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.