CHAPTER VII
THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
I scaled precipitous mountain crags clad with snow: found my way through the scarped passes of the Iron Gates;—I have traversed the valley of Pamir.—Life of Hiuen Tsiang, Beal.
The Pamirs are both fertile and barren, both habitable and desolate, both smiling and repellent according to the point of view from which they are regarded. They are among the deliberate paradoxes of nature.—The Pamirs and the Source of the Oxus, Hon. George N. Curzon.
It was a thrilling thought that I was about to tread in the footsteps of some of the intrepid travellers in High Asia, such as the Buddhist monk, Hiuen Tsiang, Marco Polo, Wood, the first Englishman to enter the Pamirs, and many another whom the Red Gods called to feats of daring and endurance. But my lot was an extremely easy one compared with theirs; for, being the only woman of the party, I was guarded and protected in every possible way. Perhaps some of my readers may be a little vague as to the exact meaning of the word Pamirs. They are described by Sir Thomas Holdich, the eminent geographer, as “valleys reaching up in long slopes to the foot of mountain peaks,” and they are known by the Persian term of Bam-i-Dunia or Roof of the World.
On that June morning we were up at 5 A.M. and, although snow had fallen during the night, the day was fine and gave good hopes of a successful crossing of the pass. It was bitterly cold, but my leather coat was impervious to wind, a Shetland shawl swathed my pith-hat and neck, and I had besmeared both face and feet plentifully with vaseline and therefore felt prepared to meet whatever might befall.
When we had seen our baggage yaks loaded we walked up the narrow valley, down which ran a little stream with scanty grazing on its banks; but before long the stiff pull up the mountain side began, and we were obliged to mount. Our Kirghiz guide halted every few yards to let the panting horses take breath—in fact, the rarefied air on these heights seemed to try them almost as much as it would have exhausted us had we been forced to walk. We soon reached the snow-line, and our animals plunged and stumbled through freshly fallen snow on the narrow track where we moved along in single file. It seemed a long time, but in reality we reached the crest of the Katta Dawan in a couple of hours and found ourselves on a little plateau some 16,000 feet high. Clouds had been gathering during our climb and fine snow now began to fall fast, making us fear that we might be caught in a storm and possibly miss the track, which it needed the practised eye of the Kirghiz to discover. Fortunately the wind came to our rescue, sweeping the air clear at intervals, and I saw that we were in the midst of great white giants shouldering one another, a glacier lying to our left, shining in the fitful gleams of the sun. Ahead of us low green hills scantily flecked with snow opened out to give a glimpse of the intense blue of the Great Karakul Lake, a soft mist half revealing the landscape, and the whole making a picture of exquisite beauty that somewhat reminded us of the Highlands of Scotland. But it was no time to linger and enjoy the view, and we began the descent, soon dismounting as our horses floundered badly in the snow and I had no wish to be shot over Tommy’s head. Then followed an hour of struggling downwards during which I was sometimes up to the knee in the snow, and once or twice fell headlong, my thick clothing impeding me a good deal but saving me from hurt in my tumbles. Somehow we scrambled down at last into a long defile, and the falling snow turned into a chilly sleet that cut our faces. But nothing of that sort mattered, and as we drank hot tea from our thermos bottles I felt a glow of pride that not only was I the first Englishwoman to negotiate the Katta Dawan Pass, but that I was actually on that Roof of the World, which in my wildest day-dreams I had never imagined that I should visit.
It seemed an auspicious omen that almost as soon as we reached the Pamirs, Nadir discovered a small herd of ovis poli on the side of one of the mountains between which we were passing. Although there was not a head among them, they held out a promise of better things to come, and I was greatly interested in watching them through my glasses.
From now onwards we saw much more of Nadir, who came from the Sarikol district, and showed his Aryan descent in his boldly cut aquiline features, his big dark eyes, black beard and moustache. He was strikingly handsome, and would have passed very well for a Spaniard, except that, when he took off his white felt Kirghiz hat, his shaven head looked oddly out of keeping with the rest of the picture. He was most intelligent on any matter connected with sport or the country, and was accustomed to the use of field-glasses, through which his keen eyes swept the hills unceasingly. Yet he did not understand a watch, and our method of computing time conveyed nothing to him; in fact, when my brother spoke to him of “hours” he said reproachfully that he hailed from Sarikol, where such things were unknown. I admired his gift of making every one work; for, although he was merely my brother’s huntsman, he arrogated much authority to himself and ordered about the guides, and even our servants, in the most masterful way. He could turn his hand to anything, was accounted an excellent singer and was quite aware of his fine appearance, being fond of decorating his hat with a bunch of primulas that set off his handsome face to advantage. He had of course the defects of his qualities, one of his failings being that he was so determined to pose as omniscient that he occasionally gave us wrong information; moreover, his deep-rooted contempt for the peaceful Kirghiz also led him astray, as he sometimes refused to pay attention to their advice as to tracks and camping grounds.
To return to the march, long boulder-strewn defiles led us eventually into a gravelly waste where we saw ahead of us the Great Karakul Lake, and a group of akhois gleaming white in the distance held out hopes of rest and food. But suddenly a violent sandstorm, one of those “mountain devils” that blotted out the landscape, came on so completely, that it was quite a surprise when I found that we had reached a stream, on the further side of which stood the beehive-like dwellings. I was half-blinded as I staggered into a dirty akhoi, smelling strongly of the kids and lambs that had lately been herded behind a prettily coloured matting; and, with my face swollen from the snow and sleet on the Katta Dawan, my eyes sore from the sand and my whole person grimy with dust, I did not feel at my best when four gaily attired Kirghiz women with towering white headgear came to call upon me. One was a good-looking, rosy-cheeked girl, who said she did not know her age, but thought it might be twenty. She had a beautifully embroidered headgear bordered with silver buttons and ending in bossed silver chains which hung over her ears.
I felt too tired to play the hostess well, and found the ladies rather inquisitive, as they fingered my pith-hat, slipped their hands into my fur-lined gloves and examined my habit; in fact the manners of this tribe were the worst I encountered, and so constantly was I peeped at through the many holes in the felt covering of my akhoi that I had to shorten all my toilet operations considerably.
Although our baggage yaks had started from camp at 7 o’clock that morning they did not arrive until 8 P.M., and of course we got nothing to eat until an hour later, and before I went to bed I had to open the store boxes in order to provide my brother and Nadir with three days’ supplies for a shooting expedition in the mountains bordering the lake, on which they were to start off at dawn on the morrow.
We were now in Russian territory, and at nightfall four Cossacks rode up to the akhois with orders to escort us, and next day they accompanied me and the servants to the Russian post where we were to stop. This consisted of a series of rooms opening on to a courtyard, the whole built of brick and surrounded by a high wall. It had evidently been cleaned up in our honour, and the corporal who was in authority here ushered me into a white-washed room with a table and a couple of stools, and was astounded at my request that he should open the double window. As soon as my belongings had been brought in I mounted Tommy and went off, accompanied by Jafar Bai and my camera, to see the lake. It is exquisitely situated, with a background of snowy peaks picturesquely serrated, the water and the great gravelly plain being ringed about with mountains partly covered with freshly fallen snow, the Trans-Alai range with the magnificent Kaufmann peak rising up into the sky. The water of the lake was an intense sapphire blue, with broad streaks of purple and emerald and a wide band of salt efflorescence round its shores, the whole reminding me of pictures of the Dead Sea.
Captain Cobbold, who visited the lake in 1896, mentioned the sandy ridge running north and south that divided it; but the water has risen since then, and at the time of my visit there was no sign of a division. He also spoke of its fish, and it was disappointing to hear on all sides that there was no life in its bitter waters: it is stagnant, no animal drinks from it, and the only birds I noted during my three days’ visit were a pair of Brahminy ducks and an occasional vulture and raven. The salt efflorescence made the ground rotten in places, and once the horses, which Jafar Bai was holding while I photographed the group, sank into a kind of quicksand, from which we had some difficulty in extricating them. This district is called the Khargush Pamir (Pamir of the Hare), and I felt that the name must have been given in irony, as it is really a desert, boulder-strewn in some parts, sand-strewn in others. The grazing is so poor as to be almost negligible (which probably accounted for the high charges that were levied upon us by our late Kirghiz hosts), and the Russian post-house overlooked a dreary waste of solidified ridges of sand, in appearance much like the low mud mounds raised over the dead. I thought it a most depressing view, but fortunately it did not appear to affect the spirits of the Cossacks; for, on the arrival of half a dozen soldiers who had driven from Osh with supplies, the whole party started dancing in the little courtyard. One man played the concertina, and another, small and well-made, clad in buff coat, blue trousers, long riding-boots and a grey sheepskin cap, would have been a worthy member of the Russian ballet corps so popular in London. He and his partner danced with tremendous zest and agility, though their faces never for an instant relaxed their serious expression as they rehearsed the old themes of attraction and repulsion, masculine boldness seeking to conquer maidenly coyness. Then on a sudden the tender melody would change to something wild and barbaric, and the dancers became warlike, were enemies, exchanged threats, feigned to attack one another and stamped their feet menacingly, somewhat in the manner of the blood-stirring ballet of Prince Igor.
There was much excitement at the post when my brother’s first trophy arrived; but the head was small, and as he and Nadir had heard that larger rams might be found elsewhere, he decided that we had better move on.
My readers will see that we had had some trouble in reaching the Pamirs, but when once we had arrived I was astonished at the ease with which we travelled from place to place. For the greater part of our tour we were on a high plateau which in reality consisted of valleys so filled up with the moraines of the glaciers of centuries ago that, as Sir Francis Younghusband puts it, “the bottoms of these Pamir valleys are level with the higher summits of the Alps.” Owing to this, the mountain ranges were often shorn of much of their grandeur as we surveyed them from a height of thirteen or fourteen thousand feet, though some of the panoramas we were privileged to see were unforgettable in their superb majesty.
I have travelled among the Swiss Alps, and know something of the Canadian Rockies, the Elburz Range and the Caucasus, but the mountains of the Pamirs are far wilder and more savage in appearance than these, because of the entire lack of life at their feet. In Switzerland, Canada and the Caucasus the foothills of the great ranges are clad with pine and fir; long grassy slopes gemmed with tiny flowers give a charm to the scenery, and there is usually bird life. Even the barren Elburz has juniper and other scrub on its lower slopes and there are grass and flowers in its valleys; but here we could travel for days in a desolation that was almost terrifying.
Often we did not see a human being during the whole day’s march, the only signs of life being an occasional vulture and sometimes a few snow pigeons, crows, choughs and the ubiquitous marmot. It was a red-letter day if I came across swallows, finches, desert larks or the handsome but uneatable Brahminy duck; indeed my horse would actually sometimes shy if we met a Kirghiz on the lonely track.
The climate during our visit in June and July was one of the most changeable in the world. It was always cold when we left camp between six and seven o’clock, the sky often grey and cloudy and the mountains veiled in mist. After a while the sun would come out and I would throw off my overcoat, but probably would soon put it on again, as icy blasts were in the habit of descending suddenly from the hills. At noon it was often extremely hot, and I found the mid-day halt, even in such favourable spots as on the banks of a stream, very trying, owing to the scorching heat from which there was no escape. There are no trees on the Pamirs, and I have vivid memories of halts on bare hillsides where there was not even a boulder large enough to give shade, and where, in spite of my pith-hat, sun umbrella and thick clothes, I felt as if I were being slowly roasted as we lay exposed to the fierce sunshine. It was difficult to read or write, almost impossible to sleep, and I could appreciate the Jewish prophet’s word-picture of “the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” Our chief alleviation was hot tea from the thermos bottles, our throats and lips being always parched with the dry air, and every now and again we had an unexpected shower-bath. Peals of thunder would reverberate from the hills, over which dark-purple storm-clouds had gathered, and suddenly a deluge would descend upon us. But the sky would be as blue as ever after a few moments, though the whole atmosphere felt sensibly refreshed; and later in the day these smart showers would descend in the form of snow. It was always very cold when the sun went down, and in camp I wore all the clothing I could muster and pulled a fur coat over all; my feet were slipped into my big felt boots lined with lamb’s-wool; and a woollen cap on my head completed the costume in which I sat at our dinner-table. At night my sleeping-bag lay on a thick mattress and a rug, as it is important to have as much below as above, and when my fur coat was thrown over me I was by no means too warm.
We were living at a height of twelve to fourteen thousand feet, and although the air was deliciously keen, like that of some Alpine winter resort, personally I never felt braced up, but was always languid and disinclined for exertion owing to the rarefied atmosphere. Riding did not fatigue me and I could walk for a considerable distance on the level, but I panted at the least effort and had a curious sensation as if a hand were on my throat. Certainly I slept profoundly and felt a continual wish to slumber, both in season and out; but in spite of all the exercise I was taking I had no appetite, and ate only as a matter of duty. Directly we descended to the level of 10,000 feet I felt a different being, and life, appetite and energy returned in a rush, as if by magic.
I had imagined that there would be an abundance of rich grass to support the flocks and herds of the wandering Kirghiz tribes, and was disappointed to find the Pamirs, as far as our tour extended, a dreary waste, often covered with boulders and gravel from the moraines of the mountains, with only small strips of pasturage at intervals. In general the grazing was scanty, and the inhabitants, who number but a few thousands, must often have a struggle to support life during the winter. Even during the summer they move their flocks frequently to fresh pastures, for the grass is soon eaten up, and a large population would starve. In narratives of travel in the Pamirs the provision of food for the baggage animals is always mentioned as one of the difficulties to be encountered, and it was fortunate for us that my brother’s official position saved us from anxiety on this score. We had been obliged to carry several loads of barley from Kashgar, but the local Begs were able to arrange for fresh supplies of forage at some points of our journey, and led us usually to camping grounds where the grazing was fair.
When we bade farewell to the Great Karakul Lake we spent three days on the Russian cart road, riding the ninety miles to Pamirsky Post on the Murghab River. On the morning of our start snow was falling fast, and as I dragged myself out of my warm sleeping-bag at 3.30 A.M. I felt thankful that my lot was not cast permanently in the Pamirs. But, when once we were on horseback and muffled up, the going left nothing to complain of. We rode along a broad unmetalled track made for the most part by the simple expedient of removing the boulders which thickly strewed these sterile valleys, having been brought down from the ranges bounding us on either side. This road was marked at intervals by piles of stones measuring it into versts and half-versts—five versts being equal to three English miles. The distances were painted on a stone on every other heap, though often the figures were placed upside down, and now and again were omitted altogether. All our servants were provided with smoked glasses, but would not use them at first, Sattur, for example, wearing his across his lips or hanging under his chin, until after a while he came to understand that they were of real benefit.
Our Cossack escort, consisting of a corporal and three soldiers, were cheery sturdy youths, clad in buff uniforms with blue facings and long buff greatcoats. Their forage-caps were set rakishly on one side, and the corporal brushed his thick yellow hair into a big well-greased roll which almost hid his forehead, and was evidently proud of his personal appearance. They wore blue glasses, a necessary precaution against the glare of the sun on the snow, and rode handy little ponies as born horsemen. I felt that they must have but a dull time in these outposts of the Russian Empire with so few of the amenities of life, especially as their pay was at the low rate of one and fourpence a month, supplemented by rations of meat and flour, forage for their horses, and the provision of a uniform and three shirts annually. Their service lasts for three years, after which they are free to return to their farms for the rest of their lives. Each man has a rifle and a limited amount of ammunition, and the corporal was for ever on the look-out for something to shoot at.
At one part of our second day’s march the road wound over a pass in the hills, and my brother and Nadir, who had espied game in a valley beneath us, went off to stalk while the rest of the party rode forward. On a cliff to our right the corporal pointed out a large group of vultures feeding on a dead sheep and emitted shrill whistles that made the great birds hop about in a most ungainly fashion. I watched them with interest, which changed to anger when the Cossack let off his rifle at them, making our horses shy violently. The birds, though unharmed, were so gorged that they could hardly rise from the ground, but my brother’s quarry, startled at the shot, made off and escaped, and Nadir became livid with rage as he endeavoured to explain to the Russian how ill-timed his love of sport had been on that occasion. During these three days the country was monotonous in the extreme, the stone-strewn plateaux having hardly a sign of life. At one spot, where the hills were formed of hardened mud, Nadir told us that Mr. Haydon, the well-known geologist, whom he had accompanied on a tour in the Pamirs, had found fossils. We were anxious to see some for ourselves, and he led us to a curiously shaped hill where, after some groping, he disinterred two or three sea-shells, a sight that filled me with wonder as I realized that this mighty Roof of the World, with its valleys twelve to fourteen thousand feet high, had long ages ago been under the sea, and indeed sea-sand composed much of the mountain whose side we were probing. That afternoon, between the intermittent showers of snow, we had the curious spectacle of a violent thunderstorm in the range to our right, another raging at the same time in the mountains to our left, while overhead were brilliant sunshine and a bright blue sky.
On the afternoon of the third day, as we neared Pamirsky Post, we were met by a couple of Mingbashis or Headmen, gorgeous in purple robes, broad silver-embossed belts and snowy turbans. These officials led us down the valley to the Murghab, one of the head waters of the classic Oxus, and here we were warmly welcomed by the Russian commandant with his Cossack escort. He had most kindly ordered out his carriage for me, and though I should have much preferred to stick to my horse, politeness made me dismount and do my best to scramble into what was really a box on wheels. As the ponies were too fidgety for me to mount by the wheel, and there was no step, I fear that I got in with a sad lack of dignity, and then I was hurled from side to side of the conveyance as the coachman whipped up his horses to a breakneck speed. We tore along at a great pace to a stone fort built on a spur of the mountains above the river, and galloped through a gateway of the high wall that surrounded it into a large courtyard. The Cossack captain insisted on putting us up, turning out of his own carpet-hung room for my benefit, and, as his quarters faced the barracks of the soldiers, I had from the windows a good view of lounging Cossacks, who spent much of their time playing with a crowd of thick-coated, quarrelsome dogs or shouting at their ponies, which were driven in at sunset from the grazing grounds along the banks of the river.
We met here a colonel of engineers who was engaged in putting up signalling posts on the hills in the vicinity, in order that communication might be established with the headquarters at Kharuk; for there was no telegraph wire connecting Pamirsky Post with the outer world. As he and our host spoke only their own language I could take no part in the conversation at supper, and, moreover, I felt very sleepy, since the meal began at nine o’clock, an hour when I, who had risen at half-past three, wanted to be in bed! A diversion was provided in the shape of a wolf-cub, a quaint and engaging little creature, but not the sort of animal that I should care to bring up as a household pet.
Next morning I grasped the difference between English and Russian meal-times, and when at half-past nine there was no sign of breakfast, my brother and I went down to our camp, pitched by the river, where we had a meal and I gave out stores and made arrangements for our clothes to be washed. We were now at a comparatively low level, and it was warm as an English summer’s day, with just a “nip” in the air; but the long narrow valley must be a dreary abode in winter, as it is shut in by lofty mountains from which the wild sheep descend to graze and then fall an easy prey to the hunters. As we stood by the river we spoke of Lieutenant Wood, the first Englishman to travel in the Pamirs, who wrote of the yak as an unknown animal. But Lord Dunmore and Major Roche were the first to visit Pamirsky Post after the occupation of this desolate region by the Russians, and the former gives a description of how in 1893 the officers and Cossacks were living in akhois furnished with brick stoves.
Just below the fort there was a squalid little village of mud and stone shanties inhabited by Kirghiz, and here were collected great bundles of wild sheep horns ready to be sent to Tashkent, where they are used to decorate native saddles or to make knife-handles or combs, the hunter receiving only a rouble and a half—less than three shillings—for the horns and skin.
My brother and the commandant discussed where we had best go in search of sport on the way to Sarikol, and they eventually decided on a valley three marches off, two of which lay along the Russian road to Kharuk, and with many compliments on both sides we left Pamirsky Post. Most of the country along our route was absolutely sterile, except when, after crossing low passes, we descended now and again to the river, on the banks of which was scanty grazing and tamarisk scrub, just enough to support life for a few camels, yaks and ponies. As a rule the marmots were the only creatures that broke the lifeless monotony of the marches, and whenever it was sunny the little animals sat upon their hind legs in front of their burrows, uttering excited cries as they saw us pass. They were larger than those with which I was familiar in Persia, and were orange-coloured instead of buff, their noses, paws and tails being black. They hibernate during the long winter, and the Kirghiz affirm that when they emerge from their seclusion they have no hair on their bodies. They also sleep during the middle of the day. My brother computed that they must pass about 80 per cent of their time in slumber, and had a contempt for these sadly idle creatures. But they appealed to me because of their cheery squeakings and lively scuttling to earth. They live on the roots of grasses, and are apparently independent of water, for large colonies are often situated miles from any stream. We had to ride carefully in places in order to avoid the entrances to their burrows, which were sometimes in the middle of the track.
At the end of our second day’s march we met Colonel Yagello, Commissioner of the Pamirs, on his way to Pamirsky Post, and as he spoke French I enjoyed the conversation of a cultivated man, keenly interested in the geology of the country, and anxious to exploit the mineral wealth, which he said was considerable.
At the time of our visit to Pamirsky Post there was great excitement, because the local Mingbashi had been dismissed from office, and in order to mark his resentment had collected four hundred families of his tribe and fled with them across the Afghan border into Wakhan. The Cossack officer informed my brother that immediately after our departure he intended to pursue and bring back the fugitives. As such an action would have been looked upon at Kabul as constituting an invasion of Afghanistan, and would have strengthened the anti-Ally party in that state, my brother strongly urged our host to await the arrival of Colonel Yagello before taking action, and finally persuaded him to adopt this course. When we met the Commissioner my brother discussed the Wakhan question with him, but at first the latter said that he was determined to pursue the recalcitrant Mingbashi, exclaiming that the honour of Russia was at stake. However, after long arguments he promised not to cross the Afghan frontier, but to send representations to the Governor of Badakshan, who was also the ruler of Wakhan, and thus settle the matter without using force.
Our camp at the shooting ground was at the bottom of a long valley running into the mountains, with grazing on the banks of a stream for our animals and a clump of akhois for ourselves and the servants. Here we halted for some days, and, while my brother left long before dawn for the hills, I amused myself by riding about, photographing, entertaining Kirghiz ladies, repacking the boxes of stores and doing the hundred and one odd jobs that accumulate when one is travelling. I was fond of collecting the tiny, short-stalked Alpine flora, and found edelweiss, gentians, white and pale blue, little mauve vetches, cream and yellow flowers of the hawkweed order, pyrethrums and camomiles, while minute cream, mauve and pink blossoms exuded from the edges of unpromising-looking dull-green patches. Were it not for the buttercup and the yellow or white cistus the flora would be hardly noticeable; but at a lower level I found yellow poppies, large yellow labiatae, candytuft that scented the air with honey, and many plants that I could not identify.
When my brother had secured his fourth head we left the valley, our way leading us along a river that was ice-bound in long stretches although it was now July, reminding me of Mr. Douglas Freshfield’s remark that the climate of the Roof of the World is nine months of winter and three of cold weather.
Now and again we came across fine ovis poli skulls lying on the ground, and I chose a fine head to keep as a memento of my visit. One day a young poli stood in our path; allowing us to get quite close to it before it took alarm, and even then it only trotted along in front until a dog that belonged to the caravan behind rushed after it, and the pretty creature made off at once into the hills.
I had been told that the rich Kirghiz hung their akhois with embroidered silks and covered the ground with beautiful carpets, but we never came across such luxury. I was always on the look-out for carpets, but saw few that I liked, the old ones being either torn or covered with tiny burns made by sparks from the fires. One woven with a modification of the well-known pine-cone pattern in indigo on a beautiful rose ground took my fancy greatly, but alas, it had a huge hole in the centre. The design of one carpet was a series of square crosses in diagonal rows; half of them framed a conventionalized swastika, an emblem of good fortune, and the other half enclosed representations of various implements. It does not sound alluring, yet it was an attractive product of the loom and had fine reds, blues, browns and greens in its colouring. Elsewhere I met a commonplace pattern of conventionalized flowers in small blocks linked together by lines, but the beautiful vegetable dyes of the old carpets are unfortunately being ousted by the crude aniline tints so much in vogue at Khotan.
BRINGING IN AN OVIS POLI.
(Nadir with rifle.) Page 146.
My brother often had some difficulty in arranging the marches, for the Kirghiz have no notion of either time or distance as we understand it, and could never tell us how long a stage would be unless they could compare it with that of the previous day. As a result we seldom knew when we should arrive at our camping ground, the distance being sometimes considerably greater than we had imagined and at other times much less. But such slight drawbacks matter little to the true traveller who has succumbed to the lure of the Open Road, and to the glamour of the Back of Beyond.