TAKEN BACK TO PERSIA.
The Governor of Herat sends "khylie salaams" and permission for me to
ride the bicycle, stipulating that I keep near the escort. So, with many
an injunction to me about dasht-adam, kooh, dagh, etc., by way of warning
me against venturing too far ahead, we bid farewell to the garden, with
its strange associations, in the early morning. Beside Mohammed Ahzim
Khan and myself are three sowars, mounted on splendid horses.
The morning is bright and cheerful, and shortly after starting the animal
spirits of the sowars find vent in song. I have been laboring under the
impression that, for soul-harrowing vocal effort, the wild-eyed sowars of
Khorassan, as exemplified in my escort from Beerjand, were entitled to
the worst execrations of a discriminating Ferenghi, but the Afghans can
go them one better. If it is possible to imagine anything in the whole
world of sound more jarring and discordant than the united efforts of
these Afghan sowars, I have never yet discovered it. Out of pure
consideration and courtesy, I endure it for some little time; but they
finally reach a high-searching key that is positively unendurable, and I
am compelled in sheer self-protection to beg the khan to suppress their
exuberance. "These men are not bul-buls; then why do they sing?" is all
that is necessary for me to say. They all laugh heartily at the remark,
and the khan orders them to sing no more. Over a country that consists
chiefly of trailless hills and intervening strips of desert, we wend our
weary way, the bicycle often proving more of a drag than a benefit. The
weather gets insufferably hot; in places the rocks fairly shimmer with
heat, and are so hot that one can scarce hold the hand to them. We camp
for the first night at a village, and on the second at an umbar that
suggests our approach to Persia, and in the morning we make an early
start with the object of reaching Karize before evening.
The day grows warm apace, and, at ten miles, the khan calls a halt for
the discussion of what simple refreshments we have with us. Our larder
embraces dry bread and cold goat-meat and a few handfuls of raisins. It
ought also to include water in the leathern bottle swinging from the
stirrup of one of the sowars; but when we halt, it is to discover that
this worthy has forgotten to fill his bottle. The way has been heavy for
a bicycle, trundling wearily through sand mainly, with no riding to speak
of; and young as is the day, I am well-nigh overcome with thirst and
weariness. I am too thirsty to eat, and, miserably tired and disgusted,
one gets an instructive lesson in the control of the mind over the body.
Much of my fatigue comes of low spirits, born of disappointment at being
conducted back into Persia.
One of the sowars is despatched ahead to fill his bottle with water at a
well known to be some five miles farther ahead, and to meet us with it on
the way. On through the sand and heat we plod wearily, myself almost sick
with thirst, fatigue, and disgust. Mohammed Ahzim Khan, observing my
wretched condition, insists upon me letting one of the sowars try his
hand at trundling the wheel, while I rest myself by riding his horse.
Both the sowars bravely try their best to relieve me, but they cut
ridiculous figures, toppling over every little while. At length one of
them upsets the bicycle into a little gully, and falling on it, snaps
asunder two spokes. The khan gives him a good tongue-lashing for his
carelessness; but one can hardly blame the fellow, and I take it under my
own protection again, before it goes farther and fares worse.
About 2 p.m. the sowar sent forward meets us with water; but it is almost
undrinkable. Far better luck awaits us, however, farther along. Sighting
an Eimuck camel-rider in the distance, one of the sowars gives chase and
halts him until we can come up. Slung across his camel he has a skin of
doke, the most welcome thing one can wish for under the circumstances.
Everybody helps himself liberally of the refreshing beverage, shrinking
the Eimuck's supply very perceptibly. The Eimuck joins heartily with our
party in laughing at the altered contour of the pliant skin, as pointed
out jocularly by Mohammed Ahzim Khan, bids us "salaam aleykum," and
pursues his way across country.
During the afternoon we cross several well-worn trails; though evidently
but little used of late, they have seen much travel. My escort explains
that they are daman trails, in other words the trails worn by Turkoman
raiders passing back and forth on their man-stealing expeditions, before
their subjugation by the Russians.
By and by we emerge from a belt of low hills, and descend into a broad,
level plain. A few miles off to the right can be seen the Heri Rood, its
sinuous course plainly outlined by a dark fringe of jungle. Some miles
ahead the village-fortress of Kafir Kaleh is visible. A horseman comes
galloping across the plain to intercept us. Mohammed Ahzim Khan produces
his written orders concerning my delivery at Karize and reads it to the
new arrival. Thereupon ensues a long explanation, which ends in, our
turning about and following the new-comer across the trailless plain
toward the Heri Rood.
"What's up now?" I wonder; but the only intelligible reply I get in reply
to queries is that we are going to camp in the jungle. Misgivings as to
possible foul play mingle with speculations regarding this person's
mission, as I follow in the wake of the Afghans.
We camp on a plot of rising ground that elevates us above the overflow,
and shortly after our arrival we are visited by a band of nomads who are
hunting through the jungle with greyhounds, Mohammed Ahzim Khan informs
me that both baabs, and palangs (panthers) are to be found along the
Heri Rood.
Luxuriant beds of the green stuff known in the United States as
lamb's-quarter, abound, and I put one of the sowars to gathering some
with the idea of cooking it for supper. None of our party know anything
about its being good to eat, and Mohammed Ahzim Khan shakes his head
vigorously in token of disapproval. A nomad visitor, however,
corroborates my statement about its edibleness, and fills our chief with
wonderment that I should know something in common with an Afghan nomad,
that he, a resident of the country, knows nothing about. By way of
stimulating his wonderment still further, I proceed to call off the names
of the various nomad tribes inhabiting Afghanistan, together with their
locations.
"Where did you learn all this." he queries, evidently suspicious that I
have been picking up altogether too much information.
"London," I reply.
"London!" he says; "Mashallah! they know everything at London."
The horseman who intercepted us rode away when we camped for the night.
Nothing more was seen of him, and at a late hour I turn in for the night
--if one can be said to turn in, when the process takes the form of
stretching one's self out on the open ground. No explanation of our
detention here has been given me during the evening, and as I lay down to
sleep all sorts of speculations are indulged in, varying from having my
throat cut before morning, to a reconsideration by the authorities of the
orders sending me back to Persia.
Some time in the night I am awakened. A strange horseman has arrived in
camp with a letter for me. He wears the uniform of a military courier.
The sowars make a blaze of brushwood for me to read by. It is a letter
from Mr. Merk, the political agent of the Boundary Commission. It is a
long letter, full of considerate language, but no instructions affecting
the orders of my escort. Mr. Merk explains why Mahmoud Yusuph Khan could
not take the responsibility of allowing me to proceed to Kandahar. The
population of Zemindavar, he points out, are particularly fanatical and
turbulent, and I should very probably have been murdered; etc.
The march toward Karize is resumed in good season in the morning. "What
was that? a cuckoo?" At first I can scarcely believe my own senses, the
idea of cuckoos calling in the jungles of Afghanistan being about the
last thing I should have expected to hear, never having read of
travellers hearing them anywhere in Central Asia, nor yet having heard
them myself before. But there is no mistake; for ere we pass Kafir Kaleh,
I hear the familiar notes again and again.
The road is a decided improvement over anything we have struck since
leaving Herat, and by noon we arrive at Karize. For some inexplicable
reason the Sooltan of Karize receives our party with very ill grace. He
looks sick, and is probably suffering from fever, which may account for
the evident sourness of his disposition.
Mohammed Ahzim Khan is anything but pleased at our reception, and as soon
as he receives the receipt for my delivery makes his preparations to
return. I don't think the Sooltan even tendered my escort a feed of grain
for their horses, a piece of inhospitality wholly out of place in this
wild country.
As for myself, he simply orders a villager to supply me with food and
quarters, and charge me for it. Mohammed Ahzim Khan comes to my quarters
to bid me good-by, and he takes the opportunity to explain "this is Iran,
not Afghanistan. Iran, pool; Afghanistan, pool neis." There is no need of
explanation, however; the people rubbing their fingers eagerly together
and crying, "pool, pool," when I ask for something to eat, tells me
plainer than any explanations that I am back again among our pool-loving
friends, the subjects of the Shah. As I bid Mohammed Ahzim Khan farewell,
I feel almost like parting--from a friend; he is a good fellow, and
with nine-tenths of his inquisitiveness suppressed, would make a very
agreeable companion.
And so, here I am within a hundred and sixty miles of Meshed again. More
than a month has flown past since I last looked back upon its golden
dome; it has been an eventful month. My experiences have been exceptional
and instructive, but I ought now to be enjoying the comforts of the
English camp at Quetta, instead of halting overnight in the mud huts of
the surly Sooltan of Karize.
The female portion of Karize society make no pretence of covering up
their faces, which impresses me the more as I have seen precious little
of female faces since entering Afghanistan. All the women of Karize are
ugly; a fact that I attribute to the handsomest specimens being carried
off to Bokhara, for decades past, by the Turkomans. The people that
assemble to gaze upon me are the same sore-eyed crowd that characterizes
most Persian villages; and among them is one man totally blind. The loss
of sight has not dimmed his inquisitiveness any, however; nothing could
do that, and he gets someone to lead him into my room, where he makes an
exhaustive examination of the bicycle with his hands.
A village luti entertains me during the evening with a dancing deer; a
comical affair of wood, made to dance on a table by jerking a string. The
luti plays a sort of "whangadoodle" tune on a guitar, and manipulates the
string so as to make the deer keep time to the tune. He tells me he
obtained it from Hindostan.
Among the wiseacres gathered around me plying questions, is one who asks,
"Chand menzils inja to London?" He wants to know how many marches, or
stopping-places, there are between Karize and London. This is a fair
illustration of what these people think the world is like. His idea of a
journey from here to London is that of stages across a desert country
like Persia from one caravanserai to another; beyond that conception
these people know nothing. London, they think, would be some such place
as Herat or Meshed.
At the hour of my departure from Karize, on the following morning, a
little old man presents himself, and wants me to employ him as an escort.
The old fellow is a shrivelled-up little bit of a man, whom I could
well-nigh hold out at arm's length and lift up with one hand. Not feeling
the need of either guide or guard particularly, I decline the old
fellow's services "with thanks," and push on; happy, in fact, to find
myself once more untrammelled by native company.
Small towers of refuge, dotting the plain thickly about Karize, tell of
past depredations by the Turkomans. An outlying village like Karize must,
indeed, have had a hard struggle for existence; right in the heart of the
daman country, too. For miles the plain is found to be grassy as the
Western prairies; an innovation from the dreary gray of the camel-thorn
dasht that is quite refreshing. A stream or two has to be forded, and
many Afghans are met returning from pilgrimage to Meshed.
The village of Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm is reached at noon, a pleasant town
containing many shade-trees. Here, I find, resides Ab-durrahzaak Khan, a
sub-agent of Mirza Abbas Khan, and consequently a servant of the Indian
Government. He is one of the frontier agents, whose duty it is to keep
track of events in a certain section of country and report periodically
to headquarters. He, of course, receives me hospitably, does the
agreeable with tea and kalians, and provides substantial refreshments.
The soothing Shi-razi tobacco provided with his kalians, and the
excellent quality of his tea, provoke me to make comparison between them
and the wretched productions of Afghanistan. Abdurrahzaak laughs
good-humoredly at my remark, and replies, "Mashallah! there is nothing
good in Afghanistan." He isn't far from right; and the English officer
who named the products of Afghanistan as "stones and fighting men" came
equally near the truth.
Fair roads prevail for some distance after leaving Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm;
a halt is made at an Eliaute camp to refresh myself with a bowl of doke.
A picturesque dervish emerges from one of the tents and presents his
alms-receiver, with "huk yah huk." Both man and voice seem familiar, and
after a moment I recognize him as a familiar figure upon the streets of
Teheran last winter. He says he is going to Cabool and Kandahar. A unique
feature of his makeup is a staff with a bayonet fixed on the end, in
place of the usual club or battle-axe.
The night is spent in an Eliaute camp; nummuds seem scarce articles with
them, and I spend a cold and uncomfortable night, scarcely sleeping a
wink. The camp is not far from the village of Mahmoudabad, and a rowdy
gang of ryots come over to camp in the middle of the night, having heard
of my arrival.
From Mahmoudabad the road follows up a narrow valley with a range of
hills running parallel on either hand. The southern range are quite
respectable mountains, with lingering patches of snow, and--can it
be possible!--even a few scattering pines. Pines, and, for that
matter, trees of any kind, are so scarce in this country that one can
hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes when he sees them.
On past the village of Karizeno my road leads, passing through a hard,
gravelly country, the surface generally affording fair riding except for
a narrow belt of sand-hills. At Karizeno, a glimpse is obtained of our
old acquaintances the Elburz Mountains, near Shah-riffabad. They are
observed to be somewhat snow-crowned still, though to a measurably less
extent than they were when we last viewed them on the road to Torbeti.
The approach of evening brings my day's ride to a close at Furriman, a
village of considerable size, partially protected by a wall and moat,
Stared at by the assembled population, and enduring their eager gabble
all the evening, and then a nummud on the roof of a villager's house till
morning. The night is cold, and sleeplessness, with shivering body, again
rewards me for a long, hard day's journey. But now it is but about six
farsakhs to Meshed, where, "Inshallah," a good bed and all kindred
comforts await me beneath Mr. Gray's hospitable roof. Ere the forenoon is
passed the familiar gold dome once again appears as a glowing yellow
beacon, beckoning me across the Meshed plain.
A camel runs away and unseats his rider in deference to his timidity at
my strange appearance as I bowl briskly across the Meshed plain at noon.
By one o'clock I am circling around the moat of the city, and by two am
snugly ensconced in my old quarters, relating the adventures of the last
five weeks to Gray, and receiving from him in exchange the latest scraps
of European news. I have made the one hundred and sixty miles from Karize
in two days and a half--not a bad showing with a bicycle that has
been tinkered up by Herati gunsmiths.
Among other interesting items of news, it is learned that a hopeful
Meshedi blacksmith has been inspired to try his "prentice hand" at making
a bicycle. One would like to have seen that bicycle, but somehow I didn't
get an opportunity. Friendly telegrams reach me from Teheran, and also
another order from the British Legation, instructing me not to attempt
Afghanistan again.
Since my departure from Meshed, southward bound, another wandering
correspondent has invaded the Holy City. Mr. E------, "special" of a
great London daily paper, whom I had the pleasure of meeting once or
twice in Teheran, has come eastward in an effort to enter Afghanistan.
He has been halted by peremptory orders at Meshed. Disgusted with his
ill-luck at not being permitted to carry out his plans, he is on the eve
of returning to Constantinople. As I am heading for the same point
myself, we arrange to travel there in company. Being somewhat under the
weather from a recent attack of fever, he has contracted for a Russian
fourgon to carry him as far as Shahrood, the farthest point on our route
to which vehicular conveyance is practicable. Our purpose is to reach the
Caspian port of Bunder Guz, thence embark on a Russian steamer to Baku,
over the Caucasus Railway to Batoum, thence by Black Sea steamer to
Constantinople.
On the afternoon of May 18th, R------makes a start with
the fourgon. It is a custom (unalterable as the laws of, etc.) with all
Persians starting on a journey of any length to go a short distance only
for the first stage. The object of this is probably to find out by actual
experience on the road whether anything has been forgotten or overlooked,
before they get too far away to return and rectify the mistake.
Semi-civilized peoples are wedded very strongly to the customs in vogue
among them, and the European traveller finds himself compelled, more or
less, to submit to them. My intention is to overtake the fourgon the
following day at Shahriffabad.
Accordingly, soon after sunrise on the morrow, the road around the outer
moat of Meshed is circled once again. A middle-aged descendant of the
Prophet, riding a graceful dapple-gray mare, spurs his steed into a
swinging gallop for about five miles across the level plain in an effort
to bear me company. Three miles farther, and for miles over the steep and
unridable gradients of the Shah-riffabad hills, I may anticipate the
delights of having his horse's nose at my shoulder, and my heels in
constant jeopardy. To avoid this, I spurt ahead, and ere long have the
satisfaction of seeing him give it up.
In the foothills I encounter, for the first time, one of those
characteristics of Mohammedan countries, and more especially of Persia, a
caravan of the dead. Thousands of bodies are carried every year, on
horseback or on camels, from various parts of Persia, to be buried in
holy ground at Meshed, Kerbella, or Mecca. The corpses are bound about
with canvas, and slung, like bales of merchandise, one on either side of
the horse. The stench from one of these corpse-caravans is something
fearful, nothing more nor less than the horrible stench of putrid human
bodies. And yet the drivers seem to mind it very little indeed. One stout
horse in the party I meet this morning carries two corpses; and in the
saddle between them rides a woman. "Mashallah." perchance those very
bodies, between which she sits perched so indifferently, are the remains
of small-pox victims. But, what cares the woman?--is she not a
Mohammedan, and a female one at that?--and does she not believe in
kismet. What cares she for Ferenghi "sanitary fads?"--if it is her
kismet to take the small-pox, she will take it; if it is her kismet not
to, she won't. One would think, however, that common sense and common
prudence would instruct these people to imitate the excellent example of
the Chinese, in taking measures to dispose of the flesh before
transporting the bones to distant burial-places. Many of the epidemics of
disease that decimate the populations of Eastern countries, and sometimes
travel into the West, originate from these abominable caravans of the
dead and kindred irrationalities of the illogical and childlike Oriental.
As the golden dome of Imam Riza's sanctuary glimmers upon my retreating
figure yet a fourth time as I reach the summit of the hill whence we
first beheld it, I breathe a silent hope that I may never set eyes on it
again. The fourgon is overtaken, as agreed upon, at Shahriffabad, and
after an hour's halt we conclude to continue on to the caravanserai,
where, it will be remembered, my friend the hadji and Mazanderan dervish
and myself found shelter from the blizzard.
B___'s Turkish servant, Abdul, a handy fellow, speaking three or four
languages, and numbering, among other accomplishments, the knack of
always having on hand plenty of cold chicken and mutton, is a vast
improvement upon obtaining food direct from the villagers. Resting here
till 2 a.m., we make a moonlight march to Gadamgah, arriving there for
breakfast. The trail is a revelation of smoothness, in comparison to my
expectations, based upon its condition a few weeks ago. The moon is about
full, and gives a light as it only does in Persia, and one can see to
ride the parallel camel-paths very successfully.
Persians are very much given to night-travelling, and as I ride well
ahead of the fourgon, the strange, weird object, gliding noiselessly
along through the moonlight, fills many a superstitious pilgrim with
misgivings that he has caught a glimpse of Sheitan. I can hear them
rapidly muttering "Allah." as they edge off the road and hurry along on
their way.
Many Arabs from the Lower Euphrates valley are now mingled with the
pilgrim throngs en route to Meshed. They are evil-looking customers,
black as negroes almost; they look capable of any atrocity under the sun.
These Arab pilgrims are hadjis almost to a man, coming, as they do, from
much nearer Mecca than the Persians; but their holiness does not prevent
them bearing the unenviable reputation of being the most persistent
thieves. Abdul knows them well, and when any of them are about, keeps a
sharp lookout to see that none of them approach our things.
On the following evening, at a caravanserai near Nishapoor, we meet and
spend the night with a French scientific party of three sent out by the
Paris Geographical Society to make geographical and geological researches
in Turkestan. The three Frenchmen are excellent company; they entertain
us with European news, their views on the political aspect, and of
incidents on their fourgon journey from Tiflis. Among their charvadars is
a man who saw me last autumn at Ovahjik.
Much good riding surface prevails, and we pass the night of the 21st at
Lafaram. The crowds that everywhere gather about us are very annoying to
K------, whose fever and consequent weakness is hardly calculated to
sweeten his temper under trying circumstances. A whole swarm of women
gather to stare at us at Lafaram. "I'll soon scatter them, anyway," says
R------; and he reaches for a pair of binoculars hanging up in the
fourgon. Adjusting them to his eyes, he levels them at the bunch of
females, expecting to see them scatter like a flock of partridges.
Scattering is evidently about the last thing the women are thinking of
doing, however; they merely turn their attention to the binoculars and
concentrate their comments upon them instead of on other of our effects,
for the moment, but that is all.
In the vicinity of Subzowar we find the people engaged in harvesting the
crop of opium. The way they do it is to go through the fields of poppy
every morning and scarify the green heads with a knife-blade notched for
the purpose, like a saw. During the day the milky juice oozes out and
solidifies. In the evening the harvesters pass through the fields again,
scrape off the exuded opium, and collect it in vessels. This, after the
watery substance has been worked out with frequent kneadings and drying,
is the opium of commerce. The chief opium emporium of Persia is Shiraz,
where buyers ship it by camel-caravan to Bushire for export. Persian
opium commands the topmost prices in foreign markets.
Here every idler about the villages seems to be amusing himself by
working a ball of opium about in his hands, much as a boy delights in
handling a chunk of putty. Lumps as large as the fist are freely offered
me by friendly people, as they would hand one a piece of bread or a
pomegranate; I might collect pounds of the stuff by simply taking what is
offered me without the asking.
In the caravanserai at Miandasht, Abdul's failure to appreciate our
whilom and egotistical friend, the la-de-da telegraph-jee, at his own
valuation comes near resulting in a serious fracas. One of Abdul's most
valued services is keeping at a respectful distance the crowds of
villagers that invariably swarm about us when we halt. In doing this he
sometimes flogs about him pretty lively with the whip. As a general thing
the natives take this sort of thing in the greatest good humor; in fact,
rather enjoy it than otherwise.
At Miandasht, however, Abdul's whip happens to fall rather heavily upon
the shoulders of the telegraph-jee's farrash, who is in the crowd. This
individual, reflecting something of his master's self-esteem, takes
exceptions to this, and complains, with the customary Persian
elaboration, no doubt, to the consequential head of the place. The
consequence is that a gang of villagers, headed by the telegraph-jee
himself, gather around, and suddenly attack poor Abdul with clubs. Except
for the prompt assistance of R------and myself, he would
have been mauled pretty severely. As it is, he gets bruised up rather
badly; though he inflicts almost as much damage as he receives, with a
hatchet hastily grabbed from the fourgon. The fact of his being a Turk,
whom the Persians consider far less holy than themselves, Abdul explains,
accounts for the attack on him as much as anything else.
A new surprise awaits us at Mijamid, something that we are totally
unprepared for. As we reach the chapar-khana there, a voice from the roof
greets us with "Sprechen sie Deutsch." Looking up in astonishment, we
behold Colonel G------, a German officer in the Shah's army, whom both of
us are familiarly acquainted with by sight, from seeing him so often at
the morning reviews in the military maiden at Teheran. But this is not
all, for with him are his wife and daughter. This is the first time
European ladies have traversed the Meshed-Teheran road, Teheran being the
farthest point eastward in Persia that lady travellers have heretofore
penetrated to. Colonel G has been appointed to the staff of the new
Governor-General of Khorassan, and is on his way to Meshed. The
appearance of Ferenghi ladies in the Holy City will be an innovation that
will fairly eclipse the introduction of the bicycle. All Meshed will be
wild with curiosity, and the poor ladies will never be able to venture
into the streets without disguise.
There is furor enough over them in Mijamid; the whole population is
assembled en masse before the chapar-khana. The combination of the
bicycle, three Ferenghis, and, above all, two Ferenghi ladies, is an
event that will form a red-letter mark in the history of Mijamid for
generations of unborn Persian ryots to talk about and wonder over.
The colonel produces a bottle of excellent Shiraz wine and a box of
Russian cigarettes. The ladies have become sufficiently Orientalized to
number among their accomplishments the smoking of cigarettes. They are
delighted at meeting us, and are already acquainted with the main
circumstances of my misadventure in Afghanistan. Camp-stools are brought
out, and we spend a most pleasant hour together, before continuing on our
opposite courses. The wondering natives are almost speechless with
astonishment at the spectacle of the two ladies sitting out there, faces
all uncovered, smoking cigarettes, sipping claret, and chatting freely
with the men. It is a regular circus-day for these poor, unenlightened
mortals. The ladies are charming, and the charm of female society loses
nothing, the reader may be sure, from one's having been deprived of it
for a matter of months.
The colonel's lingual preference is German, Mrs. G------'s, French, and
the daughter's, English; so that we are quite cosmopolitan in the matter
of speech. All of us know enough Persian to express ourselves in that
language too. In commenting upon my detention by the Afghans, the colonel
characterizes them as "pedar sheitans," Madame as "le diable Afghans,"
and Miss G------as well, "le diable" in plain yet charmingly broken
English.
The next day, soon after noon, we roll into Shahrood, where B------
discharges his fourgon and we engage mules to transport us over the Tash
Pass, a breakneck bridle-trail over the Elburz range to the Asterabad
Plain and the Caspian.
A half-day search by Abdul results in the employment of an outfit
comprising three charvadars, with three mules, a couple of donkeys, and
riding horses for ourselves. A liberal use of the whip by R on the
charvadars' shoulders, awful threats, and sundry other persuasive
arguments, assist very materially in getting started at a decent hour on
the morning following our arrival. The bicycle is taken apart and placed
on top of the mule-packs, where, in remembrance of its former fate under
somewhat similar conditions, I keep it pretty strictly under
surveillance.
The Asterabad trail is a steady ascent from the beginning; and before
many miles are covered, scattering dwarf pines on the, mountains indicate
a change from the utter barrenness that characterizes their southern
aspect. One lone tree of quite respectable dimensions, standing a mile or
so off to our left, suggests a special point of demarcation between utter
barrenness and where a new order of things begins.
Our way leads up fearful rocky paths, where the horses have to be led,
and at times assisted; up, up, until our elevation is nearly ten thousand
feet, and we are among a chaotic wilderness of precipitous rocks and
scrub pines. A false step in some places, and our horses would roll down
among the craggy rocks for hundreds of feet. It is a toilsome march, but
we cross the Tash Pass, camp for the night in a little inter-mountain
valley, beside a stream at the foot of a pine-covered mountain. The
change from the interior plains is already novel and refreshing. Grass
abounds abundance, and the prospect is the greenest I have seen for nine
months. We camp out in the open, and are put to some discomfort by
passing showers in the night.
A march of a dozen miles from this valley over a tortuous mountain trail
brings us into a country the existence of which one could never, by any
stretch of the imagination, dream of in connection with Persia, as one
sees it in its desert-like character south of the mountains. The
transformation is from one extreme of vegetable nature to the other. We
camp for lunch on velvety greensward beneath a grove of oak and cherry
trees. Cuckoos are heard calling round about, singing birds make melody,
and among them we both recognize the cheery clickety-click of my
raisin-loving Herati friends, the bul-buls. Flowers, too, are here at our
feet in abundance, forget-me-nots and other familiar varieties.
The view from our position is remarkably fine, reminding me forcibly of
the Balkans south of Nisch, and of the Californian slopes of the Sierra
Nevadas, where they overlook the Sacramento Valley. The Asterabad Plain
is spread out below us like a vast map.
We can trace the windings and twistings of the various streams, the
tracts of unreclaimed forest, and the cultivated fields. Asterabad and
numerous villages dot the plain, and by taking R------'s
binoculars we can make out, through the vaporous atmosphere, the
shimmering surface of the Caspian Sea. It is one of the most remarkable
views I ever saw, and the novelty and grandeur of it appeals the more
forcibly to one's imagination, no doubt, because of its striking contrast
to what the eyes have from long usage become accustomed to. From dreary,
barren dasht, and stony wastes, to densely wooded mountains,
jungle-covered plains, tall, luxurious tiger-grass, and beyond all this
the shimmering background of the sea is a big change to find but little
more than a day's march apart. We are both captivated by the change, and
agree that the Caspian slope is the only part of Persia fit to look at.
The descent of the northern slope is even steeper than the other side;
but instead of rocks, it is the rich soil of virgin forests. Open parks
are occasionally crossed, and on one of these we find a large camp of
Turcomans, numbering not less than a hundred tents. Mountaineers are
always picturesquely dressed, and so, too, are nomads. When, therefore,
one finds mountaineer nomads, it seems superfluous almost to describe
them as being arrayed chiefly in gewgaws and bright-colored clothes.
Camped here amid the dark, luxurious vegetation, they and their tents
make a charming picture--a scene of life and of contrast in colors which
if faithfully transferred to canvas would be worth a king's ransom.
Down paths of break-neck steepness and slipperiness, our way descends
into a dark region where vegetation runs riot in the shape of fine tall
timber, of a semi-tropical variety. Many of the trees present a fantastic
appearance, by reason of great quantities of hanging moss, that in some
instances fairly load down the weaker branches. Banks of beautiful ferns,
and mossy rocks join with the splendid trees in making our march through
these northern foothills of the Elburz Mountains an experience long to be
remembered.
A curious and interesting comparison that comes under our observation is
that, on the gray plains and rocky mountains of the interior the lizards
are invariably of a dull and uninteresting color, quite in keeping with
their surroundings. No sooner, however, do we find ourselves in a
district where nature's deft hand has painted the whole canvas of the
country a bright green, than the lizards which we see scuttling through
the ferns and moss-beds are also the greenest of all the green things.
These scaly little reptiles shine and glisten like supple shapes of
emerald, as one sees them gliding across the path. This is but another
link in the chain of evidence that seems to prove that animals derive
much of their distinctive character and appearance from the nature of
their surroundings. In Northern China are a species of small monkey with
a quite heavy coat of fur. They are understood to be the descendants of a
comparatively hairless variety which found its way there from the warm
jungles of the South, the change from a warm climate to a cold one being
responsible for the coat of fur. In the same way, after noting the
complete change that has come over the lizards, we conclude that, if a
colony of the gray species from the other side of the mountains were
brought and turned loose among the green foot-hills here, their
descendants, a few generations hence, would be found with coats as green
as those of the natives. This conviction gathers force from the fact that
no gray lizards whatever are encountered here; all the lizards we see are
green.
Emerging from the foot-hills, we find ourselves in a country the general
appearance of which reminds me of a section of Missouri more than
anything I have seen in Asia. Fields and pastures are fenced in with the
same rude corduroy-fences one sees in the Missouri Valley, some well kept
and others neglected. The pastures are blue grass and white clover; bees
are humming and buzzing from flower to flower, and, to make the
similitude complete, one hears the homely tinkle of cow-bells here and
there. It is difficult to realize that all this is in Persia, and that
one has not been transported in some miraculous manner back to the United
States. A little farther out from the base of the mountains, however, and
we come upon wild figs, pomegranates, and other indigenous evidences of
Eastern soil; and by and by our path almost becomes a tunnel, burrowing
through a wealth of tiger-grass twenty feet high. The fields and little
clearings which, a few miles back, were devoted to the cultivation of
wheat and rye, now become rice-fields overflowed from irrigating ditches,
and in which bare-legged men and women are paddling about, over their
knees in mud and water.
Early in the evening we reach the city of Asterabad, which we find
totally different from the sombre, mud-built cities of the interior. The
wall surrounding it is topped with red tiles, and the outer moat is
choked with rank vegetation. The houses are gabled, and roofed with tiles
or heavy thatch, presenting an appearance very suggestive of the
picturesque towns and villages about Strasburg. The streets are narrow
and ill-paved, and neglect and decay everywhere abound. The cemeteries
are a chaotic mass of tumbledown tombstones and vagrant vegetation. Pools
of water covered with green scum, and heaps of filth everywhere, fill the
reeking atmosphere with malaria and breed big clouds of mosquitoes. The
people have a yellowish, waxy complexion that tells its own story of the
unhealthiness of the place, without instituting special inquiry. One can
fairly sniff fever and ague in the streets.
Much taste is displayed in architectural matters by the wealthier
residents. The walls surrounding the little compounds are sometimes
adorned with house-leeks or cactus, tastefully set out along the top;
and, in other cases, with ornamental tiles. The walls of the houses are
decorated with paintings depicting, in bright colors, scenes of the
chase, birds, animals, and mythological subjects.
The charvadars lead the way to a big caravanserai in the heart of the
city. The place is found to be filled with a miscellaneous crowd of
caravan people, travellers, merchants, and dervishes. The serai also
appears to be a custom-house and emporium for wool, cotton, and other
products of the tributary country. Horses, camels, and merchandise crowd
the central court, and rising fifty feet above all this confusion and
babel is a wooden tower known as a tullar. This is a dilapidated
framework of poles that sways visibly in the wind, the uses of which at
first sight it is not easy to determine. Some of the natives motion for
us to take possession of it, however; and we subsequently learn that the
little eyrie-like platform is used as a sleeping-place by travellers of
distinction. The elevation and airiness are supposed to be a safeguard
against the fever and a refuge from the terrible mosquitoes, of which
Asterabad is over-full.
An hour after our arrival, Abdul goes out and discovers a Persian
gentleman named Mahmoud Turki Aghi, who presents himself in the capacity
of British agent here. As we were in ignorance of the presence of any
such official being in Asterabad, he comes as a pleasant surprise, and
still more pleasant comes an invitation to accept his hospitality.
From him we learn that the steamer we expect to take at Bunder Guz, the
port of Asterabad, eight farsakhs distant, will not sail until six days
later. Mindful of the fever, from which he is still a sufferer to an
uncomfortable extent, E------looks a trifle glum at this
announcement, and, after our traps are unpacked at Mahmoud Turki Aghi's,
he ferrets out a book of travels that I had often heard him refer to as
an authority on sundry subjects. Turning over the leaves, he finds a
reference to Bunder Guz, and reads out the story of a certain
"gimlet-tailed fly" that makes life a burden to the unwary traveller who
elects to linger there on the Caspian shore. Between this gimlet-tailed
pest, however, and the mosquitoes of Asterabad we decide that there can
be very little to choose, and so make up our minds to accept our host's
hospitality for a day and then push on.
During the day we call on the Russian consul to get our passports vised.
As between English and Russian prestige, the latter are decidedly to the
fore in Asterabad. The bear has his big paw firmly planted on this
fruitful province--it is more Russian than Persian now; before long it
will be Russian altogether. Nothing is plainer to us than this, as we
reach the Russian Consulate and are introduced by Mahmoud Turki Aghi to
the consul. He is no "native agent." On the contrary, he is one of the
biggest "personages" I have seen anywhere. He is the sort of man that the
Russian Government invariably picks out for its representation at such
important points in Asia as Asterabad.
A six-footer of magnificent physique, with a smooth and polished address,
all smiles and politeness, the Russian consul wears a leonine mustache
that could easily be tied in a knot at the back of his head. Although he
is the only European resident of Asterabad save a few Cossack attendants,
he wears fashionable Parisian clothes, a wealth of watch-chain, rings,
and flash jewellery, patent-leather shoes, and all the accompaniments of
an ostentatious show of wealth and personal magnificence. His rooms are
equally gorgeous, and contain large colored portraits of the Czar and
Czarina.
The intent and purpose of all this display is to fill the minds of the
natives, and particularly the native officials, with an overwhelming
sense of Russian grandeur and power. No Persian can enter the presence of
this Russian consul in his rooms without experiencing a certain measure
of awe and admiration. They regard with covetous eyes the rich and
comfortable appointments of the rooms, and the big gold watch-chains and
rings on the consul's person. They too would like to be in the Russian
service if its rewards are on such a magnificent scale. Of patriotism to
the Shah they know nothing--self-interest is the only master they
willingly serve.
No one knows this better than the Russian consul; and in the case of
influential officials and other useful persons, he sees to it that gold
watches and such-like tokens of the Czar's esteem are not lacking. The
result is that Asterabad, both city and province, is even now more
Russian than Persian, and when the proper time arrives will drop into the
bear's capacious maw like a ripe plum.
At daybreak on the morning of departure the charvadars wake us up by
pounding on the outer gate and shouting "hadji" to Abdul Abdul lets them
in, and the next hour passes in violent and wordy disputation among them
as they load up their horses.
All three have purchased new Asterabad hats, big black busbies much
prized by Persians from beyond the mountains. The acquisition of these
imposing head-dresses has had the effect of increasing their self-esteem
wonderfully. They regard each other with considerable hauteur, and
quarrel almost continually for the first few miles. E puts up with their
angry shouting and quarrelling for awhile, and then chases them around a
little with the long hunting whip he carries. This brings them to their
senses again, and secures a degree of peace; but the inflating effect of
the new hats crops out at intervals all day.
Our road from Asterabad leads through jungle nearly the whole distance to
Bunder Guz. In the woods are clearings consisting of rice-fields,
orchards, and villages. The villages are picturesque clusters of wattle
houses with peaked thatch roofs that descend to within a few feet of the
ground. Groves of English walnut-trees abound, and plenty of these trees
are also scattered through the jungle.
During the day we encounter a gang of professional native hunters hunting
wild boars, of which these woods contain plenty, as well as tigers and
panthers. They are a wild-looking crowd, with long hair, and sleeves
rolled up to their elbows. Big knives are bristling in their kammerbunds,
besides which they are armed with spears and flint-lock muskets. They
make a great deal of noise, shouting and hallooing one to another; one
can tell when they are on a hot trail by the amount of noise they make,
just as you can with a pack of hounds.
We reach our destination by the middle of the afternoon, and find the
place a wretched village, right on the shore of the Caspian. We repair to
the caravanserai, but find the rooms so evil-smelling that we decide upon
camping out and risking the fever rather than court acquaintance with
possible cholera, providing no better place can be found elsewhere. This
serai is a curious place, anyway. All sorts of people, some of them so
peculiarly dressed that none of our party are able to make out their
character or nationality. A dervish is exhorting a crowd of interested
listeners at one end of the court-yard, and a strolling band of lutis are
entertaining an audience at the other end. There are six of these lutis;
while two are performing, four are circulating among the crowd collecting
money. In any other country but Persia, five would have been playing and
one passing the hat.
E------and Abdul go ahead to try and secure better
quarters, and shortly the latter returns, and announces that they have
been successful. So I, and the charvadars, with the horses, follow him
through a crooked street of thatched houses, at the end of which we find
R------seated beneath the veranda of a rude hotel kept by
an Armenian Jew. As we approach I observe that my companion looks happier
than I have seen him look for days. He is pretty thoroughly disgusted
with Persia and everything in it, and this, together with his fever, has
kept him in anything but an amiable frame of mind. But now his face is
actually illumined with a smile.
On the little table before him stand a half-dozen black bottles, imperial
pints, bearing labels inscribed with outlandish Russian words.
"This is civilization, my boy--civilization reached at last," says
E------, as he sees me coming.
"What, this wretched tumble-down hole." I exclaim, waving my hand at the
village.
"No, not that," replies E------; "this--this is civilization," and he
holds up to the light a glass of amber Russian beer.
Apart from Russians, we are the first European travellers that have
touched at Bunder Guz since McGregor was here in 1875. We keep a loose
eye out for the gimlet-tailed flies, but are not harassed by them half so
much as by fleas and the omnipresent mosquito. These two latter insects
have dwindled somewhat from the majestic proportions described by
McGregor; they are large enough and enterprising enough as it is; but
McGregor found one species the size of "cats," and the other "as large as
camels." Bunder Guz is simply a landing and shipping point for Asterabad
and adjacent territory. A good deal of Russian bar iron, petroleum, iron
kettles, etc., are piled up under rude sheds; and wool from the interior
is being baled by Persian Jews, naked to the waist, by means of
hand-presses. Cotton and wool are the chief exports. Of course, the whole
of the trade is in the hands of the Russians, who have driven the
Persians quite off the sea. The Caspian is now nothing more nor less than
a Russian salt-water lake.
The harbor of Bunder Guz is so shallow that one may ride horseback into
the sea for nearly a mile. The steamers have to load and unload at a
floating dock a mile and a half from shore. Very pleasant, in spite of
the wretched hole we are in, is it to find one's self on the seashore
--to see the smoke of a steamer, and the little smacks riding at
anchor.
The day after our arrival, a man comes round and tells Abdul that he has
three fine young Mazanderan tigers he would like to sell the Sahibs. We
send Abdul to investigate, and he returns with the report that a party of
Asterabad tiger-hunters have killed a female tiger and brought in three
cubs. The man comes back with him and impresses upon us the assertion
that they are khylie koob baabs (very splendid tigers), and would be dirt
cheap at three hundred kerans apiece, the price he pretends to want for
them. From this we know that the tigers could be bought very cheap, and
since Mazanderan tigers are very rare in European menageries, we
determine to go and look at them anyway. They are found to be the merest
kittens, not yet old enough to see. They are savage little brutes, and
spend their whole time in dashing recklessly against the bars of the coop
in which they are confined. They refuse to eat or drink, and although the
Persians declare that they would soon learn to feed, we conclude that
they would be altogether too much trouble, even if it were possible to
keep them from dying of starvation.
On the evening of June 3d we put off, together with a number of native
passengers, in a lighter, for the vessel which is loading up with bales
of cotton at the floating dock. Most of the night is spent in sitting on
deck and watching the Persian roustabouts carry the cargo aboard, for the
shouting, the inevitable noisy squabbling, and the thud of bales dumped
into the hold render sleep out of the question.
The steamer starts at sunrise, and the captain comes round to pay his
respects. He is more of a German than a Russian, and seems pleased to
welcome aboard his ship the first English or American passengers he has
had for years. He makes himself agreeable, and takes a good deal of
interest in explaining anything about the burning of petroleum residue on
the Caspian steamers, instead of coal. He takes us down below and shows
us the furnaces, and explains the modus operandi. We are delighted at the
evident superiority of this fuel over coal, and the economy and ease of
supplying the furnaces. Seven copecks the forty pounds, the captain says,
is the cost of the fuel, and two and a half roubles the expense of
running the vessel at full speed an hour. There is not an ounce of coal
aboard, the boiler-house is as clean and neat as a parlor, and no cinders
fall upon the deck or awnings. In place of huge coal-bunkers, taking up
half the vessel's carrying space, compact tanks above the furnaces hold
all the liquid fuel. Pipes convey it automatically, much or little, as
easily as regulating a water-tap, to the fire-boxes. Jets of steam
scatter it broadcast throughout the box in the form of spray, and insures
its spontaneous combustion into flame. A peep in these furnaces displays
a mass of flame filling an iron box in which no fuel is to be seen. A
slight twist of a brass cock increases or diminishes this flame at once.
A couple of men in clean linen uniforms manage the whole business. We
both concluded that it was far superior to coal.
Many windings and tackings are necessary to get outside Ashdurada Bay;
sometimes we are steaming bow on for Bunder Guz, apparently returning to
port; at other times we are going due south, when our destination is
nearly north. This, the captain explains, is due to the intricacy of the
channel, which is little more than a deeper stream, so to speak,
meandering crookedly through the shallows and sand-bars of the bay. Buoys
and sirens mark the steamer's course to the Russian naval station of
Ashdurada. Here we cross a bar so shallow that no vessel of more than
twelve feet draught can enter or leave the bay. Our own ship is a
light-draught steamer of five hundred tons burden.
A little steam-launch puts out from Ashdurada, bringing the mails and
several naval officers bound for Krasnovodsk and Baku. The scenery of the
Mazanderan coast is magnificent. The bold mountains seem to slope quite
down to the shore, and from summit to surf-waves they present one
dark-green mass of forest.
The menu of these Caspian steamers is very good, based on the French
school of cookery rather than English. No early breakfast is provided,
however; breakfast at eleven and dinner at six are the only refreshments
provided by the ship's regular service--anything else has to be paid for
as extras. At eleven o'clock we descend to the dining saloon, where we
find the table spread with caviare, cheese, little raw salt fishes,
pickles, vodka, and the unapproachable bread of Russia. The captain and
passengers are congregated about this table, some sitting, others
standing, and all reaching here and there, everybody helping himself and
eating with his fingers. Now and then each one tosses off a little
tumbler of vodka. We proceed to the table and do our best to imitate the
Russians in their apparent determination to clean off the table. The
edibles before us comprise the elements of a first-class cold luncheon,
and we sit down prepared to do it ample justice. By and by the Russians
leave this table one by one, and betake themselves to another, on the
opposite side of the saloon. As they sit down, waiters come in bearing
smoking hot roasts and vegetables, wine and dessert.
A gleam of intelligence dawns upon my companion as he realizes that we
are making a mistake, and pausing in the act of transferring bread and
caviare to his mouth, he says to me, impressively: "This is only sukuski,
you know, on this table." "Why, of course. Didn't you know that. Your
ignorance surprises me; I thought you knew.". And then we follow the
example of everybody else and pass over to the other side.
The sukuski is taken before the regular meal in Russia. The tidbits and
the vodka are partaken of to prepare and stimulate the appetite for the
regular meal. Not yet, however, are we fully initiated into the mysteries
of the Caspian steamer's service. Wine is flowing freely, and as we seat
ourselves the captain passes down his bottle. Presently I hold my glass
to be refilled by a spectacled naval officer sitting opposite. With a
polite bow he fills it to the brim. The next moment, I happen to catch
the captain's eye, it contains a meaning twinkle of amusement. Heavens!
this is not a French steamer, even if the cookery is somewhat Frenchy;
neither is it a table-d'hote with claret flowing ad libitum. The
ridiculous mistake has been made of taking the captain's polite
hospitality and the liberal display of bottles for the free wine of the
French table-d'hote. The officer with the eyeglasses lands at Tchislikar
in the afternoon, for which I am not sorry.
At Tchislikar we are met by a lighter with several Turcoman passengers.
The sea is pretty rough, and the united efforts of several boatmen are
required to hoist aboard each long-gowned Turcoman, each woman and child.
They are Turcoman traders going to Baku and Tiflis with bales of the
famous kibitka hangings and carpets. Tchislikar is the port whence a few
years ago the Russian expedition set out on their campaign against the
Tekke Turcomans. Three hundred miles inland is the famous fortress of
Geoke Tepe, where disaster overtook the Russians, and where, in a
subsequent campaign, occurred that massacre of women and children which
caused the Western world to wonder anew at the barbarism of the Russian
soldiery.
Still steaming north, our little craft ploughs her way toward
Krasnovodsk, an important military station on the eastern coast.
At night the surface of the sea becomes smooth and glassy, the sun sets,
rotund and red, in a haze suggestive of Indian summer in the West. The
cabins are small and stuffy, so I sleep up on the hurricane-deck,
wrapping a Persian sheepskin overcoat about me. An awning covers this
deck completely, but this does not prevent everything beneath getting
drenched with dew. Never did I see such a fall of dew. It streams off the
big awning like a shower of rain, and soaks through it and drips, drips
on to my recumbent form and everything on the hurricane-deck.
Early in the morning we moor our ship to the dock at Krasnovodsk, and
load and unload merchandise till noon. Here is where railway material for
the Transcaspian railway to Merv is landed, the terminus being at
Michaelovich, near by. We go ashore for a couple of hours and look about.
The inmates of a military convalescent hospital are passing from the
doctor's office to their barracks. They are wearing long dressing-gowns
of gray stuff, with hoods that make them look wonderfully like a lot of
monks arrayed in cowls. A company of infantry are target-practising at
the foot of rocky buttes just outside the town. Not a tree nor a green
thing is visible in the place nor on all the hills around--nothing but the
blue waters of the Caspian and the dull prospect of rude rock buildings
and gray hills.
Except for the sea, and the raggedness and abject servility of the poor
class of people, one might imagine Krasnovodsk some Far Western fort.
Scarcely a female is seen on the streets, soldiers are everywhere, and in
the commercial quarter every other place is a vodka-shop. We visit one of
these and find men in red shirts and cowhide boots playing billiards and
drinking, others drinking and playing cards. Rough and sturdy men they
look--frontiersmen; but there is no spirit, no independence, in
their expression; they look like curs that have been chastised and
bullied until the spirit is completely broken. This peculiar humbled and
resigned expression is observable on the faces of the common people from
one end of Russia to the other. It is quite extraordinary for a common
Russian to look one in the eye. Nor is this at all deceptive; a social
superior might step up and strike one of these men brutally in the face
without the slightest provocation, and, though the victim of the outrage
might be strong as an ox, no remonstrance whatever would be made. It is
difficult for us to comprehend How human beings can possibly become so
abjectly servile and spiritless as the lower-class Russians. But the
terrors of the knout and Siberia are ever present before them. Cheap
chromolithographs of Gregorian saints hang on the walls of the saloon,
and with them are mingled fancy pictures of Tiflis and Baku cafe-chantant
belles. Long rows of vodka-bottles are the chief stock-in-trade of the
place, but "peevo" (beer) can be obtained from the cellar.
Quite a number of army officers, with their wives, come aboard at
Krasnovodsk. They seem good fellows, nearly all, and inclined to
cultivate our acquaintance. Individually, the better-class Russian and
the Englishman have many attributes in common that make them like each
other. Except for imperial matters, Russian and English officers would be
the best of friends, I think. The ladies all smoke cigarettes
incessantly. There is not a handsome woman aboard, and they show the
lingering traces of Russian barbarism by wearing beads and gewgaws.
The most interesting of our passengers is a Persian dealer in precious
stones. He is a well-educated individual, quite a linguist, and a
polished gentleman withal. He is taking diamonds and turquoises that he
has collected in Persia, to Vienna and Paris.
Another night of drenching dew, and by six o'clock next morning we are
drawing near to the great petroleum port of Baku. From Krasnovodsk we
have crossed the Caspian from east to west right on the line of latitude
40 deg.