THE CASPIAN--ASTARÁ--RÉSHT.
I arrived in Baku on (the Russian) New Year's Eve, and found railway
officials, porters, and droshki-drivers all more or less fuddled with
drink in consequence. With some difficulty we persuaded one of the
latter to drive us to the hotel, a clean and well-appointed house, a
stone's throw from the quay. Our Isvostchik [A] was very drunk. His
horses, luckily for us, were quiet; for he fell off his box on the
way, and smilingly, but firmly, declined to remount. Gerôme then
piloted the troika safely to our destination, leaving Jehu prone in
the mud.
Baku, a clean, well laid-out city of sixty thousand inhabitants, is
the most important town on the shores of the Caspian. Its name is said
to be derived from the Persian words _bad_, "the wind," and _kubeda_,
"beaten," signifying "Wind-beaten;" and this seems credible, for
violent storms are prevalent along the coast. The town is essentially
European in character. One can scarcely realize that only fifty years
ago a tumble-down Persian settlement stood on the spot now occupied
by broad, well-paved, gas-lit streets, handsome stone buildings,
warehouses, and shops. Baku has, like Tiflis, a mixed population.
Although Russians and Tartars form its bulk, France, Germany, Italy,
Greece, Turkey, and Persia are all represented, most of the Europeans
being employed in the manufacture of petroleum. The naphtha springs
are said to yield over 170,000 tons of oil yearly.
A French engineer, Mr. B----, whose acquaintance I made at the hotel,
described Baku as terribly monotonous and depressing to live in after
a time. There is not a tree or sign of vegetation for miles round the
town--nothing but bleak, desolate steppe and marsh, unproductive of
sport and cultivation, or, indeed, of anything save miasma and fever.
In summer the heat, dust, and flies are intolerable; in winter the sun
is seldom seen. There is no amusement of any kind--no _café_, no band,
no theatre, to go to after the day's work. This seemed to distress the
poor Parisian exile more than anything, more even than the smell of
oil, which, from the moment you enter until you leave Baku, there is
no getting away from. Although the wells are fully three miles away,
the table-cloths and napkins were saturated with it, and the very
food one ate had a faint sickly flavour of naphtha. "I bathed in the
Caspian once last summer," said Mr. B------, despairingly, "and did
not get the smell out of my skin for a week, during which time my
friends forbade me their houses! Mon Dieu! Quel pays!"
The steamer for Enzelli was to leave at eleven. Having wished my
French friend farewell, and a speedy return to his native country, we
set out for the quay. The night was fine, but away to our left dense
clouds of thick black smoke obscured the lights of the town and
starlit sky, while the furnaces of the "Tchornigorod" [B] blazed out
of the darkness, their flames reflected in the dark waters of the
Caspian, turning the little harbour into a lake of fire.
The landing stage is crowded with passengers--a motley crowd of
Russian officials, soldiers, peasants, and Tartars. With difficulty we
struggle through the noisy, drunken rabble, for the most part engaged
in singing, cursing, fighting, and embracing by turns, and succeed at
last in finding our ship, the _Kaspia_, a small steamer of about a
hundred and fifty tons burthen. The captain is, fortunately for us,
sober, which is more than can be said of the crew. Alongside us lies
the _Bariatinsky_, a large paddle-steamer bound for Ouzounada, the
terminus of the Trans-Caspian Railway. She also is on the point of
departure, and I notice, with relief, that most of the crowd are
making their way on board her.
The passenger-steamers on the Caspian are the property of the
Caucase-Mercure Company, a Russian firm. They are, with few
exceptions, as unseaworthy as they are comfortless, which says a great
deal. All are of iron, and were built in England and Sweden, sent to
St. Petersburg by sea, there taken to pieces and despatched overland
to Nijni-Novgorod, on the Volga. At Nijni they were repieced and taken
down the Volga to the Caspian.
The _Bariatinsky_ was first away, her decks crammed with soldiers
bound for Central Asia. They treated us to a vocal concert as the ship
left port, and I paced the moonlit deck for some time, listening to
the sweet sad airs sung with the pathos and harmony that seems born
in every Russian, high or low. I retired to rest with the "Matoushka
Volga," a boat-song popular the length and breadth of Russia, ringing
in my ears.
There are no private cabins on board the _Kaspia_. I share the stuffy
saloon with a greasy German Jew (who insists on shutting all the
portholes), an Armenian gentleman, his wife, and two squalling
children, a Persian merchant, and Gerôme.
The captain's cabin, a box-like retreat about eight feet square,
leads out of our sleeping-place, which is also used as a drawing and
dining-room. As the latter it is hardly desirable, for the German and
Persian are both suffering violently from _mal-de-mer_ before we
have been two hours out, and no wonder. Though there is hardly a
perceptible swell on, the tiny cock-boat rolls like a log. To make
matters worse, the _Kaspia's_ engines are worked by petroleum, and the
smell pursues one everywhere.
The passage from Baku to Enzelli (the port of Résht) is usually made
in a little over two days in _fine weather_. All depends upon the
latter, for no vessel can enter if it is blowing hard. There is a
dangerous bar with a depth of barely five feet of water across the
mouth of the harbour, and several Europeans, impatient of waiting,
have been drowned when attempting to land in small boats. "I
frequently have to take my passengers back to Baku," said Captain
Z---- at the meal he was pleased to call breakfast; "but I think we
shall have fine weather to-morrow." I devoutly hoped so.
Little did I know what was in store for us; for the glass at midday
was falling-fast, and at 2 p.m., when we anchored off Lenkorán, it
was snowing hard and blowing half a gale.
The western coasts of the Caspian are flat and monotonous. There are
two ports of call between Baku and Enzelli--Lenkorán, a dismal-looking
fishing-village of mud huts, backed by stunted poplars and a range of
low hills; and Astará, the Russo-Persian frontier. Trade did not seem
very brisk at either port. We neither landed nor took in cargo at
either. A few small boats came out to the ship with fish to sell. The
latter is bad and tasteless in the Caspian, with the exception of
the sturgeon, which abounds during certain seasons of the year. The
fisheries are nearly all leased by Russians, who extract and export
the caviar. There is good shooting in the forests around Lenkorán, and
tigers are occasionally met with. The large one in the possession of
Prince Dondoukoff Korsákoff, mentioned in the first chapter, was shot
within a few miles of the place.
We arrived off Astará about 6.30 that evening. It was too dark to see
anything of the place, but I had, unfortunately for myself, plenty
of opportunities of examining it minutely a couple of days later. We
weighed anchor again at nine o'clock, hoping, all being well, to reach
Enzelli at daybreak. The sea had now gone down, and things looked more
promising.
My spirits rose at the thought of being able to land on the morrow. I
was even able to do justice to the abominable food set before us at
dinner--greasy sausages and a leathery beefsteak, served on dirty
plates and a ragged table-cloth that looked as if it had been used to
clean the boiler. But the German Jew had recovered from his temporary
indisposition, the cadaverous Persian had disappeared on deck, and
the Armenian children had squalled themselves to sleep, so there
was something, at least, to be thankful for. Captain Z----, a tall,
fair-haired Swede, who spoke English fluently, had been on this line
for many years, and told us that for dangerous navigation, violent
squalls, and thick fogs the Caspian has no equal. Many vessels are
lost yearly and never heard of again. He also told us of a submarine
city some miles out of Baku, called by the natives "Tchortorgorod," or
"City of the Devil." "In calm, sunny weather," said Z----, "one can
distinctly make out the streets and houses." The German Jew, of a
facetious disposition, asked him whether he had not also seen people
walking about; but Z---- treated the question with contemptuous
silence.
Man is doomed to disappointment. I woke at daylight next morning; to
find the _Kaspia_ at anchor, pitching, rolling, and tugging at her
moorings as if at any moment the cable might part. Every now and again
a sea would crash upon the deck, and the wind, howling through the
rigging, sounded like the yelling of a thousand fiends. Hurrying on
deck, I learn the worst. A terrific sea is running, and the glass
falling every hour. One could scarcely discern, through the driving
mist, the long low shore and white line of breakers that marked the
entrance to Enzelli. To land was out of the question. No boat would
live in such a sea. "I will lay-to till this evening," said Captain
Z---- "If it does not then abate, I fear you must make up your mind
to return to Baku, and try again another day." A pleasant prospect
indeed!
[Illustration: A DIRTY NIGHT IN THE CASPIAN]
I have seldom passed a more miserable twenty-four hours. The weather
got worse as the day wore on. Towards midday it commenced snowing; but
this, instead of diminishing the violence of the gale, seemed only to
increase it. Even the captain's cheery, ruddy face clouded over, as he
owned that he did not like the look of things. "Had I another anchor,
I should not mind," he said; calmly adding, "If this one parts, we
are lost!" I thought, at the time, he might have kept this piece
of information to himself. Meanwhile nothing was visible from the
cabin-windows but great rollers topped with crests of foam, which
looked as if, every moment, they would engulf the little vessel. But
she behaved splendidly. Although green seas were coming in over the
bows, flooding her decks from stem to stern, and pouring down the
gangway into the saloon, the _Kaspia_ rode through the gale like a
duck. To venture on deck was impossible. One could barely sit, much
less stand, and the atmosphere of the saloon may be better imagined
than described. Every aperture tightly closed; every one, with the
exception of the captain, Gerôme, and myself, sea-sick; no food, no
fire, though we certainly did not miss the former much.
About ten o'clock Z---- weighed anchor and stood out to sea. It would
not be safe, he said, to trust to our slender cable another night.
About midnight I struggled on deck, to get a breath of fresh air
before turning in. The night was fine and clear, but the sea around
black as ink, with great foaming white rollers. The decks, a foot
deep in snow, were deserted save by Z---- and the steersman, whose
silhouettes stood out black and distinct against the starlit sky as
they paced the rickety-looking little bridge flanked by red and green
lights. The Enzelli lighthouse was no longer visible. The latter is
under the care of Persians, who light it, or not, as the humour takes
them. This is, on dark nights, a source of considerable danger to
shipping; but, though frequently remonstrated with by the Russian
Government, the Shah does not trouble his head about the matter.
Three routes to Teherán were now open to us: back to Baku, thence to
Tiflis, and over the mountains to Talriz,--very dubious on account of
the snow; the second, from Baku to Astrabad, and thence _viâ_ Mount
Demavend,--still more dubious on account of bad landing as well as
blocked passes; there remained to us Astará, and along the sea-beach
(no road) to Enzelli, with swollen rivers and no post-horses. All
things considered, we resolved to land at Astará, even at the risk of
a ducking. Daylight found us there, anchored a mile from the shore,
and a heavy swell running. But there is no bar here; only a shelving
sandy beach, on which, even in rough weather, there is little
danger. Some good-sized boats came out to the _Kaspia_ with fish and
vegetables, and we at once resolved to land. Anything sooner than
return to Baku!
"There is no road from Astará," said Z----, "and deep rivers to cross.
You will be robbed and murdered like the Italian who travelled this
way three years ago! He was the last European to do so."
Gerôme remembers the incident. In fact, he says, the murdered man was
a friend of his, travelling to Teherán with a large sum of money.
Unable to land at Résht, and impatient to reach his destination, he
took the unfrequented route, was waylaid, robbed, tied to a tree, and
left to starve. "He was alone and unarmed, though," says my companion;
adding with a wink, "Let them try it on with us!"
Seeing remonstrance is useless, Z---- wishes us God-speed. The
good-natured Swede presses a box of Russian cigarettes into my hand
as I descend the ladder--a gift he can ill afford--and twenty minutes
later our boat glides safely and smoothly on Persian soil.
It was a lovely day, and the blue sky and sunshine, singing of birds,
and green of plain and forest, a pleasant relief to the eye and senses
after the cold and misery of the past two days. Astará (though the
port of Tabriz) is an insignificant place, its sole importance lying
in the fact that it is a frontier town. On one side of the narrow
river a collection of ramshackle mud huts, neglected gardens, foul
smells, beggars, and dogs--Persia; on the other, a score of neat stone
houses, well-kept roads and paths, flower-gardens, orchards, a pretty
church, and white fort surrounded by the inevitable black-and-white
sentry-boxes, guarded by a company of white-capped Cossacks--Russia. I
could not help realizing, on landing at Astará, the huge area of this
vast empire. How many thousand miles now separated me from the last
border town of the Great White Czar that I visited--Kiakhta, on the
Russo-Chinese frontier?
Surrounded by a ragged mob, we walked to the village to see about
horses and a lodging for the night. The latter was soon found--a
flat-roofed mud hut about thirty feet square, devoid of chimney or
furniture of any kind. The floor, cracked in several places, was
crawling with vermin, and the walls undermined with rat-holes; but in
Persia one must not be particular. Leaving our baggage in the care of
one "Hassan," a bright-eyed, intelligent-looking lad, and instructing
him to prepare a meal, we made for the bazaar, a hundred yards away,
through a morass, knee deep in mud and abomination of all kinds, to
procure food.
A row of thirty or forty mud huts composed the "bazaar," where, having
succeeded in purchasing tea, bread, eggs, and caviar, we turned our
attention to horseflesh.
An old Jew having previously agreed to convert, at exorbitant
interest, our rouble notes into "sheis" and keráns, negotiations for
horses were then opened by Gerôme, and, as the _patois_ spoken in
Astará is a mixture of Turkish and Persian, with a little Tartar
thrown in, his task was no easy one, especially as every one spoke at
once and at the top of their voices. We discovered at last that but
few of the villagers owned a horse, and those who did were very
unwilling to let the animal for such an uncertain journey. "Who is
going to guarantee that the 'Farangis' will not steal it?" asked one
ragged, wild-looking fellow in sheepskins and a huge lamb's-wool cap.
"Or get it stolen from them?" added another, with a grin. "They can
have my old grey mare for two hundred keráns, but you won't catch me
letting her for hire," added a third.
With the aid of our friend, the Jew, however, we finally persuaded
the sheepskin gentleman (a native of Khiva) to change his mind. After
considerable haggling as to price, he disappeared, to return with two of
the sorriest steeds I ever set eyes on. "We ought to reach Enzelli in
about three days, if we do not get our throats cut," said the Khivan, who
was to accompany us, encouragingly.
Hassan had been busy in our absence; he had prepared an excellent
pilaff, and sent to Russian Astará for some kakèti wine, which was
brought over in a goatskin. This, with our own provisions bought in
the morning, furnished a substantial and much-needed meal. Persian
native bread is somewhat trying at first to a weak digestion. It is
unleavened, baked in long thin strips, and is of suet-like consistency.
The hut, like most native houses in Persia, had no chimney, the only
outlet for the smoke being through the narrow doorway. This necessitates
lying flat on one's back in the clear narrow space between smoke and
flooring, or being suffocated--a minor inconvenience as compared with
others in Persian travel.
The Khivan arrived with the horses at six next morning. By seven
o'clock we were well on the road, which for the first ten miles or so
led by the sea-shore, through dense thickets of brushwood, alternating
with patches of loose drifting sand. I was agreeably disappointed in
the ponies; for though it was deep, heavy going, they stepped out well
and freely. The clear sunshine, keen air, and lovely scenery seemed to
have the same inspiriting effect on them as on ourselves.
The _coup d'oeil_ was indeed a lovely one. To our right a glorious
panorama of palm, forest, and river stretched away for miles, bounded
on the horizon by a chain of lofty precipitous mountains, their snowy
peaks white and dazzling against the deep cloudless blue, their
grassy slopes and rocky ravines hidden, here and there, by grey mists
floating lazily over depths of dark green forest at their feet. To our
left broad yellow sands, streaked with seaweed and dark driftwood, and
cold grey waters of the Caspian Sea--colourless and dead even under
this Mediterranean sky, and bringing one back, so to speak, from a
beautiful dream to stern reality.
About midday we came to a broad but fordable river, which the Khivan
called the Chulàmak. We all crossed in safety, notwithstanding the
deep holes our guide warned us against, and which, as the water was
thick and muddy, gave Gerôme and myself some anxiety. The stream was
about fifty yards across and much swollen by the snow. Landing on the
other side ahead of my companions, I rode on alone, and presently
found myself floundering about girth-deep in a quicksand. It was only
with great difficulty that we extricated the pony. These quicksands
are common on the shores of the Caspian, and natives, when travelling
alone, have perished from this cause.
Nothing occurred worthy of notice till about 3 p.m., when we reached
the river Djemnil. An arm of the sea more accurately describes this
stream, which is (or was at the time of which I write) over three
hundred yards across. Here we had some difficulty with the Khivan,
who was for encamping till morning. I, however, strongly objected to
sleeping _a la belle étoile_, especially as the sky had now clouded
over, and it was beginning to snow. Partly by conciliation, partly
by threats, we at last persuaded him to make the attempt, following
closely in his wake. It was nasty work. Twice our horses were carried
off their feet by the strong current running out to sea (we were
only a quarter of a mile from the mouth); and once we, or rather the
horses, had to swim for it; but we reached the opposite shore in under
half an hour, wet and numbed to the waist, but safe. At seven we were
snugly housed for the night at Katvesera, a so-called village of three
or four mud hovels, selecting the best (outwardly) for our night's
lodging. We were badly received by the natives. Neither money nor
threats would induce them to produce provisions of any kind, so we
fell back on sticks of chocolate and Valentine's meat-juice. The
latter I never travel without--it is invaluable in uncivilized and
desert countries.
The inhabitants of Katvesera are under a score in number, and live
chiefly on fish, though I noticed in the morning that a considerable
quantity of land was under cultivation--apparently rice and barley.
They were a sullen, sulky lot, and we had almost to take the hut
by force. The Khivan, Gerôme, and myself took it in turns to watch
through the night. It was near here that the Italian was assassinated.
A start was made at daybreak. The weather had now changed. A cutting
north-easter was blowing, accompanied with snow and sleet. We forded,
about 11 a.m., the Kokajeri river, a mountain stream about thirty
yards wide, unfordable except upon the sea-beach. At midday we halted
at Tchergári, a fishing-village on the shores of the Caspian.
Tchergári contains about two hundred inhabitants, mostly fishermen
employed by a Russian firm. The houses, built of tree-trunks plastered
with mud, had roofs of thatched reed, and were far more substantial
and better built than any I had yet seen in Persia. Fearing a
reception like that of the previous evening, we had intended riding
straight through the place to our destination for the night, when a
European advanced to meet us through the snow. Mr. V----, a Russian,
and overseer of the fishery, had made his hut as comfortable as
circumstances would admit, and we were soon seated before a blazing
fire (with a chimney!), discussing a plate of steaming shtchi, [C]
washed down by a bottle of kakèti. Roast mutton and pastry followed,
succeeded by coffee and vodka (for we had the good luck to arrive at
our host's dinner-hour). By the time cigarettes were under way we felt
fully equal to the long cold ride of fifteen miles that separated us
from our night's halting-place, Alalá Résht itself seemed at least
thirty miles nearer than it had before dinner.
"You are bold," said Mr. V----, in French, "to attempt this journey
at this time of year. I do not mean as regards footpads and
robbers reports concerning them are always greatly exaggerated; but
the rivers are in a terrible state. There is one just beyond Alalá,
that I know you cannot cross on horseback. I will send a man on at
once to try and get a boat for you, and you can pull the horses after
you. There is an Armenian at Alalá, who will give you a lodging
to-night" Mr. V---- 's good fare and several glasses of vodka
considerably shortened our ride, and we arrived at Alalá before dark,
where a hearty welcome awaited us. Turning in after a pipe and two
or three glasses of tea, we slept soundly till time to start in the
morning. The outlook from our snug resting-place was not inviting--the
sky of a dirty grey, blowing hard, and snowing harder than ever.
Alalá contains about eight hundred inhabitants. The land surrounding
it is thickly cultivated with rice and tobacco. Neither are, however,
exported in any quantity, the difficulties of transport to Astará or
Enzelli being so great.
It is somewhat puzzling to a stranger to get at the names of places on
the southern shores of the Caspian. Most of the villages are known
by more than one, but Alalá rejoices in as many _aliases_ as an old
gaol-bird, viz. Alalá, Asalim, and Navarim.
Thanks to our Russian friend, a boat and a couple of men were awaiting
us at the big river (I could not ascertain its name). Entering it
ourselves, we swam the horses over one by one. It took us the best
part of two hours. Though only two hundred yards wide, they were off
their legs nearly the whole way. What we should have done without Mr.
V---- 's aid I know not.
Towards sundown the high tower of the Shah's palace at Enzelli came
in sight. At last the neck of this weary journey was broken, and
to-morrow, all being well, we should be at Résht. The road is winding,
and it was not till past ten o'clock that we rode through the silent,
deserted streets to the caravanserai, a filthier lodging than any we
had yet occupied. But, though devoured by vermin, I slept soundly,
tired out with cold and fatigue. We dismissed the Khivan with a
substantial _pour-boire_. He had certainly behaved extremely well for
one of his race.
Enzelli is an uninteresting place. It has but two objects of interest
(in Persian eyes)--the lighthouse (occasionally lit) and a palace of
the Shah, built a few years since as a _pied-à-terre_ for his Majesty
on the occasion of his visits to Europe. It is a tawdry gimcrack
edifice, painted bright blue, red, and green, in the worst possible
taste. The Shah, on returning from Europe last time, is said to have
remarked to his ministers on landing at Enzelli, "I have not seen
a single building in all Europe to compare with this!" Probably
not--from one point of view.
The Caspian may indeed be called a Russian lake, for although the
whole of its southern coast is Persian, the only Persian vessel
tolerated upon it by Russia is the yacht of the Shah, a small steamer,
the gift of the Caucase-Mercure Company, which lies off Enzelli. Even
this vessel is only permitted to navigate in and about the waters of
the Mourdab ("dead water"), a large lake, a kind of encroachment of
the sea, eighteen to twenty miles broad, which separates Enzelli from
Peri-Bazar, the landing-place for Résht, four miles distant. The
imperial yacht did once get as far as Astará (presumably by mistake),
but was immediately escorted back to Enzelli by a Russian cruiser.
There is, however, a so-called Persian fleet--the steamship
_Persepolis_, anchored off Bushire, in the Persian Gulf, and the
_Susa_, which lies off Mohammerah. The former is about six hundred
tons, and carries four Krupp guns; but the latter is little better
than a steam-launch. Both have been at anchor for about four years,
and are practically unseaworthy and useless.
We embarked at nine o'clock, in a boat pulled by eight men. The
crossing of the Mourdab is at times impossible, owing to the heavy
sea; but this time luck was with us, and midday saw us at Peri-Bazar,
where there is no difficulty in procuring riding-horses to take one
into Résht. The country between the two places was formerly morass and
jungle, but on the occasion of the Shah's visit to Europe about twenty
years ago, a carriage-road was made--not a good one, for such a
thing does not exist in Persia--but a very fair riding-track (in dry
weather). We reached Résht wet to the skin, the snow having ceased and
given way to a steady downpour of rain.
Résht bears the unpleasant reputation of being the most unhealthy city
in Persia. Its very name, say the natives, is derived from the word
_rishta_, "death." "If you wish to die," says a proverb of Irak, "go
to Résht!" The city, which had, at the beginning of the century, a
population of over sixty thousand inhabitants, now has barely thirty
thousand. This certainly looks as if there were some truth in the
foregoing remarks; and there is no doubt that, on the visitation of
the plague about ten years ago, the mortality was something frightful.
A great percentage of deaths are ascribed to Résht fever--a terrible
disease, due to the water and the exhalations from the marshes
surrounding the city. It is certainly the dampest place in the world.
The sun is seldom seen, and one's clothes, even on a dry, rainless
day, become saturated with moisture.
The town is, nevertheless, prettily situated in a well-wooded country.
It would almost be imposing were it not for the heavy rains and dews,
which cause a rapid decay of the buildings. The latter are mostly of
red brick and glazed tiles.
Résht is the depôt for goods to and from Persia--chiefly silks.
Tobacco is also grown in yearly increasing quantities. Several Russian
firms have opened here for the manufacture of cigarettes, which,
though they may find favour among the natives, are too hot and coarse
for European tastes. They are well made and cheap enough--sevenpence a
hundred.
In addition to the native population, Résht contains about five
hundred Armenians, and a score or so of Europeans. Among the latter
are a Russian and a British vice-consul. To the residence of the
latter we repaired. Colonel Stewart's kindness and hospitality are a
byword in Persia, and the Sunday of our arrival at Résht was truly a
day of rest after the discomfort and privations we had undergone since
leaving Baku.
[Footnote A: _Isvostchik_, a cab-driver.]
[Footnote B: "Tchornigorod," or "Black Town," so called from the smoke
that hangs night and day over the oil-factories.]
[Footnote C: Russian cabbage-soup.]