ON THE WAY TO THE RUSSIAN PAMIRS
This Central Asian scenery has a type of its own, quite different from
the Swiss or Caucasian mountain scenes....
Here, though the mountains are higher, the glaciers, owing to the
small snowfall, are much more puny, while below there is a picture of
utter desolation that would be hard to match in any other part of the
world.--ST. GEORGE LITTLEDALE.
At the end of May we found it unpleasantly hot at Kashgar, with a
temperature close on 100 degrees; so, early in June, we decided to
start off on our tour to the Russian Pamirs, that hitherto jealously
guarded district. It was a journey needing a considerable amount of
forethought and preparation, because, once away from the Kashgar oasis,
we should have to depend on what we had brought with us, save in the
case of meat and milk. My brother inspected the tents, saw that a good
supply of tent-pegs and horseshoes was laid in, and arranged for some
eighteen ponies to carry the loads, which included large amounts of
flour and barley. I had to calculate what quantities of tea, sugar,
rice, tinned foods, compressed vegetables, dried fruits, jam, biscuits,
candles, et cetera, would be required for seven weeks, had to make
stout calico bags in which to put them, and had, moreover, to pack my
store-boxes with judgement. For one thing, they must not be too heavy
for the baggage animals, and for another, each box must contain a
complete assortment of stores, in order that only one should need to be
opened when we halted. The question of supplies haunted me for weeks,
so afraid was I of forgetting some indispensable article; but my method
of marking the boxes A, B, and so on, and then entering their contents
in my note-book, proved my salvation later on, and made me realize that
the more trouble one takes beforehand, the more successful a journey is
likely to be. The fruit season had just begun with the apricots, and I
had baskets of these stoned and laid out to dry in the sun on the roof,
while Daoud made jam, salted and potted down butter, and baked bread
and cakes to last for the first ten days. As we should camp at heights
of ten to fourteen thousand feet, I took my warmest winter clothing, a
thick astride habit, leather jacket and fur-lined coat, and ordered an
addition to my bedding in the shape of a thick cotton-padded sleeping
sack. To complete my equipment, Sir Aurel Stein insisted on giving me
a pair of double-lined native boots, a gift that proved invaluable in
camp at night, and my pith helmet and blue gauze veils were equally
necessary to ward off sunstroke and to keep my face from being skinned
when we rode during the heat of the day.
To be perfectly frank, I was by no means easy about this expedition, to
which my brother looked forward with the eagerness of the sportsman. I
have never had a good head for heights or for walking along the edge
of precipices, and from the various books of travel that I had read it
seemed that one ought to be possessed of unusual nerve and agility to
negotiate the passes by which the Roof of the World must be reached.
But I try to make it a rule to see only one lion in my path at a time
and not to waste strength and courage in picturing what may after all
turn out to be imaginary dangers, and naturally my blood was stirred
at the thought that I was about to start upon an adventure vouchsafed
to very few women. The Pamirs had always been a name to conjure with,
and evoked visions of high uplands, galloping Kirghiz, wild sheep with
great curled horns and an almost complete isolation from the world,
and made me ashamed of my twinges of faint-heartedness, which, indeed,
vanished for good and all when once we were on the road.
At last the day of our start arrived. The Russians, who interested
themselves considerably in what they thought was a mad enterprise,
were shocked that we had fixed on a Monday to begin our journey, and
prophesied disaster. I made enquiries as to why this day should be
regarded as a _jour néfaste_, and was told that, as it was the custom,
among the lower classes at all events, to have a drinking-bout on
Sunday, there were usually accidents in plenty on the first day of the
working week. As our servants were all Mohamedans, bound by the tenets
of their religion to touch no alcohol, we were not in danger from this
cause, and the prognostications of our friends did not depress us in
the slightest.
Besides ourselves and the servants, the party included _Khan Sahib_
Iftikhar Ahmad the Head of the office, who was an Indian gentleman
possessed of much varied information, and the sport-loving Indian
Doctor.
Sir Aurel Stein, Mr. Bohlin and a group of _Aksakals_, or British
Agents, whom my brother had just been entertaining on the occasion of
the King’s birthday, rode out with us for two or three miles, their
fine stallions squealing and trying to attack one another at intervals.
When these men, who were clad in brilliantly coloured silk coats and
snowy turbans, left us, we stopped on the bank of the Kizil Su to
have a last cup of tea with our guest, who was staying behind in the
Consulate in order to re-pack his priceless treasures and dispatch them
to India. With the fording of the river I felt that we were really off,
and all my housekeeping anxieties dropped from me like a garment; for,
whatever might be my faults of omission or commission, it was useless
to trouble about them, as I could now do nothing to repair them.
Our way led due south, and there was cultivation during the whole
march, the barley turning yellow, the wheat in ear, and ploughing going
on busily for the autumn crop of Indian corn. I rode astride on a
native saddle. “Tommy,” as I called the sturdy white pony which was to
be my second mount, had an unpleasant trick of stumbling that detracted
from his merits as a steed; yet, to do him justice, he came down only
once, and that was on the last march of the journey, and on a sandy
road without a pebble.
A couple of days of riding and camping brought us to the oasis of
Tashmalik, where we were separated from the cultivated area of Kashgar
by a strip of stony desert varied by sand-dunes. In spite of the
planting of tamarisks and reeds the sand was encroaching on the oasis,
and a house and garden had been lately overwhelmed by this insidious
foe, which the prevailing winds piled up in lofty mounds. Seeing this
we could better understand Sir Aurel Stein’s explorations of cities
that had been buried for centuries in the sand, which had also choked
up the rivers by which their inhabitants had supported life.
The _Beg_ of Tashmalik offered us tea, roast fowl, bread and
hard-boiled eggs. The eggs had been coloured red, because white is the
emblem of mourning in China, and the inhabitants of Turkestan copied
this as well as many other customs from the dominant race. Our old host
partook of tea with us, and I noticed that, when his bowl required
refilling, his servant obligingly drank up what was left and then
poured in fresh liquid and handed it to him.
That night we camped on an open space surrounded by trees and
irrigation channels, and as it was hot we slept _à la belle étoile_
outside our tents. It was delicious to feel the cool night breeze as
I dropped off to sleep, but not so pleasant to wake suddenly in the
dark with the horrible sensation that something large was creeping over
my face. By the dim starlight I saw crawling forms on my bed, and my
torchlight revealed the largest beetles that I have ever seen--and I
have a considerable experience of the cockroach--some reposing on my
pillow and others flying round with a booming noise. How I regretted my
mosquito net! But luckily I had a head-net in my hold-all, and after
shaking off the unwelcome intruders I composed myself to sleep again as
best I could, knowing that I had none too long a night, as I must rise
at four o’clock.
On the third day we rode towards low conglomerate hills with a
background of snowy peaks, and were soon painfully stumbling among the
smooth boulders of the wide bed of the Gez River, which was the crux
of the first part of our journey. In this district no one comments upon
the weather--it is almost monotonously fine during the summer--but
travellers ask one another how high or rather how low the water is. In
our case the answer was important because, if we had arrived too late,
the dangerous Gez River could not have been crossed and we should have
had to make our way over a series of steep passes in the hills.
Fortune favoured us; for the “great water,” which is due about the
middle of June and continues throughout July, had not yet commenced.
But two or three days later the fast melting snows would have swollen
the stream and rendered any crossing impossible: as it was, it was
touch and go once or twice. The next three days were spent in the long
Gez defile, the frowning mountains rising up in many places sheer from
the river-bed and hemming the water within narrower and narrower limits
as we proceeded. I was reminded now and again of the gloomy canyons
of the Fraser River in British Columbia, and all the time the roar of
the water crashing over rocks and boulders rang in our ears. During
each stage we had to ford the river some five or six times, and at
first I had the queer sensation of being carried down-stream, the land
opposite appearing to swim away from me. But, having traversed rivers
in Persia, I knew the danger of becoming giddy and falling helplessly
into the torrent; therefore I kept my eyes on some fixed object and
not on the swirling water, and as I was well looked after and had no
responsibility, I enjoyed the excitement of the crossings. Old Jafar
Bai took one of my reins and my brother’s huntsman, Nadir, rode at my
side to rescue me in case my horse fell, leaving me nothing to do
but to sit in my saddle and urge my steed with voice and whip. The
animal, unaccustomed to deep water, would plunge and stumble as it
tried to make good its footing on the slippery boulders, and now and
again would become nervous, lose its head and attempt to swim. All
around us were struggling horses, whose excited riders without ceasing
yelled at the top of their voices as they drove the baggage animals
before them, and shouted countless directions that could not be heard
above the tumult and hurly-burly of the water as it poured over its
stony bed. I was advised to keep my horse up-stream at first, and when
half-way across to let it go down-stream, and was told that I must on
no account cling to it if it lost its footing and fell, for it would
probably trample upon me in its struggles. Apparently the best thing in
case of an accident was to let myself go with the current and trust to
being rescued. The natives are said to cross rapid rivers in safety,
even when the water reaches to their armpits, by jumping all the
time--a very exhausting method, I should imagine.
[Illustration: FORDING THE GEZ RIVER. _Page 109._]
Though our baggage ponies were lightly laden they seemed at times
almost overwhelmed, but the _Beg_ of Tashmalik and his men who escorted
us, knew the dreaded Gez River in all its moods, and shepherded the
terrified animals most cleverly. At the deepest fords camels were
called into requisition and with much querulous complaining were
forced into the stream with our loads, and on these occasions the
_Beg_ insisted that I should mount his own horse, saying that it was
an expert at negotiating torrents. The lord of this district was a
big, ruddy-faced man, and could hardly take his eyes off the first
Englishwoman he had ever seen, being particularly interested in my
side-saddle, which he thought was a most insecure perch. He looked upon
me as being more or less in his charge, and I heard afterwards that he
had deputed three of his men who were strong swimmers to keep an eye
upon me in case my horse foundered. As a rule the early morning is the
best time to cross these rivers, because no snow melts in the mountains
during the night, when everything is frozen, nor does it do so until
the sun has been up for some hours. Once or twice our baggage animals
were greatly delayed by the water, and on one occasion only our bedding
reached the camping ground, a pasturage dotted with tamarisk scrub.
That night I was roused more than once by some grazing pony lurching
against my bed in the darkness.
The dreary Gez gorge became wilder as we penetrated its recesses. Here
and there rocks and stones were piled one upon another in a chaotic
confusion that gave one a glimpse of the tremendous power of ice and
water, the scenery being so savage as to seem more like a nightmare
than reality. It inspired me with a kind of awe, and I am not ashamed
to own that I should have been terrified to find myself alone in these
solitudes, shut in by the lofty conglomerate hills, above which one
gained occasional glimpses of snowy peaks. The river, beneficent and
life-giving in its lower reaches, is here an agent of destruction,
with not a tree and hardly a plant on its banks; and yet at one of
the gloomiest reaches, when I was filled with a sense of impending
disaster, my mood was changed in a second by the sight of two small
birds pursuing one another in a love flight.
We had to cross several native bridges made on the cantilever system,
and always dismounted, for they swayed from side to side, and our
horses were nervous at first, even when led over them. As the raging
torrent at these points was penned into narrow limits it swirled and
eddied and foamed among the huge boulders below us, and I was thankful
that these bridges had been improved since Lord Dunmore visited the
Pamirs in 1892 and wrote that they consisted of a couple of beams on
which brushwood and large round stones were laid.
When there were no bridges and the water was too deep for our horses
we were obliged to negotiate various passes. In these the narrow
track, with only room for one animal abreast, was often formed of
loose shale, which here and there poured down the mountain side in big
fans, the shingle rustling as it fell on to our path and descended
the precipitous cliffs to the torrent surging far below. I did not
appreciate my pony’s fondness for treading on the extreme edge of the
track and sending showers of tiny pebbles hurtling down; but as it
would have been a physical impossibility for me to have walked up all
these passes--I always descended them on foot--I used to console myself
with the reflection that our horses were by no means anxious to commit
suicide.
At the end of the gorge, dome-shaped Muztagh Ata, with its covering of
snow, stood up magnificently, seeming to block up the end of the narrow
valley, and from that moment it entered into my life, so familiar
did it become to me and so greatly did I admire it. Sandy tracks now
led us to the shallow Bulunkul Lake, more than half-filled with sand
blown from the hills that encircle it, and we halted on a stretch of
pasturage on which yaks were grazing, and were glad to think that a
critical part of our journey was safely accomplished.
It may be of interest if I give some account of how we travelled during
this tour. The rule was to rise at 5 A.M., if not earlier, and I would
hastily dress and then emerge from my tent to lay my pith-hat, putties,
gloves and stick beside the breakfast table spread in the open. Diving
back into my tent I would put the last touches to the packing of
hold-all and dressing-case, Jafar Bai and his colleague Humayun being
busy meanwhile in tying up my bedstead and bedding in felts. While
the tents were being struck we ate our breakfast in the sharp morning
air, adjusted our putties, applied face-cream to keep our skins from
cracking in the intense dryness of the atmosphere, and then would watch
our ponies, yaks or camels as the case might be, being loaded up. These
last-mentioned ungainly creatures used to cry and protest all the time,
giving their owners as much trouble as possible before they could be
induced to lie down, and occasionally throwing off their burdens. A
baby-camel being of the party during part of our journey, its mother
greatly resented being made to work, and all the animals were shedding
their winter coats, the fur hanging on their bodies in loose, untidy
patches. My chief objection to the camel is its disagreeable odour, and
I have often wondered why an animal that is such a clean feeder should
smell so horribly.
When the loads were at last adjusted and the caravan was ready to
start, we would mount our horses, or one of our men would lead them
behind us while we walked for an hour before we began to ride. As
we had three horses between us, I usually rode half the stage on my
side-saddle if the going were good, and the other half on Tommy with a
native saddle which had a cushion strapped on to it, and I found that
the change of seat kept me from getting overtired, while my astride
habit did for either mode.
We usually marched for five hours and then halted for lunch, waiting
until our caravan had overtaken and passed us. Sattur, who accompanied
us on his pony, would unpack his tiffin basket, and we would lie by the
water, in the shade of a tree if possible, as the sun by noon was very
powerful. When the worst of the heat was over, and our baggage animals
had been given an hour’s start, we would ride another three or four
hours into camp, to revel in afternoon tea and warm baths, I having an
extra treat in the brushing out of my hair, so hastily done up in the
morning. Then would come a consultation with Daoud as to our evening
meal, and one of the store boxes would be opened to give out everything
needed for it and for the morrow’s breakfast and lunch. After dinner
we usually strolled up and down for an hour, warmly wrapped up--for
it became very cold when the sun went down--and then turned in to
dreamless slumbers.
From Lake Bulunkul and onwards we saw a great deal of the Kirghiz, and,
though travellers differ as to their opinion of these peaceful pastoral
people, we ourselves liked them and found them most friendly and
hospitable. Their broad hairless faces and high cheek-bones show their
Mongol descent, but though akin to the yellow-skinned, oblique-eyed
Chinese, they look very different, and both men and women have fresh
ruddy complexions.
We first camped with them at a spot called “Stone Sheep-folds,” from
the presence of a roughly walled enclosure into which the flocks
were driven at night to be guarded from the wolves by the savage
Kirghiz dogs. As we rode across a wide grassy plain towards a group of
_akhois_, the native dwellings that look like huge bee-hives, it was
the hour of the afternoon milking, and Kirghiz women in gaily coloured
coats, long leather boots and the characteristic lofty white headgear,
were busily at work. They had tied the sheep and the goats and the
black, brown or particoloured yaks to long ropes and let the animals go
free one by one when they had been milked, a loud chorus of bleating
and grunting going on all the time. Troops of mares, accompanied by
their foals, were feeding all round the camp, and our Badakshani horses
were excited to such an extent that the chestnut had to be blindfolded
in order to quiet him; and throughout the tour I had often from
this cause an unpleasantly lively time with my grey, which had been
imperturbable when at Kashgar.
It was mid-June, but a high wind was blowing and drove the sand in
clouds from the hills, invading the little tent, in which I could not
stand upright save in the centre, and whisking up its flaps. As I could
not perform my toilet unless I fastened up the entrance, I had to grope
for everything in almost total darkness, and though the space was
extremely limited, it was surprising how easily things got mislaid. My
tent was still less desirable as a residence when it rained, as after
a while tiny streams would begin to trickle down inside at the points
where my camp furniture touched the walls, and my belongings--most of
them perforce on the ground--got damp and clammy. Of course a large
tent with talc windows is very comfortable--with certain exceptions;
but we had heard so much about the storms that sweep over the Pamirs
that we had taken only small ones on this expedition.
At our next halt, Kuntigmas, meaning “the place that the sun cannot
reach,” I was provided with an _akhoi_ all to myself. Indeed, I always
dwelt in these roomy “white houses” whenever possible. They are usually
eighteen feet in diameter, the same size as the Turkoman _kibitkas_
in the north of Persia, and the framework of willow-wood is a trellis
about four feet high, which pulls out and is placed on the ground in
a circle. To the upper edge of this a series of curved laths are tied
about a foot apart, the other end of these laths being inserted into
the holes of a thick wooden hoop that forms the top of the dome-like
erection. Large felts are now fastened with ropes over the _akhoi_,
leaving free the opening at the top to admit light and air--also rain
and snow on occasion--and to let out the smoke of the fires. In case of
really bad weather a felt can be drawn over the circular opening, and
again withdrawn, on the same principle as the ventilation arrangements
in some of the London theatres. A wooden framework, often prettily
carved, is placed between the two ends of the trellis-work to serve as
a doorway, and is hung with a piece of matting and a felt or carpet.
Inside, the framework is completely covered with felts, and along the
top of the trellis I noticed throughout our tour an effective finish
in the shape of a band of red felt with a blue floriated pattern that
passed half-way round the _akhoi_, the other half being decorated with
the same design, but with the colours reversed.
These dwellings can be purchased for £7 (a Chinese _yambu_), but those
of superior quality often go up to £35 in price. The earthen floor is
beaten hard and covered with carpets, a depression being left in the
centre for the fire. Some of the old carpets were very pleasing, with
their soft madders and indigoes and greens, a favourite design being
conventionalized flowers; but alas, most of them were badly burnt by
the sparks that had leapt on to them from the brushwood used to start
the fires. The Kirghiz of to-day does not appreciate their velvety
sheen, but loves the modern Khotan productions, with their crude
scarlets, purples, yellows and magentas all introduced into the same
pattern in a series of violent colour discords.
All travellers speak of the _akhoi_ with esteem, and I was always
grateful for its space, and, in fine weather, for its comfort, although
during snow and rain I found that it had some drawbacks. For example,
the hole at the top let in much wet, but if the felt were drawn across
it I was deprived of light, and if I rolled up my entrance carpet I had
no privacy and was exposed to violent draughts, as the walls were by no
means airproof. The felts that covered them were so full of holes that
on a rainy day one had to use much discrimination as to where to put
one’s belongings in order to keep them comparatively dry, and on more
than one occasion I have slept with my mackintosh drawn up over my head
in order to prevent the rain from splashing on my face during the night.
There is little in the way of “furniture” in these dwellings save
picturesquely shaped copper jugs in which water is boiled, a few copper
pots and basins used for cooking and as receptacles for milk, and
some rough wooden buckets. On one occasion we were ushered into an
_akhoi_ to eat our lunch out of the glare of the sun, and had ensconced
ourselves on a rug, at one end of which was a bundle of cotton-padded
quilts. Jafar Bai warned us that a small boy was sleeping under them,
and it was just as well that he did so, as we might easily have sat
upon him. The child moaned and coughed, and then, hearing strange
voices, began to cry with terror and made violent efforts to get free
of his coverings, under which he could hardly have breathed. We sent
for his mother, but she was too shy to make her appearance, so her
eldest son, attired in a long green coat, ventured in and carried off
his frightened little brother.
We were now and onwards camping at a height of eleven to fourteen
thousand feet, and when there was no sunshine it was disagreeably cold
and raw, despite the season of the year. We were held up for a couple
of days by snow soon after we left Kuntigmas, and as a Kirghiz woman
had washed our underclothing just before the weather broke, I had a
fire lit in my _akhoi_ both to keep myself warm and to dry the wet
garments. Nadir was an expert in lighting these fires, and brought
in an armful of wild lavender and a basket of cakes of _argon_, the
dried dung of the yak, the only fuel obtainable in this part of the
world, where trees are conspicuous by their absence. He squatted on
the ground, set light to the brushwood, and piled the fuel in a bank
round it, manipulating it with a pair of tongs and coaxing the fire to
burn with the aid of an ingenious pair of bellows made from a whole
goatskin. At first the result was a cloud of acrid smoke that made my
eyes smart and shed floods of involuntary tears; the only way to avoid
this ordeal being to sit on the ground _à la nomade_. After a while
the smoke ceased and left a clear red fire that gave out considerable
heat, but turned to ashes so soon that I wondered whether it was worth
all the trouble it took to make. Certainly it was of practically no use
in drying our extensive wash, which had to be carried along in its wet
condition until the sun appeared again.
Whenever we stopped at these Kirghiz encampments, the principal women
would come to visit me, bringing usually an offering of a kind of puff
pastry the size of a plate, made with cream, very crisp and rich,
layer above layer, and about three inches thick: my gifts in return
were gaily coloured handkerchiefs and strings of coral beads, both of
which gave great satisfaction. As my guests entered the _akhoi_ they
would kick off the low shoes that men and women alike wear over their
long leather boots, and would seat themselves on the floor, looking
picturesque in their flowered chintz coats padded with cotton and their
curious turban-like headgear that is formed by winding muslin on a
wooden frame and is laid aside in the privacy of their own homes. All
wore roughly made, but effective-looking, necklaces of coral and silver
with long pendants, and had silver clasps and buttons on their coats.
Some of them had beautifully embroidered caps bordered with silver
buttons and ending in bossed chains which hung over their ears, this
headgear being worn under the turbans.
[Illustration: KIRGHIZ WOMEN IN GALA DRESS. _Page 118._]
The elder women were hard-featured and weather-beaten, a natural
consequence of their exposure to all sorts of climatic conditions,
but some of the young girls were rosy-cheeked and attractive-looking,
despite their flat faces and rather snub noses. Old Jafar Bai and
Nadir were very useful in helping to entertain my guests, translating
my Persian remarks into Turki, and the ladies enjoyed drinking tea
sweetened with many lumps of sugar instead of the customary salt, and
eating European biscuits and sweetmeats. Before leaving they would
gather up any sugar and eatables that were left, packing them away in
the cloth wound round their waists or in a breast-pocket of their thick
outer coats. They struck me as being very pleasant and easy-tempered
with one another, and when they took their leave with profuse salaams
they would thank me most politely for the entertainment.
I believe that the Kirghiz women have a better position than their
Mohamedan sisters in other parts of the world; yet their lives are
strenuous and filled with unceasing work. As women are in a decided
minority in the Pamirs they are valuable, and a man possessed of
several daughters counts himself rich indeed. A suitor for the hand
of one of them induces three of the chief men of the tribe to bargain
with the fortunate father, and I was told that a hundred sheep or
five Chinese _yambus_ (£35) is a moderate price to pay for a bride.
At one of our camps, for example, the headman was pointed out to
me as having produced money and stock to the value of £500 for his
unprepossessing-looking wife. On the other hand, the girl brings
with her a dowry of camels, horses, yaks, clothes and jewellery that
is supposed to equal in value what her father has received from the
bridegroom.
A wedding entails but slight expense as compared with a funeral, the
father merely giving a big feast to the whole tribe, and this does not
seriously embarrass him as it is customary for the guests to present
gifts in kind to the bridegroom, who is expected to hand them over to
his future father-in-law.
Miss Czaplicka writes that as a rule a man pays for his bride by
instalments and does not visit the residence of her parents until the
first lot of live-stock has been delivered to her father. On this
occasion the future husband is not allowed to see his _inamorata_, and
neither bridegroom nor bride makes an appearance at the wedding-feast.
Late at night the _jinai_, or female matchmakers, conduct the young
couple separately to the _akhoi_ of the bride’s parents, the girl
making a feint of resisting and the _jinai_ pretending to hinder the
husband by barking like dogs. The bridegroom goes off early the next
morning and avoids his parents-in-law for the whole day, and when he
has paid the full price for his wife he carries her off with a show of
force, which she plays up to by pretending to resist the attempt to
take her to a new home.
It happens sometimes that a man does not possess enough live-stock to
purchase a wife, in which case he will enter into an agreement with
his would-be father-in-law to serve him and look after his flocks for
a term of years, just as did Jacob many centuries ago in order to gain
the hand of Rachel. He is allowed to marry the girl of his choice and
lives with her family during his service, at the end of which her
father will give him an _akhoi_, yaks, mares, sheep and goats, and
the couple will go off and live independently of the old people. My
brother’s best Kirghiz _shikari_, Shamshir by name, confided to him
that he was most anxious to marry, but so far he had only gathered
together thirty sheep towards the realization of his heart’s desire.
However, his hard case so touched his employer’s heart that, when
we left the district, Shamshir received a parting gift that would
appreciably hasten the wedding-day.
There is practically no divorce among the Kirghiz, marriage being
looked upon as permanent. A wife is considered to belong to her
husband’s family and lives with them if she becomes a widow, and in
the event of her remarriage she is obliged to forgo the dowry that
she brought to her first husband. Mohamedans are permitted to have
four wives, but, owing to the scarcity of women, few Kirghiz can avail
themselves of this privilege, though a man occasionally takes a second
wife at the urgent request of his first one.
Certainly a good wife must be “above rubies” to a Kirghiz. She looks
after the flocks and herds more or less, does all the milking, makes
cream, curds, cheese and _koumiss_, cooks the food, fashions clothes
for herself and her family, and of course has to rear her children.
Besides all this, she is skilled in weaving felts with which to cover
the _akhois_, and the effective embroideries that adorn them are the
work of her hands, as are also the coarse but pleasing carpets. I have
seen her staggering along under the big bundle of laths that form the
framework of the “white house,” and she lends a hand to its erection
and ties on its felt coverings. Her lord and master has often filled
me with indignation by standing idly by and looking on at his wife’s
labours.
Though the women are almost as good riders as the men, they ride only
for the practical purposes of travelling from camp to camp or herding
the mares and cattle. Recreation, as we understand it, does not come
much into their lives, and when guests have to be entertained, or
feasts are given, they have to work harder than usual at the cooking.
In fact I was not surprised to hear that when he recounts his
possessions a Kirghiz will mention his camels, yaks, horses, sheep and
goats first, relegating wife and children to the end of the list.
The man’s part in life struck me as being by far the easier one. He
rides about on his wiry ponies, attends all the wedding and funeral
feasts in the district, loves to play the “goat game,” and will drive
his yaks and sheep into Kashgar to sell, if he is in need of flour,
clothing or boots. He is too wise to wed the pretty Kashgari girls, who
would be utterly useless and out of their element in an _akhoi_, nor do
the active, weather-beaten maidens of his tribe hanker after the life
of the city.
In the different encampments that we visited children were often
conspicuous by their absence, and I was told that most of those born
during the long winter succumb to the rigours of the climate, a large
proportion of infants being stillborn from the same cause. Smallpox
also carries off many, and although the health of the Kirghiz is, as
a rule, excellent, they die very easily if they fall ill, there being
no doctor on the Pamirs, or any knowledge of the rudiments of nursing.
It seems a case of the survival of the fittest; for I have never come
across sturdier, hardier-looking men and women than those I encountered
during our tour. They live almost entirely on milk, curds and cheese,
killing their flocks for food only when milk is scarce or guests
arrive, or for wedding and funeral feasts. Their favourite drink is
_koumiss_, the fermented milk of mares. One sip of this was enough for
me, as I found it so acid and smoky that I had no desire to repeat
the experiment. Bread, sugar and tea are luxuries, and, as they grow
nothing save a little barley in places, they never taste either fruit
or vegetables; but they certainly thrive on their milk diet. The best
milk comes from the yaks. These sturdy animals looked very dishevelled
at this season, as their shaggy hair was coming off in patches. They
are far hardier than cows, and, though their yield is less, the milk is
much richer and is yielded over a longer period.
Neither my brother nor I derived much benefit from the limitless
quantities of milk and cream that we saw at the encampments. The
Kirghiz boil the milk in open vessels, with the result that it always
tasted so strongly of the pungent smoke that we found junkets and
milk puddings quite uneatable. Moreover, they are in the habit of
manipulating the cream with their hands, both these and the bowls
being very far from clean. Only twice were we offered cream that was
smokeless and white, and this we found delicious.
The yaks--black, brown, grey or black and white--are of two species,
those carrying big branching horns and those without any. They are
strong and remarkably sure-footed, though slow, and we used them often
for pack work. The curious single grunt which they emit at frequent
intervals earns them their scientific name of _Bos grunniens_. It was
frequently my fate when camping to have a yak ensconced somewhere
outside my _akhoi_, separated from me only by a felt, so that it
seemed as if it were literally grunting into my ear during the night.
They appeared to be very docile to their owners, but sometimes took
a violent dislike to Europeans, as my brother once experienced to
his cost in Ladak, when he was chased by a black bull and escaped
with considerable difficulty. The Kirghiz are on the most familiar
terms with their animals. I often found a crowd of lambs and kids
behind a screen in an _akhoi_, or struggling to emerge from some hole
underground, and if I rolled up my hanging door I was frequently
visited by the most engaging kids, only too ready to make friends with
the intruder. I was told that the Kirghiz keep cocks in order that the
birds may rouse their owners at daybreak, but we ourselves came across
no poultry during our travels among these nomads.
Washing is not a Kirghiz characteristic, and, indeed, in a country
where the rivers are partly ice-bound in July one could hardly
expect the inhabitants to be fond of bathing. They must find the
long winter with its bitter winds very trying, even in their lowest
grazing-grounds. The flocks scrape away the snow with their hoofs in
order to find the grass underneath, but are in extremely poor condition
before the approach of spring, and have to be carefully guarded from
the depredations of snow-leopards, wild dogs and wolves. These last
come round in packs and lie in wait, watching their opportunity; on
one occasion Nadir lost eighty of his sheep in the full daylight of
a winter morning. His brother, who was in charge of the flock, went
to his _akhoi_ for a short time, leaving a small boy and his savage
dogs in charge. As soon as he was out of sight the wolves set upon the
sheep, killing them one after the other in a kind of orgy of bloodshed,
and paying no heed whatever to the dogs, which were powerless to
prevent the slaughter. Many of the sheep fled into the hills in
their terror, and Nadir recovered very few of them.
[Illustration: LOADING UP THE YAKS. _Page 124._]
Iftikhar Ahmad related to me how once a large and exceptionally savage
dog that he possessed was killed by a couple of wolves. They stalked
the dog, one getting in front of it and one behind, and, while it stood
undecided which foe to attack first, one of the wolves rushed at it
with tremendous force and threw it down. In less time than it takes to
relate, the victim was torn asunder, and the conquerors made off, each
carrying half of the spoils of victory.
The tribesmen keep their _akhois_ warm in winter by banking snow round
them, closing up all interstices and crowding together; for fires
cannot be used indiscriminately, the supply of _argon_ being by no
means unlimited.
Though the Kirghiz nominally follow the religion of the Prophet and
are Sunnis, they pay little heed to its observances beyond keeping the
fast of Ramazan; but this is not to be wondered at, since they have few
_mullas_ to show them the right path. When they die they are buried
in a little cemetery belonging to the tribe, and usually situated
on the side of a hill. Low mud domes, looking much like _akhois_ in
the distance, are placed over the remains of men of importance; and
when these latter die, their relatives invite the tribe to great
feasts and also organize horseraces, in which the winners are awarded
handsome prizes. The idea is that the dead men are giving these lavish
entertainments in order to disperse the wealth which they need no
longer, the Kirghiz not being concerned to “lay up riches for those
that shall come after.”
Here and there we came across the tomb of a _sayyid_, the mud dome
enclosed by a rough stone wall, on which were set poles hung with
fluttering rags. One such dome was erected over a mighty hunter, and
the _shikaris_ had hung it round with horns of the wild sheep and were
in the habit of depositing pinches of gunpowder on the grave, in order
that the departed Nimrod might give them success in the chase. These
primitive monuments are the only buildings that we came across during
our tour.
The headman of a tribe or district is called a _Beg_, and in Chinese
Turkestan, in the uplands of which we travelled at first, he is
put in authority by the _Amban_, to whom he gives a gift for the
honour, recouping himself afterwards by taking a fortieth part of
the flocks and herds of the families in his charge. These officials
were most helpful to us, arranging for transport--usually the great
stumbling-block of travellers in Central Asia--sending men on ahead to
prepare _akhois_ for us, accompanying my brother and treating us as
honoured guests when we passed through their districts. One of these
hosts was an officer in Chinese employ, and said that he had a force of
thirty-two men under his orders. The truth was that the _Amban_ drew
pay for thirty-two soldiers and gave our friend the money for _eight_.
He in his turn economized by paying _three_ soldiers, his wife and
children figuring as the remaining _five_.
A _choga_ or “robe of honour” was usually presented to the _Beg_
when we left his district, and the man would kneel to receive the
brilliantly coloured coat, and make the gesture of passing his
hands across his face, which was meant to signify his humility in
the presence of my brother. Then, calling out, “_Allah Ho Akbar_,”
he would spring to his feet and rush off in high glee to show his
“decoration”--for so he regarded it--to the men of his tribe.
During the first days of our arrival on these uplands we had
disagreeable weather, although it was mid-June. Sometimes there was
driving rain and snow of exceptionally melting quality, and when it was
dry the high winds blew up the sand in great clouds. Once or twice,
after starting off on a fine morning, we were forced at the end of
the march to make a hurried rush to the encampment at which we were
to halt, in order to avoid an imminent dust-storm, the excited horses
racing across ground so boggy that on ordinary occasions we should have
negotiated it with care. At intervals we could hear what I imagined
to be peals of thunder, but was in reality the roar of avalanches as
they slid down the sides of the snow-clad mountains that were almost
hidden by the dust haze. We were delayed in one place for a couple of
days, as the local _Beg_ said that the heavy rain had made the going
too bad for our baggage-camels, and a very damp and chilly wait it was.
If we ventured outside our _akhois_ we were drenched to the skin, with
no means of drying ourselves save by the inadequate fires that I have
described. I was delighted when the sun reappeared, and, as we started
off, the _Beg’s_ wife came to bid me a most kindly farewell and to wish
me good luck on the road; and throughout the journey the chief woman of
every camp always took a particular interest in my welfare.
We left the grazing ground beside the river and ascended a broad,
barren valley leading into a range of low bare hills which we crossed
by easy passes, and for a couple of days travelled through a stony
desolation among brown hills crested with snow. There was barely a
sign of life to be seen save once, when a butterfly fluttered feebly
among the boulders and _débris_ through which the track lay, and I
wondered how the poor insect could survive, as we were some miles from
vegetation of any kind. There were often little flowers in abundance
on the grassy banks of the streams, and I noted two or three varieties
of primulas, some tiny and of palest mauve, while others, big and
lusty, were of a dark tint. The buttercups and a small cistus spread
themselves in golden patches, crimson lousewort flushed the ground, and
I was sorry to have no acquaintance with scores of low-growing plants
that were bursting into minute cream, yellow or purple blossoms. The
whole flora was Alpine, and reminded me of the beautiful display that
I had often enjoyed in Switzerland; but here the gentians were either
white or a pale blue.
At times we enjoyed superb views of the great snow-clad peaks towards
which we were travelling, and these visions of remote and unearthly
beauty compensated for the weary miles of stumbling over rounded
boulders and pebbles. We were only able to go at a foot’s pace.
The horses disliked the journey more than we did, because they got
footsore; and Jafar Bai had to keep a vigilant eye upon their shoes, as
the nails had a habit of dropping out.
On June 18 we camped, at a height of 13,000 feet, below the Katta
Dawan, or Great Pass, by crossing which we should leave Chinese
Turkestan and reach the Russian Pamirs, the goal of our journey.