DESERTS AND OASES OF TURKESTAN
From Ayalik we dropped rapidly to more comfortable heights. Though
none of us had really suffered from mountain-sickness, we were glad
to be able to take in our quota of oxygen without the labor that
had been entailed at the higher altitudes. The principal Mohammedan
festival, Muharram, fell upon the second of July, the day after our
arrival at Ayalik. All our followers, with the exception of the
Ladakhi pony men, were Moslems, so we felt it only just to give them
a day to rest and celebrate. This feast corresponds to our Christmas.
It happened to be a peculiarly raw and blustering day, so next
morning the change was doubly welcome when we dropped down 3,500 feet
and camped near two poplars, the first trees we had seen for eighteen
days.
There now came up one of the customary debates regarding the trail.
The direct route continued to follow the course of the Sanju River,
but it was held by some that the waters were too high for the fording
involved, and that the alternate road taking two days longer and
necessitating the crossing of a fair-sized pass offered the only
logical route. We decided on the shorter and more watery trail,
and in the way of fords it left nothing to be desired. There were
sixteen; all were rapid and rocky and almost all were very deep. At
the second, we nearly lost a pony, for one went under and seemed
to prefer to stay there, poor beast. He was salvaged against his
will, however. Thereafter our lucky star shone forth, for a caravan
of twenty unladen camels put in an appearance, and to them we
transferred as much weight as they could handle. The camels with
their long legs easily crossed fords that would have proved serious
obstacles to our heavily laden ponies. With their reduced burdens,
the ponies successfully negotiated the remaining fourteen passages
and landed us in Sanju amid a lovely grove of willow-trees.
I have always taken particular delight in trees, especially in the
old patriarchs of the forest, but to thoroughly appreciate them, one
must have spent some weeks in as barren and inhospitable a country as
the high Himalayas. It seemed impossible to sufficiently feast our
eyes upon the first shady groves at Kivas and Sanju Bazaar.
The day of many fords happened to be the Fourth of July, so that
evening in honor of us Jemal Shah called forth his undoubted culinary
talents and we feasted and celebrated in orthodox fashion, calling
to mind those boyhood Fourths when armed with a plentiful supply of
firecrackers we would slip out in the dark hours to disturb the sleep
of long-suffering neighbors.
Next day, on entering the wide-spread Sanju Bazaar oasis, we were met
by a committee of leading citizens—old men with long flowing beards.
Greeting our followers, they took both hands of the individual
between their own, and then loosing them, each man stroked his own
beard, muttering the appropriate formulas of welcome. We were led to
a dais covered with carpets and felt numdahs, where food was spread
before us; roast lamb and chicken in wooden platters, bowls of curds,
plates of nuts and raisins, and basins of apricots and mulberries.
Having only recently finished a substantial breakfast, we were not
able to do justice to the meat courses, but our treatment of the
fruit more than made up for the scant courtesy shown the meat. The
camp that night was pitched in a garden of apricot-trees, out of
which we shook the fruit. We trooped down to the river to bathe and
found the water warm, a pleasant change from the frozen dips with
which we had hitherto satisfied our craving for a modified form of
cleanliness.
We now abandoned the river and struck across country toward
Karghalik. Once out of the oasis, the sun was blistering. For sixteen
miles there was no drop of water. We gave the contents of our
canteens to the two dogs that were with us, but, in spite of all,
we paid toll to the sun in the dog we could least spare, old Foxie.
The sudden drop from the freezing altitudes to the blazing lowlands
had severely taxed all of the dogs, and Foxie, being the oldest,
had suffered more than the others. Every one had become fond of the
gallant old fellow, and there was a very genuine mourning in the camp
at his death. We buried him in a little garden near the caravansary
at Koshtagh, 12,000 miles from his Montana home.
In three days we covered more than eighty miles on our march across
to Karghalik. At each oasis we were welcomed with apricots and curds
and great flaps of unleavened bread. On our departure, a group of
notables would escort us a mile or so on our way. Their mounts were
usually stallions, and they formed a vicious, squealing, kicking
cavalcade. There was once the start of a fair fight, but none of this
appeared to disturb a whit the serenity of the riders.
One morning when we were leaving our night’s stopping-place under
just such an escort, a big mare that I was riding reached the bridge
over an irrigation ditch at the same time as a diminutive pack-pony.
Neither wished to yield precedence, but the laden pony was the more
adroit, and before I knew what had happened, I was in the ditch.
Both the mare and I plunged head under, for the water was deep. No
damage was done, although for a moment I was afraid the zeal of the
escort in their efforts at rescue might prove my undoing. I had on me
my kodak and my Sept, and was much concerned as to their condition.
Fortunately, both responded to prompt drying.
At Bora, the last halt before Karghalik, there were two handsome
golden eagles in large wooden cages. The townsfolk use them for
coursing jeron, the so-called goitred gazelle. They are said to be
fairly common on the plains near by during the winter months, but
with the advent of summer they retreat into the foot-hills.
Our guides from Bora to Karghalik were four old men mounted upon
diminutive donkeys. They rode along in a row, their long beards
waggling as they chatted and joked. Sometimes one would ride with his
arm on another’s shoulder—old cronies evidently.
The Amban of Karghalik had not expected us so soon, and we were
thrust upon him in the midst of a levee of local Begs. He was
short and squat and cheerful, but language was a distinct barrier
and interpreting complicated. He did not speak even Turki, so all
sentiments had to be transmitted through Hindustanee, then into Turki
and Chinese. Doubtless their outlines became somewhat hazy in the
process. We had hoped to avoid stopping over a day, but this proved
to be impossible, for the Amban had set his heart upon giving us a
tamasha—an entertainment.
In preparation for this affair, we wended down to the rushing yellow
river that ran near the garden in which we were camped. A large and
intent audience of both sexes watched us bathe. Three of us in our
modesty kept on our clothes—they badly needed a wash—but one paid no
more attention to the audience than if it had not existed, and has
probably joined the galaxy of country deities. Thoroughly washed, we
proceeded to dig out tuxedoes and opera-hats, much to the delight of
our men, for in Leh they had felt crestfallen at our wearing only
workaday clothes.
The Amban arrived early to call for us. We were not ready, so he,
his two sons, and entire retinue joined our own men in watching us
dress. They were all greatly impressed—so much so that next morning
the Amban sent his tailor armed with bundles of black-and-white
striped silk. He squatted under a big tree near by busily copying the
tuxedoes, while the Amban’s carpenter copied our roorkee chairs. The
collapsible opera-hats were, alas, quite beyond emulation.
The Amban’s dinner was a great success. We had brought with us a
small supply of brandy and different sorts of liqueurs to be used as
gifts. On such occasions as this we mixed up a palatable cocktail
with fruit-juice, brandy, sloe gin, and cherry brandy. On the
dinner-table there were two bottles, one held a red liquid, the other
a yellow. On the labels were Chinese girls, and beneath were written
“Girl Brand Orange Champagne” and “Girl Brand Rose Champagne.” It
is not so easy to describe the taste. The Amban’s two sons were at
the dinner—pleasant fellows both. In spite of the lack of a common
language, everything went off smoothly, and the Amban seemed
particularly to enjoy Cutting’s songs. They spoke an international
language.
We had decided that we could make better time by travelling at night,
so we arranged for several mapas and arabas to be ready after dinner.
A mapa is what is known in northern China as a Pekin cart. It is a
two-wheeled covered vehicle. An awning stretches out in front to
protect the horse. An araba is larger and more primitive. If it has
a cover at all, it is only a length of reed matting arched across
it. Both have an entire absence of springs. We each crawled into a
mapa and stretched out as nearly at full length as possible. A swarm
of bobbing Chinese lanterns accompanied us through the darkened
bazaar. They never failed to remind me of a Japanese print as they
flitted along in the dark. Just outside of town we found the Amban.
He had his rugs spread out in the courtyard of a little house at the
roadside, and here we alighted for a parting cup of tea with the
inevitable accompanying dishes of nuts, raisins, watermelon-seeds,
and variegated colored candies. It is a pretty Chinese custom to
speed the parting guest on his way by installing oneself at the
wayside where the road leaves town, and bidding him alight for a
farewell cup of tea.
[Illustration: C. S. C., T. R., K. R., AND ABDUL HAMID GO TO CALL ON
THE AMBAN OF YARKAND]
To sleep soundly in a mapa calls for more than an easy conscience.
The ponies are festooned with bells, the ill-fitting wooden joints
creak and groan, there is no semblance of a spring, and, to add
to all, the driver sings or rather shouts out endless monotonous
epics. These he checks from time to time to warn his ponies of some
peculiarly bad spot in the road. This warning soon assumed a fateful
ring in our ears, and we would grab at any available portion of the
wagon’s anatomy to mitigate the force of the shocks which inevitably
followed.
Up to now, there had been but little travel on the roads we
traversed. Occasionally a small caravan had passed us on its way
to Ayalik, where the traders were massing preparatory to the first
push across the passes. We had come over far in advance of the
legitimately open season, and the only caravan which we met en route
was the small and sadly decimated one which we passed on the Shyok
River. Now, however, we constantly met little groups of men trudging
along with laden donkeys or well-fed pack-ponies in tow. From
Karghalik on, we never passed out of sight of cultivation of some
sort.
We reached Yarkand after marching two nights and part of one day. We
were met by the present Amban, two former Ambans, and the Chinese
general in command of the troops. All showed us every courtesy. We
made our formal calls upon them that afternoon, riding from residence
to residence dressed in our state uniform of tuxedo and opera-hat,
which always lent a cheerful note. The Aksakal we knew well by name,
for he was Abdul Hamid, brother of our friend Abdullah Shah at Leh.
We were quartered a couple of miles from town in a large house set in
the midst of a most attractive garden. Here we saw our first goitred
gazelle, a handsome buck. In his neck he had a swelling that pulsated
as he breathed, and reminded one of a well-developed Adam’s apple.
He was bad-tempered, and when Cherrie in his anxiety to get a good
picture motioned the man who was holding him to loose him, he charged
straight at the camera with a savage grunt. We came on another pet
gazelle later on at a village named Ak-Dong on the Yarkand-Maralbashi
road, but this second gazelle had a most pleasant and friendly
disposition.
A little while before reaching Karghalik, we had begun to notice
cases of goitre, and these increased steadily in frequency until
in Yarkand it seemed as if every other person was afflicted. Even
small children of four and five had pronounced goitres, and some of
their elders had them fearfully developed. It is said to come from
the filthy water that the townsfolk drink. A few days out on the
Maralbashi road put us beyond the goitre belt, and at Maralbashi I
saw only one case. Any one wishing to study the disease would find an
unsurpassed field in Yarkand.
We were surprised at the small number of Chinamen we met. A few
of the larger stores were run by them, and they seemed to have a
monopoly on the pawn-shops, but numerically they were only a small
part of the community. It is a land of exile for them. The Amban told
us that Pekin was distant six months’ travel. The private soldiers
were all Yarkandis; occasionally the corporals were Chinese. The
natives varied greatly in color; some were as white as we, and others
very dark. We saw no negroes nor could we make out any trace of negro
blood. The features were not Mongol; as a whole perhaps more Semitic
in caste than anything else. The men were better-looking than the
women.
We spent three days in Yarkand, making the bundobust for the next
stretch of our journey—that to Aksu. I wandered all through the
bazaars. There were three separate ones, all extensive. I saw little
of European manufacture. Matches and cigarettes were of Chinese
make—the cutlery was mostly made upon the spot. I picked up an old
pair of Chinese glasses for a friend, and a plate and some other
small objects of jade from Khotan, which is a great jade mart.
Bazaar life is always interesting and I could watch indefinitely
the silversmith, the blacksmith, or the shoemaker at work, or the
activities of the bakeshop. In one of the bazaars there was a
shrine to some very holy man, with a centrepiece composed of the
largest pair of ovis poli horns that I have ever seen. I had no
measuring-tape with me, but they must have been almost sixty inches
in length measured round the curves.
At Yarkand the expedition split. Suydam went with Feroze to Kashgar
to look after our arrangements there, while Cherrie planned to come
slowly on to Maralbashi, stopping a week or more whenever he found a
locality where the opportunity for collecting seemed good. Suydam was
to join him when he finished at Kashgar, and both were to meet us in
the Tekkes around the middle of September.
Ted and I hired six arabas, and shortly after midnight on the 14th of
July we piled ourselves and our belongings in them and set out with
all the speed feasible for Aksu. We loaded the carts lightly, and
hoped to make long marches. Besides Rahima Loon and Khalil, we took
with us the second cook, Rooslia, with Loosa and Sultana. Sultana had
received sad news at Yarkand. In a letter to Rahima from Bandipar
he heard of the death of one of his children, a boy of fourteen.
The ravages of cholera had been frightful—more than 700 of the
villagers had died. Our Kashmiris reminded me of the crew on a New
Bedford whaler in the old days, when almost every member was related
by marriage or blood. This of course made it sadder still for the
Kashmiris, as each one had a relative or close friend to mourn.
We had become much attached to our followers. Ahmed Shah, who was to
take charge of Cherrie’s caravan, had proved himself most efficient
on the trail across the passes. Feroze was an excellent little
fellow; he had a keen sense of humor, and was a merry companion.
Our Kashmiris were a patriarchal group, well led by Rahima Loon.
To his many other qualities, he superadded that of diplomacy. A
born diplomat, he managed to be ever smoothing our way, and yet
getting us along with amazing speed, for which he fully realized the
necessity. He watched over the finances with an eagle eye, and time
and again saved us many rupees. Not only did he cut down the larger
expenditures, but he also kept well under control the small daily
sums that have such a tendency to mount.
Jemal Shah, the veteran cook, we left with Cherrie. He had come
through everything smiling, and had conjured up the most magnificent
meals from nowhere, when confronted by what seemed a hopeless
insufficiency of time and materials. Just as the arabas were about to
start into the black night, he ran up and presented us each with a
box of matches as a final precaution for our comfort.
The Kashmiris were adepts in the art of massage. All Asiatics are
firm believers in it. In the bazaar at Maralbashi I came on a Darby
and Joan picture—an old woman massaging the feet of her white-bearded
husband. I was once much indebted to this massage on the way across
the passes. While running to adjust a load, I slipped on a stone and
threw my knee out so severely that I was for some time unable to put
the slightest weight on it. Rahima massaged it night and morning
for several days with ghee—rancid native butter—and I was back in
walking trim much sooner than I had dared to believe possible. All
our followers were most concerned and considerate, and at odd moments
would take a turn at massaging the knee. Kadi, the Yarkandi, also
tried his hand. They practised both massage and osteopathy upon each
other for every ailment from a headache to a stomachache. To cure
this latter, Suydam saw one of the men lying face down on the ground
while the others beat his arms and legs in a truly alarming fashion.
At Yarkand we parted with Kadi and his two partners, who had come
with us from Leh. All three wished to continue on to the Tian Shan,
but Rahima felt that they would be out of their bailiwick and of
little use. We had become genuinely attached to Kadi, he was so
everlastingly cheerful and hard-working. Short but beautifully
proportioned, he had in his walk that resiliency you so often see in
a well-conditioned hunting-dog. All day long he would be hurrying
from one end of the column to the other, adjusting the loads here and
there, helping a fallen pony to regain his footing, and yet coming
into camp at night after the longest day’s march his step would be
as springy as if he were but setting out. He was invaluable at the
fords, always the first across, returning time after time to help the
others over.
[Illustration: THE FAIR AT YARKAND]
[Illustration: FERRYING ACROSS THE YARKAND RIVER]
The stretch from Yarkand to Maralbashi we made in six days, averaging
better than twenty-two miles. At the start we tried night
marching, but as there was no moon, the combination of bad roads
and evening rain-storms made us feel it preferable to put up with
the heat of the sun. The Amban of Yarkand had been most efficient
in sending ahead word to the villagers to help us along. He was a
keen-faced, slightly built man, evidently accustomed to act quickly
and be obeyed. He warned us that much of the road was under water and
that we might find ourselves in difficulties, but promised to give us
all assistance possible.
We crossed to the right bank of the river at Toghraghe, fifteen or
sixteen miles from Yarkand. This was a slow performance, for the
river was very broad, with two deep channels, separated by a mud
flat, where the carts had to be unloaded and hauled across by the
horses. Next day we began to get out of the cultivated districts,
and passed through a jungle of dwarfed poplar-trees. It looked as if
there should be game about, but the natives insisted that there was
none. It had rained, as usual, during the night, and at sun-up the
air was delightfully clear. We had a brief glimpse of the Kuen Lun
mountains behind us, bounding with their glorious snowy peaks the
southern horizon. It is only on rare occasions that you can see any
distance, for the fine desert dust that has been whirled about by the
wind remains suspended in the air and effectively restricts one’s
vision.
On the third day after starting from Merket Bazaar we crossed back
to the left bank of the river, following a jungle trail which had
been widened and vastly improved for us at the command of the Amban.
We had with us two Yarkandi soldiers, one of them an efficient
picturesque fellow, a local prototype of Dugald Dalgetty. Somewhere
he had acquired a black slouch-hat, and in a bickering had lost a
good part of one ear. He was death on straggling, and after one or
two fruitless attempts at apathetic resistance, our araba drivers
spruced up and kept in close formation. Our soldier was no believer
in Gandhiism.
We had with us both Cumberland’s and Church’s accounts of their
hunting trips in Turkestan. We found Major Cumberland’s the best
reading of any of the books on the country. There is no question but
that there is far less game now along the trail from Yarkand to Aksu
than there was when he was here in 1889; less, too, than when Church
was through, ten years later. The local shikaries told us that it was
too hot and dry at this season, July, but that in another two months
the game would return. Such is, without doubt, the case. Still, where
Cumberland mentioned not once but many times running across the fresh
trail of tiger, we could not even hear from the natives of there
being tigers in the neighborhood. They would have been only too glad
to enlarge upon any such information had there been the slightest
foundation on which to build.
On the Yarkand side of Maralbashi the villages of Aksakmaral and
Shamal are supposed to be the best centres from which to hunt.
Beyond Maralbashi on the Aksu road, Yakka Kudak is regarded as
the most likely place for shikar. We were going through with all
possible speed, but whenever the local oracles gave us the slightest
encouragement, we took ponies and got in an early morning’s hunt,
catching the arabas at noon. We separated, one taking Rahima and the
other Khalil, with, of course, a local so-called shikarry (save the
mark!) in addition. Each time that we went out, either one or both of
us caught a fleeting glimpse of gazelles. There was never a chance
for a shot, however, for they were wild as hawks. We saw but very
little recent sign, so the place or time was wrong, probably both.
Of other wild life there was not a great deal. During a morning’s
hunt I counted over a dozen hares. Aside from that day, we never
saw more than one or two. Duck and geese were plentiful in some of
the lagoons and often amazingly tame. Of the pheasants about which
Cumberland and Church wrote, we saw not one. The sole contribution we
made to our collection was a brown snake about eighteen inches long
which a native brought in. This was the only snake, dead or alive,
which we had seen on the whole expedition up to date.
As a rule, we had been sleeping in the dirty battered caravansaries
of the villages where we halted, when we came in late this was a
necessity. Whenever it was possible to find a garden near by, we
either had our tent up or laid our sleeping-bags on the ground
uncovered, if the night gave promise of being fine.
Rough and uncertain as was the road, we were travelling along what
has been a trade route through countless generations. Marco Polo
may well have put up in more than one of the serais in which we
stopped. These serais are big courtyards lined on either side with
stalls for cattle, having a number of large rooms in the rear for
use of travellers. Outside of these rooms are earthen daises on
which we unrolled our sleeping-bags. Sometimes there would be other
travellers in our serai, and the different groups would squat over
their cooking-pots, plunging their hands into the communal dish.
The evening meal over, they would sing spirited ballad songs with
a swinging lilt to them or lugubrious dirges and indescribably
monotonous chants.
After dark there was much of the glamor of the East to be enjoyed in
the serai and its assemblage, which by daylight was obscured by raw
ugliness and filth. The night-watches were not always peaceful, for
more often than not the fleas bit shrewdly. Once we were set upon by
some peculiarly large and savage bug whose attack became only the
fiercer the more Keating’s powder was strewn about “and him as big
as a donkey,” at least so it seemed from the wounds inflicted. Suydam
on that occasion fared the worst, for his bites swelled and started
to fester. It may be understood, therefore, why we preferred our
unromantic tents to the age-old serai.
It was always difficult, however, to persuade our men to go on beyond
the well-known halting-places. The drivers and our guides were very
conventional, and to go past a regulation stage never seemed to
them possible. It was not that wood and water and other necessities
were not available at any number of places. It was just that these
definite places have been the stages time out of mind, and custom
ordains that there be no deviation. Then, too, for some reason the
men regarded the serai as more fitting and dignified.
The village musicians usually gathered in the serai. An average band
consisted of a stringed instrument with a body no larger than a
mandolin’s but the stem a good six feet long, a couple more stringed
instruments only half as large, and one or two tambourines. Sometimes
the musicians sang, sometimes not—and often a man would jump up
and dance. Music is a profession not much more highly considered
in Yarkand than in Ladakh, where the musician ranks lower than the
blacksmith or tinsmith—indeed, he is almost the lowest class of all.
The best dancing that I saw was in Karghalik. The men having
performed at the Amban’s levee were afterward gathered in a secluded
spot in the garden under some apricot-trees. They started again for
their own amusement and there I found them, and enjoyed their dancing
more than I had at the tamasha. One man would dance for a while, and
then he would select another from the surrounding circle, and hale
him out. They covered their hands with their long sleeves just as one
sees in the jade statue of a Kien Lung dancing-girl. Occasionally an
onlooker would step forward with some money in his hand, pass it a
couple of times around the dancer’s head, and then put it in an idle
tambourine that lay beside the musicians.
At Maralbashi, which we reached on July 19, we again unearthed our
worn and weary tuxedoes, and, topped off with opera-hats, returned
the Amban’s call, mounted on two ambitious ponies. We succeeded
in hurrying through without waiting over the usual day. We left
on the afternoon following our arrival, first having lunch with
the Amban and two other Chinese officials. If we had been able to
speak Chinese, these luncheons would have been both pleasant and
interesting, but as it was, the only thing we could do without the
aid of an interpreter was to pledge each other in Chinese brandy.
In some way a pint of champagne had found its way here, and it was
produced in our honor. It had been flat for many years and we drank
it as a liqueur.
The Amban was courtesy itself, and sent on two soldiers to take the
place of those that came with us from Yarkand, also two local Begs
to see that we had our wants supplied in the villages through which
we passed. We had brought with us some brandy and various kinds of
liqueurs to be sent as presents to the Ambans. We greatly regretted
that we had not also thought of wrist-watches, for they would have
served admirably as gifts.
The bazaar of Maralbashi is one long street, lined with the usual
bake-shops, butcher-shops, and all the other shops with their
display of gimcracks of every kind. There were many birds in cages,
seemingly more than in any bazaar through which we had yet passed.
The red-legged chukor appeared a favorite. There were also quail,
desert larks, and finches. One morning on the road we met a troupe of
six donkeys. On one was a man with a fat small boy perched in front
of him, on another was his wife, while strapped on each of the other
four were bobbing along four birds in their cages.
The donkey is much used as a conveyance. The rider has stirrups but
no bridle, and guides his charger by hitting him on one side or other
of the neck, uttering inimitable guttural sounds. It is surprising
what heavy loads of grain a donkey will carry. When you see them
coming along under a load of brush it looks as if “Birnam wood had
come to Dunsinane.”
Our araba drivers had needed urging on the road to Maralbashi, when
they often wished to stop short of our proposed day’s march. They
had also tried to persuade us to stay over there on the plea of sick
horses. Now they had apparently made up their minds that the best
thing to do was to hurry through to Aksu and get rid of us, for
they made amazingly good time of their own accord. We were only six
days on the road, averaging twenty-four miles a day. When a driver
wishes to shorten a stage, he will plead that there is no grass nor
wood on the road ahead, or that there is too much water—sometimes
all three. Then if you have halted in response to his petition,
you will probably next morning find that there were a dozen good
places farther on to have camped, and no lack of wood or fodder, nor
superfluity of water. The driver will be entirely unabashed when you
point this out with some acerbity, and with a childlike faith he will
offer the same time-honored reasons when next the occasion warrants.
Our horses were excellent, all of them stallions, and in fine shape.
They did not seem to lose condition on the road, but of course they
had an abundance to eat. An araba is drawn by from one to four
horses, according to the load or the fancy of the driver. We had two
with one horse only, three with one horse in the shafts and another
in front, tandem fashion, and one with three horses. The wheel-horses
were most intelligent. They would back into place between the shafts
merely at the spoken word, and they would shift to right or left on
the road at their driver’s command. There were no reins. A single
rope was attached to the bit of each horse, but it was rarely used.
Although an araba is not a comfortable conveyance for man, we
unquestionably made better time and at far less expense than we
could have done with a pack-train. Our six arabas took us nearly 300
miles for about eighty-five dollars. We would have needed fifteen
pack-ponies. We had one araba for the dogs—they could never have got
through the long hot marches on foot, and we particularly wished
to fatten them up for the hunting. They had, of course, got very
thin during the trek across the passes, but soon began to put on
weight and cover their ribs. In the arabas we either lay on our
bedding-rolls or sat tailor fashion upon them. When the road was
sandy we read for a while, but our eyes tired and an ear had to be
kept open for the “Oowah! Oowah!” with which the drivers encouraged
their teams across the particularly rough spots in the road. Then we
clutched any part of the araba and held on, while the cart bucketed
and swayed its way along. Ted put in most of his time on the Bible
and Shakespeare, while I had a more varied diet—three plays of
Molière, Lever’s “Handy Andy,” and “Westward Ho!”
There was more waste land on the Aksu road. For two days in the
neighborhood of Yakka Kudak we passed through almost continuous
desert. Once for several miles the whole surface of the land to a
depth of eight feet had been bodily removed and deposited elsewhere
by the wind. Numerous hummocks, held together by roots of the dead
trees perched on the summit, attested to the former earth level and
gave the place an eerie and ghostlike appearance—seemingly an abode
of the dead.
Whenever we had the slightest encouragement from the natives, we
went off in search of gazelle, but without success. When planning
the expedition, we had felt that to bring any shotgun other than
Cherrie’s collecting guns would involve too serious an addition of
weight. For a while, we thought of a .22 rifle, but decided against
it as not being worth the trouble. We would have been glad of the .22
many times when we could have used it on chukor, duck, or rabbit.
What we really should have taken along was a .410 pump-gun. The
shells are light and it would have been powerful enough to serve
our wants. On an expedition of this sort all you require is weapons
to shoot specimens and provide for variation in the diet. We had no
desire for sporting wing-shooting, but wished to bag our game with the
least expenditure of powder. Sixteen or twelve gauge shells weighed
so much as to be out of the question for us.
Five or six miles before reaching Yangi Shahr, we crossed the Aksu
River. Here we halted to wash off the dust of travel—and looking at
the water it seemed doubtful whether we would wash more off or on.
After our swim we dressed as usual in evening clothes and opera-hats.
We sent the arabas on and arranged for riding-ponies. We always felt
like waiters in a very second-class restaurant, but unquestionably
these clothes served a good purpose, for the officials felt that,
dirty or not, the intention to do honor was there. A business suit
would not have meant the same thing, but the military uniforms that
we had for a time considered would have done admirably.
During the ride in, we realized that we were once more in the goitre
belt. In Aksu it was not as prevalent as in Yarkand, but it seemed to
be more virulent, and the cases more advanced. The little babies were
a sad sight.
A lovely garden had been prepared for us, the best-kept one which we
had yet come upon. Carpets and numdahs were spread, and on tables
were fresh and dried fruits, together with the usual nuts, raisins,
and sugar candy. The muskmelons were delicious, and here we first
were given watermelons. The apricot season was over. There were
peaches, small but good, and a glossy red fruit, a cross between
apricot and peach, which didn’t appear to be ripe, although every one
ate it. There were grapes of different varieties, but all were green
as yet.
Yangi Shahr is the Chinese city of Aksu—lying about five miles from
the native city. In Yangi Shahr the Dotai, or Governor, of the
province resides, as well as the Lieutenant-Governor and the local
Amban. Each had some species of European carriage, ranging from a
fiacre to a Russian troika on wheels. The latter was sent to convey
us to the Dotai’s residence, where we sat through an innumerable
coursed dinner, while some itinerant Chinese players shouted and sang
and danced near by. There appeared to be no plot, but part of the
buffoonery was easily understood and appreciated.
The Dotai was a big, jovial man. Had we had a common language we
should have thoroughly enjoyed the time with him, but he was a
“brother hedged by alien speech and lacking all interpreter.” Our
men spoke a very halting Turki, therefore we had another added
temporarily to the string of interpreters—a man who fancied he was
able to understand our men’s Turki and translate it to his fellows.
Ted compared the whole arrangement to the game of gossip that we used
to play as children. One child would whisper a sentence to another,
he to still another, and so on, until it rounded the circle and came
back to its originator, who shouted out what he had first said, and
in what form it had returned to him. The comparison enabled us to
form some idea of how much of what we said seeped through to the
Dotai. The Dotai was an efficient executive, he made up his mind
quickly, and acted immediately. When he told us arrangements for our
march into the Tekkes would be completed without delay, we felt there
was no question but that such would be the case, and we had nothing
to worry about.
After a night in Yangi Shahr, we moved on to Aksu to complete the
arrangements for pushing on across the Muzart Pass into the valley of
the Tekkes, for we were eager to reach the promised land of big game.