From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

Fig. 69.—Kirghiz and their Herds on the March in the Mountains.

“Settled”, in our sense of the word, the Kirghiz never is, unless in the grave, but he is not without a home. In the wide sense, his home is the district through which he travels, in most cases the basin and valley of a small stream or brook, or, in a more restricted sense, his winter camping-ground from which he sets forth on his journeys, and to which he always returns. In the neighbourhood of this camping-ground rest nearly all, if not all his dead; here he may even have a fixed dwelling; hither the government sends its messengers to collect his taxes or appraise his possessions and count the members of his family and of his herds; here he spends, if not the happiest, at least the largest part of his life; here, gay and careless as he usually is, he passes through his severest and most serious trials. The exact locality of the winter dwelling may vary, but the camping-ground does not. Indispensable conditions are, that it be as much as possible protected from the cold, deadly, north and east winds, that the yurt can be erected on a sunny spot, that fixed houses may be built without much difficulty, that the necessary supply of water be certain, and that sufficient pasturage be available within easy distance. These conditions are best fulfilled by the valley of a river whose tributaries have cut deeply into the surrounding country, where the grass does not dry up in summer, so that hay can be cut at the proper season and yet enough food be left for the herds in winter, and where, in addition to the dung used for fire-lighting, fuel may be procured from the willow-bushes and black poplars on the river-bank. Other localities are only selected when it is a question of taking advantage of some place, such as the salt steppe, which has to be avoided in summer because it lacks water, that being supplied in sufficient abundance for man and beast as soon as snow has fallen. Though the winter dwelling may be a fixed one, it is always truly miserable, a musty, damp, dark hut, so lightly built that the inmates depend on the snow for thickening the walls and roof, and protecting them from storms. These walls are occasionally made of piled-up tree-trunks, oftener of rough stones, but most frequently of plaited willows or bundles of reeds. The roof and thatch are always of reeds. Close beside the dwelling-house is a similarly-constructed stable for the young animals, and at some distance there is a shelter for the rest of the herds.

In the beginning of winter the Kirghiz moves into such a winter dwelling, unless, as is perhaps usually the case, he prefers the much more comfortable yurt. The fuel for either has been long ago prepared, for in the preceding spring he, or rather his wife, upon whom falls all the heavier and more disagreeable work, mixed the dung of the herd animals with straw, and worked it into square cakes, which were then piled in heaps and dried in the sun. All the grass in the immediate neighbourhood has been carefully spared, so that the herds may graze as near the dwelling as possible; here, too, the hay which has been mown at a distance has been collected. If the winter be a good one, that is, if not much snow falls, the herds find food enough, but if it be severe, it often renders all precautions futile, and levies a toll on his herds heavier than is counterbalanced by the spring increase. Thus, in a good winter, cheerfulness prevails even in the dark hut of the wandering herdsman, but in a severe one, which reduces his beasts to walking skeletons, black care and grief visit even the pleasant yurt. In hut and yurt alike there is either comfort and plenty or bitter want during that much-dreaded season of the year.

It is not till towards the end of April, in many years not before the end of May, that the herdsman leaves his winter camp and begins to travel. The horses, tended by special herdsmen, move on in advance, so as not to annoy the smaller animals. It is not the lively foals, born, like the kids, a few weeks before, that cause so much anxiety; it is the young stallions and mares which are just reaching maturity. The foals spring about the whole herd in wanton playfulness, but they do not go far from the mother mares, who are quietly grazing, and only look up at them now and again. The young stallions and mares, on the other hand, cause continual uneasiness, and call for the greatest watchfulness on the part of the herdsmen, whose numbers are doubled for the time. Now the young males fight with the old, dignified, and domineering leader of the herd; now the young females throng about the sire till he is compelled to drive them away with bites; now one or another of them attempts to escape, and rushes, with head against the wind and dilated nostrils, out into the steppe. The herdsman at once urges the horse he is riding to a gallop, and pursues the fugitive in mad haste up hill and down dale; in his right hand he holds the long herdsman’s crook, with a noose attached to one end; nearer and nearer he presses on the young mare. The dreaded lasso is thrown, and is about to descend on her head, when she suddenly swerves to one side, and throwing her hind-legs into the air, as if teasing or mocking her pursuer, she is off again with renewed speed, and the wild chase begins anew, and goes on, until at length the herdsman succeeds in catching her, and leading her slowly back to the herd. Entertaining though this spectacle may be for the unconcerned spectator, perhaps even for the herdsman himself, such mad hunts would disturb the quiet and regular progress of the smaller animals, and therefore the owner does not let his different herds travel together, if it can be avoided. Nor could sheep and goats cover such distances as the horses do, for not only are they much enfeebled by the hardships of winter, but the lambs and kids are not yet strong enough. Separation of the herds is therefore doubly necessary.

The Kirghiz, when journeying with his smaller animals, at first only traverses a short distance, a so-called “sheep’s journey” each day, and he stops wherever there is good pasture, as long as his flocks graze with avidity. On the journey the flock of sheep, with its shepherd riding on an ox, leads the way. The sheep proceed at a tolerably quick pace, now crowding close together, now scattering widely, here and there stopping their march to enjoy to the full some specially dainty plant, but eating, or at least nibbling, all the time, and the herdsman’s steed also grazes uninterruptedly. The flock of ewes and mother-goats follows that of the lambs and kids, but at such a distance that they see and hear nothing of each other. The flock of wethers, if such still exists, or has just been formed, takes a different route. After all the flocks and herds have set out, the women take down the yurt, load camels or oxen with it and the few household requisites, mount their own horses with their children and other members of the family, and ride slowly after the milk-giving flocks. By mid-day they overtake them, milk them, and, carrying the milk in leathern bottles, continue their journey till sundown, when they set up the yurt again. One day passes like another. When the spring has brought fresh verdure, they remain for days, later on for weeks, in the same spot, until the pasturage around is growing scarce; then they move on again. When advancing spring calls to full life the slumbering insect larvæ, when swarms innumerable of gnats, flies, gadflies, and other pests fill the air, they direct their steps, if it be at all possible, towards the mountains, and climb gradually to the highest plateaus just below the snow-line. For the shepherd, who gets no assistance from the dogs, it is a hard enough task to guide the flocks over the plains; but in the mountains the difficulty of completing his daily “sheep’s journey” is immense, and it is impossible for him to get over some obstacles without the aid of other riders. As long as there is a beaten track the journey goes smoothly on, whether the path winds through flowery plains or over slopes and precipices. The leading goats survey such places for a little, as if deliberating, then choosing their path they go on their way, and the sheep follow them trustfully. But it is a different matter when, instead of a murmuring brook, a rushing torrent bars the way, and must be crossed. At sight of the decidedly hostile element even the bold goats hesitate, ready though they are to adapt themselves to all circumstances; but the sheep recoil from it in terror, and even climb the nearest rocks as if to save themselves. In vain the shepherd rides through the rushing flood; in vain he returns and collects his flock on the banks. The sheep express their anxiety in loud bleatings, even the goats bleat hesitatingly, till the shepherd’s patience is exhausted. For one moment the fateful sling hangs over the head of one of the sheep; the next, it feels itself caught by the neck, pulled up to the saddle, and hurled into the seething waters. Now it must shift for itself. Swimming spasmodically, or rather making a series of springs, it struggles on from one mass of rock to another, but before it can gain a footing, it is hurried on by the torrent, and kicks, flounders, leaps, and swims again, is every now and then carried away by the flood, but eventually reaches the opposite bank, exhausted more by terror than by exertion. Trembling in every limb, it satisfies itself that it is really on dry land again, shakes its dripping fleece, looks back timidly once more, and then begins to feed greedily to make up for the discomfort it has suffered. Meanwhile the rest of the flock have crossed the torrent one after another, either of their own accord or compulsorily, and when all have been collected again the march is resumed. In this manner the nomadic herdsman gradually reaches the mountains. When it begins to grow cold, when perhaps a slight fall of snow suggests the approach of winter, herdsman and herd turn downwards again, this time through the shadiest gorges, till the low-lying plain is reached, and the circle is completed at the winter camping-ground. This is the regular yearly routine.

All the Kirghiz domestic animals accustom themselves very quickly to the different districts in which they graze, wherever the place may be. After having gone to a pasture once or twice, all know the way thither again, they find it unfailingly without the herdsman, and return of their own accord to the yurt to be milked. There is certainly a strong inducement for them to do so, for from May onwards the young of all milk-yielding animals are kept from their mothers, and yet allowed to graze in the neighbourhood of the aul, so that longing for their young is kept alive in the maternal hearts. Thus milking can always take place at the same hour, and the mistress of the yurt can regulate her work and portion out her day.

Fig. 70.—Kirghiz Aul, or Group of Tents.

With the exception of the mares, which are always milked by men, and often require the attention of at least two, and not rarely of three during the process, all the milking is done by the women. Early in the morning the calves, lambs, and kids are allowed to suck a little under strict supervision, and are then separated from the mothers, old and young being driven to their respective pastures. At mid-day the mothers, without the young, are brought to the yurt to be milked, and again in the evening the mothers are brought in before the young for the same purpose. With the help of the dogs, which render no other service, the whole flock is gathered into a limited space, and the work begins. The mistress and servants of a yurt, or those who live together as neighbours in an aul, appear with their milk vessels, and dexterously seizing one sheep after another, drag it to a rope stretched between poles, pass a sling formed by the rope itself round the neck of each, and thus force the animals to remain standing in rows with the heads turned inwards, the udders outwards. In this manner thirty or forty head of sheep and goats are fastened together in a few minutes, and the so-called “kögön” is formed. Taught by experience, the animals stand perfectly still as soon as they feel the string, and submit passively to all that follows. The women, sitting opposite each other, begin at one end, or if there are many sheep, at both ends of the double row, seize the short teats between forefinger and thumb, and exhaust the milk with rapid pulls. If it does not flow freely they shake the udder with a blow from the left hand, exactly as the sucking young ones do, and only when even by this means nothing more can be obtained do they proceed to the next sheep. The men of the yurt or aul, who may perhaps have helped to catch and fasten the sheep and goats, sit about in all sorts of positions, impossible and almost inconceivable to us, and allow their “red tongue” the fullest freedom. Some of the little boys make their first venture at riding on the sheep, unless they prefer the shoulders of their mothers for that purpose. The latter are as little distracted by these doings of their offspring as by any other little incidents. Whether they sit on the dry ground or in fresh sheep’s dung, whether some of that falls into their poplar-wood vessels, affects them little, for the vessel is in any case as dirty as the hand which milks; and though sheep’s dung may be unclean in our eyes it is not so in those of the Kirghiz, who believe in the Koran. At length the milking is at an end and the animals, which have been tethered all this time and have been ruminating for want of better employment, can be released; a quick pull at one end of the cord, all the slings are undone, and the sheep and goats are free.

A general, simultaneous bleating is the first expression of their delight in their newly-recovered freedom; a short, quickly-repeated shaking throws off the last recollections of their undignified servitude; and then they run off as quickly as possible, in the plains as far away from the yurt as the herdsman allows, in the mountainous districts towards the hills, as if they could only there breathe the air of freedom. In reality they are longing to meet their young ones as soon as possible. All day long they have been away from them, but now, according to all their experience, the little ones must appear. The sheep run about bleating continuously, and even the intelligent goats look longingly all around as if they wished to find out whether the expected flock is already on the way, or at least whether it is visible in the far distance. The bleating grows louder and louder, for every newly-released row excites all the sheep assembled in the neighbourhood of the aul; and the impatience of the mothers, which is increasing every minute, finds vent in piteous, almost moaning bleatings. The longer the suspense lasts the more restless do the mothers become. Aimlessly they wander hither and thither, sniff at every blade of grass on the way, but scarcely crop any, lift their heads expectantly and joyously, let them droop again in disappointed sadness, bleat, and bleat again. The restlessness increases almost to frenzy, the bleating becomes a perfect bellowing.