“The Great Way is very easy, but all love the by-paths”
--_Chinese proverb_
The sheer discomfort of our crowded tarantass could not quench the
glorious optimism with which on the last day of June we sallied forth
on the highway to Urga. Our driver, though he looked a ruffian, was not
unpromising on further acquaintance, and we ended up by liking him very
much. On the day previous to our departure he had called to see exactly
how much luggage we wanted to take with us, and this he was inclined
to limit severely. Needless to say it had expanded considerably during
the night, and we cudgelled our brains as to how to get it into the
tarantass without exciting his criticism too much. The Jamschik was
all smiles in the morning however, and took no notice as package after
package was stowed away. The awful thought passed through my mind
that perhaps he was in league with the Hung-hu-tzes and felt that the
more the stores the better the booty. We were far too crowded to be
comfortable. Experience, however, had taught us that in due course one
shakes down to anything, and anyhow we were feeling altogether too
pleased with life to worry much at this juncture. With us, surrounding
us, and suspended above our heads from the roof of the tarantass,
making hard corners and lumps when we tried to sit on or lean against
them, were our food supplies for the double journey (which as regards
time limit was exceedingly vague), a modicum of personal baggage, our
bedding, and, not least, our cameras, firearms and cartridges. The
weapons had to be so arranged as to be immediately available. We had
but one desire--to get to Urga.
The tarantass was drawn by three horses abreast with a fourth tied up
and trotting alongside always--in the way, poor little chap, being
crowded up banks when the road narrowed and coming in for the sharpest
cuts from the long whip on account of his ill-luck every time. Our
last stop, long before we had shaken down into anything like comfort,
was at Mai-mai-ch’eng, just across the frontier, where we had hoped
to lay in a stock of cigarettes, to purchase fresh bread, and to post
final letters. But, Russian influence prevailing, Mai-mai-ch’eng had
not waked up, the post-office and bakers’ shops were still shut,
and our sole catch was cigarettes. Once out of Kiachta and through
Mai-mai-ch’eng we were actually in Mongolia proper, speeding over
undulating country on tracks rather than on roads, driving across
flowery prairie, having said good-bye to all civilisation and houses
for the time being. At midday we fetched up at the first Russian
resthouse, a new and therefore fairly clean log-hut, and congratulated
ourselves upon the prospect of simple comfort when a blue-eyed,
blue-bloused young Russian produced the ubiquitous _samovar_ and made
for us even here tea the like of which you can get neither for love
nor money outside Russia. While we ate our lunch the Jamschik amused
himself by detaching and thoroughly oiling the wheels of the tarantass,
a business which delayed us considerably and which it seemed to us
might very well have been performed before we started.
The day which had begun so well grew dull, and grey clouds turned into
steady rain which made us anxious as to what the night might have in
store for us. Through pretty country, grassy and well sprinkled with
flowers, a small species of scarlet and yellow tiger-lily growing in
abundance everywhere, we drove on for four or five hours before pulling
up in a torrent of rain at dusk, at an unexpected shanty surrounded by
three or four yourts out of which several Mongols promptly appeared. On
further acquaintance we came to the conclusion that they were Buriats,
but be their nationality what it may, they gave us a warm welcome;
the woman who appeared to rule the roost there did her best to make
us comfortable, dusting the rain from us and even going so far as to
wipe the mud from Mr. Gull’s mackintosh with my sponge which I had
unfortunately unpacked a thought too soon. The family appeared to be
extensive, both numerically and in size. They all helped to carry in,
and were eager to unpack, our belongings. The good lady soon had a
_samovar_ bubbling cheerily and a fire crackling in the mud stove which
occupied quite a third of the floor space. She conveyed to us, entirely
by pantomime and we afterwards verified her statement that she had once
been in the Russian consul’s service, that she was a Christian--there
was an icon in the corner of the room to which she pointed--and that
therefore she loved us very much and would do anything she could for us.
The men brought in a goodly supply of wood--it was cold even in the
early July nights--and then stood and gazed at us solemnly. The
entire family and many friends from the neighbourhood entered quite
unceremoniously from time to time to have a look at us. They would walk
straight in, stand and stare for a minute or two, finger anything that
attracted their notice, and go on their way. Not so the little boys, of
whom there were three or four, who refused to leave us and from whom,
while they were picking up little bits of food, we tried to pick up a
word or two of Mongolian. The sheep and goats too, squeezing together
under the eaves, tried to enter each time the door was opened, and
would have crowded us out had we not been firm. As it was, they kept up
a melancholy “Baa, ba-a,” throughout the greater part of the night.
There was here, of course, no Kangue, and following our Jamschik’s
example, we spread all the available clothes and rugs upon the floor.
I lay awake for, it seemed to me, many hours, the men snoring on the
other side of the stove, listening to the rain beating down, and
thankful to be in such relatively comfortable quarters. Before 7 a.m.
we were up again, spreading our hard biscuit with blackberry jam (how
I regretted not having insisted upon taking over the commissariat
department and buying bread!) and drinking our cocoa as hot as possible
in order to warm ourselves. The children came in for the dregs, in
return for which they did their best to teach me to count up to six
in their mother tongue. I do not think that their own knowledge went
beyond the figure.
It had rained all night and continued to do so all the next day, and
the night following that again, and we were not sorry when our Jamschik
intimated to us that we had better for the moment stop where we were.
We knew that we had shortly to cross a river, and when he raised his
arms above his head and said “Ura Gol,” we rightly concluded that the
river, swollen high, was impossible to negotiate. Besides, next night
might, for all we knew, mean camping in the open, and this under the
present conditions of weather was by no means enticing. We had a very
lazy day, writing a little, reading and talking, playing with any small
Mongols who happened to put in an appearance.
By the following morning the river was said to have gone down
sufficiently for us to cross, and we were well under weigh by 6 a.m. in
none too promising weather. The Ura Gol was not far off, and we crossed
the rushing waters by means of a flat-bottomed barge pulled over by
wire hawsers. We all crowded together on our tarantass, horses, and
men, paying the Mongols who thus transported us about three shillings
for their trouble. The banks were flat, and there was nothing to charm
the eye in this part of the river or in the bleak and hilly landscape
over which a watery sun was making a futile attempt to shine. By tiffin
time we had accomplished our third stage and drew up at a mud hovel
depressing to a degree. The heavy rains had partially destroyed the
roof and the floor was in consequence a morass of filth. There were
living here in melancholy exile three or four unkempt and murderous
looking men, and a very unhappy woman with three little boys clinging
about her draggled skirts--miserable and dissolute Russians upon whom
the hand of fate had fallen too heavily to admit even the faintest ray
of hope upon their horizon. There is something peculiarly pathetic
in the sight of the reversion to this condition of animal existence
by people who have obviously at some time or another belonged to
civilisation. What they lived on here was more of a mystery than how
they lived.
The day had cleared to a perfect brilliance, and the world seemed a
cheery place as we ascended from the mosquito-ridden and marshy valleys
and wended our way among the hills to the highlands. Coming over a
long and somewhat tedious pass, a tremendous view rewarded us at the
top of the climb--an immense plain, ascending by gentle slopes to the
mountains, a ribbon of wheel-tracks running across it. It was evening
when our Jamschik suddenly turned in his seat and, pointing with his
whip, shouted out something as unintelligible as it was exhilarating.
In the twinkling of an eye we seemed to be transplanted into another
life. There, right at our feet, was a huge Mongol settlement, girdled
about on all sides by the low-lying mountains. Numbers of yourts,
clustered in twos or threes, formed the centre of great activity.
Colour, form, and motion were literally rampant. What in the distance
had looked like ant-hills with ants swarming around them turned out
to be the yourts surrounded by cattle and flocks. Brilliantly dressed
Mongols galloped around in every direction; hundreds of horses were
scattered about in herds over the foothills. The men were rounding them
up for the night. From time to time some wayward little beast would
break away from the rest, proposing to spend the night in mountain
solitude. A gaudy stalwart would dart off after it, standing in his
stirrups, leaning well forward in his saddle, reins held high in one
hand, while in the other he trailed behind him what looked like a
fishing-rod ending up in a loop of raw hide. With a twirl of his
wrist he would bring this flying round at the right moment, and lasso
the pony with great adroitness, hauling it, subdued at once by the
tightening thong, back to the herd.
Nearer the camp, the women coped with the gentler cattle and sheep,
and by the time we arrived numbers of cows were tethered with their
calves reluctantly allowing a modicum of their milk to be diverted from
its natural destiny. The milking of a Mongol cow is less easy than it
might appear. The latter has far more character than that cow which
is confined to the proverbial three acres, and on no account will the
Mongol bovine yield up her milk until her calf has had its whack. I
have seen them myself arching up their backs and persistently refusing
to allow one drop to be drawn.
“We shall be able to get new milk here,” rejoiced my travelling
companion, to which I replied, “The newer the better,” and foraged for
a jug among the contents of our food basket. He was all for buying some
from the pail of a laughing maiden who was drawing freely on the teats
of a cow tethered near by. I, however, having been brought up for so
many years under the direct jurisdiction of those who frame the public
health laws, did not fancy the milk that had filtered through dirty
fingers into a still more questionable sheepskin pail. I therefore
waded in on my own account, and, tin jug in hand, walked up to the
nearest cow, laughing and joking with the Mongols who crowded round me,
oblivious of a murmured protest in connection with my “appalling cheek”
from Mr. Gull, and proceeded to milk her. But no, the cow did not
see the joke. She declined to be milked by an impertinent foreigner.
I turned to another, a gentler creature, who was quite willing. The
Mongols greeted my attempt, my successful attempt, I may proudly add,
with the utmost hilarity, and my jug was half-full when--what I thought
was--a furious old woman pushed through the ring, and gave me very
plainly to understand that this was her cow, and that if I stole any
more milk she would set her equally furious dog, which was barking
loudly at her heels, upon me. The other Mongols urged me to continue,
and soundly rated the old--man, I discovered him to be--on his lack
of hospitality. To them it was a stupendous joke, and so popular did
the incident for the moment make me that I might have milked every cow
in the place after that had I wanted to. My companion, while strongly
condemning my action, drank the milk with keen appreciation--“Adam”!
[Illustration: A RUSSIAN SAMSON SEPARATES THE COMBATANTS]
[Illustration: THE LAMA AND HIS MAIDEN]
In the meantime, Mr. Gull and the Jamschik had fixed up our quarters
for the night. A handsome young lama had pressed the hospitality of
his yourt upon us, and intimated that the only other occupants would
be himself and the maiden who appeared to be attached to him. There
were from thirty to forty yourts on the plain, some clean and
new, others filthy and in the last stage of dilapidation. Ours was
reasonably clean, and the felt, with an effective decoration in black
for a border, was in good condition. As I returned from my milking
exploit, the lama beckoned me to enter, and as I did so, mindful of my
manners, I laid my stick on the roof above the door. To my surprise,
the priest picked it up and brought it inside--he evidently thought
that such a handsome foreign stick would be too great a temptation
to his enemies. A great fire sending forth volumes of smoke was
blazing in the centre of the yourt, and I found my fellow-traveller
suffering greatly in consequence as he struggled with our baggage and
the unpacking of the food box preparatory to the evening meal. We had
arrived at a satisfactory division of labour--the culinary side, which
included “washing up,” fell to my lot, the unpacking, repacking and
cording--which had to be done with great thoroughness--was carried out
by my companion. The great tip in a smoky yourt is to squat on one’s
heels and so keep one’s head out of the smoke which rises at once to
the roof leaving the ground more or less clear.
Half a dozen Mongols besides our host and hostess came and sat on the
opposite side of the yourt as we spread our supper in front of us. They
boiled the water for us and I made tea, when a happy thought struck me.
I poured out two mugs full of tea, added plenty of sugar and milk, and
rising, we handed them respectively to the priest and to the girl.
They were delighted, and the others chortled at the unexpected good
manners of the foreigners. They rose to the occasion at once, poured
the tea from our _mugs_ to their _bowls_ (for which I was thankful),
and, turning to the pail of milk behind them, filled the mugs and gave
them back to us. In phraseology journalistic, “an excellent impression
was produced”.
After supper, in total ignorance as to the rules of procedure for going
to bed in a yourt, we walked about and watched night falling on the
camp. The fierce guard dogs were let loose, and we were left alone
with two or three little lama boys who never ceased pestering us for
cigarettes. Then we turned in; our rugs and waterproof sheeting spread
along the periphery of the yourt in order to catch all the air that was
moving. They had evidently been waiting for us. The lama entered soon
afterwards, and undressing to the extent of only divesting himself of
his long coat and boots disposed himself quite near to my head and was
soon sound asleep. By and by, the little girl crept quietly in, and
pulling off her great boots with their embroidered tops of black and
green, she curled herself round like a kitten at the priest’s feet,
and with sundry little grunts settled down for the night. Shortly
afterwards, the deep silence of the wilds was unbroken save for the
snores of our trusty Jamschik, whose hefty form lay stretched across
the entrance to the yourt.
I lay awake for some time trying to realise the strangeness of my
environment; trying to realise that I had attained the desire of my
heart for the moment--primitive life among an unmistakably primitive
people--realising alas! too well, that the freshness and novelty of all
things wear quickly away in the face of one’s amazing adaptability to
the immediate requirements and realities of life. Then gradually, with
that easy exaggeration that attends the semi-conscious condition, I
dawdled off into the land of the wildest dreams, becoming merged into
that essential factor which is common to all existence, be it primitive
or civilised--sleep.
Dawn broke amazingly soon it seemed to me, and by 5 o’clock we had
spread our breakfast in the pale golden sunshine on the grass outside
the yourt. By degrees the settlement awoke once more. The camp was
alive again. The women drove the flocks hither and thither suckling,
their babies at the same time, astonishingly picturesque in their
wonderful headdresses of hair flattened out into the shape of rams’
horns, finished off with long plaits, at the extremities of which were
suspended coins, as often as not of Russian origin. There was again a
great deal of tearing about on ponies, and one could but admire the
splendid horsemanship as the men sorted out their animals and drove
them to browse upon fresh pastures. After breakfast, I watched our
hostess of the previous night making little cakes of koumiss, which she
did by squeezing the thickened mares’ milk through her grubby little
hands. She presented me with a cake, and watched to see whether or no
I would eat it. As she finished them she placed the cakes on a large
bamboo sieve and put them to dry in the sun on the roof of the yourt.
If one could dissociate the taste from the appearance of the fingers
that had made it, the koumiss was not at all bad, and reminded me
strongly of a certain cheese which, but a few years ago, promised long
life wholesale to mankind on the dictum of a great name in science. I
should have liked to remain there for weeks, and we left the settlement
most reluctantly. That one experience alone made my visit to the East
worth while.