We marched from Pír Chhatta at half-past seven next morning. After
crossing a few marly banks, snow-white with saline encrustation, we
entered a long narrow defile, bounded on the right by high hills of
bare rugged rock, and on the left by a low shelf of conglomerate; a few
stunted bushes of salvadora, jujube, and mimosa were scattered here and
there amongst the rocks, and the surface, everywhere rough and stony,
was one mass of marine fossils. At four miles we emerged from this
defile into the Míloh Pass, which opens on to the plains a little to the
south of where we camped at Pír Chhatta. Where we entered it, the hills
diverge, and enclose a wide boulder-strewn basin, through which winds
the Míloh rivulet in three or four shallow streams, that reunite at the
outlet of the pass.
The Míloh Pass, by us called the “Mooleah Pass,” is so named, I was told
by our attendants, on account of the blue colour of the hills. They may
look so at a distance, but are anything but blue on close inspection.
At all events, the natives call them so, and hence the name; their
pronunciation of the Hindustani _nilá_, “blue,” being _míloh_.
Beyond this basin—every pebble and every rock in which is full of
madrepores, ammonites, belemnites, oysters, and other marine fossils—we
entered a very narrow and winding gorge between perpendicular walls of
bare rock, two or three hundred feet high. Flowing down its pebbly
passage is a strong and brisk stream, which is crossed nine times in the
transit. From this circumstance the passage is called _Nah-langa Tangí_,
or “the strait with nine crossings.” The water we found very cold, and
about sixteen inches deep. On either side, up to a height of nearly six
feet, the rocks are streaked with the water-lines of the hot-weather
floods. These floods are described as coming down very suddenly after
rains upon the hills in the interior: their violence and velocity are
irresistible; and the raging torrent carries with it huge boulders,
uprooted trees, and cattle caught in its flood.
So sudden are these floods, and often when there are no signs of
rain at hand, that natives never camp in the bed of the stream, but
always on the shelving banks that are found in different parts of the
pass. The Nah-langa Tangí is about three and a half miles long, and
conducts into a great basin in the hills. The scenery here is the
wildest that can be imagined. The surface is strewed with huge rocks,
and traversed by shelving banks of conglomerate and shingle; here and
there are thick belts of tamarisk trees, amidst which the Míloh rivulet
winds its tortuous course; around rise rugged hills of bare rock,
the strata of which are snapped and twisted and contorted in a most
violent and irregular manner. At the outlet of the gorge the strata are
perpendicular; beyond it, they present every kind of contortion; and in
some spots were noticed to form three parts of a circle. In some of the
hills, the strata were horizontal, and dipped to the westward at an angle
of about forty degrees; in others, but in a hill due west of our camp at
Kúhov, the inclination was toward the eastward.
From this basin our path led along some shelving banks of shingle to
a small flat called Kúhov. We camped here on some stubble-fields of
Indian-corn and sesame, having marched twelve miles. There is no
village here, but there are several small strips of corn-fields on the
ledges bordering the bed of the rivulet. In a secluded nook amongst
the hills close to our camp we found a temporary settlement of Zangíjo
Brahoe, dependants of the Mír of Kotra. There were about twenty-four
booths, ranged in two parallel rows. They were formed of palm-leaf
mats, spread upon a light framework supported on sticks, and had a very
flimsy appearance, and certainly provided the minimum amount of shelter.
They are here called _kirrí_, and the only merit they possess is their
portability. Their occupants were extremely poor and dirty, but they
appeared healthy and happy, and are certainly hardy. During the cold
weather they move about amongst the lower valleys and glens with their
cattle and flocks, and in the spring move up for the summer months to the
higher tablelands about Calát.
On the line of march we passed a káfila of eighty camels, laden with
dates from Panjgúr to Kotra, under charge of a party of Bizanjo Brahoe,
most of whom were armed with sword and matchlock. The camels were of a
small breed, but very handsome and clean-limbed; some of them were nearly
of a white colour. We found no supplies were procurable at Kúhov, not
even forage for our cattle. Our conductor, Pír Ján, however, had been
roused to a proper sense of his duties by the reprimand he got yesterday,
and our requirements were consequently anticipated and provided for
beforehand.
Our next stage was sixteen miles to Hatáchi. The path, leading at first
south and then south-west, winds along the pebbly bed of the pass, and
crosses its stream several times _en route_. The rise is very gradual,
and the hills approach and diverge alternately, forming a succession of
basins connected together by narrow straits. About half-way we came to
a long strip of sprouting corn in the midst of a great belt of tamarisk
jangal, which occupies the greater, portion of the pass. This patch
of cultivation is called Páni Wánt, “the division of the waters;” and
scattered about amidst the fields are a few huts of the Músiyáni Brahoe,
dependants of the chief of Zehrí.
Beyond Páni Wánt we passed through a narrow gap between lofty walls of
perpendicular rock, in laminated horizontal strata, much fissured and
weather-worn, and entered the wide basin of Jáh—that is to say, wide
compared with the rest of the pass. Here too there is a good deal of corn
cultivation, and along the foot of the hills in sheltered nooks were some
small encampments of the Chanál Brahoe.
Amongst the fields are observed solitary little mud huts of neat,
and, for these parts, substantial build. They belong to the Hindu
grain-dealers of Kotra, who come up here each harvest to select the
grain in liquidation of advances made to the cultivators during the cold
season. Formerly this land was laid out in rice crops, but this has been
put a stop to by the Kotra Mírs, as it interfered with the irrigation of
their lands on the plain.
We passed a káfila here of fifty camels laden with dates from Panjgúr
to Kotra, under charge of Bizanjo Brahoe. With this káfila, as with the
one passed yesterday, were three or four fine young negro lads. The
Brahoe were all armed, and clad in thick camlet coats; they wore the
national cap, and altogether looked a very independent and hardy set of
fellows. Beyond Jáh we passed through a tamarisk jangal, and rose on
to a wide shelving bank that stretched up to the foot of the hills on
our right. Here we camped at Hatáchi, the largest habitation we have
seen since leaving Kotra. It consists of some twenty-five or thirty
mud huts scattered over the surface. The inhabitants are very poor and
ill-favoured, and the men especially very dark and ugly. Some of the
young women I saw were comely; and I was surprised to see several with
undoubted African blood in their veins, to judge from their cast of
countenance and frizzly hair.
Our camp was pitched on some small flats covered with the stubble of
_júár_ crops, and hard by was a collection of six or seven _kirrí_ or
booths belonging to the Khánzai Brahoe. They have adopted this proud
title because the Khán of Calát is married to a daughter of their tribal
chief. The benefits of the alliance do not seem to extend beyond the
empty honour of the title, for a poorer and more miserable set of people
we have not yet seen in his territories. The villagers, too, who brought
our supplies into camp were in no better plight. Several hideous old
women, who carried loads of wood and straw for our camp, were only half
clad, and apparently less fed. Poor creatures! theirs is truly a hard
lot; they are the mean drudges of the community, are despised by the
men, and evilly entreated by the younger and more fortunate members of
their own sex. Whilst these wretched people were toiling under their
loads, a number of young men, who, judging from outward appearance and
circumstances, were little if at all exalted above them in social status,
seated themselves about the skirts of our camp and idly viewed the
spectacle.
The situation of Hatáchi, in the midst of these rugged and barren hills,
may be described as a pretty spot. As we saw it, the place is almost
deserted; but in the spring months it is alive with the camps of the
migratory Brahoe, moving with their families and flocks up to the higher
plateaux of the Calát tableland. There is a shrine or _ziárat_ here,
dedicated to the memory of Bahá-ulhacc, the saint of Multán. It is only
noteworthy on account of the conspicuous clump of palm and other trees in
the dark shades of which it is concealed.
Our next stage was sixteen miles to Narr. For about seven miles the road
winds through a wide belt of tamarisk jangal, to the south of which, in a
bend of the hills, is the Farzán-ná Bent, or “the cultivation of Farzán.”
A few scattered huts of the Hindu grain-dealers of Kotra were seen here
and there, but there is no permanent habitation here.
Beyond this we passed through a narrow gorge into the Pír Lákha basin,
which we entered near the domed tomb of that name. It was built about
a century ago, in the time of the first Nasír Khán, Baloch, and is
already in a state of decay. Around it are a number of humble graves, the
depository of the remains of departed Brahoe of this part of the country.
They are tended by some _faqírs_, whose families are housed in very neat
and comfortable quarters hard by—to wit, two commodious huts, surrounded
by corn-fields, and shaded by some lofty date-palm and jujube trees.
Pír Lákha is about half-way between Hatáchi and Narr, and is approached
through a narrow passage between perpendicular walls of rock, that rise
in sheer precipices to a height of 150 to 200 feet. I was turning my
head first to the right and then to the left, noting that the strata on
the one side were horizontal, and on the other vertical, when one of the
escort, riding behind me, and from whom, during the march, I had been
making inquiries as to the people and country we were passing through,
unexpectedly exclaimed, “And there’s the dragon!” “Where?” said I,
eagerly, not at the moment quite sure but that some frightful monster
was peering at us over a ledge of rock. “There,” said he, pointing to the
blank wall of rock on our left, which formed the southern boundary of
the passage; “don’t you see it running up the rock?” “No,” I answered,
staring full force in the direction indicated; “I see no dragon. What is
it like? Is it moving or stationary?” Here my friend, as I could see by
the laugh in his eyes, was moved with inward mirth at the not unnatural
misunderstanding on my part in taking his words in their literal
acceptation. He controlled the expression of his merriment, however, and,
with a serious countenance, explained, “I don’t mean alive dragon, sir;
God preserve us from him!” Somewhat disappointed, “Then you should have
been more precise,” I irresistibly interposed. “But, sir,” said he, in
justification, “it is called the ‘dragon of Pír Lákha,’ although it’s
only his trail; and there it is, clear as noonday, on the face of the
rock.”
And so the dragon resolved itself into the reptile’s trail only, and
the trail in turn proved to be merely a vein of white quartz running
obliquely across the face of the rock. An inquiry into the history of
the dragon naturally followed this _denouement_; and here is my Brahoe
informant’s account, much in his own style of narration:—
In olden times, a great red dragon used to haunt this defile. He was
the terror of the wicked as well as of the just, for he devoured them
alike, such as came in his way, without distinction; and when he could
not seize men, he laid in wait and entrapped their sheep, and goats, and
cattle. Owing to his insatiable appetite, and his continued depredations,
the country was depopulated; and so widespread was the terror of this
monster, that wayfarers ceased to travel by this road. At length the
holy man whose shrine lies yonder undertook to rid the country of this
bloodthirsty tyrant’s oppression. Pír Lákha planted his _takya_ or cell
on the spot now occupied by his mausoleum; and so great was the sanctity
of his character, and so powerful the protecting influence of God
Almighty, that the dragon voluntarily came to pay homage to the saint,
and, in place of offering violence, besought his favour with the utmost
submission and tender of service.
The Pír made the dragon repeat the _kalama_ or Prophet’s creed, and
converted him to the true faith, to _Islám_; and giving him his liberty,
commanded him not to oppress God’s creatures, and that the Almighty in
His mercy would provide for him. And so it was the dragon disappeared,
and the country became free, and the saint’s memory perpetuated in the
shrine that bears his name. Pír Lákha is the most popular saint of the
Brahoe in this part of the country, and his sanctuary is held in the
highest reverence by all the tribes around, who constantly resort to it
to offer up their prayers and supplications, and to beseech the saint’s
blessing, particularly since the catastrophe connected with the dragon’s
trail, which, we have just seen, gave such confirming proof of his merits
and supernatural powers. It was in this wise: In the early days, when
people began to forget the debt of their gratitude to the saint for the
great boon conferred by him on them, were careless in the performance of
their vows, and neglected to support the servitors of his shrine, they
were aroused to a proper sense of their obligations by the reappearance
of the dreaded dragon in his former haunts, and with his accustomed
violence. The first to feel the weight of his oppression was the
_tumandár_, or “chief of a camp,” of migratory Brahoe who used to winter
in the vicinity.
It was in this manner: His favourite wife, who was young, handsome, and
well connected, was blessed with no offspring. This was a sore trial to
her, and for several years she offered up her petitions at the saint’s
shrine as the camp passed it on their way to and return from the summer
grazing grounds. At length, making a special pilgrimage to the shrine,
she prayed earnestly for the saint’s intercession that it might please
God to give her a son, and vowed to give the priest in charge a cow on
her prayer being granted. The saint through the priest informed her that
her prayer was heard, and, please God, the desire of her heart should be
gratified. She went away happy in mind, and in due time was rejoiced by
the birth of a son. But, her desire gratified, she forgot her vow, and
even failed to offer up her prayers and thank-offerings at the shrine
on passing it to the summer pastures, and the like carelessness did she
show on the return therefrom in autumn. Next spring, as the camp marched
through the gorge on its accustomed journey, the dragon, watching his
opportunity, dashed into the midst, seized the boy from its mother’s
arms, and disappeared with it over the hills, leaving that white track of
its body as a memorial on the rock.
Such in substance was the Brahoe’s story. It explains, at all events,
the comfortable circumstances of the _faqírs_ attached to the service
of the mausoleum of Pír Lákha. In such a country, the lot of these
people—the priesthood—is really enviable. They are respected and trusted
by all classes, they enjoy free grants of land for their support, and
receive besides tithes and other offerings; they are not affected by
tribal feuds, nor are they obliged to interfere in the politics of the
people; and altogether they are the most comfortable and well-to-do of
the community. Yet they possess no special merits: generally they are
but little better educated than the mass of the common people, and are
indebted for their good fortune more to hereditary right than anything
else.
Beyond Pír Lákha the defile turns sharp to the north, and then bends
round to the west and south, where it expands into the little basin of
Hassúa. Here we found some small patches of corn cultivation, and a few
huts of the Jám Zehrí Brahoe. Here too we met a káfila of sixty camels
laden with wool and madder from Calát to Shikárpúr, under charge of Zehrí
Brahoe, amongst whom were a couple of African slaves. We also met a small
party of Samalári Brahoe driving a few asses and bullocks to Kotra for
a supply of grain for their families somewhere in the hills close by.
They appeared very poor people, like the rest of the Brahoe we have seen
on our journey. What little corn this country produces is bought up at
harvest-time by Hindu merchants, and taken down to Kotra, where it is
again retailed by them to the peasantry. By this arrangement the tribes
are pretty much in the hands of the Hindus, and they in turn of the
chiefs.
Beyond Hassúa we passed through a small gap and entered the basin or
valley of Narr, and turning off to the left away from the Míloh stream,
camped on some open ground at the foot of the hills to the south. There
is no village here, though there is a good deal of cultivation in
scattered patches. Here and there, too, in the nooks of the hills, we
found some small camps of Jám Zehrí Brahoe. They seemed very poor people,
possessed of few goats and fewer cattle. Water, fuel, and camel forage
are abundant here, but forage for man and horse are unprocurable.
In this march we found no fossils, as in the lower part of the pass; but
the hills, though wider apart, are just as bare and inhospitable. The
succession of basins or valleys enclosed by them, however, are more
thickly wooded with tamarisk.
At Narr, the Míloh Pass may be said to end in a wide basin, from which
narrow valleys lead off to the north and to the west. They bring down the
drainage from the hills between Khozdár and Calát The main valley runs
northward to Zehrí and Nichára, and down it flows the main stream of the
Míloh rivulet.
As we entered the Narr basin from Pír Lákha, a solitary tree standing
in the midst of a small patch of young corn on the right of the road
was pointed out to us as the scene of the assassination of Sherdil Khán
in May 1864. He had usurped the government from the present chief,
Khudádád Khán of Calát, and was enabled to hold out against him for some
time owing to the defection of Sher Khán, the commandant of Khudádád’s
regiment of mercenaries, who with his men joined the pretender. After a
while Sher Khán, with the proverbial fickleness of these people, became
dissatisfied with his new master, and sought to get restored to the
favour of the chief he had deserted. As the best means to this end, as
well as by way of repairing the injury he had done the rightful chief,
he caused the rebel to be shot by one of his men as they were marching
to oppose some of the troops sent against them. Sherdil, on being hit,
lost control over his horse, and the startled animal, dashing off across
country, threw his rider at the tree mentioned, where he presently died
in the arms of a fellow-rebel, Sardár Táj Muhammad Khán. Sher Khán with
his mercenaries then returned to his allegiance, and joined Khudádád Khán
in his retreat at Kach.
Our next stage was thirteen miles to Gorú. We crossed the Narr basin in
a southerly direction over a rough pebbly surface, and at about four
miles left it by a narrow winding gorge that opens on to a rough and
wild tract between the hills. In the gorge are a few pools of water in
the bed of a pebbly channel that conveys the drainage of these hills to
the Míloh rivulet; it comes down from the southward along the foot of the
hills bounding the valley in that direction; our route diverged from it
and followed the skirt of the hills bounding it to the north. At about
half-way on this march we passed a _gaur-band_, or “Gabardam,” built
across the outlet of a small gully in the side of the hills to our right.
It is a very solid and substantial wall of dressed stones, rising from
one to two feet above the surface of the ground, and conspicuous from its
dark colour contrasting with the lighter hues of the rocks around. Our
companions could tell us nothing of its history more than that, like many
similar structures in different parts of the country, it belonged to the
period when the country was inhabited by pagans. The hills here are very
precipitous and wild; their slopes are dotted all over with little black
specs, said to be bushes of the juniper, here called _hápurs_; the lower
ridges are covered with a coarse grass that grows in tufts, and is called
_húwe_; it is said to be a very nourishing fodder for cattle.
Our camp at Gorú was pitched on a slaty ridge close to three or four
small wells sunk in the gravelly soil. The water is reached at about
twelve feet from the surface, and is very good. During the day immense
flocks of goats and sheep came to be watered here; they appeared to me
to be of a very diminutive breed. They were tended only by a few boys,
from which circumstance we concluded there must be some Brahoe camps in
the vicinity, though we saw no habitation or sign of cultivation in the
whole march from Narr, excepting only a few booths of the wandering
Lúrí. These people are a kind of gipsy, and are found in all parts of the
country in scattered parties of a few families each. They are a distinct
race from the Brahoe and Baloch, and are occupied as musicians, potters,
rope makers, mat weavers, pedlars, &c. They own no land, never cultivate
the soil, and are looked on as outcasts.
The night air of Gorú proved sharp and chill, and towards daylight a hard
frost set in. From this we marched eighteen miles to Khozdár, the route
mostly westward. At a short distance from our camping-ground we came upon
the cultivation of Gorú, and farther on passed the hamlet of the same
name, at the foot of the hills to the left of the road. The huts are now
empty, their tenants being camped in the nooks of the surrounding hills
with their cattle and flocks, for the facility of pasture and water,
neither the one nor the other being at this season procurable at Gorú.
There is a very extensive cemetery here, whence the place derives its
name (_gor_ = grave). The graves are neatly raised tombs built of loose
stones, the resting-places of defunct Zehrí Brahoe, who occupy all the
hill country round about. At four miles on from Gorú, the road passes
over some rough ground, and drops on to the Khozdár valley, the most open
piece of country we have seen since leaving the plain of Kach. It bears
a very dreary and wintry aspect, and along its northern borders shows no
signs of habitation or cultivation or water. In the opposite direction,
however, are seen a collection of villages called Zedi, with their
gardens and fields, along the course of the little streams draining the
southern part of the valley.
At two or three miles from Khozdár, we were met by Major Harrison,
Political Agent at the Court of Calát. He came out with a party of forty
troopers of the Sindh Horse, and conducted us to his camp, pitched close
to the fort of Khozdár, where he gave us a most hospitable welcome;
whilst the General’s arrival was announced and re-echoed amongst the
surrounding hills by a salute of eleven guns fired from a couple of old
cannon drawn up outside the fort. The canonneers, of whom there were
nearly twenty engaged in the operation, were a wild and dirty-looking set
of fellows, with long matted hair, and every sort of dress and undress
except uniform.
The little fort is a new structure of mud, only recently completed. It
holds a garrison of sixty Brahoe militia, and half a company of regular
infantry, and is armed with the two guns above mentioned. It is well
situated for the purpose it is meant to serve, viz., to protect the
caravan routes centring in this valley through Nal from Kej and Panjgúr
on the west, through Wadd from Bela and Sonmiáni on the south, through
the Míloh Pass from Kotra, Gandáva, and Shikárpúr on the east, and
through Bághwána from Súráb and Calát on the north.
On the plain near the fort are the ruins of two contiguous villages,
between which winds a small stream on its way to some corn-fields beyond
them. The place has a very dreary look, and the climate at this season is
decidedly bleak. The southern portion of the valley is well cultivated
and peopled, and during the summer, so we are told, is one sheet of
corn-fields. This valley, in fact, with those of Nal, Bághwána, Súráb,
and Calát, are the principal corn-growing districts in this country. The
elevation of Khozdár is about 3850 feet above the sea, and about 3700
feet above Gandáva on the plain of Kach. The later figure represents
the rise in the land between the two places, a distance of ninety-three
miles by our route through the Míloh Pass, and gives an ascent of nearly
forty feet in the mile.
The Míloh Pass is easy for cattle, is well watered, and has an abundant
supply of fuel in the tamarisk jangal throughout its course. Forage for
cattle is scarce in winter, but there is a sufficiency of this in summer
for caravans and the cattle and flocks of the Brahoe, who find ample
space for camping on the shelving banks of the stream, in the succession
of basins occupying the course of the pass. Beyond the pass, at Narr, the
tamarisk jangal and water supply both cease.
In all our route from Pír Chhatta to Khozdár we observed a series of
roadside memorials, emblematic of the national customs of the Brahoe.
They are of two kinds, commemorative of very opposite events, and are
met with in a very distant ratio of frequency in consequence. The one
is called _cháp_, and commemorates the weddings amongst the migratory
Brahoe. The other is called _cheda_, and serves as a memorial of those
who die without issue amongst the clans.
The _cháp_ is a perfect circle, described on the ground by a series
of stones set together flat in its surface; the centre is marked by a
single stone of from one to two feet in length, set upright on end. The
diameters of these circles range from ten to thirty feet, and hundreds
of them cover every flat piece of ground on the line of road followed by
the Brahoe in their annual migrations from the high to the low lands.
Some of the _cháps_ we observed were of a different structure from the
figure just described. Instead of a single upright stone in the centre,
and a circumference marked by stones laid flat, the whole surface of the
figure was closely set with stones laid flat on the ground, forming a
circular pavement, from the centre of which projected the single stone
set upright. From the circumference of the circle projected a long arm
in a straight line running to the north in those we saw. This projection
is about thirty feet long, and terminates in a large stone set upright
as in the centre; its width is about two feet, and it is formed, like
the circle, of stones set close together and flat on the surface of the
ground.
[Illustration: SKETCH PLAN OF THE CHÁP CIRCLES.
A. The highroad across a plain.
B. _Cháp_ circles of different kinds, as described in the text.
C. A _mosjid_ or mosque, marked off on the ground by stones just as are
the _cháp_ circles.]
These figures, we were told, are made on the actual sites on which have
been danced the reels accompanying the festivities that form an important
element in the ceremonies attending a Brahoe wedding. The centre stone
marks the place of the musician, and the circumference that of the
circle of dancers, who pirouette individually and revolve collectively
in measured steps, keeping time with the music, to which the while they
clap their hands. This clapping of hands is here called _cháp_, and hence
the name of the figures. Sometimes the sword-dance is substituted for
the other, and only differs from it in brandishing naked swords in place
of clapping hands. The dance resembles the _ataur_ of the Afghans. The
sketch on p. 55 shows the form of the _cháp_.
[Illustration: SKETCH PLAN OF THE CHEDA.
A. Highroad round a hill ridge.
B. _Cheda_ pillars on plain and on rock.
C. _Cháp_ circles.]
The _cheda_ is a pillar (called _tsalai_ in Pushto) of from eight to
twelve or more feet high, with a diameter of from three to four or more
feet. It is neatly built of loose stones closely set in a cylindrical
form. The top is convex or dome-shaped, and from its centre projects a
single upright stone. The basement is a small square platform of stones,
slightly raised above the surface of the ground. These structures are
generally raised on some projecting rock overlooking the road, or on some
slight eminence on the plain. At one or two spots we saw four or five
close together, but generally they are only met at distant intervals,
and singly. In general appearance they resemble miniature _topes_ of the
kind seen in some parts of Yúsufzai and the Peshawar valley. They are
erected to the memory of clansmen who have died without issue; and it
is the custom for the surviving relatives to celebrate the anniversary
of such mournful events by donatives to the family priest and a feast
to the clan. Where practicable, the customary offerings and ceremonies
are performed round the monument itself; and for this purpose their
observance is generally deferred to the time when the camps in their
annual migrations halt in their vicinity. The sketch on p. 56 shows the
form of the _cheda_.
In all our route from Kotra, we saw very few of the people of the
country. Including Hatáchi and Gorú with the few camps we passed, the
population we found in this tract of country did not exceed two hundred
families, if indeed it reached that number. Our companions, however,
assured us that the hills were swarming with them, that every nook had
its camp, and every valley its patch of cultivation. It may be so, but we
saw no signs of any such populousness. In fact, the nature of the country
does not admit of any large number being able to support themselves upon
it, for the hills yield but the scantiest pasture, whilst the valleys
offer a very small surface capable of cultivation. This conclusion is
supported by the appearance and circumstances of the people and cattle we
did see. They may be described in two words—poor and hungry.
The Brahoe are an interesting people, of whose history little is known.
They are true nomads, and wander about the country in their respective
limits, with their families and flocks, changing from the high lands
to the low according to the seasons and pastures. In this respect they
resemble some of the Afghan tribes. Some of them, however, are fixed in
villages as cultivators of the soil. They are divided into an infinity
of clans, or _khel_, such as Mingal, Bizanjo, Zangíjo, Kambarání, Zehrí,
Ráisání, Kurdgálí, Rikkí, Samulárí, Hárúní, Nichárí, Rodání, Gurganání,
and many others. Their camps are called _tuman_, and the head man of each
_tumandár_.
They differ from the Afghan, Baloch, and Jat of Sindh, by whom they are
surrounded, in general physique and physiognomy as well as in language.
Their manners and customs, too, are said to differ in many respects from
those of the people around them, though, in the matters of robbery and
murder, a family resemblance pervades them all.
The Brahoe is of middle height, or below it, and of swarthy complexion;
the face is broad, with high cheek-bones, and adorned with beard and
mustaches of neither long nor thick growth; the head is covered with a
shock of long matted hair, generally jet black; the eyes are black and
keen. The body is compactly framed and clean-limbed. Altogether, the race
is active, hardy, and enduring. The Brahoe language differs entirely
from that of the Afghan, the Baloch, and the Jat, though it contains
many Persian and Indian words. The numerals are the same as the Persian,
except the first three, which are _asit_, _irat_, _musit_, respectively;
but the pronouns are entirely different, and bear no resemblance to
those of the other languages; the forms of conjugation and declension,
too, are distinct and peculiar. On the march I collected a vocabulary of
about eight hundred words, and a few sentences, to show the structure of
the language. These, with a skeleton grammar prepared at the same time,
will be found in the Appendix. The Brahoes are altogether illiterate. I
could hear of no book written in their language, nor could I get a single
specimen of their writing.
An amusing incident occurred whilst collecting words for the vocabulary,
and it may serve as a suggestive illustration of the state of society
amongst the Brahoes. I asked my Brahoe camel-driver, through the medium
of Persian, of which he understood a little, what was his word for
arsenic. He appeared somewhat disconcerted, and made no reply, and I
inquired whether he had understood my question or not. “Yes,” said he,
with a serious look, “I know what you mean. I have heard of it, but have
never seen it. It is only known to our chiefs and great men.” “And what,”
I asked, “do they say about it?” “People say,” he replied, with grave
innocence, “that it is a magic medicine, and that great men keep it as a
protection against their enemies.” He had no idea of the manner in which
it was used, but he knew from popular report that it was a mysterious
medicine which preserved great men from the machinations of their enemies.
We halted a day at Khozdár with our kind hosts, Major Harrison and Dr
Bowman, in order to rest our cattle, and on the 18th January marched
sixteen miles to Kamál Khán, one of the principal villages in the plain
or valley of Bághwána. Major Harrison accompanied us with an escort of
Sindh Horse, Dr Bowman remaining with the camp at Khozdár.
Our route was northward, up the pebbly bed of a wide and shallow drainage
channel, towards a gap in the hills. The road winds for some miles
between low ridges and hills of bare rock by a gradual ascent, and at
half-way brought us to the Chikú Koh _kauda_, or “gap,” a low watershed
marking the boundary between the Khozdár and Bághwána valleys. We here
found the path somewhat obstructed by the remains of a stone breastwork,
built four years ago by the rebel chief Núruddín, Mingal, when he took
the field against the Khán of Calát, to contest the possession of the
village of Kamál Khán. The breastwork and barricades had been only
partially destroyed, and their _débris_ had been left to encumber the
road, just as they did at the time the defences were demolished—a
characteristic instance of oriental apathy and negligence.
From this point we passed down a gentle slope on to the plain of
Bághwána, and crossed a wide extent of cultivated land to the village of
Kamál Khán, where we camped near a small stream of clear fresh water,
which comes from a spring in the hills two miles off.
Kamál Khán is a good-sized village, or rather, it consists of two
villages close together, which contain in all some four hundred houses.
Across the plain, at the foot of the hills to the north, are seen some
other villages surrounded by leafless trees. The surface is generally
cultivated, and divided into little fields, the sides of which are banked
up with earth, so as to retain rain-water.
The elevation of this valley is about 4530 feet, as indicated by the
aneroid barometer. In summer, when the gardens are in full foliage and
the crops are ripening, it must be a pretty place in this waste of hills,
and is said to possess an agreeable climate, notwithstanding the bare
heat-radiating rocks that encompass it about. At this season, however,
it wears a dull, dreary, and bleak look—its winter aspect—and has a raw,
cold climate, of which we were made sensible by the prevailing state
of the weather, for the sky was overcast with clouds, and a cutting
north-east wind penetrated to our very bones. The plain itself appears
a bare flat, without either villages or trees, and towards the east
presents a great patch snow-white with saline efflorescence.
During the afternoon we received a visit from the chief men of the place.
Amongst them were Sardár Mír Muhammad, Mingal of Wadd, a stanch friend
and supporter of the Khán of Calát in these times of sedition and revolt
by which he is beset. He was accompanied by Abdul Aziz Khán, Náib of
Qwetta, and two intelligent-looking young lads, sons respectively of the
Sardár of the Sansunni and the Mammassání, or Muhammad Hassani. They were
all very plainly clad, and remarkably simple in their manners. About
them was none of that ceremony and etiquette, in the observance of which
independent orientals are so punctilious; indeed, their bearing was more
like that of subjects than of independent chiefs. The two former were old
men, with nothing noteworthy about them; but the two lads were remarkably
bright-eyed and intelligent youths of eighteen or nineteen years, and so
alike, they might have been brothers. Their features were very striking,
and different from any we had yet seen; they may be described as a
combination of the very widely separated Jewish and negro physiognomy,
and reminded me of the Ethiopian figures one sees represented in the
Egyptian sculptures.
After our visitors had retired, I heard a voice outside the tent
inquiring where the _Farangi Hakím_, or “European doctor,” was to be
found. The man spoke with a harsh and impetuous voice, and I, curious
to see him and know his errand, stepped out and announced myself to a
wild-looking Brahoe with the scar of a sword straight across the nose
and one half of the face. “But,” he replied, making a rapid survey of
me, “you are not the man I want. Where is the doctor of Khozdár? Is not
he here?” “No, he is not here,” I answered; “we left him at Khozdár.”
“Well,” he rejoined, turning brusquely to depart, “I want nothing from
you. It was him I came to see.” “Perhaps,” I said, motioning him to stop,
“I can do for you what you require of the Khozdár doctor.” “No,” he
replied, stepping away with as much haste as he had come; “I only came
to thank him for his kindness to me, and for curing this wound across my
face;” and before I could ask another question, the impatient Brahoe was
off on his own business.
I now learned from Major Harrison that he was a trooper in the service
of the Khán of Calát, and was engaged against the rebels in the battle
fought some few months ago near Gorú in the Khad Mastung valley. In the
charge against the enemy he received a sword-cut across the face, by
which the nose and upper lip were severed, and fell down in front of the
mouth, hanging only by a thin shred of the cheek. Recovering from the
shock, the trooper at once sheathed his sword, and securing the divided
parts as they were with the end of his turban passed across the face and
fastened in the folds above, rode straight off the field on the road
to Khozdár. After a ride of upwards of seventy miles he arrived at Dr
Bowman’s camp, and was at once received under that gentleman’s skilful
care. The satisfactory result, and the accident of our journey this way,
produced this pleasing instance of Brahoe gratitude and trust in the
skill of European doctors. The man, on hearing of the march of our camp
from Khozdár, had come in from a distant village to thank his benefactor,
and not finding him, hurried away to reach his home before nightfall.
It is a too commonly expressed opinion amongst us in this country that
the natives have no sense of gratitude for benefits conferred or for
favours received. But this, I am persuaded, is a wrong conclusion; and
its injustice is proved by the above-described incident, which is only
one of many similar instances that have come to my personal knowledge,
and a further reference to which here would be irrelevant to the purpose
of this book.
_19th January._—From Bághwána we marched twenty-six miles to Lákoryán.
Leaving Kamál Khán, we followed a small stream over a succession of
fields of young corn, just sprouting above the surface, and then, passing
some walled pomegranate gardens fringed with willow-trees, entered
amongst low hills set close together on either side of an intervening
drainage gully. At about three miles we came to the spring-head of the
little stream we had followed from camp. The spring issues at the foot
of some bare rocky bluffs, and forms a small pool round which grow some
eight or ten date-palms, conspicuous as being the only trees in the
vicinity.
From this point we turned to the right, and proceeding due north over
some very rough ground, dropped into a narrow ravine between high banks
of bare rock; and following it some distance, emerged upon the wide
plateau or tableland of Loghai, the village of the same name standing
away to the west. In the hills to the south-west, near the village of
Ferozabad, are the Khappar lead-mines. They are said to give employment
to about two hundred men.
There are no trees visible on the Lohgai plateau, nor is there any
jangal, but the surface is thinly sprinkled with a very stunted growth of
the camel-thorn (_Rhazzia stricta_, _Withiana congulans_), two or three
kinds of salsola, and a coarse grass growing in tufts. Here and there,
too, are some patches of cultivation.
From this we passed through some low rocky ridges on to a similar but
more extensive tableland, divided by low ridges of rock into the plateau
of Mughali, Tútah, and Záwah. We started from Kamál Khán at 7.50 A.M.,
and arrived at the entrance to the Záwah defile at 10.10 A.M., thus,
reckoning the pace of our horses at four miles an hour, making the
distance about nine and a half miles.
We halted here for breakfast, on the edge of a little stream of brackish
water, whilst the baggage went on ahead. Close by is a ridge of bare rock
without a particle of vegetation on it, and along its base are the traces
of a very ancient village. The foundation walls are very massive, and
built substantially of dressed stone; the surface everywhere around is
covered with bits of red pottery.
At 1.10 P.M. we mounted our camels, and left Záwah by a narrow winding
defile, down which flows the thready rivulet on which we had halted.
After proceeding up the defile some distance, we passed over some very
rocky ground by a rough track, and rose suddenly to the crest of a ridge
of hills running north and south. Descending a little from this, we reach
the tableland of Jiwán. This is an open plateau, and, unlike the others,
is thickly covered with pasture herbs and bushes, amongst which are
interspersed small isolated patches of ploughed land. We saw no villages,
however, nor any signs of a camp in the vicinity, though our native
escort assured us that there were hundreds of _tumans_ hidden away in the
nooks and hollows of the mountains, to which the Brahoe retire at this
season, with their flocks, for shelter from the cold winds that blow over
the open country.
Traversing this plateau, we crossed a deep ravine, opposite a cavern
excavated in its high bank of shingle, and known as Duzdán ná Khond, or
“the robber’s retreat.” Here my camel showed signs of fatigue, and became
so shaky on his legs, that I became apprehensive of some misfortune,
and, to avoid the chance of breaking my neck against the rocks, relieved
him of my weight, and mounted my horse, which was being led along close
behind us. The severity of the weather and the want of his accustomed
forage, combined with the roughness of the roads and our land marches,
had told unfavourable upon the poor brute, and it was as much as he
could do to keep up with our party till we reached Kandahar. Here the
milder climate and several days’ rest brought him round to his former
self, and he afterwards carried me down to Baghdad, where he passed into
the possession of the camel’s best friend—an Arab.
Beyond the ravine we crossed a ridge of rocky hills by a very rough
and narrow path, and emerged upon the Lákoryán tableland, an enclosed
plateau that rises considerably up to the hills on the north and west.
We passed a good deal of cultivation on our route across it, and at 4.30
P.M. camped—or rather, waited for our camp, for the baggage did not come
up till 7.30 P.M., by which time it was quite dark—near a spring at the
foot of the hills to the north-west. There is no village nor other sign
of habitation here, except a small enclosure containing a few roofless
huts, a few hundred yards from the spring at which we have taken up our
position for the night. We passed a large _gaur-band_ on the plateau, and
at the foot of the hills towards the north-east saw a great collection of
them. It was too late for us to go and explore them; but, from what we
could see, they appeared to mark the site of some ancient city. The dark
lines of their massive walls are very conspicuous against the lighter
colours of the hillside.
Whilst waiting the arrival of our tents, we collected some dry bushes
of the camel-thorn and some kinds of salsola, and made a fire to warm
ourselves, and point out our whereabouts to the baggagers, who were yet
some way behind, for to the repeated shouts and calls of our party there
came no response.
There are no supplies procurable here, and the water is very limited in
quantity, and, though not brackish, of decidedly inferior quality. By
previous arrangement some fuel and fodder had been collected here for
our party, but the supply fell very far short of our requirements. The
fodder was distributed in small quantities amongst the troopers of our
escort, and the fuel—the few faggots there were—was mostly appropriated
by our cook. Along the raised banks of some fields near the enclosure
above mentioned were six or seven circular vaulted pits excavated in the
ground. They are used as storehouses for grain or straw or chaff, and are
entered through a small hole at the top. This aperture is only slightly
raised above the level of the ground, and is covered by a lid plastered
over with mud cement until required to be removed. These grain-pits were
examined in the hopes that they might enable us to increase the rations
served out to our cattle; but, to our disappointment, they were all found
empty, like the country itself.
During the night a steady soaking rain set in; and as it continued in
the morning, there was some question as to whether we should be able to
proceed on our march. But the point was soon settled when we found the
impossibility of procuring any provisions here either for man or beast.
So we struck our tents, and at 8.40 A.M. set out on our march of twenty
miles to Khán Calá of Súráb, and a most trying and disagreeable march it
proved. As we left camp, heavy mists hung over the country, and obscured
everything from view beyond a couple of hundred yards or so, whilst a
thin drenching rain, that presently changed to sleet and then to snow,
descended very perseveringly upon us. Fortunately for us, the soil here
is a coarse gravel, with only a small admixture of earth, and our cattle
consequently got over it without hindrance.
After riding half-an-hour in a north-westerly direction, we turned
northwards into a narrow gap in the hills, and beyond it came to the
Anjíra plateau, and at 10.10 A.M. halted at a _sarae_ near its north end,
for shelter from the rain and for breakfast. In the gap we passed amongst
a number of very fine and extensive _gaur-band_. They are the largest we
have seen, and, from their position and appearance, were probably built
as defensive works. Two or three of these massive breastworks were on the
plain a little in advance of the ridge of hills separating Lákoryán from
Anjíra, but most of them were built across gaps between the prominent
peaks of the ridge. On the Anjíra side of the ridge, on some level ground
to the right of the road, we found a large collection of very substantial
walls, of from two to eight feet high. They appeared like the remains
of an ancient town. Owing to the inclement weather we did not stop to
examine them.
Near the _sarae_ is a little stream, which carries the drainage of this
plateau down to the Míloh rivulet, which it joins somewhere near Narr;
and on a turfy bank a few hundred yards off is a solitary hut, with an
adjoining walled enclosure. In the latter stands a masonry pillar, about
ten feet high, and of recent construction. The monument, our companions
informed us, is built on the spot where the corpse of the late Nasír
Khán, brother of the present chief of Calát, was washed previous to
conveyance for burial in the family sepulchre, he having died here on his
way to the capital.
Whilst here, the rain ceased, and the sky cleared for a while, and we got
a view of the country around, and a more dreary and inhospitable-looking
prospect it would be difficult to find out of Balochistan. To the north,
above the lower ridges bounding the plateau in that direction, was
seen the snow-topped Harboí mountain, and it was the only feature that
relieved the general ruggedness of the bare hills around. The plateau
itself, like that of Lákoryán, is covered with saline efflorescence, and
supports only a thin growth of pasture herbs. Away to the north-east we
spied a few leafless trees around a small hamlet, and by it observed a
flock of sheep, tended by a couple of shepherds. Nearer at hand the plain
was covered by a wide extent of cemetery, thickly crowded with graves,
whilst solitary tombs were here and there scattered over the general
surface, and only attracted attention by the shreds of rag floating in
the breeze from the poles supported in the pile of loose stones that
covered them.
At noon we mounted our horses and proceeded on our way, the clouds again
lowering and threatening more rain, by which, indeed, we were very soon
overtaken in the form of a storm from the north-west. We had crossed a
succession of ridges and gullies, the rocks of which were green, blue,
and red-coloured sandstone, amongst masses of lighter hue full of fossil
ammonites, oysters, and other marine shells, and emerged on a wide
plateau called Khulkná Khad, where we were exposed to the full force of a
numbing north wind and blinding drifts of snow.
We made our way across this bleak plateau as best we could, and passed
_en route_ a weather-bound káfila of sixty camels, with wool from Núshkí
for Karáchí. The camels with their pack-saddles on were let loose to
graze on the wormwood, camel-thorn, and saltworts, which here covered
the surface more thickly than we had anywhere seen; whilst the drivers,
having piled the loads in the form of a circle, and spread felt cloths
across from one load to the other, crouched for protection from the
weather under the shelter thus afforded. A few of them stepped out to
view us as we rode by, and fine manly-looking fellows they were—all
Afghans.
Beyond this we crossed a low ridge of hills by a narrow and rough
strait, at the entrance to which we noticed a number of perfect _cháp_
circles, and four or five _cheda_ pillars—one of which, to the right
of our path, occupied a very conspicuous position on the ledge of a
prominent rock—and then entered on the wide and undulating tableland of
Azákhel and Súráb, on which are several villages and fruit-gardens, and
more cultivation than we have anywhere seen in this country as yet; in
fact, we here reached an inhabited region. Our path skirted the hills to
the east, and led past a roadside shrine called Lulla Sulemán ná Kher.
The head of the tomb is marked by four or five long poles, to which are
fastened numberless shreds of cloth, stuck upright in a heap of loose
stones, samples of the rocks of the surrounding mountains, and on the top
of them lie a number of horns of the wild goat and wild sheep. I stopped
to examine these, and amongst the stones found a fine fossil convoluted
conch, which I told an attendant trooper I wanted, and he, without
hesitation, took it up and brought it into camp, and I subsequently sent
it to Peshawar with some horns and other specimens from Kandahar, as
I shall have occasion to mention hereafter. I did not see any granite
amongst the stones on this shrine, and hence conclude that there is
none in the adjacent hills, for the pile is formed by contributions of
devotees from all the surrounding country.
Away to the right from Sulemán ná Kher we saw the villages and gardens of
Ghijdegán and Dhand, and farther on, passing the collection of hamlets
known as Nighár, at 2.45 P.M. arrived at Khán Calá of Súráb, where we
were very glad to find shelter in a dirty little hut vacated for us, and
thaw our frozen limbs. The last six miles of our march were most trying
from the intense cold and driving snow, and completely numbed us, so
that we could not have held out against it much longer. The north wind
is most piercing, and cuts to the very bones. It is called _Shomál bád_,
or “north wind” _par excellence_, by the natives, and is dreaded as
extremely dangerous, often proving fatal by numbing the powers of life.
The villagers expressed astonishment at our travelling in such weather,
and some of our Khozdár escort chimed in with, “It’s only the Sáhibs who
ever think of doing such things; and when they go forward, we must follow
them. Surely there is a special providence that presides over their
protection.”
In truth, our native attendants suffered severely. The hands, feet, and
faces of several of the troopers of our escort of Sindh Horse became
swollen, puffy, and painful, but they held out manfully to the end. Not
so our Khozdár attendants; they succumbed to the weather even before we
had accomplished half the march, and this is the more remarkable, as they
were travelling in their own country. They one by one wrapped up their
faces in the capacious folds of their turbans so closely that there was
barely room for them to use their eyes, and gathering their loose cloaks
about them, sat their horses more like bundles of clothes than horsemen.
Having thus resigned themselves to their fate, they gradually fell away
from our party, and took shelter in the first villages we came to.
We ourselves were not without showing evidences of the effects of the
wintry blast. The snow freezing upon our mustaches and beards had
stiffened them, so that talking became a painful exertion; we therefore
proceeded in silence, with our heads set down against the howling wind
and driving snow, and presently dropped away from one another—the General
here, Major Harrison there, and I elsewhere—each following his own pace
to the village ahead of us. My feet were so numbed that on dismounting
I did not feel the ground, and consequently nearly fell, and it was some
minutes before I could freely use my limbs.
Our baggage did not come up till 7.30 P.M., and both men and cattle were
much exhausted, but plenty of food and warm shelter soon revived them.
Three or four of our baggagers went off with their mules to the nearest
villages we came to, and did not rejoin our party till the next morning.
With the exception of one muleteer, who deserted with the cloak and fur
coat we provided for him, none of our party were much the worse for the
exposure.