Nor are amusements wanting in the caravan-camp when the halt is somewhat prolonged. The most popular recreation is shooting at a mark, in which the prize is always a certain quantity of powder and shot. This sort of diversion was very seldom possible in our caravan, as on account of our small numbers we were in continual danger, and had therefore to make ourselves heard as little as possible. My comrades were accustomed to pass their leisure time in reading the Koran, in performance of other religious exercise, in sleeping, or in attending to their toilet. I say "toilet," but it is to be hoped that no one will here understand the word to imply a boudoir, delicate perfumes, or artistical aids. The Turkomans are accustomed to pluck out the hair of the beard with small pincers. As to the toilet of the Hadjis, and, indeed, my own, it is so simple and so prosaic as to be scarcely worth alluding to. The necessary requisites were sand, fire, and ants. The manner of application I leave as a riddle for the reader to solve.
Certainly, of all the nations of Asia, the Tartar seems to fit in most appropriately with the bizarre picture of desert life. Full of superstition, and a blind fatalist, he can easily support the constant dread of danger. Dirt, poverty and privations, he is accustomed to, even at home. No wonder, then, that he sits content in clothes which have not been changed for months, and with a crust of dirt on his face. This inner peace of mind could never become a matter of indifference to me. At evening prayers, in which the whole company took part, this peace of mind struck me most forcibly. They thanked God for the benefits they enjoyed. On such occasions the whole caravan formed itself into a single line, at whose head stood an imâm, who turned towards the setting sun and led the prayers. The solemnity of the moment was increased by the stillness which prevailed far and wide; and if the rays of the sinking sun lit up the faces of my companions, so wild yet withal so well satisfied, they seemed to be in the possession of all earthly good, and had nothing left them to wish. Often I could not help thinking what would these people feel if they found themselves leaning against the comfortable cushions of a first-class railway carriage, or amid the luxuries of a well-appointed hotel. How distant, how far distant are the blessings of civilization from these countries!
So much for the life of the caravan by day. By night the desert is more romantic, but at the same time more dangerous. As the power of sight is now limited, the circle of safety is contracted to the most immediate neighbourhood; and both during the march and in the encampment every one tries to keep as close as possible to his fellows. By day the caravan consisted of but one long chain; by night this is broken up into six or eight smaller ones, which, marching close together, form a compact square, of which the outmost lines are occupied by the stoutest and boldest. By moonlight the shadow of the camels as they stalk along produces a curious and impressive effect. During the dark starless night everything is full of horror, and to go one step distant from the side of the caravan is equivalent to leaving the home circle to plunge into a desolate solitude. In the halt by day each one occupies whichever place may please him best. At night, on the contrary, a compact camp is formed under the direction of the Kervan bashi. The bales of goods are heaped up in the middle; around them lie the men; while without, as a wall of defence, the camels are laid, tightly packed together, in a circle. I say laid, for these wonderful animals squat down at the word of command, remain the whole night motionless in their place, and, like children, do not get up the next morning until they are told to do so. They are placed with their heads pointing outward and their tails inward, for they perceive the presence of any enemy from far, and give the alarm by a dull rattle in the throat, so that even in their hours of repose they do duty as sentinels. Those who sleep within the rayon find themselves in immediate contact with these beasts, and, as is well known, they have not the pleasantest smell. It often happens that the saline fodder and water which these animals feed upon produce palpable consequences for such as sleep in their immediate neighbourhood. I myself often woke up with such frescoes. But no one takes any notice of such things, for who could be angry with these animals, who, although ugly in appearance, are so patient, so temperate, so good-tempered, and so useful?
It is no wonder that the wanderers over the desert praise the camel as surpassing all other beasts of the field, and even love it with an almost adoring affection. Nourished on a few thorns and thistles, which other quadrupeds reject, it traverses the wastes for weeks, nay, often for months together. In these dreary, desolate regions, the existence of man depends upon that of the camel. It is, besides, so patient and so obedient that a child can with one "tshukh" make a whole herd of these tall strong beasts kneel down, and with a "berrr" get up again. How much could I not read in their large dark blue eyes! When the march is too long or the sand too deep, they are accustomed to express their discomfort and weariness. This is especially when they are being laden, if too heavy bales are piled upon their backs. Bending under the burden, they turn their heads round towards their master; in their eyes gleam tears, and their groans, so deep, so piteous, seem to say, "Man, have compassion upon us!"
Except during a particular season of the year, when through the operation of the laws of nature it is in a half-intoxicated, half-stupefied condition, the camel has always a striking impression of seriousness. It is impossible not to recognise in its features the Chaldee-aramæan type, and in whatever portions of the earth he may be found at the present day, his original home is unquestionably Mesopotamia and the Arabian desert. The Turkomans disturb this serious expression of countenance by the barbarous manner in which they arrange the leading-rope through the bored nose. With the string hanging down to the chest, the camel resembles an European dandy armed with his lorgnon. Both of them hold their heads high in the air, and both are alike led by the nose.
As the word of command to encamp is enlivening and acceptable, so grievous, so disturbing, is the signal for getting ready to start. The Kervan bashi is the first to rouse himself. At his call or sign all prepare for the journey. Even the poor camels in the pastures understand it, and often hasten without being driven to the caravan; nay, what is more extraordinary, they place themselves close to the bales of merchandize with which they were before laden, or the persons who were mounted on them. In a quarter of an hour everybody has found his place in the line of march. At the halting-place there remains nothing but a few bones, gnawed clean, and the charred traces of the improvised hearths. These marks of human life in the desert often disappear as quickly as they were produced; sometimes, however, they are preserved through climatic accidents for a long time; and succeeding travellers are cheered by falling in with these abandoned fireplaces. The black charred spot seems to their eyes like a splendid caravanserai, and the thought that here human beings have been, that here life once was active, makes even the vast solitude of the desert more like home.
Speaking of these spots where a fire has been kindled, I am reminded of those vast burnt plains, often many days' march in extent, which I met with in the desert between Persia and Khiva, and of which I heard so many wonderful tales from the mouths of the nomads. During the hot season of the year, when the scorching sun has dried shrubs and grass till they have become like tinder, it often happens that a spark, carelessly dropped, and fanned by the wind, will set the steppe on fire. The flame, finding ever fresh fuel, spreads with such fearful rapidity that a man on horseback can with difficulty escape. It rolls over the scanty herbage like an overflowing stream, and, when it meets with thicket and shrubs, it flares up with wild wrath. Thus traversing large tracts of country in a short time, its raging course can only be checked by a river or a lake. At night such conflagrations must present a terrible appearance, when far and wide the horizon is lit up with a sea of flame. Even the bravest heart loses its courage at the appalling sight. The cowardly and hesitating are soon destroyed, but one who has sufficient presence of mind can save himself, if, while the flames are yet a great way off, he kindle the grass in his neighbourhood. He thus lays waste a space in which the approaching fire can find no sustenance, and in this he himself takes refuge. Thus only with fire can man contend against fire with success.
This weapon is often used by one tribe against another, and the desolation thus caused is terrible. It is often used by a runaway couple to secure themselves against pursuit. As long as no wind blows they can easily fly before the slowly-advancing fire; but it often happens that the flames are hurried forward by the least breath of wind, and the fugitives find a united death in the very means they had taken to secure their safety.
It is remarkable that the imposing aspects and most frequent natural phenomena of the desert do not fail to impress even the nomads who habitually witness them. As we were crossing the high plateau of Kaflan Kir, which forms part of Ustyort, running towards the north-east, the horizon was often adorned with the most beautiful Fata Morgana. This phenomenon is undoubtedly to be seen in the greatest perfection in the hot, but dry, atmosphere of the deserts of Central Asia, and affords the most splendid optical illusions which one can imagine. I was always enchanted with these pictures of cities, towers, and castles dancing in the air, of vast caravans, horsemen engaged in combat, and individual gigantic forms which continually disappeared from one place to reappear in another. As for my nomad companions, they regarded the neighbourhoods where these phenomena are observed with no little awe. According to their opinion these are ghosts of men and cities which formerly existed there, and now at certain times roll about in the air. Nay, our Kervan bashi asserted that he also saw the same figures in the same places, and that we ourselves, if we should be lost in the desert, would after a term of years begin to hop about and dance in the air over the spot where we had perished.
These legends, which are continually to be heard among the nomads, and relate to a supposed lost civilization in the desert, are not far removed from the new European theory, which maintains that such tracts of country have sunk into their present desolation, not so much through the operation of natural laws as through changes in their social state. As examples are cited the great Sahara of Africa and the desert of central Arabia, where cultivable land is not so much wanting as industrious hands. As regards these last countries, the assertion is probably not without some truth, but it certainly cannot be extended to the deserts of Central Asia. On certain spots, as Mero, Mangishlak, Ghergen, and Otrar, there was in the last century more cultivation than at present; but, taken as the whole, these Asiatic steppes were always, as far back as the memory of man goes, howling wildernesses. The vast tracts which stretch for many days' journeys without one drop of drinkable water, the expanses—many hundred miles in extent—of deep loose sand, the extreme violence of the climate, and such like obstacles, defy even modern art and science to cope with them. "God," said a central Asiatic to me, "created Turkestan and its inhabitants in his wrath; for as long as the bitter, saline taste of their springs exist, so long will the hearts of the Turkomans be full of anger and malice."