The Diary of a Hunter from the Punjab to the Karakorum Mountains

by Augustus Henry Irby

My stroll led through the small fields hanging on the hill-side, supported by rough stone walls in terraces, the crops rich and beautifully green. My path was agreeably lined by rose bushes. Many flowers and sweet scented herbs were also on either hand, and some poplars and a fine mulberry tree or two were a great addition to the general features of the landscape. I turned here or there, following the windings, and ups and downs, of the borders of the field, until I had gained an eminence overhanging the valley down which the river rushed and foamed, fields lining its banks. It was a very beautiful view, the lofty mountains exhibiting their massive proportions well-defined at this early hour of the day, a haze in the distance improving the effect. The air was cool, balmy, and delicious, fragrant with the perfume of flowers. Long I gazed around, and much I mused. There was much in the scene before me, and its fresh, sweet, mild atmosphere, that reminded me strongly of other lands that I had visited—Madeira, Malta, the Cape. There appeared to me a decided blending of similarity with the two former, and also a trait or two undefinable of the latter.

I was amused by the manœuvres of a startled child, too small to run away, who had been deserted by his companions, in alarm at my approach. The 'wee' chap was squatted amid some tussocks, and clumps of flag, the blue Iris, I think; and, as I advanced, he turned himself round one, believing that he was effectually concealing himself from the formidable monster approaching. But my sharp hunter's eye had at once detected him, and without stopping, lest he might be too much terrified, I spoke to him caressingly—at least, I tried to. This was before I paused and mused, as above. When I returned, he was still beside his fancied screen, but no longer performed his evolutions. He gazed on me still with evident wonder and awe, though at the same time somewhat reassured, so I did not approach too near. This slight incident, somehow or other, had a pleasing influence on me, and sent me back cheerful to camp.

The sky became overcast, and in the afternoon there was a violent wind, and at last rain, so I kept my covering.

9th July. A very cloudy morning saw me under-weigh at 5 A.M. We crossed the river by a good wooden bridge on rough stone piers, situated just below my tent. Then, ascending the other side, and mounting a stiffish hill, we found ourselves on a table land—open undulating downs—closed in, of course, by mountains. These downs had but a tinge of green, as from the sandy soil and want of water there was but a very light, sparse herbage on them. The air was delicious, cool, and fresh, the rain of yesterday having purified the atmosphere, and brought out all the latent perfume of the plants around.

I tramped gaily on, chatting with Subhan, the other shikarries keeping in the rear on tattoos. I had given no permission or authority for engaging these ponies, and was rather puzzled to know how they were provided. However, I said nothing, intending to ascertain in the evening, as I had no notion of paying for ponies for these lazy scamps. Knowing the parties, I suspected some underhand tricks.

The path for some miles led up a stream bordered by fields interspersed with roses, a few houses here and there; then, leaving the village of Pashgyam, it entered upon a barren ravine, running along the hill-side; and so on, until we came upon more cultivation and a pretty village, where in a charming spot under some willows, by a clear brawling brook, I stopped for breakfast, having been on the march four hours.

My food was not altogether satisfactory; half my tea had oozed out of the bottle; one egg was all yellow, instead of that colour being confined to the yolk. This was pitched into the stream. Another with a slight touch of the jaundice I devoured reluctantly, and repented having done so afterwards. And from the condition of my dough cakes I think Ali Bucks must be moulting, the black hairs are so numerous, and being long they cannot be extracted. Small matters these to an old campaigner. I got some good fresh milk, and the fine air was 'edibles.' After a while, I noticed the arrival of a sepoy with a native who remained discussing something with the shikarries, Mr. Phuttoo being principal. This lasted some time, and they, perceiving that I noticed what was going on, moved away. I called Subhan, and asked him what the sepoy wanted, and what they discussed. Nothing at all, he assured me. Shortly after, a Thibetan came rushing down to me, vociferating and claiming protection; and it turned out that these rascally shikarries had pressed his tattoos by some connivance of the moonshi at Kargyl. I directed them to be given up at once, and turned away in disgust from these lying knaves. It is no use saying any thing. They tell you that it is the 'dustoor,' the custom of the country; and they all practise oppression over each other, whenever they possibly can.

I forgot to record before, that the shikarries told me on the morning I left the camp before reaching Sooroo, a place where they had assured me we should have two or three days' good sport with ibex, that a man, a friend of Subhan's, tending ponies pasturing there, had confided to him the previous night, that the Sooroo kardar, hearing that a 'burra saheb' was coming to 'shikar,' and apprehending that if he found sport he would stop some days and would be troublesome to him for supplies, had sent men with guns and dogs to hunt and scare away the game; that they had killed one ibex, and only left the place the evening we arrived. On first hearing this, I scouted the idea; it was so very improbable. But Subhan and the others repeated the story with such asseverations, and so many plausible corroborations, that I partly believed them. On arriving at Sooroo these knaves assumed a high tone, and frightened the poor old kardar who did not come near me for some time; but having appeased the shikarries by a 'douceur,' as I suppose, they told him I would receive him, and forgive him on apologising. Now I believe the whole story to have been false from beginning to end, and actually plotted and devised to extort something from the kardar. Verily, in these parts, all men are liars.

We continued our route, and plodded on, the sun now hot, finally arriving at our camping place, the village of Shazgool, a Buddhist place, with the lama's house curiously built into the face of a perpendicular rock looking down on the village, a shabby tumble-down place, and some tombs or shrines tawdrily painted with clumsy devices of hideous demons on them. These are paltry looking constructions, of mud principally.

This was a small village of some nine or ten houses in a dilapidated condition; but they are all apparently in like bad case, the inhabitants miserably poor, judging from their appearance and surrounding indications. But they seem to be stout, healthy, and cheerful. The women, I fancy, do most of the work, as with all barbarians. A large wicker basket seems to be a fixture on their backs, and with this appendage they are seen busy in the fields, weeding, putting every shred of herbage so gathered into the said basket which by evening is filled, when they return, and the produce of their industry serves for fodder for cow, sheep, or goat, every blade of vegetation being of value in these barren regions, where nothing grows but what is actually extorted from reluctant nature. How different from the adjoining country of Cashmere, where, on the other hand, nature is profuse in her gifts, covering mountain and valley with the richest herbage, and yielding heavy crops of cereals to the merest scratches of the plough. Both are wonderful countries: Cashmere, for its beauty and fertility; Thibet, for its savage desolation and sterility. The natives of each land, too, partake strongly of the relative characteristics of their native land: the Cashmiries, famous for personal beauty,—the Thibetans, as notorious for ugliness. Strange, though, they possess some taste; for almost every individual of the numbers met travelling yesterday and to-day had a bunch of yellow roses, or other bright flowers stuck in his greasy cap.