ACROSS THE "DESERT OF DESPAIR."
For some hours we are traversing a singularly wild-looking country; it
seems as though the odds and ends of all creation were tossed
indiscriminately together. Rocky cliffs, sloping hills, riverbeds, dry
save from last night's thunder-storm, bits of sandy desert, strips of
alkaline flat or hard gravel, have been gathered up from various parts of
the earth and tossed carelessly in a heap here. It is an odd corner in
which the chips, the sweepings and trimmings, gathered up after the
terrestrial globe was finished, were apparently brought and dumped. There
is even a little bit of pasture, and at one point a little area of arable
land. Here are found four half-naked representatives of this strange,
wild border-land, living beneath one rude goat-hair tent, watching over a
few grazing goats and several acres of growing grain.
We arrive at this remarkable little community shortly after noon, and
halt a couple of hours to rest and feed the horses, and to kill and cook
the unhappy kid slung across the mudbake's saddle. The poor little
creature doesn't require very much killing; all the way from where it was
given into his tender charge its infantile bleatings have seemed to grate
harshly on the mudbake's unsympathetic ear, and he has handled it anywise
but tenderly. The four men found here are Persian Eliautes, a numerous
tribe, that seem to form a sort of connecting link between the genuine
nomads and the tillers of the soil. They are frequently found combining
the occupations of both, and might aptly be classed as semi-nomads.
Pitching their tents beside some outlying, isolated piece of cultivable
ground in the spring, they sow it with wheat or barley, and three months
later they reap a supply of grain to carry away with them when they
remove their flocks to winter pasturage.
An iron kettle is borrowed to stew the kid in, and when cooked a portion
is stowed away to carry with us. The Eliaute quartette contribute bowls
of mast and doke, and off this and the remainder of the stewed kid we all
make a hearty meal.
More than once of late have I been impressed by the striking, even
startling, resemblance of some person among the people of Southern
Khorassan, to the familiar face of some acquaintance at home. And,
strange it is, but true, that one of these four Eliautes blossoms forth
upon my astonished vision as the veritable double of one of America's
most prominent knights of the pen and wheel. The gentleman himself, an
enthusiastic tourist, and to use his own expression, fond of "walking
large," has taken considerable interest in my tour of the world. Can it
be--I think, upon first confronting this extraordinary reproduction--can
it be, that Karl Kron's enthusiasm has caused him to start from the
Pacific coast of China on his wheel to try and beat my time in
circumcycling the globe?
And after getting as far as this strange terrestrial chip-pile, he has
been so unfortunately susceptible as to fall in love with some
slender-limbed daughter of the desert?--has he been captivated by a
pair of big, opthamalmia-proof, black eyes, a coy sidewise glance, or a
graceful, jaunty style of shouldering a half-tanned goat-skin of doke?
The very first question the nomad asks of the khan, however, removes all
suspicions of his being the author and publisher of X. M. M.--he
asks if I am a Ferenghi and whither I am going; Kron would have asked me
for tabulated statistics of my tour through Persia.
A couple of hours' rest in the Eliaute camp, and we bid adieu to this
queer little oasis of human life within the barbarous boundary-line of
the Dasht-i-na-oomid, and proceed on our way. One of the Eliautes
accompanies us some little distance to guide us through a belt of badly
broken country immediately surrounding their camp. The country continues
to be a regular jumble of odds and ends of physical geography all the
afternoon, and several times the horses of the sowars, without
preliminary warning, break through the thin upper crust of some
treacherous boggy spot and sink suddenly to their bellies. During the
afternoon the mirza is pitched headlong over his horse's head once, and
the khan and the mudbake twice. In one tumble the khan's loosely sheathed
sword slips from its scabbard, and he well nigh falls a victim to the
accident a la King Saul. While traversing this treacherous belt of
territory I make the sowars lead the way and perform the office of
pathfinder for myself and wheel. Whenever one of them gets stuck in boggy
ground, and his horse flounders wildly about, to the imminent risk of
unseating its rider, his two hopeful comrades bubble over with merriment
at his expense; his own sincere exclamations of "Allah!" being answered
by unsympathetic jeers and sarcastic remarks. A few minutes later,
perchance one of the hilarious twain finds himself unexpectedly in the
same predicament; it then becomes his turn to look scared and importune
Allah for protection, and also his turn to be the target for the wild
hilarity of the others.
And so this lively and eventful afternoon passes away, and about five
o'clock we round the base of a conglomerate hill that has been shutting
out the prospect ahead, cross a small spring freshet, and emerge upon an
extensive gravelly plain stretching away eastward to the horizon. It is
the central plain of the Dasht-i-na-oomid, the heart of the desert, of
which the wild, heterogeneous territory traversed since morning forms the
setting. So far as the utility of the bicycle and the horses is
concerned, the change is decidedly for the better, even more so for the
former than for the latter. The gravelly plain presents very good
wheeling surface, and I forge ahead of my escort, following a trail so
faint that it is barely distinguishable from the general surface. Shortly
after leaving the mountainous country the three sowars hip their horses
into a smart canter to overtake the bicycle. As they come clattering up,
the khan shouts loudly for me to stop, and the mirza and mudbake
supplement his vocal exertions by gesticulating to the same purpose.
Dismounting, and allowing them to approach, in reply to my query of "Chi
mi khoi?" the khan's knavish countenance becomes overspread with a
ridiculously thin and transparent assumption of seriousness and
importance, and pointing to an imaginary boundary-line at his horse's
feet he says: "Bur-raa (brother), Afghanistan." "Khylie koob, Afghanistan
inja-koob, hoob, sowari." (Very good, I understand, we are entering
Afghanistan; all right, ride on.) "Sowari neis," replies the khan; and he
tries hard to impress upon me that our crossing the Afghan frontier is a
momentous occasion, and not to be lightly regarded. Several times during
the day has my delectable escort endeavored to fathom the extent of my
courage by impressing upon me the danger to be apprehended in Afghanistan
by a Ferenghi. Not less than half a dozen times have they indulged in the
grim pantomime of cutting their own throats, and telling me that this is
the tragic fate that would await me in Afghanistan without their valuable
protection. And now, as we stand on the boundary line, their bronzed and
bared throats are again subjected to this highly expressive treatment;
and transfixing me with a penetrating stare, as though eager to read in
my face some responsive sign of fear or apprehension, the khan repeats
with emphasis: "Bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan." Seeing me still inclined to
make light of the matter, he turns to his comrades for confirmation. "O,
bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan," assents the mirza; and the mudbake chimes in
with the same words. "Well, yes, I understand; Afghanistan--what of
it?" I inquire, amused at this theatrical display of their childish
knavery.
For answer they start to loading up their guns and pistols, which up to
now they have neglected to do; and they examine, with a ludicrous show of
importance, the edges of their swords and the points of their daggers,
staring the while at me to see what kind of an impression all this is
making. Their scrutiny of my countenance brings them small satisfaction,
methinks, for so ludicrous seems the scene, and so transparent the
motives of this warlike movement, that no room is there for aught but a
genuine expression of amusement.
Having loaded up their imposing array of firearms, the khan gives the
word to advance, with as much show of solemnity as though leading a
forlorn hope on some desperate undertaking, and he impresses upon me the
importance of keeping as close to then as possible, instead of riding
ahead. All around us is the unto-habited plain; not a living thing or
sign of human being anywhere; but when I point this out, and picking up a
stone, ask the khan if it is these that are dangerous, he replies, as
before: "Bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan," and significantly taps his weapons.
As we advance the level plain becomes covered with a growth of wild thyme
and camel-thorn, the former permeating the desert air with its agreeable
perfume. The evening air is soft and balmy I as we halt in the dusk of
the evening to camp alongside the trail; each sowar has a large leathern
water-bottle swinging from his stirrup-strap filled at the little freshet
above mentioned, and for food we have bread and the remains of the cold
kid. The horses are fastened to stout shrubs, and a fire is kindled with
dried camel-thorn collected by the mudbake. Not a sound breaks the
stillness of the evening as we squat around the fire and eat our frugal
supper--all about us is the oppressive silence and solitude of the
desert Away off in the dim distance to the northeast can be seen a single
speck of light--the camp-fire of some wandering Afghan tribe.
"What is the fire yonder?" I ask of the khan. The khan looks at it, says
something to his comrades, and then looks at me and draws his finger yet
again across his throat; the mirza and the mudbake follow suit. The
ridiculous frequency of this tragic demonstration causes me to laugh
outright, in spite of an effort to control my risibilities. The khan
replies to this by explaining, "Afghani Noorzais-dasht-adam," and then
goes on to explain that the Noorzais are very bad Afghans, who would like
nothing better than to murder a Ferenghi. From the beginning of our
acquaintance I have allowed my escort to think my understanding of the
conversation going on among themselves is extremely limited. By this
means have they been thrown somewhat off their guard, and frequently
committed themselves within my hearing. It is their laudable purpose, I
have discovered, to steal money from me if an opportunity presents
without the chance of being detected. Besides being inquisitive about the
probable amount in my possession, there has evolved from their collective
brain during the day, a deep-laid scheme to find out something about the
amount of backsheesh they may expect me to bestow upon them at the end of
our journey. This deep-laid scheme is for the khan to pretend that he is
sending the mirza and the mudbake back to Beerjand from this point, and
for these two hopeful accomplices to present themselves before me as
about ready to depart, and so demand backsheesh. This little farce is
duly played shortly after our arrival; it is a genuine piece of light
comedy, acted on the strangely realistic stage of the lonely desert, to
which the full round moon just rising above the eastern horizon. These
advances are met on my part by broad intimations that if they continue to
act as ridiculously during the remainder of the journey as they have
to-day they will surely get well bastinadoed, instead of backsheeshed,
when we reach Ghalakua. The actors retire from the stage with visible
discomfiture and squat themselves around the fire. Long after I have
stretched my somewhat weary frame upon a narrow strip of saddle-blanket
for the night, my three "protectors" squat around the smouldering embers
of the camel-thorn fire, discussing the all-absorbing topic of my money.
Little do they suspect that concealed in a leathern money-belt beneath my
clothes are one hundred Russian gold Imperials, the money obtained in
Teheran for the journey through Turkestan and Siberia to the Pacific.
Though sleeping with the traditional one eye open and my Smith & Wesson
where it can be readily used, there is little apprehension of being
robbed, owing to their obligation to take back the receipt for my safe
delivery to Heshmet-i-Molk.
It is the weather-changeful period of the full moon, and about midnight a
clap of thunder rolls over the desert, and a smart shower descends from a
small dark cloud, that sails slowly across the sky, obscuring for a brief
period the moist-looking countenance of the moon, and then disappears. A
couple of hours later a rush of wind is heard careering across the desert
toward us, accompanied by a wildly scudding cloud. The cloud peppers us
with hailstones in the most lively manner, and the wind strikes us almost
with the force of a tornado, knocking over the bicycle, which I have
leaned against a clump of shrubs at my head, and favoring us with a
blinding fusilade of sand and gravel.
It rains and hails enough to make us wet and uncomfortable, and the
mudbake gets up and kindles another fire. In a short time the squally
midnight weather has given place to a dead calm; the clouds have
dispersed; the moon shines all the brighter from having had its face
washed; the stars twinkle themselves out one by one as the gray dawn
gradually makes itself manifest. It is a most lovely morning; the
bruising hailstones and the moistening rain have proved themselves
stimulants in the laboratory of the wild-thyme shrubs, setting free and
disseminating a new supply of aroma; and while until now the voice of
animate nature has been conspicuous by its absence, the morning vespers
of song-birds seed almost to be issuing, like flowers, from the ground.
There is an indescribable charm about this morning's experience on the
desert; dawn appears, the moon hangs low-suspended in the heavens, the
birds carol merrily, and every inspiration one takes is a tonic to
stimulate the system. Half an hour later the sun has risen, the
song-birds have one and all lapsed into silence, the desert is itself
again, stern, silent, uncompromising, and apparently destitute of life.
Total depravity, it appears, has not yet claimed my worthy escort for its
own entirely, for while saddling up their horses during this brief
display of nature's kindlier mood they call my attention to the singing
of the birds and the grateful perfumery in the air. The germ of goodness
still lingers within their semi-civilized conception of things about
them; they are the children of Nature, and are profoundly impressed by
their mother's varying moods. Their prostrations toward Mecca and their
matutinal prayers to Allah seem to gain something of sincerity from the
accompanying worship of the birds and the sympathetic essence of the
awakening day. Eastward from our camping-ground the trail is oftentimes
indistinguishable; but a few loose stones have been tossed together at
intervals of several hundred yards, to guide wayfarers across the desert.
A surface of mingled sand and gravel characterizes the way; sometimes it
is unridably heavy, and sometimes the wheeling is excellent for a mile or
two at a stretch, enabling me to leave the ambling yahoos of the sowars
far behind. Beautiful mirages sometimes appear in the distance
--lakes of water, waving groves of palms, and lovely castles; and
often, when far enough ahead, I can look back, and see the grotesque
figures of the khan, the mirza, and the mudbake apparently riding through
the air.
Perhaps twenty miles are covered, when we arrive at a pile of dead brush
that has been erected for a landmark, and find a dilapidated well
containing water. The water is forty feet below the surface, and contains
a miscellaneous assortment of dead lizards, the carcasses of various
small mammalia, and sundry other unfortunate representatives of animated
nature that have fallen in. Beyond this well the country assumes the
character of a broad sink or mud-basin, the shiny surface of its mud
glistening in the sun like a sheet of muddy water. Sloughs innumerable
meander through it, fringed with rank rushes and shrubs. A far heavier
down-pour than we were favored with on the plain has drenched a region of
stony hills adjacent, and the drainage therefrom has, for the time being,
filled and overflowed the winding sloughs.
A dozen or more of these are successfully forded, though not without some
difficulty; but we finally arrive at the parent slough, of which the
others are but tributaries. This proves too deep for the sowars' horses
to ford, and after surveying the yellow flood some minutes and searching
up and down, the khan declares ruefully that we shall have to return to
Beerjand. As I remonstrate with him upon his lack of enterprise in
turning from so trifling a difficulty, the khan finally orders the
mudbake to strip off his purple and fine linen and try the depth. The
mudbake proceeds to obey his superior, with many apprehensive glances at
the muddy freshet, and wades gingerly in, muttering prayers to Allah the
while. Deeper and deeper the yellow waters creep up his shivering form,
and when nearly up to his neck, a sudden deepening causes him to bob
unexpectedly down almost over his head. Hurriedly retreating, spluttering
and whining, he scrambles hastily ashore, where his two companions,
lolling lazily on their horses, watching his attempt, are convulsed with
merriment over his little misadventure and his fright.
The shivering mudbake, clad chiefly in goose-pimples, now eagerly
supplements the khan's proposition for us all to return to Beerjand, and
the mirza with equal eagerness murmurs his approval of the same course of
action. Making light of their craven determination, I prepare to cross
the freshet without their assistance, and announce my intention of
proceeding alone. The stream, though deep, is not over thirty yards wide,
and a very few minutes suffices for me to swim across with my clothes, my
packages, and the saddle of the bicycle; the small, strong rope I have
carried from Constantinople is then attached to the bicycle, and,
swimming across with the end, the wheel is pulled safely through the
water. Neither of the sowars can swim, and they regard the prospect of
being left behind with no little consternation. Their guileful souls seem
to turn naturally to Allah in their perplexity; and they all prostrate
themselves toward Mecca, and pray with the apparent earnestness of deep
sincerity. Having duly strengthened and fortified themselves with these
devotional exercises, they bravely prepare to resign themselves to kismet
and follow my instructions about crossing the stream.
The khan's iron-gray being the best horse of the three, and the khan
himself of a more sanguine and hopeful disposition, I make him tie all
his clothes and damageable things into a bundle and fasten them on his
saddle; the rope is then tied to the bridle and the horse pulled across,
his gallant rider clinging to his tail, according to my orders, and
praying aloud to Allah on his own account. The gray swims the unfordable
middle portion nobly, and the khan comes through with no worse damage
than a mouthful or two of muddy water. As the dripping charger scrambles
up the bank, the khan allows himself to be hauled up high and dry by its
tail; he then looks back at his comrades and favors them with a brief but
highly exaggerated account of his sensations.
The mirza and the mudbake deliver themselves of particularly deep-chested
acclamations of "Allah, Allah!" at the prospect of undergoing similar
sensations to those described by the khan, whereupon that unsympathetic
individual vents his hilarity in a gleeful, heartless peal of laughter,
and tells them, with a diabolical chuckle of delight, that they will most
likely fare ten times worse than himself on account of the inferiority of
their horses compared with the gray. Much threatening, bantering, and
persuasion is necessary to induce them to follow the leadership of the
khan; but, trusting to kismet, they finally venture, and both come
through without noteworthy misadventure. The khan's wild hilarity and
ribaldish jeers at the expense of his two subordinates, as he stands on
the solid foundation of a feat happily already accomplished and surveys
their trepidation, and hears their prayers as they are pulled like human
dinghies through the water, is in such ludicrous contrast to his own
prayerful utterances under the same circumstances a minute before that my
own risibilities are not to be wholly controlled.
This little episode makes a profound impression upon the minds of my
escort; they now regard me as a very dare-devil and determined
individual, a person entirely without fear, and their deference during
the remainder of the afternoon is in marked contrast to their previous
attempts to work upon my presumed apprehensions of the dangers of
Afghanistan.
Following the guidance of a few rude landmarks of piled brush, we
discover, a few miles off to the left, and on the eastern environ of the
slough-veined basin, a considerable body of tents and a herd of grazing
camels. The sowars pronounce them to be a certain camp of Einiucks that
they have been expecting to find somewhere in this vicinity, and with
whose chief the khan says he is acquainted.
Wending our way thither we find a large camp of about fifty tents
occupying a level stretch of clean gravelly ground, slightly elevated
above the mud-flats. The tents are of brownish-black goat-hair, similar
in material to the tents of Koords and Eliautes; in size and structure
they are larger and finer than those of the Eliautes, but inferior to the
splendid tent-palaces of Koordistan. A couple of hundred yards from the
tents is a small spring of water, enclosed within a rude wall of
loosely-piled stone; the water is allowed to trickle through this wall
and accumulate in a basin outside. Here, as we ride up, are several women
filling goat-skin vessels to carry to the tents.
The tent of the chief stands out conspicuously from the others, and the
khan, desirous of giving his "bur-raa-ther," as he now terms the Eimuck
chieftain, a surprise, suggests that I ride ahead of the horsemen and
dismount before his tent. This capital little arrangement is somewhat
interfered with by the fact that a goodly proportion of the male
population present have already become cognizant of our presence, and are
standing in white-robed groups about their tents trying with hand-shaded
eyes to penetrate the secret of my strange appearance. Nevertheless, I
ride ahead and alight at the entrance to the chief's tent. The chief is a
middle-aged man of medium height and inclined to obesity. He and all the
men are arrayed in garments of coarse white cotton stuff throughout,
loose pantaloons, bound at the ankles, and an over-garment of a pattern
very much like a night-shirt; on their heads are the regulation Afghan
turbans, with long, dangling ends, and their feet are incased in rude
moccasins with upturned toes. As I dismount, and the chief fully realizes
that I am a Ferenghi, his face turns red with embarrassment. Instead of
the smiles or the grave kindliness of a Koordish sheikh, or the simple,
childlike greeting of an Eliaute, the Eimuck chief motions me into his
tent in a brusque, offish manner, his countenance all aglow with the
redness of what almost looks like a guilty conscience.
With the intuition that comes of long and changeful association with
strange peoples, the changing countenance of the Afghan chief impresses
me at once as the fiery signal of inbred Mussulman fanaticism, lighting
up spontaneously at the unexpected and unannounced arrival of a lone
Ferenghi in his presence. It savors somewhat of bearding a dangerous lion
in his own den. He certainly betrays deep embarrassment at my appearance;
which, however, may partly result from not yet knowing the character of
my companions, or the wherefore of this strange visitation. When my
escort rides up his whole demeanor instantly undergoes a change; the
cloud of embarrassment lifts from his face, he and the khan recognize and
greet each other cordially as "bur-raa-ther," and kiss each-other's
hands; some of his men standing by exchange similar brotherly greetings
with the mirza and the mudbake.
After duly refreshing and invigorating ourselves with sundry bowls of
doke, the inevitable tomasha is given, and the chief asks the khan to get
me to ride up before one row of tents and down the other for the
edification of the women and children, curious groups of whom are
gathered at every door. The ground between the two long, even rows of
tents resembles a macadam boulevard for width and smoothness, and I give
the wild Eimuck tribes-people a ten minutes' exhibition of circling,
speeding, and riding with hands off handles. A strange and novel
experience, surely, this latest triumph of high Western civilization,
invading the isolated nomad camp on the Dasht-i-na-oomid and disporting
for the amusement of the women and children. Some of the women are
attired in quite fanciful colors; Turkish pantaloons of bright blue and
jackets of equally bright red render them highly picturesque, and they
wear a profusion of bead necklaces and the multifarious gewgaws of
semi-civilization. The younger girls wear nose-rings of silver in the
left nostril, with a cluster of tiny beads or stones decorating the side
of the nose. The wrists of most of the men are adorned with bracelets of
plain copper wire about the size of ordinary telegraph wire; they average
large and well-proportioned, and seem intellectually superior to the
Eliautes. A very striking peculiarity of the people in this particular
camp is a sort of lisping, hissing accent to their speech. When first
addressed by the chief, I fancied it simply an individual case of
lisping; but every person in the camp does likewise. Another peculiarity
of expression, that, while not peculiar to this particular camp, is made
striking by reason of its novelty to me at this time, the use of the
expression "O" as a term of assent, in lieu of the Persian "balli." The
sowars, from their proximity to the frontier, have sometimes used this
expression, but here, in the Eimuck camp, I come suddenly upon a people
who use it to the total exclusion of the Persian word. The change from
the "balli sahib" of the Tabbas villagers to the "O, O, O" of the Afghan
nomads is novel and entertaining in the extreme, and I sit and listen
with no small interest to the edifying conversation of the khan, the
mirza, and the mudbake on the one side, and the Eimuck chieftain and
prominent members of the tribe on the other.
Standing behind the chief, who sits cross-legged on a Persian nummud, is
a handsome, intelligent-looking man, who seems to be the most
pleasant-faced and entertaining conversationalist of the nomads. The kahn
grows particularly talkative and communicative, the evening hours flow
on, and while addressing his remarks and queries directly to the chief,
he gazes about him to observe the effects of his words on the general
assembly gathered inside and crowded about the tent-entrance. The
pleasant-faced man does far more talking in reply than does the chief
himself. In reply to the khan's innumerable queries he replies, in the
peculiar, hissing shibboleth of the camp, "O, O, O-O bus-s-s-orah,
b-s-s-s-orah." Sometimes the khan delivers himself of quite a lengthy
disquisition, and as his remarks are followed by the assembled nomads
with the eager interest of people who seldom hear anything but the music
of their own voices, the interesting individual above referred to
sprinkles his assenting "O, O, O" thickly along the line of the khan's
presumably edifying narrative; now and then the chief himself chimes in
with a quiet "b-s-s-s-orah." Here also, in this camp of surprises and
innovations, do I first hear the word "India" used in lieu of "Hindostan"
among Asiatics.
The fatigue of the day's journey, and the imperfect rest of the two
preceding nights, cause me to be overcome with drowsiness, early in the
evening, and I stretch oat alongside the bicycle and fall into a deep
sleep. An hour or two later I am awakened for the evening meal. Flat,
pancake-like sheets of unleavened bread, inferior to the bread of Persia,
and partaking somewhat of the character of the chupalties of India,
boiled goat, and the broth preserved from the same, together with the
regulation mast and doke, constitute the Eimuek supper. A liberal bowl of
the broth, an abundance of meat, bread, mast and doke are placed before
me on a separate wooden tray, while my escort, the chief, and several of
his men gather around a communal spread of the same variety of edibles. A
crowd of curious people occupy the remainder of the space inside, and
stand at the door. As I rise and prepare to eat, all eyes are turned upon
me as though anticipating some surprising exhibition of the strange
manners of a Ferenghi at his meals. Surveying the broth, I motion the
khan to try and obtain a spoon. The chief looks inquiringly at the khan,
and the khan with the gladsome expression of a person conscious of having
on hand a rare piece of information for his friends, explains that a
Ferenghi eats soup with a spoon. The chief and his men smile incredibly,
but the khan emphasizes his position by appealing to the mirza and the
mudbake for confirmation. "Eat soup with a spoon?" queries the chief in
Persian; and he casts about him a look of unutterable astonishment.
Recovering somewhat from his incredulity, however, he orders an attendant
to fetch one, which shortly results in the triumphant production of a
rude wooden ladle. These uncivilized children of the desert watch me
drink broth from the ladle with most intense curiosity. In their own
case, an attendant tears several of the sheets of bread into pieces and
puts them in the broth; each person then helps himself to the
broth-soaked bread with his fingers. What broth remains at the bottom of
the bowl is drunk by them from the vessel itself in turns. After
consuming several generous chunks of "gusht" bread and mast and broth,
and supplementing this with a bowl of doke, I stretch myself out again
and at once become wrapped in sound, refreshing slumbers that last till
morning.
It is a glorious morning as, after breakfasting off the cold remains of
the meat left over from the evening meal, we bid farewell to the
hospitable Eimuek camp and resume our journey. As we leave, I offer to
shake hands with the chief to see if he understands our mode of greeting;
he seizes my hand between his two palms and kisses it. For the first few
miles the country is gravelly and undulating, after which it changes to a
sort of basin, partially covered by dense patches of tall, rank weeds. On
either side are rocky hills, almost rising to the dignity of mountains;
the rain and melting snow evidently convert this basin into a swamp at
certain periods, but it is now dry. A mile or so off to the right we
catch a glimpse, of some wild animal chasing a small herd of antelope.
From its size and motion, I judge it to be a leopard or cheetah; the
sowars regard it, bounding along after the fleet-footed antelope, with
lively interest; they call it a "baab" (tiger), and say there are many in
the reeds. It looks quite a likely spot for tigers, and it is not at all
unlikely that it may have been one, for, while not plentiful hereabout,
Tigris Asiaticus occasionally makes his presence known in the patches of
reed and jungle in Southern Afghanistan and Seistan.
All three of the sowars are frisky as kittens this morning, the result,
it is surmised, of the generous hospitality of the Eimuek chief
--gusht galore and rich broth cause their animal spirits to run
riot. Like overfed horses they "feel their oats" as they sniff the fresh
and invigorating morning air, and they point toward the shadowy form of
the racing baab a mile away, and pretend to take aim at it with their
guns. They sing and shout and swoop down on one another about the basin,
flourishing their swords and aiming with their guns, and they whip their
poor, long-suffering yahoos into wild, sweeping gallops as they swoop
down on some imaginary enemy. This wild hilarity and mimic warfare of the
desert is kept up until the ragged edge of their exuberance is worn away,
and their horses are well-nigh fagged out; we then halt for an hour to
allow the horses to recuperate by nibbling at a patch of reeds.
About ten miles from the Eimuek camp, the country develops into a
wilderness of deep, loose sand and bowlders. Across this sandy region
stretches a range of dark volcanic hills; the bases of the hills
terminate in billows of whitish-yellow sand; the higher waves of the
sandy sea stretch well up the sides like giant ocean breakers driven by
the gale up the side of the rocky cliffs. It is a tough piece of country
even for the sowars' horses, and dragging a bicycle through the mingled
sand and bowlders is abominable in the extreme. The heat becomes
oppressive as we penetrate deeper into the belt of sand-hills, and after
five miles of desperate tugging I become tired and distressed. The sowars
lolling lazily in their saddles, well-nigh sleeping, while I am struggling
and perspiring, form another chapter of experience entirely novel in the
field of European travel in Asia. Usually it is the natives who have to
sweat and toil and administer to the comfort of the traveller.
Revolving these things over in my mind, and becoming really wearied, I
suggest to the khan that he change places for a brief spell and give me a
chance to rest. The idea of himself trundling the asp-i-awhan appeals to
the khan as decidedly novel, and he bites at the bait quite readily.
Mounting his vacated saddle, I join the mirza and the mudbake in watching
him struggle along through the sand with it for some two hundred yards.
Along that brief course he topples over with it not less than half a
dozen times. The novel spectacle of the khan trundling the asp-i-awhan
arouses his two comrades from the warmth-inspired semi-torpidity of their
condition, and whenever the khan topples over, they favor him with jeers
and laughter. At the end of two hundred, yards the khan declares himself
exhausted and orders the mudbake to dismount and try it; this, however,
the mudbake bluntly refuses to do. After a little persuasion the inirza
is induced to try the experiment of a trundle; it is but an experiment,
however, for, being less active than the khan, the first time he tumbles
the bicycle over finds him sprawling on top of it, and, fearful lest he
should snap some spokes, I take it in hand again myself.
Another couple of miles and the eastern edge of the sandy area I is
reached, after which a compensational proportion of smooth gravel
abounds. Shortly after noon another small camp of nomads I is reached,
some half-dozen inferior tents, pitched on the shelterless edge of an
exposed gravelly slope. The afternoon is oppressively hot, and the men
are comfortably snoozing in all sorts of outlandish places among the
scrubby camel-thorn. Only the I women and children are visible as we
approach the tents; but youngsters are despatched forthwith, and, lo!
several tall white-robed figures seem to rise up literally out of the
ground at different spots round about; they were burrowed away under the
low, bushy shrubbery like rabbits. The women and children among these
nomads always seem industriously engaged, the former with domestic duties
about the tents, and the latter tending the flocks; but the men put in
most of their unprofitable lives loafing, sleeping, and gossiping.
We are not invited into the tents, but bread and mast is provided, and,
while we eat, four men hold the corners of an ample blue turban sheet
over us to shelter us from the sun. Spread out on sheets and on the roofs
of the tents are bushels of curds drying in the sun; the curds are
compressed into round balls the size of an apple, and when dried into
hard balls are excellent things to put in the pocket and nibble along the
road. Here we learn that the Harood is only one farsakh distant, and a
couple of stalwart young nomads accompany us to assist us across. At
Beerjand the Harood was "deep as a house;" at our last night's camp we
were told that it was fordable with camels; here we learn, that, though
very swift, it is really fordable for men and horses. First we come to a
branch less than waist-deep. My nether garments are handed to the khan;
in the pocket of my pantaloons is a purse containing a few kerans. While
engaged in fording this branch the khan ferrets out the purse and
extracts something from it, which he deftly slips into the folds of his
kammerbund. All this I silently observe from the corners of my eyes, but
say nothing.
Emerging from the stream, the wily khan points across the intervening
three hundred yards or thereabout to the main stream, and motions for me
to go ahead. The discovery of the purse and the purloined kerans has
aroused all the latent cupidity of his soul, and he wants me to ride
ahead, so that he can straggle along in the rear and investigate the
contents of the purse at his leisure. While winking at the amusing little
act of petty larceny already detected, I do not propose to give his
kleptomaniac tendencies full swing, and so I meet his proposal to sowar
and go ahead by peremptorily ordering him to take the lead.
Arriving at the bank of the Harood, I retire behind a clump of reeds, and
fold my money-belt, full of gold, up in the middle of my clothes, making
a compact bundle, with my gossamer rubber wrapped around the outside. The
river is about a hundred and fifty yards wide at the ford, with a
sand-bar about mid-stream, and is not above shoulder-deep along the ridge
that renders it fordable; the current, however, is frightfully strong.
Like the Indians of the West, the Afghan nomads are accustomed from
infancy to battling with the elements, and are comparatively fearless in
regard to rivers and deserts and storms, etc.
Such, at least, is the impression created by the conduct of the two young
men who have come to assist us across. The bicycle, my clothes, and all
the effects of the sowars are carried across on their heads, the rushing
waters threatening to sweep them off their feet at every step; but
nothing is allowed to get wet. When they are carrying across the last
bundle, the khan, solicitous for my safety, wants me to hang on to a
short rope tied around the waist of the strongest of the nomads.
Naturally disdaining any such arrangement as this, however, I declare my
intention of crossing without assistance, and wade in forthwith. Ere I
have progressed thirty yards, the current fairly sweeps me off my feet
and I have to swim for it. Fancying that I am overcome and in a fair way
of being drowned, the sowars set up a wild howl of apprehension, and
shout excitedly to the nomads to rescue me from a watery grave. The
Afghans are not so excited, however, over the outlook; they see that I am
swimming all right, and they confine themselves to motioning the
direction for me to take. The current carries me some little distance
down stream, when I find footing on the lower extremity of the sand-bar,
and on it, wade up; stream again with some difficulty against swiftly
rushing water four feet deep. The khan thinks I have had the narrowest
possible escape, and in tones of desperation he shouts out and begs me
not to attempt to cross the other channel without assistance. "The
receipt!" he shouts, "the receipt! Allah preserve us! the receipt; Hesh
met-i-Molk." The worthy khan is afflicted with a keen consciousness of
coming punishment awaiting him at Beerjand, should I happen to come to
grief while under his protection, and he, no doubt, suffers an agony of
apprehension during the fifteen minutes I am battling with the rapid
current of the Harood.
The second channel is found less swift and comparatively easy to ford.
The sturdy nomads, having transported all of my escort's damageable
effects, those three now stark-naked worthies mount with fear and
trembling their equally stark-naked steeds-naked all, save for the
turbans of the men and the bridles of their horses. Whatever of
intrepidity the khan possesses is of a quantity scarcely visible to the
naked eye, and it is, therefore, scarcely surprising to find him trying
to persuade, first the mudbake and then the mirza, to take the
initiative. His efforts prove wholly ineffectual, however, to bring the
feebly flowing tide of their courage up to the high-water level of
assuming the duties of leadership, and so in the absence of any
alternative, he finally screws up his own courage and leads the way. The
others allow their horses to follow closely behind. The horses seem to
regard the rushing volume of yellow water about them with far less
apprehension than do their riders. While dressing myself on the eastern
bank, the frightened mutterings of "Allah" from these gallant horsemen
come floating across the water, and, as they reach the sand-bar in the
middle of the stream, I can hear their muttered importunities for
Providential protection change, like the passing shadow-whims of Nature's
children that they are, into gleeful chuckles at their escape.
When the khan emerges from the water, the ruling passion within his
avaricious nature asserts itself with ridiculous promptness. With the
water dripping from his dangling feet, he rides hastily to where I am
dressing and whispers, "Pool neis; Afghani dasht-adam, pool neis." By
this he desires me to understand that the men who have been so
industrious and ready in helping us across, being Afghan nomads, will not
expect any backsheesh for their trouble. The above-mentioned ruling
passion is wonderfully strong in the rude breast of the khan, and in view
of his own secret machinations against my money he, no doubt, entertains
objections to leakages in other directions. So far as presenting these
hospitable souls of the desert with money for their services is
concerned, the khan's advice probably contains a good deal more wisdom
than would appear from a superficial view of the case merely. Assisting
travellers across streams and through difficult places evidently appeals
to these people as the most natural thing in the world for them to do. It
is a part of the un-written code of the hospitality of their uncivilized
country, and is, in all probability, undertaken without so much as a
mercenary thought. Presenting them with a money-consideration for their
services certainly has a tendency to awaken the latent spirit of
cupidity, generally resulting in their transformation from simple and
unsophisticated children, hospitable both by nature and tradition, into
wretched mercenaries, who regard the chance traveller solely from a
backsheesh-giving stand-point. The baneful result of this is today
glaringly apparent along every tourist route in the East; and, among the
pool-loving subjects of the Shah of Persia, travellers do not have to
appear very frequently to keep alive and foster a wild yearning for
backsheesh that effectually suppresses all loftier considerations.
These Afghans, however, seem to be people of an altogether different
mould; the ubiquitous Western traveller has not yet become a palpable
factor in their experiences. The hidden charms of backsheesh will not
become apparent to the wild Afghans until their fierce Mussulman
fanaticism has cooled sufficiently to allow the Ferenghi tourist to
wander through their territory without being in danger of his life.
The danger of corruption in the present instance is exceedingly small,
considering that I am the only representative of the Occident that has
ever happened along this way, and the probability that none other will
follow for many a year after; therefore I ignore the khan's wholly
disinterested advice and make the two worthy nomads a small present. They
accept the proffered kerans with a look of bewilderment, as though quite
unable to comprehend why I should tender them money, and they lay it
carelessly down on the sand while they assist the sowars to resaddle
their horses. To see the indifference with which the magnificent Afghan
nomads toss the silver pieces on the sand, and the eager, covetous
expression that the sight of the same coins lying there inspires in the
three Persians is, of itself, an instructive lesson on the difference
between the two peoples. The sowars become inspired, as if touched by the
magic wand of alchemy, to the discussion of their favorite theme; but the
Afghans pay no more heed to their remarks about money than if they were
talking in an unknown tongue. They really act as though they regarded the
subject of money as something altogether beyond their comprehension.