-skins, taken off with as little mutilation of the hide as
possible; one of the legs serves as a faucet, and the tying or untying of
a piece of string opens or closes the "tap." It is the handiest
imaginable contrivance for carrying liquids on horseback, the tough,
pliant goat-skin resisting any amount of hard usage and accommodating
itself readily to the contour of the pack-saddle, or itself forming a
soft enough seat to the rider.
Near noon we reach the ruins of Suleimanabad, entirely deserted save by
hideous gray lizards a foot long, numbers of which scuttle off into their
hiding places at our approach. In the distance ahead are visible the
black tents of a nomad camp. The glowing, reflected heat of the stony
desert produces an unquenchable thirst, and the generous bowls of cool,
acidulous doke obtained in the tents are quaffed most eagerly by the
entire party.
The solicitude of Kiftaii Sahib as displayed on my behalf is quite
amusing, not to say affecting; while the others are attending to their
horses he squats down before me underneath the little goat-hair tent and
gazes at me with an attention so close that one might imagine him afraid
lest I should mysteriously change into some impalpable spirit and float
away.
The nomads themselves appear to be amiably disposed, intent chiefly on
supplying our wants and fulfilling the traditions of tented hospitality.
They look wild enough, but, withal, pleasant and intelligent. Kiftan
Sahib, however, watches every movement of the stalwart nomads with keen
interest; and small power of penetration is required to see that
apprehension, if not positive suspicion, enters very largely into his
thoughts concerning them and myself.
A howling wind and dust-storm comes careering across the plain, creating
a wild scene, and black cloud-banks gather and pile up ominously in the
west. The threatened rain-storm, however, passes off with a pyrotechnic
display of great brilliancy, and the evening air lowers to a refreshing
temperature as we stretch ourselves out on nummuds, fifty yards away from
the tents. Kiftan Sahib spreads his own couch on the right side of mine
and the red-whiskered chief of the sowars occupies the left.
Waking up during the night, I am somewhat taken by surprise at finding
one of my escort standing guard over me with fixed bayonet. This
extraordinary precaution appears to me at the time as being altogether
superfluous; while recognizing these nomads as lawless and fanatical, I
should nevertheless have no hesitation in venturing alone among them.
The morning star is just soaring above the eastern horizon, and the
feeble rays of Luna's half-averted face are imparting a ghostly glimmer
of light, when I am awakened from a sound sleep. The horses have all been
saddled and packed, and everybody is ready to start. Daylight comes on
apace and, finding the trail hard and reasonably smooth, I am happily
able to "sowari," and not only able to ride but to forge right ahead of
the party. The country is level and open, and uninhabited, so that Kiftan
Sahib is far less apprehensive than he was yesterday.
I am perhaps a couple of miles ahead when I come to a splendid, large,
irrigating canal, evidently conveying water from the Harood down across
the desert to the low cultivable lands near the Furrah Rood. The water is
three feet deep, and I revel in the luxury of a cooling and refreshing
bath until overtaken by the escort.
The plain, heretofore hard, now changes into loose sand and gravel, and
the trail becomes quite obliterated. In addition to these undesirable
changes, the wind commences blowing furiously from the north, making it
absolutely impossible to ride. Rounding the base of an abutting mountain,
we emerge upon the grassy lowlands of the Harood in the vicinity of
Subzowar. Subzowar is a sort of way-station between Furrah and Herat, the
only inhabited place, except tents, on the whole journey. It is on the
west side of the Harood and the broad, swift stream is full to
overflowing, a turgid torrent rushing along at a dangerous pace.
After much shouting and firing of guns, a score of villagers appear on
the opposite bank, and several of them come wading and swimming across.
They seem veritable amphibians, capable of stemming the tide that
well-nigh sweeps strong horses off their feet. The river is fordable by
following a zigzag course well known to the local watermen. One of them
carries the bicycle safely across on his head, and others lead the
sowars' horses by the bridle.
When all the Afghans but Kiftan Sahib have been assisted over, the
strongest horse of the party is brought back for my own passage. A dozen
natives are made to form a close cordon about me to rescue me in case of
misadventure, while one leads the horse by his bridle and another
steadies him by holding on to his tail. Kiftan Sahib himself brings up
the rear, and, as the rushing waters deepen around us, he abjures me to
keep a steady seat and, in a voice that almost degenerates into an
apprehensive whine, he mutters: "The receipt, Sahib, the receipt."
A ripple of excitement occurs in the middle of the river by one the men
being swept off his feet and carried down stream; and, although he swims
like a duck, the treacherous undercurrent sucks him under several times.
It looks as though he would be drowned; a number of his comrades race
down the bank and plunge in to swim to his rescue, but he finally secures
footing on a submerged sand-bank, and after resting a few minutes swims
ashore.
The remainder of the day, and the night, are passed in tents near
Subzowar, it being very evidently against Afghan social etiquette for
strangers to take shelter within the confines of the village itself.
Whether from their knowledge of the unsuitableness of the country ahead,
or from a new spasm of apprehension concerning their responsibility, does
not appear; but in the morning Kiftan Sahib and the chief of the sowars
insist upon me mounting a horse and handing the bicycle over to the
tender mercies of the person in charge of the nummud pack-horse. They
point in the direction of Herat, and deliver themselves of a marvellous
quantity of deprecatory pantomime. My own impression is that, having
recrossed the Harood, the only great obstacle in the path of a wheelman
between Furrah and Herat, their abnormally suspicious minds imagine that
there is now nothing to prevent me taking wings and outdistancing them to
the latter place.
Finding them determined, and, moreover, nothing loath to try a horse for
a change, on the back-stretch, I take the wheel apart and distribute
fork, backbone, and large wheel among the sowars. The only fit place for
the latter is on the top of the nummuds and blankets on the spare
pack-horse, and, before starting, I see to fastening it securely on top
of the load. This pack-horse is a powerful black stallion that puts in a
good share of his time trying to attack the other horses. Owing to this
uncontrollable pugnacity, he is habitually led along at some considerable
distance from the party, generally to the rear.
The person in charge of him is a young negro as black, and
proportionately powerful, as himself. Wild and ferocious as is the
stallion, he is a civilized and mild-mannered animal compared with his
manager. In the matter of facial expression and intellectual development
this uncivilized descendant of Ham is first cousin to a wild gorilla, and
it is not without certain misgivings that I leave the web-like
bicycle-wheel in his charge. He has been a very interesting study of
uncivilization all along, and his bump of destructiveness is as large as
an orange. The military Afghans, one and all, impress me as being
especially created to destroy the fruits of other people's industry and
thrift, whether it be in wearing out clothes and shoes made in England,
or devouring the substance of the peaceful villagers of their own
territory; and this untamed darkey fairly bristles with the evidence of
his capacity as a destroyer.
Everything about him is in a dilapidated condition; the leathern scabbard
of his sword is split half way up, revealing a badly notched and rusted
blade. An orang-outang, fresh from the jungles of Sumatra, could scarcely
display less intelligence concerning human handicraft than he; he bubbles
over with laughter at seeing anything upset or broken, growls sullenly at
receiving uncongenial orders, calls on Allah, and roars threateningly at
the stallion, all in the same breath. No wonder I ride ahead, feeling
somewhat apprehensive; and yet the wheel looks snug and safe enough on
top of the big pile of soft nummuds.
The day's march is long and dreary, through a country of desert wastes
and stony hills. The only human habitation seen is a small cluster of
tents near some wells of water. The people seem overjoyed at the sight of
travellers, and come running to the road with their kammerbunds full of
little hard balls of sun-dried mast. We fill our pockets with these and
nibble and chew them as we ride along. They are pleasantly sour,
containing great thirst-quemhing properties, as well as being very
nourishing.
The sun goes down and dusk settles over our trail, and still the chief of
the sowars and Kiftan Sahib lead the way. Many of the horses are pretty
badly fagged, they have had nothing to eat all day and next to nothing to
drink, and the party are straggling along the trail for a couple of miles
back. At length lights are observed twinkling in the darkness ahead. Half
an hour later we dismount in a nomad camp, and one after another the
remainder of the party come straggling in, some of them leading their
horses. Both men and animals are well-nigh overcome with fatigue.
The shrill neighing of the ferocious and spirited black stallion is heard
as he approaches and realizes that he is coming into camp; he is a
glorious specimen of a horse, neither hunger nor thirst can curb his
spirit. He is carrying far the heaviest load of the party, yet he comes
into camp at ten o'clock, after hustling along over stones and sand since
before daylight, without food or water; neighing loudly and ready to
fight all the horses within reach. The chief of the sowars goes out to
superintend the unloading of the black stallion; and soon I hear him
addressing the negro in angry tones, supplementing his reproachful words
with several resounding blows of his riding-whip. The wild darkey's
disapproval of these proceedings finds expression in a roar of pain and
fear that would do justice to a yearling bull being dragged into the
shambles.
The cause of this turmoil shortly turns up in the shape of my wheel, with
no less than eleven spokes broken, and the rim considerably twisted out
of shape. Kiftan Sahib surveys 'the damaged wheel a moment, draws his own
rawhide from his kammerbund, and rises to his feet. With a hoarse cry of
alarm the negro vanishes into the surrounding gloom; the next moment is
heard his eager chuckling laugh, the spontaneous result of his lucky
escape from Kiftan Sahib's vengeful rawhide. Kiftan Sahib keeps a
desultory lookout for him all the evening, but the wary negro is more
eagerly watchful than he, and during supper-time he hovers perpetually
about the encircling wall of darkness, ready to vanish into its
impenetrable depths at the first aggressive demonstration.
The explanation of the negro is that the black horse laid down with his
load. The wheel presents a well-nigh ruined appearance, and I retire to
my couch in a most unenviable frame of mind; lying awake for hours,
pondering over the probability of being able to fix it up again at Herat.
One of our party of stragglers has failed to come in, and a couple of
nomads start out about 2 a.m. to try and find him; but neither absentee
nor searchers turn up at daybreak, and so we pull out without him.
The wind blows raw and chilly from the north as we depart at early dawn,
and the men muffle themselves up in whatever wraps they happen to have.
Unwilling to trust the wheel further in the charge of the negro, I carry
it myself, resting it on one stirrup, and securing it with a rope over my
shoulder. It is a most awkward thing to carry on horseback; but, unhandy
though it be, I regret not having so carried it the whole way from
Subzowar.
Our route leads through a dreary country, much the same character as
yesterday, but we pass a pool of very good water about mid-day, and meet
three men driving laden pack-horses from Herat. They are halted and
questioned at great length concerning the contents of their packages,
whither they are bound and whence they come; and their firearms are
examined and commented upon. The members of our party appear to address
them with a very domineering spirit, as though wantonly revelling in the
sense of their own numerical superiority. On the other hand, the three
honest travellers comport themselves with what looks like an altogether
unnecessary amount of humility during the interview, and they seem very
thankful and relieved when permitted to take their departure. The
significance of all this, I imagine, is that my escort were sorely
tempted to overhaul the effects of the weaker party, and see if they had
any toothsome eatables from the bazaars of Herat; and the latter, justly
apprehensive of these designs on their late purchases, consider
themselves fortunate in escaping without being ruthlessly looted.
Toward evening we pass a comparatively new cemetery on a knoll; no signs
of human habitation are about, and Kiftan Sahib, in response to my
inquiries, explains that it is the graveyard of a battle-field.
Several times during the afternoon we lose the trail; we seem to be going
across an almost trailless country, and more than once have to call a
halt while men are sent to the summit of some neighboring hill to survey
the surrounding country for landmarks.
At dark we pitch our camp in a grassy hollow, where the horses are made
happy with heaps of pulled bottom-grass. Neither trees nor houses are
anywhere in sight; but the chief of the sowars and another man ride away
over the hills, and late at night return with two men carrying bread and
mast and fresh goat-milk enough to feed the whole hungry party.
We make a leisurely start next morning, the reason of the dalliance being
that we are but a few farsakhs from Herat. The country develops into
undulating, grassy upland prairie, the greensward being thickly spangled
with yellow flowers. A two flours' ride brings us to a camp of probably
not less than one hundred tents. Large herds of camels are peacefully
browsing over the prairie, numbers of them being females rejoicing in the
possession of woolly youngsters, whose uncouth but tender proportions are
swathed in old quilts and nummuds to protect them from the fierce rays of
the sun.
Sheep are being sheared and goats milked by men and boys; some of the
women are baking bread, some are jerking skin churns, suspended on
tripods, vigorously back and forth, and others are preparing balls of
mast for drying in the sun. The whole camp presents a scene of
picturesque animation.
From the busy nomad camp, the trail seems to make a gradual ascent until,
on the morning of April 30th, we arrive at the bluff-like termination of
a rolling upland country, and behold! spread out below is the famous
valley of Herat. Like a panorama suddenly opened up before me is the
charmed stretch of country that has time and again created such a stir in
the political and military circles of England and Russia, the famous
"gate to India" about which the two greatest empires of the world have
sometimes almost come to blows. Several populous villages are scattered
about the valley within easy range of human vision; the Heri Rood, now
bursting its natural boundaries under the stimulus of the spring floods,
glistens broadly at intervals like a chain of small lakes. The fortress
of Herat is dimly discernible in the distance beyond the river, probably
about twenty miles from our position; it is rendered distinguishable from
other masses of mud-brown habitations by a cluster of tall minarets,
reminding one of a group of factory chimneys. The whole scene, as viewed
from the commanding view of our ridge, embraces perhaps four hundred
square miles of territory; about one-tenth of this appears to be under
cultivation, the remainder being of the same stony, desert-like character
as the average camel-thorn dasht.
Doubtless a good share of this latter might be reclaimed and rendered
productive by an extensive system of irrigating canals, but at present no
incentive exists for enterprise of this character. In its present state
of cultivation the valley provides an abundance of food for the
consumption of its inhabitants, and as yet the demand for exportation is
limited to the simple requirements of a few thousand tributary nomads.
The orchards and green areas about the villages render the whole scene,
as usual, beautiful in comparison with the surrounding barrenness, but
that is all. Compared with our own green hills and smiling valleys, the
Valley of Herat would scarcely seem worth all the noise that has been
made about it. There has been a great amount of sentiment wasted in
eulogizing its alleged beauty. Of its wealth and commercial importance in
the abstract, I should say much exaggeration has been indulged in. Still,
there is no gainsaying that it is a most valuable strategical position,
which, if held by either England or Russia, would exercise great
influence on Central Asian and Indian affairs. Such are my first
impressions of the Herat Valley, and a sojourn of some ten days in one of
its villages leaves my conjectures about the same.
A few miles along a stony and gradually descending trail, and we are
making our way across the usual chequered area of desert, patches,
abandoned fields, and old irrigating ditches that so often tell the tale
of decay and retrogression in the East. These outlying evidences of
decay, however, soon merge into green fields of wheat and barley, poppy
gardens, and orchards, and flowing ditches; and two hours after obtaining
the first view of Herat finds us camped in a walled apricot garden in the
important village of Rosebagh (?).
Overtopping our camping ground are a pair of dilapidated brick minarets,
attached to what Kiftan Sahib calls the Jami Mesjid, and which he
furthermore volunteers was erected by Ghengis Khan. The minarets are of
circular form, and one is broken off fifteen feet shorter than its
neighbor. In the days of their glory they were mosaicked with blue, green
and yellow glazed tiles; but nothing now remains but a few
mournful-looking patches of blue, surviving the ravages of time and
decay. Pigeons have from time to time deposited grains of barley on the
dome, and finding sustenance from the gathered dirt and the falling
rains, they have sprouted and grown, and dotted the grand old mosque with
patches of green vegetation.
One corner of the orchard is occupied by a stable, to the flat roof of
which I betake myself shortly after our arrival to try and ascertain my
bearings, and see something of the village. High walls rise up between
the roofs of the houses and divide one garden from another, so that
precious little opportunity exists for observation immediately around,
and from here not even the tall minarets of Herat are visible.
The adjacent houses are mostly bee-hive roofed, and within the little
gardens attached the soil is evidently rich and productive. Pomegranate,
almond, and apricot trees abound, and produce a charming contrast to the
prevailing crenellated mud walls. A very conspicuous feature of the
village is a cluster of some half-dozen venerable cedars.
The stable roof provides sleeping accommodation for the chief of the
sowars, Kiftan Sahib, and myself, the remainder of the party curl
themselves up beneath the apricot-trees below. During the night one of
the sowars, an old fellow whose morose and sulky disposition has had the
effect of rendering him socially objectionable to his comrades on the
march from Furrah, comes scrambling on the roof, and in loud tones of
complaint addresses himself to Kiftan Sahib's peacefully snoozing
proportions. His midnight eruption consists of some grievance against his
fellows; perhaps some such wanton act of injustice as appropriating his
blanket or stealing his "timbakoo" (tobacco).
The only satisfaction he obtains from his superior takes the form of
angry upbraidings for daring to disturb our slumbers; and, continuing his
complaints, Kiftan. Sahib springs up from beneath his red blanket and
administers several resounding cuffs.
Having meted our this summary interpretation of Afghan petty justice,
Kiftan Sahib resumes his blanket, and the old sowar comes and squats
alongside my own rude couch, and endeavors to heal his wounded spirit by
muttering appeals to Allah. His savage groanings render it impossible for
me to go to sleep, and several times I motion him away; but he affects
not to take any notice.
Determined to drive him away, I rise up hastily as though about to attack
him,--a piece of strategy that causes him to scramble off the roof
far quicker than he climbed on. His fit of rage lasts through the night,
finding vent in mutterings that are heard long after his hurried
departure from my vicinity, and in the morning he is seen perched in a
corner of the wall by himself, still angry and unappeased.
The rising sun ushers in May-day with unmistakable indications of his
growing powers, and when he glares fiercely over the walls of our little
orchard retreat, we find it profitable to crouch in the shade. It is
already evident that I am not to be permitted to enter Herat proper, or
see or learn any more of my surroundings than my keepers can help.
Letters are forwarded to the city immediately upon our arrival, and on
the following morning an officer and several soldiers make their
appearance, to receive me from Kiftan Sahib and duly receipt for my
transfer. The officer announces himself as having once been to Bombay,
and proceeds to question me in a mixture of Persian and Hindostani.
Finding me ignorant of the latter language, he openly accuses me of being
a Russian, raising his finger and wagging his head in a deprecatory
manner. He is a simple-minded individual, however, and open to easy
conviction, and moreover inclined to be amiable and courteous. He tells
me that Faramorz Khan is "Wall of the soldiers" and Niab Alookimah Khan
the "dowleh" (civil governor), and after listening to my explanation of
being English and not Russian, he takes upon himself to deliver salaams
from them both.
"Merg Sahib," the political agent of the Boundary Commission, he says is
at Murghab, and "Ridgeway Sahib" at Maimene. Learning that a courier is
to be sent at once to them with letters in regard to myself, I quickly
embrace the opportunity of sending a letter to each by the same
messenger, explaining the situation, and asking Colonel Ridgeway to try
and render me some assistance in getting through to India.
By request of the officer I send the governor of Herat a sketch of the
bicycle, to enlighten him somewhat concerning its character and
appearance. No doubt, it would be a stretching of his Asiatic dignity as
the governor of an important city, to come to Rosebagh on purpose to see
it for himself, and on no circumstances can I, an unauthorized Ferenghi
invading the country against orders, be permitted to visit Herat.
The transfer having been duly made, I am conducted, a mile or so, to the
garden of a gentleman named Mohammed Ahziin Khan, my quarters there being
an open bungalow just large enough to stretch out in. Here is provided
everything necessary for the rude personal comfort of the country, and
such additional luxuries as raisins and pomegranates are at once brought.
Here, also, I very promptly make the acquaintance of Moore's famous
bul-buls, the "sweet nightingales" of Lalla Eookh. The garden is full of
fruit-trees and grape-vines, and here several pairs of bul-buls make
their home. They are great pets with the Afghans, and when Mohammed Ahzim
Khan calls "bul-bul, bul-bul," they come and alight on the bushes close
by the bungalow and perk their heads knowingly, evidently expecting to be
favored with tid-bits. They are almost tame enough to take raisins out of
the hand, and hesitate not to venture after them when placed close to our
feet. It is the first time I have had the opportunity of a close
examination of the bul-bul. They are almost the counterpart of the
English starling as regards size and shape, but their bodies are of a
mousey hue; the head and throat are black, with little white patches on
either "cheek;" the tail feathers are black, tipped with white, and on
the lower part of the body is a patch of yellow; the feathers of the head
form a crest that almost rises to the dignity of a tassel.
While the bul-bul is a companionable little fellow and possessed of a
cheery voice, his warble in no respects resembles the charming singing of
the nightingale, and why he should be mentioned in connection with the
sweet midnight songster of the English woodlands is something of a
mystery. His song is a mere "clickety click" repeated rapidly several
times. His popularity comes chiefly from his boldness and his
companionable associations with mankind. The bul-bul is as much of a
favorite in the Herat Valley as is robin red-breast in rural England, or
the bobolink in America.
The second day in the garden is remembered as the anniversary of my start
from Liverpool, and I have plenty of time for retrospection. It is
unnecessary to say that the year has been crowded with strange
experiences. Not the least strange of all, perhaps, is my present
predicament as a prisoner in the Herat Valley.
In the afternoon there arrives from Herat a Peshawari gentleman named
Mirza Gholam Ahmed, who is stationed here in the capacity of native agent
for the Indian government. He is an individual possessed of considerable
Asiatic astuteness, and his particular mission is very plainly to
discover for the governor of Herat whether I am English or Russian. He is
a somewhat fleshy, well-favored person, and withal of prepossessing
manners. He introduces himself by shaking hands and telling me his name,
and forthwith indulges in a pinch of snuff preparatory to his task of
interrogation. Accompanying him is the officer who received me from
Kiftan Sahib in the apricot garden, and whose suspicions of my being a
Russian spy are anything but allayed.
During the interview he squats down on the threshold of the little
bungalow, and concentrates his curiosity and suspicion into a protracted
penetrating stare, focused steadily at my devoted countenance. Mohammed
Ahzim Khan imitates him to perfection, except that his stare contains
more curiosity and less suspicion.
Mirza Gholam Ahmed proceeds upon his mission of fathoming the secret of
my nationality with extreme wariness, as becomes an Oriental official
engaged in a task of significant import, and at first confines himself to
the use of Persian and Hindostani. It does not take me long, however, to
satisfy the trustworthy old Peshawari that I am not a Muscov, and fifteen
minutes after his preliminary pinch of snuff, he is unbosoming himself to
me to the extent of letting me know that he served with General Pollock
on the Seistan Boundary Commission, that he went with General Pollock to
London, and moreover rejoices in the titular distinction of C. I. E.
(Companion Indian Empire), bestowed upon him for long and faithful civil
and political services. The C. I. E. he designates, with a pardonable
smile of self-approval, as "backsheesh" given him, without solicitation,
by the government of India; a circumstance that probably appeals to his
Oriental conception as a most extraordinary feature in his favor.
Bribery, favoritism, and personal influence enter so largely into the
preferments and rewards of Oriental governments, that anything obtained
on purely meritorious grounds may well be valued highly.
He understands English sufficiently well to comprehend the meaning of my
remarks and queries, and even knows a few words himself. From him I learn
that I will not be permitted to visit Herat, and that I am to be kept
under guard until Faramorz Khan's courier returns from the Boundary
Commission Camp with Colonel Ridgeway's answer. He tells me that the fame
of the bicycle has long ago been brought to Herat by pilgrims returning
from Meshed, and the marvellous stories of my accomplishments are current
in the bazaars. Fourteen farsakhs (fifty-six miles) an hour, and nothing
said about the condition of the roads, is the average Herati's
understanding of it; and many a grave, turbaned merchant in the bazaar,
and wild warrior on the ramparts, indulges in day-dreams of an iron horse
little less miraculous in its deeds than the winged steed of the air we
read of in the Arabian Nights.
The direct results of Mirza Gholam Ahmed's visit and favorable report to
the Governor of Herat, are made manifest on the following day by the
appearance of his companion of yesterday in charge of two attendants,
bringing me boxes of sweetmeats, almonds, raisins, and salted nuts,
together with a package of tea and a fifteen-pound cone of loaf-sugar;
all backsheesh from the Governor of Herat. Mirza Gholam Ahmed himself
contributes a cake of toilet soap, a few envelopes and sheets of paper,
and Huntley & Palmer's Beading biscuits. Upon stumbling upon these latter
acceptable articles, one naturally falls to wondering whether this
world-famed firm of biscuit-makers suspect that their wares sometimes
penetrate even inside the battlemented walls of Herat. With them come
also three gunsmiths, charged with the duty of assisting in the
reparation of the bicycle, badly damaged by the horse, it is remembered,
on the way from Furrah.
Their implements consist of a pair of peculiar goat-skin bellows,
provided with wooden nozzles tipped with iron. A catgut bowstring drills
for boring holes, and screw-drills for cutting threads, hammers, and an
anvil. A rude but ingenious forge is constructed out of a few handfuls of
stiff mud, and, building a charcoal fire, they spend the evening in
sharpening and tempering drills for tomorrow's operations.
Everybody seems more attentive and anxious to contribute to my pleasure,
the result, evidently, of orders from Herat. The officer, who but two
days ago openly accused me of being a Russian, is to-day obsequious
beyond measure, and his efforts to atone for Ma openly assured suspicions
are really quite painful and embarrassing; even going the length of
begging me to take him with me to London. The supper provided to-day
consists of more courses and is better cooked and better served; Mohammed
Ahzim Khan himself squats before me, diligently engaged in picking hairs
out of the butter, pointing out what he considers the choicest morsels,
and otherwise betrays great anxiety to do the agreeable.
The whole of the fifth and sixth days are consumed in the task of
repairing the damages to the bicycle, the result being highly
satisfactory, considering everything. Six new spokes that I have with me
have been inserted, and sundry others stretched and the ends newly
threaded. The gunsmiths are quite expert workmen, considering the tools
they have to work with, and when they happen to drill a hole a trifle
crooked, they are full of apologies, and remind me that this is
Afghanistan and not Frangistan. They know and appreciate good material
when they see it, and during the process of heating and stretching the
spokes, loud and profuse are the praises bestowed upon the quality of the
iron. "Koob awhan," they say, "Khylie koob awhan; Ferenghi awhan koob."
As artisans, interested in mechanical affairs, the ball-bearings of the
pedals, one of which I take apart to show them, excites their profound
admiration as evidence of the marvellous skill of the Ferenghis. Much
careful work is required to spring the rim of the wheel back into a true
circle, every spoke having to be loosened and the whole wheel newly
adjusted. Except for the handy little spoke-vice which I very fortunately
brought with me, this work of adjustment would hav |
