FROM THE VALE OF KASHMIR TO THE BARRENS OF LADAKH
Those who know India only during the winter months, the tourist
season, can form little conception of what the country is like during
the summer. In the greater centres of population the old hand-pulled
punka has given way to the electric punka, or the simple electric
fan. At the stations along the railway, however, you still see the
patient punka-coolie squatting outside the station-master’s room,
tugging at the punka-rope with monotonous regularity, and it is he
that to me typifies the great heat of the Indian plains.
When we landed in Bombay this time, on May 11, there was fortunately
nothing to oblige us to linger long in the heat, and so, after some
strenuous bustling about, making a few final preparations, we pulled
out of Cocaba Station at half past four in the afternoon of the very
day on which we had arrived. The most valuable acquisition which
we made there was the information with which Mr. S. H. Prater, the
head of the Bombay Natural History Museum, supplied us. He not only
possessed a fund of helpful hints and data but was very ready to
impart them to us, a combination not always found.
The captain of the _Homestead_, the freighter on which Cherrie had
come over, was waiting for us on the pier at Bombay, and reported
that Cherrie and all the equipment had been safely landed at Karachi.
We were greatly relieved to hear this, and also to learn the four
cougar hounds had gone ashore in better shape than they had come
aboard. We were still a little anxious, however, about the manner in
which they would weather the train journey across the Sind desert.
Forty-eight hours after leaving Bombay we rolled into Rawal Pindi,
and on the 14th of May left there by motor for Srinagar. In winter
the cantonments are crowded, but during the hot weather headquarters
moves to Murree, a hill station some forty miles distant, where the
altitude is 7,000 feet. There we spent a night. The descent thence
to the Jhelum River is very precipitous, with a multitude of hairpin
turns, and we were glad indeed to have our friend Barr driving. He
had been an aviator during the war, and was one of those fast drivers
who yet give you full confidence.
The hillsides were glorious with the pink mountain-oleander, and as
we neared the river we came upon masses of purple irises. The Jhelum
is here a rushing, turbulent river, much used for driving great
logs from Kashmir down to the plains of India. Along its banks grow
pomegranates, now in full bloom. The road was everywhere in excellent
repair. We passed the customs, and a few hours later entered the
famous Vale of Kashmir, and sped along the avenues of poplar-trees
that remind one of roads in Lombardy. On either side stretched
paddy-fields, some already a bright green. Occasionally we came upon
a grove of spreading chenar-trees. The chenar has a leaf like the
maple, but grows to great size, and in shape reminds one of an old
oak. In the fall the leaves turn vivid red and yellow, as do our
maples.
Srinagar is often given that very hackneyed title “The Venice of the
East.” Any town which has a few canals or a couple of rivers winding
through it seems to take particular pride in naming itself the Venice
of that particular portion of the globe in which it is situated.
Srinagar has numerous canals, on one of which is the Maharajah’s
palace, a long, ramshackle, rather gingerbready building or series of
buildings. Along another are strung the European shops and agencies,
and gigantic chenar-trees shade the footpath separating the buildings
from the canal.
In London we met Major Blacker, whose book, “Secret Patrol in High
Asia,” I had read with much interest. Blacker is an officer of the
Guides, the famous corps formed by Lumsden, which has won fame and
name in all the frontier wars, and afterward added to both in the
World War. During the months of his strenuous “secret patrol” he had
with him two particularly excellent men, Ahmad Shah and Feroze. The
former was squadron sergeant-major, and the latter a corporal. If
Ahmad Shah had not been absent so much on detached service, he would
undoubtedly have become a native officer. Blacker, besides giving
us any amount of valuable advice, also cabled the Guides to get in
touch with these two men, both of whom had retired from the army, and
arrange for them to accompany us.
They were at the station at Rawal Pindi and, coming up, saluted
and reported for duty. Ahmad Shah was tall, erect, and bearded, a
soldierly figure in his white turban. Feroze was small and wiry, with
“thruster” written all over him, a man who could be counted on to
push forward in the face of any obstacle. That night, in talking over
plans, they told us they knew of a syce, or groom, in the Guides who
they were sure could take charge of the dogs. We straightway wired
Colonel Campbell, and next day Fezildin arrived by train from Mardan.
Thus, with Rahima and his brother Khalil, native hunters whom I had
secured through Douglas Burden, the important members in our party
were assembled. These last two had been Burden’s shikaries during a
most successful hunting trip which he made a few years ago. He cabled
them from New York and they were awaiting us in Srinagar. Tall and
lean, they were the very type of the ideal shikary. According to
local custom, the shikaries had brought with them from their own
village of Bandipur our cook and three permanent coolies to do all
the odd jobs around camp, carry the tiffin-basket and thermos bottles
on the marches, and make themselves generally useful.
I already knew a little Hindustanee, and Ted and Cutting worked
like beavers on the language during the sea-passage. None of our
men spoke English, so we were immediately called on to put it into
practice. During our first interviews, an officer whom I had known in
Mesopotamia, Captain Pim, not only acted as interpreter but had many
a useful sidelight to give.
Having laid out for ourselves on this trip an extensive schedule,
and being obliged to forego the direct route by Gilgit to the Hunza,
it was imperative for us to economize time in every way. It is
not possible for an ornithologist to work satisfactorily when he
is called upon to be continually on the move. We made our plans,
therefore, to march together to Leh and thence over the Karakoram
Pass. Once over, Ted and I, travelling light, would hurry across the
plains of Turkestan to the Tian Shan mountains, while Cherrie and
Cutting would follow along more slowly, stopping a few days wherever
they wished to collect. By the time they joined us in the Tekkes
Valley, we hoped to have got well started on the groups of ibex,
wapiti, mountain-sheep, and Siberian roe deer with which we relied
upon providing the museum from the Tian Shan country. It was arranged
for Ahmad Shah and Feroze to take charge of the main and slow-moving
caravan, while Rahima and Khalil undertook with us the expedition
after big game.
In Srinagar Sir John and Lady Wood most hospitably invited us to stay
at the Residency, and no one could possibly have been more kind. Both
Mr. Avery and Captain Sevenoaks, of Cockburn’s Agency, worked like
Trojans to hurry us through our preparations. Thus aided, and with
Sir John’s help in everything, we were enabled to start off for Leh
four days after we had reached Kashmir.
In Kashmir most of the transport is by pack-pony, tough, wiry little
beasts that carry an average load of 150 pounds over most difficult
country. When the passes are in bad shape, you cannot negotiate them
with ponies, but must rely on porters. Yakdans, which are wooden
boxes covered with cowhide, are the most convenient containers for
supplies and personal outfit. The kilta, or round basket, is much
lighter, but will not stand rough usage.
It is near Ganderbal—the first stage on the road to Leh—that the
possibility of motor transport ends. We sent our equipment there by
boat on May 18, and followed by automobile some hours later. Early
next morning we loaded our food and our scientific equipment onto
sixty ponies, and set off up the Sind Valley. The dogs were wild with
joy at being once more at large; they had been over two months en
route from their homes in Montana and Mississippi. They jumped into
the irrigation ditches, and raced up hills, coming back now and again
to wag their tails at us.
It would be difficult to imagine more ideal conditions for starting
off on a hunting trip. The Sind Valley is narrow and fertile; on the
south side the mountains are tree-covered, on the north they are
barren; the crests are white with snow. The river boils down between
stony banks, now narrow and turbulent, now humming over shallows.
There is much cultivation, little stone-enclosed fields of rice or
wheat, but the glory of the valley is its trees. Centuries old they
must be, chenar and willow. We generally camped beneath some grove of
patriarchs, which might well have cast their shade upon Lalla Rookh.
There was a great deal of bird life, and Cherrie was kept busy, for
we wished to send back from Leh something that would prove to the
Field Museum that we had not delayed in starting to work. Indeed,
Cherrie had already returned a first consignment consisting of four
different species of hawk which he had shot in the Red Sea from the
decks of the _Homestead_.
The sombre raven accompanied us everywhere, and there were many gaily
clothed strangers. There were several old friends, too, among the
birds, chief of which was the little water-wagtail, whose intimate
acquaintance I first made in central Africa, sixteen years ago.
He is such a cheerful, friendly fellow that it is not pleasant to
contemplate “collecting” him. He will hop about and wag his tail
within a few feet of you in a most confiding manner. Ted and I
spent much time watching a couple of water-ouzels diving into the
stream. It was amazing to see such a small bird dive off a rock into
the rushing water and as much as two minutes after come swimming
unconcernedly back.
There were plenty of trout in the river, but we had neglected to
provide ourselves with a fishing permit, so Ted, the fisherman of the
expedition, had to wait until we should have passed out of the region
of restricted waters. We didn’t do much in the cause of cleanliness
because the water was too cold for more than a hurried dip, preceded
by a hasty soaping, while precariously balanced on a slippery rock.
We met with but few butterflies, and none of them were gaudy. Dwarf
purple irises grew in clusters on the hills and in the fields; wild
roses, both pink and white, were abundant, and an occasional field of
mustard in bloom wove in its pattern of cloth of gold.
At Baltal, while awaiting favorable conditions to cross the Zoji
Pass, we were serenaded with avalanches. First there would be a
booming roar, reminiscent of a battery of heavies on the French
front, then, if the avalanche were in sight, you would see great
masses of snow hurtling down the precipices. After a short
intermission another salvo of sound and more plunging snow—two or
three such outbursts would occur in diminishing violence, and then
all would be quiet.
The Zoji La is the most used pass in the great range of the western
Himalayas. It is the low point in a line of mighty mountains
averaging 17,000 feet in altitude, and containing among other peaks
the famous Nanga Parbat, which is 26,620 feet in height. The winds
naturally concentrate on this gap, and the pass is at times very
treacherous. Sudden blizzards sweep down, and many human lives, and
the lives of countless baggage-animals, have paid toll to the Spirits
of the Pass. In winter it is always hazardous, but it is in March and
April that it is most dangerous with sudden avalanches and unexpected
hurricanes. In the summer months, beginning with June, there is
rarely any cause for anxiety.
[Illustration: DOWN THE LADAKH SLOPE OF THE ZOJI LA]
[Illustration: ON THE SUMMIT OF THE ZOJI LA]
Fortunately, after one day’s detention, weather favored us, and we
set off as early as we could gather the ponies which were scattered
about the hillside in search of pasture. Our train was diminished
by the loss of a pony who died from eating poisonous grass; not an
uncommon occurrence, and one much dreaded by the pony men. The long
winding trail up the pass gave little trouble, save in a few places
where small avalanches had come down across the track. One such
spot seemed at first sight calculated to afford much difficulty, but
the little spindle-legged ponies negotiated it with great skill. One
turned a complete somersault, doubling his neck beneath him in such
a way that it seemed it must be dislocated. Luckily he was brought
up by the heavy drifts before he could roll far, and when we dragged
him clear, we found he was unhurt. The descent on the farther side
of the pass is gradual, and would have been a simple affair but for
the deep snow, now rapidly softening under the burning rays of the
sun. The ponies were continually plunging a foot through the bedded
snow of the trail, and sinking belly-deep. It must have been most
exhausting; we bipeds certainly found it so, but the hardy little
beasts gave no signs of failing. They wound down the valley, crossing
and recrossing the river, which in most places was hidden deep
beneath the snow. At such times we would pass over snow bridges, and
more than one of these was ominously fissured and threatened to give
way, plunging horse and load into the rushing stream below. We all
wore snow-glasses, a very necessary precaution. One of the coolies to
whom we could supply none came to us next morning with his eyes in
bad shape, and several others had suffered to a less degree.
The dogs alone thoroughly enjoyed themselves, for the surface of the
snow was sufficiently strong to bear their weight. We had been a
little worried as to how much the altitude would bother them, but we
might have spared ourselves the anxiety. They toiled up and down the
mountainside, and along the most hairbreadth ledges, skirting the
caravan, and always choosing to pass on the outside, although the
ponies themselves preferred to keep so near the edge that not an inch
was left of leeway.
We camped on a boulder-strewn hillside, on which no snow remained.
The ponies came in struggling manfully through the last drifts. Once
over on solid ground we looked to find them well tuckered out. Not at
all; even before their loads were off they started grazing, although
one would have needed a microscope to determine what fodder they
found.
The contrast between the country out of which we had passed and that
in which we now found ourselves could scarcely have been greater. No
longer were the mountains covered with forests of pine, nor was the
riverside deep in the shade of willow and chenar. On either hand rose
barren mountains; the only relief to their monotony was the snow that
covered their crests and lay in the deeper folds. Riding down these
valleys through the abomination of desolation, one thought of Isaiah,
and felt the true strength of the Bible’s old simile of comfort: “As
rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a
weary land.”
The Ladakhis are adepts in the art of building irrigation canals.
Without these canals there would be no human life. They capture the
water coming down in the occasional torrents from the mountainside
and lead it off to moisten the little patches of land, which they
have freed from stones. Ploughing is a laborious affair; the familiar
crooked wooden plough of Biblical times is pulled by horse or steer
or yak, or sometimes by a mixed team. The bits of cultivation are of
odd shapes: crescent, elliptical, or round. Often this is accounted
for in the avoiding of some large rock or hillock, but at other times
the shape seems due to a caprice of the ploughman. There were usually
poplar-trees bordering the ditches and perhaps a few fruit-trees
mingled with them. These green oases were few and far between, and
often not more than a couple of acres in extent. On rounding some
bend after a particularly long and arid stretch, the sight of this
vivid green brought to mind the words of the old Irish song: “Sure
a little bit of heaven fell from out the sky one day.” The sun was
scorching; never have I felt it stronger, but once in the shade the
relief was instantaneous, and in a few minutes you were almost chilly.
Bird life was scarcer here. The ravens were still with us, and
occasionally we would see a hawk soaring far above. Once it was a
great lammergeyer with a spread of eight or nine feet. The wagtail
we still found along the streams, and at the oases there were blue
pigeons and purple finches. A sparrow closely resembling our English
sparrow was the commonest and most abundant of the birds. They
often nested in the holes in the cliffs. Ted succeeded in stalking
a hawk and adding it to the collection. This was a particularly
difficult feat, because we had only shells for the little auxiliary
barrel that was fitted into the 16-gauge shotgun for the purpose
of collecting small birds. We were in ibex country now and Rahima
Loon explained that he had shot them here, but that the heads were
small. In any event we had no time for halts, and had resolved to
put off ibex-hunting until we should reach the Tian Shan, where the
finest heads are to be found. The larger game seen so far consisted
of one small black bear, which Ahmed Shah had observed far up on the
mountainside when bringing the baggage-train into Baltal. The dogs
were still too soft to risk them on a hunt, even if the bear had been
full-grown.
[Illustration: THE ZOJI LA]
[Illustration: MULBECK, A TOWN IN LADAKH]
We had now passed out of the land of Mohammedanism into that
of Buddhism. In Kashmir, although the rulers are Hindus, the
great bulk of the population is Moslem, while in Ladakh, almost
without exception, they are Buddhists. On the hill above the
little collection of mud huts called by courtesy a town clustered
the buildings of the monastery. We came across no town without
its monastery. We were in the land of the red lama, and sturdy
though grimy members of the sect came down to watch with interest
our actions, whether we were eating or reading or preparing
bird-skins. In these monasteries there are lamas that correspond to
the lay brothers of the Roman Catholic orders; they till the fields
and collect the rents, while the balance of the lamas spend their
time presumably in meditation and prayer.
The most picturesque of these monastic towns is Lamayuru. On top of
the hill rise the sacred buildings, flags flying from the roofs;
tier upon tier of house and cavern dwellings stretch down from
the mountains to the plain. Seen from a distance Lamayuru is most
impressive; in the right light there is a touch of Mont Saint Michel
about it; but like most sights in the Orient, it is distance that
lends an enchantment which is apt to crumble on closer approach.
At Kargil we lost a companion caravan that had been with us since
Baltal. The head of it was a hill Rajah of Baltistan; a very pleasant
man of about thirty-five or forty. His wife was purdah—veiled—and
travelled in a litter completely hidden behind white curtains. Four
sturdy hillmen bore the litter, and it was amazing to see them swing
along up the Zoji Pass. For her own peace of mind, I hope the lady
never looked out to see how close her litter skirted the edge of
nothing. A sturdy Mongol-featured nurse trudged or rode behind. The
Rajah’s two sons and his three-year-old daughter also accompanied
him. The boys were splendid-looking young fellows; they rode with
the father, while the little girl had a number of different modes of
conveyance. Sometimes we saw her riding pickaback on the shoulders
of a fine fiercely mustached retainer of her father’s. A small
wretched-looking monkey also formed part of the train. The Rajah’s
pipe-bearer was always at hand at a halt, and hastened forward
with the long silver hookah packed ready to light. We separated
regretfully when the Rajah turned off to his rocky fastness in
Baltistan.
There is great attraction in barren mountains and sterile,
rock-strewn valleys. It was spring, and yellow crocuses undauntedly
showed their heads among the rocks. The Ladakhis we passed had
usually a bunch of flowers stuck in cap or hair. Occasionally, there
would be a wild-rose bush in bloom; and on the edges of the fields
were patches of iris. In the most arid of the valleys there were
always times when the air was redolent with the sweet, pungent odor
of the artemisia.
Our pack-train had decreased by ten ponies, for we now had only
fifty. Sometimes a donkey or a yak would be drafted in. We changed
animals every night. The ponies were sturdier and shaggier than
those we had had in Kashmir, but I doubt if they were any tougher.
We were in the country of pigtails, and the men in charge of the
ponies wore them. They were a cheerful lot, very Mongol in feature,
and not at all cleanly. On the back of each man’s tunic was a greasy
cone-shaped black mark made by his pigtail as it swung to and fro
pendulum-wise.
One day we had a woman among our pony-drivers. This is the land of
woman’s emancipation. No longer was the adult feminine population
kept in the background Women working in the fields straightened
up and greeted us as we passed, and once I saw a man and woman
laughing and jostling each other as if they were good friends and
comrades—something unimaginable in India or Kashmir. The Mohammedan
greeting of “Salaam” had given way to “Joolay,” to which your
response is “Joo.”
The custom of polyandry is largely, if not entirely, responsible for
the amelioration of woman’s lot. Unattractive and distasteful as it
may seem to an Occidental mind, there is here a great deal to be said
for it. The very fact that it keeps down the population is of primary
importance in a land where the number of people that can be supported
has a very definite limit. A woman usually has three husbands,
although I heard of one instance where there were seven. They are
generally brothers. The first husband stands head of the household.
Upon his death the wife, if she so desires, can very simply rid
herself of the others by divorce.
There must be a great deal of nutrition in the diminutive and all
but invisible clumps of grass scattered through the rocks, for the
flocks and herds seem well nourished, and the mutton we bought was
excellent. The sheep and goats were very small, many adults no
larger than a fox-terrier. They were all friendly, and one little
black ram adopted us, trotting along perfectly cheerfully among the
dogs. We had great difficulty in persuading him to turn back. We
noticed a most curious variation in the shape of the horns. In one
herd there would be animals with scimitar-shaped horns resembling
ibex, another with spiral horns like markhor, and a third with his
horns formed like those of mountain-sheep. It would seem as if these
characteristics must point to a descent from the wild game of the
mountains.
We went off after sharpu a number of times. These animals are about
the size of our Rocky Mountain bighorn, but carry no such fine
trophy. Their horns branch out sideways and back in a semicircle. A
good head will measure between twenty-five and thirty inches long.
They often go in large troops. They prefer a slide-rock country,
and walking is both difficult and fatiguing along the shale-covered
hillsides. The shikaries rather look down upon sharpu-shooting as a
sport that requires but little skill, and Rahima Loon said that when
hunting them he paid no attention to wind. We saw at least thirty
females one afternoon, and a few rams, but the largest had only a
twenty-inch horn, and so was not worth collecting.
At Nurla we were most unexpectedly the witnesses of a protracted
Buddhist service. One of our men announced that there was going to
be a tamasha, or celebration, and we saw a red lama approaching,
followed by a nondescript acolyte bearing a shrine. This shrine was
placed beneath a tree on a low platform. Above it was hung a Chinese
kakemono of Buddhist saints. Several images were placed in front,
together with ceremonial platters and daggers and incense-burners.
Next a stone altar was constructed—two smaller rocks supporting a
long heavy one that was borne onto the scene by several coolies. The
head priest opened the ceremony with some droned invocations, and
then the first devil appeared; he wore a grotesque mask and capered
about every which way, badgering the priest. The entire population of
the village had by now gathered, and were seated in a semicircle—the
women and children at one end and the men at the other. There seemed
to be but little intermingling, although one old patriarchal couple
sat together, sharing their enjoyment of the devil’s antics. Many of
the women had chubby babies on their arms, or in baskets on their
backs, and more than one fat pappoose was diligently sucking its
thumb.
The head lama and the devil carried on a most complicated warfare,
in which the honors seemed remarkably evenly divided. The spectators
were vastly amused, laughing when the devil made sudden sallies
into their ranks. At length he was subdued and exorcised. The head
priest’s labors were by no means over, though, for a second lama
immediately appeared. His face was whitened with chalk and he was
draped in a sheepskin poshteen with the wool outside. Into the
circle he pranced amid much laughter, and once more the chief lama
entered into conflict. This battle was longer drawn-out and there
were numerous skirmishes with the bystanders, greatly to every
one’s delight. At length this second devil was overcome also, and
prostrated as a penitent before the altar. So far everything had
been conducted in light vein. It is said that these devil dances are
intended educationally. When, a Buddhist dies he has a straight and
narrow path to follow. From this path the devils, with their hideous
features, attempt to frighten him, but the lamas thus prepare and
forewarn him in life that he may not be affrighted and driven aside.
The serious portion of the services now commenced; there was no
longer any laughter, but from this time the onlookers joined in
chanting the great prayer of the Buddhist faith: “Om mani padme
Om”—“The Jewel in the Lotus.” The priest went through his mystic
signs. He scattered incense, and genuflected before the altar. He
then took a small dagger, which he ran through a hole in his cheek,
plunging it in up to the hilt, so that the blade appeared between his
teeth. Next he took two sabres, and, intoning a dirge-like chant,
swung the swords about his head in the approved Cossack style.
Suddenly he stripped himself to the waist, placed the point of each
sword in the pit of his stomach, and, running a short distance,
plunged forward to the ground, balancing himself on the swords. He
must have cleverly taken the weight off the points of the sabres
through his grasp upon the hilts, for otherwise they would have
pierced his intestines. He now appeared much wrought up, and placing
the point of one of the swords in his mouth, in such a way that it
brought up against his cheek and bulged it out, he flung himself
down, apparently supporting himself solely by the sword-point which
was distending his cheek. Before he could repeat this performance the
two assistant lamas rushed up and took the swords from him.
One of the reformed devils now lay on the ground on his back, with
his sheepskin poshteen folded upon his stomach. On top of this
poshteen two men placed the altar-stone. The chief priest seized one
of the rocks which had supported the altar and dashed this rock down
with all his force upon the altar-stone, smashing the altar-stone in
two. There was no flaw in the stone, and it weighed a good hundred
and fifty pounds, but the devil beneath sprang up none the worse for
wear. I imagine the credit must be supposed to lie in the devil’s
conversion.
The services were closed with further prayers and some dancing to the
accompaniment of a three-stringed zither. By now it was almost dark,
and the chanting, swaying figures seemed exotic and outlandish as
they wound among the apricot-trees with the white-topped mountains in
the background.
The Ladakhi is evidently a great believer in the efficacy of
prayer, but being of a frugal mind, he wishes to economize effort
wherever possible. Hence, prayer-wheels. By writing a number of
orthodox prayers and enclosing them in a cylinder, it is possible
to so arrange the cylinder that it revolves around a simple axis
with a minimum of effort. Each time a prayer revolves it is the
same as if it were verbally repeated. Many of those watching this
Buddhist ceremony had prayer-wheels in their hands. The pony men
are often engaged in spinning yarn all through the day’s march,
but next to the distaff it is the most usual thing to see men busy
turning prayer-wheels. They are sometimes set upon walls, so that
any passer-by may achieve merit by giving them a turn. There are
also long walls built up eight feet high, on whose tops are strewn
prayer-stones. The lamas inscribe the prayers on these stones, and if
the traveller but keeps the wall on his right hand, all the prayers
thereon automatically say themselves for his benefit. These walls
are called manis and appear in the most unexpected places. They
are sometimes as much as three-quarters of a mile in length. The
chortens, or dilapidated mud-and-stone monuments generally seen near
the manis, are burial vaults or tombs. A rich man occupies one to
himself. After his body has been burned the lamas take some of the
ashes and mould them with clay into the rough likeness of a man.
This is placed in the middle of the chorten. With the poor many such
effigies are laid in a single chorten.
We had regarded the stretch from Srinagar to Leh as the first leg
of the rather centipedal expedition. At Leh, the capital of Ladak,
we were to launch off across the mighty main ranges, so the green
oasis that marked the town from a distance loomed up very important
to us when we approached it on the morning of June 2, just two weeks
out from Srinagar. Riding up through the bazaar to the Travellers’
Bungalow, we set to work immediately laying out the lines for the
bundobust that would take us into Turkestan.