THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT.
"The _Chil menzili Turkestan_, or the Forty Stations across the
desert of Turkestan," I often heard my friends say, "are far more
troublesome and much more difficult to get over than the _Chil
menzili Arabistan_, or the Forty Stations on the Pilgrims' route
from Damascus to Mecca. On this last one finds every day fresh
cisterns, which furnish drinkable water for thousands; the pilgrim
is sure to get fresh bread, a good dish of pilaw or meat, cool
shade, and all the comforts he longs for after the exhausting
day's march. But on the former route, man has done nothing for the
support of the poor traveller. He is in constant danger of dying
from thirst, of being murdered, of being sold as a slave, of being
robbed, or of being buried alive under the burning sand-storm.
Well-filled water-skins and flour sacks, the best horses and arms,
often become useless, and there is nothing left to one but to strive
to get forward as fast as possible, while invoking the name of
Allah."
The readers of my "Travels in Central Asia," may be supposed to
have some idea of the awfully imposing journey from Persia to
the oasis-lands of Turkestan. I may here furnish a few additional
particulars about the experience of our caravan. I have several
times been blamed for being too concise to be graphic, and this
charge, I confess, is not altogether undeserved. I propose here to
make up for my faults of omission.
During the first three days' march, the impressive, endless silence
of the desert--a silence as of the grave--cast a most powerful
spell over my soul. Often did I stare vacantly for hours, my eyes
fixed on the distance before me, and as my companions believed me
to be sunk in religious meditations, I was very seldom disturbed.
I only half observed how, during the march, certain members of
our caravan nodded in sleep on the backs of their camels, and by
their ludicrous movements and sudden starts afforded our company
exquisite amusement. Any one overcome with sleep would lay hold of
the high pummel of the saddle with both his hands, but this did not
prevent him from either, with a forward lurch, knocking his chin
with such force that all his teeth chattered, or, by a backward
one, threatening to fall with a summersault to the ground. Indeed
this last often happened, arousing the hearty laughter of the whole
party. The fallen became the hero of the day, and had to support the
most galling fire of jokes on his awkwardness.
The most inexhaustible fountain of cheerfulness was a young
Turkoman, named Niyazbirdi, who possessed no less liveliness of
spirits than agility of body, and by every word and movement
contrived to draw laughter from the most venerable of the Mollahs.
Although he was owner of several laden camels, he was, nevertheless,
for the most part, accustomed to go on foot; and running now right,
now left, he alarmed by cries or gestures any group of wild asses
that showed themselves along our route. Once, indeed, he succeeded
in getting hold of a young wild ass, which, through fatigue, had
loitered behind the rest. The young shy creature was led along by a
rope, and was the occasion of really droll scenes, when its lucky
captor gave a prize of three spoonfuls of sheeps-tail fat to any one
who dared to mount it. Three spoonfuls of mutton fat is a tempting
prize for Hadjis in the desert, so that many were seduced by the
prospect of gaining it. Nevertheless, they could make nothing of
this uncivilized brother of Balaam's charger, for the unfortunate
Hadjis had no sooner seated themselves on its back than they were
stretched sprawling in the sand.
Only after a march of several hours is general weariness to be
remarked. All eyes are then turned towards the _Kervan bashi_,
whose gaze at such a time wanders in every direction to spy out
a suitable halting place, that is to say, one which will afford
most plentiful fodder for the camels. No sooner has he found such,
than he himself hastens towards it, while the younger members of
the caravan disperse themselves to right and left to collect dried
roots, or scrub, or other fuel. Dismounting, unpacking, and settling
down, is the work of a few moments. The hope of much-desired rest
restores the exhausted strength. With speed the ropes are slackened,
with speed the heaviest bales of merchandize are piled up in little
heaps, in whose shade the wearied traveller is accustomed to stretch
himself. Scarcely have the hungry camels betaken themselves to
their pasture-ground when a solemn stillness fills the caravan.
This stillness is, I may say, a sort of intoxication, for every one
revels in the enjoyment of rest and refreshment.
The picture of a newly-encamped caravan in the summer months, and on
the steppes of Central Asia, is a truly interesting one. While the
camels, in the distance but still in sight, graze greedily, or crush
the juicy thistles, the travellers, even the poorest among them,
sit with their tea-cups in their hands and eagerly sip the costly
beverage. It is nothing more than a greenish warm water, innocent of
sugar, and often decidedly turbid; still human art has discovered no
food, has invented no nectar, which is so grateful, so refreshing
in the desert, as this unpretending drink. I have still a vivid
recollection of its wonder-working effects. As I sipped the first
drops a soft fire filled my veins, a fire which enlivened without
intoxicating. The later draughts affected both heart and head; the
eye became peculiarly bright and began to gleam. In such moments I
felt an indescribable rapture and sense of comfort. My companions
sank in sleep; I could keep myself awake and dream with open eyes.
After the tea has restored their strength the caravan becomes
gradually busier and noisier. They eat in groups or circles which
are here called _kosh_, which represent the several houses of the
wandering town. Everywhere there is something to be done, and
everywhere it is the younger men who are doing it, while their
elders are smoking. Here they are baking bread. A Hadji in rags is
actively kneading the black dough with dirty hands. He has been so
engaged for half an hour, and still his hands are not clean, for
_one_ mass of dough cannot absorb the accumulations of several days.
There they are cooking. In order to know what is being cooked, it is
not necessary to look round. The smell of mutton-fat, but especially
the aroma, somewhat too piquant, of camel or horse-cutlets, tells
its own tale. Nor have the dishes when cooked anything inviting to
the eye. But in the desert a man does not disturb himself about such
trifles. An enormous appetite covers a multitude of faults, and
hunger is notoriously the best of sauces.
Nor are amusements wanting in the caravan-camp when the halt is
somewhat prolonged. The most popular recreation is shooting at a
mark, in which the prize is always a certain quantity of powder
and shot. This sort of diversion was very seldom possible in our
caravan, as on account of our small numbers we were in continual
danger, and had therefore to make ourselves heard as little as
possible. My comrades were accustomed to pass their leisure time in
reading the Koran, in performance of other religious exercise, in
sleeping, or in attending to their toilet. I say "toilet," but it
is to be hoped that no one will here understand the word to imply a
boudoir, delicate perfumes, or artistical aids. The Turkomans are
accustomed to pluck out the hair of the beard with small pincers. As
to the toilet of the Hadjis, and, indeed, my own, it is so simple
and so prosaic as to be scarcely worth alluding to. The necessary
requisites were sand, fire, and ants. The manner of application I
leave as a riddle for the reader to solve.
Certainly, of all the nations of Asia, the Tartar seems to fit in
most appropriately with the bizarre picture of desert life. Full
of superstition, and a blind fatalist, he can easily support the
constant dread of danger. Dirt, poverty and privations, he is
accustomed to, even at home. No wonder, then, that he sits content
in clothes which have not been changed for months, and with a crust
of dirt on his face. This inner peace of mind could never become a
matter of indifference to me. At evening prayers, in which the whole
company took part, this peace of mind struck me most forcibly. They
thanked God for the benefits they enjoyed. On such occasions the
whole caravan formed itself into a single line, at whose head stood
an imâm, who turned towards the setting sun and led the prayers.
The solemnity of the moment was increased by the stillness which
prevailed far and wide; and if the rays of the sinking sun lit up
the faces of my companions, so wild yet withal so well satisfied,
they seemed to be in the possession of all earthly good, and had
nothing left them to wish. Often I could not help thinking what
would these people feel if they found themselves leaning against the
comfortable cushions of a first-class railway carriage, or amid the
luxuries of a well-appointed hotel. How distant, how far distant are
the blessings of civilization from these countries!
So much for the life of the caravan by day. By night the desert is
more romantic, but at the same time more dangerous. As the power
of sight is now limited, the circle of safety is contracted to
the most immediate neighbourhood; and both during the march and
in the encampment every one tries to keep as close as possible to
his fellows. By day the caravan consisted of but one long chain;
by night this is broken up into six or eight smaller ones, which,
marching close together, form a compact square, of which the outmost
lines are occupied by the stoutest and boldest. By moonlight the
shadow of the camels as they stalk along produces a curious and
impressive effect. During the dark starless night everything is full
of horror, and to go one step distant from the side of the caravan
is equivalent to leaving the home circle to plunge into a desolate
solitude. In the halt by day each one occupies whichever place may
please him best. At night, on the contrary, a compact camp is formed
under the direction of the _Kervan bashi_. The bales of goods are
heaped up in the middle; around them lie the men; while without, as
a wall of defence, the camels are laid, tightly packed together, in
a circle. I say laid, for these wonderful animals squat down at the
word of command, remain the whole night motionless in their place,
and, like children, do not get up the next morning until they are
told to do so. They are placed with their heads pointing outward
and their tails inward, for they perceive the presence of any enemy
from far, and give the alarm by a dull rattle in the throat, so that
even in their hours of repose they do duty as sentinels. Those who
sleep within the _rayon_ find themselves in immediate contact with
these beasts, and, as is well known, they have not the pleasantest
smell. It often happens that the saline fodder and water which these
animals feed upon produce palpable consequences for such as sleep
in their immediate neighbourhood. I myself often woke up with such
frescoes. But no one takes any notice of such things, for who could
be angry with these animals, who, although ugly in appearance, are
so patient, so temperate, so good-tempered, and so useful?
It is no wonder that the wanderers over the desert praise the camel
as surpassing all other beasts of the field, and even love it with
an almost adoring affection. Nourished on a few thorns and thistles,
which other quadrupeds reject, it traverses the wastes for weeks,
nay, often for months together. In these dreary, desolate regions,
the existence of man depends upon that of the camel. It is, besides,
so patient and so obedient that a child can with one "_tshukh_"
make a whole herd of these tall strong beasts kneel down, and with
a "_berrr_" get up again. How much could I not read in their large
dark blue eyes! When the march is too long or the sand too deep,
they are accustomed to express their discomfort and weariness.
This is especially when they are being laden, if too heavy bales
are piled upon their backs. Bending under the burden, they turn
their heads round towards their master; in their eyes gleam tears,
and their groans, so deep, so piteous, seem to say, "Man, have
compassion upon us!"
Except during a particular season of the year, when through the
operation of the laws of nature it is in a half-intoxicated,
half-stupefied condition, the camel has always a striking impression
of seriousness. It is impossible not to recognise in its features
the Chaldee-aramæan type, and in whatever portions of the earth he
may be found at the present day, his original home is unquestionably
Mesopotamia and the Arabian desert. The Turkomans disturb this
serious expression of countenance by the barbarous manner in which
they arrange the leading-rope through the bored nose. With the
string hanging down to the chest, the camel resembles an European
dandy armed with his lorgnon. Both of them hold their heads high in
the air, and both are alike led by the nose.
As the word of command to encamp is enlivening and acceptable, so
grievous, so disturbing, is the signal for getting ready to start.
The _Kervan bashi_ is the first to rouse himself. At his call
or sign all prepare for the journey. Even the poor camels in the
pastures understand it, and often hasten without being driven to
the caravan; nay, what is more extraordinary, they place themselves
close to the bales of merchandize with which they were before
laden, or the persons who were mounted on them. In a quarter of an
hour everybody has found his place in the line of march. At the
halting-place there remains nothing but a few bones, gnawed clean,
and the charred traces of the improvised hearths. These marks of
human life in the desert often disappear as quickly as they were
produced; sometimes, however, they are preserved through climatic
accidents for a long time; and succeeding travellers are cheered by
falling in with these abandoned fireplaces. The black charred spot
seems to their eyes like a splendid _caravanserai_, and the thought
that here human beings have been, that here life once was active,
makes even the vast solitude of the desert more like home.
Speaking of these spots where a fire has been kindled, I am reminded
of those vast burnt plains, often many days' march in extent, which
I met with in the desert between Persia and Khiva, and of which I
heard so many wonderful tales from the mouths of the nomads. During
the hot season of the year, when the scorching sun has dried shrubs
and grass till they have become like tinder, it often happens that
a spark, carelessly dropped, and fanned by the wind, will set the
steppe on fire. The flame, finding ever fresh fuel, spreads with
such fearful rapidity that a man on horseback can with difficulty
escape. It rolls over the scanty herbage like an overflowing stream,
and, when it meets with thicket and shrubs, it flares up with wild
wrath. Thus traversing large tracts of country in a short time, its
raging course can only be checked by a river or a lake. At night
such conflagrations must present a terrible appearance, when far and
wide the horizon is lit up with a sea of flame. Even the bravest
heart loses its courage at the appalling sight. The cowardly and
hesitating are soon destroyed, but one who has sufficient presence
of mind can save himself, if, while the flames are yet a great way
off, he kindle the grass in his neighbourhood. He thus lays waste a
space in which the approaching fire can find no sustenance, and in
this he himself takes refuge. Thus only with fire can man contend
against fire with success.
This weapon is often used by one tribe against another, and the
desolation thus caused is terrible. It is often used by a runaway
couple to secure themselves against pursuit. As long as no wind
blows they can easily fly before the slowly-advancing fire; but
it often happens that the flames are hurried forward by the least
breath of wind, and the fugitives find a united death in the very
means they had taken to secure their safety.
It is remarkable that the imposing aspects and most frequent natural
phenomena of the desert do not fail to impress even the nomads
who habitually witness them. As we were crossing the high plateau
of Kaflan Kir, which forms part of Ustyort, running towards the
north-east, the horizon was often adorned with the most beautiful
Fata Morgana. This phenomenon is undoubtedly to be seen in the
greatest perfection in the hot, but dry, atmosphere of the deserts
of Central Asia, and affords the most splendid optical illusions
which one can imagine. I was always enchanted with these pictures of
cities, towers, and castles dancing in the air, of vast caravans,
horsemen engaged in combat, and individual gigantic forms which
continually disappeared from one place to reappear in another. As
for my nomad companions, they regarded the neighbourhoods where
these phenomena are observed with no little awe. According to their
opinion these are ghosts of men and cities which formerly existed
there, and now at certain times roll about in the air. Nay, our
_Kervan bashi_ asserted that he also saw the same figures in the
same places, and that we ourselves, if we should be lost in the
desert, would after a term of years begin to hop about and dance in
the air over the spot where we had perished.
These legends, which are continually to be heard among the nomads,
and relate to a supposed lost civilization in the desert, are not
far removed from the new European theory, which maintains that such
tracts of country have sunk into their present desolation, not
so much through the operation of natural laws as through changes
in their social state. As examples are cited the great Sahara of
Africa and the desert of central Arabia, where cultivable land is
not so much wanting as industrious hands. As regards these last
countries, the assertion is probably not without some truth, but
it certainly cannot be extended to the deserts of Central Asia. On
certain spots, as Mero, Mangishlak, Ghergen, and Otrar, there was
in the last century more cultivation than at present; but, taken as
the whole, these Asiatic steppes were always, as far back as the
memory of man goes, howling wildernesses. The vast tracts which
stretch for many days' journeys without one drop of drinkable water,
the expanses--many hundred miles in extent--of deep loose sand, the
extreme violence of the climate, and such like obstacles, defy even
modern art and science to cope with them. "God," said a central
Asiatic to me, "created Turkestan and its inhabitants in his wrath;
for as long as the bitter, saline taste of their springs exist, so
long will the hearts of the Turkomans be full of anger and malice."