FROM THE PERSIAN GULF TO ISPAHAN.
Our start for Shiraz—Camp out—Borasjūn—Spring at
Dalliké—Kotuls—Kazerūn—Buy a horse—A tough climb—Place
of Collins’s murder—Arrive in Shiraz—Hire a house—Settle
down—Breaking horses—Night marching—Difficulties
of start—Mūrghab—Find our muleteer and
loads—Abadeh—Yezdikhast—Koomishah—Mayar—Marg—Arrive in Julfa.
We ourselves, our small dog “Pip” in a cage, and our canaries—almost
unknown in Persia—and seventy-two tiny “avadavats” (bought at Kurrachee
for three rupees), left in a boat for Sheif, on an estuary of the gulf,
thus avoiding the Macheelah plain, a dreadful march of mud and water, and
shortening the journey to Shiraz by two stages.
After four hours’ pull and sail in the burning sun we reached Sheif. This
appeared simply a mud hut on the beach. There may have been a village,
but we saw nothing of it. Here we mounted our sorry steeds.
Some three hours after we caught up with the rest of our loads, which had
struggled out through the Macheelah the day before. All the mules were
knocked up, and my wife was fatigued with the unwonted exertion of riding
a muleteer’s pony. This is at any time hard work for a _man_, for the
beast does not answer the bit, bores continually on it, and strokes with
a light-cutting whip are quite unfelt. There is also a struggle among the
riding ponies, more used to loads than riders, as to who shall be last of
all; in which a lady’s pony is generally the victor.
It had been impossible to buy a hack suited to a lady in Bushire. I
had been asked English prices for the ghosts of steeds—quite honestly,
however, for Bushire prices are much higher than Shiraz ones. So after my
wife’s trying my pony, the cook’s, and the head muleteer’s, I got one of
our escort, a good-natured fellow, clad in rags and smiles, to lend her
his. This “yabū” (common pony) was at all events easy, and had a canter
in him at need.
At sunset the muleteer informed me that we were twenty miles from our
halting-place, Borasjūn, and that the mules could do no more. It was
hopeless to attempt to go on, as my wife was as tired as the mules. Night
(happily a warm one) was coming on; there was no sign of any shelter
for miles, the only thing visible on the sandy plain being the distant
date-groves, and these are of course no protection. The road was dry,
which was something, and we had plenty of food with us; so we halted,
spread our carpets, had tea, and later on dinner, and camped out—rather
a dreadful first day’s travelling in Persia for a lady, to sleep without
shelter, and in her clothes, in the middle of the road, after travelling
since ten A.M. However, there was nothing else for it. The Sheif road is
a very unfrequented one, and the country was safe and undisturbed. It
was a lovely night, not a breath of wind. At four A.M. we had tea, and
started at five, getting into Borasjūn at ten.
For the time of year the luxuriant vegetation near the village was
extraordinary; it was now late in October, the heat was great, and the
amount of moisture in the air somewhat oppressive. We found capital rooms
in the caravanserai, and the clerk at the telegraph-station made us
welcome to high tea, being rather indignant that we had not come straight
to the office. After that we started again, and reached our halting-place
at midnight.
At Dalliké is a rest-house maintained by the Department for the use of
the employés. A short distance from the rest-house at Dalliké is a hot
spring of clearest water; the temperature is about one hundred degrees,
and being in a circular natural basin, some four feet deep in the
centre, and in a place where no warm bath can be had, it is a favourite
halting-place for travellers. Besides giving a comfortable bath, there is
a peculiarity that I have seen nowhere else; the basin is full of myriads
of fish about the size of whitebait. On dipping the hand in, they at once
cover it, and in a minute it is quite hid from sight by crowds of tiny
fish: they have no fear, and can be removed in handfuls. On stripping and
entering the basin a curious effect is produced by one’s limbs becoming
black with the fish, which nibble at the skin, and only leave it when you
plunge violently. On becoming still, one’s body is again entirely covered
with fish.
From thence we travelled by day only. At each village I tried to get a
pony for my wife, but nowhere could I succeed, though I was ready to buy
anything not absolutely vicious.
Mr. M⸺ kindly gave us quarters at the telegraph-office at Kazerūn, and
here we rested a day.
The kotuls, or passes (literally ladders), well known throughout the
country, had astonished my wife: they are terrible places to ride up, and
nearly impossible to ride down: she, however, was determined not to be
beaten, and had ridden them all. We had been especially fortunate in our
weather; no rain, though we saw many clouds, and it was imminent.
As I was looking out of window at the Kazerūn telegraph-office, I saw
a man mounted on a handsome grey mare. I hallooed, and he stopped. I
went down and parleyed. The mare was sound, and six years old, fast,
light-mouthed. I felt that, if free from vice, she was what my wife
wanted. I rode her, and succeeded in getting the man to close for seven
hundred and fifty kerans, about thirty pounds. I gave him fifty kerans
in cash, and a bill on Shiraz for the remainder. I never regretted
the purchase. The mare was all that a lady’s horse should be. She was
tall for Persia, being fourteen three in height, no goose rump, and
very handsome. Her mouth soon got very light, and her only fault, a
very trifling one, was that she carried her ears badly. My wife and I
constantly rode her for four years, and after marching twenty-eight
stages from Ispahan to the Caspian on her with a side-saddle on, I handed
her over in good condition, having sold her for a fair price.
Of course the journey to my wife became now a pleasure. She had a horse
_of her own_ that did not jolt, and who at a word or a shake of the rein
would canter or gallop, instead of the thwack, thwack of the muleteer’s
yabū. By fancying the troubles of a lady compelled to cross the Rocky
Mountains on a small Hampstead donkey, with a tendency to fall, one might
form some faint ideas of my wife’s trials in getting over her five days’
climb from the coast to Kazerūn. We here left the date-groves, which had
been numerous till now.
Two more passes remained to us—the Kotul Dokter and Kotul Peri Zun (the
Passes of the Virgin and the Old Woman). That of the Old Woman is very
bad indeed, and it is a wonder how loaded mules do get up it—miles of
awful road among loose rocks and stones, and then steep zigzags of paved
road up a perpendicular cliff. Awful work! We did it, however, and did
it in the night; for we had been stopped by a great firing of guns and
alarm of thieves in the beautiful Oak Valley, and so lost the daylight.
We avoided a great part of the pass by scrambling up “Walker’s Road,” a
straight path under the telegraph-line, well enough to walk _down_, but
almost impossible to ride up, particularly at night; fortunately, we had
a moon, and the weather was fine. My wife, however, was compelled to
dismount twice, and we lugged, shoved, and dragged the horses up, the
mules, of course, going by the high-road: at last we did get in, but all
tired out.
Next day a longish march brought us to the hill leading down into the
plain of Desht-i-arjeen. It was on this hill, some eleven years before,
that Major St. John[33] was riding, when a lion suddenly sprang upon his
horse’s hind-quarters. St. John had only a very small Colt’s revolver
with him at the time, when suddenly he saw a lioness some thirty yards in
front; he cracked his whip and shouted at her, thinking that she would
bolt. She charged; sprang, and came down under his foot. With so small
a pistol it would have been useless to fire, so he spurred his horse,
which, however, would not move. The lioness now attacked from the rear,
standing on her hind-legs, and clawing the horse’s hind-quarters; he then
jumped off, getting, however, one slight scratch.
The horse now plunged and reared, knocking over the lioness on one side,
and the man on the other. The horse now was moving away. The lioness
stared at the horse, the man at her; then St. John fired a couple of
shots over her head to frighten her, but without effect; she sprang again
on the horse’s hind-quarters, and both were lost to view. After an hour
St. John found his horse, who, however, would not let him mount. He drove
the animal to the little hamlet, where he found a single family, but the
fear of beasts would not let the head of it come out to search for the
horse; however, next morning he was found quietly grazing; his quarters
and flanks were scored in every direction with claw-marks, and one wound
had penetrated the flesh, which St. John sewed up. In a week the horse
was as well as ever, but bore the marks for the rest of his life.
I have taken the liberty of abridging Major St. John’s own account of
this _real_ lion story from his note to the article “Leo,” in the work
on the ‘Zoology of Persia,’ volume ii., edited by Mr. W. Blandford, the
well-known naturalist. At the time the affair took place, Major St. John
was superintendent of the Persian Telegraph Department; shortly after,
I had the honour of serving under him in Shiraz for some time, and was
indebted to him for many kindnesses. I saw the horse some two years after
the affair, and the scars were very apparent. I did not tell my wife this
story till we had passed the stage, and there was no more lion country.
Our next march brought us to Khana Zinyun, where a handsome caravanserai
has been built by the Muschir, the great man of Shiraz. Before reaching
it we passed a pole, marking the place where the body of Sergeant Collins
was found, after his murder by highway robbers in the famine time.
The next morning we rode into Shiraz, and had no sooner reached our house
than the expected rain, which had happily held off during our journey,
began to fall, the sky was overcast, and continuous storms took place,
which lasted for a fortnight. Thanking our lucky stars, we prepared to
make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and set to to unpack and
arrange our quarters.
When we arrived at Shiraz, the superintendent’s house, which was in a
garden just out of the town, was kindly placed at our disposal. In a few
days I succeeded in hiring a good new brick-built house. We bought a few
carpets, and moved into it.
My colleague, Dr. Odling, kindly gave us the loan of his furniture for
the six months he expected to be away on leave, which was a good thing,
as one cannot get furniture made in Shiraz, and everything has to be
ordered in India or Ispahan. In the latter place there are fairly good
carpenters.
Our house was the property of the superintendent of the Government powder
mills, and for ten tomans, or four pounds a month, we hired it for the
six months that we should have to stop in Shiraz during my colleague’s
leave of absence. On his return it had been arranged that we were to go
to Ispahan, where we were to be permanently stationed.
The house was formed of a quadrangle, having rooms on three sides, and a
dead wall at the end.
The greater portion of our kit being in tin-lined cases, and intended for
our permanent abode, we did not unpack. After about a week we had settled
down into working order, obtained a fair cook, and old and respectable
servants; put our little “Crescent” car together, a small low dog-cart,
built by McMullen, of Hertford, which has the great advantage of taking
to pieces, being easily put together, easily packed in small and light
parcels, and was thoroughly seasoned; and stood the extraordinary dryness
of the climate without cracking or warping, which is saying a great deal.
The next thing was to get a trap-horse. The roads are mere tracks, and
very rough and heavy, and a strong animal was required. I managed for
twelve pounds to pick up a cobby pony of thirteen two. I had him gelded,
as even in Persia it is considered unsafe to drive an entire horse; and
he with another animal I gave seven pounds for, were handed over to the
coachman of the Muschir to be broken. I had vainly attempted to break
them myself with a gun-carriage, for my little dog-cart was too light and
pretty to risk a smash with. After a fortnight the Muschir’s coachman
informed me that both were quite broken. I suggested that he should drive
them in his master’s trap, a big brougham; but he evidently feared an
accident, and gave up the job in despair. Another fellow, however, took
it in hand, and after a few days I rode out some five miles, and was
delighted to find that one of the ponies was fairly broken, the little
grey one. The other one was hopeless; he, however, answered well as a
servant’s drudge.
We were able now to take frequent drives, though a long one, from the
heavy state of the roads, generally kept the pony in the stable for a
couple of days. Still it was nice driving over the plain, when once
outside Shiraz and its environs.
My wife found the life amusing from its novelty; and as we were not to
remain in Shiraz during the summer, which is the unhealthy time, our stay
was enjoyable enough.
As Shiraz has been previously described, there is nothing more to be
said than that the winter soon slipped away, and the spring, the most
enjoyable part of the year in Shiraz, arrived, bringing the jaunts to
gardens so usual there.
My colleague, anxiously expected, did not, however, arrive till July,
and the weather had then got so hot as to necessitate our marching up to
Ispahan _by night_. As I have not noticed this mode of travelling before,
I cannot do better than quote my wife’s diary, which gives her experience
of the matter.
“On Tuesday, July the 17th, 1877, everything being ready, we were
informed that our muleteer was unable to start, his mules being a hundred
miles off; so after much delay we found another, and engaged with him for
forty mules, each carrying three hundred and fifty pounds, at the rate
of seven hundred pounds, from Shiraz to Ispahan, for two pounds eight.
Besides this, our cook had three mules for himself and his family, and
with our own three horses, we shall form quite a respectable cavalcade.
“Shiraz to Zergūn, 24 miles.—On Wednesday the 18th, after weighing all
our cases and tying them up with the charwardar’s ropes, at six P.M. we
rode out, accompanied by Mirza Hassan Ali Khan (our friend the British
Agent here); having started all our servants, bedding, and road-kit,
on six mules. We kept one servant with us, and a gholam (or irregular
cavalry man), having an order from the Governor of Fars on all the chiefs
of villages to vacate their houses if needed, and to find us with food
and forage, of course being paid for them. No sooner had we cleared the
town, than, to our disgust, we found our pantry-man surrounded by his
weeping relatives, his wife and our cook’s lady being unable to tear
themselves from their sympathising friends. This, of course, did not
matter, but, alas! the mule-load with our bedding was with them.
“My husband, by a free use of threats, compelled Abdul Hamid (the
pantry-man) to start, the gholam following in charge of the mule which
carried Hamid’s wife and the cook’s wife and daughter, a girl of nine;
all closely veiled, and weeping copiously.
“On getting about a mile out, the cage containing eight canaries, two
goldfinches, and eighteen avadavats, which we had got at Kurrachee, was
given to Hamid to carry in front of him; but as it was his first journey
and attempt at riding, after about a couple of hundred yards he and
the cage came crash to the ground, some avadavats escaping; so we gave
the cage to a villager to carry on his head; we then bid good-bye to
Mirza Hassan Ali Khan; and my husband now was occupied in whipping on
the mule of helpless Abdul Hamid, to get him up to the other servants,
in which he succeeded after we had gone twelve miles. From the packing,
and excitement about getting mules, and not having had anything since
breakfast at one P.M., we were very tired; as were the horses, which we
had been from peculiar circumstances obliged to keep on grass for the
last three weeks.
“The road was a good one, but the moon gave very little light, and we
could not canter on that account, and for fear of the servants lagging.
This stage was formerly a very bad one, but the road was made good last
year, when the king was expected in Shiraz.
“At last, at eleven P.M., we reached the chupper-khana (or post-house)
at Zergūn, where we took the bala-khana (or upper room); we drank some
milk, and lay down till our dinner—a roast fowl and potatoes, and custard
pudding—was ready, which was not till nearly one hour after midnight.
“After that we slept heavily till seven A.M., when we were glad of our
tea and devilled fowl. We had breakfast at twelve, and vainly expected
the mules all day; and after seeing our horses groomed and fed, we dined
at seven on soup, boiled fowl, and caper sauce, Irish stew, custard
pudding, figs, and grapes; ice, of course, was not procurable; our wine
we brought with us, and we always have a flask full of it for the road.
“Just before starting, at half-past two A.M., _in the dark_, we had a
basin of soup; and having got all our servants off, started for our
second stage.
“At three we got off, and after nearly missing the road, we marched along
with our mules till dawn, when we cantered over a good and level road,
and feeling tired at sunrise, got down and had some cold fowl and wine.
Another hour brought us to Hadjiabad, where we found two comfortable
rooms occupied by some small official, of whose carpets and water-skin
we took possession (by means of a few kerans), and slept till breakfast.
We again rested till five P.M., when we had soup, and started, reaching
Sivend at nine P.M., seven hours’ journey, thirty-two miles from Zergūn.
“To our disgust we found that the inspector had locked every room in
the telegraph-office, he being on leave; so we took up our quarters
on the verandah, which was fairly cool. In the morning still no mules,
so we moved over to the best house in the village, where we are very
comfortable. We were glad to give our horses a rest, for the sudden
exertion after grass had done them no good. We passed our day in seeing
our saddles cleaned, the washing of ‘Pip,’ and writing letters.
“At night, the place being full of cats, who attacked the birds, C⸺ shot
two and missed two more. They, however, ate one canary, and the wires
being broken, C⸺ had to pursue another bird over many roofs, catching him
at last unhurt.
“_Sunday._—Still no news of mules; sent a ‘kossid’ (or foot-messenger)
with a letter to Shiraz asking for steps to be taken to get them out. The
man is to get half-a-crown for walking the fifty-six miles in eighteen
hours, and to bring back an answer!
“_Monday._—Venison for breakfast. We got a welcome present of snow last
night, and by laying the top of the table on the bird-cage, succeeded in
defying the cats.
“At twelve P.M., Wednesday, having no news of our mules, we engaged two
muleteers, started, and in two hours marched to Kawamabad, eight miles,
fording the river Bendamir half-way. A fair road. The weather changed
here; it was very chilly on arrival, and cool and windy all day.
“Left Kawamabad at six P.M., Thursday, and reached the tomb of Cyrus
at twelve, where we rested a little, and ate some fowl, and found the
night very cold. The monument is like a huge dog-kennel, of great
squared stones, on a stone platform. Ussher states the tomb itself to
be forty-three feet by thirty-seven. There are seven stone steps, which
diminish in thickness as one ascends. The kennel-like edifice at the
top is twenty-one feet by sixteen only; the thickness is five feet. The
interior dimensions are ten feet long, seven wide, and eight high. There
are no inscriptions. The door is four feet high only. There are the
remains of twenty-four columns, six on each side.[34]
“Got to Murghāb, twenty-eight miles, at two A.M. A very long and
fatiguing march; several passes. This place is celebrated for carpets,
but we failed to obtain any. In the centre of the village there is a
large piece of turf like a cricket field—the only piece of turf I have
seen as yet.
“Left at six P.M. A bad road, with several passes, till half way, when
it became a sort of steppe; here we came on a number of mules grazing:
we fortunately sent a man to ask whose they were, and they turned out to
be _our_ loads and the missing charwardar,[35] who had passed us when we
halted at Sivend.
“Our difficulties will now be much less, as with lots of muleteers we
shall get loaded and off quickly, and our bedding mule (which at present
carries my fortnightly box, C⸺’s portmanteau, a carpet, two heavy chairs,
and a table, a champagne box full of wine, an india-rubber sack full of
odds and ends, my little black bag, a heavy cage for Pip, and the birds’
cage a yard long, besides our bedding; and its pack-saddle weighing
thirty pounds) will go much lighter: we shall also get our bath, which
had gone on with the loads.
“We reached Dehbeed, twenty-six miles, at two; we had soup and fowl on
the road, and were very glad to get in. There is nothing here but a
chupper-khana, a caravanserai (in ruins), and a telegraph-office. It
is delightfully cool and windy, the water, too, is like ice, and very
good. Nothing to be got but bread; but we had supplies with us. Left at
nine P.M., and over a fair road with two small passes to Konar Khora,
twenty-four miles. This is a more lonely place than the last; water only
and cucumbers to be got; a post-house and caravanserai (in ruins) the
only houses, and nothing nearer than twenty-four miles. The flies so
hungry here that they bite and _hurt_.
“Left at six P.M., over a level plain and splendid road; stopped at
Faizabad, twenty-four miles, at twelve midnight, and taking the best
house, a very good one with two rooms overlooking a garden, slept again
in the open air; much warmer here; meat to be got again; we are now out
of the wilderness; had a really comfortable rest here; left at ten P.M.
“Reached Abadeh, sixteen miles, at two A.M. Our groom had lagged behind
with the horse-clothing, and the other two men had lost their way; so
we, the cook and the bedding, arrived alone. C⸺ had to tie up the horses
as best he could, and we took an hour to get to bed. The road was good,
and in the morning we got a fair mutton steak, but no fruit was to be
had. Left at ten P.M. Abadeh is a large place enclosed in a mud wall, the
post-house being outside; it is celebrated for spoons carved in wood in
a wonderful manner, but they are useless and dear. Here Mr. Carapet, of
the Department, hospitably entertained us and gave us a capital dinner,
and a leg of mutton for the road.
“Over a long plain, twenty-four miles to Shūrgistan; put up in the
guest-house of the shrine; arrived at half-past three. Nothing to be got
here; so hot that we had to go downstairs—the lower rooms are cooler.
Left at half-past eight P.M., and over a long plain to Yezdikhast, twenty
miles, where we arrived at one. A fine caravanserai; got a good room on
the roof. People here report the king’s death, and there is a panic. The
place is peculiar, being built on a high cliff which is in the middle of
a deep gorge nearly a mile wide, a small river running down the middle.
Our gholam left us here, this being the frontier of Fars.
“Left at six P.M. with three guards on horseback, the road reported to
be not safe. This stage is where C⸺ was robbed, and where the Bakhtiaris
make their incursions. Twenty-six miles to Maxsud Beg: a long road.
Arrived at two A.M. Took the guards the whole way, or we should never
have found the chupper-khana, which is off the road. Got some good bread
here at a small village. Found a load of ice sent us from Kūmishah; a
welcome present from the inspector there. A good room twice the usual
size, very cool; a high wind all day and night. Left at half-past seven
for Kūmishah, sixteen miles, a fair road, wind very high and cold.
Arrived at half-past eleven, after much trouble in a rocky valley,
servants losing themselves and coming to grief. The brown horse went lame
(from a projecting nail) and had to be led. Were hospitably entertained
by the inspector, Sergeant McIntyre, who gave us a breakfast of many
dishes. A large place, but in ruins; very cool; a fine shrine and
resting-place for pilgrims, accommodating some thousands.
“Left at half-past five; twenty miles over a dreary plain to Mayar, a
large caravanserai, and a village which is the Shah’s personal property
(in ruins); arrived at half-past eleven. No beds, as we had got in two
hours before the loads. I was so tired, I lay down and slept in my habit.
We were all too tired to eat, and the servants were dead beat; so we
went without dinner, ordering a good breakfast to be served as soon as
we should wake. Being determined to try and get into Ispahan (or rather
Julfa) to-morrow, an early move was necessary; we started at five P.M.,
and reached Marg caravanserai, twenty-eight long miles, at two A.M.;
here my husband determined to halt for a few hours, and I slept till
dawn in a wretched hole. There were good quarters in the chupper-khana
(post-house), and the post-house and caravanserai are all that Marg
consists of; but we were told that glanders had been rife there, and we
were afraid to trust our horses in the place.
“At dawn our caravan arrived; the muleteers and servants swore they could
do no more, but a little persuasion and a promise of a present got them
off, after feeding their mules, and we cantered on, reaching our quarters
at ten A.M., after a hot ride in the sun. By this forced march we escaped
the meeting with new friends, who otherwise, had we arrived the next day,
as was calculated, would have ridden out to meet us. I lay down at once,
and the mules and their riders dropped in one by one, each man on his
arrival seeming to shout louder than his predecessor.
“But our journey was over, and I trust I may never again have to march
three hundred miles at night.”