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.