CHAPTER VI
ON THE WAY TO THE RUSSIAN PAMIRS
This Central Asian scenery has a type of its own, quite different from the Swiss or Caucasian mountain scenes....
Here, though the mountains are higher, the glaciers, owing to the small snowfall, are much more puny, while below there is a picture of utter desolation that would be hard to match in any other part of the world.—St. George Littledale.
At the end of May we found it unpleasantly hot at Kashgar, with a temperature close on 100 degrees; so, early in June, we decided to start off on our tour to the Russian Pamirs, that hitherto jealously guarded district. It was a journey needing a considerable amount of forethought and preparation, because, once away from the Kashgar oasis, we should have to depend on what we had brought with us, save in the case of meat and milk. My brother inspected the tents, saw that a good supply of tent-pegs and horseshoes was laid in, and arranged for some eighteen ponies to carry the loads, which included large amounts of flour and barley. I had to calculate what quantities of tea, sugar, rice, tinned foods, compressed vegetables, dried fruits, jam, biscuits, candles, et cetera, would be required for seven weeks, had to make stout calico bags in which to put them, and had, moreover, to pack my store-boxes with judgement. For one thing, they must not be too heavy for the baggage animals, and for another, each box must contain a complete assortment of stores, in order that only one should need to be opened when we halted. The question of supplies haunted me for weeks, so afraid was I of forgetting some indispensable article; but my method of marking the boxes A, B, and so on, and then entering their contents in my note-book, proved my salvation later on, and made me realize that the more trouble one takes beforehand, the more successful a journey is likely to be. The fruit season had just begun with the apricots, and I had baskets of these stoned and laid out to dry in the sun on the roof, while Daoud made jam, salted and potted down butter, and baked bread and cakes to last for the first ten days. As we should camp at heights of ten to fourteen thousand feet, I took my warmest winter clothing, a thick astride habit, leather jacket and fur-lined coat, and ordered an addition to my bedding in the shape of a thick cotton-padded sleeping sack. To complete my equipment, Sir Aurel Stein insisted on giving me a pair of double-lined native boots, a gift that proved invaluable in camp at night, and my pith helmet and blue gauze veils were equally necessary to ward off sunstroke and to keep my face from being skinned when we rode during the heat of the day.
To be perfectly frank, I was by no means easy about this expedition, to which my brother looked forward with the eagerness of the sportsman. I have never had a good head for heights or for walking along the edge of precipices, and from the various books of travel that I had read it seemed that one ought to be possessed of unusual nerve and agility to negotiate the passes by which the Roof of the World must be reached. But I try to make it a rule to see only one lion in my path at a time and not to waste strength and courage in picturing what may after all turn out to be imaginary dangers, and naturally my blood was stirred at the thought that I was about to start upon an adventure vouchsafed to very few women. The Pamirs had always been a name to conjure with, and evoked visions of high uplands, galloping Kirghiz, wild sheep with great curled horns and an almost complete isolation from the world, and made me ashamed of my twinges of faint-heartedness, which, indeed, vanished for good and all when once we were on the road.
At last the day of our start arrived. The Russians, who interested themselves considerably in what they thought was a mad enterprise, were shocked that we had fixed on a Monday to begin our journey, and prophesied disaster. I made enquiries as to why this day should be regarded as a jour néfaste, and was told that, as it was the custom, among the lower classes at all events, to have a drinking-bout on Sunday, there were usually accidents in plenty on the first day of the working week. As our servants were all Mohamedans, bound by the tenets of their religion to touch no alcohol, we were not in danger from this cause, and the prognostications of our friends did not depress us in the slightest.
Besides ourselves and the servants, the party included Khan Sahib Iftikhar Ahmad the Head of the office, who was an Indian gentleman possessed of much varied information, and the sport-loving Indian Doctor.
Sir Aurel Stein, Mr. Bohlin and a group of Aksakals, or British Agents, whom my brother had just been entertaining on the occasion of the King’s birthday, rode out with us for two or three miles, their fine stallions squealing and trying to attack one another at intervals. When these men, who were clad in brilliantly coloured silk coats and snowy turbans, left us, we stopped on the bank of the Kizil Su to have a last cup of tea with our guest, who was staying behind in the Consulate in order to re-pack his priceless treasures and dispatch them to India. With the fording of the river I felt that we were really off, and all my housekeeping anxieties dropped from me like a garment; for, whatever might be my faults of omission or commission, it was useless to trouble about them, as I could now do nothing to repair them.
Our way led due south, and there was cultivation during the whole march, the barley turning yellow, the wheat in ear, and ploughing going on busily for the autumn crop of Indian corn. I rode astride on a native saddle. “Tommy,” as I called the sturdy white pony which was to be my second mount, had an unpleasant trick of stumbling that detracted from his merits as a steed; yet, to do him justice, he came down only once, and that was on the last march of the journey, and on a sandy road without a pebble.
A couple of days of riding and camping brought us to the oasis of Tashmalik, where we were separated from the cultivated area of Kashgar by a strip of stony desert varied by sand-dunes. In spite of the planting of tamarisks and reeds the sand was encroaching on the oasis, and a house and garden had been lately overwhelmed by this insidious foe, which the prevailing winds piled up in lofty mounds. Seeing this we could better understand Sir Aurel Stein’s explorations of cities that had been buried for centuries in the sand, which had also choked up the rivers by which their inhabitants had supported life.
The Beg of Tashmalik offered us tea, roast fowl, bread and hard-boiled eggs. The eggs had been coloured red, because white is the emblem of mourning in China, and the inhabitants of Turkestan copied this as well as many other customs from the dominant race. Our old host partook of tea with us, and I noticed that, when his bowl required refilling, his servant obligingly drank up what was left and then poured in fresh liquid and handed it to him.
That night we camped on an open space surrounded by trees and irrigation channels, and as it was hot we slept à la belle étoile outside our tents. It was delicious to feel the cool night breeze as I dropped off to sleep, but not so pleasant to wake suddenly in the dark with the horrible sensation that something large was creeping over my face. By the dim starlight I saw crawling forms on my bed, and my torchlight revealed the largest beetles that I have ever seen—and I have a considerable experience of the cockroach—some reposing on my pillow and others flying round with a booming noise. How I regretted my mosquito net! But luckily I had a head-net in my hold-all, and after shaking off the unwelcome intruders I composed myself to sleep again as best I could, knowing that I had none too long a night, as I must rise at four o’clock.
On the third day we rode towards low conglomerate hills with a background of snowy peaks, and were soon painfully stumbling among the smooth boulders of the wide bed of the Gez River, which was the crux of the first part of our journey. In this district no one comments upon the weather—it is almost monotonously fine during the summer—but travellers ask one another how high or rather how low the water is. In our case the answer was important because, if we had arrived too late, the dangerous Gez River could not have been crossed and we should have had to make our way over a series of steep passes in the hills.
Fortune favoured us; for the “great water,” which is due about the middle of June and continues throughout July, had not yet commenced. But two or three days later the fast melting snows would have swollen the stream and rendered any crossing impossible: as it was, it was touch and go once or twice. The next three days were spent in the long Gez defile, the frowning mountains rising up in many places sheer from the river-bed and hemming the water within narrower and narrower limits as we proceeded. I was reminded now and again of the gloomy canyons of the Fraser River in British Columbia, and all the time the roar of the water crashing over rocks and boulders rang in our ears. During each stage we had to ford the river some five or six times, and at first I had the queer sensation of being carried down-stream, the land opposite appearing to swim away from me. But, having traversed rivers in Persia, I knew the danger of becoming giddy and falling helplessly into the torrent; therefore I kept my eyes on some fixed object and not on the swirling water, and as I was well looked after and had no responsibility, I enjoyed the excitement of the crossings. Old Jafar Bai took one of my reins and my brother’s huntsman, Nadir, rode at my side to rescue me in case my horse fell, leaving me nothing to do but to sit in my saddle and urge my steed with voice and whip. The animal, unaccustomed to deep water, would plunge and stumble as it tried to make good its footing on the slippery boulders, and now and again would become nervous, lose its head and attempt to swim. All around us were struggling horses, whose excited riders without ceasing yelled at the top of their voices as they drove the baggage animals before them, and shouted countless directions that could not be heard above the tumult and hurly-burly of the water as it poured over its stony bed. I was advised to keep my horse up-stream at first, and when half-way across to let it go down-stream, and was told that I must on no account cling to it if it lost its footing and fell, for it would probably trample upon me in its struggles. Apparently the best thing in case of an accident was to let myself go with the current and trust to being rescued. The natives are said to cross rapid rivers in safety, even when the water reaches to their armpits, by jumping all the time—a very exhausting method, I should imagine.
FORDING THE GEZ RIVER.
Page 109.
Though our baggage ponies were lightly laden they seemed at times almost overwhelmed, but the Beg of Tashmalik and his men who escorted us, knew the dreaded Gez River in all its moods, and shepherded the terrified animals most cleverly. At the deepest fords camels were called into requisition and with much querulous complaining were forced into the stream with our loads, and on these occasions the Beg insisted that I should mount his own horse, saying that it was an expert at negotiating torrents. The lord of this district was a big, ruddy-faced man, and could hardly take his eyes off the first Englishwoman he had ever seen, being particularly interested in my side-saddle, which he thought was a most insecure perch. He looked upon me as being more or less in his charge, and I heard afterwards that he had deputed three of his men who were strong swimmers to keep an eye upon me in case my horse foundered. As a rule the early morning is the best time to cross these rivers, because no snow melts in the mountains during the night, when everything is frozen, nor does it do so until the sun has been up for some hours. Once or twice our baggage animals were greatly delayed by the water, and on one occasion only our bedding reached the camping ground, a pasturage dotted with tamarisk scrub. That night I was roused more than once by some grazing pony lurching against my bed in the darkness.
The dreary Gez gorge became wilder as we penetrated its recesses. Here and there rocks and stones were piled one upon another in a chaotic confusion that gave one a glimpse of the tremendous power of ice and water, the scenery being so savage as to seem more like a nightmare than reality. It inspired me with a kind of awe, and I am not ashamed to own that I should have been terrified to find myself alone in these solitudes, shut in by the lofty conglomerate hills, above which one gained occasional glimpses of snowy peaks. The river, beneficent and life-giving in its lower reaches, is here an agent of destruction, with not a tree and hardly a plant on its banks; and yet at one of the gloomiest reaches, when I was filled with a sense of impending disaster, my mood was changed in a second by the sight of two small birds pursuing one another in a love flight.
We had to cross several native bridges made on the cantilever system, and always dismounted, for they swayed from side to side, and our horses were nervous at first, even when led over them. As the raging torrent at these points was penned into narrow limits it swirled and eddied and foamed among the huge boulders below us, and I was thankful that these bridges had been improved since Lord Dunmore visited the Pamirs in 1892 and wrote that they consisted of a couple of beams on which brushwood and large round stones were laid.
When there were no bridges and the water was too deep for our horses we were obliged to negotiate various passes. In these the narrow track, with only room for one animal abreast, was often formed of loose shale, which here and there poured down the mountain side in big fans, the shingle rustling as it fell on to our path and descended the precipitous cliffs to the torrent surging far below. I did not appreciate my pony’s fondness for treading on the extreme edge of the track and sending showers of tiny pebbles hurtling down; but as it would have been a physical impossibility for me to have walked up all these passes—I always descended them on foot—I used to console myself with the reflection that our horses were by no means anxious to commit suicide.
At the end of the gorge, dome-shaped Muztagh Ata, with its covering of snow, stood up magnificently, seeming to block up the end of the narrow valley, and from that moment it entered into my life, so familiar did it become to me and so greatly did I admire it. Sandy tracks now led us to the shallow Bulunkul Lake, more than half-filled with sand blown from the hills that encircle it, and we halted on a stretch of pasturage on which yaks were grazing, and were glad to think that a critical part of our journey was safely accomplished.
It may be of interest if I give some account of how we travelled during this tour. The rule was to rise at 5 A.M., if not earlier, and I would hastily dress and then emerge from my tent to lay my pith-hat, putties, gloves and stick beside the breakfast table spread in the open. Diving back into my tent I would put the last touches to the packing of hold-all and dressing-case, Jafar Bai and his colleague Humayun being busy meanwhile in tying up my bedstead and bedding in felts. While the tents were being struck we ate our breakfast in the sharp morning air, adjusted our putties, applied face-cream to keep our skins from cracking in the intense dryness of the atmosphere, and then would watch our ponies, yaks or camels as the case might be, being loaded up. These last-mentioned ungainly creatures used to cry and protest all the time, giving their owners as much trouble as possible before they could be induced to lie down, and occasionally throwing off their burdens. A baby-camel being of the party during part of our journey, its mother greatly resented being made to work, and all the animals were shedding their winter coats, the fur hanging on their bodies in loose, untidy patches. My chief objection to the camel is its disagreeable odour, and I have often wondered why an animal that is such a clean feeder should smell so horribly.
When the loads were at last adjusted and the caravan was ready to start, we would mount our horses, or one of our men would lead them behind us while we walked for an hour before we began to ride. As we had three horses between us, I usually rode half the stage on my side-saddle if the going were good, and the other half on Tommy with a native saddle which had a cushion strapped on to it, and I found that the change of seat kept me from getting overtired, while my astride habit did for either mode.
We usually marched for five hours and then halted for lunch, waiting until our caravan had overtaken and passed us. Sattur, who accompanied us on his pony, would unpack his tiffin basket, and we would lie by the water, in the shade of a tree if possible, as the sun by noon was very powerful. When the worst of the heat was over, and our baggage animals had been given an hour’s start, we would ride another three or four hours into camp, to revel in afternoon tea and warm baths, I having an extra treat in the brushing out of my hair, so hastily done up in the morning. Then would come a consultation with Daoud as to our evening meal, and one of the store boxes would be opened to give out everything needed for it and for the morrow’s breakfast and lunch. After dinner we usually strolled up and down for an hour, warmly wrapped up—for it became very cold when the sun went down—and then turned in to dreamless slumbers.
From Lake Bulunkul and onwards we saw a great deal of the Kirghiz, and, though travellers differ as to their opinion of these peaceful pastoral people, we ourselves liked them and found them most friendly and hospitable. Their broad hairless faces and high cheek-bones show their Mongol descent, but though akin to the yellow-skinned, oblique-eyed Chinese, they look very different, and both men and women have fresh ruddy complexions.
We first camped with them at a spot called “Stone Sheep-folds,” from the presence of a roughly walled enclosure into which the flocks were driven at night to be guarded from the wolves by the savage Kirghiz dogs. As we rode across a wide grassy plain towards a group of akhois, the native dwellings that look like huge bee-hives, it was the hour of the afternoon milking, and Kirghiz women in gaily coloured coats, long leather boots and the characteristic lofty white headgear, were busily at work. They had tied the sheep and the goats and the black, brown or particoloured yaks to long ropes and let the animals go free one by one when they had been milked, a loud chorus of bleating and grunting going on all the time. Troops of mares, accompanied by their foals, were feeding all round the camp, and our Badakshani horses were excited to such an extent that the chestnut had to be blindfolded in order to quiet him; and throughout the tour I had often from this cause an unpleasantly lively time with my grey, which had been imperturbable when at Kashgar.
It was mid-June, but a high wind was blowing and drove the sand in clouds from the hills, invading the little tent, in which I could not stand upright save in the centre, and whisking up its flaps. As I could not perform my toilet unless I fastened up the entrance, I had to grope for everything in almost total darkness, and though the space was extremely limited, it was surprising how easily things got mislaid. My tent was still less desirable as a residence when it rained, as after a while tiny streams would begin to trickle down inside at the points where my camp furniture touched the walls, and my belongings—most of them perforce on the ground—got damp and clammy. Of course a large tent with talc windows is very comfortable—with certain exceptions; but we had heard so much about the storms that sweep over the Pamirs that we had taken only small ones on this expedition.
At our next halt, Kuntigmas, meaning “the place that the sun cannot reach,” I was provided with an akhoi all to myself. Indeed, I always dwelt in these roomy “white houses” whenever possible. They are usually eighteen feet in diameter, the same size as the Turkoman kibitkas in the north of Persia, and the framework of willow-wood is a trellis about four feet high, which pulls out and is placed on the ground in a circle. To the upper edge of this a series of curved laths are tied about a foot apart, the other end of these laths being inserted into the holes of a thick wooden hoop that forms the top of the dome-like erection. Large felts are now fastened with ropes over the akhoi, leaving free the opening at the top to admit light and air—also rain and snow on occasion—and to let out the smoke of the fires. In case of really bad weather a felt can be drawn over the circular opening, and again withdrawn, on the same principle as the ventilation arrangements in some of the London theatres. A wooden framework, often prettily carved, is placed between the two ends of the trellis-work to serve as a doorway, and is hung with a piece of matting and a felt or carpet. Inside, the framework is completely covered with felts, and along the top of the trellis I noticed throughout our tour an effective finish in the shape of a band of red felt with a blue floriated pattern that passed half-way round the akhoi, the other half being decorated with the same design, but with the colours reversed.
These dwellings can be purchased for £7 (a Chinese yambu), but those of superior quality often go up to £35 in price. The earthen floor is beaten hard and covered with carpets, a depression being left in the centre for the fire. Some of the old carpets were very pleasing, with their soft madders and indigoes and greens, a favourite design being conventionalized flowers; but alas, most of them were badly burnt by the sparks that had leapt on to them from the brushwood used to start the fires. The Kirghiz of to-day does not appreciate their velvety sheen, but loves the modern Khotan productions, with their crude scarlets, purples, yellows and magentas all introduced into the same pattern in a series of violent colour discords.
All travellers speak of the akhoi with esteem, and I was always grateful for its space, and, in fine weather, for its comfort, although during snow and rain I found that it had some drawbacks. For example, the hole at the top let in much wet, but if the felt were drawn across it I was deprived of light, and if I rolled up my entrance carpet I had no privacy and was exposed to violent draughts, as the walls were by no means airproof. The felts that covered them were so full of holes that on a rainy day one had to use much discrimination as to where to put one’s belongings in order to keep them comparatively dry, and on more than one occasion I have slept with my mackintosh drawn up over my head in order to prevent the rain from splashing on my face during the night.
There is little in the way of “furniture” in these dwellings save picturesquely shaped copper jugs in which water is boiled, a few copper pots and basins used for cooking and as receptacles for milk, and some rough wooden buckets. On one occasion we were ushered into an akhoi to eat our lunch out of the glare of the sun, and had ensconced ourselves on a rug, at one end of which was a bundle of cotton-padded quilts. Jafar Bai warned us that a small boy was sleeping under them, and it was just as well that he did so, as we might easily have sat upon him. The child moaned and coughed, and then, hearing strange voices, began to cry with terror and made violent efforts to get free of his coverings, under which he could hardly have breathed. We sent for his mother, but she was too shy to make her appearance, so her eldest son, attired in a long green coat, ventured in and carried off his frightened little brother.
We were now and onwards camping at a height of eleven to fourteen thousand feet, and when there was no sunshine it was disagreeably cold and raw, despite the season of the year. We were held up for a couple of days by snow soon after we left Kuntigmas, and as a Kirghiz woman had washed our underclothing just before the weather broke, I had a fire lit in my akhoi both to keep myself warm and to dry the wet garments. Nadir was an expert in lighting these fires, and brought in an armful of wild lavender and a basket of cakes of argon, the dried dung of the yak, the only fuel obtainable in this part of the world, where trees are conspicuous by their absence. He squatted on the ground, set light to the brushwood, and piled the fuel in a bank round it, manipulating it with a pair of tongs and coaxing the fire to burn with the aid of an ingenious pair of bellows made from a whole goatskin. At first the result was a cloud of acrid smoke that made my eyes smart and shed floods of involuntary tears; the only way to avoid this ordeal being to sit on the ground à la nomade. After a while the smoke ceased and left a clear red fire that gave out considerable heat, but turned to ashes so soon that I wondered whether it was worth all the trouble it took to make. Certainly it was of practically no use in drying our extensive wash, which had to be carried along in its wet condition until the sun appeared again.
Whenever we stopped at these Kirghiz encampments, the principal women would come to visit me, bringing usually an offering of a kind of puff pastry the size of a plate, made with cream, very crisp and rich, layer above layer, and about three inches thick: my gifts in return were gaily coloured handkerchiefs and strings of coral beads, both of which gave great satisfaction. As my guests entered the akhoi they would kick off the low shoes that men and women alike wear over their long leather boots, and would seat themselves on the floor, looking picturesque in their flowered chintz coats padded with cotton and their curious turban-like headgear that is formed by winding muslin on a wooden frame and is laid aside in the privacy of their own homes. All wore roughly made, but effective-looking, necklaces of coral and silver with long pendants, and had silver clasps and buttons on their coats. Some of them had beautifully embroidered caps bordered with silver buttons and ending in bossed chains which hung over their ears, this headgear being worn under the turbans.
KIRGHIZ WOMEN IN GALA DRESS.
Page 118.
The elder women were hard-featured and weather-beaten, a natural consequence of their exposure to all sorts of climatic conditions, but some of the young girls were rosy-cheeked and attractive-looking, despite their flat faces and rather snub noses. Old Jafar Bai and Nadir were very useful in helping to entertain my guests, translating my Persian remarks into Turki, and the ladies enjoyed drinking tea sweetened with many lumps of sugar instead of the customary salt, and eating European biscuits and sweetmeats. Before leaving they would gather up any sugar and eatables that were left, packing them away in the cloth wound round their waists or in a breast-pocket of their thick outer coats. They struck me as being very pleasant and easy-tempered with one another, and when they took their leave with profuse salaams they would thank me most politely for the entertainment.
I believe that the Kirghiz women have a better position than their Mohamedan sisters in other parts of the world; yet their lives are strenuous and filled with unceasing work. As women are in a decided minority in the Pamirs they are valuable, and a man possessed of several daughters counts himself rich indeed. A suitor for the hand of one of them induces three of the chief men of the tribe to bargain with the fortunate father, and I was told that a hundred sheep or five Chinese yambus (£35) is a moderate price to pay for a bride. At one of our camps, for example, the headman was pointed out to me as having produced money and stock to the value of £500 for his unprepossessing-looking wife. On the other hand, the girl brings with her a dowry of camels, horses, yaks, clothes and jewellery that is supposed to equal in value what her father has received from the bridegroom.
A wedding entails but slight expense as compared with a funeral, the father merely giving a big feast to the whole tribe, and this does not seriously embarrass him as it is customary for the guests to present gifts in kind to the bridegroom, who is expected to hand them over to his future father-in-law.
Miss Czaplicka writes that as a rule a man pays for his bride by instalments and does not visit the residence of her parents until the first lot of live-stock has been delivered to her father. On this occasion the future husband is not allowed to see his inamorata, and neither bridegroom nor bride makes an appearance at the wedding-feast. Late at night the jinai, or female matchmakers, conduct the young couple separately to the akhoi of the bride’s parents, the girl making a feint of resisting and the jinai pretending to hinder the husband by barking like dogs. The bridegroom goes off early the next morning and avoids his parents-in-law for the whole day, and when he has paid the full price for his wife he carries her off with a show of force, which she plays up to by pretending to resist the attempt to take her to a new home.
It happens sometimes that a man does not possess enough live-stock to purchase a wife, in which case he will enter into an agreement with his would-be father-in-law to serve him and look after his flocks for a term of years, just as did Jacob many centuries ago in order to gain the hand of Rachel. He is allowed to marry the girl of his choice and lives with her family during his service, at the end of which her father will give him an akhoi, yaks, mares, sheep and goats, and the couple will go off and live independently of the old people. My brother’s best Kirghiz shikari, Shamshir by name, confided to him that he was most anxious to marry, but so far he had only gathered together thirty sheep towards the realization of his heart’s desire. However, his hard case so touched his employer’s heart that, when we left the district, Shamshir received a parting gift that would appreciably hasten the wedding-day.
There is practically no divorce among the Kirghiz, marriage being looked upon as permanent. A wife is considered to belong to her husband’s family and lives with them if she becomes a widow, and in the event of her remarriage she is obliged to forgo the dowry that she brought to her first husband. Mohamedans are permitted to have four wives, but, owing to the scarcity of women, few Kirghiz can avail themselves of this privilege, though a man occasionally takes a second wife at the urgent request of his first one.
Certainly a good wife must be “above rubies” to a Kirghiz. She looks after the flocks and herds more or less, does all the milking, makes cream, curds, cheese and koumiss, cooks the food, fashions clothes for herself and her family, and of course has to rear her children. Besides all this, she is skilled in weaving felts with which to cover the akhois, and the effective embroideries that adorn them are the work of her hands, as are also the coarse but pleasing carpets. I have seen her staggering along under the big bundle of laths that form the framework of the “white house,” and she lends a hand to its erection and ties on its felt coverings. Her lord and master has often filled me with indignation by standing idly by and looking on at his wife’s labours.
Though the women are almost as good riders as the men, they ride only for the practical purposes of travelling from camp to camp or herding the mares and cattle. Recreation, as we understand it, does not come much into their lives, and when guests have to be entertained, or feasts are given, they have to work harder than usual at the cooking. In fact I was not surprised to hear that when he recounts his possessions a Kirghiz will mention his camels, yaks, horses, sheep and goats first, relegating wife and children to the end of the list.
The man’s part in life struck me as being by far the easier one. He rides about on his wiry ponies, attends all the wedding and funeral feasts in the district, loves to play the “goat game,” and will drive his yaks and sheep into Kashgar to sell, if he is in need of flour, clothing or boots. He is too wise to wed the pretty Kashgari girls, who would be utterly useless and out of their element in an akhoi, nor do the active, weather-beaten maidens of his tribe hanker after the life of the city.
In the different encampments that we visited children were often conspicuous by their absence, and I was told that most of those born during the long winter succumb to the rigours of the climate, a large proportion of infants being stillborn from the same cause. Smallpox also carries off many, and although the health of the Kirghiz is, as a rule, excellent, they die very easily if they fall ill, there being no doctor on the Pamirs, or any knowledge of the rudiments of nursing. It seems a case of the survival of the fittest; for I have never come across sturdier, hardier-looking men and women than those I encountered during our tour. They live almost entirely on milk, curds and cheese, killing their flocks for food only when milk is scarce or guests arrive, or for wedding and funeral feasts. Their favourite drink is koumiss, the fermented milk of mares. One sip of this was enough for me, as I found it so acid and smoky that I had no desire to repeat the experiment. Bread, sugar and tea are luxuries, and, as they grow nothing save a little barley in places, they never taste either fruit or vegetables; but they certainly thrive on their milk diet. The best milk comes from the yaks. These sturdy animals looked very dishevelled at this season, as their shaggy hair was coming off in patches. They are far hardier than cows, and, though their yield is less, the milk is much richer and is yielded over a longer period.
Neither my brother nor I derived much benefit from the limitless quantities of milk and cream that we saw at the encampments. The Kirghiz boil the milk in open vessels, with the result that it always tasted so strongly of the pungent smoke that we found junkets and milk puddings quite uneatable. Moreover, they are in the habit of manipulating the cream with their hands, both these and the bowls being very far from clean. Only twice were we offered cream that was smokeless and white, and this we found delicious.
The yaks—black, brown, grey or black and white—are of two species, those carrying big branching horns and those without any. They are strong and remarkably sure-footed, though slow, and we used them often for pack work. The curious single grunt which they emit at frequent intervals earns them their scientific name of Bos grunniens. It was frequently my fate when camping to have a yak ensconced somewhere outside my akhoi, separated from me only by a felt, so that it seemed as if it were literally grunting into my ear during the night. They appeared to be very docile to their owners, but sometimes took a violent dislike to Europeans, as my brother once experienced to his cost in Ladak, when he was chased by a black bull and escaped with considerable difficulty. The Kirghiz are on the most familiar terms with their animals. I often found a crowd of lambs and kids behind a screen in an akhoi, or struggling to emerge from some hole underground, and if I rolled up my hanging door I was frequently visited by the most engaging kids, only too ready to make friends with the intruder. I was told that the Kirghiz keep cocks in order that the birds may rouse their owners at daybreak, but we ourselves came across no poultry during our travels among these nomads.
Washing is not a Kirghiz characteristic, and, indeed, in a country where the rivers are partly ice-bound in July one could hardly expect the inhabitants to be fond of bathing. They must find the long winter with its bitter winds very trying, even in their lowest grazing-grounds. The flocks scrape away the snow with their hoofs in order to find the grass underneath, but are in extremely poor condition before the approach of spring, and have to be carefully guarded from the depredations of snow-leopards, wild dogs and wolves. These last come round in packs and lie in wait, watching their opportunity; on one occasion Nadir lost eighty of his sheep in the full daylight of a winter morning. His brother, who was in charge of the flock, went to his akhoi for a short time, leaving a small boy and his savage dogs in charge. As soon as he was out of sight the wolves set upon the sheep, killing them one after the other in a kind of orgy of bloodshed, and paying no heed whatever to the dogs, which were powerless to prevent the slaughter. Many of the sheep fled into the hills in their terror, and Nadir recovered very few of them.
LOADING UP THE YAKS.
Page 124.
Iftikhar Ahmad related to me how once a large and exceptionally savage dog that he possessed was killed by a couple of wolves. They stalked the dog, one getting in front of it and one behind, and, while it stood undecided which foe to attack first, one of the wolves rushed at it with tremendous force and threw it down. In less time than it takes to relate, the victim was torn asunder, and the conquerors made off, each carrying half of the spoils of victory.
The tribesmen keep their akhois warm in winter by banking snow round them, closing up all interstices and crowding together; for fires cannot be used indiscriminately, the supply of argon being by no means unlimited.
Though the Kirghiz nominally follow the religion of the Prophet and are Sunnis, they pay little heed to its observances beyond keeping the fast of Ramazan; but this is not to be wondered at, since they have few mullas to show them the right path. When they die they are buried in a little cemetery belonging to the tribe, and usually situated on the side of a hill. Low mud domes, looking much like akhois in the distance, are placed over the remains of men of importance; and when these latter die, their relatives invite the tribe to great feasts and also organize horseraces, in which the winners are awarded handsome prizes. The idea is that the dead men are giving these lavish entertainments in order to disperse the wealth which they need no longer, the Kirghiz not being concerned to “lay up riches for those that shall come after.”
Here and there we came across the tomb of a sayyid, the mud dome enclosed by a rough stone wall, on which were set poles hung with fluttering rags. One such dome was erected over a mighty hunter, and the shikaris had hung it round with horns of the wild sheep and were in the habit of depositing pinches of gunpowder on the grave, in order that the departed Nimrod might give them success in the chase. These primitive monuments are the only buildings that we came across during our tour.
The headman of a tribe or district is called a Beg, and in Chinese Turkestan, in the uplands of which we travelled at first, he is put in authority by the Amban, to whom he gives a gift for the honour, recouping himself afterwards by taking a fortieth part of the flocks and herds of the families in his charge. These officials were most helpful to us, arranging for transport—usually the great stumbling-block of travellers in Central Asia—sending men on ahead to prepare akhois for us, accompanying my brother and treating us as honoured guests when we passed through their districts. One of these hosts was an officer in Chinese employ, and said that he had a force of thirty-two men under his orders. The truth was that the Amban drew pay for thirty-two soldiers and gave our friend the money for eight. He in his turn economized by paying three soldiers, his wife and children figuring as the remaining five.
A choga or “robe of honour” was usually presented to the Beg when we left his district, and the man would kneel to receive the brilliantly coloured coat, and make the gesture of passing his hands across his face, which was meant to signify his humility in the presence of my brother. Then, calling out, “Allah Ho Akbar,” he would spring to his feet and rush off in high glee to show his “decoration”—for so he regarded it—to the men of his tribe.
During the first days of our arrival on these uplands we had disagreeable weather, although it was mid-June. Sometimes there was driving rain and snow of exceptionally melting quality, and when it was dry the high winds blew up the sand in great clouds. Once or twice, after starting off on a fine morning, we were forced at the end of the march to make a hurried rush to the encampment at which we were to halt, in order to avoid an imminent dust-storm, the excited horses racing across ground so boggy that on ordinary occasions we should have negotiated it with care. At intervals we could hear what I imagined to be peals of thunder, but was in reality the roar of avalanches as they slid down the sides of the snow-clad mountains that were almost hidden by the dust haze. We were delayed in one place for a couple of days, as the local Beg said that the heavy rain had made the going too bad for our baggage-camels, and a very damp and chilly wait it was. If we ventured outside our akhois we were drenched to the skin, with no means of drying ourselves save by the inadequate fires that I have described. I was delighted when the sun reappeared, and, as we started off, the Beg’s wife came to bid me a most kindly farewell and to wish me good luck on the road; and throughout the journey the chief woman of every camp always took a particular interest in my welfare.
We left the grazing ground beside the river and ascended a broad, barren valley leading into a range of low bare hills which we crossed by easy passes, and for a couple of days travelled through a stony desolation among brown hills crested with snow. There was barely a sign of life to be seen save once, when a butterfly fluttered feebly among the boulders and débris through which the track lay, and I wondered how the poor insect could survive, as we were some miles from vegetation of any kind. There were often little flowers in abundance on the grassy banks of the streams, and I noted two or three varieties of primulas, some tiny and of palest mauve, while others, big and lusty, were of a dark tint. The buttercups and a small cistus spread themselves in golden patches, crimson lousewort flushed the ground, and I was sorry to have no acquaintance with scores of low-growing plants that were bursting into minute cream, yellow or purple blossoms. The whole flora was Alpine, and reminded me of the beautiful display that I had often enjoyed in Switzerland; but here the gentians were either white or a pale blue.
At times we enjoyed superb views of the great snow-clad peaks towards which we were travelling, and these visions of remote and unearthly beauty compensated for the weary miles of stumbling over rounded boulders and pebbles. We were only able to go at a foot’s pace. The horses disliked the journey more than we did, because they got footsore; and Jafar Bai had to keep a vigilant eye upon their shoes, as the nails had a habit of dropping out.
On June 18 we camped, at a height of 13,000 feet, below the Katta Dawan, or Great Pass, by crossing which we should leave Chinese Turkestan and reach the Russian Pamirs, the goal of our journey.